she's not used to it. You stick to lemon sours, baby-don't let them kid you,' she said. The chatter swept on, leaving her once more unnoticed, but when the music called again Mr. Kennedy took her out among the dancers. "You're all right," he said. "Just let yourself go, and follow me it's only a walk to music." And unaccountably she found herself dancing, felt the rhythm beat through blood and nerves, and stiffness and awkwardness drop away from her. She felt like a butterfly bursting from a chrysalis, like a bird singing in the dawn. She was so happy that Mr. Kennedy laughed at the ecstacy in her face. "You look like a kid in a candy shop," he said, swinging her past a jam with a long, breathless swooping glide and picking up the step again. "I'm-per-fect-ly-happy!" she cried, in time to the tune. "It's awfully good -of you-:!" Heyghed again. "Stick to me and I'll teach you a lot of things," he said. She found, when she went reluctantly back to the table with him, that the others were talking of leaving. It hurt to hear him enthusiastically greeting the suggestion. But after they were in the machine it appeared that they were not going home. There was an interval of rushing through the cool darkness, and then another restaurant just like the others, and more dancing. The hours blurred into a succession of those swift dashes through the clean night air, and recurring plunges into light and heat and smoke and music. Helen, faithfully sticking to lemon sours as momma had advised, discovered that she could dance something called a rag, and something else known as a Grizzly Bear; heard Duddy crying that she was some chicken; felt herself a great success. Bob was growing strangely sentimental and talked sorrowfully about his poor old mother; momma's cheeks were flushed under the rouge, and she sang part of a song, forgetting the rest of the words. The crowd shifted and separated; somewhere they lost part of it, and a stranger appeared with Louise. She did not forget. The words repeated themselves in her mind; she heard his voice, and felt his arm around her waist and the music throbbing in her blood, for a long time. The sensations came back to her in the pauses of her work next day, while she dragged through the hours as if she were drugged, hearing the noise of the exchange and the market quotations clicking off the Chicago wire, now very far and thin, now close and sickeningly loud. She was white and faint when she got home, and momma suggested a bromoseltzer and offered to lend her some rouge. But Mr. Kennedy had not telephoned, and she went to bed instead of going out with them that evening. It was eleven days before he did telephone IT 'T was eleven days before Mr. Kennedy telephoned. In the mornings Helen went drearily to work. The first confusion of the Merchants' Exchange had cleared a little. She began to see a pattern in the fluctuations of the market quotations. January wheat, February wheat, May corn, became a drama to her, and while she snatched the figures from the wire and tossed them to the waiting boy, saw them chalked up on the huge board and heard the shouts of the brokers, she caught glimpses of the world-wide gamble in lives and fortunes. But it was only another great spectacle in which she had no part. She was merely a living mechanical attachment to the network of wires. She wanted to tear herself away, to have a life of her own, a life that went forward, instead of swinging like a pendulum between home and the office. She did not want to work. She had never wanted to work. Working had been only a means of reaching sooner her own life with Paul. The road had run straight before her to that end. But now Paul A Touch By Mary Carolyn Davies She hurried home at night, expecting she knew not what. But it had not happened. Restlessness took possession of her and she turned for hours on her pillow, dozing, only to hear the clicking of telegraph sounders, and music, and to find herself dancing on the floor of the Merchants' Exchange with a strange man who had Mr. Kennedy's eyes. a On the eleventh day she received letter from Paul which quieted the turmoil of her thoughts like a dash of cold water. "I suppose the folks you write about are all right," he commented, in his even, neat handwriting. "They sound pretty queer to me. I don't pretend to know anything about San Francisco, though. But I don't see how you are going to hold down a job and keep up with the way they seem to spend their time, though I will not say anything about dancing. You know I could not do it and stay in the church, but I do not mean to bring that up again in a letter. You were mighty fine and straight and sincere about that, and if you do not feel the call to join I would not urge you. But I do not think I would like your new friends. I would rather a girl was not so pretty but used less slang when she talks." The words gained force by echoing a stifled opinion of her own. With no other standard than her own instinct, she had had moments of criticizing Louise and momma. But she had quickly hidden criticism in the depths of her mind, because they were companions, and she had not been able to find any others. Now they stood revealed through Paul's eyes as glaringly cheap and vulgar. Her longing for a good time, if she must have it with such people, appeared weak and foolish to her. She felt older and steadier when she went home that night. Then, just as she entered the door, the telephone rang and Louise called that We touched it light, to see what sound it made, The harp of love, shy hands upon a string; And suddenly there came a thundering And then we crept away, and were afraid. Helen, forced at last to think of her work next morning, was horrified to find that it was two o'clock. Momma agreed that the best of friends must part. They sang while they sped through the sleeping city, the stars overhead and the street lights flashing by. Drowsily happy, Helen thought it no harm to rest her head on Mr. Kennedy's shoulder, since his other arm was around momma, and she wondered what it would be like if a man so fascinating were in love with her. It would be frightfully thrilling and exciting, she thought, playing daringly with the idea. "See you again!" they all cried, when she alighted with momma and Louise before the dark apartment house. The others were going on to more fun somewhere. She shook hands with Mr. Kennedy, feeling a contraction at her heart. "Thank you for a very pleasant time." She felt that he was amused by the stilted words. "Don't forget it isn't the last one!" he said. would not let her follow it; he did not want her to work with him at Ripley; she would have to wait until he made money enough to support her. And she hated work. Resting her chin on one palm, listening half consciously for her call to interrupt the ceaseless clicking of the sounder, she gazed across the marble counter, and the vaulted room, the gesticulating brokers, the scurrying messengers, faded into a background against which she saw again the light and color and movement of the night when she had met Mr. Kennedy. She heard his voice-"What's the use of living if you don't hit the high spots?" Gilbert Kennedy wanted to speak to her. It was impossible to analyze his fascination. Uncounted times she had gone over all he had said, all she could conjecture about him, vainly seeking an explanation of it. The mere sound of his voice revived the spell like an incantation, and her half-hearted resistance succumbed to it. Before the dressing-table, hurrying to make herself beautiful for an evening with him, she leaned closer to the glass and tried to find the answer in the gray eyes looking back at her. But they only grew eager, and her reflection faded to leave her brooding on the memory of his face, half-mocking and half-serious, and the tired hunger of his eyes. "Have a heart, for the lova Mike!" cried Louise. "Give me a chance you aren't using the mirror yourself, even!" She slipped into the chair Helen left and pushing back her mass of golden hair gazed searchingly at her face. "Got to get my lashes dyed again-they're growing out-Say, you certainly did make a hit with Kennedy!" "Where's the nail polish?" Helen asked, searching in the hopeless disorder of the bureau drawers. "Oh, here it is—What do you know about him?" (Continued on page 62) M A Story of Treasure Trove Monsieur Bon Coeur ONSIEUR BON COEUR walked the levee. He carried his head as befitted one who had one time walked the boulevards of Paris, albeit its tonsorial arrangement was somewhat different from the perfumed, pomaded perfection of that far-off day. The stick in his hand was but a peeled and humble branch of the eucalyptus tree, yet he twirled it with a lightsome grace. For Monsieur Bon Coeur was happy, spring was in his heart. Spring was in the land, too, late spring with blossoming trees and stretches of green to the levee's edge. The soft little winds lifted the long gray locks that hung from under Monsieur's hat, fluttered gaily the tatters that waved about his legs. He looked upon the land and found it good, as he had found it good for fiftyseven changing years. It had been good when it handed him its favors under the skies of his native France, it was good now when all it offered him was California's cerulean canopy and golden poppies by the road's side. Then Monsieur had carried roses to fair women, bowing over jeweled hands. Now he carried a blanket-roll, sign of his lowly Now he estate, and he wore a wayside posy in his ragged buttonhole. Then he had been able to sip the golden wine as a gentleman should, stopping with nice precision. Now the wine lands of the West drew him like a helpless slave and he drank at every hospitable vat. Long, long since had the strings of his control loosened, the moorings of his soul given way, so that he drifted, alas! Yet one thing remained to him of his life's good dower-the kind and tender heart that accounted for his name which, given by a whimsical French-Canadian in a far north lumber camp, had stayed by among the peculiar gentry of the roads he followed. Monsieur Bon Coeur-Mr. Good Heart. Yes. It was all the name he knew these days. By a thousand water tanks, beside a thousand wayside fires in this country of his adoption he was known by it for the By Vingie E. Roe Illustrated by Harold von Schmidt little courtly deeds he did, the unfailing And so, with the glorious sun shining in new birth had taken place. In Monsieur's musty pocket was The money was an accident, a boon. He had found it, honestly found it, tied in a pure white linen handkerchief without an identifying mark, and it was paper, two crisp new bills of ten dollars each. After its marvelous appearance Monsieur had sat by the road upon his roll of blankets and studied the problem of finding its rightful owner. He had gone back to the little town just passed; made timid inquiries intended to garner truth, not to give it away to liars. But he had found none who was hunt ing for a loss in the open ways. Therefore, concluding it had fallen from some speeding automobile, and was hopelessly lost, Monsieur Bon Coeur had ac cepted it as a gift from fate and intended for him. And with it had come a stiffening of all his yielding fibres, a sense of uplift and responsibility. It was this moral strength which had accounted for those three marvelous And Monsieur had more cause than most for his rejoicing, because it had been so long, so long, since he had known the satisfying feeling! As he walked he planned, and the plans were fair and momentous, like the dreams great pictures to a painter. of great buildings to an architect, or of Monsieur saw himself as he would be a few days hence when he should have reached a certain town where a little shop, tucked around a corner from a teeming thoroughfare, held rehabilitation at a modest price. Monsieur carefully counted over in his to-be. There would be a suit, perhaps mind every item of his great expendituresnear-wool and only very slightly wornFinkelstein, the proprietor, would kindly a shiny spot or two, no doubt, which and with much effusiveness, sponge out. There would be a hat. Monsieur removed his own hopeless specimen and regarded it with disapproval. Not even in its palmiest days had it been a proper hat. He thought of the hats of thirty years ago like those as possible. cross the sea. It should be a hat as near Then there should be shoes with proper stockings, and a neat light suit of underwear. And a handkerchief. By all means a handkerchief. He placed the specimen back upon his iron-gray head and his eager old blue eyes were distant with the contemplation of the points of that handkerchief pulled from the breast pocket against the cloth of the coat. It was to be as correct as the angle of the hat he intended to wear. A deal of self-respect could be gotten into the tips of a handkerchief. There would, under his keen figuring and estimating of costs, be left enough for the services of a barber-a barber!-and for a luxurious bath on another street. AND thus he saw himself step out along the modern streets of an American city as he had stepped on the boulevards of his beloved Paris, and he would find himself a billet of small tasks, perhaps around some big institution where they give old men work along with self-respect, for the rest of his life. And he would never again lose the feeling which had come with the three refusals! He would make them standard -yes, sir, standard. So he planned his high plans and walked down the levee that guards the broad breast of the river in a California valleystraight toward the heart of a tragedy. WHERE the shining, silken ribbon of the boulevard swings in toward the river, there Monsieur went down to it and struck along its winding length. Willows grew along it here and there, while between there gleamed the green of fields, with the roofs of fine houses set in their orange groves and among their vineyards. Automobiles sped swiftly by and the golden notes of meadow larks cut the soft silence. "Ah!" said Monsieur Bon Coeur, "of Heaven California must be ze annex!" And then, far down on the road ahead, he heard a sound that halted the nifty stride, cocked his head at attention. It was the thin high wail of a dog in pain, a little dog, it seemed, from the volume. It rose, keening on the stillness, long and piteous and anguished, drawing out and falling in that mournful hopelessness of the brutes who seem to know the end from the beginning and herald it. Monsieur listened for a breathless moment. Then he grasped the gallant stick for business and swung out with a stride that would have accredited a younger man. That piteous wail had gone straight to his heart. "Ze beasts," said Monsieur aloud, "are so helpless. Zey have so little to expect. A child now, a human-zere are hands reach' out to lift, to comfort. Ze dog, ze cat-pouf!-zey are kick aside to die in a corner-fevered, wizout water. Ah, Dieu!" And Monsieur sighed. Where the green-gray fringe of the willows opened out a bit beyond a crossroads, there was a little red spot on the boulevard, an unspeakable red spot, fresh and shining in the tranquil sun. The old man clicked his tongue in pity and shook his head. He slipped the roll-strap from his shoulder and stood forth, a doubtful angel of mercy. He called but got no answer. Then he listened carefully. The day was still as eternity beside the heavenly lakes. Far down the shining road there went a light spring wagon with a farmer atop, but that was the only moving thing in the land scape. So Monsieur listened yet more carefully. And presently, from some where in the thicket of willows he caught a sound, a sound as miserable as the high keen cry of the dog had been. It was so low and guarded that at first he could not be sure he heard anything at all. But presently it seemed as if the choking efforts were failing, for the sound grew in volume, and it was the weeping of a child. That was enough for Monsieur. He parted the mysterious curtains of the willows and entered their hidden fastnesses. Where the floor dropped away to the sweep of the wide ditch beside the boulevard, there he put aside the thinning plumes and looked down into a little sheltered glade upon the tragedy. Sitting humped on his haunches, as if the world might fall and he cared not, was a little boy, of some ten or eleven years. He was white as milk beneath the usual tan and soil of a small boy's face, and he was ragged as Monsieur himself, and before him on the soft earth lay a dog, a little yellow dog, stretched out flat. It was as nondescript of breed as Monsieur's hat. Its head and eyes said hound, its little body said fox-terrier, and, most damning of all in a land of tail-less canines, it bore full seven inches of slim yellow tail! The wailing had ceased from its throat. It lay silent, but the look in the dark eyes spoke volumes. One small leg lay out at a sickening angle, broken high toward the hip, the objectionable tail was guined. ensan "Oh, ah-h-h!" said Monsieur in the voice of the born lover. "Ah, poor, poor babes!" And he was in and down beside them in one stride, one hand on the boy's thin shoulder, the other on the little yellow head. "Tell me, chérie," he said gently, "how did it happen?" The boy looked up and wiped an inelegant hand back across his nose. Children and dogs-they know. WITH a gulp and one glance at Mon sieur's face the flood-gates opened, while the yellow dog put out a hot little tongue and kissed the tender hand. "It was the farmer! The man Uncle Jim works fer! Ol' fool! He was a-goin' by an' I an' Tippy was coming long th' road from th' mail-box and-and Tip was afraid of his big dog Rover-so he ran under th' wagon. "I hollered-like-like ever-thing-fer him to stop-but he jest grinned an' an' he he," the thin voice rose to an anguished squeak, "he run right over him! Darn him! An' broke his leg!" There was nothing left to be said after that last tragic utterance. Monsieur, and the boy, too, knew what happens to worthless yellow dogs whose legs get broken in this puffed-up world. So Monsieur, sitting also upon his haunches, fell to clucking with pity and to stroking the little patient head, while the hand on the boy's shoulder gripped with sympathy. Silence fell, awkwardly and tensely, while the golden sun traveled and the meadow larks called their few lovely notes in the open beyond. Monsieur, who was blessed with a fine imagination, was thinking ahead over death and its like, the grief that follows. He was already identified, heart and soul, with the hapless two in the thicket. He wondered if the little leg could not be fixed, if he could not fix it-a pull, maybe a splint or two from the curving eucalyptus bark, now, maybe, and a strip of cloth from his tattered garments But the fracture was too high, he saw. None but a docteur, one skilled in bones, could do the thing. He shook his head and the boy wailed afresh. "He's all I-got," he gulped, "only Uncle Jim." Monsieur, torn to the depths, stood up. Sweat of anguish was upon his own body. Something must be done. Something would be done. And then, all suddenly, like the light in a dark place illuminating the way, a great thought came to him. The two crisp bills tied in the handkerchief! Oui! To be sure! Certainement! And beyond in the town, of a surety, there would be that sort of docteur who cared for the animals-at a price. But Monsieur had the price. Yes, indeed! With alacrity he arose. He pulled down what passed for a waistcoat with the manner of thirty years ago. He settled the improper hat on his shaggy head. "Come, mon fils," he said with a new tone in his voice, "we will fix him, non? Yonder in ze town zere mus' be ze-what you call? horse docteur, ze vétérinaire? Yes?" The boy stood up, too. "Yes," he said, swallowing hard, "Doc Yeates. But I ain't got no money, Mister. An' Uncle Jim ain't neither." "Forget it," said Monsieur grandly, "we have ze where-wiz-all." He stooped and lifted the little dog with the trained hands of the genuinely tender heart. Only these can inflict suffering and be kissed by the sufferer. He laid the animal against his ragged breast and turned out to the road. At his heels the boy came with wide eyes of sudden hope, his skinny hands clenched into fists of anxiety. At the boulevard's edge Monsieur Bon Coeur stood with dignity. He looked up and down for automobiles. For himself when they passed he was wont to get humbly off to one side smiling with pleasure in their shining beauty and wonder, glad that there were those in the world who could ride in them, most marvelously, every day. Now he intended to commandeer one. And one was coming far up along the way. It came swiftly, with that smooth, unwavering stride and lack of sway or bounce which bespeaks those tall shockabsorbers whose price is almost the price of some cars, whose action is hydraulic. It was long and dark and gleamed with plate glass. A driver sent it forward like a bolt. One man rode in the tonneau. Monsieur Bon Coeur by the roadside lifted a compelling hand. The chauffeur cast a contemptuous glance at him and blew a deep scream from the siren, holding his lightning course. Not one fraction of an inch did his foot on the throttle ease up. AS S they flashed by the man in the tonneau looked, leaned out to look back, and spoke. A long distance away the great car came to a stop, reversed and came almost as swiftly and unerringly back. "Eh?" said the capped and ulstered occupant of the tonneau. "What have we here?" His voice was crisp and gruff, the voice of long-used authority and power. Monsieur Bon Coeur carefully shifted his burden, loosed a hand, lifted the ancient headgear and made the bow of forty years ago a very perfect thing. It did not escape the keen gray eyes in their network of wrinkles beneath the visored cap. Monsieur, usually so timid and gentle, so retiring and anxious to be conservative, stepped boldly to the machine's side. He was enlisted in the cause of universal humanitarianism whose very dignity gave him courage. "Ah!" said Monsieur, already identified heart and soul with the hapless two, "Poor, poor babes!" And he was down beside them in one stride "We have, M'sieu," he said, "one small tragedy-ze leetle boy an' his frien', ze small dog. See-it has met wiz ze misfortune to get hurt, vaire desperate' hurt-in ze case of a dog w'ich have no value. We mus' get it to ze docteur at once -so I make so bold as to arrest your car to ask your mos' kind pairmission zat we ride to ze town but yonder." Monsieur's kind blue eyes were shining with hope and excitement. We will," he finished eagerly, "but stan' on ze outside step." The man leaning forward on the brocade cushions shut his lips in a grim line. He flung open the door upon the instant. "Get in," he said sharply; "Jules, drive carefully." And so it came about that Monsieur Bon Coeur once more rode on springs in state, albeit he sat gingerly forward that his ragged habiliments might come into contact as slightly as possible with the splendor about him. The boy, begrimed as to face and pale as to lips, stared first at his benefactors and then at his small friend lying so quietly in Monsieur's breast. As for Monsieur, he still carried the abashing hat in his hand, and his mind had gone back-far, far back-to those other golden days. THE personage opposite studied his queer passengers with keen, appraising eyes. Jules in front presented disdainful shoulders and drove as directed, though one could see disapproval of the whole proceeding in his every line. And in a matter of seconds, almost, the little town rolled up along the boulevard and the magic ride was done. At a sign upon a neat establishment, "A. L. Yeates, Veterinary," the grand equipage stopped. Not many of its kind stopped there. Therefore the doctor himself, a slim, kindly, slow-spoken man came out. It was indicative of the nature of him that his lean face did not change when he found with whom his business lay, for it was Monsieur Bon Coeur who stepped out to address him. "Docteur," said Monsieur eagerly, "we have need of tender hands here. See!" And he held forth the yellow dog with the piteously dangling leg. "Can it be fix'?" The long fingers of the practitioner slipped over the fracture swiftly. "Sure," he said, "but it will take quite a bit of trouble. H'm. Yes. A light cast-watching for swelling-a week(Continued on page 62) B How I "Entertained" Our Boys During Their ECAUSE I am living through the most thrilling, exciting days and actions of the world's history it is difficult for me to write coherently. I am still wildly excited after what has just happened to me, although I sit peacefully on my cot in my little tent, ankle-deep in mud, listening to a heavy barrage. Occasionally I skate off said cot when the two big Berthas up the hill dislocate me with their concussion. Why I should be so fortunate in every way is the eternal question of my existence. That I should be actually in this greatest of all battles is nothing short of a miracle. I came up to this fighting front to sing for fighting men, believing they needed it more than other soldiers. There had been whispers of an "all-American" offensive to be and I wanted to sing for as many as possible before that time came. When I reached the section I found that the 2nd Division were needing entertainment. I have a soft spot in my heart for the Marines, anyway. I had been with them before, but only for a few days, and it takes a full month to "do" a division of 30,000 men. When I sang for them before, they had just come out of the trenches after being in for months and fighting the biggest battles of the world in this offensive of ours and being unmercifully cut to pieces. The day after they came out I was sent up to do my bit. I was told there would be no pianos and there was no one to go with me to help, so I went alone. They were near the line, having been pushed up for these few days. I went on Saturday and on Tuesday they evacuated for another sector. Poor laddies! They had lived such a brute life and had gone through so much that they were dazed. Their minds seemed to be at a standstill and they didn't know whether they could think or not. To hear something aesthetic was like going to heaven. They had forgotten there was such a thing as music-although they had sung lustily on their way to battle. That may seem paradoxical. There were no "Y" huts, of course, for being on the move the "Y" moved with them. Each fighting division has a "Y" division that sticks closer than a brother. These boys had tears in their eyes as they spoke of their "Y" men. One man, and others were like him, went over the top with the boys every time-he did stretcher bearing, and when the boys pushed so far forward that Battle for Thiancourt By Crystal Waters In the Y. M. C. A. Overseas Service the kitchens couldn't keep up with them so they were four days without food or water, he was there with chocolate and biscuits. They told me of this "Y" man carrying a man who had both legs torn off and his gas mask was gone. A gas attack came, so the "Y" man put his on the boy. Those boys worship that man. He has had two citations but he is too modest to speak of it. The division was scattered and groups of men were billeted in each little village of the district. The "Y" took any vacant store or room or cellar in the battered, forlorn hamlet and opened a canteen. There are so few American women that I only saw one in the whole division. None of these places was large enough for an entertainment. It had to be out doors. In one case it was under a high thatched roof put up to shelter hay. There was a wall at one end and an empty hayrick was drawn up in front of it, decorated with boughs. That was my stage. Hundreds of boys came around. Some got up on a full hayrick at one side, others climbed up in the rafters. One boy got stuck in the acute corner of a joist and could neither get up nor down. His arms waived violently on one side of the beam and his legs on the other. He wriggled like a frog and we all screamed with delight giving advice in both French and English or both-until by an Herculean effort, he righted himself. Little things are so extremely funny after the tragedy of a battle. Most of the boys were sitting on the ground in front of me, or standing with the blue uniformed French soldiers farther back. No piano, no other enter I could hardly believe that I was actually on the fighting tainer to change off with. I sang many songs, and taught them new ones-and they sang for me, the first real live American girl they'd seen (only the "Y" expresses it, "An honest-to-God American girl"). But I had to sing with them, for they had lost the courage to let their voices out in that struggle of life and death. That same evening I was driven about ten miles farther on to a place where our boys were gathered in a barnyard almost a block square, waiting for me. They were all standing. The square was crowded-half Sammies and half poilus. I stood at the top of some stone steps and went through the same performance. After half an hour an officer came up and offered to help, by making a fool of himself for their amusement. He sang a simple French song and he and the poilu acted it. It was better than any Orpheum stunt! When they finished there was a shout for "seconds." At mess, when the boys go back for a second serving, they are given that name. This time it meant that they all wanted a second serving of American songs. We kept it up until dark. I soon discovered that there was always at least one well-to-do family in the village who had a piano and who was willing to let the fighting Sammies have a treat. Then I found a boy who could play. It was much more satisfactory to me although the boys would appreciate anything. At our first place we found a piano in the chateau. The best house in the village is called a chateau no matter how humble. |