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英语翻译One upon a time there was a dog walking thorugh the woods.The sun was shining nicely on its face.The dog ran into a man eating sandwiches.The dog looked longingly and the man gave him a sandwich.On went the dog.Evening came and the dog still had ont had much to eat.He lay down for a while.At night he heard all kinds of animal sounds.The dog started to bark and suddenly a talking owl flew over to him.The owl asked,"Don't you have a master?"The dog answered,"No,but I ran into a nice man today.I can find him again so I can stay at his house for the night."The owl then answered,"Why are you in the you in the woods then and not with that nice man?"The dog said he was much too tired to walk any further.The owl asked him where he lived."I'd rather not talk about that,"said the dog and told him that he would like to catch some sleep now.The owl understood and flew off.The next day the dog walked twards a town.When the dog finally found the town he saw many houses.Among the houses he saw a beautiful bule one.The dog began to bark loudly.The man from the forest came out!He was very surprised the dog had found him.He kept him forever after that and took real good care of him!再帮我翻译一篇好吗?
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很久以前有一条狗正在树林中穿梭.太阳照耀着它的脸.这条狗跑向一个正在吃三明治的人那里.这条狗看起来很渴望吃到三明治,所以那个人就给了它一个三明治.然后那条狗走开了.晚上那条狗还是没有吃多少东西.那个人躺了一会.半夜他听到了各种动物的叫声.那条狗开始吠叫,突然一只正在说话的猫头鹰飞向它.猫头鹰问："你没有你主人吗?”狗答道：“没有,但我可以今天找到了一个好人.我还可以找到他,所以我能整晚呆在这个房子里.”猫头鹰有问道：“那你为什么还呆在这里而不是那个人身边呢?”狗说他太累了以至于已经走不动了.猫头鹰问它他住哪.“我还是不要谈论这个比较好,”狗说道,狗告诉猫头鹰它想睡一会.猫头鹰明白了然后飞走了.
第二天狗走向一个小镇.当这条狗最终找到那个小镇时它看到许多房子.在那些房子中有一个蓝色的漂亮房子.狗开始狂吠.森林里的人跑了出来!他非常惊奇这条狗居然找到了他.从此以后他就一直养着它并好好照顾着它.
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Title: A Cool Million, or, The Dismantling of Lemuel Pitkin (1934)
Author: Nathanael West
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *
eBook No.: 0608941.txt
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--------------------------------------------------------------------------
To S. J. PERELMAN
"John D. Rockefeller would give a cool million to have a stomach like yours."
--OLD SAYING
The home of Mrs. Sarah Pitkin, a widow well on in years, was situated on
an eminence overlooking the Rat River, near the town of Ottsville in the
state of Vermont. It was a humble dwelling much the worse for wear, yet
exceedingly dear to her and her only child, Lemuel.
While the house had not been painted for some time, owing to the
straitened circumstances of the little family, it still had a great deal
of charm. An antique collector, had one chanced to pass it by, would have
been greatly interested in its architecture. Having been built about the
time of General Stark's campaign against the British, its lines reflected
the character of his army, in whose ranks several Pitkins had marched.
One late fall evening, Mrs. Pitkin was sitting quietly in her parlor,
when a knock was heard on her humble door.
She kept no servant, and, as usual, answered the knock in person.
"Mr. Slemp!" she said, as she recognized in her caller the wealthy
village lawyer.
"Yes, Mrs. Pitkin, I come upon a little matter of business."
"Won't you come in?" said the widow, not forgetting her politeness in her
"I believe I will trespass on your hospitality for a brief space," said
the lawyer blandly. "Are you quite well?"
"Thank you, sir--quite so," said Mrs. Pitkin as she led the way into the
sitting room. "Take the rocking chair, Mr. Slemp," she said, pointing to
the best chair which the simple room contained.
"You are very kind," said the lawyer, seating himself gingerly in the
chair referred to.
"Where is your son, Lemuel?" continued the lawyer.
"He is in school. But it is nearly tim he never
loiters." And the mother's voice showed something of the pride she felt
in her boy.
"Still in school!" exclaimed Mr. Slemp. "Shouldn't he be helping to
support you?"
"No," said the widow proudly. "I set great store by learning, as does my
son. But you came on business?"
"Ah, yes, Mrs. Pitkin. I fear that the business may be unpleasant for
you, but you will remember, I am sure, that I act in this matter as agent
for another."
"Unpleasant!" repeated Mrs. Pitkin apprehensively. "Yes. Mr. Joshua Bird,
Squire Bird, has placed in my hands for foreclosure the mortgage on your
house. That is, he will foreclose," he added hastily, "if you fail to
raise the necessary monies in three months from now, when the obligation
"How can I hope to pay?" said the widow brokenly. "I thought that Squire
Bird would be glad to renew, as we pay him twelve per cent interest."
"I am sorry, Mrs. Pitkin, sincerely sorry, but he has decided not to
renew. He wants either his money or the property."
The lawyer took his hat and bowed politely, leaving the widow alone with
her tears.
(It might interest the reader to know that I was right in my surmise. An
interior decorator, on passing the house, had been greatly struck by its
appearance. He had seen Squire Bird about purchasing it, and that is why
that worthy had decided to foreclose on Mrs. Pitkin. The name of the
cause of this tragedy was Asa Goldstein, his business, "Colonial
Exteriors and Interiors." Mr. Goldstein planned to take the house apart
and set it up again in the window of his Fifth Avenue shop.)
As Lawyer Slemp was leaving the humble dwelling, he met the widow's son,
Lemuel, on the threshold. Through the open door, the boy caught a glimpse
of his mother in tears, and said to Mr. Slemp:
"What have you been saying to my mother to make her cry?"
"Stand aside, boy!" exclaimed the lawyer. He pushed Lem with such great
force that the poor lad fell off the porch steps into the cellar, the
door of which was unfortunately open. By the time Lem had extricated
himself, Mr. Slemp was well on his way down the road.
Our hero, although only seventeen years old, was a strong, spirited lad
and would have followed after the lawyer but for his mother. On hearing
her voice, he dropped the ax which he had snatched up and ran into the
house to comfort her.
The poor widow told her son all we have recounted and the two of them sat
plunged in gloom. No matter how they racked their brains, they could not
discover a way to keep the roof over their heads.
In desperation, Lem finally decided to go and see Mr. Nathan Whipple, who
was the town's most prominent citizen. Mr. Whipple had once been
President of the United States, and was known affectionately from Maine
to California as "Shagpoke" Whipple. After four successful years in
office, he had beaten his silk hat, so to speak, into a ploughshare and
had refused to run a second time, preferring to return to his natal
Ottsville and there become a simple citizen again. He spent all his time
between his den in the garage and the Rat River National Bank, of which
he was president.
Mr. Whipple had often shown his interest in Lem, and the lad felt that he
might be willing to help his mother save her home.
Shagpoke Whipple lived on the main street of Ottsville in a two-story
frame house with a narrow lawn in front and a garage that once had been a
chicken house in the rear. Both buildings had a solid, sober look, and,
indeed, no one was ever allowed to create disorder within their
precincts.
The house served as a place of business as the first
floor being devoted to the offices of the bank and the second functioning
as the home of the ex-President. On the porch, next to the front door,
was a large bronze plate that read:
RAT RIVER NATIONAL BANK
Nathan "Shagpoke" Whipple
Some people might object to turning a part of their dwelling into a bank,
especially if, like Mr. Whipple, they had hobnobbed with crowned heads.
But Shagpoke was not proud, and he was of the saving kind. He had always
saved: from the first time he received a penny at the age of five, when
he had triumphed over the delusive pleasures of an investment in candy,
right down to the time he was elected President of the United States. One
of his favorite adages was "Don't teach your grandmother to suck eggs."
By this he meant that the pleasures of the body are like grandmothers,
once they begin to suck eggs they never stop until all the eggs (purse)
As Lem turned up the path to Mr. Whipple's house, the sun rapidly sank
under the horizon. Every evening at this time, the ex-President lowered
the flag that flew over his garage and made a speech to as many of the
town's citizenry as had stopped to watch the ceremony. During the first
year after the great man's return from Washington, there used to collect
quite a crowd, but this had dwindled until now, as our hero approached
the house, there was but a lone Boy Scout watching the ceremony. This lad
was not present of his own free will, alas, but had been sent by his
father, who was desirous of obtaining a loan from the bank.
Lem removed his hat and waited in reverence for Mr. Whipple to finish his
"All hail Old Glory! May you be the joy and pride of the American heart,
alike when your gorgeous folds shall wanton in the summer air and your
tattered fragments be dimly seen through clouds of war! May you ever wave
in honor, hope and profit, in unsullied glory and patriotic fervor, on
the dome of the Capitol, on the tented plain, on the wave-rocked topmast
and on the roof of this garage!"
With these words, Shagpoke lowered the flag for which so many of our
finest have bled and died, and tenderly gathered it up in his arms. The
Boy Scout ran off hurriedly. Lem moved forward to greet the orator.
"I would like to have a few words with you, sir," said our hero.
"Certainly," replied Mr. Whipple with native kindness. "I am never too
busy to discuss the problems of youth, for the youth of a nation is its
only hope. Come into my den," he added.
The room into which Lem followed Mr. Whipple was situated in the back of
the garage. It was furnished wit some boxes, a
cracker barrel, two brass spittoons, a hot stove and a picture of Lincoln
were all it held.
When our hero had seated himself on one of the boxes, Shagpoke perched on
the cracker barrel and put his congress gaiters near the hot stove. He
lined up the distance to the nearest spittoon with a measuring gob of
spittle and told the lad to begin.
As it will only delay my narrative and serve no good purpose to report
how Lem told about his predicament, I will skip to his last sentence.
"And so," concluded our hero, "the only thing that can save my mother's
home is for your bank to take over Squire Bird's mortgage."
"I would not help you by lending you money, even if it were possible for
me to do so," was the surprising answer Mr. Whipple gave the boy.
"Why not, sir?" asked Lem, unable to hide his great disappointment
"Because I believe it would be a mistake. You are too young to borrow."
"But what shall I do?" asked Lem in desperation. "There are still three
months left to you before they can sell your house," said Mr. Whipple.
"Don't be discouraged. This is the land of opportunity and the world is
an oyster." "But how am I to earn fifteen hundred dollars (for that was
the face value of the mortgage) here in such a short time?" asked Lem,
who was puzzled by the ex-President's rather cryptic utterances.
"That is for you to discover, but I never said that you should remain in
Ottsville. Do as I did, when I was your age. Go out into the world and
win your way."
Lem considered this advice for a while. When he spoke again, it was with
courage and determination.
"You are right, sir. I'll go off to seek my fortune." Our hero's eyes
shone with a light that bespoke a high heart. "Good," said Mr. Whipple,
and he was genuinely glad. "As I said before, the world is an oyster that
but waits for hands to open it. Bare hands are best, but have you any
"Something less than a dollar," said Lem sadly.
"It is very little, my young friend, but it might suffice, for you have
an honest face and that is more than gold. But I had thirty-five dollars
when I left home to make my way, and it would be nice if you .had at
least as much."
"Yes, it would be nice," agreed Lem.
"Have you any collateral?" asked Mr. Whipple.
"Collateral?" repeated Lem, whose business education was so limited that
he did not even know what the word meant.
"Security for a loan," said Mr. Whipple.
"No, sir, I'm afraid not."
"Your mother has a cow, I think?"
"Yes, Old Sue." The boy's face fell as he thought of parting with that
faithful servitor.
"I believe that I could lend you twenty-five dollars on her, maybe
thirty," said Mr. Whipple.
"But she cost more than a hundred, and besides she supplies us with milk,
butter and cheese, the main part of our simple victuals."
"You do not understand," said Mr. Whipple patiently. "Your mother can
keep the cow until the note that she will sign comes due in sixty days
from now. This new obligation will be an added incentive to spur you on
to success."
"But what if I fail?" asked Lem. Not that he was losing heart, be it
said, but he was young and wanted encouragement.
Mr. Whipple understood how the lad felt and made an effort to reassure
"America," he said with great seriousness, "is the land of opportunity.
She takes care of the honest and industrious and never fails them as long
as they are both. This is not a matter of opinion, it is one of faith. On
the day that Americans stop believing it, on that day will America be
"Let me warn you that you will find in the world a certain few scoffers
who will laugh at you and attempt to do you injury. They will tell you
that John D. Rockefeller was a thief and that Henry Ford and other great
men are also thieves. Do not believe them. The story of Rockefeller and
of Ford is the story of every great American, and you should skive to
make it your story. Like them, you were born poor and on a farm. Like
them, by honesty and industry, you cannot fail to succeed."
It is needless to say that the words of the ex-President encouraged our
young hero just as similar ones have heartened the youth of this country
ever since it was freed from the irksome British yoke. He vowed then and
there to go and do as Rockefeller and Ford had done.
Mr. Whipple drew up some papers for the lad's mother to sign and ushered
him out of the den. When he had gone, the great man turned to the picture
of Lincoln that hung on the wall and silently communed with it.
Our hero's way home led through a path that ran along the Rat River. As
he passed a wooded stretch he cut a stout stick with a thick gnarled top.
He was twirling this club, as a bandmaster does his baton, when he was
startled by a young girl's shriek. Turning his head, he saw a terrified
figure pursued by a fierce dog. A moment's glance showed him that it was
Betty Prail, a girl with whom he was in love in a boyish way.
Betty recognized him at the same moment.
"Oh, save me, Mr. Pitkin!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands.
"I will," said Lem resolutely.
Armed with the stick he had most fortunately cut, he rushed between the
girl and her pursuer and brought the knob down with full force on the
dog's back. The attention of the furious animal--a large bulldog--was
diverted to his assailant, and with a fierce howl he rushed upon Lem. But
our hero was wary and expected the attack. He jumped to one side and
brought the stick down with great force on the dog's head. The animal
fell, partly stunned, his quivering tongue protruding from his mouth.
"It won't do to leave him so," thought L "when he revives he'll be as
dangerous as ever."
He dealt the prostrate brute two more blows which settled its fate.
The furious animal would do no more harm.
"Oh, thank you, Mr. Pitkin!" exclaimed Betty, a trace of color returning
to her cheeks. "I was terribly frightened." "I don't wonder," said Lem.
"The brute was certainly ugly."
"How brave you are!" the young lady said in admiration.
"It doesn't take much courage to hit a dog on the head with a stick,"
said Lem modestly.
"Many boys would have run," she said.
"What, and left you unprotected?" Lem was indignant. "None but a coward
would have done that."
"Tom Baxter was walking with me, and he ran away."
"Did he see the dog chasing you?"
"And what did he do?"
"He jumped over a stone wall."
"All I can say is that that isn't my style," said Lem. "Do you see how
the dog froths at the mouth? I believe he's mad."
"How fearful!" exclaimed Betty with a shudder. "Did you suspect that
"Yes, when I first saw him."
"And yet you dared to meet him?"
"It was safer than to run," said Lem, making little of the incident. "I
wonder whose dog it was?"
"I'll tell you," said a brutal voice.
Turning his head, Lem beheld a stout fellow about three years older than
himself, with a face in which the animal seemed to predominate. It was
none other than Tom Baxter, the town bully.
"What have you been doing to my dog?" demanded Baxter with a snarl.
Addressed in this tone, Lem thought it unnecessary to throw away
politeness on such a brutal customer. "Killing him," he answered shortly.
"What business have you killing my dog?" demanded the bully with much
"It was your business to keep the brute locked up, where he wouldn't do
any harm," said Lem. "Besides, you saw him attack Miss Frail. Why didn't
you interfere?"
"I'll flog you within an inch of your life," said Baxter with an oath.
"You'd better not try it," said Lem coolly. "I suppose you think I ought
to have let the dog bite Miss Frail." "He wouldn't have bitten her."
"He would too. He was chasing her with that intention." "It was only in
"I suppose he was frothing at the mouth only in sport," said Lem. "The
dog was mad. You ought to thank me for killing him because he might have
bitten you."
"That don't go down," said Baxter coarsely. "It's much too thin."
"It's true," said Betty Frail, speaking for the first time.
"Of course you'll stand up for him," said the butcher boy ( for that was
Baxter's business ), "but that's neither here nor there. I paid five
dollars for that dog, and if he don't pay me what I gave, I'll mash him."
"I shall do nothing of the sort," said Lem quietly. "A dog like that
ought to be killed, and no one has any right to let him run loose,
risking the lives of innocent people. The next time you get five dollars
you ought to invest it better."
"Then you won't pay me the money?" cried the bully in a passion. "I'll
break your head."
"Come on," said Lem, "I've got something to say about that," and he
squared off scientifically.
"Oh, don't fight him, Mr. Pitkin," said Betty, very much distressed. "He
is much stronger than you."
"He'll find that out soon enough, I'm thinking," growled Lem's opponent.
That Tom Baxter was not only larger but stronger than our hero was no
doubt true. On the other hand he did not know how to use his strength. It
was merely undisciplined brute force. If he could have got Lem around the
waist the latter would have been at his mercy, but our hero knew that
well enough and didn't choose to allow it. He was a pretty fair boxer,
and stood on his defense, calm and wary.
When Baxter rushed in, thinking to seize his smaller opponent, he was
greeted by two rapid blows in the face, one of which struck him on the
nose, the other in the eye, the effect of both being to make his head
"I'll mash you for that," he yelled in a frenzy of rage, but as he rushed
in again he never thought to guard his face. The result was a couple of
more blows, the other eye and his mouth being assailed this time.
Baxter was astonished. He had expected to "chaw up" Lem at the first
onset. Instead of that, there stood Lem cool and unhurt, while he could
feel that his nose and mouth were bleeding and both his eyes were rapidly
He stopped short and regarded Lem as well as he could through his injured
optics, then surprised our hero by smiling. "Well," he said, shaking his
head sheepishly, "you're the better man. I'm a rough customer, I expect,
but I know when I'm bested. There's my hand to show that I don't bear
Lem gave his hand in return without fear that there might be craft in the
bully's offer of friendship. The former was a fair-dealing lad himself
and he thought that everyone was the same. However, no sooner did Baxter
have a hold of his hand than he jerked the poor _boy into his embrace and
squeezed him insensible.
Betty screamed and fainted, so great was her anxiety for Lem. Hearing her
scream, Baxter dropped his victim to the ground and walked to where the
young lady lay in a dead faint. He stood over her for a few minutes
admiring her beauty. His little pig-like eyes shone with bestiality.
It is with reluctance that I leave Miss Prail in the lecherous embrace of
Tom Baxter to begin a new chapter, but I cannot with propriety continue
my narrative beyond the point at which the bully undressed that
unfortunate lady.
However, as Miss Prail is the heroine of this romance, I would like to
use this opportunity to acquaint you with a little of her past history.
On her twelfth birthday, Betty became an orphan with the simultaneous
death of her two parents in a fire which also destroyed what 'little
property might have been left her. In this fire, or rather at it, she
also lost something which, like her parents, could never be replaced.
The Prail farm was situated some three miles from Ottsville on a rough
dirt road, and the amateur fire company, to whose ministrations all the
fires in the district were left, was not very enthusiastic about dragging
their apparatus to it. To tell the truth, the Ottsville Fire Company
consisted of a set of young men who were more interested in dirty
stories, checkers and applejack than they were in fire fighting. When the
news of the catastrophe arrived at the fire house, the volunteer firemen
were all inebriated, and their chief, Bill Baxter (father to the man in
whose arms we left our heroine), was dead drunk.
After many delays, the fire company finally arrived at the Prail farm,
but instead of trying to quench the flames they immediately set to work
and looted the place.
Betty, although only twelve years old at the time, was a well-formed
little girl with the soft, voluptuous lines of a beautiful woman. Dressed
only in a cotton nightgown, she was wandering among the firemen begging
them to save her parents, when Bill Baxter noticed her budding form and
enticed her into the woodshed.
In the morning, she was found lying naked on the ground by some neighbors
and taken into their house. She had a bad cold, but remembered nothing of
what Bill Baxter had done to her. She mourned only the loss of her
After a small collection had been taken up by the minister to purchase an
outfit, she was sent to the county orphan asylum. There she remained
until her fourteenth year, when she was put out as a maid of all work to
the Slemps, a prominent family of Ottsville, the head of which, Lawyer
Slemp, we already know.
As one can well imagine, all was not beer and skittles in this household
for the poor orphan. If she had been less beautiful, perhaps things would
have gone better for her. As it was, however, Lawyer Slemp had two ugly
daughters and a shrewish wife who were very jealous of their beautiful
servant. They saw to it that she was badly dressed and that she wore her
hair only in the ugliest possible manner. Yet despite these things, and
although she had to wear men's shoes and coarse cotton stockings, our
heroine was a great deal more attractive than the other women of the
household.
Lawyer Slemp was a deacon in the church and a very stern man. Still, one
would think that as a male he would have less against the poor orphan
than his women folks. But, unfortunately, it did not work out this way.
Mr. Slemp beat Betty regularly and enthusiastically. He had started these
beatings when she first came from the asylum as a little girl, and did
not stop them when she became a splendid woman. He beat her twice a week
on her bare behind with his bare hand.
It is a hard thing to say about a deacon, but Lawyer Slemp got little
exercise and he seemed to take a great deal of pleasure in these
bi-weekly workouts. As for Betty, she soon became inured to his blows and
did not mind them as much as the subtler tortures inflicted on her by
Mrs. Slemp and her daughters. Besides, Lawyer Slemp, although he was
exceedingly penurious, always gave her a quarter when he had finished
beating her.
It was with this weekly fifty cents that Betty hoped to effect her escape
from Ottsville. She had already obtained part of an outfit, and was on
her way home from town with the first store hat she had ever owned when
she met Tom Baxter and his dog.
The result of this unfortunate encounter we already know.
When our hero regained consciousness, he found himself in a ditch
alongside the path on which he had his set-to with Tom Baxter. It had
grown quite dark, and he failed to notice Betty in some bushes on the
other side of the path. He thought that she must have got safely away.
As he walked home his head cleared and he soon recovered his naturally
high spirits. He forgot his unfortunate encounter with the bully and
thought only of his coming departure for New York City.
He was greeted at the door of his humble home by his fond parent, who had
been waiting anxiously for his return.
"Lem, Lem," said Mrs. Pitkin, "where have you been?"
Although our hero was loth to lie, he did not want to worry his mother
unduly, so he said, "Mr. Whipple kept me."
The lad then told her what the ex-President had said. She was quite happy
for her son and willingly signed the note for thirty dollars. Like all
mothers, Mrs. Pitkin was certain that her child must succeed.
Bright and early the next morning, Lem took the note to Mr. Whipple and
received thirty dollars minus twelve per cent interest in advance. He
then bought a ticket for New York at the local depot, and waited there
for the arrival of the steam cars.
Our hero was studying the fleeting scenery of New England when he heard
someone address him.
"Papers, magazines, all the popular novels! Something to read, mister?"
It was the news butcher, a young boy with an honest, open countenance.
Our hero was eager to talk, so he spoke to the newsboy.
"I'm not a great one for reading novels," he said. "My Aunt Nancy gave my
ma one once but I didn't find much in it.
I like facts and I like to
study, though."
"I ain't much on story reading either," said the news butcher. "Where are
you goin'?"
"To New York to make my fortune," said Lem candidly.
"Well, if you can't make money in New York, you can't make money
anywhere." With this observation he began to hawk his reading matter
farther down the aisle.
Lem again took up his study of the fleeting scenery. This time he was
interrupted by a stylishly dressed young man who came forward and
accosted him.
"Is this seat engaged?" the stranger asked.
"Not as I know of?" replied Lem with a friendly smile. "Then with your
kind permission I will occupy it," said the over-dressed stranger.
"Why, of course," said our hero.
"You are from the country, I presume," he continued affably as he sank
into the seat alongside our hero.
"Yes, I am. I live near Bennington in the town of Ottsville. Were you
ever there?"
"No. I suppose you are taking a vacation trip to the big city?"
"Oh, I'm leaving home to make my fortune."
"That's nice. I hope you are successful. By the way, the Mayor of New
York is my uncle."
"My, is that so?" said Lem with awe.
"Yes indeed, my name is Wellington Mape."
"Glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Mape. I'm Lemuel Pitkin."
"Indeed! An aunt of mine married a Pitkin. Perhaps we're related."
Lem was quite elated at the thought that he might be kin to the Mayor of
New York without knowing it. He decided that his new acquaintance must be
rich because of his clothing and his extreme politeness.
"Are you in business, Mr. Mape?" he asked.
"Well, ahem!" was that suave individual's rejoinder. "I'm afraid I'm
rather an idler. My father left me a cool million, so I don't feel the
need of working."
"A cool million!" ejaculated Lem. "Why, that's ten times a hundred
thousand dollars."
"Just so," said Mr. Mape, smiling at the lad's enthusiasm. "That's an
awful pile of money! I'd be satisfied if I had five thousand right now."
"I'm afraid that five thousand wouldn't last me very long," said Mr. Mape
with an amused smile.
"Gee! Where would anybody get such a pile of money unless they inherited
"That's easy," said the stranger. "Why, rye made as much in one day in
Wall Street."
"You don't say."
"Yes, I do say. You can take my word for it."
"I wish I could make some money," said Lem wistfully, as he thought of
the mortgage on his home.
"A man must have money to make money. If now, you had some money..."
"I've got a little under thirty dollars," said Lem.
"Is that all?"
"Yes, that's all. I had to give Mr. Whipple a note to borrow it."
"If that's all the money you have, you'd better take good care of it. I
regret to say that despite the efforts of the Mayor, my uncle, there are
still many crooks in New York." "I intend to be careful."
"Then you keep your money in a safe place?"
"I haven't hidden it because a secret pocket is the first place a thief
would look. I keep it loose in my trousers where nobody would think I
carried so much money."
"You are right. I can see that you are a man of the world."
"Oh, I can take care of myself, I guess," said Lem with the confidence of
"That comes of being a Pitkin. I'm glad to know that we're related. You
must call on me in New York." "Where do you live?"
"At the Ritz. Just ask for Mr. Wellington Mape's suite of rooms."
"Is it a good place to liver
"Why, yes. I pay three dollars a day for my board, and the incidentals
carry my expenses up to as high as forty dollars a week."
"Gee," ejaculated Lem. "I could never afford it--that is, at first." And
our hero laughed with the incurable optimism of youth.
"You of course should find a boarding house where they give you plain but
solid fare for a reasonable sum...But I must bid you good morning, a
friend is waiting for me in the next car."
After the affable Mr. Wellington Mape had taken his departure, Lem turned
again to his vigil at the car window.
The news butcher had changed his cap. "Apples, bananas, oranges!" he
shouted as he came down the aisle with a basket of fruit on his arm.
Lem stopped his rapid progress to ask him the price of an orange. It was
two cents, and he decided to buy one to eat with the hard-boiled egg his
mother had given him. But when our hero thrust his hand into his pocket,
a wild spasm contracted his features. He explored further, with growing
trepidation, and a sickly pallor began to spread over his face.
"What's the matter?" asked Steve, for that was the train boy's name.
"I've been robbed! My money's gone! All the money Mr. Whipple lent me has
been stolen!"
"I wonder who did it?" asked Steve.
"I can't imagine," answered Lem brokenly.
"Did they get much?"
"All I had in the world...A little less than thirty dollars."
"Some smart leather must have gotten it."
"Leather?" queried our hero, not understanding the argot of the
underworld with which the train boy was familiar. "Yes,
leather--pickpocket. Did anybody talk to you on the train?"
"Only Mr. Wellington Mape, a rich young man. He is kin to the Mayor of
New York."
"Who told you that?"
"He did himself."
"How was he dressed?" asked Steve, whose suspicions were aroused. (He had
been "wire"--scout--to a "leather" when small and knew all about the
dodge.) "Did he wear a pale blue hat?"
"And looked a great swell?"
"He got off at the last station and your dough-re-me went with him."
"You mean he got my money? Well, I never. He told me he was worth a cool
million and boarded at the Ritz Hotel."
"That's the way they all talk--big. Did you tell him where you kept your
"Yes, I did. But can't I get it back?"
"I don't see how. He got off the train."
"I'd like to catch hold of him," said Lem, who was very angry.
"Oh, he'd hit you with a piece of lead pipe. But look through your
pockets, maybe he left you a dollar."
Lem put his hand into the pocket in which he had carried his money and
drew it out as though he had been bitten. Between his fingers he held a
diamond ring.
"What's that?" asked Steve.
"I don't know," said Lem with surprise. "I don't think I ever saw it
before. Yes, by gum, I did. It must have dropped off the crook's finger
when he picked my pocket. I saw him wearing it."
"Boy!" exclaimed the train boy. "You're sure in luck. Talk about falling
in a privy and coming up with a gold watch. You're certainly it. With a
double t!"
"What is it worth?" asked Lem eagerly.
"Permit me to look at it, my young friend, perhaps I can tell you," said
a gentleman in a gray derby hat, who was sitting across the aisle. This
stranger had been listening with great curiosity to the dialogue between
our hero and the train boy.
"I am a pawnbroker," he said. "If you let me examine the ring, I can
surely give you some idea of its value."
Lem handed the article in question to the stranger, who put a magnifying
glass into his eye and looked at it carefully.
"My young friend, that ring is worth all of fifty dollars," he announced.
"I'm certainly in luck," said Lem. "The crook only stole twenty-eight
dollars and sixty cents from me. But I'd rather have my money back. I
don't want any of his."
"I'll tell you what I'll do," said the self-styled pawnbroker. "I'll
advance you twenty-eight dollars and sixty cents against the ring, and
agree to give it back for that sum and suitable interest if the owner
should ever call for it."
"That's fair enough," said Lem gratefully, and he pocketed the money that
the stranger tendered him.
Our hero paid for the piece of fruit that he had bought from the train
boy and ate it with quiet contentment. In the meantime, the "pawnbroker"
prepared to get off the train. When he had gathered together his meager
luggage, he shook hands with Lem and gave him a receipt for the ring.
But no sooner had the stranger left than a squad of policemen armed with
sawed-off shotguns entered and started down the aisle. Lem watched their
progress with great interest. His interest, however, changed to alarm
when they stopped at his seat and one of them caught him roughly by the
throat. Handcuffs were then snapped around his wrists. Weapons pointed at
"Begorra, we've got him," said Sergeant Clancy, who was in charge of the
police squad.
"But I haven't done anything," expostulated Lem, turning pale.
"None of your lip, sweetheart," said the sergeant. "Will you go quietly
or will you go quietly?" Before the poor lad had a chance to express his
willingness to go, the police officer struck him an extremely hard blow
on the head with his club.
Lem slumped down in his seat and Sergeant Clancy ordered his men to carry
the boy off the train. A patrol wagon was waiting at the depot. Lem's
unconscious form was dumped into the "Black Maria" and the police drove
to the station house.
When our hero regained consciousness some hours later, he was lying on
the stone floor of a cell. The room was full of detectives and the air
was foul with cigar smoke. Lem opened one eye, unwittingly giving the
signal for the detectives to go into action.
"'Fess up," said Detective Grogan, but before the boy could speak he
kicked him in the stomach with his heavy boot.
"Faith now," interfered Detective Reynolds, "give the lad a chance." He
bent over Lem's prostrate form with a kind smile on his face and said,
"Me lad, the jig is up."
"I'm innocent," protested Lem. "I didn't do anything."
"You stole a diamond ring and sold it," said another detective.
"I did not," replied Lem, with as much fire as he could muster under the
circumstances. "A pickpocket dropped it in my pocket and I pawned it with
a stranger for thirty dollars."
"Thirty dollars!" exclaimed Detective Reynolds, his voice giving great
evidence of disbelief. "Thirty dollars for a ring that cost more than a
thousand. Me lad, it won't wash." So saying the detective drew back his
foot and kicked poor Lem behind the ear even harder than his colleague
Our hero lost consciousness again, as was to be expected, and the
detectives left his cell, having first made sure that he was still alive.
A few days later, Lem was brought to trial, but neither judge nor jury
would believe his story.
Unfortunately, Stamford, the town in which he had been arrested, was in
the midst of a crime wave and both the police and the judiciary were
anxious to send people to jail. It also counted heavily against him that
the man who had posed as a pawnbroker on the train was in reality Hiram
Glazer, alias "The Pinhead," a notorius underworld character. This
criminal turned state's evidence and blamed the crime on our hero in
return for a small fee from the district attorney, who was shortly coming
up for re-election.
Once the verdict of guilty had been brought in, Lem was treated with
great kindness by everyone, even by the detectives who had been so brutal
in the station house. It was through their recommendations, based on what
they called his willingness to cooperate, that he received only fifteen
years in the penitentiary.
Our hero was immediately transferred to prison, where he was incarcerated
exactly five weeks after his departure from Ottsville. It would be hard
to say from this that justice is not swift, although, knowing the truth,
we must add that it is not always sure.
The warden of the state prison, Ezekiel Purdy, was a kind man if stern.
He invariably made all newcomers a little speech of welcome and greeted
Lem with the following words:
"My son, the way of the transgressor is hard, but at your age it is still
possible to turn from it. However, do not squirm, for you will get no
sermon from me."
(Lem was not squirming. The warden's expression was purely rhetorical.)
"Sit down for a moment," added Mr. Purdy, indicating the chair in which
he wanted Lem to sit. "Your new duties can wait yet awhile, as can the
prison barber and tailor."
The warden leaned back in his chair and sucked meditatively on his
enormous calabash pipe. When he began to talk again, it was with ardor
and conviction.
"The first thing to do is to draw all your teeth," he said. "Teeth are
often a source of infection and it pays to be on the safe side. At the
same time we will begin a series of cold showers. Cold water is an
excellent cure for morbidity."
"But I am innocent," cried Lem, when the full significance of what the
warden had said dawned on him. "I am not morbid and I never had a
toothache in my life."
Mr. Purdy dismissed the poor lad's protests with an airy wave of his
hand. "In my eyes," he said, "the sick are never guilty. You are merely
sick, as are all criminals. And as for please
remember that an ounce of prevention is worth a ton of cure. Because you
have never had a toothache does not mean that you will never have one."
Lem could not help but groan.
"Be of good cheer, my son," said the warden brightly, as he pressed a
button on his desk to summon a guard.
A few minutes later our hero was led off to the prison dentist, where we
will not follow him just yet.
Several chapters back I left our heroine, Betty Prail, lying naked under
a bush. She was not quite so fortunate as Lem, and did not regain
consciousness until after he had returned home.
When she recovered the full possession of her faculties, she found
herself in what she thought was a large box that was being roughly shaken
by some unknown agency. In a little while, however, she realized that she
was in reality lying on the bottom of a wagon.
"Could it be that she was dead?" she asked herself. But no, she heard
voices, and besides she was still naked. "No matter how poor a person
is," she comforted herself, "they wrap him or her up in something before
There were evidently two men on the driver's seat of the wagon. She tried
to understand what they were saying, but could not because they spoke a
foreign tongue. She was able to recognize their language as Italian,
however, having had some few music lessons in the orphan asylum.
"Gli diede uno scudo, it the lo rese subito gentile," said one of her
captors to the other in a guttural voice.
"Si, si," affirmed the other. "Questa vita terrena e quasi un prato,
che'l serpente tra fiori giace." After this bit of homely philosophy,
they both lapsed into silence.
But I do not want to mystify my readers any longer. The truth was that
the poor girl had been found by white slavers, and was being taken to a
house of ill fame in New York City.
The trip was an exceedingly rough one for our heroine. The wagon in which
she was conveyed had no springs to speak of, and her two captors made her
serve a severe apprenticeship to the profession they planned for her to
Late one night, the Italians halted their vehicle before the door of a
Chinese laundry somewhere near Mott Street. After descending from their
dilapidated conveyance, they scanned the street both up and down for a
possible policeman. When they had made sure that it was deserted, they
covered their captive with some old sacking and bundled her into the
There they were greeted by an ancient Chinaman, who was doing sums on an
abacus. This son of the Celestial Empire was a graduate of the Yale
University in Shanghai, and he spoke Italian perfectly.
"Qualche cosa de nuovo, signori?" he asked.
"Molto, molto," said the older and more villainous looking of the two
foreigners. "La vostra lettera l'abbiamo ricevuto, ma il danaro no," he
added with a shrewd smile.
"Queste sette medaglie le trovero, compaesano," answered the Chinaman in
the same language.
After this rather cryptic dialogue, the Chinaman led Betty through a
secret door into a sort of reception room. This chamber was furnished in
luxurious oriental splendor. The walls were sheathed in a pink satin that
had been embroidered with herons in silver by some cunning workman. On
the floor was a silk rug that must have cost more than a thousand
dollars, the colors of which could well vie with the rainbow. Before a
hideous idol, incense was burning, and its heady odor filled the air. It
was evident that neither pains nor expense had been spared in the
decoration of the room.
The old Chinaman struck a gong, and ere its musical note died away an
oriental woman with bound feet came to lead Betty off.
When she had gone, Wu Fong, for that was the China-man's name, began to
haggle with the two Italians over her purchase price. The bargaining was
done in Italian, and rather than attempt to make a word-for-word report
of the transaction I shall give only the result. Betty was knocked down
to the Chinaman for six hundred dollars.
This was a big price, so far as prices went in the white slave market.
But Wu Fong was set on having her. In fact it was he who had sent the two
to scour the New England countryside for a real American girl. Betty
suited him down to the ground.
The reader may be curious to know why he wanted an American girl so
badly. Let me say now that Wu Fong's establishment was no ordinary house
of ill fame. It was like that more famous one in the Rue Chabanis, Paris,
France--a "House of All Nations." In his institution he already had a
girl from every country in the known world except ours, and now Betty
rounded out the collection.
Wu Fong was confident that he would soon have his six hundred dollars
back with interest, for many of his clients were from non-Aryan countries
and would appreciate the services of a genuine American. Apropos of this,
it is lamentable but a fact, nevertheless, that the inferior races
greatly desire the women of their superiors. This is why the Negroes rape
so many white women in our southern states.
Each one of the female inmates of Wu Fong's establishment had a tiny
two-room suite for her own use, furnished and decorated in the style of
the country from which she came. Thus, Marie, the French girl, had an
apartment that was Directoire. Celeste's rooms (there were two French
girls because of their traditional popularity) were Louis the F
she being the fatter of the two.
In her suite, the girl from Spain, Conchita, had a grand piano with a
fancy shawl gracefully draped over it. Her arm-chair was upholstered in
horsehide fastened by large buttons, and it had enormous steer horns for
arms. On one of her walls a tiny balcony had been painted by a poor but
consummate artist.
There is little use in my listing the equipment of the remaining some
fifty-odd apartments. Suffice it to say that the same idea was carried
out with excellent taste and real historical knowledge in all of them.
Still wearing the sacking into which the Italians had bundled her, our
heroine was led to the apartment that had been prepared against her
The proprietor of the house had hired Asa Goldstein to decorate this
suite and it was a perfect colonial interior. Antimacassars, ships in
bottles, carved whalebone, hooked rugs--all were there. It was Mr.
Goldstein's boast that even Governor Windsor himself could not have found
anything wrong with the design or furnishings.
Betty was exhausted, and immediately fell asleep on the poster bed with
its candlewick spread. When she awoke, she was given a hot bath, which
greatly refreshed her. She was then dressed by two skillful maids.
The costume that she was made to wear had been especially designed to go
with her surroundings. While not exactly in period, it was very striking,
and I will describe it as best I can for the benefit of my feminine
The dress had a full waist made with a yoke and belt, a gored skirt,
long, but not too long to afford a very distinct view of a well-turned
ankle and a small, shapely foot encased in a snowy cotton stocking and a
low-heeled black slipper. The material of the dress was chintz--white
ground with a tiny brown figure--finished at the neck with a wide white
ruffle. On her hands she was made to wear black silk mitts with
half-fingers. Her hair was worn in a little knot on the top of her head,
and one thick short curl was kept in place by a puff-comb on each side of
Breakfast, for so much time had elapsed, was served her by an old Negro
in livery. It consisted of buckwheat cakes with maple syrup, Rhode Island
Johnny cakes, bacon biscuits, and a large slice of apple pie.
(Wu Fong was a great stickler for detail, and, like many another man, if
he had expended as much energy and thought honestly he would have made
even more money without having to carry the stigma of being a
brothel-keeper. Alas!)
So resilient are the spirits of the young that Betty did the breakfast
full justice. She even ordered a second helping of pie, which was brought
to her at once by the darky.
After Betty had finished eating, she was given some embroidery to do.
With the reader's kind permission we will leave her while she is still
sewing, and before the arrival of her first client, a pockmarked Armenian
rug merchant from Malta.
Justice will out. I am happy to acquaint my readers with the fact that
the real criminal, Mr. Wellington Mape, was apprehended by the police
some weeks after Lem had been incarcerated in the state penitentiary.
But our hero was in a sorry state when the Governor's pardon arrived, and
for a while it looked as though the reprieve had come too late. The poor
lad was in the prison infirmary with a bad case of pneumonia. Weakened
greatly by the drawing of all his teeth, he had caught cold after the
thirteenth icy shower and the fourteenth had damaged his lungs.
Due to his strong physique, however, and a constitution that had never
been undermined by the use of either tobacco or alcohol, Lem succeeded in
passing the crisis of the dread pulmonary disease.
On the first day that his vision was normal, he was surprised to see
Shagpoke Whipple go through the prison infirmary carrying what was
evidently a bedpan and dressed in the uniform of a convict.
"Mr. Whipple," Lem called. "Mr. Whipple."
The ex-President turned and came towards the boy's bed.
"Hello, Lem," said Shagpoke, putting down the utensil he was carrying.
"I'm glad to see that you're better."
"Thank you, sir. But what are you doing here?" asked Lem with bewildered
"I'm the trusty in charge of this ward. But what you really mean, I take
it, is why am I here?"
The elderly statesman looked around. He saw that the guard was busy
talking to a pretty nurse and drew up a chair.
"It's a long story," said Mr. Whipple with a sigh. "But the long and
short of it is that the Rat River National failed and its depositors sent
"That's too bad, sir," Lem said sympathetically. "And after all you had
done for the town."
"Such is the gratitude of the mob, but in a way I can't blame them," Mr.
Whipple said with all the horse sense for which he was famous. "Rather do
I blame Wall Street and the Jewish international bankers. They loaded me
up with a lot of European and South American bonds, then they forced me
to the wall. It was Wall Street working hand in hand with the Communists
that caused my downfall. The bankers broke me, and the Communists
circulated lying rumors about my bank in Doc Slack's barber shop. I was
the victim of an un-American conspiracy."
Mr. Whipple sighed again, then said in a militant tone of voice: "My boy,
when we get out of here, there are two evils undermining this country
which we must fight with tooth and nail. These two archenemies of the
American Spirit, the spirit of fair play and open competition, are Wall
Street and the Communists."
"But how is my mother?" interrupted Lem, "and whatever became of our
house? And the cow--did you have to sell her?" Our hero's voice trembled
as he asked these questions, for he feared the worst.
"Alas," sighed Mr. Whipple, "Squire Bird foreclosed his mortgage and Asa
Goldstein took your home to his store in New York City. There is some
talk of his selling it to the Metropolitan Museum. As for the cow, the
creditors of my bank sheriffed her. Your mother disappeared. She wandered
off during the foreclosure sale, and neither hair nor hide of her was
seen again."
This terrible intelligence made our hero literally groan with anguish.
In an effort to cheer the boy up, Mr. Whipple kept on talking. "Your cow
taught me a lesson," he said. "She was about the only collateral I had
that paid one hundred cents on the dollar. The European bonds didn't
bring ten cents on the dollar. The next bank I own will mortgage nothing
but cows, good American cows."
"You expect to keep a bank again?" asked Lem, making a brave attempt not
to think of his own troubles.
"Why, certainly," replied Shagpoke. "My friends will have me out of here
shortly. Then I will run for political office, and after I have shown the
American people that Shagpoke is still Shagpoke, I will retire from
politics and open another bank. In fact, I am even considering opening
the Rat River National a second time. I should be able to buy it in for a
few cents on the dollar."
"Do you really think you can do it?" asked our hero with wonder and
admiration.
"Why, of course I can," answered Mr. Whipple. "I am an American
businessman, and this place is just an incident in my career. My boy, I
believe I once told you that you had an almost certain chance to succeed
because you were born poor and on a farm. Let me now tell you that your
chance is even better because you have been in prison."
"But what am I to do when I get out?" asked Lem with ill-concealed
desperation.
"Be an inventor," Mr. Whipple replied without a moment's hesitation. "The
American mind is noted for its ingenuity. All the devices of the modern
world, from the safety pin to four-wheel brakes, were invented by us."
"But I don't know what to invent," said Lem.
"That's easy. Before you leave here I will give you several of my
inventions to work on. If you perfect them we will split fifty-fifty."
"That'll be great!" exclaimed Lem with increased cheerfulness.
"My young friend, you don't want me to think that you were in any way
discouraged by the misfortunes that befell your asked Mr. Whipple with
simulated surprise.
"But I didn't even get to New York," apologized Lem.
"America is still a young country," Mr. Whipple said, assuming his public
manner, "and like all young countries, it is rough and unsettled. Here a
man is a millionaire one day and a pauper the next, but no one thinks the
worse of him. The wheel will turn, for that is the nature of wheels.
Don't believe the fools who tell you that the poor man hasn't got a
chance to get rich any more because the country is full of chain stores.
Office boys still marry their employers' daughters. Shipping clerks are
still becoming presidents of railroads. Why, only the other day, I read
where an elevator operator won a hundred thousand dollars in a sweepstake
and was made a partner in a brokerage house. Despite the Communists and
their vile propaganda against individualism, this is still the golden
land of opportunity. Oil wells are still found in people's back yards.
There are still gold mines hidden away in our mountain fastnesses.
America is..."
But while Shagpoke was still speaking, a prison guard came by and forced
him hurriedly to resume his duties. He left with his bedpan before Lem
had an opportunity to thank him properly for his inspiring little talk.
Helped not a little by the encouragement Mr. Whipple had given him, our
hero mended rapidly. One day he was summoned to the office of Mr. Purdy,
the warden. That official showed him the pardon from the Governor. As a
parting gift, he presented Lem with a set of false teeth. He then
conducted him to the prison gates, and stood there awhile with the boy,
for he had grown fond of him.
Shaking Lem's hand in a hearty farewell, Mr. Purdy said:
"Suppose you had obtained a job in New York City that paid fifteen
dollars a week. You were here with us in all twenty weeks, so you lost
the use of three hundred dollars. However, you paid no board while you
were here, which was a saving for you of about seven dollars a week or
one hundred and forty dollars. This leaves you the loser by one hundred
and sixty dollars. But it would have cost you at least two hundred
dollars to have all your teeth extracted, so you're really ahead of the
game forty dollars. Also, the set of false teeth I gave you cost twenty
dollars new and is worth at least fifteen dollars in its present
condition. This makes your profit about fifty-five dollars. Not at all a
bad sum for a lad of your age to save in twenty weeks."
Along with his civilian clothes, the prison authorities turned back to
Lem an envelope containing the thirty dollars he had had in his pockets
on the day he was arrested.
He did not loiter in Stamford, but went immediately to the depot and
bought a ticket for New York City. When the cars pulled into the station,
he boarded them determined not to speak to any strangers. He was helped
in this by the fact that he was not as yet used to his false teeth.
Unless he exercised great care, they fell into his lap every time he
opened his mouth.
He arrived in the Grand Central Station all intact. At first he was quite
confused by the hustle and bustle of the great city, but when a Jehu
standing by a broken-down Pierce Arrow hack accosted him, he had the
presence of mind to shake his head in the negative.
The cabby was a persistent fellow. "Where do you want to go, young
master?" he asked with sneering servility. "Is it the Ritz Hotel you're
looking for?"
Lem took a firm purchase on his store teeth and asked, "That's one of
those high-priced taverns, isn't it?"
"Yes, but I'll take you to a cheap one if you'll hire me." "What's your
"Three dollars and a half, and half a dollar for your baggage."
"This is all the baggage I have," said Lem, indicating his few things
tied in a red cotton handkerchief.
"I'll take you for three dollars, then," said the driver with a superior
"No, thanks, I'll walk," said our hero. "I can't afford to pay your
"You can' it's over ten miles from this station to town," replied
the Jehu without blushing, although it was evident that they were at that
moment standing almost directly in the center of the city.
Without another word, Lem turned on his heel and walked away from the cab
driver. As he made his way through the crowded streets, he congratulated
himself on how he had handled his first encounter. By keeping his wits
about him, he had saved over a tenth of his capital.
Lem saw a peanut stand, and as a matter of policy purchased a bag of the
toothsome earth nuts.
"I'm from the country," he said to the honest-appearing merchant. "Can
you direct me to a cheap hotel?"
"Yes," said the sidewalk vendor, smiling at the boy's candor. "I know of
one where they charge only a dollar a day."
"Is that cheap?" asked our hero in surprise. "What then do they charge at
the Ritz?"
"I have never stayed there, but I understand that it is as much as three
dollars a day."
"Phew!" whistled Lem. "Think of that now. Twenty-one dollars a week. But
I suppose they do you awfully well."
"Yes, I hear they set a very good table
"Will you be so kind as to direct me to the cheap one of which you first
"Certainly."
It was the Commercial House to which the peanut dealer advised Lem to go.
This hostelry was located in a downtown street very near the Bowery and
was not a stylish inn by any manner of means. However, it was held in
good repute by many merchants in a small way of business. Our hero was
well satisfied with the establishment when he found it. He had never
before seen a fine hotel, and this structure being five stories above the
offices seemed to him rather imposing than otherwise.
After being taken to his room, Lem went downstairs and found that dinner
was ready, it being just noon. He ate with a country boy's appetite. It
was not a luxurious meal, but compared with the table that Warden Purdy
set it was a feast for the gods.
When he had finished eating, Lem asked the hotel clerk how to get to Asa
Goldstein's store on Fifth Avenue. He was told to walk to Washington
Square, then take the bus uptown.
After an exciting ride along the beautiful thoroughfare, Lem descended
from the bus before a store, across the front of which was a sign reading
ASA GOLDSTEIN, LTD.
Colonial Exteriors and Interiors
and in the window of which his old home actually stood.
At first the poor boy could not believe his eyes, but, yes, there it was
exactly as in Vermont. One of the things that struck him was the
seediness of the old house. When he and his mother had lived in it, they
had kept it in a much better state of repair.
Our hero stood gazing at the exhibit for so long that he attracted the
attention of one of the clerks. This suave individual came out to the
street and addressed Lem.
"You admire the architecture of New England?" he said, feeling our hero
"No; it's that particular house that interests me, sir," replied Lem
truthfully. "I used to live in it. In fact I was born in that very
"My, this is interesting," said the clerk politely. "Perhaps you would
like to enter the shop and inspect it at firsthand."
"Thank you," replied Lem gratefully. "It would give me a great deal of
pleasure so to do."
Our hero followed after the affable clerk and was permitted to examine
his old home at close range. To tell the truth, he saw it through a veil
of tears, for he could think of nothing but his poor mother who had
disappeared.
"I wonder if you would be so kind as to furnish me with a little
information?" asked the clerk, pointing to a patched old chest of
drawers. "Where would your mother have put such a piece of furniture had
she owned it?"
Lem's first thought on inspecting the article in question was to say that
she would have kept it in the woodshed, but he thought better of this
when he saw how highly the clerk valued it. After a little thought, he
pointed to a space next to the fireplace and said, "I think she would
have set it there."
"What did I tell you!" exclaimed the delighted clerk to his colleagues,
who had gathered around to hear Lem's answer. "That's just the spot I
picked for it."
The clerk then ushered Lem to the door, slipping a two-dollar note into
the boy's hand as he shook it good-by. Lem did not want to take the money
because he felt that he had not earned it, but he was finally prevailed
upon to accept it. The clerk told Lem that he had saved them the fee an
expert would have demanded, since it was very important for them to know
exactly where the chest of drawers belonged.
Our hero was considerably elated at his stroke of luck and marveled at
the ease with which two dollars could be earned in New York. At this rate
of pay, he calculated, he would earn ninety-six dollars for an eight-hour
day or five hundred and severity-six dollars for a six-day week. If he
could keep it up, he would have a million in no time.
From the store, Lem walked west to Central Park, where he sat down on a
bench in the mall near the bridle path to watch the society people ride
by on their beautiful horses. His attention was particularly attracted by
a man driving a small spring wagon, underneath which ran two fine
Dalmatians or coach dogs, as they are sometimes called. Although Lem was
unaware of this fact, the man in the wagon was none other than Mr. Asa
Goldstein, whose shop he had just visited.
The country-bred boy soon noticed that Mr. Goldstein was not much of a
horseman. However, that individual was not driving his beautiful team of
matched bays for pleasure, as one might be led to think, but for profit.
He had accumulated a large collection of old wagons in his warehouse and
by driving one of them in the mall he hoped to start a vogue for that
type of equipage and thus sell off his stock.
While Lem was watching the storekeeper's awkward handling of the
"leathers" or reins, the off horse, which was very skittish, took fright
at a passing policeman and bolted. His panic soon spread to the other
horse and the wagon went careening down the path wreaking havoc at every
bound. Mr. Goldstein fell out when his vehicle turned over, and Lem had
to laugh at the comical expression of mingled disgust and chagrin that
appeared on his countenance.
But suddenly Lem's smile disappeared and his jaw became set, for he saw
that a catastrophe was bound to occur unless something was immediately
done to halt the maddened thoroughbreds.
The reason for the sudden disappearance of the smile from our hero's face
is easily explained. He had spied an old gentleman and his beautiful
young daughter about to cross the bridle path, and saw that in a few more
seconds they would be trampled under the iron hooves of the flying
Lem hesitated only long enough to take a firm purchase on his store
teeth, then dashed into the path of the horses. With great strength and
agility he grasped their bridles and dragged them to a rearing halt, a
few feet from the astounded and thoroughly frightened pair.
"That lad has saved your lives," said a bystander to the old gentleman,
who was none other than Mr. Levi Under-down, president of the Underdown
National Bank and Trust Company.
Unfortunately, however, Mr. Underdown was slightly deaf, and, although
exceedingly kind, as his many large charities showed, he was very short
tempered. He entirely misunderstood the nature of our hero's efforts and
thought that the poor boy was a careless groom who had let his charges
get out of hand. He became extremely angry.
"I've a mind to give you in charge, young man," said the banker, shaking
his umbrella at our hero.
"Oh, don't, father!" interfered his daughter Alice, who also
misunderstood the incident. "Don't have him arrested. He was probably
paying court to some pretty nursemaid and forgot about his horses." From
this we can readily see that the young lady was of a romantic turn of
She smiled kindly at our hero, and led her irate parent from the scene.
Lem had been unable to utter one word in explanation because, during his
tussle with the horses, his teeth had jarred loose and without them he
was afraid to speak. All he could do was to gaze after their departing
backs with mute but ineffectual anguish.
There being nothing else for it, Lem gave over the reins of the team to
Mr. Goldstein's groom: who came running up at this juncture, and turned
to search for his oral equipment in the mud of the bridle path. While he
was thus occupied, a man representing the insurance company with which
Mr. Goldstein carried a public liability policy approached him.
"Here is ten dollars, my lad," said the claim adjuster. "The gentleman
whose horses you so bravely stopped wishes you to have this money as a
Lem took it without thinking.
"Pleas