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"I'll go see him this minute, and tell him. . . that I sphoke like a crazy man. . . "-Page 363.

"We'll go over the job together,' says he; so he dragged his white vest and his paunch through ivery intricate chink in the peak av the ship-and his paunch is no slouch these last years.

"""Tis a pity about Mr. Munn,' says he, squeezin' through a manhole designed f'r a dwarf.

"It is that,' said I, but to mesilf I thanked God that he'd fallen instead av

bein' pushed by me. But at the same time I was wonderin' when I'd be fired for insubordination-I hate the word, Em.

"The job is O.K.,' says Misther McKinnon, 'and 'tis a comfort to finish it.' Thin he bawled: 'Bergstrohm, open the valves and haul out the stagin'; the Penobscot goes out at daylight.' And Bergstrohm from way up on the coping says: 'Aye, aye, sir,' and Mr. McKinnon turns to the iron workers and says: 'Min, go home and sthay till ye are risted; 'tis a good job av work' and we trailed off through the rain."

"And did the Penobscot come out?"

"Av course she did. There's no man so sure as McKinnon. He sthood on the dock for three hours in the rain, and she came out just at daylight."

"Then why, in the name of Gawd, aren't we at war?" asked Mr. Knott.

"I don't know mesilf. They called it off some way and whether it was to have been a shindy with England, Germany, Russia, or Japan, I'll niver tell ye. Maybe the bets was not posthed-now the Penobscot's gone off to a flower show."

"And your trouble, I don't see it."

""Tis plain ye're not posthed in discipline, Em. Can a man recommind his boss to the divil with impunity? Not so. I'm to be discharged-I'd do it mesilf. Now this is the first mornin' since thin that I've been on the job-I hope that bhoy, Misther Munn, is doin' well-that bhoy was a wonder at rusthlin' stheel plates, God knows fwhere he got 'em-but he's no idea how an iron worker feels. McKinnon would niver have complained of long rivets that night, not-hup! there's me tiliphone."

Then to the telephone: "Yis, sor; Mr. Weems very good, sor, I'll wait."

"Em, douse the seegar; Misther McKinnon's comin' in on his way to the power house-throw the butt out av the door;yis, go yersilf, too, through the same door, I'll forgive ye yer absince-come back in half an hour and I'll commission ye to buy

me an orchard in Yakima. I'm tired av away, leaves to-night. He said you and he iron workin', and 'tis no wonder."

Mr. Knott departed. Mr. Weems fumbled nervously over his desk, then he rose as a tall, thick-chested man with a paunch entered. He was a bearded, thoughtful, almost spiritual-looking man, and he wore habitually an abstracted air. He moved very quietly.

"Mr. Weems, I'm glad to see you back on the job. You look fit too. Men all right?"

"Perfectly sound, ivery man." "Ah-good." He then went toward the door and spoke over his shoulder as he departed.

had-ah-some misunderstanding in the dock the other night, just before he fellbut he says it was private, and declines to make a report-ah, why not go see him? He would appreciate it-ah, why not go?" Mr. Weems rose in excited admiration. "Ah, he's a fine lad. He's goin' to be a great man, too—yes, sir, he is that. I'll go see him this minute, and tell him, as I tell ye, that I shpoke like a crazy man the other night-I hope I'll work under him another time he'll learn-no, sir, not learn he knows already-how an iron worker feels.”

But Mr. McKinnon had gone on to the

"Ah-Weems, Mr. Munn is ordered power plant.

A SADDLE SONG

By Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews

LONG years from now when the autumn weather
Shall tingle our blood, grown slow and cold,
I think that the rides we have had together
Will still delight us, though gray and old.

Then perhaps on a day you will open the covers
Of some small book, and a hazard line

That tells of the rides of friends or lovers

Will sing of the rides that were yours and mine.

Again, while the sharp rain cuts without pity,
We'll gallop; again from the distant hill
We'll watch the stars and the lights of the city
Gleam out of the twilight, misty and still;

Again to the creak of saddle-leather

We'll climb the slope where the violets grow;
Or, low to the pommels, dash together
Under the apple-blossom snow.

Then here's good luck to the rollicking chorus
Of a horse's hoofs as they beat the ground,

And may there be many a mile before us

When our hearts shall keep time to the musical sound.

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B

KENNEDY SQUARE

BY F. HOPKINSON SMITH

XXVIII

ILLUSTRATION BY A. I. KELLER

EN let him in.

He came as an apparition, and the old butler balanced the door in his hand for a moment, as if undecided what to do, trying all the while to account for the change in the young man's appearance-the width of shoulders, the rough clothes, and the determined glance of his eye.

"Fo' Gawd, it's Marse Harry!" was all he said when he could get his mouth open. "Yes, Ben-go and tell your mistress I am here," and he brushed past him and pushed back the drawing-room door. Once inside he crossed to the mantel and stood with his back to the hearth, his sailor's cap in his hand, his eyes fixed on the door he had just closed behind him; through it would come the beginning or the end of his life. Ben's noiseless entrance and exit a moment after, and his repetition of his mistress's words, neither raised nor depressed his hopes. He knew she would not refuse to see him-what would come after was the wall that loomed up.

She had not hesitated, nor did she keep him waiting. Her eyes were still red with weeping, her hair partly dishevelled, when Ben found her and told her who was downstairs--but she did not seem to care. Nor was she frightened-nor eager. She just lifted her cheek from Mammy Henny's caressing hand-how many times had that same black hand soothed her-pushed back the hair from her face with a movement as if she was trying to collect her thoughts, and without rising from her knees heard Ben's message to the end. Then she answered calmly:

"Did you say Mr. Harry Rutter, Ben? Tell him I'll be down in a moment."

She entered with that same graceful movement which he loved so well-her

VOL. L.-35

head up, her face turned frankly toward him, one hand extended in welcome.

"Uncle George told me you were back, Harry. It was very good of you to come," and sank on the sofa.

It had been but a few steps to him-the space between the open door and the hearth rug on which he stood-and it had taken her but a few seconds to cross it, but in that brief interval the heavens had opened above her.

The old Harry was there-the smilethe flash in the eyes-the joy of seeing her -the quick movement of his hand in gracious salute; then there had followed a sense of his strength, of the calm poise of his body, of the clearness of his skin. How much handsomer he was,-and the rough sailor's clothes-how well they fitted his robust frame; and the clear calm eyes and finely cut features-no shrinking from responsibility in that face; no faltering-the old ideal of her early love and the new ideal of her sailor boy-the one Richard's voice had conjured-welded into one personality!

"Uncle George told me, Kate, you had just been in to see him and I tried to overtake you."

Not much: nothing in fact. Playwriters tell us that the dramatic situation is the thing and that the spoken word is as unimportant to the play as the foot-lights-except as a means of illuminating the situation.

"Yes I have just left him, Harry. Uncle George looks very badly-don't you think so? Is there anything very serious the matter? I sent Ben to Dr. Teackle's, but he was not in his office."

Harry had moved up a chair and sat devouring every vibration of her lips, every glance of her eyes-all the little movements of her beautiful body-her dress-the way the stray strands of hair had escaped to her shoulders. His Kate!-and yet he dare not touch her!

365

"No, he is not ill. He took a severe cold and only needs rest and a little care. I am glad you went and-" then the pent-up flood broke loose- "Are you glad to see me, Kate?"

"I am always glad to see you, Harry and you look so well. It has been nearly three years, hasn't it?" Her calmness was maddening; she spoke as if she was reciting a part in which she had no personal interest.

"I don't know-I haven't counted-not that way. I have lain awake too many nights and suffered too much to count by years. I count by

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She raised her hand in protest: "Don't, Harry-please don't. All the suffering has not been yours!" The impersonal tone was gone there was a note of agony in her voice.

His manner softened: "Don't think I blame you, Kate. I love you too much to blame you you did right. The suffering has only done me good-I am a different man from the one you once knew. I see life with a wider vision. I know what it is to be hungry; I know too what it is to earn the bread that has kept me alive. I came home to look after Uncle George. When I go back I want to take him with me. I won't count the years nor all the suffering I have gone through if I can pay him back what I owe him. He stood by me when everybody else deserted me."

She winced a little at the thrust, as if he had touched some sore spot sending a shiver through her frame, but she did not defend herself.

"You mustn't take him away, Harryleave Uncle George to me," not as if she demanded it more as if she was stating a fact. "Why not? He will be another man out in Brazil-and he can live there like a gentleman on what he will have left-so Pawson thinks."

"Because I love him dearly-and when he is gone I have nobody left," she answered in a hopeless tone.

Harry hesitated, then he asked: "And so what Uncle George told me about Mr. Willits is true?"

Kate looked at him queerly—as if trying to read his mind and for answer bowed her head in assent.

"Didn't he love you enough?" There was a certain reproach in his tone, as if

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"Yes, I'll tell you. I told Uncle George. I didn't like him well enough-that's all." All this time she was looking him calmly in the face. If she had done anything to be ashamed of she did not intend to conceal it from her former lover.

"And will Uncle George take his place now that he's gone? Do you ever know your own heart, Kate?" There was no bitterness in his question. Her frankness had disarmed him of that. It was more in the nature of an inquiry, as if he was probing for something on which he could build a hope.

For a brief instant she made no answer; then she said slowly and with a certain positiveness:

"If I had I would have saved myself and you a great deal of misery."

"And Langdon Willits?"

"No, he cannot complain-he does not -I promised him nothing. But I have been so beaten about, and I have tried so hard to do right; and it has all crumbled to pieces. As for you and me, Harry, let us both forget that we have ever had any differences. I can't bear to think that whenever you come home we must avoid each other. We were friends once-let us be friends again. I am glad you came here this morning; I'm glad you didn't wait. Don't be bitter in your heart toward me."

Harry rose from his chair and took a seat on the sofa beside her. If she had found a new Harry, a new Kate was developing now before him.

"Kate-look at me! Do you realize how I love you?-Do you know it sets me half crazy to hear you talk like that? When was I ever bitter toward you in my heart? I haven't come here to-day to reproach you -I have come to do what I can to help you, if you want my help. I told you the last time we talked in the park that I wouldn't stay in Kennedy Square a day longer, even if you begged me to. That is over now; I'll do now anything you wish me to do;

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