The Trimmed Lamp

«I'm no A

«You're engaged, ain't you?» asked Burke.

«Sure. We'll get married next year, maybe.»

«I saw you make her drink her first glass of beer,» said Burke. «That was two years ago, when she used to came down to the corner of Chrystie bare–headed to meet you after supper. She was a quiet sort of a kid then, and couldn't speak without blushing.»

«She's a little spitfire, sometimes, now,» said the Kid. «I hate jealousy. That's why I'm going to the dance with A

«Well, you better look a little out,» were Burke's last words. «If Liz was my girl and I was to sneak out to a dance coupled up with an A

Through the land of the stork–vulture wandered Liz. Her black eyes searched the passing crowds fierily but vaguely. Now and then she hummed bars of foolish little songs. Between times she set her small, white teeth together, and spake crisp words that the east side has added to language.

Liz's skirt was green silk. Her waist was a large brown–and–pink plaid, well–fitting and not without style. She wore a cluster ring of huge imitation rubies, and a locket that banged her knees at the bottom of a silver chain. Her shoes were run down over twisted high heels, and were strangers to polish. Her hat would scarcely have passed into a flour barrel.

The «Family Entrance» of the Blue Jay Café received her. At a table she sat, and punched the button with the air of milady ringing for her carriage. The waiter came with his large–chi

«Whiskey, Tommy,» she said as her sisters further uptown murmur, «Champagne, James.»

«Sure, Miss Lizzie. What'll the chaser be?»

«Seltzer. And say, Tommy, has the Kid been around to–day?»

«Why, no, Miss Lizzie, I haven't saw him to–day.»

Fluently came the «Miss Lizzie,» for the Kid was known to be one who required rigid upholdment of the dignity of his fiancee.

«I'm lookin' for 'm,» said Liz, after the chaser had sputtered under her nose. «It's got to me that he says he'll take A

«I wouldn't listen to no such reports, Miss Lizzie,» said the waiter smoothly, from the narrow opening above his chin. «Kid Mullaly's not the guy to throw a lady like you down. Seltzer on the side?»

«Two years,» repeated Liz, softening a little to sentiment under the magic of the distiller's art. «I always used to play out on the street of evenin's 'cause there was nothin' doin' for me at home. For a long time I just sat on doorsteps and looked at the lights and the people goin' by. And then the Kid came along one evenin' and sized me up, and I was mashed on the spot for fair. The first drink he made me take I cried all night at home, and got a lickin' for makin' a noise. And now—say, Tommy, you ever see this A

A little unsteadily, but with watchful and brilliant eyes, Liz walked up the avenue. On the doorstep of a brick tenement a curly–haired child sat, puzzling over the convolutions of a tangled string. Liz flopped down beside her, with a crooked, shifting smile on her flushed face. But her eyes had grown clear and artless of a sudden.

«Let me show you how to make a cat's–cradle, kid,» she said, tucking her green silk skirt under her rusty shoes.

And while they sat there the lights were being turned on for the dance in the hall of the Small Hours Social Club. It was the bi–monthly dance, a dress affair in which the members took great pride and bestirred themselves huskily to further and adorn.

At 9 o'clock the President, Kid Mullaly, paced upon the floor with a lady on his arm. As the Loreley's was her hair golden. Her «yes» was softened to a «yah,» but its quality of assent was patent to the most Milesian ears. She stepped upon her own train and blushed, and—she smiled into the eyes of Kid Mullaly.

And then, as the two stood in the middle of the waxed floor, the thing happened to prevent which many lamps are burning nightly in many studies and libraries.

Out from the circle of spectators in the hall leaped Fate in a green silk skirt, under the nom de guerre of «Liz.» Her eyes were hard and blacker than jet. She did not scream or waver. Most unwomanly, she cried out one oath—the Kid's own favorite oath—and in his own deep voice; and then while the Small Hours Social Club went frantically to pieces, she made good her boast to Tommy, the waiter—made good as far as the length of her knife blade and the strength of her arm permitted.

And next came the primal instinct of self–preservation—or was it self–a

Liz ran out and down the street swift and true as a woodcock flying through a grove of saplings at dusk.

And then followed the big city's biggest shame, its most ancient and rotten surviving canker, its pollution and disgrace, its blight and perversion, its forever infamy and guilt, fostered, unreproved and cherished, handed down from a long–ago century of the basest barbarity—the Hue and Cry. Nowhere but in the big cities does it survive, and here most of all, where the ultimate perfection of culture, citizenship and alleged superiority joins, bawling, in the chase.

They pursued—a shrieking mob of fathers, mothers, lovers and maidens—howling, yelling, calling, whistling, crying for blood. Well may the wolf in the big city stand outside the door. Well may his heart, the gentler, falter at the siege.

Knowing her way, and hungry for her surcease, she darted down the familiar ways until at last her feet struck the dull solidity of the rotting pier. And then it was but a few more panting steps—and good mother East River took Liz to her bosom, soothed her muddily but quickly, and settled in five minutes the problem that keeps lights burning o' nights in thousands of pastorates and colleges.

It's mighty fu

I thought I was in the next world. I don't know how I got there; I suppose I had been riding on the Ninth avenue elevated or taking patent medicine or trying to pull Jim Jeffries's nose, or doing some such little injudicious stunt. But, anyhow, there I was, and there was a great crowd of us outside the courtroom where the judgments were going on. And every now and then a very beautiful and imposing court–officer angel would come outside the door and call another case.

While I was considering my own worldly sins and wondering whether there would be any use of my trying to prove an alibi by claiming that I lived in New Jersey, the bailiff angel came to the door and sang out: