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man to strike, to show he was not a mere ring-tactician. But the Jam-wagon bided his time. And so the round ended, and it was evident that the crowd was of the same opinion as myself. "Why don't he mix up a little?" said one. "Give him time," said another. "He's all right: there's some class to that work." Locasto
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came up for the third round looking sobered, subdued, grimly determined. Evidently he had made up his mind to force his opponent out of his evasive tactics. He was wary as a cat. He went cautiously. Yet again he assumed the aggressive, gradually working the Jam-wagon into a corner. A collision was inevitable; there was no means of escape for
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my friend; that huge bulk, with its swinging, flail-like arms, menaced him hopelessly. Suddenly Locasto closed in. He swooped down on the Jam-wagon. He had him. He shortened his right arm for a jab like the crash of a pile-driver. The arm shot out, but once again the Jam-wagon was not there. He ducked quickly, and Locasto's great fist brushed
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his hair. Then, like lightning, the two came to a clinch. Now, thought I, it's all off with the Jam-wagon. I saw Locasto's eyes dilate with ferocious joy. He had the other in his giant arms; he could crush him in a mighty hug, the hug of a grizzly, crush him like an egg-shell. But, quick as the snap of
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a trap, the Jam-wagon had pinioned his arms at the elbow, so that he was helpless. For a moment he held him, then, suddenly releasing his arms, he caught him round the body, shook him with a mighty side-heave, gave him the cross-buttock, and, before he could strike a single blow, threw him in the air and dashed him to
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the ground. "Time!" called the umpire. It was all done so quickly it was hard for the eye to follow, but a mighty cheer went up from the house. "Two to one on the little fellow," called the banjo-voice. Suddenly Locasto rose to his feet. He was shamed, angered beyond all expression. Heaving and panting, he lurched to his corner,
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and in his eyes there was a look that boded ill for his adversary. Time again. With the lightness of a panther the Jam-wagon sprang into the centre of the ring. More than halfway he met Locasto, and now his intention seemed to be to draw his man on rather than to avoid him. I watched his every movement with
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a sense of thrilling fascination. He had resumed his serpentine movements, advancing and retreating with shadow-like quickness, feinting, side-stepping, pawing the air till he had his man baffled and bewildered. Yet he never struck a blow. All this seemed to be getting on Locasto's nerves. He was going steadily enough, trying by every means in his power to get the
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other man to "mix it up." He shouted the foulest abuse at him. "Stand up like a man, you son of a dog, and fight." The smile left the Jam-wagon's lips, and he settled down to business. I saw him edging up to Locasto. He feinted wildly, then, stepping in closely, he swung a right and left to Black Jack's
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face. A moment later he was six feet away, with a bitter smile on his lips. With a fierce bellow of rage Locasto, forgetting all his caution, charged him. He smashed his heavy right with all its might for the other's face, but, quick as the quiver of a bow-string, the Jam-wagon side-stepped and the blow missed. Then the Jam-wagon
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shifted and brought his left, full-weight, crash on Locasto's mouth. At that fierce triumphant blow there was the first dazzling blood-gleam, and the crowd screeched with excitement. In a wild whirlwind of fury Locasto hurled himself on the Jam-wagon, his arms going like windmills. Any one of these blows, delivered in a vital spot, would have meant death, but his
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opponent was equal to this blind assault. Dodging, ducking, side-stepping, blocking, he foiled the other at every turn, and, just before the round ended, drove his left into the pit of the big man's stomach, with a thwack that resounded throughout the building. Once more time was called. The Jam-wagon was bleeding about the knuckles. Several of Locasto's teeth had
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been loosened, and he spat blood frequently. Otherwise he looked as fit as ever. He pursued his man with savage determination, and seemed resolved to get in a deadly body-blow that would end the fight. It was pretty to see the Jam-wagon work. He was sprightly as a ballet dancer, as, weaving in and out, he dodged the other's blows.
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His arms swung at his sides, and he threw his head about in a manner insufferably mocking and tantalising. Then he took to landing light body-blows, that grew more frequent till he seemed to be beating a regular tattoo on Locasto's ribs. He was springy as a panther, elusive as an eel. As for Locasto, his face was sober now,
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strained, anxious, and he seemed to be waiting with menacing eyes to get in that vital smash that meant the end. The Jam-wagon began to put more force into his arms. He drove in a short-arm left to the stomach, then brought his right up to the other's chin. Locasto swung a deadly knock-out blow at the Jam-wagon, which just
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grazed his jaw, and the Jam-wagon retaliated with two lightning rights and a nervous left, all on the big man's face. Then he sprang back, for he was excited now. In and out he wove. Once more he landed a hard left on Locasto's heaving stomach, and then, rushing in, he rained blow after blow on his antagonist. It was
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a furious mix-up, a whirling storm of blows, brutal, savage and murderous. No two men could keep up such a gait. They came into a clinch, but this time the Jam-wagon broke away, giving the deadly kidney blow as they parted. When time was called both men were panting hard, bruised and covered with blood. How the house howled with
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delight! All the primordial brute in these men was glowing in their hearts. Nothing but blood could appease it. Their throats were parched, their eyes wild. Round six. Locasto sprang into the centre of the ring. His face was hideously disfigured. Only in that battered, blood-stained mask could I recognise the black eyes gleaming deadly hatred. Rushing for the Jam-wagon,
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he hurled him across the ring. Again charging, he overbore him to the floor, but failed to hold him. Then in the Jam-wagon there awoke the ancient spirit of the Berserker. He cared no more for punishment. He was insensible to pain. He was the sea-pirate again, mad with the lust of battle. Like a fiend he tore himself loose,
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and went after his man, rushing him with a swift, battering hail of blows around the ring. Like a tiger he was, and the violent lunges of Locasto only infuriated him the more. Now they were in a furious mix-up, and suddenly Locasto, seizing him savagely, tried to whip him smashing to the floor. Then the wonderful agility of the
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Englishman was displayed. In a distance of less than a two-foot drop he turned completely like a cat. Leaping up, he was free, and, getting a waist-hold with a Cornish heave, he bore Locasto to the floor. Quickly he changed to a crotch-lock, and, lastly, holding Locasto's legs, he brought him to a bridge and worked his weight up on
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his body. Black Jack, with a mighty heave, broke away and again regained his feet. This seemed to enrage the Jam-wagon the more, for he tore after his man like a maddened bull. Getting a hold with incredible strength, he lifted him straight up in the air and hurled him to the ground with sickening force. Locasto lay there. His
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eyes were closed. He did not move. Several men rushed forward. "He's all right," said a medical-looking individual; "just stunned. I guess you can call the fight over." The Jam-wagon slowly put on his clothes. Once more, in the person of Locasto, he had successfully grappled with "Old Man Booze." He was badly bruised about the body, but not seriously
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hurt in any way. Shudderingly I looked down at Locasto's face, beaten to a pulp, his body livid from head to foot. And then, as they bore him off to the hospital, I realised I was revenged. "Did you know that man Spitzstein was charging a dollar for admission?" queried the Prodigal. "No!" "That's right. That darned little Jew netted
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nearly a thousand dollars." "Let me introduce you," said the Prodigal, "to my friend the 'Pote.'" "Glad to meet you," said the Pote cheerfully, extending a damp hand. "Just been having a dishwashing bee. Excuse my dishybeel." He wore a pale-blue undershirt, white flannel trousers girt round the waist with a red silk handkerchief, very gaudy moccasins, and a rakish
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Panama hat with a band of chocolate and gold. "Take a seat, won't you?" Through his gold-rimmed spectacles his eyes shone benevolently as he indicated an easy-looking chair. I took it. It promptly collapsed under me. "Ah, excuse me," he said; "you're not onto the combination of that chair. I'll fix it." He performed some operation on it which made
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it less unstable, and I sat down gingerly. I was in a little log-cabin on the hill overlooking the town. Through the bottle window the light came dimly. The walls showed the bark of logs and tufts of intersecting moss. In the corner was a bunk over which lay a bearskin robe, and on the little oblong stove a pot
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of beans was simmering. The Pote finished his dishwashing and joined us, pulling on an old Tuxedo jacket. "Whew! Glad that job's over. You know, I guess I'm fastidious, but I can't bear to use a plate for more than three meals without passing a wet rag over it. That's the worst of having refined ideas, they make life so
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complex. However, I mustn't complain. There's a monastic simplicity about this joint that endears it to me. And now, having immolated myself on the altar of cleanliness, I will solace my soul with a little music." He took down a banjo from the wall and, striking a few chords, began to sing. His songs seemed to be original, even improvisations,
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and he sang them with a certain quaintness and point that made them very piquant. I remember one of the choruses. It went like this: "In the land of pale blue snow Where it's ninety-nine below, And the polar bears are dancing on the plain, In the shadow of the pole, Oh, my Heart, my Life, my Soul, I will
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meet thee when the ice-worms nest again." Every now and then he would pause to make some lively comment. "You've never heard of the blue snow, Cheechako? The rabbits have blue fur, and the ptarmigans' feathers are a bright azure. You've never had an ice-worm cocktail? We must remedy that. Great dope. Nothing like ice-worm oil for salads. Oh, I
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forgot, didn't give you my card." I took it. It was engraved thus: OLLIE GABOODLER. Poetic Expert. Turning it over, I read: Graduate of the University of Hard Knocks. All kinds of verse made to order with efficiency and dispatch. Satisfaction guaranteed or money returned. A trial solicited. In Memoriam Odes a specialty. Ballads, Rondeaux and Sonnets at modest prices.
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Try our lines of Love Lyrics. Leave orders at the Comet Saloon. I stared at him curiously. He was smoking a cigarette and watching me with shrewd, observant eyes. He was a blond, blue-eyed, cherubic youth, with a whimsical mouth that seemed to alternate between seriousness and fun. He laughed merrily at my look of dismay. "Oh, you think it's
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a josh, but it's not. I've been a 'ghost' ever since I could push a pen. You know Will Wilderbush, the famous novelist? Well, Bill died six years ago from over-assiduous cultivation of John Barleycorn, and they hushed it up. But every year there's a new novel comes from his pen. It's 'ghosts.' I was Bill number three. Isn't it
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rummy?" I expressed my surprise. "Yes, it's a great joke this book-faking. Wouldn't Thackeray have lambasted the best sellers? A fancy picture of a girl on the cover, something doing all the time, and a happy ending--that's the recipe. Or else be as voluptuous as velvet. Wait till my novel, 'Three Minutes,' comes out. Order in advance." "Indeed I will,"
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I said. He suddenly became grave. "If I only could take the literary game seriously I might make good. But I'm too much of a 'farceur.' Well, one day we'll see. Maybe the North will inspire me. Maybe I'll yet become the Spokesman of the Frozen Silence, the Avatar of the Great White Land." He strutted up and down, inflating
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his chest. "Have you framed up any dope lately?" asked the Prodigal. "Why, yes; only this morning, while I was eating my beans and bacon, I dashed off a few lines. I always write best when I'm eating. Want to hear them?" He drew from his pocket an old envelope. "They were written to the order of Stillwater Willie. He
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wants to present them to one of the Labelle Sisters. You know--that fat lymphatic blonde, Birdie Labelle. It is short and sweet. He wants to have it engraved on a gold-backed hand-mirror he's giving her. "I see within my true love's eyes The wide blue spaces of the skies; I see within my true love's face The rose and lily
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vie in grace; I hear within my true love's voice The songsters of the Spring rejoice. Oh, why need I seek Nature's charms-- I hold my true love in my arms. "How'll that hit her? There's such a lot of natural beauty about Birdie." "Do you get much work?" I asked. "No, it's dull. Poetry's rather a drug on the
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market up here. It's just a side-line. For a living I clean shoes at the 'Elight' Barbershop--I, who have lingered on the sunny slopes of Parnassus, and quenched my soul-thirst at the Heliconian spring--gents' tans a specialty." "Did you ever publish a book?" I asked. "Sure! Did you never read my 'Rhymes of a Rustler'? One reviewer would say I
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was the clear dope, the genuine eighteen-carat, jewelled-movement article; the next would aver I was the rankest dub that ever came down the pike. They said I'd imitated people, people I'd never read, people I'd never heard of, people I never dreamt existed. I was accused of imitating over twenty different writers. Then the pedants got after me, said I
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didn't conform to academic formulas, advised me to steep myself in tradition. They talked about form, about classic style and so on. As if it matters so long as you get down the thing itself so that folks can see it, and feel it go right home to their hearts. I can write in all the artificial verse forms, but
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they're mouldy with age, back numbers. Forget them. Quit studying that old Greek dope: study life, modern life, palpitating with colour, crying for expression. Life! Life! The sunshine of it was in my heart, and I just naturally tried to be its singer." "I say," said the Prodigal from the bunk where he was lounging, in a haze of cigarette
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smoke, "read us that thing you did the other day, 'The Last Supper.'" The Pote's eyes twinkled with pleasure. "All right," he said. Then, in a clear voice, he repeated the following lines: "THE LAST SUPPER. Marie Vaux of the Painted Lips, And the mouth so mocking gay; A wanton you to the finger tips, That break men's hearts in
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play; A thing of dust I have striven for, Honour and Manhood given for, Headlong for ruin driven for-- And this is the last, you say: Drinking your wine with dainty sips, Marie Vaux of the Painted Lips. Marie Vaux of the Painted Lips, Long have you held your sway; I have laughed at your merry quips, Now is my
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time to pay. What we sow we must reap again; When we laugh we must weep again; So to-night we will sleep again, Nor wake till the Judgment Day. 'Tis a prison wine that your palate sips, Marie Vaux of the Painted Lips. Marie Vaux of the Painted Lips, Down on your knees and pray; Pray your last ere the
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moment slips, Pray ere the dark and the terror grips, And the bright world fades away: Pray for the good unguessed of us, Pray for the peace and rest of us. Here comes the Shape in quest of us, Now must we go away-- You and I in the grave's eclipse, Marie Vaux of the Painted Lips." Just as he
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finished there came a knock at the door, and a young man entered. He had the broad smiling face of a comedian, and the bulgy forehead of a Baptist Missionary. The Pote introduced him to me. "The Yukon Yorick." "Hello," chuckled the newcomer, "how's the bunch? Don't let me stampede you. How d'ye do, Horace! Glad to meet you." (He
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called everybody Horace.) "Just come away from a meeting of my creditors. What's that? Have a slab of booze? Hardly that, old fellow, hardly that. Don't tempt me, Horace, don't tempt me. Remember I'm only a poor working-girl." He seemed brimming over with jovial acceptance of life in all its phases. He lit a cigar. "Say, boys, you know old
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Dingbats the lawyer. Ha, yes. Well, met him on Front Street just now. Says I: 'Horace, that was a pretty nifty spiel you gave us last night at the Zero Club.' He looked at me all tickled up the spine. Ha, yes. He was pleased as Punch. 'Say, Horace,' I says, 'I'm on, but I won't give you away. I've
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got a n my room with every word of that speech in it.' He looked flabbergasted. So I have--ha, yes, the dictionary." He rolled his cigar unctuously in his mouth, with many chuckles and a histrionic eye. "No, don't tempt me, Horace. Remember, I'm only a poor working-girl. Thanks, I'll just sit down on this soap-box. Knew a man once,
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Jobcroft was his name, Charles Alfred Jobcroft, sat down on a custard pie at a pink tea; was so embarrassed he wouldn't get up. Just sat on till every one else was gone. Every one was wondering why he wouldn't budge: just sat tight." "I guess he _cussed hard_," ventured the Prodigal. "Oh, Horace, spare me that! Remember I'm only
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a poor working-girl. Hardly that, old fellow. Say, hit me with a slab of booze quick. Make things sparkle, boys, make things sparkle." He drank urbanely of the diluted alcohol that passed for whisky. "Hit me easy, boys, hit me easy," he said, as they refilled his glass. "I can't hold my hootch so well as I could a few
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summers ago--and many hard Falls. Talking about holding your 'hooch,' the best I ever saw was a man called Podstreak, Arthur Frederick Podstreak. You couldn't get that man going. The way he could lap up the booze was a caution. He would drink one bunch of boys under the table, then leave them and go on to another. He would
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start in early in the morning and keep on going till the last thing at night. And he never got hilarious even; it didn't seem to phase him; he was as sober after the twentieth drink as when he started. Gee! but he was a wonder." The others nodded their heads appreciatively. "He was a fine, healthy-looking chap, too; the
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booze didn't seem to hurt him. Never saw such a constitution. I often watched him, for I suspected him of 'sluffing,' but no! He always had a bigger drink than every one else, always drank whisky, always drank it neat, and always had a chaser of water after. I said to myself: 'What's your system?' and I got to studying
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him hard. Then, one day, I found him out." "What was it?" "Well, one day I noticed something. I noticed he always held his glass in a particular way when he drank, and at the same time he pressed his stomach in the region of the 'solar plexus.' So that night I took him aside. "'Look here, Podstreak,' I said,
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'I'm next to you.' I really wasn't, but the bluff worked. He grew white. "'For Heaven's sake, don't give me away,' he cried; 'the boys'll lynch me.' "'All right,' I said; 'if you'll promise to quit.' "Then he made a full confession, and showed me how he did it. He had an elastic rubber bag under his shirt, and a
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tube going up his arm and down his sleeve, ending in a white nozzle inside his cuff. When he went to empty his glass of whisky he simply pressed some air out of the rubber bag, put the nozzle in the glass, and let it suck up all the whisky. At night he used to empty all the liquor out
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of the bag and sell it to a saloon-keeper. Oh, he was a phoney piece of work. "'I've been a total abstainer (in private) for seven years,' he told me. 'Yes,' I said, 'and you'll become one in public for another seven.' And he did." Several men had dropped in to swell this Bohemian circle. Some had brought bottles. There
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was a painter who had been "hung," a Mus Bac., an ex-champion amateur pugilist, a silver-tongued orator, a man who had "suped" for Mansfield, and half a dozen others. The little cabin was crowded, the air hazy with smoke, the conversation animated. But mostly it was a monologue by the inimitable Yorick. Suddenly the conversation turned to the immorality of
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the town. "Now, I have a theory," said the Pote, "that the regeneration of Dawson is at hand. You know Good is the daughter of Evil, Virtue the offspring of Vice. You know how virtuous a man feels after a jag. You've got to sin to feel really good. Consequently, Sin must be good to be the means of good,
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to be the raw material of good, to be virtue in the making, mustn't it? The dance-halls are a good foil to the gospel-halls. If we were all virtuous, there would be no virtue in virtue, and if we were all bad no one would be bad. And because there's so much bad in this old burg of ours, it
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makes the good seem unnaturally good." The Pote had the floor. "A friend of mine had a beautiful pond of water-lilies. They painted the water exultantly and were a triumphant challenge to the soul. Folks came from far and near to see them. Then, one winter, my friend thought he would clean out his pond, so he had all the
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nasty, slimy mud scraped away till you could see the silver gravel glimmering on the bottom. But the lilies, with all their haunting loveliness, never came back." "Well, what are you driving at, you old dreamer?" "Oh, just this: in the nasty mud and slime of Dawson I saw a lily-girl. She lives in a cabin by the Slide along
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with a Jewish couple. I only caught a glimpse of her twice. They are unspeakable, but she is fair and sweet and pure. I would stake my life on her goodness. She looks like a young Madonna----" He was interrupted by a shout of cynical laughter. "Oh, get off your foot! A Madonna in Dawson--Ra! Ra!" He shut up abashed,
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but I had my clue. I waited until the last noisy roisterer had gone. "In the cabin by the Slide?" I asked. He started, looked at me searchingly: "You know her?" "She means a good deal to me." "Oh, I understand. Yes, that long, queer cabin highest up the hill." "Thanks, old chap." "All right, good luck." He accompanied me
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to the door, staring at the marvel of the glamorous Northern midnight. "Oh, for a medium to express it all! Your pedantic poetry isn't big enough; prose isn't big enough. What we want is something between the two, something that will interpret life, and stir the great heart of the people. Good-night." Very softly I approached the cabin, for a
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fear of encountering her guardians was in my heart. It was in rather a lonely place, perched at the base of that vast mountain abrasion they call the Slide, a long, low cabin, quiet and dark, and surrounded by rugged boulders. Carefully I reconnoitered, and soon, to my infinite joy, I saw the Jewish couple come forth and make their
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way townward. The girl was alone. How madly beat my heart! It was a glooming kind of a night, and the cabin looked woefully bleak and solitary. No light came through the windows, no sound through the moss-chinked walls. I drew near. Why this wild commotion of my being? What was it? Anxiety, joy, dread? I was poised on the
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pinnacle of hope that overhangs the abyss of despair. Fearfully I paused. I was racked with suspense, conscious of a longing so poignant that the thought of disappointment became insufferable pain. So violent was my emotion that a feeling almost of nausea overcame me. I knew now that I cared for this girl more than I had ever thought to
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care for woman. I knew that she was dearer to me than all the world else; I knew that my love for her would live as long as life is long. I knocked at the door. No answer. "Berna," I cried in a faltering whisper. Came the reply: "Who is there?" "Love, love, dear; love is waiting." Then, at my
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words, the door was opened, and the girl was before me. I think she had been lying down, for her soft hair was a little ruffled, but her eyes were far too bright for sleep. She stood gazing at me, and a little fluttering hand went up to her heart as if to still its beating. "Oh, my dear, I
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knew you were coming." A great radiance of joy seemed to descend on her. "You knew?" "I knew, yes, I knew. Something told me you were come at last. And I've waited--how I've waited! I've dreamed, but it's not a dream now, is it, dear; it's you?" "Yes, it's me. I've tried so hard to find you. Oh, my dear,
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my dear!" I seized the sweet, soft hand and covered it with kisses. At that moment I could have kissed the shadow of that little hand; I could have fallen before her in speechless adoration; I could have made my heart a footstool for her feet; I could have given her, O, so gladly, my paltry life to save her
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from a moment's sorrow--I loved her so, I loved her so! "High and low I've sought you, beloved. Morning, noon and night you've been in my brain, my heart, my soul. I've loved you every moment of my life. It's been desire feeding despair, and, O, the agony of it! Thank God, I've found you, dear! thank God! thank God!"
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O Love, look down on us and choir your harmonies! Transported was I, speaking with whirling words of sweetest madness, tremulous, uplifted with rapture, scarce conscious of my wild, impassioned metaphors. It was she, most precious of all creation; she, my beloved. And there, in the doorway, she poised, white as a lily, lustrous-eyed, and with hair soft as sunlit
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foam. O Divinity of Love, look down on us thy children; fold us in thy dove-soft wings; illumine us in thy white radiance; touch us with thy celestial hands. Bless us, Love! How vastly alight were the grey eyes! How ineffably tender the sweet lips! A faint glow had come into her cheeks. "O, it's you, really, really you at
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last," she cried again, and there was a tremor, the surface ripple of a sob in that clear voice. She fetched a deep sigh: "And I thought I'd lost you forever. Wait a moment. I'll come out." Endlessly long the moment seemed, yet wondrously irradiate. The shadow had lifted from the world; the skies were alight with gladness; my heart
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was heaven-aspiring in its ecstasy. Then, at last, she came. She had thrown a shawl around her shoulders, and coaxed her hair into charming waves and ripples. "Come, let us go up the trail a little distance. They won't be back for nearly an hour." She led the way along that narrow path, looking over her shoulder with a glorious
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smile, sometimes extending her hand back to me as one would with a child. Along the brow of the bluff the way wound dizzily, while far below the river swept in a giant eddy. For a long time we spoke no word. 'Twas as if our hearts were too full for utterance, our happiness too vast for expression. Yet, O,
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the sweetness of that silence! The darkling gloom had silvered into lustrous light, the birds were beginning again their mad midnight melodies. Then, suddenly turning a bend in the narrow trail, a blaze of glory leapt upon our sight. "Look, Berna," I cried. The swelling river was a lake of saffron fire; the hills a throne of rosy garnet; the
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sky a dazzling panoply of rubies, girdled with flames of gold. We almost cringed, so gorgeous was its glow, so fierce its splendour. Then, when we had seated ourselves on the hillside, facing the conflagration, she turned to me. "And so you found me, dear. I knew you would, somehow. In my heart I knew you would not fail me.
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So I waited and waited. The time seemed pitilessly long. I only thought of you once, and that was always. It was cruel we left so suddenly, not even time to say good-bye. I can't tell you how bad I felt about it, but I could not help myself. They dragged me away. They began to be afraid of you,
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and he bade them leave at once. So in the early morning we started." "I see, I see." I looked into the pools of her eyes; I sheathed her white hands in my brown ones, thrilling greatly at the contact of them. "Tell me about it, child. Has he bothered you?" "Oh, not so much. He thinks he has me
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safe enough, trapped, awaiting his pleasure. But he's taken up with some woman of the town just now. By-and-bye he'll turn his attention to me." "Terrible! Terrible! Berna, you wring my heart. How can you talk of such things in that matter-of-fact way--it maddens me." An odd, hard look ridged the corners of her mouth. "I don't know. Sometimes I'm
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surprised at myself how philosophical I'm getting." "But, Berna, surely nothing in this world would ever make you yield? O, it's horrible! horrible!" She leaned to me tenderly. She put my arms around her neck; she looked at me till I saw my face mirrored in her eyes. "Nothing in the world, dear, so long as I have you to
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love me and help me. If ever you fail me, well, then it wouldn't matter much what became of me." "Even then," I said, "it would be too awful for words. I would rather drag your body from that river than see you yield to him. He's a monster. His very touch is profanation. He could not look on a
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woman without cynical lust in his heart." "I know, my boy, I know. Believe me and trust me. I would rather throw myself from the bluff here than let him put a hand on me. And so long as I have your love, dear, I'm safe enough. Don't fear. O, it's been terrible not seeing you! I've craved for you
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ceaselessly. I've never been out since we came here. They wouldn't let me. They kept in themselves. He bade them. He has them both under his thumb. But now, for some reason, he has relaxed. They're going to open a restaurant downtown, and I'm to wait on table." "No, you're not!" I cried, "not if I have anything to say
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in the matter. Berna, I can't bear to think of you in that garbage-heap of corruption down there. You must marry me--now." "Now," she echoed, her eyes wide with surprise. "Yes, right away, dear. There's nothing to prevent us. Berna, I love you, I want you, I need you. I'm just distracted, dear. I never know a moment's peace. I
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cannot take an interest in anything. When I speak to others I'm thinking of you, you all the time. O, I can't bear it, dearest; have pity on me: marry me now." In an agony of suspense I waited for her answer. For a long time she sat there, thoughtful and quiet, her eyes cast down. At last she raised
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them to me. "You said one year." "Yes, but I was sorry afterwards. I want you now. I can't wait." She looked at me gravely. Her voice was very soft, very tender. "I think it better we should wait, dear. This is a blind, sudden desire on your part. I mustn't take advantage of it. You pity me, fear for
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me, and you have known so few other girls. It's generosity, chivalry, not love for poor little me. O, we mustn't, we mustn't. And then--you might change." "Change! I'll never, never change," I pleaded. "I'll always be yours, absolutely, wholly yours, little girl; body and soul, to make or to mar, for ever and ever and ever." "Well, it seems
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so sudden, so burning, so intense, your love, dear. I'm afraid, I'm afraid. Maybe it's not the kind that lasts. Maybe you'll tire. I'm not worth it, indeed I'm not. I'm only a poor ignorant girl. If there were others near, you would never think of me." "Berna," I said, "if you were among a thousand, and they were the
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most adorable in all the world, I would pass over them all and turn with joy and gratitude to you. Then, if I were an Emperor on a throne, and you the humblest in all that throng, I would raise you up beside me and call you 'Queen.'" "Ah, no," she said sadly, "you were wise once. I saw it
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afterwards. Better wait one year." "Oh, my dearest," I reproached her, "once you offered yourself to me under any conditions. Why have you changed?" "I don't know. I'm bitterly ashamed of that. Never speak of it again." She went on very quietly, full of gentle patience. "You know, I've been thinking a great deal since then. In the long, long
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days and longer nights, when I waited here in misery, hoping always you would come to me, I had time to reflect, to weight your words. I remember them all: 'love that means life and death, that great dazzling light, that passion that would raise to heaven or drag to hell.' You have awakened the woman in me; I must
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have a love like that." "You have, my precious; you have, indeed." "Well, then, let me have time to test it. This is June. Next June, if you have not made up your mind you were foolish, blind, hasty, I will give myself to you with all the love in the world." "Perhaps _you_ will change." She smiled a peculiar
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little smile. "Never, never fear that. I will be waiting for you, longing for you, loving you more and more every day." I was bitterly cast down, crestfallen, numbed with the blow of her refusal. "Just now," she said, "I would only be a drag on you. I believe in you. I have faith in you. I want to see
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