The WET PARADE ^ ^^

PTON SIMCLAIR

THE WET PARADE

BOOKS BY

Upton Sinclair

THE JOURNAL OF ARTHUR STIRLING MANASSAS, A NOVEL OF THE CIVIL

WAR THE JUNGLE THE OVERMAN THE MILLENNIUM THE METROPOLIS THE MONEYCHANGERS SAMUEL, THE SEEKER THE FASTING CURE love's PILGRIMAGE SYLVIA

Sylvia's marriage damaged goods the cry for justice the profits of religion king coal, a novel of the

colorado strike jimmie higgins

PRINCE HAGEN

THE NATUREWOMAN

THE SECOND STORY MAN

THE MACHINE

THE POT-BOILER

THE BRASS CHECK

100%-— THE STORY OF A PATRIOT

THEY CALL ME CARPENTER

THE BOOK OF LIFE

THE GOOSE-STEP — A STUDY OF

AMERICAN EDUCATION THE GOSLINGS — A STUDY OF THE

AMERICAN SCHOOLS MAMMONART LETTERS TO JUDD THE spokesman's SECRETARY

oil!

MONEY writes! BOSTON

MOUNTAIN CITY MENTAL RADIO ROMAN HOLIDAY THE WET PARADE

Plays

HELL

SINGING JAILBIRDS

BILL PORTER

OIL (dramatization)

THE ^V^ET PARADE

UPTON SINCLAIR

(TO

E

O

FARRAR & RINEHART

INCORPORATED ■

On Murray Hill New York

COPYRIGHT, 1 93 1, BY UPTON SINCLAIR

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

BY THE FERRIS PRINTING COMPANY, NEW YORK

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

CONTENTS

Chapter		Page
I.	Fointe Chilcote	3
II	The "Demon Rum"	23
III	Tarletxm House	42
IV.	Manhattan	63
V.	Prohibition	87
VI.	The Golden Jail	109
VII.	The Ladder of Success	132
VIII.	The Big Chief	158
IX.	The Tvfeiy Man	180
X.	Broadhaven	204
XL	Scandal	226
XII.	Crime	248
XIII.	Coroners Jury	274
XIV.	V/owser	299
XV.	Federal Service	327
XVI.	Jailhrea\	351
, XVII.	Underworld	379
XVIII.	Sacrifice	403

THE WET PARADE

CHAPTER ONE ^ ^ POIHTE CHILCOTE

I

THE visitor from the North sat and fanned herself vigorously with a palm-leaf fan; she was not used to such temperatures, even in midsummer. But Mama did not mind it, having lived here all her forty-odd years ; she was stout and placid, and sat and rocked slowly, with perspiration running in streams down her pink and white cheeks. She knew it was good for you to be bathed in per- spiration, provided you bathed in water morning and evening, and used talcum powder meantime, and put on fresh linen. She ex- plained this to the anxious stranger, and added, apologetically, "We cannot open the doors just now, because there is a snake in the house."

The visitor started visibly. "A snake?"

"Yes," said Mama; "one gets in every now and then, you know."

"And what do you do about it?"

"Well, you see, he gets hidden ; but sooner or later he has to come out, and then we kill him with a stick."

The strange lady cast uneasy glances around the drawing-room, and furtively began to gather up her skirts and tuck them tightly about her ankles — ^this being in the days before skirts got out of the reach of ankles and snakes. "Why don't you keep the doors open, and let him go out ?" she quavered.

"But then we wouldn't know he was gone," explained Mama, amiably. "We have to keep track of him."

"Are they poisonous, Mrs. Chilcote?"

"Unfortunately, yes — they're generally moccasins."

"Good gracious me!" said the lady froni the North, and arose from her chair, saying that she just must hurry along, as she had another engagement, and was already late. Mama detained her, in the Southern way of hospitality, but the lady from the North never stopped edging herself towards the front door, meanwhile gazing about at the floor of the drawing-room, which was kept in semi-

3

4 THE WET PARADE

darkness all day, and had antique rugs with snaky patterns, and carved mahogany furniture with snaky-looking legs.

Maggie May was over by one of the windows, on the other side of the curtains, supposed to be reading a story-book when this con- versation took place. After the visiting lady had gone, she and Mama laughed over the hurriedness of the departure, and lack of social tact displayed. Northern people were always funny to Mag- gie May and her mother; they didn't understand about things, and asked such unexpected questions. How could anybody imagine that you could grow sugar without snakes? In the black ooze of the bottom-lands where thickets of tall cane grew, the roots made such a tangle, you might as well have thought of getting rid of mosqui- toes as of reptiles. Maggie May was used to all such natural super- fluities. Just as you always carried with you outdoors a little bundle of twigs with leaves to keep the mosquitoes off your ankles, and always knocked them from your nightdress before you crawled into bed under the "mosquito bar" — so also you had to turn your shoes upside down before you put your feet into them, and you never reached into a dark hole for anything.

The danger was reduced by the fact that outside the house Papa would not permit shrubbery or plants, only a smooth lawn upon which snakes were easy to see; he would then get his rifle and sit on the front gallery and shoot their heads off. Once a week he would send a Negro man under the house to look for nests, and one of the fascinations of Maggie May's childhood was holding in her hands and examining against the light certain round yellow objects, soft to pressure and leathery, shaped like the capsules which the doctor gave you when you developed chills and fever. You must not leave them to stand very long, or when you came back you might find a box- full of baby snakes, perhaps as deadly as their mothers and fathers. When Papa had the man build a fire of brush and set such a box in the middle of it, the little girl tried to look into the writhing mass of red and yellow flames, mingled with black and brown serpents, and had to turn her head away, because life was so awful — and yet so fascinating, one could not get away from it!

II

It was the sugar-cane country of Louisiana, the "Bayou Teche." For no one could say how many thousands of years the Father of Waters had gathered the detritus of half a continent, and swept it

POINTECHILCOTE S

down here, and spread it, black and slimy, to a depth beyond all digging. It lay under a blazing sun, watered by floods and rains, and a forest of green things sprang into life in it overnight, and men labored all their lives, black men with their muscles and white men with their minds, to tame this growth and limit it to useful things.

Strange as it seemed when you said it, a considerable part of the land was water. The wild cane and marsh-grass were many feet high, and their roots made such a tangle that you would think you could walk on it. Only when you went to the edge of the road and looked directly down you would see the ooze and slime. It was half brackish from the gulf, but this did not keep it from breeding insects, which rose in clouds so thick that they would dim the sun. The roads had to be made with logs laid crossways, and then loads of dirt dumped onto them, and then perhaps a second layer of logs. It was all part of the cost of sugar.

Maggie May's family lived on what was known as Pointe Chil- cote. In far-off years it had been a real "pointe" thrust out into the gulf; but now the marsh had enveloped it, and it looked like the rest, except that it had "hills'* here and there, not so many feet high, but solid enough to have live oaks and magnolias growing on them. "Pointe Chilcote" was eight miles long and three miles wide, domain enough for a family to spread itself upon. Like all other planters. Grandpa Chilcote had been ruined by the Civil War, but he had not had to lose his land and come down in the social scale, because there had been discovered a salt mine upon his place. So the estates were built up again, and the burned mansion replaced by an even more splendid one. Now there were four sons, and two mar- ried daughters, each with a home on a separate "hill," half a mile or so apart; as grandsons and daughters grew up, they moved to yet other "hills," or bought themselves homes in the towns, where they lived in winter.

When the visitor from the North descended from the train at the town of Acadia, he found a conveyance of the Chilcotes waiting, with a Negro in black livery, no matter how hot the day. In Maggie May's early childhood this had been a barouche or victoria, with a 'pair of what were referred to as' "spanking bays" ; the families were conservative, distrustful of those newfangled things called "horse- less carriages." But one day Uncle Daubney, the youngest son and the wildest, turned up in a terrifying contraption which he had driven from New Orleans, known as a "White Steamer." It was

6 THE WET PARADE

made by a man named White, and was painted white, and it ran bv steam, leaving a long white trail behind. It made a powerful noise

nn 1i7^^ T^-''^ '^1 ?'*^ ^""''^ '° '^^P '"to the marsh; finX; Kn. n ^ ^^■' " ^y °d«d ^ith a tremendous roar, and deposited Uncle Daubney m a clump of his own sugar-cane

The horses took you through what appeared to be a Malayan jungle, and if you had never been in this country before, you S" be anxious as to what sort of accommodation you would find. But suddenly the brakes and marshes would fade away; the land would

^f " i" "'^.' f"^ tl^T *°"''^ ^PI*^'- fi"^ ^tr^t<=hes of lawn wkh peacocks and lyre-birds strutting about under the shade of tTees older than anyone s memory. In the distance, down the gravelled

wiirZLT^f ^ ^ '"""''°" """^^ °^ ^^d •'"^k, two storL high, with fluted white columns going to the second story, and a double gallery, ' one on the ground floor and one on the second There 7olV\tT^U t *''"' ^°'"n'n^,along the front of the house, each so big that the biggest man could not put his arms around it The Wegro men who came for your bags wore white duck, and the maids who unpacked them wore black dresses with white aprons and «^ • so you would realize that you had been transported, not in space to Malaya, but in time to the "Old South." ^

III

In the daytime the Chilcote men wore khaki, with riding-boots and broad hats, and rode the plantations on horseback. But at^x m the evenmg everybody disappeared, and an hour later appeared for dinner m tuxedos and evening gowns, as fashionable as you would see in New Orleans. There was a dining-room panelled in mahogany with sideboards and highboys elaborately carved with roses and deer's heads, and the faces of Roman emperors and French

tZ."T?- I^'"^ r' ''""'^■™' ">'^tal, and silver dishes, platters almost too heavy for one man, and cofifee-urns and punch bowls shimng like full moons in a midnight sky; an array of silver S canters with several kinds of liquor, and silver bowk for ice ^d holders for w.ne-bottles. There was a special servant for thTse treasures, a grey-headed old Negro called the "steward," who had the keys to cabinets and sideboards, and served the liquors at meals

hJTTT .u^f T""^ ''°^'^ ^""''' ^o"" "°t "'^■•e'y was the weathei^ hot, but also the food ; it was the land of peppers and tabasco. Not tar from the Chilcotes was a neighbor who had become wealthy

POINTE CHILCOTE 7

through the manufacture of a fiery hot sauce which was used all over the world. You would be served a rich soup, made of what the Negroes called "tarpin"; or perhaps, still richer, of the soft green turtle, whose shell was meat, cut up in little chunks; with that would come a decanter of sherry, and you would pour in all you wanted. Then would come a sherbet to cool your throat, and after it a ''gumbo," or chowder, made of fish, or crabs, or shrimp, peppered so that if you were not used to it the tears would come into your eyes, and you would be glad when the ''steward" came with a bottle of ice-cold claret. After you had recovered, you would be served a "crawfish bisque," or a platter of crabs with the big claws cracked for you. A messy business eating them with your fingers; the "Creole" families, the descendants of the old-time French and Spanish settlers, had special lavatories adjoining the dining-room, one for ladies and one for gentlemen, to which all retired after the crab-course, and washed their hands and cheeks before resuming the meal.

You were not considered really to have dined until you had venison, or perhaps bear-meat, or wild turkey; or half a dozen guinea-hens off the plantation, or ducks fed on pecans and stuffed with them. There would be a huge cold ham, carved in slices, even though nobody took any. There would be six or eight vegetables, smoking hot, with rich cream sauces, and cold champagne to cool your mouth, and then "ambrosia," made of orange and grated cocoanut, or "syllabub," a cream whip with sherry, poured over "angle cake" ; then fruit, and coffee, with brandy which you burned on top.

That was the way they ate in the "Old South" or Slave days, and it was a form of glory to keep up the ritual, even to the twentieth century, when newspapers and magazines were full of the writings of "diet cranks." The elder Chicotes took no stock in any sort of "cranks," but continued to live "like gentlemen," whether they had guests or were alone. Not much was wasted, because there was a swarm of servants, and in the cabins on the edge of the clearing many dependents waiting hungrily.

While they ate, the Chilcotes talked decorously and gravely about ^the viands, their qualities and the methods of preparing them: the difference between Smithfield and other hams; between Lynnhaven Bay and Gulf oysters; between diamond-backed terrapin and those without markings ; the vintage of wines and the advantages of dry or sweet ; the superiority of Bourbon rye aged in the wood, and the

8 THE WET PARADE

unpossibility of eliminating fusel oil by any other means It «,™,IH be sa.d that the turkey had been shot ^y TWrjoTf th -angerS

They talked about the affairs of the family where thi.! cr,^ woe

had said about his progress. If there were guests present the

n New' o7 "* ^ ^r.'^''''t' '^^y would talk ab^ut mutual ?iend!

l-^^tnrnn^"" ^"^ Memphis society; where So-and-so's boy was

gomg to college and whom So-and-so's daughter was engaged t^

Sf TiZ °h '" ^"^^^^-^"^ -ght provide converS fo; halt an hour because everyone would be interested to re^ll th» connections of that family-the grandson of Genera Someboiv who had surrendered to Grant at Vicksburg, or had hefped Srso ' Davis wm the battle of Buena Vista. There would be the vSo connections and the Tennessee connections! Tnd the fS Xat^one son was studying art in Paris. Before you knew it? you wou d be talking about the depravity of French fashions; or perhar about he French opera company which was expected in New Or'Teans "„

Such was the method of education of Maggie May in her child hood. As soon as she was old enough to fat politely she sat at' meals with the grown-ups. a demuref silent little Se with b.V ihe leTnUYi! ^''"''"^ everything, and ears that mifsed no word^ i.he learned the names of an army of persons, living and dead their Zr If"' '"^'"'t ^'^P'i'^^ted, their occupations! their ^pu a tions the names of towns or cities where they lived, and of the IZ a1 "' ^"^'"«f f that made them rich and impor ant Whin now and then one of these persons turned up as a guest in the home'

IV

The biggest house was that of Grandpa; it had the finest olate and served the most elaborate banquets with the oldest wbS' Colonel Chilcote was a civil war veteran, in his sevent es when Maggie May first remembered him. He was stout, but sS InsTsted fr^n^ r^H ^- r" P'^"t^t'°"«' and travelled to New Orleans Sd transacted his business, and was a favorite in all the clubs He claimed to carry more good liquor than any other man he knew

POINTE CHILCOTE 9

He had been a widower for a number of years, and there was always some lively young widow or even a debutante in fashionable society Sng her cap" at him. "The Colonel," a rosy old gentleman with a keen sense of humor, had worked out a novel method of controlling his sons and daughters. Whatever it might be-whether one of the sons spent too much time away from home, or one of the daughters declared she could no longer put up with her hard-drmkmg husband-the Colonel would only have to say that he was feeling lonely in his old age, and was going to conso e himse f with whatever charmer happened to be conspicuous in the family fears at that

""^Tlpa" was Roger Chilcote, the oldest of the sons, and Maggie May was the youngest of his children. Papa was in his forties when she was a little girl, and to her he was without a blemish, a creature wholly divine. He was blond, with golden hair which developed beautiful waves; he wore a soft, golden beard trimmed to a little point, which made him look romantic. He had a gentle voice with tremolo stops which caused thrills to run up and down the child's spine; he would take her on his knees and tell her stories out of mythologies white or black. He was a highly sentimental person, tenderhearted, and unable to stand the sight of cruelty ; for this reason he was ill-fitted to the world in which fate had

placed him. r i- t.

There had been a tragedy in the life of Roger Chilcote, o* which

Maggie May knew nothing until she was grown up. He had been

engaged to a Creole beauty of Mobile, a dashing creature who rode

wild horses and broke all hearts in her neighborhood. She and

Roger fell "madly in love,'* as people in that country liked to phrase

it and it was an ideal match, according to the world of the delta.

But as fate willed it, a sister of this brilliant girl was married first,

and in due course was delivered of an infant, and the horrified

whisper went the rounds of society— this infant was black! It is

something which happens now and then in the far South, and to

the victims it is a jest of Satan; the infant is turned over to a

Negro servant, and a curse is laid upon that family to the end of

time. The wealthy Creoles sold their possessions and took a steamer

^ to France— and on the way Roger Chilcote's beloved stepped over

the side of the vessel. «...

He never recovered from it ; when he took another bride, it was to please his parents. Mama was their choice, and^ she went into the marriage knowing that she would have the affection and respect

10 THE WET PARADE

of her husband, but no more than that. Mama's duty had been to bear children for the Chilcotes, and this she had faithfully done Ihere were fiwe of them alive; two more had succumbed to the clangers of the climate, and one had miscarried when a runaway saddle-horse had thrown the young wife over its head. Mama was gentle and placid endlessly kind, a soft lap and a warm bosom. There were two kinds of mothers in that Old South— those who wore themselves to string and bones, managing households and saving the members from destruction; and those who gave up and sat in arm-chairs and rocked, while things took their own painful course. ^

Maggie May was trained from earliest childhood to fear. Impos- sible to be trained any other way, in the midst of high-spirited horses which might kick you, and cows which might swing at you with their horns, and deadly snakes which might be lurking in the places where you played. There was a story they told of one of her brothers, a little fellow who had been overlooked by a careless servant and had crawled under the house, and there amused himself poking his finger at a funny creature which poked back with lon^r red needles ; finally the child crawled out again, and told his mother about this fascinating play.

So many "don'ts'' for a little girl! She must not go barefoot because It would make her feet big; she must not climb trees, because It would make her hands big; she must not stay in the sun, because It would make her skin coarse. She must not talk at the dinner- table, unless to answer remarks of the grown-ups. She must not ask questions upon a list of topics forbidden to little girls She must not talk about the affairs of the family in the presence of any guest. She must not laugh aloud, nor shout, nor leave the table until she was excused, nor forget her piano practice, her singing her French, her ''hand painting.'' Anxiously and earnestly she strove to remember these many prohibitions and duties.

However, all these anxieties taken together were less than the one great sorrow which overhung Maggie May's life, and which little by little was revealed to her opening mind. She could not have to d when she first began to sense it— any more than she could have told when first she knew that the sky was blue, or that water was

POINTE CHILCOTE U

wet. She was fully grown before she heard it put into plain words by her mother: the soul-sickening admission that Papa was "drinking."

To say that a man was "drinking" had a special meanmg in Maggie May's world. It did not mean that he was having the glasses of claret and burgundy and champagne which the steward served at dinner, nor did it mean the cocktail which preceded the meal, nor sherry in the turtle soup and brandy in the coffee. It did not mean the mint- juleps which would be mixed two or three times in the course of a hot day, and served with glasses full of ice and sprigs of fresh mint. It did not mean the punch which was served at all dances, or the hot toddies on winter nights. All this was not "drinking"; this was hospitality, it was the life of the South. The ladies did it along with the gentlemen, and it was proper and elegant. You kept the usual kinds of liquor in your home, and perhaps some rare ones, and talked about the flavors, the "bouquets," the various brands and their ages, and where you could buy them.

It wasn't even "drinking" when the gentlemen sat in the dining- room after the ladies had left, and smoked their cigars, and talked business and politics, and consumed quantities of whisky and soda. It wasn't "drinking" when a man sat with his cronies in the billiard- room and played poker the whole night through, in a haze of cigar- smoke and a reek of alcohol. That too was the custom, expected of every man who was not a "mollycoddle." The boys were trained to it, having their little sips of mint-julep, their half glasses of wine at meals. When they went away to college, it was assumed that they would take a share in all manly pleasures, which included poker-parties, and whiskies and soda, and cocktails at dinner and punch at dances.

No; where "drinking" began was when a man took too much, and had to disappear suddenly from a dance, leaving his friends to apologize to his partner ; or when, after a poker-party, he was unable to "sleep it off" in the course of the next day; or when he took to having it in his room, by himself, without sociability; or when he had to go off somewhere, say to the home of- his plantation manager, ^nd stay for several days. That was the special meaning of "drinking" ; and that was when terror began to creep into the souls of the women, and they would whisper together, and seek council from the elders, and plan gentle conspiracies, and drop anxious hints.

12 THE WET PARADE

VI

It was Maggie May's fate to live most of her days among beauti- ful men going to their doom on account of Hquor; yet so rfgid was

t^^t ""^""^ fT™'^ ''"'^ •"^""«' never^ntil she was grown up did her eyes fall upon one of these men in a drunken state Of course, when she went into town, it might happen tha" she would see a man staggering about; but that was somV low-class person viSm^ oT n°rV" ^-;h°»?hts. Such men were the un ortu'ate

The poor whites in this country were referred to as "Caiuns"- the descendants of those French people of the land of Acadia in Newfoundland, whose sad story is told in Longfellow's "eS^I hne. • In the middle of the eighteenth century thiy had bS, deported to this swamp country, and their great-grL gTandchilS were trappers hvmg in one-room board shacks stuck^outove he bayous on piles, and reached by rickety plank walks nailed to

aSVT t"fi\'" *^' r^'b ^^^ P°l^d themselverabo;.t in boats f^iT^^'^'^' ^"'i'?P"ght themselves corn, with which they r^ade Illegal whisky, called "moonshine." From such wretched beTn^ no g,ood was to be expected, and the planting aristocracy left fher^ alone, except when they committed the unpardonable offense of selling hquor to Negroes. "uense oi

Liquor was for sale to white persons, both by the jug and the glass, in every "general" store in the town of Acadia, ^^fsoh was sod in innumerable secret places; for the government tried to

if hev'JT/" 'TV^'T'' ^""^ ^^" ^PP'-^-d of this, or pad If they could evade So there was a vast illegal traffic, with occa- sional raids and shooting of revenue officers. It was a proWem for which no one knew any solution.

Men and women of the lower classes in the South had two occupations for their leisure; the first to get drunk, and the second

^fi I Fu\ ." y°" ^'"* '"'° ^"d'« °n ^ Saturday night you wou d find both forms of entertainment under full headway There would be men crowded into the liquor-shops, befuddled and sodden or quarreling, or staggering about the streets, making the nieht hideous with imitations of panthers and Indians. Also there would be a meeting in a "gospel-tent," or under a clump of trees on the edge of the town, with men and women under the spell of an

POINTECHILCOTE 13

exhorter, falling on their knees and confessing their drunkenness, signing the pledge and imploring Jesus to help, them keep it.

But to Maggie May all this was something far-off and strange, about which she heard rumors. The Chilcotes were Episcopalians, and had a chapel on the estate, and twice a month a clergyman travelled to them, and stayed as their guest, and conducted morning and evening service for all who cared to attend, the whites in the body of the building, the blacks in the balcony upstairs, reached by a separate entrance. These services were decorous and refined, with no shouting or exhorting, or intimate confessions and scandals. It was taken for granted that ladies and gentlemen knew how to behave themselves, without help from anybody, even Jesus.

That applied not merely to church, but to the home. When Roger Chilcote had more liquor in him than he could take care of, he was at the home of his manager, being looked after by the manager's wife and servants; or he was in a hotel room, reputed to be away on important business. The only trouble was that he sometimes misjudged the amount he could carry, and was sure he was all right when to others he seemed peculiar. So, little by little, putting this and that together, his daughter became aware of the great sorrow of her young life. This golden-haired god — ^this radiant being of laugher and tender melancholy — there were two of him, and one was real, while the other was a painful caricature, becoming worse with every year that passed.

And how was a little girl to know which was which ? How could anyone be sure? Those smiles which thrilled you so — how could you tell if Papa was really happy, or if it was the other being, the stranger, making foolish noises? If the tears came into his eyes, how could you tell whether it was the lover of kindness, contemplat- ing the cruelties and malice of the world — or if it was this imitation creature, which could produce tears over things too silly to talk about? You listened to words coming from lips which were foun- tains of knowledge — and how could you be sure whether it was something so profound that you would have to take it off and ponder it all day — or something to which there was no meaning at all, a mere jumble of words given off blindly, like the bubbles of the wine which had caused it?

VII

How to tell the difference was the serious problem of a serious little girl's life. You could not tell by Papa's breath; because,

14 THE WET PARADE

w"fn^^i-^'""^ r^' served liquor at every meal, with tnint juleps and todd.es in between, the smell of alcohol was as familiar as

tL^^rV^ '°'''- X?" ^"^'^ "'^t *^" because his S was flushed, for he was naturally ruddy, and would be flushed when he was laughmg aloud or when he came in from riding the planta!

couH Zftul ^' ^^i '''"" P "yJ"^ l'^" ^it^ tl^« ^hndren.^ You could not tell because he was glad, nor because he was sad-for he was of en both with cause. You could not say it was because he was talkative, for he loved to talk to any good listener and would tell stones and if the fate of the beautiful princess wasTooZd and tears began to run down Maggie May's cheeks, they would sTart into Papa s eyes also. They were an extremely emotional people

u^'ecSa^w^e^ '''" ""'"'^ ^^^"'^^'^ ^'^'^ '« '^'^ No, you just couldn't tell! It was a labyrinth of Papa's emo-

co^uZ'f''^ T ^t^i *°J^°P^ y^"-- -^y The real Papa w^s complicated enough, while the imitation Papa was beyond guessing This tipsy man was unstable and went quickly to extremes He was either too gay, or too sorrowful, and would fly from^ietv to sorrow at the snapping of your finger. He was bored, impatLt wanting to get away from everything. He was abnorma ly sens tTve and suspicious; he could not endure that his little girl shou d be rbridle utn'^r^: moods-and so Maggie May muft learn to pu Lhl A T 'l" 1°"^^' ^^ ^ ^"^n over her eyes. If Papa

nu^rA '"f ^' '^' """'* "°' "°*'^^ '*'■ '^ ^' ^-d s'^mething that puzzled her, she must not try to find out what he meant. If she

showed a trace of pam, or grief, or surprise, or even watchftdness

or^cunosity. Papa would jump up suddenly and rush from the

wit^hTm ^° rtf ^' "^rJ'"'' 7;y ^^"' ^"-^ ^« """^t be patient r 1, iTV * ^^^ ^" ^^^ ^""•'^ ^ay; umil, as the years passed

the child began, very tactfully, to reveal that she knew. TWs had happened with all Mrs. Chilcote's brood, one by one; but the pSr sentimental lady always clung to the hope that the next one mighTbe spared the contamination of this painful knowledge

Maggie May, as a late-comer, was the plaything and pet of the rest; especially of her father, whose weakness made Wm crave afifection and support. She was not a pretty child, being too thi^

aT,. r^'™ l^''f' ,""^ ?^° ^^'^' ^■^'^ ^y^' l^rge and sombre Also she was too lacking in liveliness to make what was called a social success." But she was gentle, sensitive, and willing to take

POINTECHILCOTE 15

upon her slender shoulders the burdens of those she loved. Mama's peace of mind, Papa's relief from boredom, were the first things in the world to Maggie May, and it never occurred to her to do anything but what they asked.

There was no chance for her to develop a life of her own. Papa was there, always commanding, always demanding, more and more insistently, desperately. Maggie May could not remember when she was too young to hear this call. Ruin was hanging over her loved ones. There were evil men_outside who had discovered the weak- ness of Roger Chilcote, and were preying upon him. When they had given him drinks enough, he would be subject to fits of generosity; he would scatter handfuls of money among the crowd, or hand out hundred dollar bills to all who would take them. He would sit down to a poker-game with anybody, and lose all he had with him, and then write checks or 'T.O.U's," and these would constitute debts of honor, binding upon him next morning and forever. It had happened to him to sell a whole year's sugar-crop, and gamble away every dollar in one evening.

So his family gathered about him in a phalanx; keeping watch over him day and night, devising plans to entertain and beguile him. It was his misfortune that he had no occupation with regular hours. His riding the plantation was largely superfluous, for there were competent overseers, who did not need many orders. When he went to New Orleans to transact business at the banks, it did not take very long, and then he had time to join his cronies at the clubs. Everywhere a Southern gentleman went, his arrival was celebrated with a drink, and every undertaking, of business or sport, was opened with drinks, and closed with more of them.

So Mama would go to New Orleans with Papa, and perhaps take the older children, and make a family party of it, and try to make engagements that would keep him with the ladies. When they returned to the plantation, the ladies would ask him to take them driving, or propose a game of cards, or sit on the gallery for hour after hour, chatting. It never occurred to anybody that this might be a waste of time — for what else did anybody have to do with time? They were a gregarious people, and their desire to be alone was confined to the occasions when they were undressing. All the rest of the day they wanted "company," and to those who were of the right social class they kept open house ; you might come uninvited^ and stay for months without exciting comment. It was rarely that fewer than fifteen or twenty persons sat at the family dinner-table.

16 THEWETPARADE

For the most part they were loyal friends, who had come to know Papa's weakness, and what his wife was doing; they would even go so far as to pretend that they preferred coffee to toddies, and lemonade to mmt juleps ! They would lie like gentlemen, and never let Papa know that they were pitying him.

But Papa knew ! Oh, yes, he knew. He was being walled about by love, he was bemg kept with the women and children, a nursery pet. It would gall his spirit; he would sit brooding, or get up and pace about restlessly— and presently would bolt out of his cage He would show them, every one of them, that he was still a man no derelict or cripple ! He would go among men, and do as men did, taking one or two drinks, but no more.

He would make up his mind to do this. But the trouble was that after he had one or two, he would start over again. He would say like Rip van Winkle, ^This time don't count!" The result would be, he would come home with cheeks flushed, and tongue tripping over itself; but very dignified, determined that he was all right and would prove it to everyone. He would show that, like every Southern gentleman, he knew how much liquor he could carry As the first step, he would order Moses, the old steward, to mix him another toddy.

vni

In course of time it developed that the one person who could control Roger Chilcote was his youngest daughter. Maggie May was his darling, the "apple of his eye"— they liked to use those old-fashioned phrases. He would take chances with others that he would not take with her; he would become irritated with others where she could win a smile. So the child would be summoned from her piano practice, or her French conversation, or whatever It might be, and Mama would say: "Darling, Papa is in town and he's not very well, and the hot sun is bad for him, and won't you go and see if you can bring him home to play cards?" The child's pony would be saddled and brought to the door by a trusted servant who would ride behind her; they would trot several miles to Acadia,'' and find Papa, under the covered veranda of the store where he got the kind of liquor he liked; he would be telling funny stories to a group of men, or tossing dimes to a bunch of colored boys who turned handsprings and cut capers for his amusement.

All that would stop, the instant he caught sight of Maggie May •

POINTE CHILCOTE 17

for, though she was only a child, she was a young lady to her social inferiors, and every male creature, white or black, must be decorous in her presence. Papa would rise and come to the curb, and say, "Hello, little girl.'* When they were in the privacy of the family, he had funny names for her; she would be "Pie," or maybe she would be "Bones" ; but in public she had this dignified title, "little girl."

"Papa," she would say, "Pm through with my music lesson."

"Is that so, little girl?" Perhaps he would take the hint, and say, "All right, we'll have a game," and get his horse and ride back with her. But sometimes he would be stubborn, and resist cajoleries. "I am waiting for a man I must see. Tell Mama Pll be back for dinner. You read that new story-book and tell Papa what's in it."

She would ride back, disappointed; and seeing the helpless grief in her mother's eyes, she would say, "Perhaps I better go and try again. Mama. Perhaps I better think of something important."

So it was that a little girl got that part of her education which was more essential than piano or French conversation. She must manage to find something that would seem important to Papa — or something that Papa would think seemed important to her. She must learn to put pressure on him, loving but firm; she must use her power to the utmost, yet be careful never to overstrain it.

Now and then, in the muddlement of his mind, he might try to break through these barriers of reticence; to turn the proceedings into a joke, perhaps. He would look at her with a smile that was almost a leer, and say : "Yes, little girl, I know what you are doing. You're trying to get me back home!" But Maggie May would look as innocent as a dove, incapable of feminine art. "No, Papa, no! Pve planned a party this afternoon, and you know it won't amount to anything if you're not home." Or else : "Papa, Pm just crazy to know what happened to Rebecca in the castle, but I can't bear to read it without you."

There was a card game called "seven-up," which two persons could play, and it was Maggie May's task to play it by the hour. She would try her best to make it exciting, pretending to be anxious to beat her father ; when she lost, she would act disappointment — but not too great, so as to spoil, his pleasure. Little by little she made the discovery that if he had a run of bad luck, he would begin to be bored, and would find some pretext to stop. On the other hand, by pressing him closely, but never quite succeeding, she could manage to keep him keyed up, and he would play all day. So

18 THE WET PARADE

f^^l^l^I ^^u'!' ?'",'" "^^ ''^"'"^ reversed; the grown man was the child while the child became prematurely grown. Maggie May ^k to cheatmg-in reverse, as it were; making blunders It critical moments, and letting Papa enjoy a laugh at her. After all, it was Ihlu"" \ i ^ game was played. Was it not natural that he should expect to win-he, the male creature, the god-like one. for whom the world was made? c one, lor

^7m ""?'^'"0"s boy and girl cousins from the other plantations would gather, and they would play romping games: "I spy " f"? example-m which Maggie May would always let Papa find her and get back to "base" ahead of her. A painful incklent? wS Papa chose what he considered an especially wonderful hiding-Ice up on the roof of the two-story house, where no one thouX of ooking; he was having a grand triumph, but it was spoiled by a httle Negro boy who had watched him hiding, and kjt lookLe up at him and asking, "How's you gwine gi! to yo' base S She no?^ '7u'' P^P\-"Wn't get to his base without jumping ^if. t J^u'^ ^'^^^T^ ^'^ "^<='^' He was furious, and ordered the boy off the grounds, and would take no more interest in the

fn^Ll^ '*;^l'^'' "l^ ^"^ "^^^'"^^ °f having behaved unwo"hiy and took a drink to cheer himself up. vvonniiy.

IX

, -I ^f ''^t^f s and one sister travelled this road of tribulation with Maggie May; but they were all older, and got farther on he journey before the darkness gathered Ted the c^^At^Z T i years older than Maggie Ma'y; ^hlch SL^l^'tXZVZtZ eT"^f,M"""".' ''""''' ^"^ "'°°f' ^^^°<^i^t^d with sfrSed "Ma" ladies vi .tinrPrT"""'.^'"°P'"S saddle-horses, a^d young laaes visiting. Pretty soon he went away to college, and the little g.ri picked up scraps of notions about this place of^^nnants scSs tennis-rackets, meerschaum pipes, fraternity-pins. aKs and hat- nbbons which meant secret things. A child who was alert and nuick minded could not help hearing things not meant for her ea?s so Maggie May gathered that college was also a place of "fas?" life with drinking-parties and gambhng-debts. '

_ Next in order was Lelia, two years younger than Ted but as<;ert ing her claun to be his contemporary, felia was a 'creature of ^5^' A^^ organdies, tulle and moire silks, ribbons, scarfs and lace handkerchiefs, visiting dressmakers, shopping trips to New

POINTE CHILCOTE 19

Orleans, coming-out parties, balls and dinner-dances, suitors on fancy saddle-horses or in shiny sport-cars, coming to call, bhe was blonde and elegant, a breaker of hearts, and received so many ten-pound boxes of fancy confections that Maggie May s complexion would have been ruined for life if there had not been so many other relatives "Sister" made a great many visits to fashionable friends all over the South; until finally came the grand splurge, when the home was fixed up like a fairy castle, and she was married to a rising young banker of New Orleans. ,. . ,, . ^.

But still the shadow of that brilliant being cast little Maggie May into comparative darkness. There was a room m the home, one of the best, which had been Lelia's. It had been papered and decorated in pale green and white, the proper colors for a peaches and cream complexion. Now that Lelia was gone, Maggie May was told to occupy this room ; but still it was always referred to as "Lelia's room," never as "Maggie May's." Nor did it occur to anyone that the room ought to be redecorated, because green and white did not set off dark eyes and hair. Maggie May never asked this change, because she was not expecting a career as a breaker of hearts. Whenever the peerless Lelia came visiting, Maggie May would move to one of the guest rooms, which had no special color schemes or esthetic charms.

After Lelia, there was a gap in the children, caused by the death of two of them. Next came Roger, junior, known to the family and servants as "Young Roger." He was four years older than Maggie May, and the next brother, Lee, was two years older; these were her playmates and disciplinarians, teaching her humility, obedience, and other virtues expected of a young lady of the South. If the game required a pale-face to be scalped by Indians, Maggie May would be as pale as desired; if there were to be a battle, requiring prisoners to be incarcerated or casualties to be interred, Maggie May would endure the stigma of British origin or Yankee residence, and perform all varieties of falling and writhing. She would tag along in hunting parties, and when a bird was shot, would not let her tears be seen, but school herself to regard it as material for taxidermy or gastronomy.

^ A strange thing, how three children so different could have been brought into the world by the same two parents. Lee was dark, like his mother and Maggie May; quiet, plodding, rather dull, but conscientious, born to be a good planter or business executive. "Young Roger," on the other hand, was a creature of fire, fulfilling

20 THE WET PARADE

the image of the Psalmist, "born to trouble as the sparks fly upward." He had red hair, which turned to gold like his father's as he grew older; he was eager, impatient, driven by the law of his being to take command. Young Roger it was who absorbed history stories and set out to enact them ; nor was there ever any doubt as to who was Alexander, Caesar, Napoleon, "Light Horse'' Harry Lee, General "Jeb" Stuart, or Morgan of the "raiders."

In short. Young Roger was a genius. There had never been anythmg of that sort in the Chilcote family, at least not within memory, and nobody knew how to deal with him. He had all Papa's gaiety, also his moodiness, but added to it the peculiar thing of his own, the fierce impatience. He understood things so much more quickly than other people—his swiftly-pouncing mind could not endure to wait till they caught up with him. Also he had the gift of words; he knew how to say things, to stab them into your mmd. He would electrify you with vivid pictures, and keep you convulsed by his wit. He had a gift for watching his elders and mimicking their eccentricities; a wicked secret which the youngsters kept.

Also, he had a streak of cruelty in him, which his sister never was able to understand. He loved to dominate others just for the sake of proving his power. He would tease his little sister, and keep It up. One day, out of a clear sky, he announced: "When I grow up, I'm going to be a drunkard." "Oh, no, Roger'" she exclaimed in horror. But he stood by it: "I'm going to be either a drunkard, or else a soldier, and go to war." Maggie May, conscientious to the point of abnormality, would spend hours brood- ing over this problem. What could she do to keep her brother from becoming a drunkard or a soldier ?

Since, in so large a family, it was not always possible for a young genius to have his own way, the boy learned to build up a dream world. In the attic he discovered several boxes full of leather- bound books, which had belonged to Great-grandfather Chilcote, a lawyer and scholar; they included the eighteenth century classics of English fiction, and Young Roger wiped the black dust oflf them and made them his secret treasure. Nobody in the family knew what was in these books, and the boy quickly decided that their Ignorance was his bliss. This new world was frank, forthright terrible from the point of view of Southern squeamishness. Young Roger became more severe in his judgments, more impatient, and even less comprehensible to these proud people, who thought them-

POINTECHILCOTE 21

selves independent and daring, but really were timid and ridden by

taboos.

Of course the boy had to have a confidante, and Maggie May was chosen for this honor. She was terrified by his impulses, and by his condemnations of everybody and everything; but she loved him, she adored him, second only to their father, whom he resembled so much. She would do everything that Roger told her to do, unless it was something she knew her parents had forbidden. She would listen to stories from the books he had read; presently, when he was older, and was making up stories of his own, there was ''little sister," wide-eyed, awe-stricken, as if she were present at the creation of the universe according to the Book of Genesis — although Roger declared that was all bunkum, and not the way it had happened.

From Young Roger Maggie May began to acquire the reading habit: desiring to know all the wonderful things that he knew. The windows in the drawing-room were set in alcoves, and had thick curtains in front, to keep out the glare of daylight. Between window and curtains was a space of a couple of feet, and the ideal way to read was to get pillows and make a nest in there. But when Mama observed this, she began to worry, and explained that it was all right for a girl to read, but not to let the men know about it, otherwise they would call her a "blue-stocking," and she would have no social success.

"But, Mama," said the child — the ideas of her brother working in her soul — "why do I have to be a social success?"

"Why, Maggie May!" exclaimed the startled mother. Such a revolutionary idea had never before been voiced in her presence.

But Maggie May persisted; if a girl preferred to read books rather than to be a social success, why shouldn't she? Mama ex- plained, a little girl might think that books were all she wanted, but later she would discover that she had to have friends, and a husband and a home. She would have to go to parties and meet men, and ^please them

"But, Mama," said the child, "I don*t want to marry more than one, do I?"

"No, dear, let us hope not!"

"Then, why do I have to please so many?"

"Because, dear, you won't please one unless you please all. You

22 THE WET PARADE

see, it's not just any man that you want to marry ; it will be some particular man; the best one, I hope. And you will want him to want you; and the way to be sure of that is to have other men around, striving to win you away from him."

''Oh!" said the girl. "So that's why Lelia made them jealous?" "Not exactly that, dear ; but you have to let him know that other men consider you desirable. If you're queer and bookish, and different from everybody else, why then, men are apt to be afraid of you, and you'll be a wall-flower, what Ted calls a 'frost' — though I don't like this modern slang.'*

In the ordinary course of events, Maggie May would have studied dutifully those arts, whereby Lelia, under Mama's tutelage had managed to capture the wealthy and desirable Mr. Pakenham of New Orleans. But there was something else which claimed more and more of her time — Papa, and Papa's troubles. Even Mama could not deny that Papa must come first; and so the child was drawn away from the graces and vanities of this world, and became, mstead of a dazzling social success, a little brown mouse, gliding here and there about the house without anybody noticing her espe- cially—and all the time with strange things going on in her head, sprouts of ideas which had no place in the civilization of the deha, half Creole and half Cavalier, but would have been more suitable to Massachusetts, habitat of "blue-stockings" and "strong-minded women," who did not strive to make themselves agreeable to the menfolks, but presumed to set up standards of their own.

CHAPTER TWO ^ ^ THE "DEMON RUM

MAGGIE MAY could not have said at what age she first began to have unorthodox ideas on the subject of the drinking of Hquor. She Hved surrounded by the problem, taking in her impres- sions through the skin, as it were. There was Grandfather Chilcote, still alive, and laughing at his doctors and their warnings ; but no longer quite so heartily, because he was stopped by sudden twinges of gout, and laid up for spells with what the doctors said was his liver. There was Uncle Bernie, husband of one of the Chilcote daughters, who lived in New Orleans, and got drunk and shamed his wife in public, so that she had three times left him, and vowed she would never go back. There was old Mr. Waterman, who lived nearby, and came visiting ; he had a red and bulbous nose with purple veins in it, and used to laugh and say it wasn't blood, but the best Bourbon rye. One day he keeled over at his dinner-table, and was put to bed, and lay for a year or two with his face paralyzed — and the doctors said that also was the best Bourbon rye.

The drink problem, as Maggie May knew it, was confined to the men ; all that the women did was to worry. The child never knew of but one case of a woman's getting drunk, and that was a woman from the North. This incident happened when Maggie May was young, and the occasion was one of social eclat, one of those events which people look forward to for months and talk about for years afterward. There was a great public man — one so great that every- body talked about him, and the papers were full of his pictures. He had a daughter, whose position in fashionable society was that of a princess; in fact, the newspapers all referfed to her as "the Prin- ^cess," and when she travelled about the country, crowds rushed to stare at her and do her honor. Now she was coming to visit New Orleans, and the rumor went around that it had been decided to marry her to the heir of one of the oldest families and the richest, near neighbors of the Chilcotes. The appointment of the son to a high diplomatic post was understood to be part of this bargain.

23

24 THEWET PARADE

There was rush of preparation, and newspaper reporters coming to ask questions, and camera-men to take pictures of the homes which the Princess was to visit. She came to dine at the home of Grandfather Chilcote, and all the Chilcote daughters and the "in- law" ladies helped to prepare a banquet; Grandfather put his finest old wines on ice, and they all arrayed themselves in their newest raiment, and there came the Princess and the young man she was going to marry, in a grand big car. They sat at the table, with shining silver and hand-cut crystal and hand-embroidered linen and blue-ribbon roses, while Grandfather told about his wines, and the Princess tasted them and appreciated them ; she appreciated them so well that the servants had a hard time keeping her glass filled, and finally she told them to leave the bottle at her place. Before long she was having a perfectly glorious time ; when the butler brought her a silver dish full of steaming hot mushrooms with dark brown sauce, she took the dish from his hands and emptied it over the head of the young man she was expecting to marry !

So she did not marry him ; nor did she marry any other Southern gentleman. She left the house of her fiance's family next morning, and went to New Orleans, to another family which had invited her ; but this family did not ask anybody to meet her, and she had no escort to the Mardi Gras ball, and her name was spoken in whispers, as if she had turned out to be an illegitimate princess, or one with a black skin. If you mentioned her name to the Chilcote ladies, they would say, yes, she had been their guest; and then there would be icy silence — not another word on that subject ! Among the intimates of the young man who had been intending to marry her an ethical problem was gravely discussed: should he keep, or should he give up, that diplomatic post which had come to him as a "dot" ?

It was from this episode that little Maggie May derived her ideas about the North and its culture. When "reunion day" came round, and Grandfather Chilcote put on his faded grey uniform with the colonel's stripes, and rode in a parade in New Orleans, Maggie May knew what it was about; when she listened to orators celebrating the "lost cause," she understood their proud melancholy and disdain. There had been a war between one part of America where only the gentlemen got drunk, and another part where both gentlemen and ladies got drunk ; the latter had won, and so now fashionable society was presided over by a drunken "Princess."

THE *'DEMON RUM'' 25

II

As Maggie May grew older, and the family burdens became heavier, she found herself debating this question : Did anybody have to drink liquor? When she was fourteen, she took the problem to her mother. The conversation may sound naive to sophisticated moderns, but then, neither Maggie May nor her mother had ever heard of a "modern.'* They took life seriously, and were entirely unashamed of doing so.

"No, dear," said Mama, "I don't think anybody really needs to drink. It's that they like to."

"But some day they get to like it too much. So why should they begin?"

"Well, dear, I suppose each person thinks he won't become an addict."

"But so many do, Mama! Why don't people pour it all out, and never have any more of it in the world?"

"I don't know, child. I wish they would." It was so like poor kind and helpless Mrs. Chilcote ; just that much, and no more !

"What would happen, Mama, if you and I were to say we wouldn't drink any more?"

"Nothing very much, dear ; there are many people who don't care for it."

"Would it keep me from being a social success?"

"I'm afraid it would make it harder. People would feel that you were posing as superior, or something. I think it's better for a lady to take just a sip or two, as I do, and then it doesn't excite comment."

"Do you think I'd be as healthy. Mama, if I didn't drink my claret? Say if I had lemonade, or something like that?"

"I don't know, dear. Dr. Aloysius says you are underweight, and need nourishing."

"Well, I think I'll try an extra glass of milk. Mama, and see how I get along." Thus the bold adventurer, groping in the field of diet! "I'll just tell Moses about it, and maybe Papa won't notice it."

But Papa did notice it; Papa never missed anything that bore upon his weakness, and the attitude of his loved ones thereto. He msisted that his "little girl"— or his "Pie," or his "Bones," or his "Punkin" — needed her claret so that she would put on weight. But Maggie May insisted that she didn't like the taste of claret, she didn't like port any better, and was going to try fruit juice and an extra glass of milk; by quiet persistence she got her way. There

26 THE WET PARADE

was conversation about it at meal-times among relatives and guests. Grandmother Chilcote had been a teetotaler, but she had died rather young; some good red wine would have enriched her blood — so it was argued by a great uncle of one of the ''in-laws," who was over ninety, and had his toddy every morning. The general verdict was against rash experiments in the field of health.

But not long afterwards it happened that the husband of sister Lelia got into some sort of shooting scrape when he was drunk, and painfully wounded a bystander; if he hadn't been a "gentleman" he might have been sent to jail. So Maggie May had a new argument against drinking, and began to agitate with her two younger brothers. What right did Mr. Pakenham have to get himself into condition where he shot an innocent bystander?

Lee at this time was sixteen, a student in a military school not far away. He came home at week-ends, and told Maggie May about the boys climbing out of the windows of the barracks at night and going on "jags." The younger generation was drinking more than ever, it appeared ; in fact, everybody was drinking more, and nobody could figure out what to do about it. Maggie May had come upon a church paper in which the question was argued, and statistics were quoted, showing how in America the per capita consumption of alcohol was increasing every year. Fortified with this, she was able to impress her brother, a conscientious lad with a strong religious bent. There was a band of Methodist women, carrying on a crusade in the village, and Lee "signed the pledge," making almost a scandal among the Chilcotes.

With Roger junior it was, alas, a different story. He was just nineteen, a splendid young iconoclast, starting college. He had shot up to six feet, lean and inclined to stoop-shoulderedness, on account of having spent so much time "poring over books," as the family phrased it disapprovingly. He was near-sighted, and had to wear glasses, which gave him a scholarly aspect ; when he didn't have the ladies to look after him, he would forget to have his golden hair cut, until Papa said he would be taken for a "fiddler." In short, he was different from the pattern, and nobody could "make him out," and he gave them no help. He was going to college just to get away from home, he said, not because he expected to find things better there ; the college was a place of Philistinism. It was young Roger's way to use obscure words, without caring whether anybody under- stood them. Maggie May read about Philistines in the Bible, and

THE ^'DEMON RUM*' 27

knew they were giants, and that David had killed one with a sling- shot. But were there any in the South ?

Young Roger spurned the * 'water-wagon" as a means of convey- ance through life. He was going to lead a revolt, but under a dif- ferent banner. He spoke patronizingly of "little sister's" ability to judge the evils against which a man of superior culture should direct the arrows of his wit. Those old English novels which had shaped Young Roger's mind were full of robust and hilarious drinking. The country squires of Fielding, the naval officers of Smollett, the Irish rakes of Charles Lever had all been capable three-bottle men, or better; the old poetry-books were full of ''Anacreontics," or songs in praise of alcohol :

Fill up the bowl, then, fill it high, Fill all the glasses there ; for why Should every creature drink but I ; Why, man of morals, tell me why?

The woman of morals strove to tell her brother, but could not check his headstrong impulse. He belonged to a generation which was to register revolt against what it called ''Puritanism." Here and there, all over the country, a protest was starting in the hearts and minds of the young, a rage against the dullness, hypocrisy and materialism of American small-town life. Each rebel thought he was alone, but sooner or later he would find a fellow-malcontent; in every college would be half a dozen, an ill-assorted, seemingly impotent group. They would nourish themselves on little maga- zines ; they would drift to the cities, and start an imitation of the art-life of Paris; they would learn to write, or to draw, or to paint, or put on plays — and presently would burst into the limelight, and America would discover, to its dismay, that it had a new culture. If the young devotees of this culture got drunk, it was not so much for the pleasure it gave them, as for the pain it gave to their elders. It was a form of defiance, the easiest and the cheapest.

Ill

When Maggie May grew old enough to think about such matters, she began to realize that her father did not believe in the religion which the rest of their world accepted. The Reverend Mr. Cobbein would come and hold services in the chapel, and Papa would attend

28 THEWETPARADE

and politely listen while the doctrine was expounded ; but afterwards he would shake his head and say, no, it was impossible for any thinking man to believe that there was an all-loving and all-powerful Creator running this universe. If God had the power, and had deliberately made so much evil, then surely He was not kind. Papa would brood over the spectacle of human suffering until it seemed as if he was going into melancholia. So many dreadful things all about you — poisonous snakes and spiders, and still more poisonous desires in the hearts of men and women!

Especially he grieved over the "Negro problem." This mass of "semi-humanity" out of Africa — how were you going to tame it or lift it? Impossible to keep it at work without fear and force, a beating now and then, and yet more shocking punishments for cruel crimes. Black men would get whisky, in spite of all efforts to pre- vent it, and then they would fall to carving one another with razors ; women in jealous fury would mutilate their rivals or their unfaith- ful lovers; on the plantation one day a black woman, seeking to punish the father of her babies, put the babies into a barrel of feathers and set fire thereto. Contemplating such occurrences, Papa would decide to drink himself into oblivion. A vicious circle — one could not be sure whether he drank because he was unhappy, or was unhappy because he drank.

Then came the summer when the nations of Europe rushed into ■war. At first it was to Maggie May an event only half realized, a tale of "far-off, unhappy things." She never thought it would make any difference in her life— except that it distressed Papa. He would read the daily papers, and bow his head in his two hands and exclaim over the madness of mankind. The most incredible horror in the whole of history; and sooner or later America would be drawn into it — a prediction which seemed to his wife and daughter a fantasy cooked out of the fumes of alcohol.

But drunk or sober. Papa would go on bitterly upholding this dreadful idea to the other gentlemen ; and presently it developed that his oldest son had adopted the same opinion. Worse yet, Ted insisted that we mtist go in, it was the only way to "save civiliza- tion." He became so convinced in the course of a year, that he turned his plantation over to a manager, and went into a training-camp for officers. Maggie May heard her mother and father discussing this new catastrophe, and agreeing that Ted's unhappiness with his wife had much to do with the matter. Papa said that young people had their own way so much nowadays, and came to be so impatient and

THE ''DEMON RUM'' 29

self-willed, it was hard for any two of them to get along together. Maggie May, now fifteen years old, followed the war in the con- versation of the grown-ups. With Ted coming home in khaki, and Lee and several cousins in cadet uniforms, the place began to take on the aspect of a camp. Never had there been such activity of every sort in the South; for, strange as it might seem, destruction in one part of the world made prosperity in another. Sugar had to be fed to the fighting men; cotton had to be spun into khaki for them, and made into nitroglycerine to blow them to pieces, and then into bandages to hold them together. Everybody was speculating, the price of lands was leaping, and a daughter of the Chilcotes might have whatever she fancied: pure-blooded Arabian saddle-horses, or Kentucky thoroughbreds, if such happened to catch her father's eye ; the fanciest of sport-cars to dash about the country in ; blood- red rubies for her throat, or, suiting her quiet colors, a string of glowing pearls ; lovely dresses, all she had the patience to stand up and be fitted with. She might have everything, in short, but seren- ity, and respite from grief and fear!

IV

Roger Chilcote was like a man caught in a quicksand, being en- gulfed to his doom. Neither his own convulsive struggles, nor the prayers and tears of his wife and daughter, could have any effect upon his fate. He had come to the stage where pretenses were broken down, concealment impossible. He would go on a drinking- bout at the home of his manager, and the manager and his wife and servants could not control him, and would have to send for the old Colonel, or for one of Roger's brothers, or for ''Captain Ted." The time came when the manager was threatening to give up his post, because he would no longer endure the burden of a drunkard in his home; and this manager was a valuable man, who had saved Papa from ruin more than once.

One of the brothers would take the victim off to "Hot Springs," where the whisky would be boiled out of him, and he would be rtibbed and kneaded and exercised and fed, and sent back pale and subdued, full of new resolves and tendernesses. Mama had got to the point where social considerations no longer counted; she gave away the family stock of wine and brandy and whisky, and put Moses, the old steward, at other tasks, and ordained that everybody in her home should ride on the "water-wagon" from this time forth.

30 THEWET PARADE

But all too late! Papa could not live without his "toddies" and his "bracers" and his "nips." He would get the stuff from his cronies in the town, the evil men who wanted his money. He would sneak it in and drink it in his room, and wash the glass to hide the traces. The time came — ^the first time in their lives — when pretence failed between father and daughter. She could no longer pretend that she was ignorant of his shame. She fell on her knees before him, bursting into tears and pleading with him, "Please, please, Papa! Do not drink any more!" The disgraced father began sob- bing hysterically: "Oh, little girl, little girl, what can Papa do? I cannot give it up ! It is a fiend that has got me ! That my beloved child should know it! I can never look into her face again!" Mag- gie May had a hard time stopping him. He promised to "sign the pledge," and gave her the bottle he had under his pillow, and saw her empty it into the lavatory. "By God, if I'm not man enough to resist it, Fd better be dead and out of the way!"

For a month or two he kept his word, and when he broke it, he disappeared from home, unable to face his child. Ted had to come from the training-camp and find him, and take him away to what was called a "Keeley institute," a place to which Southern gentlemen flocked by thousands. You would hear it as a subject of discussion at dinner-tables, to what extent this "Keeley cure" was effective. The general opinion was that they would fix you so that you didn't have to drink again, unless you wanted to. But some sceptic would point out that this was the essence of the difficulty. Anybody could stop it if he wanted to; but how could he stop when he wanted a drink ?

Papa came back again, still paler — and more melancholy, because of the wound to his pride. There was no more joy and spontaneity left in him now — he was just an invalid who must stay at home with the women, and know that his position as master in the house- hold was gone. He must be forbidden the company of his cronies, and know that these outcasts were making jokes about his plight. He must pray to a god in which he did not believe, for pity which was not in the scheme of a blind, mechanical universe. What was it all about — this universe, with men like himself unable to control an appetite that destroyed them? God in heaven, what was it all about, with the whole of humanity rushing madly into the slaughter pit in Europe ! And all he could do was to sit at home — under sur- veillance— and play cards with his adolescent daughter !

THE *'DEMON RUM'' 31

A critical time in the life of Maggie May! Her character was being determined ; it was made certain that for the rest of her days she would be serious, anxious, and puzzled about the contradictions of life. As her tormented father was questioning the universe^ so also was his tormented child.

In her sensitive young mind one question persisted. "What can I do to-day to help him?" And this led to others — a train of them. What could she do to keep him at home? What would arouse his interest, his old-time fun and good fellowship ? How did one restore interest to a person who had lost it ? From what source did one get courage and resolve? Out of such questionings the religions have been born ; but Maggie May was too young to think up a new one, and the old ones would not do, because Papa rejected them — ^and whatever was not good for Papa was good for nothing.

Her only resource was love ; her duty, day and night, to make love effective. She learned from daily effort and experience that love must be wise; it must have the cunning of the serpent, of the en- chantress, the diplomat, the intriguer — all known varieties. Love must be patient, tireless, on duty day and night; but it must be camouflaged and dressed up — the nurse must wear the costume of Mardi Gras, the paint and powder of a comedienne.

There was nobody to help Maggie May. None of the other children would give that much time, or take that much trouble. You couldn't expect them to, because the older sister had a husband, and therefore troubles of her own, while the others were men, and had their valuable lives to live. Mama would do all she could, but unfor- tunately Mama wasn't mentally equal to the task. Maggie May would never have been undutiful enough to formulate the idea that Mama was inert; she just realized day by day that Mama didn't know what to do. Perhaps Mrs. Chilcote had had too much of it in her early married life; perhaps she had made the mistake of being too unhappy, and letting her unhappiness be seen. Anyhow, a man would not stand as much managing from his wife as from his favor- ite daughter.

t Love was strong, but it was not omnipotent. Its power was weak- ened by the fact that it was wielded by a mere woman, an inferior. Maggie May did not resent that status; she knew, of course, that she was less capable than Papa, she would never know all the things that he knew, never shine as he did, nor be able to entertain a com- pany in his splendid manner. She must make capital of that; restore

32 THEWET PARADE

to him the belief that they all depended upon him as the head of the family; make him think it was he who cheered her up, who taught her how to live, who furnished the animation, the courage, the dignity. What were the things Papa had liked to do ? Those must be the things Maggie May craved to excel in. What were the things he had liked to talk about ? She must ask a thousand questions on those subjects. In these efforts she acquired enough skill in intrigue to have kept an empire going.

Gentle brown eyes Maggie May had, and hair to match, and in this time of her blooming a rich coloring of cheeks and lips. She had a mischievous smile, and at the same time a kindness that never failed. She would not be a ball-room favorite, a beauty like her "big sister,*' but there would be boys of finer discernment to discover and adore her. They began now to gather, and there was the prob- lem of what to do with them. She was supposed to learn to be courted, in playful yet proper ways, not openly admitted until after she had made her debut. It was her mother's business to provide and oversee these occasions, and her father's to co-operate, with some teasing and mock- jealousy thrown in.

But here was a special case. Maggie May already had the respon- sibilities of playmate, friend, and mother to a man, and could not, or would not, be free of them. She must make Papa think she wasn't really interested in boys; she must overcome his idea that he was in the way, and was spoiling her pleasures. She would rather go motoring with him than with any boy in the delta. If the boy wanted to come along, all right, but let him find a way to be agree- able to Papa. If he wanted to come calling in the evening, let him join in the game of seven-up.

What were the suitors to make of it? She could not explain matters. She could not say : *T have to stay with my father, because otherwise he'll take a drink." But the boys made their guesses; they would be polite and considerate, and help to keep Roger Chil- cote thinking he was a member of the younger generation. They would agree to Maggie May's declaration that going to dances was silly; understanding that Maggie May could not go, because there was no way to keep her father from the punch-bowl, which every- body else in the room would be visiting.

THE ''DEMON RUM'' 33

VI

This home-keeping regime was successful for several months after Papa had taken the "Keeley cure." The family got a respite, and began to breathe more freely. The plantation was looked after, and a crop sold at the highest prices ever heard of, and the money put safely in bank.

The respfte served to tide them over the death of Grandpa Chil- cote, a time of strain. The old Colonel "passed on," full of years, and of honors, and the best Kentucky whisky. It had been the cause of his long life, he insisted to the end; and this was a problem Maggie May had to wrestle with. Some, apparently, could drink it and not be hurt by it, while others were made into fools and nervous wrecks. The phrase was, ''Some can carry it." Maggie May, look- ing about her, and putting this and that together, knew that Grandpa Chilcote was one of the few fortunate ones; he had set the example of what he called "good cheer," and others, trying to follow it, had been brought to misery. There were many families in the neighbor- hood, hiding a secret like Maggie May's, and nursing a victim of alcoholism; there were scores of men headed to ruin, and young fellows "sowing their wild oats" — storing up misery for women who would marry them, and children not yet brought into the world.

The old Colonel must have expected his whisky to keep him alive forever, for he made no will, and this was the cause of trouble in the family. The property was to be divided equally, they all agreed ; but it was difficult to tell what the land was worth, in such a time of rising markets, and they would not sell any of it, and admit strangers to Pointe Chilcote. Who was going to determine the value of objects of art and family heirlooms? Who would fix the price of a silver punch-ladle with the head of Queen Anne on it, or of a gold snuff-box which had been presented to a Chilcote by the French governor of Louisiana colony? There were "in-law" ladies who had set their hearts on this or that, and kept egging on their husbands to assert their rights.

Papa wanted to have nothing to do with "all this. As the oldest son, he had a claim upon the "big house" and its treasures, but he declared he would rather stay where he was than quarrel with his brothers and sisters. As the disputes became more sharp, poor Roger fell subject to fresh fits of melancholy. What was the use of living in a world in which even the best people were victims of greed? What did anybody want with worldly possessions, when

34 THE WET PARADE

civilization was throwing itself away? No, life was too cruel, too terrible to be lived ! So Maggie May would have to rack her brains, to think of something good to say about the human race. Danger- ous to let Papa be too sad — and equally dangerous to let him be too happy, for then he would remember his cronies, and the good times he used to have playing poker 1

In the summer and fall of 1916 there was a campaign for the re-election of Woodrow Wilson, who had ''kept us out of war," and promised to go on doing so. Papa thought this a service which deserved the support of every citizen. He felt the call especially, because of the activities of his oldest son, "Captain Ted," who was a full-fledged young militarist, drilling a company of the wealthy and fashionable at a summer encampment of the state militia, and scolding the pacifist president of his country to every one who would listen. Somebody had to counteract Ted's influence!

Papa had been active in politics when he was younger, and was now like a knight at the outset of a crusade. Not that there was any danger of the Republicans carrying the state of Louisiana; but there were border states, such as Kentucky and Tennessee, rated as uncertain, where a Southern orator might intervene with good effect. But Mama was thrown into hysterics by the idea. She knew that poHtics and liquor were two names for the same thing in America ; every convention was a debauch, and a man could not go stump- speaking without having drinks thrust under his nose in the hotel rooms where he stayed, the homes he visited, the banquets at which he spoke. Impossible to expect any "cure" to stand the strain of political life!

The ladies had to think up pretexts. Mama had to get a doctor to order her to the mountains of North Carolina for a month, and Maggie May had to be seized with a desire to understand Hume's "History of England," which she found among the books upstairs in the attic. They all lived in a panic, watching Papa's restless moods, realizing the new discontent which was gnawing his soul. Hurry, and think up some new diversion, charades for the young folks to act in, or a set of Italian bowling balls to be played with on the lawnl Or, if he could not play, let Maggie May devise some appeal for guidance from this wisest of mentors, some way to make him seem indispensable. She would have but a short time to put her wits to work — and then a long, long time to brood over her failure !

THE "DEMON RUM'* 35

VII

There developed an unappeasable quarrel between the wife of Daubney Chilcote, Papa^s youngest brother, and Gertrude, the oldest of Papa's sisters. Mrs. Daubney had got from the Colonel, before his death, a valuable set of antique china, the kind of thing which you keep in a glass cabinet, and never allow a servant to touch with- out "standing right over her." Mrs. Daubney claimed that the old gentleman had given her this set as a reward for the bearing of three children, an unusual performance for a modem lady; the gift had nothing to do with Daubney's inheritance, and the in-law lady was furious because Sister Gertrude insisted upon having it ap- praised, and the amount deducted. Both women kept insisting that Roger, as the oldest son, should decide the quarrel ; each would come and recite the offenses and character defects of the other, and after the interview Papa would be sunk in a pit of melancholy.

It was on one of these occasions that Mama came to Maggie May, wringing her hands, her face a picture of despair. ''Oh, what are we going to do? Oh, Papa is drinking again!" A Negro had brought the dreadful tidings. ''Master" was down at Tidball's, in the town, playing cards with Judge Stuart and Colonel Jonas, a group of his cronies, and he had a bottle in front of him, and was pouring it out for himself. So Maggie May — then just seventeen — must jump into her new runabout, with a servant to ride in the rumble seat, and race into town.

The servant went into the place and summoned Papa; but he refused to come out. He sent word that he "had to see a man" — an excuse so familiar to the girl that it hardly had any meaning at all. She was so desperate that she broke the rules of young lady- hood, and went into that place, a general store with a room in back where liquor was served, and where the proprietor, a Yankee from the North, sat and won money from men after he had got them half drunk. Papa got up, horrified that his child should come where men were drinking and gambling; he could not look her in the eye, and mumbled his words. He told her, no, 'he could not go home, \}e had a very important business matter to transact with a man who was coming to town to see him, and Maggie May must not wait for him. When she tried to plead, he commanded her to leave.

She ought not to have obeyed him — so she decided later. She ought to have made him come at any cost — even if she had to fling her arms about him and burst into tears. In spite of any humilia-

36 THE WET PARADE

tion, she should have got him out of that place. But there was the training of her lifetime; it would be easier for a lady to die than to humiliate herself and her father before their social inferiors. To express intense emotion before outsiders — as if one were a shouting Methodist, kneeling in the gutter and praying for lost souls !

Maggie May drove back, sobbing all the way. And then what were they to do? She telephoned to Ted, but he had his military duties, it was the day of a grand review, upon which the safety of the country depended. She telephoned to Lee, her youngest brother, but he was off on a fishing-party somewhere out in the Gulf of Mexico. There was only Young Roger, who was hiding in New Orleans, writing a book of poems. It was hours before Maggie May could get hold of him, and he promised to come on the first train; but when he arrived, it was to learn that Tidball had taken his father, and had him hid, nobody knew where.

The son got two of his uncles to help, and they traced the pair to New Orleans, and inquired at all the hotels and clubs, but could not find them. It was ten days before they succeeded, and then only with the help of the police and the banks — because somebody tried to cash a check signed by Roger Chilcote, after his account had been brought below zero. Papa had been half drunk the whole time, playing poker some twenty hours out of twenty- four, trying to win back the money which he had lost to various men, some of them professional gamblers.

He had overdrawn his account in every bank where he kept money, both in New Orleans and at home — and not merely his own funds, but those which he controlled as trustee of his father's estate. Realizing the plight in which this placed him, he had tried to win back the money by putting mortgages on his plantations, one after another, and these he had actually signed before a notary, and they had been recorded at the county court-house. As if to make a com- plete job of it, he had written "I.O.U.'s" for one or two hundred thousand dollars which he didn't own anywhere. Such was the way of a high-spirited Southern gentleman when his sporting instincts were muddled up with his drinking!

VIII

They put Papa in a hospital, where he could be restrained by force, and had a man watching him, every moment of the day and night. Mama and Maggie May came up to New Orleans and visited

THE ^'DEMON RUM" 37

him — a painful experience in a girl's life. Papa's usually rosy face was the color of a lump of putty, and he could not look his loved ones in the eyes. He was dressed in pajamas, but could not stay in bed ; he would stray about the room, and when he sat down, his hands would be running here and there, like mice. "Oh, my daugh- ter," he whispered, "I am in hell!" He had been having what the attendants called "the D.T.'s," and was now being "tapered off."

A time when love was called for, and after the fashion of love, it answered. Maggie May caught his hands, and poured out her soul. They needed him, they could not get along without him. She would come and stay here all day long; they would suffer it out together, and in the end they would be happy again. At first Papa would only repeat that he was a lost soul. He would weep and moan, and grovel with shame ; he had ruined them all

"No, no!" the girl would cry. "No, Papa, the money doesn't matter, so long as we have you. All you have to do is to make up your mind not to drink any more, and everything will be all right !"

She won him to the idea of a new start. He would go into ecsta- sies of resolve, swearing by all the sacred things in which he did not believe. Every kind of emotion, to help him over that terrible period of "tapering off," the getting of the poisons out of his sys- tem! They would give him doses of other drugs, hypodermics to make him sleep, and when he woke up, several cups of strong black coffee, and big black cigars, and quantities of purgatives, and now and then a little milk, when he could be got to retain it. Maggie May would sit and read to him — but he could not listen for more than a few minutes. He would have to hold her hand, and talk about himself, his new resolves, the mighty efforts he was going to make — ^but none greater than right now, just to endure his suffer- ings, which were beyond description.

The men of the family were holding business consultations. There was nothing they could do but pay the gambling debts, for that was a matter of honor among Southern gentlemen. They would stand by Papa, but they would have to put him "in pawn, as it were; he ^would have to agree never to play cards for money again, and there would have to be an attendant for a while to see that he kept the promise. Also, the plantations would be in pawn; the manager would run them, and the brothers would handle the money, and Papa would have an allowance. With the high prices prevailing, the family would be all right again in the end. Papa agreed to

38 THEWET PARADE

everything — ^yes, he was unfit to have money, he was a disgrace to the proud name of Chilcote, he was unfit to Hve !

For two weeks the hospital regime continued, and then they took him home — to a hospital run by Mama and Maggie May. There were two men attendants, unobtrusive, and keeping out of conver- sational range, but never out of sight : a shame which Papa endured with never a word of protest. If he was left unoccupied, he would sit for hours brooding, with only the straying hands to reveal the state of his nerves. But Maggie May hardly ever left him unoccu- pied; she would be at hand with books, music, games — harmless seven-up, which they played for fun, not the dreadful devastating poker. She would take Papa driving, and they would call on friends, sitting on the gallery, so that the attendant might keep in sight without calling attention to himself. Everybody knew what he was doing, but everybody pretended not to know, and Papa also pretended.

But there were hours in the night when he could not sleep, and would lie brooding. There were hours in the day when he would pretend to be asleep, just so that he might eat himself up with brood- ing. Was it that he did not believe in the game of family love he was playing? Was it that he did not believe in any part of the life he lived? Maggie May used to wonder, in the long years that she had to look back upon this stage of her life. Was it that Papa was in the wrong environment? Was he meant to be some sort of hero, a great political leader, or soldier in a war of liberation; that he had energies locked up in him which he had no way to use, and so he chafed himself to death? That might be true of all the fine and brave and beautiful men whom she watched going to their doom with liquor. Something was wrong with the times, that such men did not have adequate ways of self-expression.

IX

Some time during the night the attendant fell asleep; and Papa rose, and slipped in his stockinged feet into the bathroom, and there took a safety razor blade, and stole silently out of the room. He was considerate, as ever; he did not want to desecrate the house which his loved ones occupied, so he went out of doors. Perhaps he thought with a shudder of the half -wild hogs which now and then came out of the swamps and rooted up the lawn under the oak trees. He went into the dairy-house, a low building of white-

THE ''DEMON RUM'' 39

washed bricks, having a stone floor inside, easy to clean. He closed the door behind him and sat down in the darkness, and carefully and neatly sliced into the arteries, first of one wrist and then the other; making lengthwise cuts, so as not to sever the cords in the wrist, which would have made it impossible to operate on the other wrist. To make doubly sure, he took a deep slash into one of the blood-vessels of his neck; after which he lay with head and wrists considerately placed over a drain. No doubt he brooded upon his sins and failures, until he fell asleep — this time without the help of drugs.

Maggie May was awakened by a tapping upon her door, just at daylight. It was the attendant, who had awakened and discovered his patient gone. The girl sprang up, and got into her dressing- gown and started towards the door, when she heard a shriek from one of the Negro women outside. She guessed what it meant, and rushed downstairs. By that time the women in the kitchen and outside were screaming, but none could say the dreadful thing they had seen. *Tn de dairy-house!" — ^that was all, and then, "Oh, Miss Maggie May! Oh, Miss Maggie May!" When she got to the dairy-house, there was just light enough to see her father stretched out upon his face, and the long stream of what she knew was blood. She ran to him, and needed only to touch his face to realize that he was dead ; it was as cold as everything else in the place.

Something rose up inside the girl, something convulsive, cata- clysmal ; she wanted to give way and shriek, like the Negro women who were crowding behind her. But instantly came her training: "No, no! I'll have to help Mama!" She would always have to help somebody, doing things that others were not strong enough to do. She turned, and started to command the Negro women to be silent. But it was too late, they were yelling all over the place, and some could not forego the excitement of running to Mrs. Chilcote.

A minute or two later the mother came, with hair streaming, and not even her stockings on — an unthinkable, almost unmentionable thing in connection with a Southern lady. She behaved just as Maggie May had foreseen — ^throwing herself upon the body, emit- ^ting a series of harrowing cries. She turned it over, turned the pitiful face up, ghastly white where it was not bloody, and soiled with dirt from the floor. She began shaking him, crying to him to answer her: "Roger! Roger! Speak to me! Roger, what have you done?"

The girl had to intervene. "He's dead. Mama."

40 THEWET PARADE

The mother's eyes stared at her for an instant. "Dead?" She burst into sobbing, and threw herself down and began kissing the face, covered with clotted blood — ^kissing it on cheeks, lips, and glassy, lifeless eyes. The Negro women, who wanted only the ex- ample of a white person to set them oflf, were tearing their hair, one or two of them falling down and rolling in convulsions, as they were accustomed to do at "revivals."

That mustn't go on, of course; the white people had to keep their self-mastery, in order to rule the blacks. Again and again the girl had to fight back impulses of hysteria, and take command of the situation. "No, Mama, you mustn't behave like that! Listen, Mama!" She had to pull the frantic woman from the body; she had to grasp her, and speak commandingly. "Listen, Mama ! Papa is all right ! He has got away from his sufferings !" The idea came to her all at once, like a burst of light in her mind. Papa wasn't having any more pain !

But this consolation was not for a Southern lady of the old school. Mrs. Chilcote stared at her daughter for an instant with horrible, seeming-insane eyes, and then screamed: "He's in hell! Oh! My poor Roger has gone to hell !'*

Maggie May had overlooked that view of the matter. Most people believed in hell, but Papa had not believed, and his daughter, without realizing it, had come to assume that he was right. But not Mama. She knelt on the bloody stone fioor of the dairy-house, her hands stretched up to a stern Arbiter in the sky. "Oh, God, save my poor Roger ! Oh, Christ, have mercy on him ! Oh, Jesus, don't send my Roger to hell !" The Negroes, having doubt about the genuine sulphur and brimstone, were on their knees shouting in a futuristic chorus : "Lord Jesus, save us ! Lord Jesus, save po' Massa Roger!'*

So Maggie May had to take charge of things, with not a moment to spare for grief. She had to order the attendant to go and 'phone to the doctor, and then to the other members of the family at their homes. She had to send one of the Negro men for the manager of the plantation, put this man in charge, have the wailing chorus driven out, and get her mother separated from the body — no easy task. She had to see that pails of water were brought, and the poor dead face washed clean of blood and dirt, and the gaping empty wounds in wrists and neck bound with cloths, and a suit of fresh pajamas put on the body. All this was wrong from the point of view of the law, for the body should have been left undisturbed

THE '*DEMON RUM'' 41

until the coroner had examined it; but the law on Pointe Chilcote then was the will of a seventeen-year-old girl.

After the body had been laid on the bed in Papa's room, Maggie May had to go back to her mother, now surrounded by sisters-in- law and nieces, and strive once more to remove from the distracted mind the cruel image of her husband burning in fires of brimstone and sulphur. Oh, all the things that she might have done for that poor man! All the words of love she had failed to speak! All the wrongs she had committed, the impatience with his weakness — she had even threatened to leave him several times, and now, of course, it came back to torture her memory ; the angry words turned to fire, and burned her soul, and she was the one who was in hell !

All that day Maggie May went about, never resting, and most of the night she sat by her mother's bedside, pleading, whispering words of comfort. That went on until after the funeral, with no time to indulge in tears. She had to keep holding the magical thought before her, that Papa had escaped; wherever he was, he wasn't drinking any more, he wasn't suffering the craving for drink. She even thought — a fleeting idea that she would not harbor, be- cause it seemed so dreadful — that maybe Papa had taken the best way out of his troubles. Only one thing must really have hurt him — the vision of his loved ones finding his dead body, and getting such an awful shock!

Maggie May got this shock, even though she did not show the effects. The way she **bore up" was a marvel to the members of the family; but all the time deep scars were being graven in her soul, and the time would come when these would show, in actions and points of view difficult for the others to understand. Maggie May Chilcote was going to be, in her own quiet way, that unpleasant thing known to her family as a "strong-minded woman" !

CHAPTER THREE ^ TARLETOTi HOUSE

I

TT WAS the afternoon of a warm day in October, and a shaft of -L pale sunshine lay upon the old brownstone houses on the north side of the street; one of those old residence streets in the west twenties of Manhattan, half-way through the process of being crowded out by business. Across the way was an office building, next to that an Italian restaurant, next to that a wholesale stocking establishment, and on the corner a jewelry store; but on the north side was still a row of half a dozen old-fashioned "brownstone fronts,'^*^and three of these, joined together, comprised "the Tarleton House," a boarding place which chose to be known as a "family hotel." It has no sign in front, and took no part in vulgar competi- tion for trade ; content to remain what it had been for thirty years, 'a high class establishment catering to an exclusive clientele," mainly from the states south of Mason and Dixon's line.

In the waning sunshine on the front steps sat two young men talking in the low, soft voices of Southerners. They were not troubled by the haze of dust and fumes of motor-cars, the occasional squealing of brakes and honk of horns; they were absorbed in the elucidating of a fascinating subject, the significance of imagist poetry. Jerry Tyler, who was twenty-one, was condescending to explain it to Kip Tarleton, who was eighteen. "They strive for a sharp, cutting edge. They want to get away from hazy emotions and get their effects in clear-cut images, cold and bright."

"What I can't make out," said the younger, "is how thev tell where to divide the lines."

Jerry explained patiently that the rhythm of the new poetry was not fixed in advance; it was determined by the content, and changed with the moods the poet was trying to express.

"I guess it changes too fast for me," said the other, humbly 'T never had anybody to explain it to me, and what poetry I've read is the sort that has rhymes, and anybody can recognize."

42

TARLETON HOUSE 43

"You like to hear the bell ring —

"Keeping time, keeping time, In a sort of runic rhyme/'

**Gee, don't you like that?" queried Kip, naively.

*lt's all right, only we know it too well," replied Jerry.

Kip Tarleton sighed. *1 wish I could have got to go to college, and had such things explained to me."

*'Is it too late yet?"

"Too late ? Well, you can see how it is. Tm stuck here, it looks like it was for life. Father isn't a good business man, and mother and Aunt Sue work harder than any two women ought." He turned and glanced through the open doorway of the house, to see if any- body was seeking the services of clerk, porter, bell-boy, trouble- shooter or shock-absorber.

"Some day you'll get a chance and break away," said Jerry, firmly. "Where there's a will there's a way."

"I think about it, naturally, but I can't figure how. It might be different if I had talent, like you." Kip gazed at his companion, exhibiting a talent for admiration of which he was wholly unaware. *To come up to New York, fresh out of college, and get a job on a big daily — how did you manage it?"

"Mostly luck," said the lucky one. 'The chap who taught me literature at Tulane had come to New York, and he happened to know a city editor, and got us together for lunch. So you see, I had a chance to speak for myself, and to shove in some stuff."

"Yes, but it wouldn't have helped unless the stuff was good," insisted the hero-worshipper. He rose. "There's somebody at the desk; excuse me."

II

It was old Mrs. Cardozo, who had come from Tennessee, and occupied with her husband the third floor back in number 2)7. She ^had just received her weekly bill, and had waddled down the two flights of stairs to explain to Kip that the item of $1.84 which had been paid on a C.O.D. package was an error; it should have been $1.64. Did not Kip remember how she had asked him to take care of that package when it came for her? Kip remembered; but the charge on the package had been $1.84; he would look up the slip

44 THE WET PARADE

for her. While he was looking, the old lady was declaring in a querulous voice that it was positively $1.64, she remembered what the clerk at the store had said, it had been reduced from $2.50; it was a blue Japanese vase that she had wanted to send to her daugh- ter in Nashville for a birthday present, and the clerk had said to her

Kip found the slip, which read $1.84. "Then the store has over- charged me!" insisted the monotonous old voice. **I wish you had refused to pay the bill. Don't you remember that I told you the proper amount?"

Kip answered patiently that unfortunately he didn't remember, but that if Mrs. Cardozo would make complaint to the store, they would no doubt pay her the twenty cents. He wondered if it was up to him to offer to make up the loss out of his own pocket; any- how, he had to be polite, so he listened while the old lady went over the story again : it was a blue Japanese vase that she had wanted to send to her daughter in Nashville for a birthday present, and she would have been sorry to have the package sent back, because there had barely been time enough to get it into the mail. But the item of $1.84 was certainly an overcharge, because when she had bought it, the clerk had said

Again Kip remarked politely that no doubt the store would rectify the error. No doubt Mrs. Cardozo would be going back there again. **Never!" she broke in, emphatically. "I wouldn't deal with a place which sold me a vase for $1.64, and collected $1.84 when I hap- pened not to be at home." She started for the third time to tell how positive she was of what the clerk had said at the time of the purchase. Kip must not show impatience, because Judge Cardozo and his wife had been living at the Tarleton House longer than he had been living on earth; the old gentleman's father had been a supreme court judge in Tennessee, while the old lady's father had been a colonel on the staff of General Lee. There was no "better blood" in the South than that which ran in the veins of the Cardozos.

She started for the fourth time : "The clerk said to me "

But now Kip's patience was beginning to weaken. "I'm sure the store will refund it, Mrs. Cardozo. But if you feel that it's my error, of course I'll be willing to stand the loss."

The old lady's face softened. "Oh, no, Kip, I wouldn't think of that; but it makes me indignant that a big store should do such a thing. They ought to be above it. But it's not your fault. Kip."

Yes, she was a kind old lady; but also she was poor, and had

TARLETON HOUSE 45

to watch every penny; the only reason she could afford to buy a vase for her daughter was that the daughter sent her an allowance Kip knew that, as he knew nearly everything about the financial affairs of everybody in the Tarleton House; sooner or later they eot behind with their board-money, and had to explain matters to his mother or his Aunt Sue. '^udge" Cardozo— it was a courtesy title— had some sort of insurance agency, and was hardly able to pay for desk-room, and of late had to get along without a stenog- rapher.

Yet they were people of distinction, with especially good manners, and especially good blood ! It was a problem you were always con- fronting, in conducting a "family hotel." Those who had manners and blood were seldom those who had money; and you were driven, by the pressure of everyday needs, to appreciate those who were able to pay their weekly bills without argument and without delay. Mr. Marin, who came from Spain, and was in the business of im- porting cheeses, was stout, and wore colored waistcoats, and laughed loudly, and blew his nose at the dinner-table ; but he occupied the second floor front in number 37, and paid thirty dollars a week every Saturday night without fail; so it was hard not to respect the

cheese business. j t^- t i

Thus it was that people's souls were made sordid; and lup larie- ton wondered how his frail and sensitive mother was able to stand it. Alwavs having to worry and fret, to watch people, and judge the state of their pocket-books, and squeeze money out of them— that had been her life, and his also — ever since he could remember. His mxother and father had taken over the Tarleton House when he was seven, and he had been present at all the family councils, and early developed the feeling of having to help carry the burden. But always at the same time his mother had given him the idea that he was a Southern gentleman, and must not let himself be demoralized bv living among the Yankees. ^ The South itself was being demoralized, he heard people saying. The Yankees were moving in, and setting up factories and offices, and people were speculating, and scrambling for riches, and getting ^the psychology of the vulgar rich. But whatever might happen, there would be one oasis of gentility left, this '^family hotel" in the west twenties of Manhattan. Here the rent would always be col- lected with politeness, and you would hear about chivalry, and the superiority of Southern cooking, and who had been who south of Mason and Dixon's line. There would still be fried mush with

46 THEWET PARADE

the chicken, and hot bread three times every day, and no such abom- ination as sugar in corn-bread. Here every gentleman would listen politely to what any lady had to say, even if she had said it three times already.

Ill

Jerry Tyler, of the staff of the New York "World,'' sat on the steps and finished his cigarette, listening vaguely to the conversation inside, and frowning impatiently. Lord, how much time these old Southerners had! Poor as she was, Mrs. Cardozo had nothing to do. And what a life for that poor kid! How did he manage to keep his temper, listening to complaints of old ladies whose fathers had been on the staff of General Lee ? Jerry's own job was a bore, for they had put him on the obituary column, and he spent his time collecting data and writing up obscure careers. But at least he got a chance to move about !

Jerry was a reconstructed Southerner, who was teaching himself to say his vowels quickly, and to pronounce the letter "r." Lean and brisk, and full of determination, he walked about the streets of Manhattan, and while he asked questions as to recently deceased inhabitants, his sharp black eyes were roaming in a search for what he called ''material." His mind was made up that he was not going to stay in newspaper work ; he was going to achieve the feat known as "breaking into the magazines." There was a certain predatory aspect to his glance, under a pair of beetling, dark brows. Let him find his meat, and he would pounce upon it !

Old Mrs. Cardozo went upstairs, and Kip came out and resumed his seat on the broad top step, and his naive questions about the writing game. He was deeply respectful toward Jerry's vocation, and the older man found his admiration as pleasant as the October sunshine. He told himself that his affection for the youngster was based on pity; it was a shame for a fellow to be tied down to such a grind, a sort of general handy man in this old chicken-coop full of antiquated and broken-down aristocrats. But the fact was that Kip served as a shock-absorber for Jerry, as he did for all the other inmates of the Tarleton House. Kip could always be counted upon as an interested and admiring listener to comments upon the literary game, and to Jerry's plans for a part in it. If things went wrong. Kip would be sympathetic, as he had been to Mrs. Cardozo. When he heard about people's troubles — as he did every day of his life —

TARLETON HOUSE 47

his forehead would pucker into a frown, the wrinkles, oddly enough, running horizontally. The shrewd Jerry recalled this as a charac- teristic of the monkey tribe, and entered the item in his mental note- book as a lively bit of description.

"Devilish job you have," he commented.

"I suppose it seems so," replied Kip.

*'Seems to me you'd have murdered some of 'em."

"No, they are mostly kind-hearted, and honest. When things go wrong, it usually isn't their fault."

"Not if you believe what they tell you," observed Jerry, in the reconstructed, modern manner. During his six months' sojourn in the Tarleton House, he had many times speculated upon the value of this collection of obsolete Southerners as "copy." But he had decided that they wouldn't do ; they were not really people, they were ghosts, living in a dead past ; and Jerry was a modern.

That was the trouble with Jerry, as he diagnosed himself ; he was apt to decide against too many subjects. He had the ability to see quickly through the shams and pretenses of things ; after which, he was merely bored with them. That was why he had been so deter- mined to get away from Louisiana, where he had been born; the old stuff — ^the "chivalry" and "aristocracy" — had long since de- cayed; while the "new South," the world of "progress" and "boost- ing," was as disgusting as the same kind of tripe in the North. During his college days at Tulane, Jerry had decided that college also was "the bunk" ; culture, as they ladled it out to you in courses, whether in the North or in the South, was beneath the contempt of a true lover of belles lettres.

"The trouble is, my critical faculties are overdeveloped." Jerry was thinking out loud for the benefit of his young friend. "What I'm destined for is some kind of desk job on a magazine."

"Don't they pay well ?" inquired Kip — who understood but vaguely the higher aspects of the literary life.

"Yes, some of them; but the trouble is, you read other people's writings, instead of creating things of your own. I watch myself — I start to feel an emotion, and in the middle it's checked by some kind of literary thought : what does this mean, what's the value of it, how would it sound in a book, and so on. Take this place, for example" — Jerry nodded his head towards the inside of the Tarleton House. "You've lived here most of your life, so you take it as a matter of course, I come along, and it's new to me — ^this cage full of decayed Southern gentlefolk transported to Yankeeland, and try-

48 THE WET PARADE

ing to keep their gentility alive. They are like a lot of queer birds from the tropics, suddenly alighted in an Arctic landscape, and struggling to survive. So many pretenses, maladjustments, come- dies, tragedies—Lord, Kip, if a Balzac were to come along and spend a few months in this aviary, you'd have a novel that would set fire to the town."

*'Yes, I suppose so,'' admitted Kip, somewhat dubiously; he could not avoid thinking of certain distressing secrets, and the effect of publicity upon the financial affairs of his mother and father and Aunt Sue.

*'But here I am," continued Jerry, "and all I get is the boredom of the damn thmg. I think: Good God, if I had to listen to old Mrs. What's-her-name trying to get twenty cents off her bill ! I hate the old lady, when I ought to be studying her. So it is that some day you 11 see me sitting at a desk, self-assured and impressive, telling younger writers what's the matter with their stuff."

"There have to be editors," said Kip, consolingly. Jl^^^u^^^^ *^ create!" exclaimed the other. After a pause, he added : Roger says I can be his editor. And that'll be a real job At least I won't be bored." '

There was a pause, while Jerry's mind started onto a new line

of thought, familiar to Kip. Jerry could seldom talk about modern

literature without mentioning the name of his friend Roger Chilcote

There's the poet that's got the real stuff! The sure-enough ele-

^^ft^Kl?^^}^^' ^^^^ "^y ^'^''^' ^°^^^ ^s &o^"g to knock them cold ! Watch the newspapers— you'll see him make the front page !" Roger Chilcote had been Jerry's chum at Tulane University These two had "bucked" the solid phalanx of Philistinism that was called education in Louisiana. "Rodge" had edited a monthly lit- erary magazine, which had climbed defiantly to the apex of "high- brow" art, and had been so tolerant of unconventionality that one issue had been suppressed before it saw the light of day. Now Rodge" was buried somewhere down on the Gulf Coast, writing a slender volume that was to give a new direction to American poetry. When a letter came from him, Jerry would read passages aloud, and Kip would listen with admiration written all over his serious young face. If there were samples of the poetry enclosed he would offer to copy them on the office typewriter, and would sit for a long time with the queer, horizontal wrinkles in his brow trying to figure out what the poet meant by that singular juxta- position of words, and where could be the rhythm which seemed to

TARLETON HOUSE 49

change before it got started. But it must be something wonderful to awaken such enthusiasm in the sceptical Jerry Tyler. ''Oh, boy! Isn't that hot stuff? Won't that knock them cold?"

IV

The conversation was interrupted by a gentleman arriving from the street. He was fifty years of age, broad-shouldered, florid, with hair dyed black ; dressed in an ostentatious manner, and carrying a silver-headed cane with easy gestures. When he saw them, he waved the cane, and exhibited two rows of shining white teeth beneath a pair of black mustaches, also dyed, and worn in the gen- erous style of his forefathers. "Good afternoon, Mr. Tyler. Good

afternoon, son." ^ r ^ ur -i i. . i »» tt

It was Powhatan Tarleton, proprietor of the family hotel. He had been walking with an abstracted manner and worried expression of the face; but the moment he saw ''company," he threw back his chest and began to radiate geniality. "What has happened to the New York 'World'?" he demanded, on his way up the steps of brownstone which led to the front door.

^'Wednesday is my day off," explained the reporter.

"Ah young man, I knew there was something wrong with the quality of the 'World' on Thursdays!" "Pow" Tarleton put such a wealth of good-fellowship into everything he said, you felt that you were the one person in the world who inspired him to real gaiety. Impossible not to respond to his cordiality !

"Mr Tyler, I realize what a strain the literary life puts upon the nervous system. I once had the honor of knowing intimately the editor of our leading daily paper in Richmond, and he assured me that every editorial in that publication represented an expenditure of not less than a quart of the best Monongahela rye."

"That would sound conservative in a modern newspaper office, Mr. Tarleton." _ ,

"Well sir!"— the coal black eyes of Pow Tarleton began to ^

sparkle as if a fire had been lighted behind them— "Well, sir, I have

' in my locker just about two quarts of some old Kentucky Bourbon,

that I get from a friend in the blue grass country, and if you 11 just

step back to my room " -i u ^ *

"Thank you, sir," broke in the other, returning the smile, but at the same time stealing a look out of a corner of his eye at the sombre

50

THE WET PARADE

face of Kip. "Thank you, sir, but my doctor has forbidden me to indulge before dmner-time."

"My dear boy! You trust these Yankee doctors, that feed you on gruel and slops! Take my word for it, this stuff of mine wiU put the hair on your chest! Look at me, look at me, sir!"_here Pow smote the top button of his silk-braided waistcoat. "Youne man, I ve got the pelt of a bear under here! If I hadn't been born into one of the old families of Richmond, I could have earned my hving in the side-show of a circus-the wild man from Borneo who^bends railroad iron over his knee and bites nails with his naked

lJ'k^ "^"^'^' .''"* "^^t.^'th the proper enthusiasm; and one who had been born m Virginia, no matter how "wild" he might be

"W^-Z" U^I''''T\''' T"^!" ^^' charms were not apprfciated Wei , he sighed, "if I can't find companionship, I must take mv consolation alone. I leave you to your literary themes wSch 7c so far above my uncultivated head "

AhJl^hT flourish of the silver-headed cane. Pow went inside. After he had entered his private room in the rear of the office tt7 ^^^//''^"<^«;"nt'l. Jerry remarked, "There's a characterali ready-made for our American Balzac "

readingTarbri..'^'' ""'''' "''"' '"'' ^^"'^"'^ -P-' - *- -Joy ;mere does he get his Kentucky Bourbon, Kip?" Uh at Sandkuhl's, round the corner. He keeps a bottle with

miX if ',/tP°"'' ' ^''°"'- ^ ^''"'* '^' t« t^" °n him, but ^ou ^xT T."^ ' ^"°'^' '" "^^^^ >"^"'''e ever tempted. ^

is fa^tigTanThor °" '*'" '''' J^^^" "^^^'^ ^^ ^^^ pace sta^ed^in'Smonti^.^ ''''''" '''" ^'P" "' ^PP^ '^ -d

b„i''^'"' T'" '^'"^ ^^"y- '"^^^y '^°"'* g^^^'« it down in one gulp but they have more time, so the net result is the same. Don't take it so hard, kid; you can't help your father "

mothe^r"""^' ^ ^^"^ '' "P ^ '°"^ *™^ ^S°- ^'"^ t^-^'"? to help my

Kip's friendly blue-grey eyes had grown dark with pain and

there seemed almost to be tears in them. Said Jerry: "Don't 'let" t

fSi/° He'' '"'I '""Af ^ ^' ''r' *^ y°"- He makes himse agreeable. He s part of the atmosphere of this institution "

Oh, sure, I know that. He's what they're used to; most of them

TARLETON HOUSE 31

think he*s distinguished. But I can't see anything to admire in the business of being good-natured and generous with your last penny, and leaving the worrying and saving to your wife. I often wonder why Mother doesn't drive him out. But women are funny. She lays down the law to him, but she won't allow one word of criticism of him from any one else. She even defends him to me ; she explains that his pride was so hurt when he failed in Wall Street that he took to drinking for consolation. She actually blames the drink instead of blaming him for giving in to it."

"Some women are cut out for martyrdom," said Jerry; "and some women's sons, also."

"Well, shucks, when things have to be done, somebody has to do them, that's all."

"There's a sapient personage that writes a column in this rag of ours" — ^Jerry waved a copy of the "World," which he had rolled up like a club for purposes of gesticulation. "I'm told he consumes a good deal more than a quart for each paragraph; and he tells us this morning that responsibilities are what shape the characters of men ; the overcoming of early difficulties made all the great leaders of history."

"I know," said Pow Tarleton's only son. "I wish I had that guy, to put him on the desk and let him answer complaints and carry ice water, while I finish typing those new poems of Roger Chilcote."

Kip Tarleton would not have talked thus frankly about his father to other persons. But youth as well as age craves someone to confide in; and Jerry was the only one in the hotel of suitable age and mentality. He came from south of Mason and Dixon's line, so he already knew Pow's type ; the "professional Southerner," full of large, expansive phrases, of noble ideals derived from a vanished past, and wholly out of relation to a despised present; generous with things he did not earn, and even with those he did not own; a gambler and "game sport," free with whisky as with words ; the soul of gallantry to ladies, and of bonhomie to men; delightful to those who had only to listen to him, and did not expect any real service or effort.

Moreover, there wasn't much use trying to hide your troubles in the Tarleton House, where the busy tongues of gossip saw to it

52 THE WET PARADE

that everybody knew everything before the day's sun had faded. Three years ago, after Pow had disappeared on one of his pro- tracted "sprees," it had been necessary for his wife to interview each and every boarder, informing him or her that Mrs. Tarleton was the true proprietor and manager of the estabhshment, and that all money was to be paid to her, and none to her husband. There- after, the husband could get only the allowance she made him, plus what he could bluff out of others.

The Tarleton family had come to New York soon after Kip's birth, and Pow's social charm had been rented out to a Wall Street bond broker, a business at which he made a success. But unfor- tunately he could not resist the lure of the market ; he was a born *'sucker," because of his conviction that he knew everything, and that his Virginia ancestry made him proof against the snares of despised Yankees. He was quickly "cleaned out," and thereafter the little family had to exist upon a slender patrimony belonging to the wife, and rigidly held on to.

The boarding-house had at that time been conducted by another man, who was old, and took Mrs. Tarleton as his assistant, in return for the family's board. When he died, she invested her belongings in the furnishings, good will, and lease of the establish- ment; and so Kip's destiny was laid out for him: to grow up in the presence of a thousand petty responsibilities, which renewed themselves every day, and fell upon the shoulders of anyone who failed to step out of their way.

At the outset of his life, Kip had considered that he had a marvellous father: full of fim and laughter, always ready to turn into a child, to run faster and shout louder than anybody; with an inexhaustible fund of stories about animals, Negroes, Indians — Pow boasted himself the descendant of an Indian chieftain nearly three hundred years back, and he possessed the costume of such a chieftain, which he had acquired for a fancy dress ball. He knew how to dance war-dances and whoop war-whoops, and having thrilled a whole ballroom with such stunts, he could hardly fail to delight one small boy.

But, as he grew up, Kip had been forced to realize that the Indian costume was eaten with mothholes, and the character of the Big Chief was in an even worse condition. Kip had had to see his mother crying, and hear her wrangling and fussing — and had to listen and decide who was right! Now, after eighteen years, Kip's attitude had become fixed ; he was his mother's patient helper,

TARLETON HOUSE

53

while for his father he felt a scorn which he put into words only now and then, when some fresh imposition came to light

The Big Chief stayed on, because if he had gone anywhere else he would have had to sacrifice his status as a Virgmia gentleman of the old school. He had free board and laundry, and every Saturday n ght a five dollar biU-unless he had managed to get hold of some of the money which was being taken in and paid out m the busine^. He would take his funds to Sandkuhl's. the corner saloon, and try to increase them by petty gambling ; he would spend the Remainder for whisky, which would sustain hospitality in his private office -llospi&ity shrewdly apportioned to those ^h?^ J^turned it in double measure. Thus Pow kept his status as an F. F V., and was no^ too much ashamed of the boarding-house. Was it not known Ihat the daughters of General S<>and-so had taken^m^^^^^^^^ ine for a living at the close of the Civil War? A Southern lady or gentleman lould do whatever was necessary, and never lose socifl sanding with right-minded persons. And so Pow allowed his wi e to dl what was necessary. In order that he nught not feel That he was shifting his burden to a woman's frail shoulders, he persuaded himself that he was the real master of the establish- ment and that it was his prestige, his brilliance and social charm, which accounted for the popularity of the place.

Pow had a shelf of Civil War books, the contents of which he knew thoroughly. This made him a scholar--^yhlch was also according to the Southern tradition. He carried in his head the Sv trees of the F F. V.'s from the time of Jamestown to the ?r"seS He knew the name of every bay from the Chesapeake toMobile in which oysters grew, and professed to be able to tell from which bay any particular lot had come. He boasted of having oncT eaten six dozen of the largest size plus half a dozen quad upon a wager, and still preserved the silk hat he had won by this feT He was an expert chef-provided that it was^some expens.v^ and'fancy dish to be concocted : terrapin stew with sherry wine wild turkey with chestnut stuffing, fruit cake soaked in brandy When Christmas festivities came, or when one of the guests of the estab- Ushment had a birthday party, then Pow would expand to the S^ortLs of Santa Claus. and romp all over the place, keeping Lople in roars of laughter. But if on an ordinary day his w fe or sister-in-law Sue asked him to step round the corner and get half a dozen lemons, he would identify himself in feelings with Jefferson DSchained n his prison-cell, and the whole South would quiver

52

THE WET PARADE

that everybody knew everything before the day's sun had faded. Three years ago, after Pow had disappeared on one of his pro- tracted "sprees," it had been necessary for his wife to interview each and every boarder, informing him or her that Mrs. Tarleton was the true proprietor and manager of the estabhshment, and that all money was to be paid to her, and none to her husband. There- after, the husband could get only the allowance she made him, plus what he could bluff out of others.

The Tarleton family had come to New York soon after Kip's birth, and Pow's social charm had been rented out to a Wall Street bond broker, a business at which he made a success. But unfor- tunately he could not resist the lure of the market; he was a born *'sucker," because of his conviction that he knew everything, and that his Virginia ancestry made him proof against the snares of despised Yankees. He was quickly "cleaned out," and thereafter the little family had to exist upon a slender patrimony belonging to the wife, and rigidly held on to.

The boarding-house had at that time been conducted by another man, who was old, and took Mrs. Tarleton as his assistant, in return for the family's board. When he died, she invested her belongings in the furnishings, good will, and lease of the establish- ment ; and so Kip's destiny was laid out for him : to grow up in the presence of a thousand petty responsibilities, which renewed themselves every day, and fell upon the shoulders of anyone who failed to step out of their way.

At the outset of his life. Kip had considered that he had a marvellous father: full of fun and laughter, always ready to turn into a child, to run faster and shout louder than anybody; with an inexhaustible fund of stories about animals, Negroes, Indians — Pow boasted himself the descendant of an Indian chieftain nearly three hundred years back, and he possessed the costume of such a chieftain, which he had acquired for a fancy dress ball. He knew how to dance war-dances and whoop war-whoops, and having thrilled a whole ballroom with such stunts, he could hardly fail to delight one small boy.

But, as he grew up. Kip had been forced to realize that the Indian costume was eaten with mothholes, and the character of the Big Chief was in an even worse condition. Kip had had to see his mother crying, and hear her wrangling and fussing — and had to listen and decide who was right! Now, after eighteen years, Kip's attitude had become fixed ; he was his mother's patient helper,

ther"

while iorj^^^;

nowandthe;^.^.

TheBig^':-

would l»a^'^^?

oldsclic''' "' nijht s ' - oiiher.;

to increase' for wl:^-': .-a hosr- . double measii^^ was not too r known that t^^^ ingioralivir^ or gentleman ■ social standin: his wife to do « feel that he was he persuaded hia ment, and that il which accounted Powhadash knew thoroa^ according to the iamily-trees of ll present Hckn to Mobile m fl from wind nj: onceeattnaxi upon a wager, ; feat. He was J and fancy dish I turkey with di Christmas fcsti ' lishment had i proportions of people in roars sister-in-law Sj adozenlenoi^ I^a\is chained i

TARLETON HOUSE

53

^ faded

interview

Tarleton

'Udthat

Tliere-

while for his father he felt a scorn which he put into words only now and then, when some fresh imposition came to light.

The Big Chief stayed on, because if he had gone anywhere else he would have had to sacrifice his status as a Virginia gentleman of the old school. He had free board and laundry, and every Saturday night a five dollar bill — unless he had managed to get hold of some of the money which was being taken in and paid out in the business. He would take his funds to Sandkuhl's, the corner saloon, and try to increase them by petty gambling ; he would spend the remainder for whisky, which would sustain hospitality in his private ''office" — a hospitality shrewdly apportioned to those who returned it in double measure. Thus Pow kept his status as an "F. F. V.," and was not too much ashamed of the boarding-house. Was it not known that the daughters of General So-and-so had taken in wash- ing for a living at the close of the Civil War? A Southern lady or gentleman could do whatever was necessary, and never lose social standing with right-minded persons. And so Pow allowed his wife to do what was necessary. In order that he might not feel that he was shifting his burden to a woman's frail shoulders, he persuaded himself that he was the real master of the establish- ment, and that it was his prestige, his brilliance and social charm, which accounted for the popularity of the place.

Pow had a shelf of Civil War books, the contents of which he knew thoroughly. This made him a scholar — which was also according to the Southern tradition. He carried in his head the family-trees of the F. F. V.'s from the time of Jamestown to the present. He knew the name of every bay from the Chesapeake to Mobile in which oysters grew, and professed to be able to tell from which bay any particular lot had come. He boasted of having once eaten six dozen of the largest size, plus half a dozen quail upon a wager, and still preserved the silk hat he had won by this feat. He was an expert chef — provided that it was some expensive and fancy dish to be concocted : terrapin stew with sherry wine, wild turkey with chestnut stuffing, fruit cake soaked in brandy. When Christmas festivities came, or when one of the guests of the estab- lishment had a birthday party; then Pow would expand to the proportions of Santa Claus, and romp all over the place, keeping people in roars of laughter. But if on an ordinary day his wife or sister-in-law Sue asked him to step round the corner and get half a dozen lemons, he would identify himself in feelings with Jefferson Davis chained in his prison-cell, and the whole South would quiver

54 THE WET PARADE

work ^^^* *' ** spectacle of a gentleman having to do menial

VI

"Naw, suh Mista Kip, suh. Major Pennyman, he wants me to git him a pail o suds. I'll be right back, suh "

«f J?'°'"-.^Tm''t' '■!'"^'"ber what I told you, if you drink out of that pail, I II break every bone in your body!"

Yaz suh, Mista Kip, suh." The Negro's grin exhibited two rows of pearly white teeth, which he could have sold to some multimillionaire of the city for one of the millions. He was bie enough to have picked up Kip and broken him— which was exactly what made the conversation so enjoyable.

trash P*' ^°"'* ^°" ^*^"^ "^"""^ '" Sandkuhl's talking to that white

"Naw, suh I don't have no truck with them white trash. 'Gimme

stZ.'^w^r.'T T'^'' ^- '^y'' t'^'^ ^°"" I <^°'"^^-'" And down the steps ,vent Taylor, swinging his tin pail. It was a process known

to New Yorkers as "rushing the growler," and if you carried the

pail of beer yourself, you were declassed, and the place where you

hved was a vulgar tenement; but if you sent a Negro servant with

a pail, that was in accordance with the rules of all "family hotels "

„r „ T T- ^°" "\^^^S^d to keep Taylor from the corruptions ot Harlem ? inquired Jerry.

"We had to fire him a couple of times," said the other, "but he comes back. He s got no use for Yankees. The last time he applied for a job in a private home, the lady of the house told him to sit down while she talked to him, and Taylor knew that was the wrone atmosphere. I wouldn't work for no white woman what told me to set in a cheer. "

"You'd think New York would knock that out of them in a week, said Jerry.

"It does, with most. You notice we employ white girls in the dining-room. We can't stand these wenches that have lived up north, and got too big for their breeches."

"It's a good thing to let the North have a taste of the NeCTo problem, remarked the gentleman from Louisiana

TARLETON HOUSE 55

"You bet," said Kip. "They can have my share." His eye was following the figure of the black man. "Look at that rascal, damn his hide!"

"What's he doing?"

"Looking back to see if Tm following him. He's bound to get a swig out of that pail of beer. Tve caught him twice, and now he's on his guard."

"They're writing books about the new Negro world up in Har- lem," remarked Jerry — with whom all topics led to books.

"So I hear."

"The niggers are learning to write about it themselves. It gives me a pain. Imagine critics writing learned articles about books of poetry by high yaller ladies 1"

"Well, I suppose you can teach them any tricks, if you take the time," commented Kip.

"People here in New York are always looking for some new sensation. They've got a nigger actor on Broadway."

The two young men continued to discuss the intellectual life of Afro-America in this inhospitable spirit, until Taylor Tibbs came in sight again, with his pail of beer and wide-spreading grin. "The rascal!" said Kip. "He knows what he's done, and he knows I know, but I haven't got the goods on him."

"Where did he get that scar across his cheek?" inquired the reporter.

"A souvenir of some wench up in Harlem. I manage to keep him sober, but I can't keep him chaste." Then to Taylor, who was half-way up the steps: "Let me see that pail, you black rascal."

"Yaz, suh," said Taylor Tibbs, who was prepared for this procedure, having been making up his speeches all the way to Sandkuhl's and back. "I ain't had the cover off'n it, Mista Kip, I swear I ain't."

Kip lifted the cover. "Look at that beer, you bobtailed monkey! A full inch gone out of it ! I'm going to kill you some day, sure is you're born."

"It's bound to slop over some, Mista Kip, suh. You can't carry no pail o' suds and not lose it, runnin' under the cover."

"I've given you fair warning about drinking the white folk's beer. Now I'm going to dock your pay on Saturday night."

"Hones', I ain't done it, Mista Kip ! When it run out under the

56 THEWETPARADE

cover, I wiped it off on my sleeve, suh. You know I wouldn't want to slop no suds onto the carpet."

"Go on, you rascal, take it up to Major Pennyman." Taylor stood there grinning, enjoying the thrill of pretending his pay was going to be "docked," although he knew it wouldn't really happen. "You get back to that kitchen floor," exclaimed Kip, "and don't quit until you finish it."

"Naw, suh, not imless'n somebody takes me off'n it again." That was the way with Taylor Tibbs; somebody was always taking him "off'n" things. It was, "Taylor, come carry up this trunk," and Taylor would toss it onto his shoulder, and march proudly up three flights of stairs. It was, "Taylor, go get the laundry in room twenty-eight," or it was "Taylor, go see what's leaking in room twelve." "Mista Pow" would say, "Taylor, shine these shoes for me, quick," and "Miss Sue" would say, "Taylor, run down to the corner and get me a quarter's worth of corrosive sublimate. Those theatrical people in the west house have brought bugs into the room, and they are blaming it upon us." Taylor would go, and do what he was told, carrying with him everywhere that exhibit of pearly white teeth, made for smiles.

VII

The postman came upon his afternoon round. He always had a goodly supply of mail for the Tarleton House, a separate bundle bound with a leather strap. Guests who happened to be in the central room, known as the "office," would gather expectantly, while Kip performed his task of sorting out the letters and sticking them into a rack of pigeon-holes. There were two letters for Jerry Tyler: the first in a legal-size envelope, heavy and solid, with the name of a well-known story magazine. That would contain a polite but firm rejection-slip, so it was fortunate that it was balanced by another letter, postmarked "Acadia, La." Kip knew this hand writing at a glance; it was from Roger Chilcote, and Kip's blue- grey eyes followed Jerry wistfully as he went out to the front steps, opening the letter as he walked.

Kip himself couldn't go, because there was a letter for Mrs. Faulkner, in room 17, and he had promised to carry it up to her as soon as it arrived. She had been waiting for the past week, and Kip knew by the handwriting that it was from her husband, a travelling salesman. The wife was awaiting a check, and had been

TARLETON HOUSE 57

promising to pay her bill the moment it arrived, and of course it was Kip's duty to make this possible. He took the letter upstairs, and Mrs. Faulkner, as conscientious as she was sociable, asked him to come inside and sit down, while she opened the letter, and read him bits of the news, and endorsed the check to the Tarleton House, and agreed that it was to cover two week's board, and that he might give her the change when she came downstairs later on, on her way

to some shopping. >r t- n '

Kip returned to the office, and made out a bill for Mrs. Faulkner, and receipted it, noting on it the amount of the check and the number, and the amount of cash paid. He was not only a hotel- clerk and shock-absorber, but a banker on an extensive scale, and had to be able to appraise a piece of paper at a moment's glance, and estimate how large a proportion of it might safely be turned into cash. Mr. Marin, the importer of cheeses, was good for any amount, while young Stanley Dubree was on the blacklist entirely, despite the fact that his father was a leading lawyer of Memphis. There were all stages between, and a language of apology which you had to know, so as to render your decisions with a minimum of offense.

By the time Kip rejoined Jerry, the latter had read Roger's letter twice through. Kip saw at a glance that something serious was wrong. His friend's black eyes were troubled, and his brows were set in a deep frown. ''Something terrible, Kip; Roger's father has killed himself!'*

"Good God !" said the youngster.

"Went out into the dairy in the middle of the night, and severed the veins in his neck and both wrists. He was dead when they found him."

"What was it about?"

"Rodge doesn't say. No doubt it was drink; the old man had got to be a regular tank."

Kip was deeply shocked. He had never met any of these Chil- cotes, but Jerry had told him so much about them that he thought of them as friends. Jerry had visited Pointe Chilcote, and had roomed with Roger during two years of college ; he had pictures of his chum, and dozens of letters, and a hundred or two of alleged poems, all of which had been studied by Kip. Jerry had even read aloud Roger's comments on what Jerry had written about the Tarleton House and its youthful shock-absorber. "What's that going to mean to him ?" Kip asked.

58 THE WET PARADE

"That's just what's worrying me. He hasn't had a chance to figure It out, of course; but he's reproaching himself that he didn't give more time to the old man, and try to keep him out of trouble."

"You can't do it, Jerry. A fellow can't manage his own father It s turning things around. It only makes him mad."

"You ought to know about it."

"You bet your life I do."

"Rodge says only one thing. He says : 'It's going to mean more responsibility for me.' Naturally, it makes him feel serious."

"Will he have to stay at home ?"

"That's what I'm fearing. By God, it'll be a crime if they make a fellow like that into a sugar-planter !"

"Will they try to do it?"

"Of course they will. They always do. The son is supposed to follow in his father's footsteps, and carry the family burden."

'JBut surely, a man of Roger's brains "

"Oh, he's got human feelings, like all the rest. He'll be sorry for what he hasn't done. Mrs. Chilcote isn't much of a manager, I gather, and there's a younger brother and sister— so you see the trap is^all set. Roger says that in the money way everything's gone

"It's hard to see how anybody could go broke in the sugar coun- try, with prices where they are."

"Well, I suppose the old man was playing poker. He was a fiend for it, and not very skillful when they got him drunk." ^^ Kip sat, lost in thought. "You know," he remarked, suddenly, ''there's a crazy streak in us Southern people."

"Shakespeare says 'great wits to madness near allied.' They're geniuses that run off the track."

"That explanation will please them."

"Well, it's truth. Take your father here— he's some sort of genius that never found himself. If he'd been trained for the stage, he could have kept audiences roaring with laughter."

Kip smiled. 'It would have had to be amateur theatricals Don't forget that he's a Southern gentleman."

^ "Oh, my God, that Southern gentleman business! How glad I'll be when there isn't another one left on earth! Just think what it has cost our people! Half the genius, the talent of our nation has been smothered for fifty years under the weight of a phrase, invented to save the pride of a lot of conquered slave-holders !"

There was a reason for Jerry's vehemence, as Kip knew. The

TARLETON HOUSE 59

young graduate of Tulane had had a hard struggle with his own family, for the right to come North and work as a common reporter on a newspaper that was renowned for sensationalism, and further- more, was owned by Jews. And now Roger would have a struggle to become a poet, instead of a wealthy sugar-planter! Jerry Tyler lifted an imaginary wine-glass and exclaimed, ** Here's to our fathers, the Southern gentlemen ! To heaven with them all !"

VHI

A man came walking down the street, and turned suddenly to ascend the steps of the Tarleton House; a man of thirty or so, with blond hair, and face freshly barbered; his solid figure dressed with a crude attempt at elegance, in a brown plaid suit, with a tie having green and purple stripes and a diamond in the middle. Another diamond sparkled on one of the fingers of a large red hand; there was a half -smoked cigar in his mouth, and on his face an amiable and — strange as it might sound — a somewhat pathetic expression. For after all, a grown-up street-boy of New York may try his best to be elegant, but cannot get rid of the uneasy consciousness that there are heights above him.

'^Hello, Kerrigan," said Kip.

"Hello, yerself," sai3 Kerrigan, taking the cigar from his mouth and waving it in a gesture which had the effect of displaying his "sparkler."

"Mr. Kerrigan, meet Mr. Tyler."

"Pleesta meecha," said Kerrigan, and the two exchanged a clasp of undying friendship.

"Kerrigan's one of our 'finest,' '* explained Kip.

"Indeed?" said Jerry. "In disguise?"

"I steal up behind 'em, Mr. Tyler, and lay the strong hand of the law upon them."

"And Tyler writes it up," added Kip. "Tyler's a reporter."

"You don't say?" The detective's face lightened. "What pa^r?"

"The World.' "

" 'Woil's' a great paper," volunteered Kerrigan. "I read it every day. I like the 'Join'l/ too, only I don't trust that guy Hoist. He's a double-crosser."

"The *Herald' suits me better," volunteered Kip.

60 THE WET PARADE

"Yeah, 'Hurl's* all right; but what's the good o' payin' three cents, when y' kin read the same noos fer one?"

*1 didn't suppose you'd ever pay for a newspaper, Kerrigan," smiled Kip. *'Show 'em your shield."

They discussed the privileges and immunities of that body which calls itself "the finest," in the city which calls itself "N'Yawk." They spoke in terms of frank but amiable cynicism; until finally Kip inquired : "Well, Kerrigan, what have we been doing that we hadn't oughter?"

The "plainclothes man" grinned. "Don't blame me fer it. Orders from higher up."

"Well, what is it?"

"The boss is worried about the elections."

"Afraid the Republicans will carry New York State?"

"Well, they're strong up in the sticks; at least so everybody says; and if that guy with the pink whiskers should get to the White House, we'd have to pitch in and help the British Empire win the war."

"How the Irish of Hell's Kitchen would love that, Kerrigan!"

"We ain't a-goin' to let it happen if we can help it. We got to make a success of the O'Kelly Association ball next week."

"You want to sell me tickets, is that it?"

"I got a few founders' tickets, that we will trust to the right sort. You know, son, we take care of our friends — always and all the time."

"Sure," said Kip. "I got no kick. How much are they?"

"Twenty-five apiece."

"Holy smoke!"

"Well, we're spendin' a pile o' money on this racket ; the decora- tions is goin' to blind yer eye."

"Of course, I'll have to take one," said Kip, none too cordially.

"We was expectin' the Tarleton House would be good fer two," said Kerrigan, firmly.

"I won't be able to use them, Kerrigan. I wouldn't dare trust myself loose in a place where they had so much free beer."

"Oh, sure, we'll see you get home, if it's needed."

"Yes, but who'd do my work the next day? Business is awful poor with us right now, Kerrigan. And don't forget, my father's making speeches in this campaign."

"I know that; but we all gotta do our share. Why, even I gotta take two myself — it's straight!"

TARLETON HOUSE 61

"Yes," said Kip, "but really, I think you'll have to let me off with one."

"I was told to sell you two, son." The joviality had gone sud- denly out of the detective's voice; his steel grey eyes were fixed upon Kip in a look which he had cultivated as part of the "third degree." "That's orders," he said. "You better see yer old man."

"Wait!" said Kip, and rose and went into the house, leaving the protector of law and order to pass the time with the moulder of public opinion.

"You an Englishman, Mr. Tyler?"

"No, I come from Louisiana."

"Well, I guessed it was some foreign place."

"My accent, you mean?"

"Yeah, you don't talk like you was raised here."

"Give me time," said Jerry. "I've only been here six months. I'm trying to lose it."

"That's all right," said the other, comfortingly. "You're doin' great."

Jeremiah Breckenridge Tyler, young aristocrat from New Orleans, kept his smile behind his lips. It gave him keen delight that a man who lived in what was called "N'Yawk," and read the "Woil," the "Join'l," and the "Hurl," should be supervising the pronunciation of a graduate of Tulane University!

Kip was gone some time; the reason being that his mother was having a fit of weeping in her room. But there was no way out, and in the end the youth reappeared, carrying a check for fifty dollars, which he put into the detective's hand, receiving in return two neatly printed "founders' tickets" to the O'Kelly Association Annual Dance. Kerrigan thanked him, and assured him that he would receive ample return before the year was over. Then he went down the steps, and crossed the street to the Italian restaurant.

"There's a high class hold-up for you !" said Kip.

"Pretty smooth," assented Jerry. "He didn't even trouble to get you alone."

"He hasn't anything to fear from either of us." / "What would happen if you didn't come across?"

"Hard to say. Maybe Taylor Tibbs has put the ash-cans out on the curb when he shouldn't; or maybe he sweeps the front steps after seven in the morning."

"But they all do that!"

"The cop has a little book in his pocket, and he can point to a

THE WET PARADE

■d oC If 50D*re wrong with irfDncosMdYids.**

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.^■^

CHAPTER FOUR - - MAXHA7TAX

I

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p^t^n*** of die csuIIl' And T.'. -' dnrars near, wlicn it becnaKS ow dcv of oar prMksrs, to go to tfie polk 2~ tins sicat S^iific: Yoo, free sons of bear die daims of -die Derr ccr^rv wUdi Ins Ikl for tiie past foor 3«afs, ^r. i a.L:i:.s %^otir appfov^: poiod"

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widi a star, the Don . atuiuCy far cnon^^ 2. fyy'pp tne Dangm.f Bat diat £d not tr: die sobfioKSt prhrikgc to die HiiolM jtaon c: In Ids time be bac

focced to' of

64 THE WET PARADE

black mustache, as he explained the gravity of the crisis now con- fronting the American voters. Did they want their sons to dye the plain of Flanders with their blood? That, and nothing less, would be J:he consequence of failure to sustain the Democratic administrafion which had kept us out of war.

The campaign textbooks so declared; and the orders to orators on the streets of Manhattan were to appeal to the foreign elements, to keep America from being used as a catspaw by the governing classes of the British empire. As a matter of fact, Pow would have found it more agreeable to support those governing classes; he called himself a "Cavalier," and despised the Irish and Germans, and other tribes which had come to this country for money, and had sold themselves to the Yankees to help take the slaves away from Southern gentlemen. But as a statesman, one had to be "practical" — which meant saying to the mob what the mob wanted to hear.

The yellow torchlights flared in the wind, and the faces of the auditors wavered and grew bright again; faces sober and earnest, faces leering, faces stupid ; street-corner loungers and casual passers- by, working people from tenements to the west of the avenue, and white-collar workers from boarding-houses to the east of it. They were drawn by the lights and shouting, and stood to listen because it was more interesting than nothing, which was what they had before the meeting started, and would have when it was over. Election was a time when somebody unidentified was willing to spend money for torchlights and red fire, for red, white and blue streamers, for trumpets, cymbals, fifes and drums.

"Fellow citizens, the Democratic party is the party of the people. It IS that all over America — ^but especially in New York. It is your own party "

"What's Tammany ever done for the workingman ?"

The interruptor was a young Jew, thin-faced and spectacled; Pow knew the type, and swept him away with a wave of the hand. "Go down the street, my friend, and start a meeting of your own, and tell the people what the Socialists have ever done for the workingman."

Before the jeering had stopped, the orator was going on to cele- brate the glories of New York, the metropolis of the Western hemisphere; what a calamity, that this imperial city should be governed by blue-nosed reformers! The haven to which the rest

MANHATTAN 65

of America fled, the civilized community, the home of good-fellow- ship—New York should be a wide-open town, as free to all modes of pleasure as to the winds that blew from the ocean. Tammany Hall was the organization which realized this, and knew that you could not clamp the lid upon such a city without driving customers away and ruining business.

This matter of clamping on lids was one near to a Cavaher s heart, upon which he needed no campaign text-book to tell him what 'to say. He could talk from the tail of a truck with the same fury of indignation that he displayed in the office of his family hotel, when the gentlemen had assembled for their evening's smoking and card-playing. ''My friends, I am descended from those men who wrote the charter of our liberties, the immortal Declaration which guarantees our right to the pursuit of happiness. I come of a race of men who knew the good things of life we were to pursue. Mine is a line of Virginia gentlemen — like that President on whose behalf I appeal to you tonight, a scholar from the Old Dominion, a worthy descendant of Washington, Jefferson, and Madison. My friends, we in the South know good eating, and we know good liquor, believe me ; we know how to carry it, and don't want any bluenosed Puritans meddling in our affairs, telling us what shall we eat and what shall we drink. Fellow-citizens, I warn you of the peril that is hanging over this community; the forces of bigotry and intolerance that are organizing, seeking to prison this imperial city in the straight- jacket of a country village. Our nation was founded upon the rock of liberty; but these bigots wish to blast it. The hordes of Methodism are on the march, about to descend upon you. I see them advancing, an army of schoolma'ams, hatchet-faced old maids in spectacles and poke-bonnets, mounted upon camels; Puritan preachers in tall hats, with green umbrellas under their arms, sitting proudly upon the front seats of a battery of water-wagons!

"You laugh^ my friends, and think you would like to see that spectacle. But I tell you, if you want to have this great metropolis turned into a backwoods village, with grass growing in its streets a^d goats nibbling the grass, yourselves out of jobs and your wives and children starving — all you have to do is to vote the Republican ticket, and let these upstate reformers get in, and set the police to invading your homes and meddling with your morals, your ways of spending your money and enjoying your hard-won leisure!'*

66 THE WET PARADE

n

The meeting at an end, the orators adjourned to the corner saloon, to recuperate their energies and prolong their hour of exaltation. All through the speaking, there had been a filtering into and out of this saloon from the edges of the crowd, and interrup- tions pro or con hiccupped or guffawed at the orators. If you had strolled the length of Sixth avenue, some fifty blocks, you would have found two-score such cart-tail meetings, each contributing to the prosperity of a saloon. In the fifty-odd street intersections, you would have found not more than half a dozen without a saloon on one corner, while many had saloons on two or three corners. Yet other drinking places were sandwiched in between delicatessen shops and drug-stores and pawn-brokers' offices in the middle of the block. Everything was arranged most conveniently : the bread- winner of the family spent his wages getting drunk on Saturday night, and on Sunday morning his wife would send to the drug- store for the means of sobering him up, and on Monday morning she would take his overcoat to the pawn-shop, and afterwards be able to buy a loaf of bread and a bottle of milk at the delicatessen shop.

Walking the length of Seventh avenue, or Eighth, or Ninth, or Tenth, you would find the same conditions; each block of brick tenements, into which human beings were crowded like African ants in a million-chambered nest — each had its over-supply of front rooms for making the men drunk, and of rear rooms for making the women and children drunk. If you preferred, you might go over to the East Side, and walk the length of Third avenue, or Second, or First, or Avenues A or B or C, near the East River, where you would find still more tightly-packed warrens, with drinking-places shabbier, more numerous, and more crowded. Most of these avenues ran for a hundred and fifty blocks, yet you might have walked their length, and counted but few street intersections which did not have one corner decorated with signs of **Lager Beer," "Bock Bier," "Wilson Whisky," "Haig and Haig," and so on.

On this Saturday night every saloon was doing a roaring busi- ness, with customers lined in front of the bar three and four deep, and seats at the tables occupied by those who were no longer able to stand. The places were steaming with the heat of stoves and of crowded bodies ; the bartenders working with perspiration stream- ing down their faces, and such a reek of alcohol that one might be

MANHATTAN 67

mildly affected by way of the nostrils. "The saloon is the poor man's club" — so the newspapers never wearied of declaring, in com- ments sandwiched between high-priced advertisements of whisky and gin. On Saturday nights preceding election the saloon was the poor man's forum, in which he debated his problems, under condi- tions which made sure that he would remain a poor man, and have an unlimited supply of problems to debate.

Ill

Pow*s companions upon this oratorical debauch were a shyster lawyer, who earned his living by getting petty offenders out of the clutches of the law, bribing judges and juries, and keeping his mouth shut ; a police magistrate who took this lawyer^s bribes ; and a fire insurance adjuster who collected tips from small merchants after what were known as "bankrupt fires.'* Also there was a man who saw to the decorations and the kerosene torches — an employee of the street-cleaning department, who under the reform administra- tion now in power was under the necessity of using a broom, but was looking forward to the return of Tammany, so that he might be able to draw his city pay while tending pool-tables in the club- rooms of the O'Kelly Association. Also there was the driver of the truck, which belonged to a trucking contractor who did work for the city, and was paid for the services of double the number of trucks he owned. The driver was working for this private boss, but looking forward to being appointed an inspector of eggs, at which job he could collect a double salary, one for working and one for failing to work.

They stood before the bar, with their feet on the brass rail — one Virginia gentleman on the way down, and five slum-natives on the way up. When they had had a couple of "rounds" each, they were all brothers in a great cause; the crowd which had heard them on the street and followed them through the swinging doors into the saloon, patted them on the backs^ and pressed to the bar to honor a(nd liquor them. Nothing was too good for these high intellectuals, who understood the problems of the world, and put their eloquence at the service of the masses. The crowd sang: "Hail, hail, the gang's all here," and also, *'We won't go home till morning." The law ordered otherwise, the saloon being required to close at one a.m. ; but in practice this meant that the front door was closed, and every-

68 THE WET PARADE

body had to enter by the "Family Entrance" — even the policeman on the beat.

When Pow Tarleton had as many as three drinks, his personality expanded in marvellous fashion ; he became an entire line of Virginia gentlemen, back to that Big Chief Powhatan who had welcomed Captain John Smith to Jamestown by preparing to knock out his brains with a club. He became the owner of vast estates, with hun- dreds of prime young Negro bucks and wenches as slaves. He became ambassador plenipotentiary from the Old Dominion to the merchants and counter-jumpers of Yankee-land, to teach them how to get true enjoyment out of life. He sang the praises of John Barleycorn, and filled the flowing bowl until it did run over — through his mustaches, down his shirt-front, and onto the sawdust floor of this poor man's club.

The poor men applauded and cheered, so long as they were able to understand what Pow was saying ; and when they were no longer able to understand, each retired into a separate heaven, singing his own songs and making his own speeches, until he became too noisy, or too helpless to stand — whereupon an official of the establishment, known as the ''bouncer," would take him firmly by the back of the neck and steer him to the street. The responsibility of the saloon ended when he had paid his last nickel over the bar; thereafter it was up to the police and the charity bureaus to look after him.

Now and then in this blissful throng you would note some child, who had slipped in by the rear door, and stood searching the place with frightened eyes; or perhaps a foreign woman with a shawl over her head. If they did not find their man in one saloon, they would go on to the next; stopping to peer at men who came stag- gering up the street, or who were vomiting in the gutter, or seeking an ash-bin or deserted alley into which to crawl. Some fathers and husbands, when found, were ''weeping drunks,'* and would demon- strate aflFection; others were "fighting drunks," and committed the impropriety of beating their wives before they got home.

Such were the scenes one saw up and down the saloon avenues of that island of Manhattan, which the frugal Dutch had purchased from the Indians for twenty-five dollars. Now its virgin forests were gone, and instead there ran, in the north and south direction, seventeen or eighteen canyons with walls of stone or brick, and in the east and west direction some two hundred shorter and narrower canyons. Through these half -lighted and ill-swept passages you >vould see every night the revellers staggering, with here and there

MANHATTAN 69

a human wolf armed with brass knuckles or a slungshot, preying upon their helplessness.

It was the established rale of the "finest," the police who dealt with intoxication in those good old saloon da>-s. that no man was drunk so long as he was able to keep his feet and find his way to the next bar. He was only drunk when he lay in a stupor in the gutter; or when he beat his wife before he got her home; or when he cursed the cop who told him to move along. Then and then only would he be subdued with a club, and loaded into a patrol-wagon, and dumped into a cell to "sleep it off." Next morning, if he could name some influential politician or lawyer, he would telephone and get himself released: otherwise he would be hauled to court by the wagon-load, tried in batches, and sentenced to "ten days or ten dollars" — a formula which the bored magistrates reeled off a hun- dred times in a morning.

IV

Sunday was the morning after, familiar to all believers in the sacredness of personal liberty-. Pow Tarleton, the high priest of liberty, opened his eyes upon a hateful world, and raised from his pillow a head which behaved like a series of earthquakes. In his mouth was that taste which has a color — though the authorities dis- agree as to whether it is dark brown or green; all describe it as **fu2z^'," and describe a thirst upon which plain water has no effect, and soda water or black coffee but little more.

For all these troubles the gentleman from Virginia had an "alibi" which served to maintain his dignity. In the good old daj-s Pow had never had headaches nor brown and green tastes: the trouble was due, he declared, to the vile quality' of the whiskies which were sold in New York. Real whisk}' had to be aged in the wood; but this stuff which you bought in comer saloons was aged with chemi- cals, and diluted with water, and raised to a higher power by raw alcohol. It was full of fusel oil and other deadly compounds, of which Pow knew the names: on the morning after, he would recite them to other \'ictims of the 'Tcatzen jammer." who would nod their heads mournfully. The fundamental source of the trouble was the fact that Abe Lincoln had set free the slaves, and subjected South- em gentlemen to Yankee greed.

But bad as New York whisk>- was, Pow had to have some quickly. At times such as this he would be a raging lion, pacing his room;

70 THE WET PARADE

he had been known to steal his wife's purse, or to carry off the clock from the draw.ng-room of the Tarleton House and pawn it On this occasion he got hold of Taylor Tibbs; and Taylor, who was used to Southern gentlemen, and did not expect them lo h, TL^^ fll?J ^vv.^^ '"'"'" '^^^ '" ^ Srin, and wSt out and purchasS^a

S J" ^" r" """V; "" ^'^"'d "^^^^ be paid back, but wSld swipe something to balance the account

ton Hon Jnn^^^^' ^" abundance of "katzenjammer" in the Tarle- ton House on Sunday mornings. While the ladies put on their best bonnets and patronized the fashionable Fifth Avenue churches the gentlemen stayed in their rooms, or sat in the office whh^uJT

entered the office there sat young Stanley Dubreef white to th^riUr like T^'^' 1 his rocking chair. "Jesus Christ," s^d he "/'ii ike the Day of Judgment." Stanley was the son of the Memnwi lawyer, and had been sowing his wild oats for so long that his fTher bribed him to stay in New York; his board-money was sLt o m" Tarleton each week by check from the lawyer's office ^rin *^'^^.'"'""*" 'ater came Taylor Tibbs, with his irremovable

fobro%te7f*rStry'"rrflof ?^.^^^^^^^

wanted aVle of b'm^SS'iSufr^TMr Fo"rti^^^^^^^^^ ?ou'r Ws'a".n° ''' '^' ^P"*^^' P^^^y '" ^is rol up?o three^^ and a bottle ^^'r""" T*'^ ^ ^''^^S' "^ '^'^^^^tte^- ^omt brandy

MANHATTAN 71

such people ? Men can't answer for themselves when they get booz- ing one with another. They never think of their poor wives, who are grieving and wearing themselves out at home. A nice headache you'll have tomorrow morning — or rather this morning, for it must be past twelve. You won't have a headache^ It's very well for you to say so, but I know you will ; and then you may nurse yourself for me."

Kip's early life had been like a reading aloud from this volume. For his mother was not one of those Southern ladies who submit and sink into inertia. She was a lean, high-strung little body, whose charms, whatever they may have been, had faded long ago. Her face was lined, and almost as grey as the little top-knot of her hair. Her mouth set tightly at the corners, and the range of vision of her troubled grey eyes was limited to the details of the housing and feeding of fifty humans, each bent upon getting the utmost possible for his or her self at the lowest price. Mrs. Tarleton suffered from frequent headaches, which compelled her to stay in her room with wet cloths wrapped about her head and a **smelling-bottle" to her nose. The rest of the time she roamed the three houses from morn till night, down one flight of stairs and up another, restless and anxiety-ridden, "keeping after" several servants and one husband. Powhatan Tarleton was quite certain that it was "nagging" which drove him to drink, and compelled him to spend his time strolling the streets, or sitting in hotel-lobbies telling his troubles to other gentlemen of leisure. But he did not venture to say this in the presence of his wife, for it would mean a burst of tears and the pouring out of a flood of reminiscences. Once she had been a young girl, gentle, trusting, happy ; and who had changed her ? What had she asked of life, except a home for her loved ones, and a chance to educate her child? What did she ask now, except to work and slave all day, and be able to pay her bills, and keep her boarders contented, and not have the name of Tarleton disgraced and people driven away by the carryings-on of a drunken loafer? The good lady's language was inelegant and her troubles were sordid — ^but I that was the way with marriage in the good old saloon-days of Manhattan.

Pow had to sober up at least partially, because on Monday he would be busy checking bundles of ballots, and on Tuesday watching

72 THE WET PARADE

the vote, and counting ballots until late at night. It was a job in the gift of the Board of Elections, paying six dollars a day, and awarded for petty favors to the local machine, such as making speeches from the tail of a truck. So, for two days Mr. Caudle would be out of his wife's clutches, and on election night would have money for a manly celebration.

The Republican candidate, a former governor of the state the gentleman whom Detective Kerrigan had described as "the guy with the pmk whiskers," was a person of much prestige amon? the wealthy of the city. He carried New York State, and carried so many other states that on election night everybody thought him safely the victor. So it was the Republicans who did the celebrating and Fow spent his money to drown his sorrows. Ail his direful prophesies plagued him on that evening of despair. The blood of our boys would dye the plain of Flanders, and the hordes of Meth- odisrn would take possession of Manhattan. When Pow had eot drunk enough, he actually saw the advance of that army of hatchet- faced old maids in spectacles and poke-bonnets, mounted upon camels, and of Puritan preachers in tall hats, with green umbrellas under their arms, riding upon the front seats of water-wagons. Pow would yell loudly for Taylor Tibbs to come and drive them away.

Meantime uptown in the fashionable hotels, the cafes and showv restaurants known as "lobster-palaces," where the proud Southern gentleman really belonged, but was too poor to go, the celebrat.n" was done, not with beer and whisky, but with champagne. There the showers of confetti covered the floors, and little rolls of paper tape flung over the chandeliers turned the rooms into spider-webs of red, blue, and yellow, purple, green, and pink. The wine-bottles were borne m, each fat "magnum" in its bucket of crushed ice, and the empties were stacked upon the table or rolled under it The music crashed and pealed, the dancers kicked their toes into the air and when new returns were read aloud from the band-platform' there would be a din of yells and shrieks, and more libations poured mto the slippers of chorus-girls, or perhaps down their necks.

That night the Germans were retiring from the last of the forts of Verdun, which they had taken and retaken a score of times in a battle which had lasted several months. Millions of men were 'lying out in wind and rain, slowly freezing, now and then blasted by shell-fire or poisoned by gas. Here in New York men were making huge fortunes out of their agony, and celebrating the prospect of

MANHATTAN 73

yet greater gains. Speculators in shipping and munitions, owners of monopolies in steel and copper and aluminum, they had put up tens of millions to pay for the purchasing of votes, and in return had been promised tariff favors, and permission to violate laws against price-fixing ; so now there was no extravagance great enough to express their emotions. During the small hours of the morning, you would see cloths jerked from tables, and glass and china crash- ing to the floor, in order that ladies stripped half-naked might per- form stomach-dances on table-tops. You would see champagne bottles hurled through costly pier-glass mirrors, and the hurlers delighted, because they had found a new way to spend some money. Meanwhile, on the streets, a solid mass of people for miles, blow- ing horns, whirling rattles and buzzers, tickling with feather-dusters the necks of women in front of them. Near the bulletin-boards it was impossible to move for a block; each new report would be greeted with volleys of cheers, echoing through the long stone can- yons. As the evening waned, the searchlights on the towers turned red, symbolizing the legendary whiskers of the supposed victor. All drinking-places were packed, and on the side-streets it was like watching the stragglers from a battle.

But then, next day, i_t began to appear that the whole thing was a mistake, and would have to be done over again ! Several states v/hich had looked safe for Hughes began to swing toward Wilson. Election bettors who had spent their money celebrating the winning of it, now faced the painful need of paying it twice; the tariff monopolists who had put up fortunes would have to wait until 1920, and then put them up again. All day Manhattan studied the news- paper ^'extras," and in the evening the searchlights on the towers went white, symbolizing the political purity of Tammany; late at night there was a parade of bacchantes up and down Broadway, the parade going fairly straight, even though the individual paraders went crooked.

Pow Tarleton shared these glories, despite the fact that he had emptied his pockets the night before. This was an occasion when no Democratic ''spell-binder'^ need go thirsty; when everybody was ytoo drunk to know who had ordered the last round, or who owed the next. Pow fell into the arms of the shyster lawyer and the crooked magistrate, and sobbed for joy because our boys were not going to dye the plain of Flanders with their blood. He borrowed the tin-trumpet of a reveller who had collapsed on the bar-room floor, and emerged upon Broadway, tooting, and bellowing in

74 THE WET PARADE

chorus: "Four— four— ionr years moreV' He capered and kicked like a young he-goat, for joy that the metropoHs of the Western hemisphere was not to be delivered over to the hatchet-faced old maids in spectacles and poke-bonnets, and the Puritan preachers in tall hats and green umbrellas.

VI

The postman brought Jerry Tyler a letter from the editor of one of the highbrow" magazines, telling him that his sketch, "A Night Without Incident," was accepted for publication. The sketch dealt with no man's land"; Jerry had never been there, and neither had the editor, but the latter wrote that the author's descriptive powers were admirable, and invited him to call. Jerry did so, and told about himself, and also about his Louisiana friend, Roger Chilcote whose stuff was so hot that it was going to knock everybody cold' He read a couple of Roger's poems, and the great editor agreed as to their qualities, and offered to publish them.

So the reporter came back to the Tarleton House, walking on the roof-tops and skipping across the wide stone canyons. He told Kip the news, and Kip's heart leaped as if they had been his own poems Gee whiz, Jerry! That^s great! Are you going to wire Roger?" When Jerry answered that he had already done so. Kip said those poems must be the real stuff. "But I wish I could understand them better, he added, wistfully, and borrowed the manuscripts, and spent an hour poring over them. However, the purpose of such poetry appeared to be to sort out the sheep from the goats; those .who could understand the higher and more difficult things, from ordinary persons like himself, who were fit only to manage boarding-

Anyhow, there were his only two friends with their feet upon the ladder of fame, and Kip got his share of life's joys vicariously Jerry had been figuring how to lure the fascinating *'Rodge" to New York, and now he said this would settle the matter— -Rodge would surely not let himself be turned into a sugar-planter, but would march in and claim the prize which was his due. Presently came a letter, saying that the poet was trying to arrange matters. His uncles, who had the family finances in charge, might allow him a small income and his freedom. His brother, Lee, was preparing to take the burden of the plantation, and the sister, Maggie May, would look after their mother.

MANHATTAN 75

''What's Maggie May like?'* inquired Kip, suddenly; and Jerry answered with a gleam of inspiration : "J^^t the sort of girl for you — I wonder why I never thought of it before ! Quiet as a little mouse, and very serious and moral. You ought to go down there at once and marry her."

Kip flushed noticeably. "I'd make a fine suitor, with what I have on my hands, wouldn't I ?" His reply sounded too emphatic.

"But that's your way out, Kip! Marry a rich wife."

"I thought the Chilcotes were ruined."

"Well, you know how it is with people like that ; they talk about being in trouble, but it's not what you or I would mean by it. They can manage to get money when they have to."

"Thanks for the tip," replied the other; "but I mean to earn my way, and when I get a wife, I'll be able to support her."

Kip was thinking about his own mother and father, and that he would not follow in Pow's footsteps. But Jerry missed that point.' "Spoken like a proud Virginia gentleman!" he exclaimed. "But, like the rest of the breed, you're fifty years behind the time, kid. The highest service a man can perform for a girl with property is to marry her and take care of it.'*

"Thanks again," said the Virginia gentleman. "But if it's a matter of business, she'll have to make the proposition."

"Well, that wouldn't be so unusual. You don't know what's hap- pening in the world. Kip."

"I hear rumors." Kip tried to sound worldly-wise. "But such girls don't seem to come to the Tarleton House."

"For my part," said the up-to-date Jerry, "I'm going out and look them up. If any reasonably presentable dame will stake me to a literary career, I'll not be too haughty, believe me."

They discussed the ever-stimulating problem of love, and what they were doing about it. Kip, the sober and dependable, wasn't doing very much ; Re had too many other jobs on hand : such as getting up in the middle of this conversation to "check out" a de- parting couple, and receipt their bill, and wish them a prosperous journey to Georgia; or calling Taylor Tibbs and sending him up ^o room 7 to see what was the matter with the steam-radiator, which was producing vibrations of the wrong wave-length, noises instead of heat

But Jerry wouldn't let the conversation be diverted. Jerry didn't approve of what he called "repressions," and he rallied the shy youth, telling him that love was a necessary evil. "You're abnormal,

76 THEWET PARADE

kid! You ought to have a dozen sweethearts by now, and be wise enough so you can choose a wife/*

Kip blushed and protested. What had he to offer a girl? "There ought to be a law against hotel-clerks' marrying." With such jest- ing he tried to hide his embarrassment.

Kip had grown up under his mother's wing ; and Mrs. Tarleton's one romance had brought her such scant happiness, that she looked upon love as something at best very silly and at worst as dangerous and shameful. Kip seldom went out of an evening, and when he did, his mother waited up for him, and questioned him about every- thing that had happened. If a young and seductive looking miss turned up at the Tarleton House, the two managing ladies of the institution would eye her with suspicion, and would make in Kip's hearing remarks which sounded playful, but carried a deadly intent. He was a nice-looking boy, and girls would have liked to know him ; but the utmost permitted them was to sit on a sofa in the drawing- room and engage in decorous conversation about the last book they had read. Then, just as Kip was coming to decide that this was the most interesting girl he had ever talked to, the fates would carry her off to Mobile or Nashville, Richmond or Atlanta.

Kip was used to this, so it never occurred to him that there was anything unusual about it. But now, in conversation with the well- informed Jerry, he learned that "repressions" were highly danger- ous, and might lead to "neuroses" — which sounded most alarming. Continuing to probe, Jerry learned that Kip had been doing what was psychologically known as "sublimating" his emotions; that is to say, he was cherishing a dream of an all-perfect maiden, of unim- peachable Southern ancestry, who would some day come to the Tarleton House, and not have to go away again. "What else?*' persisted Jerry; and Kip confessed that when he was walking on the street, and some unvouched for girl would smile at him without authorization, he would feel an alarming thrill stealing over him, and would hurry away from an unbearable temptation. "Aha!" cried Jerry. "Tell it all !" But that was all there was, Kip insisted.

He preferred to listen to his friend, who knew everything that was forbidden, and whose talk filled Kip with unholy curiosity min- gled with fear. The handsome and enterprising Jerry made no secret of the fact that he had been doing not a little about love, first in New Orleans, and now in Manhattan. He revealed that there was a district known as "the Village," with great numbers of girls who were stage-struck, or had the poetry-bee, or the painting-bug,

MANHATTAN 77

or some other art-insect, and were on strike against marriage and *'the ties of home." Many had paying jobs — did interior decorating, or wrote or drew advertisements, or did shopping on commission for the folks back in Peoria. If Kip wanted a self-supporting young lady to propose to him, all he had to do was to make his appearance in Greenwich Village ; he was exactly the nice submissive type that some brilliant young feminist would select for a mirror, to see her charms reflected in.

"It sounds very economical and convenient,*' said Kip, trying to appear cynical ; "almost too good to be true.**

"It*s only a mile away,** said Jerry, with laughter in his wicked black eyes. "I'll take you to a studio party, and you can see for yourself. But you'll have to loosen up and take one highball, or they'll call you a victim of the Oedipus complex.'*

VII

The President who had been re-elected because he kept us out of war set to work at once to get us in. The notes exchanged between America and Germany became sharper in tone ; and each was pub- lished in the newspapers, and became a theme of argumentation among the guests of the Tarleton House. After you had listened to any one person a few minutes, you could make a pretty good guess which newspaper that person read. In ten thousand boarding-houses on Manhattan Island, each inmate read some particular newspaper, and danced to some particular tune like a puppet on a string.

Jerry Tyler was another kind of puppet, known as an "insider.** Jerry, shrewd and self-satisfied, watched the strings being pulled, and would tell how the atrocity stories were cooked up, and brought to the newspaper offices by this or that agency. All this war stuff was mostly "the bunk,** and those who believed it were the "boob- oisie.'* Jerry would advise Kip to keep his mind clear. Yet strange as it might seem, if some critic started to denounce this newspaper "game,** Jerry would immediately resent it, and declare that he T)elonged to a dignified profession. ^ ^

Kip, for his part, didn't understand these complications. He could only say that the war was a terrible thing, and he didn't think we ought to mix up in the affairs in Europe. He was pleased with what Jerry read him from the letters of Roger Chilcote ; Roger being contemptuous of militarists and their flag-waving, and tellmg amusing stories about his older brother, Captain Ted,' who was such

78 THE WET PARADE

a patriot, and flew into such a rage when he heard any real facts about the war.

Kip asked anxiously what would happen, in case we did get in. Would they compel men to go? He couldn't imagine what would happen to the Tarleton House, if he were taken away; his mother and his aunt would certainly have to quit. But Jerry told him not to worry — nothing of that sort could happen. There would be plenty of volunteers and to spare.

Jerry was given to making wide-sweeping statements such as that. He considered himself an ultra-modern, but his revolt was confined to the fields of literature and ethics. The swift and terrific changes which machinery was making in all human affairs had little reality to him. He had the comforting assurance that everything in the world was going to stay the way he had got used to it. He informed Kip that they would never see national prohibition in America. He was equally sure that the foolish efforts of the suf- fragettes would never bring results. When the Russian revolution started, he was sure it would come to nothing; when it succeeded, he was sure it would not last a year. When all these prophecies came to naught, Jerry would set to work with the persistence of a spider rebuilding the web in which he had been born.

vni

Roger was coming ! That was the real news Jerry read from a letter. The Chilcote uncles, in conclave assembled, had admitted their nephew's worthlessness from the point of view of sugar- planting, and agreed to allow him an income of four hundred dol- lars a month from his father's estate, with the right to go to New York and try his fortunes as a poet. Hearing this sum read aloud, Kip got a sudden realization of the nature of privilege. H he had been granted an income of four hundred dollars a month, he would have felt like an Indian rajah; but this heir of the Chilcotes wrote as if he were preparing to sacrifice everything for the Muses !

He was coming next week, and was to stay at the Tarleton House ! Kip, who got his thrills vicariously, was in as much of a flutter as if he had suddenly become a great poet himself. What room would they lodge the poet in ? Kip suggested the third floor rear in num- ber 39, to avoid the street noises ; but Jerry said, my God, no, didn't Miss Fortescue practice her singing right over that room? Roger would listen to her for three minutes, and then take a dive through

MANHATTAN 79

a window-pane. Kip said the only other vacancy was the second floor front in number 41, and that was noisy from the street. But Jerry said that everybody in New York had to get used to street noises — at least, unless they were millionaires, and could live in a "pent-house" on top of a sky-scraper. And then there were the airplanes !

Mrs. Tarleton was summoned, and they inspected the room. The furniture was rather old. Kip thought; but Jerry said that Rodge was used to old things. To be sure, the Chilcote furniture was mahogany, whereas this was the black walnut of our immediate ancestors, with all sorts of curlicues and ornaments fastened on with glue. The curtains, and centre-pieces on tables and dresser, would be "done over," Mrs. Tarleton explained ; they would put in a better rug, and sweep and dust everything. The devoted lady bemoaned the fact that their landlord was stubborn, and had refused to redeco- rate these rooms in brighter colors. Perhaps if it was explained to him that a famous poet was coming to the house, he would con- sent to give the dingy woodwork a coat of cream enamel. Mrs. Tarleton went off, to telephone at once and try to persuade him.

Kip expressed his anxiety, because Roger was used to so much elegance ; he would be ashamed to have his fashionable friends visit him in such a shabby place. But Jerry said not to worry ; "Rodge" was "Bohemian" in his tastes. He was always collecting literary material, and was interested in "types." "Your father will make a hit with him. He'll think Pow a character."

"I know," said Kip. "People do; but after a while they get tired of him."

"Rodge won't. He'll take him round to Sandkuhl's, and they'll fight the Civil War all over."

Jerry explained Roger's theories. He was a combination of poet and scientist; one who not merely explored and discovered life, but who invented and created it. He was interested in everybody; he was never bored, like Jerry. He would sit for hours with the "Cajun" trappers, asking them the oddest questions: what they thought about God and immortality, fairies and ghosts, love, mar- riage, and the meaning of life. He would do the same thing in New Orleans in a wharf-side cafe, with French sailors, Negro roust- abouts, sea-captains who brought gold from Venezuela or bananas from Costa Rica. Some day he would put such people into litera- ture that would beat Joseph Conrad and Robert Browning rolled into one.

80 THE WET PARADE

Genius, so Jerry gave his friend to understand, was a thing apart, remaining aloof from life, judging it as from a mountain-top; yet, also, it drew its wonder from the heart of life, it merged itself with life, and absorbed it to itself. Roger had had to break his own path, and find his own laws. Once, disgusted with the manhandling of poetry by college instructors, he had shipped on a freighter for Australia; but a seaman, thinking him some kind of anti-union spy, had shoved him through an open hatchway, and the magnificently rebellious poet had stayed in New Orleans to nurse a broken arm. Again, he had proposed to write an idyl about a Creole girl of the docks ; but a fellow who was preying on the girl, not understanding the ways of poets, had gone after him with a knife.

Also Jerry told the dashing and romantic story of a time when he had been visiting the Chilcotes, and Roger with a couple of his cousins had been to a supper-party in the town of Acadia, and the four youths, under the triple stimulation of wine, women and song, had gone capering down the main street of the town in their pa- jamas. A terrible scandal, but only because they had been a few minutes too early. At eleven in the evening the picture-house closed, and respectable citizens went home to bed; after that the streets belonged to wealthy young roysterers, to sing and dance, and steal signs, and smash street-lamps which their parents would pay for next day. But here the pa jama-dancers had encountered a party of ladies and gentlemen emerging from Toni's ''Dago Hut," where you got fried oysters and crayfish bisque after the show. So the town marshal had set out after them, and they had escaped after a chase, which, as Jerry told it, sounded like the climax of a Griffith movie. It troubled Kip, the sober and responsible one; he didn't want anybody capering about the Tarleton House in pajamas. Pow might take a notion to adopt the fashion!

IX

Roger Chilcote^s train arrived at eight o'clock in the morning, an unlikely hour for a newspaper man ; but Jerry was up, and waiting at the Pennsylvania station. Also several of the boarders managed to find excuse to be sitting about in the office ; not since the Count Rzewuski from Poland had arrived, had there been such a flutter in the Tarleton House. Roger had everything calculated to stir the souls of Southern boarders: ancient lineage, the background of wealth, good looks, and just enough of scandal to supply a dash of

MANHATTAN 81

pepper and spice and all things nice. No one in the Tarleton House could make anything out of the alleged poems, but they had been told of the great editor's opinion, and were ready to believe that a new star was rising in the Southern sky, to shine beside William G. Simms and Francis Ticknor.

The first snow of winter was falling, and through the sifting flakes Taylor Tibbs, on watch at the basement window, saw the taxicab draw up at the curb. Out he popped through the iron-barred gate, gtinning, and showing his prize teeth.

"Mista Roger, suh, how de do, suh, we sho' are glad to see you, suh " Roger got his long form out of the cab, and insisted upon paying the fare, and they went up the steps, Jerry first, then Roger, then Taylor, carrying two big suit-cases of brown leather, and a brown hat-box. Jerry pushed open the door, and there, in the big double parlor called "office,'^ were Pow and Mrs. Tarleton and Kip beaming a welcome, and a collection of boarders m the back- ground, trying to look as if they were not staring.

"This is Mr. Chilcote, Mrs. Tarleton,'* said Jerry; and the weary, worn landlady smiled as if there were still real joy in her heart. "It's nice to have you with us at last. Mr. Tyler has told us so much about you." "Oh, thank you, Mrs. Tarleton," said Roger— in one of those caressing Southern voices that have in them the romance of a long-dead past and the longing for an impossible future. Mrs. Tarleton, lined and haggard with care, worn to skin and gristle by unceasing travel up and down the steps of three houses, felt suddenly as if she was back in her girlhood.

"Mr. Powhatan Tarleton," said Jerry, and Roger shook hands with the "old rascal," as he mentally dubbed Pow at the first glance. You could see the old rascality by the twinkle in Row's eyes and the pouches under them ; by the fun that never failed when he was in company, and the touch of rakish effect he managed to give to his faded attire. "Welcome to our city, suh! This is Yankeeland, so I speak in the fashion of the go-getters!"

"Don't spring it on me too fast," laughed Roger. Welcome me in Southern fashion."

"It's waiting for you," said Pow, with a wink. You shall have it in your room." .

"And here's Kip," said Jerry. Roger turned and gazed into a pair of friendly blue eyes, full of naive adoration.

"Well, Kip!" he said, as if they were long-parted brothers. I got all your messages."

82 THE WET PARADE

"And I got yours. Thank you." Kip wasn't sure if he would be expected to say "Mr. Chilcote," so he said, again, "Thank you."

Roger was going to take them to his heart at the first hour. He continued to smile at the younger man. "So this is what you look like!" he said; and Kip blushed, embarrassed because he knew he didn't look like anything special.

Said Roger, in that voice full of romance : "He has that clear skin and bright complexion which nature presents to anyone at the age of nineteen. He is trusting, and interested in other people — not just as a hotel-clerk trying to make money out of them. He is serious, and easy to tease, because he takes you at your word. If the word is puzzling, he fixes his grey-blue eyes upon you, and on his forehead appear horizontal wrinkles, deeply graven — the marks of responsibility too early. Have I got him right, Jerry?"

"I told you he was a genius. Kip!" laughed Jerry.

Kip was returning the compliment, making his own examination. He saw a demi-god looking down from a height of six feet-two, with golden hair which was permitted to form an aureole about his head, and the strangest golden-brown eyes looking straight into his. Roger stooped a little, as if he did not want to be so far above Kip; he wore gold glasses, a badge of his profession. He carried a soft brown hat, and a rosewood cane, and wore a brown overcoat so soft and smooth that it was like a caress. As Jerry had said, this was no poet in a garret, but an elegant young aristocrat who had come to confer social eclat upon the Muses.

Jerry Tyler saw the guests waiting to be introduced, and decided to spare his friend that ordeal before breakfast. "Mr. Chilcote wants to get cleaned up," he said, to Mrs. Tarleton; and Roger, getting the point, added, "I've been on the train two days and two nights." So, with Mrs. Tarleton leading the way, they went through the doorway which led to number 41, and up one flight of stairs. Pow Tarleton disappeared into his private office, for a purpose which any Southern gentleman could guess.

The second floor front had been put in order. The old walnut furniture had been oiled and rubbed, until every separate curlicue and glued-on carving shone. There were freshly laundered curtains and centre-pieces on tables and dresser, and some pink carnations in a vase, and by the reading-lamp half a dozen volumes by the

MANHATTAN 83

newest creators of the new poetry, selected by the up-to-date Jerry.

"It's not what you have been used to, of course, Mr. Chilcote," said Mrs. Tarleton; "but we will do our best to make you com- fortable."

"It's exactly what I want," declared the poet, decisively.

At the rear of the room were double portieres, and behind these a smaller room, with the brown walnut bed, neatly covered with a new pink spread. Beyond that was a passage containing built-in shelves and closets, and an old-fashioned marble wash-basin. It was a misfortune that the moment of Roger's inspection of the wash-basin should have been chosen for the same purpose by a small cockroach, politely known as a "croton-bug." Impossible to eradi- cate these creatures from houses built before the Civil War; one would only politely ignore them — ^which Roger Chilcote understood without having to be told.

They returned to the front room, where Taylor Tibbs had set down the two suit-cases and unstrapped them. Taylor drew up the curtains at the windows, the ritual established for introducers into rooms, and then stood smiling with anticipation. When Roger reached into his pocket and fished out half a dollar, Taylor's smile revealed his third molar teetfiT, and he went downstairs to "Mista Pow's" private office, according to an injunction previously laid upon him. A couple of minutes later he reappeared at the door of the room, this time preceded by his master.

Roger was occupied in inspecting the books of poetry, and thank- ing Jerry for them ; when in came the descendant of the Big Chief Powhatan, beaming mischief, and behind him the Negro with a tray, decorously covered by a large napkin. "I promised you South- ern hospitality," said Pow. *'Here she are!" The tray was set down, and ceremoniously unveiled, and there was a full decanter, a steaming pitcher of hot water, a small sugar-bowl, a saucer with some slices of lemon, another with some sprigs of green mint, and three clean glasses. "You had a cold ride in the taxi," said Pow. "I assumed you would like it hot."

"Gramercy, mine host !" cried Roger. "You are too kind ! But what magic is this — mint while the snow flies !'*

"A little secret of mine," beamed Pow, busily mixing. **Some day, if you prove yourself wortTiy, I may entrust it to you."

Roger took the glass which Pow held out to him, and turning with a bow and a smile, offered it to Mrs. Tarleton. "Allow mc," he said.

84 THE WET PARADE

"No, thank you," the old lady replied. She did her best to keep her voice pleasant, as became a hostess; but she had an intense repugnance to all drinking, especially on the part of her husband. There was no charm for her in any of his gestures, or his florid phrases of good fellowship.

"My wife and my son have been corrupted by their sojourn in the land of the bluenoses,'' said Pow, to pass off an awkward moment.

"Oh, surely this once, Mrs. Tarleton !" pleaded Roger. "Just to assure me that Fm really welcome ?"

"No, really, Mr. Chilcote, it gives me a headache." Roger ac- cepted the polite fib, and turned to Kip.

"And you?" he asked, gravely.

"No," said Pow's son. "Fm on the wagon." He smiled and tried to seem casual, but in his heart was vexation, because he and his mother were taking the flavor out of the "hot toddy," and spoil- ing Roger's welcome.

But what could Kip do ? Could he break the promise he had long ago made to his mother? He knew the story of her sufferings; she had had a father who was a "drinking-man," before acquiring a husband who was a "drinking-man"; if now her son had begun throwing dice with the devil, as she called it, the poor woman would have cried her eyes out, and lain down and died. No, he could not do it, even "just this once" ! Here and everywhere, he had to be a wet blanket, a kill- joy, a spoil-sport, a mollycoddle.

XI

Mrs. Tarleton made her polite excuses, and retired, closing the door behind her, and leaving poor Kip to hang about on the edge of the scene. He would do the best he could to hide his chagrin; putting on his face a smile of the right degree of amiability, and attempting to increase its degree to match the rising social tempera- ture, while his father and Jerry and Roger laughed and told funny drinking stories. He didn't know what to say, or how even to get out of the room gracefully; nor did they know what to say to him. He was standing there, judging them, self-righteously. Even if he wasn't, they would think he was — which came to the same thing.

Kip was lonely for the companionship of men younger than the boarders of the Tarleton House. He had been looking forward to the arrival of Roger, as a debutante to her first ball. Roger the gay,

MANHATTAN 85

the warm-hearted, the brilliant and versatile ! Roger, who had everything that Kip would have liked to have ! Kip had been dream- ing that Roger would like him, and take him into his literary confi- dence, as he did Jerry ! But now he decided that it could never be. Roger was a man of the world, used to having a good time accord- ing to the ways of the world; Roger was a "Cavalier," while Kip was some kind of freak, a prude, a cold potato, a boiled strawberry — or any other old name that Roger, with his gift of language, would think of !

Roger knew all about the mixing of toddies, and the color and flavor of good whisky. He and Jerry sampled Row's— -which had been got at one of the high-priced hotels for this occasion ; Roger declared it good, but he had something the like of which could never be got in the land of the Yankees. He dug into one of the suit- cases, pulling out silk pajamas and embossed silver toilet-articles, and produced a quart bottle. Pow inspected the label and date, and his eyes opened wide ; Roger assured him it was real, having come out of his grandfather's cellar.

So they mixed a new concoction of this enchanted "water of life," and sampled it with many sips and smackings and exclamations. They held it up to the light, and made wise and learned remarks about it— drinkers' talk, which means so much to the drinkers, and is such inanity to those who don't partake. The liquid fire began to work at once — since it w^as early in the morning, and all of them had empty stomachs. They became lighted up internally, and warmed each to the others ; they were glad of the others' presence, and promised a continuance of this gladness, and discussed how they would drink some more, and where they would get it. Pow would show Roger where to buy English ale on draft, and Roger would send home to New Orleans for a case of real gin, such as they made down there from their black molasses, grown in the "Sugar-bowl of the World."

And meanwhile, Kip continued to stand and reflect upon the sad fate of the non-drinker, in a