LITMIR.BIZ

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had never been seen before. The word sped, and doors and windows blossomed with heads eager to see the swell furs Kid Brady had given his girl. All down the street there were “Oh’s” and “Ah’s” and the reported fabulous sum paid for the sables was passed from lip to lip, increasing as it went. At her right elbow sauntered the Kid with the air of princes. Work had not diminished his love of pomp and show and his passion for the costly and genuine. On a corner they saw a group of the Stovepipe Gang loafing, immaculate. They raised their hats to the Kid’s girl and went on with their calm, unaccented palaver.

      Three blocks behind the admired couple strolled Detective Ransom, of the Central office. Ransom was the only detective on the force who could walk abroad with safety in the Stovepipe district. He was fair dealing and unafraid and went there with the hypothesis that the inhabitants were human. Many liked him, and now and then one would tip off to him something that he was looking for.

      “What’s the excitement down the street?” asked Ransom of a pale youth in a red sweater.

      “Dey’re out rubberin’ at a set of buffalo robes Kid Brady staked his girl to,” answered the youth. “Some say he paid $900 for de skins. Dey’re swell all right enough.”

      “I hear Brady has been working at his old trade for nearly a year,” said the detective. “He doesn’t travel with the gang any more, does he?”

      “He’s workin’, all right,” said the red sweater, “but – say, sport, are you trailin’ anything in the fur line? A job in a plumbin’ shop don’ match wid dem skins de Kid’s girl’s got on.”

      Ransom overtook the strolling couple on an empty street near the river bank. He touched the Kid’s arm from behind.

      “Let me see you a moment, Brady,” he said, quietly. His eye rested for a second on the long fur scarf thrown stylishly back over Molly’s left shoulder. The Kid, with his old-time police hating frown on his face, stepped a yard or two aside with the detective.

      “Did you go to Mrs. Hethcote’s on West 7 – th street yesterday to fix a leaky water pipe?” asked Ransom.

      “I did,” said the Kid. “What of it?”

      “The lady’s $1,000 set of Russian sables went out of the house about the same time you did. The description fits the ones this lady has on.”

      “To h – Harlem with you,”[29] cried the Kid, angrily. “You know I’ve cut out that sort of thing, Ransom. I bought them sables yesterday at –”

      The Kid stopped short.

      “I know you’ve been working straight lately,” said Ransom. “I’ll give you every chance. I’ll go with you where you say you bought the furs and investigate. The lady can wear ’em along with us and nobody’ll be on. That’s fair, Brady.”

      “Come on,” agreed the Kid, hotly. And then he stopped suddenly in his tracks and looked with an odd smile at Molly’s distressed and anxious face.

      “No use,” he said, grimly. “They’re the Hethcote sables, all right. You’ll have to turn ’em over, Moll, but they ain’t too good for you if they cost a million.”

      Molly, with anguish in her face, hung upon the Kid’s arm.

      “Oh, Kiddy, you’ve broke my heart,” she said. “I was so proud of you – and now they’ll do you – and where’s our happiness gone?”

      “Go home,” said the Kid, wildly. “Come on, Ransom – take the furs. Let’s get away from here. Wait a minute – I’ve a good mind to – no, I’ll be d – if I can do it – run along, Moll – I’m ready, Ransom.”

      Around the corner of a lumber-yard came Policeman Kohen on his way to his beat along the river. The detective signed to him for assistance. Kohen joined the group. Ransom explained.

      “Sure,” said Kohen. “I hear about those saples dat vas stole. You say you have dem here?”

      Policeman Kohen took the end of Molly’s late scarf in his hands and looked at it closely.

      “Once,” he said, “I sold furs in Sixth avenue. Yes, dese are saples. Dey come from Alaska. Dis scarf is vort $12 and dis muff – ”

      “Biff!” came the palm of the Kid’s powerful hand upon the policeman’s mouth. Kohen staggered and rallied. Molly screamed. The detective threw himself upon Brady and with Kohen’s aid got the nippers on his wrist.

      “The scarf is vort $12 and the muff is vort $9,” persisted the policeman. “Vot is dis talk about $1,000 saples?”

      The Kid sat upon a pile of lumber and his face turned dark red.

      “Correct, Solomonski[30]!” he declared, viciously. “I paid $21.50 for the set. I’d rather have got six months and not have told it. Me, the swell guy that wouldn’t look at anything cheap! I’m a plain bluffer. Moll – my salary couldn’t spell sables in Russian.”

      Molly cast herself upon his neck.

      “What do I care for all the sables and money in the world,” she cried. “It’s my Kiddy I want. Oh, you dear, stuck-up, crazy blockhead!”

      “You can take dose nippers off,” said Kohen to the detective. “Before I leaf de station de report come in dat de lady vind her saples – hanging in her wardrobe. Young man, I excuse you dat punch in my vace – dis von time.”

      Ransom handed Molly her furs. Her eyes were smiling upon the Kid. She wound the scarf and threw the end over her left shoulder with a duchess’ grace.

      “A gouple of young vools,” said Policeman Kohen to Ransom; “come on away.”

      Sisters of the Golden Circle

      The Rubberneck Auto[31] was about ready to start. The merry top-riders had been assigned to their seats by the gentlemanly conductor. The sidewalk was blockaded with sightseers who had gathered to stare at sightseers, justifying the natural law that every creature on earth is preyed upon by some other creature.

      The megaphone man raised his instrument of torture; the inside of the great automobile began to thump and throb like the heart of a coffee drinker. The top-riders nervously clung to the seats; the old lady from Valparaiso, Indiana, shrieked to be put ashore. But, before a wheel turns, listen to a brief preamble through the cardiaphone[32], which shall point out to you an object of interest on life’s sightseeing tour.

      Swift and comprehensive is the recognition of white man for white man in African wilds; instant and sure is the spiritual greeting between mother and babe; unhesitatingly do master and dog commune across the slight gulf between animal and man; immeasurably quick and sapient are the brief messages between one and one’s beloved. But all these instances set forth only slow and groping interchange of sympathy and thought beside one other instance which the Rubberneck coach shall disclose. You shall learn (if you have not learned already) what two beings of all earth’s living inhabitants most quickly look into each other’s hearts and souls when they meet face to face.

      The gong whirred, and the Glaring-at-Gotham car moved majestically upon its instructive tour.

      On the highest, rear seat was James Williams, of Cloverdale, Missouri, and his Bride.

      Capitalise it, friend typo – that last word – word of words in the epiphany of life and love. The scent of the flowers, the booty of the bee, the primal drip of spring waters, the overture of the lark, the twist of lemon peel on the cocktail of creation – such is the bride. Holy is the wife; revered the mother; galliptious is the summer girl – but the bride is the certified check among the wedding presents that the gods send in when man is married to mortality.

      The car glided up the Golden Way. On the bridge of the great cruiser the captain stood, trumpeting the sights of the big city to his passengers. Wide-mouthed and open-eared, they heard the sights of the metropolis thundered forth to their eyes. Confused,

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