LITMIR.BIZ

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no,” said Chalmers, earnestly, “you interest me very much. Did all of your portraits reveal some unpleasant trait, or were there some that did not suffer from the ordeal of your peculiar brush?”

      “Some? Yes,” said Plumer. “Children generally, a good many women and a sufficient number of men. All people aren’t bad, you know. When they were all right the pictures were all right. As I said, I don’t explain it, but I’m telling you facts.”

      On Chalmers’s writing-table lay the photograph that he had received that day in the foreign mail. Ten minutes later he had Plumer at work making a sketch from it in pastels. At the end of an hour the artist rose and stretched wearily.

      “It’s done,” he yawned. “You’ll excuse me for being so long. I got interested in the job. Lordy! but I’m tired. No bed last night, you know. Guess it’ll have to be good night now, O Commander of the Faithful!”

      Chalmers went as far as the door with him and slipped some bills into his hand.

      “Oh! I’ll take ’em,” said Plumer. “All that’s included in the fall. Thanks. And for the very good dinner. I shall sleep on feathers to-night and dream of Bagdad. I hope it won’t turn out to be a dream in the morning. Farewell, most excellent Caliph!”

      Again Chalmers paced restlessly upon his rug. But his beat lay as far from the table whereon lay the pastel sketch as the room would permit. Twice, thrice, he tried to approach it, but failed. He could see the dun and gold and brown of the colors, but there was a wall about it built by his fears that kept him at a distance. He sat down and tried to calm himself. He sprang up and rang for Phillips.

      “There is a young artist in this building,” he said. “ – a Mr. Reineman – do you know which is his apartment?”

      “Top floor, front, sir,” said Phillips.

      “Go up and ask him to favor me with his presence here for a few minutes.”

      Reineman came at once. Chalmers introduced himself.

      “Mr. Reineman,” said he, “there is a little pastel sketch on yonder table. I would be glad if you will give me your opinion of it as to its artistic merits and as a picture.”

      The young artist advanced to the table and took up the sketch. Chalmers half turned away, leaning upon the back of a chair.

      “How – do – you find it?” he asked, slowly.

      “As a drawing,” said the artist, “I can’t praise it enough. It’s the work of a master – bold and fine and true. It puzzles me a little; I haven’t seen any pastel work near as good in years.”

      “The face, man – the subject – the original – what would you say of that?”

      “The face,” said Reineman, “is the face of one of God’s own angels. May I ask who —”

      “My wife!” shouted Chalmers, wheeling and pouncing upon the astonished artist, gripping his hand and pounding his back. “She is traveling in Europe. Take that sketch, boy, and paint the picture of your life from it and leave the price to me.”

      The Rubáiyát[248] of a Scotch[249] Highball

      This document is intended to strike somewhere between a temperance lecture and the “Bartender’s Guide.” Relative to the latter, drink shall swell the theme and be set forth in abundance. Agreeably to the former, not an elbow shall be crooked.

      Bob Babbitt was “off the stuff.” Which means – as you will discover by referring to the unabridged dictionary of Bohemia[250] – that he had “cut out the booze[251];” that he was “on the water wagon.” The reason for Bob’s sudden attitude of hostility toward the “demon rum” – as the white ribboners miscall whiskey (see the “Bartender’s Guide”), should be of interest to reformers and saloon-keepers.

      There is always hope for a man who, when sober, will not concede or acknowledge that he was ever drunk. But when a man will say (in the apt words of the phrase-distiller), “I had a beautiful skate on last night,” you will have to put stuff in his coffee as well as pray for him.

      One evening on his way home Babbitt dropped in at the Broadway bar that he liked best. Always there were three or four fellows there from the downtown offices whom he knew. And then there would be high-balls and stories, and he would hurry home to dinner a little late but feeling good, and a little sorry for the poor Standard Oil Company. On this evening as he entered he heard someone say: “Babbitt was in last night as full as a boiled owl.”

      Babbitt walked to the bar, and saw in the mirror that his face was as white as chalk. For the first time he had looked Truth in the eyes. Others had lied to him; he had dissembled with himself. He was a drunkard, and had not known it. What he had fondly imagined was a pleasant exhilaration had been maudlin intoxication. His fancied wit had been drivel; his gay humors nothing but the noisy vagaries of a sot[252]. But, never again!

      “A glass of seltzer,” he said to the bartender.

      A little silence fell upon the group of his cronies, who had been expecting him to join them.

      “Going off the stuff, Bob?” one of them asked politely and with more formality than the highballs ever called forth.

      “Yes,” said Babbitt.

      Some one of the group took up the unwashed thread of a story he had been telling; the bartender shoved over a dime and a nickel[253] change from the quarter, ungarnished with his customary smile; and Babbitt walked out.

      Now, Babbitt had a home and a wife – but that is another story. And I will tell you that story, which will show you a better habit and a worse story than you could find in the man who invented the phrase.

      It began away up in Sullivan County[254], where so many rivers and so much trouble begins – or begin; how would you say that? It was July, and Jessie was a summer boarder at the Mountain Squint Hotel, and Bob, who was just out of college, saw her one day – and they were married in September. That’s the tabloid novel – one swallow of water, and it’s gone.

      But those July days!

      Let the exclamation point expound it, for I shall not. For particulars you might read up on “Romeo and Juliet,” and Abraham Lincoln’s[255] thrilling sonnet about “You can fool some of the people,” &c., and Darwin’s[256] works.

      But one thing I must tell you about. Both of them were mad over Omar’s Rubaiyat. They knew every verse of the old bluffer by heart – not consecutively, but picking ’em out here and there as you fork the mushrooms in a fifty-cent steak à la Bordelaise. Sullivan County is full of rocks and trees; and Jessie used to sit on them, and – please be good – used to sit on the rocks; and Bob had a way of standing behind her with his hands over her shoulders holding her hands,

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