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The Epic of the Wheat 
 
 THE PIT 
 
 A STORY OF CHICAGO 
 
 FRANK NORRIS 
 
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 ^ 0 4 ^ ^ 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & CO. 
 1905 
 
Copyright, 1902, by 
 CURTIS PUBLISHING CO- 
 
 Copyright, 1903, by 
 DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & CO. 
 
 Published February^ igo% 
 
 Jlrfnltli is ^anfjattan press, 
 Ntia gorft, S. S. 9. 
 
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 DEDICATED TO MY BEOTHEE 
 
 Cljorles Oilman Worria 
 
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 ESr MEMOEY OF CEETAIN LAMENTABLE TALES OF THE 
 BOUND (DINING-EOOM) TABLE HEEOES ; OP THE EPIC OP 
 THE PEWTEE PLATOONS, AND THE EOMANCE-CYCLE OP 
 « GASTON LE FOX," WHICH WE INVENTED, MAINTAINED, 
 AND FOUND MAEVELLOUS AT A TIME WHEN WE BOTH 
 WEEE BOYS. 
 
 D 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2017 with funding from 
 Duke University Libraries 
 
 https://archive.org/details/pit02norr 
 
|)rinct:pal Cl)tiracters in tlje Noti^I 
 
 Curtis Jadwin, capitalist and speculator. 
 Sheldon Corthell, an artist. 
 
 Landry Court, Jjroker’s clerk. 
 
 Samuel Gretry, a broker. 
 
 Charles Cressler, a dealer in grain. 
 
 Mrs. Cressler, his wife. 
 
 Laura Dearborn, proUgd of Mrs. Cressler. 
 Page Dearborn, her sister. 
 
 Mrs. Emily Wessels, aunt of Laura and Page. 
 
The Trilogy of The Epic of the Wheat includes the 
 following novels : 
 
 The Octopus, a Story of California. 
 
 The Pit, a Story of Chicago. 
 
 The Wolf, a Story of Europe. 
 
 These novels, while forming a series, will be in no way 
 connected with each other save only in their relation to 
 (i) the production, (2) the distribution, (3) the consump- 
 tion of American wheat. When complete, they will form 
 the story of a crop of wheat from the time of its sowing 
 as seed in California to the time of its consumption as 
 bread in a village of Western Europe. 
 
 The first novel, “The Octopus,” deals with the war be- 
 tween the wheat grower and the Railroad Trust; the 
 second, “ The Pit,” is the fictitious narrative of a 
 “ deal ” in the Chicago wheat pit ; while the third, “ The 
 Wolf,” will probably have for its pivotal episode the 
 relieving of a famine in an Old World community. 
 
 The author’s most sincere thanks for assistance ren- 
 dered in the preparation of the following novel are due 
 to Mr. G. D. Moulson of New York, whose unwearied 
 patience and untiring kindness helped him to the better 
 understanding of the technical difficulties of a very 
 complicated subject. And more especially he herewith 
 acknowledges his unmeasured obligation and gratitude 
 to Her Who Helped the Most of All. 
 
 F. N. 
 
 New York, 
 
 June 4. iQOi. 
 
• THE PIT 
 
 A STORY OF CHICAGO 
 
THE PIT 
 
 / 
 
 I ' 
 
 At eight o’clock in the inner vestibule of the Audi- 
 torium Theatre by the window of the box office, Laura 
 Dearborn, her younger sister Page, and their aunt — 
 Aunt Wess’ — were still waiting for the rest of the 
 theatre-party to appear. A great, slow-moving press 
 of men and women in evening dress filled the vestibule 
 from one wall to another. A confused murmur of talk 
 and the shuffling of many feet arose on all sides, 
 while from time to time, when the outside and inside 
 doors of the entrance chanced to be open simultane- 
 ously, a sudden draught of air gushed in, damp, 
 glacial, and edged with the penetrating keenness of a 
 Chicago evening at the end of February. 
 
 The Italian Grand Opera Company gave one of the 
 most popular pieces of its repertoire on that particular 
 night, and the Cresslers had invited the two sisters 
 and their aunt to share their box with them. It had 
 been arranged that the party should assemble in the 
 Auditorium vestibule at a quarter of eight; but by 
 now the quarter was gone and the Cresslers still 
 failed to arrive. 
 
 “ I don’t see,” murmured Laura anxiously for 
 the last time, “ what can be keeping them. Are 
 you sure Page that Mrs. Cressler meant here — ^in- 
 side?” 
 
4 
 
 The Pit 
 
 She was a tall young girl of about twenty-two or 
 three, holding herself erect and with fine dignity. Even 
 beneath the opera cloak it was easy to infer that her 
 neck and shoulders were beautiful. Her almost ex- 
 treme slenderness was, however, her characteristic ; 
 the curves of her figure, the contour of her shoulders, 
 the swell of hip and breast were all low; from head 
 to foot one could discover no pronounced salience. 
 Yet there was no trace, no suggestion of angularity. 
 She was slender as a willow shoot is slender — and 
 equally graceful, equally erect. 
 
 Next to this charming tenuity, perhaps her pale- 
 ness was her most noticeable trait. But it was not a 
 paleness of lack of colour. Laura Dearborn’s pallour 
 was in itself a colour. It was a tint rather than a 
 shade, like ivory; a warm white, blending into an ex- 
 quisite, delicate brownness towards the throat. Set 
 in the middle of this paleness of brow and cheek, her 
 deep brown eyes glowed lambent and intense. They 
 were not large, but in some indefinable way they were 
 important. It was very natural to speak of her eyes, 
 and in speaking to her, her friends always found that 
 they must look squarely into their pupils. And all this 
 beauty of pallid face and brown eyes was crowned 
 by, and sharply contrasted with, the intense black- 
 ness of her hair, abundant, thick, extremely heavy, 
 continually coruscating with sombre, murky reflec- 
 tions, tragic, in a sense vaguely portentous, — the 
 coiffure of a heroine of romance, doomed to dark 
 crises. 
 
 On this occasion at the side of the topmost coil, 
 a white aigrette scintillated and trembled with her 
 every movement. She was unquestionably beautiful. 
 Her mouth was a little large, the lips firm set, and one 
 would not have expected that she would smile easily; 
 
A Story of Chicago 5 
 
 in fact, the general expression of her face was rather 
 serious, 
 
 “ Perhaps,” continued Laura, “ they would look for 
 us outside.” But Page shook her head. She was five 
 years younger than Laura, just turned seventeen. Her 
 hair, dressed high for the first time this night, was 
 brown. But Page’s beauty was no less marked than 
 her sister’s. The seriousness of her expression, how- 
 ever, was more noticeable. At times it amounted to 
 undeniable gravity. She was straight, and her figure, 
 all immature as yet, exhibited hardly any softer outlines 
 than that of a boy. 
 
 “ No, no,” she said, in answer to Laura's question. 
 “ They would come in here ; they wouldn’t wait out- 
 side — not on such a cold night as this. Don’t you think 
 so. Aunt Wess ’ ? ” 
 
 But Mrs. Wessels, a lean, middle-aged little lady, 
 with a flat, pointed nose, had no suggestions to offer. 
 She disengaged herself from any responsibility in the 
 situation and, while waiting, found a vague amuse- 
 ment in counting the number of people who filtered 
 in single file through the wicketwhere the ticketswere 
 presented. A great, stout gentleman in evening dress, 
 perspiring, his cravatte limp, stood here, tearing the 
 checks from the tickets, and without ceasing, main- 
 taining a continuous outcry that dominated the mur- 
 mur of the throng : 
 
 “ Have your tickets ready, please ! Have your 
 tickets ready.” 
 
 “ Such a crowd,” murmured Page. “ Did you ever 
 see — and every one you ever knew or heard of. And 
 such toilettes ! ” 
 
 With every instant the number of people in- 
 creased; progress became impossible, except an inch 
 at a time. The women were, almost without excep- 
 
6 
 
 The Pit 
 
 tion, in light-coloured gowns, white, pale blue, Nile 
 green, and pink, while over these costumes were 
 thrown opera cloaks and capes of astonishing com- 
 plexity and elaborateness. Nearly all were bare- 
 headed, and nearly all wore aigrettes ; a score of these, 
 a hundred of them, nodded and vibrated with an inces- 
 sant agitation over the heads of the crowd and flashed 
 like mica flakes as the wearers moved. Everywhere 
 the eye was arrested by the luxury of stuffs, the bril- 
 liance and delicacy of fabrics, laces as white and soft 
 as froth, crisp, shining silks, suave satins, heavy gleam- 
 ing velvets, and brocades and plushes, nearly all of 
 them white — violently so — dazzling and splendid under 
 the blaze of the electrics. The gentlemen, in long, 
 black overcoats, and satin mufflers, and opera hats ; 
 their hands under the elbows of their women-folk, 
 urged or guided them forward, distressed, pre- 
 occupied, adjuring their parties to keep together; in 
 their white-gloved fingers they held their tickets 
 ready. For all the icy blasts that burst occasionally 
 through the storm doors, the vestibule was uncom- 
 fortably warm, and into this steam-heated atmos- 
 phere a multitude of heavj" odours exhaled — the scent 
 of crushed flowers, of perfume, of sachet, and 
 even — occasionally — the strong smell of damp seal- 
 skin. 
 
 Outside it was bitterly cold. All day a freezing 
 wind had blown from off the Lake, and since five in the 
 afternoon a fine powder of snow had been falling. The 
 coachmen on the boxes of the carriages that succeeded 
 one another in an interminable line before the en- 
 trance of the theatre, were swathed to the eyes in 
 furs. The spume and froth froze on the bits of the 
 horses, and the carriage wheels crunching through 
 the dry, frozen snow gave off a shrill staccato whine. 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 7 
 
 Yet for all this, a crowd had collected about the awn- 
 ing on the sidewalk, and even upon the opposite side of 
 the street, peeping and peering from behind the broad 
 shoulders of policemen — a crowd of miserables, shiver- 
 ing in rags and tattered comforters, who found, never- 
 theless, an unexplainable satisfaction in watching this 
 prolonged defile of millionaires. 
 
 So great was the concourse of teams, that two blocks 
 distant from the theatre they were obliged to fall into 
 line, advancing only at intervals, and from door to 
 door of, the carriages thus immobilised ran a score of 
 young men, their arms encumbered with pamphlets, 
 shouting : “ Score books, score books and librettos ; 
 score books with photographs of all the artists.” 
 
 However, in thev-estibule the press was thinning out. 
 It was understood that the overture had begun. Other 
 people who were waiting like Laura and her sister 
 had been joined by their friends and had gone inside. 
 Laura, for whom this opera night had been an event, 
 a thing desired and anticipated with all the eager- 
 ness of a girl who had lived for twenty-two years in 
 a second-class town of central Massachusetts, was in 
 great distress. She had never seen Grand Opera, she 
 would not have missed a note, and now she was in a 
 fair way to lose the whole overture. 
 
 “ Oh, dear,” she cried. “ Isn’t it too bad. I can’t 
 imagine why they don’t come.” 
 
 Page, more metropolitan, her keenness of apprecia- 
 tion a little lost by two years of city life and fashion- 
 able schooling, tried to reassure her. 
 
 “ You won’t lose much,” she said. “ The air of the 
 overture is repeated in the first act — I’ve heard it once 
 before.” 
 
 “ If we even see the first act,” mourned Laura. She 
 scanned the faces of the late comers anxiously. No- 
 
8 
 
 The Pit 
 
 body seemed to mind being late. Even some of the 
 other people who were waiting, chatted calmly among 
 themselves. Directly behind them two men, their 
 faces close together, elaborated an interminable con- 
 versation, of which from time to time they could over- 
 hear a phrase or two. 
 
 “ and I guess he’ll do well if he settles for thirty 
 
 cents on the dollar. I tell you, dear boy, it was a 
 smash ! ” 
 
 “ Never should have tried to swing a comer. 
 
 The short interest was too small and the visible 
 supply was too great.” 
 
 Page nudged her sister and whispered ; “ That’s 
 
 the Helmick failure they’re talking about, those men. 
 Landry Court told me all about it. Mr. Helmick had 
 a corner in corn, and he failed to-day, or will fail soon, 
 or something.” 
 
 But Laura, preoccupied with looking for the Cress- 
 lers, hardly listened. Aunt Wess’, whose count was 
 confused by all these figures murmured just behind her, 
 began over again, her lips silently forming the words, 
 “ sixty-one, sixty-two, and two is sixty-four.” Behind 
 them the voice continued : 
 
 “ They say Porteous will peg the market at twenty- 
 six.” 
 
 “ Well he ought to. Corn is worth that.” 
 
 “ Never saw such a call for margins in my life. 
 
 Some of the houses called eight cents.” 
 
 Page turned to Mrs. Wessels: “By the way. Aunt 
 Wess ’ ; look at that man there by the box office win- 
 dow, the one with his back towards us, the one with 
 his hands in his overcoat pockets. Isn’t that Mr. 
 Jadwin ? The gentleman we are going to meet to- 
 night. See who I mean?” 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 9 
 
 “Who? Mr. Jadwin? I don’t know. I don’t 
 know, child. I never saw him, you know.” 
 
 “ Well I think it is he,” continued Page. “ He was 
 to be with our party to-night. I heard Mrs. Cressler 
 say she would ask him. That’s Mr. Jadwin, I’m sure. 
 He’s waiting for them, too.” 
 
 “ Oh, then ask him about it. Page,” exclaimed 
 Laura. “We’re missing everything.” 
 
 But Page shook her head: 
 
 “ I only met him once, ages ago ; he wouldn’t know 
 me. It was at the Cresslers, and we just said ‘How 
 do you do.’ And then maybe it isn’t Mr. Jadwin.” 
 
 “Oh, I wouldn’t bother, girls,” said Mrs. Wessels. 
 
 “ It’s all right. They’ll be here in a minute. I don’t 
 believe the curtain has gone up yet.” 
 
 But the man of whom they spoke turned around j 
 at the moment and cast a glance about the vestibule. i 
 They saw a gentleman of an indeterminate age — 
 judged by his face he might as well have been forty 
 as thirty-five. A heavy mustache touched with grey 
 covered his lips. The eyes were twinkling and good- 
 tempered. Between his teeth he held an unlighted 
 cigar. 
 
 “ It is Mr. Jadwin,” murmured Page, looking 
 quickly away. “ But he don’t recognise me.” 
 
 Laura also averted her eyes. 
 
 “ Well, why not go right up to him and introduce 
 yourself, or recall yourself to him? ” she hazarded. 
 
 “ Oh, Laura, I couldn’t,” gasped Page. “ I wouldn’t 
 for worlds.” 
 
 “Couldn’t she. Aunt Wess’?” appealed Laura. 
 “Wouldn’t it be all right?” 
 
 But Mrs. Wessels, ignoring forms and customs, 
 was helpless. Again she withdrew from any respon- 
 sibility in the matter. 
 
lO 
 
 The Pit 
 
 “ I don’t know anything about it,” she answered. 
 “ But Page oughtn’t to be bold.” 
 
 “ Oh, bother ; it isn’t that,” protested Page. “ But 
 it’s just because — I don’t know, I don’t want to — ■ 
 Laura, I should just die,” she exclaimed with ab- 
 rupt irrelevance, “and besides, how would that help 
 any? she added. 
 
 “Well, we’re just going to miss it all,” declared 
 Laura decisively. There were actual tears in her 
 eyes. “ And I had looked forward to it so.” 
 
 “ Well,” hazarded Aunt Wess’, “ you girls can do 
 just as you please. Only I wouldn’t be bold.” 
 
 “ Well, would it be bold if Page, or if — if I were to 
 speak to him? We’re going to meet him anyways in 
 just a few minutes.” 
 
 “ Better wait, hadn’t you, Laura,” said Aunt Wess’, 
 “ and see. Maybe he’ll come up and speak to us.” 
 
 “ Oh, as if ! ” contradicted Laura. “ He don’t 
 know us, — ^just as Page says. And if he did, he 
 wouldn’t. He wouldn’t think it polite.” 
 
 “ Then I guess, girlie, it wouldn’t be polite for you.” 
 
 “ I think it would,” she answered. “ I think it 
 would be a woman’s place. If he’s a gentleman, he 
 would feel that he just couldn't speak first. I’m going 
 to do it,” she announced suddenly. 
 
 “ Just as you think best, Laura,” said her aunt. 
 
 But nevertheless Laura did not move, and another 
 five minutes went by. 
 
 Page took advantage of the interval to tell Laura 
 about Jadwin. He was very rich, but a bachelor, and 
 had made his money in Chicago real estate. Some of his 
 holdings in the business quarter of the city were enor- 
 mous ; Landry Court had told her about him. Jadwin, 
 unlike Mr. Cressler, was not opposed to speculation. 
 Though not a member of the Board of Trade, he never- 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 n 
 
 theless at very long intervals took part in a “ deal ” in 
 wheat, or corn, or provisions. He believed that all cor- 
 ners were doomed to failure, however, and had pre- 
 dicted Helmick’s collapse six months ago. He had in- 
 fluence, was well known to all Chicago people, what he 
 said carried weight, flnanciers consulted him, promoters 
 sought his friendship, his name on the board o direc- 
 tors of a company was an all-sufflcing endorsement ; in 
 a word, a “ strong ” man. 
 
 “ I can’t understand,” exclaimed Laura distrait, re- 
 ferring to the delay on the part of the Cresslers. 
 “ This was the night, and this was the place, and it 
 is long past the time. We could telephone to the 
 house, you know,” she said, struck with an idea, 
 “ and see if they’ve started, or what has happened.” 
 
 “ I don’t know — I don’t know,” murmured Mrs. 
 Wessels vaguely. No one seemed ready to act upon 
 Laura’s suggestion, and again the minutes passed. 
 
 “ I’m going,” declared Laura again, looking at the 
 other two, as if to demand what they had to say 
 against the idea. 
 
 “ I just couldn’t,” declared Page flatly. 
 
 “Well,” continued Laura, “ I’ll wait just three min- 
 utes more, and then if the Cresslers are not here I 
 will speak to him. It seems to me to be perfectly 
 natural, and not at all bold.” 
 
 She waited three minutes, and the Cresslers still 
 failing to appear, temporised yet further, for the twen- 
 tieth time repeating : 
 
 “ I don’t see — I can’t understand.” 
 
 Then, abruptly drawing her cape about her, she 
 crossed the vestibule and came up to Jadwin. 
 
 As she appproached she saw him catch her eye. 
 Then, as he appeared to understan-d that this young 
 woman was about to speak to him, she noticed an 
 
12 
 
 The Pit 
 
 expression of suspicion, almost of distrust, come into 
 his face. No doubt he knew nothing of this other 
 party who were to join the Cresslers in the vestibule. 
 Why should this girl speak to him? Something had 
 gone wrong, and the instinct of the man, no longer 
 very young, to keep out of strange young women’s 
 troubles betrayed itself in the uneasy glance that he 
 shot at her from under his heavy eyebrows. But the 
 look faded as quickly as it had come. Laura guessed 
 that he had decided that in such a place as this he 
 need have no suspicions. He took the cigar fom his 
 mouth, and she, immensely relieved, realised that she 
 had to do with a man who was a gentleman. Full of 
 trepidation as she had been in crossing the vestibule, 
 she was quite mistress of herself when the instant 
 came for her to speak, and it was in a steady voice 
 and without embarrassment that she said: 
 
 “ I beg your pardon, but I believe this is Mr. Jad- 
 win.” 
 
 He took off his hat, evidently a little nonplussed 
 that she should know his name, and by now she was 
 ready even to browbeat him a little should it be nec- 
 essary. 
 
 “ Yes, yes,” he answered, now much more confused 
 than she, “ my name is Jadwin.” 
 
 “ I believe,” continued Laura steadily, “ we were 
 all to be in the same party to-night with the Cresslers. 
 But they don’t seem to come, and we — my sister and 
 my aunt and I — don’t know what to do.” 
 
 She saw that he was embarrassed, convinced, and 
 the knowledge that she controlled the little situation, 
 that she could command him, restored her all her 
 equanimity. 
 
 “ My name is Miss Dearborn,” she continued. 
 “ I believe you know my sister Page.” 
 
A Story of Chicago 13 
 
 By some trick of manner she managed to convey 
 to him the impression that if he did not know her sis- 
 ter Page, that if for one instant he should deem her 
 to be bold, he would offer a mortal affront. She had 
 not yet forgiven him that stare of suspicion when 
 first their eyes had met; he should pay her for that 
 yet. 
 
 “ Miss Page, — your sister, — Miss Page Dearborn ? 
 Certainly I know her,” he answered. “ And you 
 have been waiting, too? What a pity!” And he 
 permitted himself the awkwardness of adding : “ I did 
 not know that you were to be of our party.” 
 
 “ No,” returned Laura upon the instant, “ I did not 
 know you were to be one of us to-night — until Page 
 told me.” She accented the pronouns a little, but it 
 was enough for him to know that he had been re- 
 buked. How, he could not just say; and for what it 
 was impossible for him at the moment to determine; 
 and she could see that he began to experience a cer- 
 tain distress, was beating a retreat, was ceding place 
 to her. Who was she, then, this tall and pretty 
 young woman, with the serious, unsmiling face, who 
 was so perfectly at ease, and who hustled him about 
 and made him feel as though he were to blame for 
 the Cresslers’ non-appearance; as though it was his 
 fault that she must wait in the draughty vestibule. 
 She had a great air with her; how had he offended 
 her? If he had introduced himself to her, had 
 forced himself upon her, she could not be more lofty, 
 more reserved. 
 
 “ I thought perhaps you might telephone,” she 
 observed. 
 
 “ They haven’t a telephone, unfortunately,” he 
 answered. 
 
 “Ohl” 
 
The Pit 
 
 H 
 
 This was quite the last slight, the Cresslers had 
 not a telephone! He was to blame for that, too, it 
 seemed. At his wits’ end, he entertained for an in- 
 stant the notion of dashing out into the street in a 
 search for a messenger boy, who would take a note 
 to Cressler and set him right again ; and his agitation 
 was not allayed when Laura, in frigid tones, de- 
 clared : 
 
 “ It seems to me that something might be done.” 
 
 “ I don’t know,” he replied helplessly. “ I guess 
 there’s nothing to be done but just wait. They are 
 sure to be along.” 
 
 In the background. Page and Mrs. Wessels had 
 watched the interview, and had guessed that Laura 
 was none too gracious. Always anxious that her sis- 
 ter should make a good impression, the little girl was 
 now in great distress. 
 
 “ Laura is putting on her ‘ grand manner,’ ” she 
 lamented. “ I just know how she’s talking. The 
 man will hate the very sound of her name all the rest 
 of his life.” Then all at once she uttered a joyful ex- 
 clamation : “ At last, at last,” she cried, “ and about 
 time, too 1 ” 
 
 The Cresslers and the rest of the party — two young 
 men — had appeared, and Page and her aunt came up 
 just in time to hear Mrs. Cressler — a fine old lady, in 
 a wonderful ermine-trimmed cape, whose hair was 
 powdered — exclaim at the top of her voice, as if the 
 mere declaration of fact was final, absolutely the last 
 word upon the subject, “The bridge was turned!” 
 
 The Cresslers lived on the North Side. The inci- 
 dent seemed to be closed with the abruptness of a 
 slammed door. 
 
 Page and Aunt Wess’ were introduced to Jadwin, 
 who was particular to announce that he remem- 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 15 
 
 bered the young girl perfectly. The two young men 
 were already acquainted with the Dearborn sisters 
 and Mrs. Wessels. Page and Laura knew one of 
 them Well enough to address him familiarly by his 
 Christian name. 
 
 This was Landry Court, a young fellow just turned 
 twenty-three, who was “ connected with ” the staff of 
 the great brokerage firm of Gretry, Converse and Co. 
 He was astonishingly good-looking, small-made, wiry, 
 alert, nervous, debonair, with blond hair and dark eyes 
 that snapped like a terrier’s. He made friends almost 
 at first sight, and was one of those fortunate few who 
 were favoured equally of men and women. The healthi- 
 ness of his eye and skin persuaded to a belief in the 
 healthiness of his nfiind; and, in fact, Landry was as 
 clean without as within. He was frank, open-hearted, 
 full of fine sentiments and exaltations and enthusiasms. 
 Until he was eighteen he had cherished an ambition to 
 become the President of the United States. 
 
 “Yes, yes,” he said to Laura, “the bridge was 
 turned. It was an imposition. We had to wait 
 while they let three tows through. I think two at a 
 time is as much as is legal. And we had to wait for 
 three. Yes, sir; three, think of that! I shall look 
 into that to-morrow. Yes, sir; don’t you be afraid of 
 that. I’ll look into it.” He nodded his head with 
 profound seriousness. 
 
 “Well,” announced Mr. Cressler, marshalling the 
 party, “ shall we go in ? I’m afraid, Laura, we’ve 
 missed the overture.” 
 
 Smiling, she shrugged her shoulders, while they 
 moved to the wicket, as if to say that it could not be 
 helped now. 
 
 Cressler, tall, lean, bearded, and stoop-shouldered, 
 belonging to the same physical type that includes 
 
36 
 
 The Pit 
 
 Lincoln — the type of the Middle West — was almost 
 a second father to the parentless Dearborn girlsi In 
 Massachusetts, thirty years before this time, he nad 
 been a farmer, and the miller Dearborn used to grind 
 his grain regularly. The two had been boys together, 
 had always remained fast friends, almost brothers. 
 Then, in the years just before the War, had come 
 the great movement westward, and Cressler had been 
 one of those to leave an “ abandoned ” New England 
 farm behind him, and with his family emigrate toward 
 the Mississippi. He had come to Sangamon County 
 in Illinois. For a time he tried wheat-raising, until 
 the War, which skied the prices of all food-stuffs, had 
 made him — for those days — a rich man. Giving up 
 farming, he came to live in Chicago, bought a seat on 
 the Board of Trade, and in a few years was a million- 
 aire. At the time of the Turco-Russian War he and 
 two Milwaukee men had succeeded in cornering all 
 the visible supply of spring wheat. At the end of the 
 thirtieth day of the corner the clique figured out its 
 profits at close upon a million ; a week later it looked 
 like a million and a half. Then the three lost their 
 heads; they held the corner just a fraction of a month 
 too long, and when the time came that the three were 
 forced to take profits, they found that they were unable 
 to close out their immense holdings without breaking 
 the price. In two days wheat that they had held at 
 a dollar and ten cents collapsed to sixty. The two 
 Milwaukee men were ruined, and two-thirds of Cress- 
 ler’s immense fortune vanished like a whiff of smoke. 
 
 But he had learned his lesson. Never since then 
 had he speculated. Though keeping his seat on the 
 Board, he had confined himself to commission trad- 
 ing, uninfluenced by fluctuations in the market. 
 And he was never wearied of protesting against the 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 17 
 
 evil and the danger of trading in margins. Specula- 
 tion he abhorred as the small-pox, believing it to be 
 impossible to corner grain by any means or under any 
 circumstances*^ He was accustomed to say : “ It 
 can’t be done ; first, for the reason that there is a great 
 harvest of wheat somewhere in the world for every 
 month in the year; and, second, because the smart 
 man who runs the corner has every other smart man 
 in the world against him. And, besides, it’s wrong; 
 the world’s food should not be at the mercy of the 
 Chicago wheat pit.” 
 
 As the party filed in through the wicket, the other 
 young man who had come with Landry Court man- 
 aged to place himself next to Laura. Meeting her 
 eyes, he murmured: 
 
 “ Ah, you did not wear them after all. My poor 
 little flowers.” 
 
 But she showed him a single American Beauty, 
 pinned to the shoulder of her gown beneath her cape. 
 
 ‘|_Yes, Mr, -Corthell,” she answered, “one. I tried 
 to select the prettiest, and I think I succeeded — don’t 
 you? It was hard to choose.” 
 
 “ Since you have worn it, it is the prettiest,” he 
 answered. 
 
 He was a slightly built man of about twenty-eight 
 or thirty ; dark, wearing a small, pointed beard, and a 
 mustache that he brushed away from his lips like a 
 Frenchman. By profession he was an artist, devot- 
 ing himself more especially to the designing of stained 
 windows. In this, his talent was indisputable. But 
 he was by no means dependent upon his profession 
 for a living, his parents — long since dead — having left 
 him to the enjoyment of a very considerable fortune. 
 He had a beautiful studio in the Fine Arts Building, 
 where he held receptions once every two months, or 
 
 2 
 
i8 
 
 ihe Pii 
 
 whenever he had a fine piece of glass to expose. He 
 had travelled, read, studied, occasionally written, and 
 in matters pertaining to the colouring and fusing of 
 glass was cited as an authority. He was one of the 
 directors of the new Art Gallery that had taken the 
 place of the old Exposition Building on the Lake 
 Front. 
 
 Laura had known him for some little time. On the 
 occasion of her two previous visits to Page he had 
 found means to see her two or three times each week. 
 Once, even, he had asked her to marry him, but she, 
 deep in her studies at the time, consumed with vague 
 ambitions to be a great actress of Shakespearian 
 roles, had told him she could care for nothing but 
 her art. He had smiled and said that he could wait, 
 and, strangely enough, their relations had resumed 
 again upon the former footing. Even after she had 
 gone away they had corresponded regularly, and he 
 had made and sent her a tiny window — a veritable 
 jewel — illustrative of a scene from “Twelfth Night.” 
 
 In the foyer, as the gentlemen were checking their 
 coats, Laura overheard Jadwin say to Mr. Cressler: 
 
 “Well, how about Helmick?" 
 
 The other made an impatient movement of his 
 shoulders. 
 
 “ Ask me^ what was the fool thinking of — a comer I 
 Pshaw!” 
 
 There were one or two other men about, making 
 their overcoats and opera hats into neat bundles pre- 
 paratory to checking them; and instantly there was 
 a flash of a half-dozen eyes in the direction of the two 
 men. Evidently the collapse of the Helmick deal was 
 in the air. All the city seemed interested. 
 
 But from behind the heavy curtains that draped the 
 entrance to the theatre proper, came a muffled burst 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 19 
 
 of music, followed by a long salvo of applause. 
 Laura’s cheeks flamed with impatience, she hurried 
 after Mrs. Cressler; Corthell drew the curtains for 
 her to pass, and she entered. 
 
 Inside it was dark, and a prolonged puff of hot air, 
 thick with the mingled odours of flowers, perfume, up' 
 holstery, and gas, enveloped her upon the instant. It 
 was the unmistakable, unforgetable, entrancing aroma 
 of the theatre, that she had known only too seldom, 
 but that in a second set her heart galloping. 
 
 Every available space seemed to be occupied. Men, 
 even women, were standing up, compacted into a suf- 
 focating pressure, and for the moment everybody was 
 applauding vigorously. On all sides Laura heard; 
 
 “ Bravo ! ” 
 
 “ Good, good ! ” 
 
 “ Very well done! ” 
 
 “ Encore ! Encore ! ” 
 
 Between the peoples’ heads and below the low dip 
 of the overhanging balcony — a brilliant glare in the 
 surrounding darkness — she caught a glimpse of the 
 stage. It was set for a garden ; at the back and in the 
 distance a chateau ; on the left a bower, and on the 
 right a pavilion. Before the foolights, a famous con- 
 tralto, dressed as a boy, was bowing to the audience, 
 her arms full of flowers. 
 
 “ Too bad,” whispered Corthell to Laura, as they 
 followed the others down the side-aisle to the box. 
 “ Too bad, this is the second act already; you’ve missed 
 the whole first act — and this song. She’ll sing it over 
 again, though, just for you, if I have to lead the ap- 
 plause myself. I particularly wanted you to hear that.” 
 
 Once in the box, the party found itself a little 
 crowded, and Jadwin and Cressler were obliged to 
 stand, in order to see the stage. Although they all 
 
20 
 
 The Pit 
 
 spoke in whispers, their arrival was the signal for 
 certain murmurs of “ Sh ! Sh ! ” Mrs, Cressler made 
 Laura occupy the front seat. Jadwin took her cloak 
 from her, and she settled herself in her chair and 
 looked about her. She could see but little of the 
 house or audience. All the lights were lowered; only 
 through the gloom the swaying of a multitude of 
 fans, pale coloured, like night-moths balancing in the 
 twilight, defined itself. 
 
 But soon she turned towards the stage. The ap- 
 plause died away, and the contralto once more sang 
 the aria. The melody was simple, the tempo easily 
 followed ; it was not a very high order of music. 
 But to Laura it was nothing short of a revelation. 
 
 She sat spell-bound, her hands clasped tight, her 
 every faculty of attention at its highest pitch. It was 
 wonderful, such music as that ; wonderful, such a 
 voice ; wonderful, such orchestration ; wonderful, such 
 exaltation inspired by mere beauty of sound. Never, 
 never was this night to be forgotten, this her first 
 night of Grand Opera. All this excitement, this 
 world of perfume, of flowers, of exquisite costumes, 
 of beautiful women, of fine, brave men. She looked 
 back with immense pity to the narrow little life of her 
 native town she had just left forever, the restricted 
 horizon, the petty round of petty duties, the rare and 
 barren pleasures — the library, the festival, the few 
 concerts, the trivial plays. How easy it was to be 
 good and noble when music such as this had become 
 a part of one’s life ; how desirable was wealth when 
 it could make possible such exquisite happiness as 
 hers of the moment. Nobility, purity, courage, sac- 
 rifice seemed much more worth while now than a few 
 moments ago. All things not positively unworthy 
 became heroic, all things and all men. Landry Court 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 21 
 
 was a young chevalier, pure as Galahad. Corthell 
 was a beautiful artist-priest of the early Renaissance. 
 Even Jadwin was a merchant prince, a great financial 
 captain. And she herself — ah, she did not know; she 
 dreamed of another Laura, a better, gentler, more 
 beautiful Laura, whom everybody, everybody loved 
 dearly and tenderly, and who loved everybody, and 
 who should die beautifully, gently, in some garden 
 far away — die because of a great love — beautifully, 
 gently in the midst of flowers, die of a broken heart, 
 and all the world should be sorry for her, and would 
 weep over her when they fortnd her dead and beauti- 
 ful in her garden, amid the flowers and the birds, in 
 some far-off place, where it was always early morning 
 and where there was soft music. And she was so 
 sorry for herself, and so hurt with the sheer strength 
 of her longing to be good and true, and noble and 
 womanly, that as she sat in the front of the Cresslers’ 
 box on that marvellous evening, the tears ran down 
 her cheeks again and again, and dropped upon her 
 tight-shut, white-gloved fingers. 
 
 But the contralto had disappeared, and in her place 
 the tenor held the stage — a stout, short young man in 
 red plush doublet and grey silk tights. His chin ad- 
 vanced, an arm extended, one hand pressed to his 
 breast, he apostrophised the pavilion, that now and 
 then swayed a little in the draught from the wings. 
 
 The aria was received with furor; thrice he was 
 obliged to repeat it. Even Corthell, who was critical 
 to extremes, approved, nodding his head. Laura and 
 Page clapped their hands till the very last. But 
 Landry Court, to create an impression, assumed a 
 certain disaffection. 
 
 “ He’s not in voice to-night. Too bad. You should 
 have heard him Friday in ‘ Aida.’ ” 
 
22 
 
 The Pit 
 
 The opera continued. The great soprano, the 
 prima donna, appeared and delivered herself of a 
 song for which she was famous with astonishing eclat. 
 Then in a little while the stage grew dark, the or- 
 chestration lapsed to a murmur, and the tenor and 
 the soprano reentered. He clasped her in his arms 
 and sang a half-dozen bars, then holding her hand, 
 one arm still about her waist, withdrew from her 
 gradually, till she occupied the front-centre of the 
 stage. He assumed an attitude of adoration and won- 
 derment, his eyes uplifted as if entranced, and she, 
 very softly, to the accompaniment of the sustained, 
 dreamy chords of the orchestra, began her solo. 
 
 Laura shut her eyes. Never had she felt so soothed, 
 so cradled and lulled and languid. Ah, to love like 
 that! To love and be loved. There was no such love 
 as that to-day. She wished that she could loose her 
 clasp upon the sordid, material modern life that, per- 
 force, she must hold to, she knew not why, and drift, 
 drift off into the past, far away, through rose-coloured 
 mists and diaphanous veils, or resign herself, reclin- 
 ing in a silver skiff drawn by swans, to the gentle 
 current of some smooth-flowing river that ran on for- 
 ever and forever. 
 
 But a discordant element developed. Close by — 
 the lights were so low she could not tell where — a con- 
 versation, kept up in low whispers, began by degrees to 
 intrude itself upon her attention. Try as she would, 
 she could not shut it out, and now, as the music died 
 away fainter and fainter, till voice and orchestra 
 blended together in a single, barely audible murmur, 
 vibrating with emotion, with romance, and with sen- 
 timent, she heard, in a hoarse, masculine whisper, the 
 words : 
 
 “ The shortage is a million bushels at the very 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 23 
 
 least. Two hundred carloads were to arrive from 
 Milwaukee last night ” 
 
 She made a little gesture of despair, turning her 
 head for an instant, searching the gloom about her. 
 But she could see no one not interested in the stage, 
 ^hy could not men leave their business outside, why- 
 must the jar of commerce spoil all the harmony of 
 this momen{3 
 
 However, all sounds were drowned suddenly in a 
 long burst of applause. The tenor and soprano bowed 
 and smiled across the footlights. The soprano van- 
 ished, only to reappear on the balcony of the pavil- 
 ion, and while she declared that the stars and the 
 night-bird together sang “ He loves thee,” the voices 
 close at hand continued : 
 
 “ ^one hundred and six carloads ” 
 
 “ paralysed the bulls ” 
 
 “ ^fifty thousand dollars ” 
 
 Then all at once the lights went up. The act was 
 over. 
 
 Laura seemed only to come to herself some five 
 minutes later. She and Corthell were out in the foyer 
 behind the boxes. Everybody was promenading. The 
 air was filled with the staccato chatter of a multitude 
 of women. But she herself seemed far away — she and 
 Sheldon Corthell. His face, dark, romantic, with the 
 silky beard and eloquent eyes, appeared to be all she 
 cared to see, while his low voice, that spoke close to 
 her ear, was in a way a mere continuation of the mel- 
 ody of the duet just finished. 
 
 Instinctively she knew what he was about to say, 
 for what he was trying to prepare her. She felt, too, 
 that he had not expected to talk thus to her to-night. 
 She knew that he loved her, that inevitably, sooner or 
 later, they must return to a subject that for long had 
 
H 
 
 The Pit 
 
 been excluded from their conversations, but it was 
 to have been when they were alone, remote, secluded, 
 not in the midst of a crowd, brilliant electrics dazzling 
 their eyes, the humming of the talk of hundreds as- 
 saulting their ears. But it seemed as if these impor- 
 tant things came of themselves, independent of time 
 and place, like birth and death. There was nothing 
 to do but to accept the situation, and it was without 
 surprise that at last, from out the murmur of Cor- 
 thell’s talk, she was suddenly conscious of the words : 
 
 “ So that it is hardly necessary, is it, to tell you 
 once more that I love you? ” 
 
 She drew a long breath. 
 
 “ I know. I know you love me.” 
 
 They had sat down on a divan, at one end of the 
 promenade ; and Corthell, skilful enough in the little 
 arts of the drawing-room, made it appear as though 
 they talked of commonplaces ; as for Laura, exalted, 
 all but hypnotised with this marvellous evening, she 
 hardly cared; she would not even stoop to maintain 
 appearances. 
 
 “ Yes, yes,” she said ; “ I know you love me.” 
 
 “And is that all you can say?” he urged. “Does 
 it mean nothing to you that you are everything to 
 me? ” 
 
 She was coming a little to herself again. Love was, 
 after all, sweeter in the actual — even in this crowded 
 foyer, in this atmosphere of silk and jewels, in this 
 show-place of a great city’s society — than in a mystic 
 garden of some romantic dreamland. She felt her- 
 self a woman again, modern, vital, and no longer a 
 maiden of a legend of chivalry. 
 
 “Nothing to me?” she answered. “I don’t know. 
 I should rather have you love me than — not.” 
 
 “ Let me love you then for always,” he went on. 
 
25 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 “ You know what I mean. We have understood each 
 other from the very first. Plainly, and very simply, 
 I love you with all my heart. You know now that 
 I speak the truth, you know that you can trust me. I 
 shall not ask you to share your life with mine. I 
 ask you for the great happiness ” — he raised his head 
 sharply, suddenly proud — “ the great honour of the op- 
 portunity of giving you all that I have of good. God 
 give me humility, but that is much since I have known 
 you. If I were a better man because of myself, I 
 would not presume to speak of it, but if I am in any- 
 thing less selfish, if I am more loyal, if I am stronger, 
 or braver, it is only something of you that has become 
 a part of me, and made me to be born again. So when 
 I offer myself to you, I am only bringing back to you 
 the gift you gave me for a little while. I have tried to 
 keep it for you, to keep it bright and sacred and un- 
 spotted. It is yours again now if you will have it.” 
 
 There was a long pause; a group of men in opera 
 hats and white gloves came up the stairway close at 
 hand. The tide of promenaders set towards the en- 
 trances of the theatre. A little electric bell shrilled 
 a note of warning. 
 
 I^ura looked up at length, and as their glances met, 
 he saw^hat there were tears in her eyes. This dec- 
 laration of his love for her was the last touch to the 
 greatest exhilaration of happiness she had ever known. 
 Ah yes, she was loved, just as that young girl of the 
 opera had been loved. For this one evening, at least, 
 the beauty of life was unmarred, and no cruel word 
 of hers should spoil it. The world was beautiful. 
 All people were good and noble and true. To-morrow, 
 with the material round of duties and petty respon- 
 sibilities and cold, calm reason, was far, far away. 
 
26 
 
 The Pit 
 
 Suddenly she turned to him, surrendering to the im- 
 pulse, forgetful of consequences. 
 
 “ Oh, I am glad, glad ” she cried, “ glad that you 
 love me 1 ” 
 
 But before Corthell could say anything more Lan- 
 dry Court and Page came up. 
 
 “ We’ve been looking for you,” said the young girl 
 quietly. Page was displeased. She took herself and 
 her sister — in fact, the whole scheme of existence 
 — with extraordinary seriousness. She had no sense 
 of humour. She was not tolerant; her ideas of pro- 
 priety and the amenities were as immutable as the 
 fixed stars. A fine way for Laura to act, getting off 
 into corners with Sheldon Corthell. It would take 
 less than that to make talk. If she had no sense of 
 her obligations to Mrs. Cressler, at least she ought to 
 think of the looks of things. 
 
 “ They’re beginning again,” she said solemnly. “ I 
 should think you’d feel as though you had missed 
 about enough of this opera.” 
 
 They returned to the box. The rest of the party 
 were reassembling. 
 
 “Well, Laura,” said Mrs. Cressler, when they had 
 sat down, “ do you like it ? ” 
 
 “ I don’t want to leave it — ever,” she answered. “ I 
 could stay here always.” 
 
 “ I like the young man best,” observ^ed Aunt Wess’. 
 “ The one who seems to be the friend of the tall fel- 
 low with a cloak. But why does he seem so sorry? 
 Why don’t he marry the young lady? Let’s see, I 
 don’t remember his name.” 
 
 “ Beastly voice,” declared Landry Court. " He 
 almost broke there once. Too bad. He’s not what 
 he used to be. It seems he’s terribly dissipated- 
 drinks. Yes, sir, like a fish. He had delirium tre* 
 
27 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 mens once behind the scenes in Philadelphia, and 
 stabbed a scene shifter with his stage dagger. A bad 
 lot, to say the least.” 
 
 “ Now, Landry,” protested Mrs. Cressler, “ you’re 
 making it up as you go along.” And in the laugh that 
 followed Landry himself joined. 
 
 “ After all,” said Corthell, “ this music seems to be 
 just the right medium between the naive melody of 
 the Italian school and the elaborate complexity of 
 Wagner. I can’t help but be carried away with it at 
 times — in spite of my better judgment.” 
 
 Jadwin, who had been smoking a cigar in the ves- 
 tibule during the entr'acte, rubbed his chin reflec- 
 tively. 
 
 “Well,” he said, “it’s all very fine. I’ve no doubt 
 of that, but I give you my word I would rather hear 
 my old governor take his guitar and sing ‘ Father, oh 
 father, come home with me now,’ than all the fiddle- 
 faddle, tweedle-deedle opera business in the whole 
 world.” 
 
 But the orchestra was returning, the musicians 
 crawling out one by one from a little door beneath 
 the stage hardly bigger than the entrance of a rabbit 
 hutch. They settled themselves in front of their racks, 
 adjusting their coat-tails, fingering their sheet music. 
 Soon they began to tune up, and a vague bourdon of 
 many sounds — the subdued snarl of the cornets, the 
 dull mutter of the bass viols, the liquid gurgling of the 
 flageolets and wood-wind instruments, now and then 
 pierced by the strident chirps and cries of the violins, 
 rose into the air dominating the incessant clamour of 
 conversation that came from all parts of the theatre. 
 
 Then suddenly the house lights sank and the foot- 
 lights rose. Froim all over the theatre came energetic 
 whispers of “ Sh ! Sh ! ” Three strokes, as of a great 
 
28 
 
 The Pit 
 
 mallet, sepulchral, grave, came from behind the 
 wings ; the leader of the orchestra raised his baton, 
 then brought it slowly down, and while from all the 
 instruments at once issued a prolonged minor chord, 
 emphasised by a mufifled roll of the kettle-drum, the 
 curtain rose upon a mediaeval public square. The 
 soprano was seated languidly upon a bench. Her 
 grande scene occurred in this act. Her hair was un- 
 bound; she wore a loose robe of cream white, with 
 flowing sleeves, which left the arms bare to the shoul- 
 der. At the waist it was caught in by a girdle of silk 
 rope. 
 
 “ This is the great act,” whispered Mrs. Cressler, 
 leaning over Laura’s shoulder. “ She is superb later 
 on. Superb.” 
 
 “ I wish those men would stop talking,” murmured 
 Laura, searching the darkness distressfully, for be- 
 tween the strains of the music she had heard the 
 words : 
 
 “ Clearing House balance of three thousand dol- 
 
 lars.” 
 
 Meanwhile the prima donna, rising to her feet, de- 
 livered herself of a lengthy recitative, her chin upon 
 her breast, her eyes looking out from under her brows, 
 an arm stretched out over the footlights. The baritone 
 entered, striding to the left of the footlights, apostro- 
 phising the prima donna in a rage. She clasped her 
 hands imploringly, supplicating him to leave her, ex- 
 claiming from time to time : 
 
 “ Vd via, va via-— 
 
 Vel chieco ptr pieta” 
 
 Then all at once, while the orchestra blared, they 
 fell into each other’s arms. 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 29 
 
 “Why do they do that?” murmured Aunt Wess’ 
 perplexed. “ I thought the gentleman with the beard 
 didn’t like her at all.” 
 
 “ Why, that’s the duke, don’t you see. Aunt Wess’? ” 
 said Laura trying to explain. “ And he forgives her. 
 I don’t know exactly. Look at your libretto.” 
 
 “ — a conspiracy of the Bears . . . seventy cents 
 . . . and naturally he busted.” 
 
 The mezzo-soprano, the confidante of the prima 
 donna, entered, and a trio developed that had but a 
 mediocre success. At the end the baritone abruptly 
 drew his sword, and the prima donna fell to her knees, 
 chanting : 
 
 “ lo iremo, ahimS / " 
 
 “And now he’s mad again,” whispered Aunt Wess’, 
 consulting her libretto, all at sea once more. “ I can’t 
 understand. She says — the opera book says she says, 
 ‘ I tremble.’ I don’t see why.” 
 
 “ Look now,” said Page, “ here comes the tenor. 
 Now they’re going to have it out.” 
 
 The tenor, hatless, debouched suddenly upon the 
 scene, and furious, addressed himself to the baritone, 
 leaning forward, his hands upon his chest. Though 
 the others sang in Italian, the tenor, a Parisian, used 
 the French book continually, and now villified the 
 baritone, crying out: 
 
 “ 0 iraitre infdme 
 0 lache ei eoupabU " 
 
 “ I don’t see why he don’t marry the young lady 
 and be done with it,” commented Aunt Wess’. 
 
 The act drew to its close. The prima donna went 
 through her “ great scene/’ wherein her voice climbed 
 
30 
 
 The Pit 
 
 to C in alt, holding the note so long that Aunt Wess’ 
 became uneasy. As she finished, the house rocked 
 with applause, and the soprano, who had gone out 
 supported by her confidante, was recalled three times. 
 A duel followed between the baritone and tenor, and 
 the latter, mortally wounded, fell into the arms of his 
 friends uttering broken, vehement notes. The cho- 
 rus — made up of the city watch and town’s people — 
 crowded in upon the back of the stage. The soprano 
 and her confidante returned. The basso, a black- 
 bearded, bull-necked man, sombre, mysterious, parted 
 the chorus to right and left, and advanced to the 
 footlights. The contralto, dressed as a boy, appeared. 
 The soprano took stage, and abruptly the closing 
 scene of the act developed. 
 
 The violins raged and wailed in unison, all the bows 
 moving together like parts of a well-regulated ma- 
 chine. The kettle-drums, marking the cadences, 
 rolled at exact intervals. The director beat time 
 furiously, as though dragging up the notes and chords 
 with' the end of his baton, while the horns and cor- 
 nets blared, the bass viols growled, and the flageolets 
 and piccolos lost themselves in an amazing complica- 
 tion of liquid gurgles and modulated roulades. 
 
 On the stage every one was singing. The soprano 
 in the centre, vocalised in her highest register, bring- 
 ing out the notes with vigorous twists of her entire 
 body, and tossing them off into the air with sharp 
 flirts of her head. On the right, the basso, scowling, 
 could be heard in the intervals of the music repeating 
 
 “ II perfido, I ingrato ” 
 
 while- to the left of the soprano, the baritone in- 
 toned indistinguishable, sonorous phrases, striking 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 31 
 
 his breast and pointing to the fallen tenor with his 
 sword. At the extreme left of the stage the con- 
 tralto, in tights and plush doublet, turned to the au- 
 dience, extending her hands, or flinging back her 
 arms. She raised her eyebrows with each high note, 
 and sunk her chin into her ruff when her voice de- 
 scended. At certain intervals her notes blended with 
 those of the soprano’s while she sang : 
 
 “ Addio, fdicith. del del I” 
 
 The tenor, raised upon one hand, his shoulders sup- 
 ported by his friends, sustained the theme which the 
 soprano led with the words : 
 
 " Je me meurs 
 Ah malheur 
 Ah je souffre 
 Mon ame s' envole." 
 
 The chorus formed a semi-circle just behind him. 
 The women on one side, the men on the other. They 
 left much to be desired; apparently scraped hastily 
 together from heaven knew what sources, after the 
 manner of a management suddenly become economi- 
 cal. The women were fat, elderly, and painfully 
 homely; the men lean, osseous, and distressed, in mis- 
 fitting hose. But they had been conscientiously 
 drilled. They made all their gestures together, 
 moved in masses simultaneously, and, without ceas- 
 ing, chanted over and over again : 
 
 “ 0 terror, 0 blas/ema." 
 
 The ‘hnale commenced. Everybody on the stage 
 took a step forward, beginning all over again upon 
 
 higher key. The soprano’s voice thrilled to the very 
 
32 
 
 The Pit 
 
 chandelier. The orchestra redoubled its efforts, the 
 director beating time with hands, head, and body. 
 
 “ II per fido, I'ingrato^ 
 
 thundered the basso. 
 
 ** Ineffabil mistero" 
 
 answered the baritone, striking his breast and point- 
 ing with his sword; while all at once the soprano’s 
 voice, thrilling out again, ran up an astonishing cres- 
 cendo that evoked veritable gasps from all parts of the 
 audience, then jumped once more to her famous C in alt, 
 and held it long enough for the chorus to repeat 
 
 “ 0 terror, O blasfema " 
 
 four times. 
 
 Then the director’s baton descended with the vio- 
 lence of a blow. There was a prolonged crash of har- 
 mony, a final enormous chord, to which every voice 
 and every instrument contributed. The singers 
 struck tableau attitudes, the tenor fell back with a 
 last wail: 
 
 “ Je me meurs* 
 
 and the soprano fainted into the arms of her con- 
 fidante. The curtain fell. 
 
 The house roared with applause. The scene was 
 recalled again and again. The tenor, scrambling to 
 his feet, joined hands with the baritone, soprano, and 
 other artists, and all bowed repeatedly. Then the cur- 
 tain fell for the last time, the lights of the great 
 chandelier clicked and blazed up, and from every 
 quarter of the house came the cries of the programme 
 sellers : 
 
A Story of Chicago 33 
 
 “ Opera books. Books of the opera. Words and 
 music of the opera.” 
 
 During this, the last entr'acte, Laura remained in the 
 box with Mrs. Cressler, Corthell, and Jadwin. The 
 others went out to look down upon the foyer from a 
 certain balcony. 
 
 In the box the conversation turned upon stage man- 
 agement, and Corthell told how, in “ L’Africaine,” at 
 the Opera, in Paris, the entire superstructure of the 
 stage — wings, drops, and backs — turned when Vasco 
 da Gama put the ship about. Jadwin having criticised 
 the effect because none of the actors turned with it, 
 was voted a Philistine by Mrs. Cressler and Corthell. 
 But as he was about to answer, Mrs. Cressler turned 
 to the artist, passing him her opera glasses, and ask- 
 ing: 
 
 “ Who are those people down there in the third row 
 of the parquet — see, on the middle aisle — the woman 
 is in red. Aren’t those the Gretrys?” 
 
 This left Jadwin and Laura out of the conversa- 
 tion, and the capitalist was quick to seize the chance 
 of talking to her. Soon she was surprised to notice 
 that he was trying hard to be agreeable, and before 
 they had exchanged a dozen sentences, he had turned 
 an awkward compliment. She guessed by his manner 
 that paying attention to young girls was for him a 
 thing altogether unusual. Intuitively she divined 
 that she, on this, the very first night of their ac- 
 quaintance, had suddenly interested him. 
 
 ^he had had neither opportunity nor inclination 
 to observe him closely during their interview in the 
 vestibule, but now, as she sat and listened to him 
 talk, she could not help being a little attracted. He 
 was a heavy-built man, would have made two of Cor- 
 thell, and his hands were large and broad, the hands pi 
 3 
 
34 
 
 The Pit 
 
 a man of affairs, who knew how to grip, and, above all, 
 how to hang on. Those broad, strong hands, and 
 keen, calm eyes would enfold and envelop a Purpose 
 with tremendous strength, and they would persist 
 and persist and persist, unswerving, unwavering, un- 
 tiring, till the Purpose was driven home. And the 
 two long, lean, fibrous arms of him ; what a reach 
 they could attain, and how wide and huge and even 
 formidable would be their embrace of affairs. One of 
 those great manoeuvres of a fellow money-captain had 
 that very day been concluded, the Helmick failure, 
 and between the chords and bars of a famous opera 
 men talked in excited whispers, and one great leader 
 lay at that very moment, broken and spent, fighting 
 with his last breath for bare existence. Jadwin had 
 seen it all. Uninvolved in the crash, he had none the 
 less been close to it, watching it, in touch with it, fore- 
 seeing each successive collapse by which it reeled fatally 
 to the final catastrophe. The voices of the two men 
 that had so annoyed her in the early part of the even- 
 ing were suddenly raised agairTj 
 
 “ It was terrific, there on the floor of the Board 
 
 this morning. By the Lord! they fought each other 
 when the Bears began throwing the grain at ’em — in 
 carload lots.” 
 
 And abruptly, midway between two phases of that 
 music-drama, of passion and romance, there came to 
 Laura the swift and vivid impression of that other 
 drama that simultaneously — even at that very mo- 
 ment — was working itself out close at hand, equally 
 picturesque, equally romantic, equally passionate ; 
 but more than that, real, actual, modern, a thing in 
 the very heart of the very life in which she moved. 
 And here he sat, this Jadwin, quiet, in evening dress, 
 listening good-naturedly to this beautiful music, for 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 35 
 
 which he did not care, to this rant and fustian, watch- 
 ing quietly all this posing and attitudinising. How 
 small and petty it must all seem to him! 
 
 Laura found time to be astonished. What! She 
 had first met this man haughtily, in all the panoply 
 of her “ grand manner,” and had promised herself that 
 she would humble him, and pay him for that first mis- 
 trustful stare at her. And now, behold, she was study- 
 ing him, and finding the study interesting. Out of har- 
 mony though she knew him to be with those fine 
 emotions of hers of the early part of the evening, she 
 nevertheless found much in him to admire. It was al- 
 ways just like that. She told herself that she was for- 
 ever doing the unexpected thing, the inconsistent thing. 
 Women were queer creatures, mysterious even to them- 
 selves. 
 
 “ I am so pleased that you are enjoying it all,” said 
 Corthell’s voice at her shoulder. “ I knew you would. 
 There is nothing like music such as this to appeal to 
 the emotions, the heart — and with your tempera- 
 
 ment- 
 
 Straightway he made her feel her sex. Now she 
 was just a woman again, with all a woman’s limita- 
 tions, and her relations with Corthell could never be 
 — so she realised — any other than sex-relations. With 
 Jadwin somehow it had been different. She had felt his 
 manhood more than her womanhood, her sex side. 
 And between them it was more a give-and-take affair, 
 more equality, more companionship. Corthell spoke' 
 only of her heart and to her heart, ^ut Jadwin made 
 her feel — or rather she made herself feel when he 
 talked to her — that she had a head as well as a heai 
 
 And the last act of the opera did not wholly absorb 
 her attention. The artists came and went, the orches- 
 tra wailed and boomed, the audience applauded, and 
 
36 
 
 The Pit 
 
 in the end the tenor, fired by a sudden sense of duty 
 and of stern obligation, tore himself from the arms 
 of the soprano, and calling out upon remorseless fate 
 and upon heaven, and declaiming about the vanity of 
 glory, and his heart that broke yet disdained tears, 
 allowed himself to be dragged off the scene by his 
 friend the basso. For the fifth time during the piece 
 the soprano fainted into the arms of her long-suffer- 
 ing confidante. The audience, suddenly remember- 
 ing hats and wraps, bestirred itself, and many par- 
 ties were already upon their feet and filing out at the 
 time the curtain fell. 
 
 The Cresslers and their friends were among the last 
 to regain the vestibule. But as they came out from 
 the foyer, where the first draughts of outside air be- 
 gan to make themselves felt, there were exclamations : 
 
 “ It’s raining.” 
 
 “ Why, it’s raining right down.” 
 
 It was true. Abruptly the weather had moderated, 
 and the fine, dry snow that had been falling since 
 early evening had changed to a lugubrious drizzle. A 
 wave of consternation invaded the vestibule for those 
 who had not come in carriages, or whose carriages 
 had not arrived. Tempers were lost; women, cloaked 
 to the ears, their heads protected only by fichus or 
 mantillas, quarrelled with husbands or cousins or 
 brothers over the question of umbrellas. The ves- 
 tibules were crowded to suffocation, and the aigrettes 
 nodded and swayed again in alternate gusts, now of 
 moist, chill atmosphere from without, and now of 
 stale, hot air that exhaled in long puffs from the in- 
 side doors of the theatre itself. Here and there in the 
 press, footmen, their top hats in rubber cases, their 
 hands full of umbrellas, searched anxiously for their 
 masters. 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 37 
 
 Outside upon the sidewalks and by the curbs, an 
 apparently inextricable confusion prevailed; police- 
 men with drawn clubs laboured and objurgated : anx- 
 ious, preoccupied young men, their opera hats and 
 gloves beaded with rain, hurried to and fro, search- 
 ing for their carriages. At the edge of the awning, 
 the caller, a gigantic fellow in gold-faced uniform, 
 shouted the numbers in a roaring, sing-song that 
 dominated every other sound. Coachmen, their wet 
 rubber coats reflecting the lamplight, called back and 
 forth, furious quarrels broke out between hansom 
 drivers and the police officers, steaming horses with 
 jingling bits, their backs covered with dark green 
 cloths, plunged and pranced, carriage doors banged, 
 and the roll of wheels upon the pavement was as the 
 reverberation of artillery caissons. 
 
 “ Get your carriage, sir ? ” cried a ragged, half- 
 grown arab at Cressler’s elbow. 
 
 “ Hurry up, then,” said Cressler. Then, raising 
 his voice, for the clamour was increasing with every 
 second: “What’s your number, Laura? You girls 
 first. Ninety-three? Get that, boy? Ninety-three. 
 Quick now.” 
 
 The carriage appeared. Hastily they said good-by ; 
 hastily Laura expressed to Mrs. Cressler her apprecia- 
 tion and enjoyment. Corthell saw them to the car- 
 riage, and getting in after them shut the door behind 
 him. They departed. 
 
 Laura sank back in the cool gloom of the carriage’s 
 interior redolent of damp leather and upholstery. 
 
 “ What an evening ! What an evening ! ” she mur- 
 mured. 
 
 On the way home both she and Page appealed to 
 the artist, who knew the opera well, to hum or whistle 
 for them the arias that had pleased them most. Each 
 
The Pit 
 
 • 38 
 
 time they were enthusiastic. Yes, yes, that was the 
 air. Wasn’t it pretty, wasn’t it beautiful? 
 
 But Aunt Wess’ was still unsatisfied. 
 
 “ I don’t see yet,” she complained, “ why the young 
 man, the one with the pointed beard, didn’t marry that 
 lady and be done with it. Just as soon as they’d 
 seem to have it all settled, he’d begin to take on again, 
 and strike his breast and go away. I declare, I think 
 it was all kind of foolish.” 
 
 “ Why, the duke — don’t you see. The one who sang 
 bass ” Page laboured to explain. 
 
 “ Oh, I didn’t like him at all,” said Aunt Wess’. 
 “ He stamped around so.” But the audience itself 
 had interested her, and the decollete gowns had been 
 particularly impressing. 
 
 “ I never saw such dressing in all my life,” she de- 
 clared. “ And that woman in the box next ours. 
 Well! did you notice that?” She raised her eye- 
 brows and set her lips together. “ Well, I don’t want 
 to say anything.” 
 
 The carriage rolled on through the darkened down- 
 town streets, towards the North Side, where the Dear- 
 borns lived. They could hear the horses plashing 
 through the layer of slush — mud, half-melted snow 
 and rain — that encumbered the pavement. In the 
 gloom the girls’ wraps glowed pallid and diaphanous. 
 The rain left long, slanting parallels on the carriage 
 windows. They passed on down Wabash Avenue, and 
 crossed over to State Street and Clarke Street, dark, 
 deserted. 
 
 Laura, after a while, lost in thought, spoke but 
 little. It had been a great evening — because of other 
 things than mere music. Corthell had again asked 
 her to marry him, and she, carried away by the ex- 
 citement of the moment, had answered him encourag* 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 39 
 
 ingly. On the heels of this she had had that little talk 
 with the capitalist Jadwin, and somehow since then 
 she had been steadied, calmed. The cold air and the 
 rain in her face had cooled her flaming cheeks and hot 
 temples. She asked herself now if she did really, hon- 
 estly love the artist. No, she did not; really and hon- 
 estly she did not; and now as the carriage rolled on 
 through the deserted streets of the business districts, 
 she knew very well that she did not want to marry 
 him. She had done him an injustice; but in the matter 
 of righting herself with him, correcting his false im- 
 pression, she was willing to procrastinate. She wanted 
 him to love her, to pay her all those innumerable little 
 attentions which he managed with such faultless deli- 
 cacy. To say : “ No-, Mr. Corthell, I do not love you, 
 I will never be your wife,” would — this time — be final. 
 He would go away, and she had no intention of allow- 
 ing him to do that. 
 
 But abruptly her reflections were interrupted. 
 While she thought it all over she had been looking 
 out of the carriage window through a little space 
 where she had rubbed the steam from the pane. 
 Now, all at once, the strange appearance of the neigh- 
 bourhood as the carriage turned north from out Jack- 
 son Street into La Salle, forced itself upon her atten- 
 tion. She uttered an exclamation. 
 
 The office buildings on both sides of the street were 
 lighted from basement to roof. Through the windows 
 she could get glimpses of clerks and book-keepers 
 in shirt-sleeves bending over desks. Every office was 
 open, and every one of them full of a feverish activity. 
 The sidewalks were almost as crowded as though at 
 noontime. Messenger boys ran to and fro, and groups 
 of men stood on the corners in earnest conversation. 
 
The Pit 
 
 40 
 
 The whole neighbourhood was alive, and this, though 
 it was close upon one o’clock in the morning! 
 
 “Why, what is it all?” she murmured. 
 
 Corthell could not explain, but all at once Page 
 cried : 
 
 “ Oh, oh, I know. See this is Jackson and La Salle 
 streets. Landry was telling me. The ‘ commission 
 district,’ he called it. And these are the brokers’ 
 offices working overtime — that Helmick deal, you 
 know.” 
 
 Laura looked, suddenly stupefied. Here it was, 
 then, that other drama, that other tragedy, working 
 on there furiously, fiercely through the night, while 
 she and all those others had sat there in that atmos- 
 phere of flowers and perfume, listening to music. 
 Suddenly it loomed portentous in the eye of her mind, 
 terrible, tremendous. Ah, this drama of the “ Pro- 
 vision Pits,” where the rush of millions of bushels of 
 grain, and the clatter of millions of dollars, and the 
 tramping and the wild shouting of thousands of men 
 filled all the air with the noise of battle! Yes, 
 here was drama in deadly earnest — drama and trag- 
 edy and death, and the jar of mortal fighting. And the 
 echoes of it invaded the very sanctuary of art, and 
 cut athwart the music of Italy and che cadence of 
 polite conversation, and the shock of it endured when 
 all the world should have slept, and galvanised into 
 vivid life all these sombre piles of office buildings. It 
 was dreadful, this labour through the night. It had all 
 the significance of field hospitals after the battle — hos- 
 pitals and the tents of commanding generals. The 
 wounds of the day were being bound up, the dead were 
 being counted, while, shut in their headquarters, the 
 captains and the commanders drew the plans for the 
 grapple of armies that was to recommence with day- 
 light. 
 
41 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 “Yes, yes, that’s just what it is,” continued Page. 
 “ See, there’s the Rookery, and there’s the Constable 
 Building, where Mr. Helmick has his offices. Landry 
 showed me it all one day. And, look back.” She 
 raised the flap that covered the little window at the 
 back of the carriage. “ See, down there, at the end 
 of the street. There’s the Board of Trade Building, 
 where the grain speculating is done, — where the wheat 
 pits and corn pits are.” 
 
 Laura turned and looked back. On either side of 
 the vista in converging lines stretched the blazing of- 
 fice buildings. But over the end of the street the lead- 
 coloured sky was rifted a little. A long, faint bar of 
 light stretched across the prospect, and silhouetted 
 against this rose a •sombre mass, unbroken by any 
 lights, rearing a black and formidable fagade against 
 the blur of light behind it. 
 
 And 'this was her last impression of the evening. 
 The lighted office buildings, the murk of rain, the 
 haze of light in the heavens, and raised against it 
 the pile of the Board of Trade Building, black, grave, 
 monolithic, crouching on its foundations, like a mon- 
 strous sphinx with blind eyes, silent, grave, — crouching 
 there without a sound, without sign of life under the 
 night and the drifting veil of rainTl 
 
II 
 
 Laura Dearborn’s native town was Barrington, in 
 Worcester County, Massachusetts. Both she and Page 
 had been born there, and there had lived until the death 
 of their father, at a time when Page was ready for the 
 High School. The mother, a North Carolina girl, had 
 died long before. 
 
 Laura’s education had been unusual. After leaving 
 the High School her father had for four years allowed 
 her a private tutor (an impecunious graduate from the 
 Harvard Theological School). She was ambitious, a 
 devoted student, and her instructor’s task was rather 
 to guide than to enforce her application. She soon 
 acquired a reading knowledge of French, and knew her 
 Racine in the original almost as well as her Shake- 
 speare. Literature became for her an actual passion. 
 She delved into Tennyson and the Victorian poets, and 
 soon was on terms of intimacy with the poets and es- 
 sayists of New England. The novelists of the day she 
 ignored almost completely, and voluntarily. Only oc- 
 casionally, and then as a concession, she permitted her- 
 self a reading of Mr. Howells. 
 
 Moderately prosperous while he himself was conduct- 
 ing his little mill. Dearborn had not been able to put by 
 any money to speak of, and when Laura and the local 
 lawyer had come to close up the business, to dispose 
 of the mill, and to settle the claims against what the 
 lawyer grandiloquently termed “ the estate,” there was 
 just enough money left to pay for Page’s tickets to 
 Chicago and a course of tuition for her at a seminary. 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 43 
 
 The Cresslers on the event of Dearborn’s death had 
 advised both sisters to come West, and had pledged 
 themselves to look after Page during the period of her 
 schooling. Laura had sent the little girl on at once, 
 but delayed taking the step herself. 
 
 Fortunately, the two sisters were not obliged to live 
 upon their inheritance. Dearborn himself had a sister 
 — a twin of Aunt Wess’ — who had married a wealthy 
 woollen merchant of Boston, and this one, long since, 
 had provided for the two girls. A large sum had been 
 set aside, which was to be made over to them when the 
 father died. For years now this sum had been accumu- 
 lating interest. So that when Laura and Page faced 
 the world, alone, upon the steps of the Barrington ceme- 
 tery, they had the assurance that, at least, they were in- 
 dependent. 
 
 For two years, in the solidly built colonial dwelling, 
 with its low ceilings and ample fireplaces, where once 
 the minute-men had swung their kettles, Laura, alone, 
 thought it all over. Mother and father were dead; 
 even the Boston aunt was dead. Of all her relations. 
 Aunt Wess’ alone remained. Page was at her finish- 
 ing school at Geneva Lake, within two hours of Chi- 
 cago. The Cresslers were the dearest friends of the 
 orphan girls. Aunt Wess’, herself a widow, living also 
 in Chicago, added her entreaties to Mrs. Cressler’s. All 
 things seemed to point her westward, all things seemed 
 to indicate that one phase of her life was ended. 
 
 Then, too, she had her ambitions. These hardly took 
 definite shape in her mind ; but vaguely she chose to see 
 herself, at some far-distant day, an actress, a trage- 
 ..dienne, playing the roles of Shakespe'afe^s heroines. 
 This idea of hers was more a desire than an ambition, 
 but it could not be realised in Barrington, Massachu- 
 setts. For a year she temporised, procrastinated, loth 
 
44 
 
 The Pit 
 
 to leave the old home, loth to leave the grave in the 
 cemetery back of the Methodist-Episcopal chapel. 
 Twice during this time she visited Page, and each time 
 the great grey city threw the spell of its fascination 
 about her. Each time she returned to Barrington the 
 town dwindled in her estimation. It was picturesque, 
 but lamentably narrow. The life was barren, the “ New 
 England spirit ” prevailed in all its severity ; and this 
 spirit seemed to her a veritable cult, a sort of religion, 
 wherein the Old Maid was the priestess, the Spinster 
 the officiating devotee, the thing worshipped the Great 
 Unbeautiful, and the ritual unremitting, unrelenting 
 Housework. She detested it. 
 
 That she was an Episcopalian, and preferred to read 
 her prayers rather than to listen to those written and 
 memorised by the Presbyterian minister, seemed to be 
 regarded as a relic of heathenish rites — a thing almost 
 cannibalistic. When she elected to engage a woman and 
 a “ hired man ” to manage her house, she felt the dis- 
 approbation of the entire village, as if she had sunk 
 into some decadent and enervating Lower-Empire de- 
 generacy. 
 
 The crisis came when Laura travelled alone to Bos- 
 ton to hear Modjeska in “ Marie Stuart ” and “ Mac- 
 beth,” and upon returning full of enthusiasm, allowed 
 it to be understood that she had a half-formed desire 
 of emulating such an example. A group of lady-dea- 
 conesses, headed by the Presbyterian minister, called 
 upon her, with some intention of reasoning and labour- 
 ing with her. 
 
 They got no farther than the statement of the cause 
 of this visit. The spirit and temper of the South, that 
 she had from her mother, flamed up in Laura at last, 
 and the members of the “ committee,” before they were 
 well aware, came to themselves in the street outside 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 45 
 
 the front gate, dazed and bewildered, staring at each 
 other, all confounded and stunned by the violence of an 
 outbreak of long-repressed emotion and long-restrained 
 anger, that like an actual physical force had swept them 
 out of the house. 
 
 At the same moment Laura, thrown across her bed, 
 wept with a vehemence that shook her from head to 
 foot. But she had not the least compunction for what 
 she had said, and before the month was out had said 
 good-by to Barrington forever, and was on her way to 
 Chicago, henceforth to be her home. 
 
 A house was bought on the North Side, and it was 
 arranged that Aunt Wess’ should live with her two 
 nieces. Pending the installation Laura and Page lived 
 at a little family hotel" in the same neighbourhood. The ' 
 Cresslers’ invitation to join the theatre party at the 
 Auditorium had fallen inopportunely enough, squarely ■ 
 in the midst of the ordeal of moving in. Indeed the two ' 
 girls had already passed one night in the new home, 
 and they must dress for the affair by lamplight in their 
 unfurnished quarters and under inconceivable difficul- 
 ties. Only the lure of Italian opera, heard from a box, 
 could have tempted them to have accepted the invitation 
 at such a time and under such circumstances. 
 
 The morning after the opera, Laura woke in her bed 
 — almost the only article of furniture that was in place 
 in the whole house — with the depressing consciousness 
 of a hard day’s work at hand. Outside it was still rain- 
 ing, the room was cold, heated only by an inadequate oil 
 stove, and through the slats of the inside shutters, which, 
 pending the hanging of the curtains they had been 
 obliged to close, was filtering a gloomy light of a wet 
 Chicago morning. 
 
 It was all very mournful, and she regretted now that 
 she had not abided by her original decision to remain 
 
46 
 
 The Pit 
 
 at the hotel until the new house was ready for occu- 
 pancy. But it had happened that their month at the 
 hotel was just up, and rather than engage the rooms for 
 another four weeks she had thought it easier as well as 
 cheaper to come to the house. It was all a new experi- 
 ence for her, and she had imagined that everything could 
 be moved in, put in place, and the household running 
 smoothly in a week’s time. 
 
 She sat up in bed, hugging her shoulders against the 
 chill of the room and looking at her theatre gown, that 
 — in default of a clean closet — she had hung from the 
 gas fixture the night before. From the direction of the 
 kitchen came the sounds of the newly engaged “ girl ” 
 making the fire for breakfast, while through the register 
 a thin wisp of blue smoke curled upward to prove that 
 the “ hired man ” was tinkering with the unused furnace. 
 The room itself was in lamentable confusion. Crates 
 and packing boxes encumbered the uncarpeted floor; 
 chairs wrapped in excelsior and jute were piled one 
 upon another; a roll of carpet leaned in one corner and 
 a pile of mattresses occupied another. 
 
 As Laura considered the prospect she realised her 
 blunder. 
 
 “ Why, and oh, why,” she murmured, “ didn’t we stay 
 at the hotel till all this was straightened out? ” 
 
 But in an adjoining room she heard Aunt Wess’ stir- 
 ring. She turned to Page, who upon the pillows beside 
 her still slept, her stocking around her neck as a guar- 
 antee against draughts. 
 
 “ Page, Page! Wake up, girlie. It’s late, and there’s 
 worlds to do.” 
 
 Page woke blinking. 
 
 “ Oh, it’s freezing cold, Laura. Let’s light the oil 
 stove and stay in bed till the room gets warm. Oh, dear, 
 aren’t you sleepy, and, oh, wasn’t last night lovely? 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 47 
 
 Which one of us will get up to light the stove? We’ll 
 count for it. Lie down, sissie, dear,” she begged, 
 “ you’re letting all the cold air in.” 
 
 Laura complied, and the two sisters, their noses all 
 but touching, the bedclothes up to their ears, put their 
 arms about each other to keep the warmer. 
 
 Amused at the foolishness, they “ counted ” to decide 
 as to who should get up to light the oil stove. Page 
 beginning: 
 
 “ Eeny — meeny — myny — mo ” 
 
 But before the “ count ” was decided Aunt Wess’ 
 came in, already dressed, and in a breath the two girls 
 implored her to light the stove. While she did so, 
 Aunt Wess’ remarked, with the alacrity of a woman 
 who observes the difficulties of a proceeding in which 
 she has no faith : 
 
 “ I don’t believe that hired girl knows her business. 
 She says now she can’t light a fire in that stove. My 
 word, Laura, I do believe you’ll have enough of all this 
 before you’re done. You know I advised you from the 
 very first to take a flat.” 
 
 “ Nonsense, Aunt Wess’,” answered Laura, good- 
 naturedly. “ We’ll work it out all right. I know what’s 
 the matter with that range. I’ll be right down and see 
 to it so soon as I’m dressed.” 
 
 It was nearly ten o’clock before breakfast, such as it 
 was, was over. They ate it on the kitchen table, with 
 the kitchen knives and forks, and over the meal. Page 
 having remarked: “Well, what will we do first?” dis- 
 cussed the plan of campaign. 
 
 “ Landry Court does not have to work to-day — he 
 told me why, but I’ve forgotten — and he said he was 
 coming up to help,” observed Laura, and at once Aunt 
 Wess’ smiled. Landry Court was openly and strenu- 
 ously in love with Laura, and no one of the new house- 
 
48 
 
 The Pit 
 
 hold ignored the fact. Aunt Wess’ chose to consider 
 the affair as ridiculous, and whenever the subject was 
 mentioned spoke of Landry as “ that boy.” 
 
 Page, however, bridled with seriousness as often as 
 the matter came up. Yes, that was all very well, but 
 Landry was a decent, hard-working young fellow, with 
 all his way to make and no time to waste, and if Laura 
 didn’t mean that it should come to anything it wasn’t 
 very fair to him to keep him dangling along like that. 
 
 “ I guess,” Laura was accustomed to reply, looking 
 significantly at Aunt Wess’, “ that our little girlie has 
 a little bit of an eye on a certain hard-working young 
 fellow herself.” And the answer invariably roused 
 Page. 
 
 “ Now, Laura,” she would cry, her eyes snapping, her 
 breath coming fast. “ Now, Laura, that isn’t right at 
 all, and you know I don’t like it, and you just say it 
 because you know it makes me cross. I won’t have 
 you insinuate that I would run after any man or care 
 in the least whether he’s in love or not. I just guess 
 Pve got some self-respect; and as for Landry Court, 
 we’re no more nor less than just good friends, and I 
 appreciate his business talents and the way he rustles 
 ’round, and he merely respects me as a friend, and it 
 don’t go any farther than that. ‘ An eye on him,’ I do 
 declare! As if I hadn’t yet to see the man Pd so much 
 as look at a second time.” 
 
 And Laura, remembering her “ Shakespeare,” was 
 ever ready with the words : 
 
 “ The lady doth protest too much, methinks.” 
 
 Just after breakfast, in fact, Landry did appear. 
 
 “ Now,” he began, with a long breath, addressing 
 Laura, who was unwrapping the pieces of cut glass and 
 bureau ornaments as Page passed them to her from 
 
49 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 the depths of a crate. “ Now, I’ve done a lot already. 
 That’s what made me late. I’ve ordered your news- 
 paper sent here, and I’ve telephoned the hotel to for- 
 ward any mail that comes for you to this address, and 
 I sent word to the gas company to have your gas turned 
 on ” 
 
 “ Oh, that’s good,” said Laura. 
 
 “Yes, I thought of that; the man will be up right 
 away to fix it, and I’ve ordered a cake of ice left here 
 every day, and told the telephone company that you 
 wanted a telephone put in. Oh, yes, and the bottled- 
 milk man — I stopped in at a dairy on the way up. Now, 
 what do we do first ? ” 
 
 He took off his coat, rolled up his shirt sleeves, and 
 plunged into the confusion of crates and boxes that 
 congested the rooms and hallways on the first floor of 
 the house. The two sisters could hear him attacking 
 his task with tremendous blows of the kitchen hammer. 
 From time to time he called up the stairway: 
 
 “ Hey, what do you want done with this jardiniere 
 thing? . . . Where does this hanging lamp go, 
 Laura? ” 
 
 Laura, having unpacked all the cut-glass ornaments, 
 came down-stairs, and she and Landry set about hang- 
 ing the parlour curtains. 
 
 Landry fixed the tops of the window mouldings with 
 a piercing eye, his arms folded. 
 
 “ I see, I see,” he answered to Laura’s explanations. 
 “ I see. Now, where’s a screw-driver, and a step-ladder? 
 Yes, and I’ll have to have some brass nails, and your 
 hired man must let me have that hammer again.” 
 
 He sent the cook after the screw-driver, called the 
 hired man from the furnace, shouted upstairs to Page 
 to ask for the whereabouts of the brass nails, and dele- 
 gated Laura to steady the step-ladder. 
 
 4 
 
50 
 
 The Pit 
 
 “ Now, Landry,” directed Laura, “ those rods want 
 to be about three inches from the top.” 
 
 “ Well,” he said, climbing up, “ I’ll mark the place 
 with the screw and you tell me if it is right.” 
 
 She stepped back, her head to one side. 
 
 “ No; higher, Landry. There, that’s about it — or a 
 little lower — so. That’s just right. Come down now 
 and help me put the hooks in.” 
 
 They pulled a number of sofa cushions together and 
 sat down on the floor side by side, Landry snapping the 
 hooks in place where Laura had gathered the pleats. 
 Inevitably his hands touched hers, and their heads drew 
 close together. Page and Mrs. Wessels were unpack- 
 ing linen in the upstairs hall. The cook and hired man 
 raised a great noise of clanking stove lids and grates as 
 they wrestled with the range in the kitchen. 
 
 “ Well,” said Landry, “ you are going to have a pretty 
 home.” He was meditating a phrase of which he pur- 
 posed delivering himself when opportunity afforded. It 
 had to do with Laura’s eyes, and her ability of under- 
 standing him. She understood him; she was to know 
 that he thought so, that it was of immense importance 
 to him. It was thus he conceived of the manner of love 
 making. The evening before that palavering artist 
 seemed to have managed to monopolise her about all 
 of the time. Now it was his turn, and this day of house- 
 hold affairs, of little domestic commotions, appeared to 
 him to be infinitely more desirous than the pomp and 
 formality of evening dress and opera boxes. This morn- 
 ing the relations between himself and Laura seemed 
 charming, intimate, unconventional, and full of oppor- 
 tunities. Never had she appeared prettier to him. She 
 wore a little pink flannel dressing-sack with full sleeves, 
 and her hair, carelessly twisted into great piles, was in 
 a beautiful disarray, curling about her cheeks and ears. 
 
A Story of Chicago 51 
 
 “ I didn’t see anything of you at all last night,” he 
 grumbled. 
 
 “ Well, you didn’t try.” 
 
 “ Oh, it was the Other Fellow’s turn,” he went on. 
 “ Say,” he added, “ how often are you going to let me 
 come to see you when you get settled here? Twice a 
 week — three times?” 
 
 “ As if you wanted to see me as often as that. Why, 
 Landry, I’m growing up to be an old maid. You can’t 
 want to lose your time calling on old maids.” 
 
 He was voluble in protestations. He was tired of 
 young girls. They were all very well to dance with, 
 but when a man got too old for that sort of thing, he 
 wanted some one with sense to talk to. Yes, he did. 
 Some one with sense. Why, he would rather talk five 
 minutes with her 
 
 “ Honestly, Landry? ” she asked, as though he were 
 telling a thing incredible. 
 
 He swore to her it was true. His eyes snapped. He 
 struck his palm with his fist. 
 
 “An old maid like me?” repeated Laura. 
 
 “Old maid nothing!” he vociferated. “Ah,” he 
 cried, “ you seem to understand me. When I look at 
 you, straight into your eyes ” 
 
 From the doorway the cook announced that the man 
 with the last load of furnace coal had come, and handed 
 Laura the voucher to sign. Then needs must that 
 Laura go with the cook to see if the range was finally 
 and properly adjusted, and while she was gone the man 
 from the gas company called to turn on the meter, and 
 Landry was obliged to look after him. It was half an 
 hour before he and Laura could once more settle them- 
 selves on the cushions in the parlour. 
 
 “ Such a lot of things to do,” she said; “ and you are 
 
52 
 
 The Pit 
 
 such a help, Landry. It was so dear of you to want to 
 come.'’ 
 
 “ I would do anything in the world for you, Laura,” 
 he exclaimed, encouraged by her words ; “ anything. 
 You know I would. It isn’t so much that I want you 
 to care for me — and I guess I want that bad enough — 
 but it’s because I love to be with you, and be helping 
 j you, and all that sort of thing. Now, all this,” he 
 waved a hand at the confusion of furniture, “ all this 
 to-day — I just feel,” he declared with tremendous 
 earnestness, “ I just feel as though I were entering 
 into your life. And just sitting here beside you and 
 putting in these curtain hooks, I want you to know 
 that it’s inspiring to me. Yes, it is, inspiring; it’s ele- 
 vating. You don’t know how it makes a man feel to 
 have the companionship of a good and lovely woman.” 
 
 “ Landry, as though I were all that. Here, put an- 
 other hook in here.” 
 
 She held the fold towards him. But he took her 
 hand as their fingers touched and raised it to his lips 
 and kissed it. She did not withdraw it, nor rebuke him, 
 crying out instead, as though occupied with quite an- 
 other matter: 
 
 ” Landry, careful, my dear boy; you’ll make me prick 
 my fingers. Ah — there, you did.” 
 
 He was all commiseration and self-reproach at once, 
 and turned her hand palm upwards, looking for the 
 scratch. 
 
 “ Um! ” she breathed. “ It hurts.” 
 
 “ Where now,” he cried, “ where was it? Ah, I was 
 a beast; I’m so ashamed.” She indicated a spot on her 
 wrist instead of her fingers, and very naturally Landry 
 kissed it again. 
 
 “ How foolish! ” she remonstrated. “ The idea! As 
 if I wasn’t old enough to be ” 
 
 ■y 
 
A Story of Chicago 53 
 
 “ You’re not so old but what you’re going to marry 
 me some day,” he declared. 
 
 “ How perfectly silly, Landry! ” she retorted. “Aren’t 
 you done with my hand yet?” 
 
 “ No, indeed,” he cried, his clasp tightening over her 
 fingers. “ It’s mine. You can’t have it till I say — or 
 till you say that — some day — you’ll give it to me for 
 good — for better or for worse.” 
 
 “ As if you really meant that,” she said, willing to 
 prolong the little situation. It was very sweet to have 
 this clean, fine-fibred young boy so earnestly in love 
 with her, very sweet that the lifting of her finger, the 
 mere tremble of her eyelid should so perturb him. 
 
 “Mean it! Mean it!” he vociferated. “You don’t 
 know how much I do mean it. Why, Laura, why — why, 
 I can’t think of anything else.” 
 
 “ You! ” she mocked. “ As if I believed that. How 
 many other girls have you said it to this year? ” 
 
 Landry compressed his lips. 
 
 “ Miss Dearborn, you insult me.” 
 
 “ Oh, my! ” exclaimed Laura, at last withdrawing her 
 hand. 
 
 “ And now you’re mocking me. It isn’t kind. No, 
 it isn’t; it isn’t kind.” 
 
 “ I never answered your question yet,” she observed. 
 
 “ What question? ” 
 
 “ About your coming to see me when we were settled. 
 I thought you wanted to know.” ■ 
 
 “ How about lunch? ” said Page, from the doorway. 
 “Do you know it’s after twelve?” 
 
 “ The girl has got something for us,” said Laura. “ I 
 told her about it. Oh, just a pick-up lunch — coffee, 
 chops. I thought we wouldn’t bother to-day. We’ll 
 have to eat in the kitchen.” 
 
 “ Well, let’s be about it,” declared Landry, “ and 
 
54 
 
 The Pit 
 
 finish with these curtains afterward. Inwardly Pm a 
 ravening wolf.” 
 
 It was past one o’clock by the time that luncheon, 
 “ picked up ” though it was, was over. By then every- 
 body was very tired. Aunt Wess’ exclaimed that she 
 could not stand another minute, and retired to her 
 room. Page, indefatigable, declaring they never 
 would get settled if they let things dawdle along, set 
 to work unpacking her trunk and putting her clothes 
 away. Her fox terrier, whom the family, for obscure 
 reasons, called the Pig, arrived in the middle of the 
 afternoon in a crate, and shivering with the chill of the 
 house, was tied up behind the kitchen range, where, 
 for all the heat, he still trembled and shuddered at long 
 intervals, his head down, his eyes rolled up, bewildered 
 and discountenanced by so much confusion and so 
 many new faces. 
 
 Outside the weather continued lamentable. The rain 
 beat down steadily upon the heaps of snow on the 
 grass-plats by the curbstones, melting it, dirtying it, 
 and reducing it to viscid slush. The sky was lead grey ; 
 the trees, bare and black as though built of iron and 
 wire, dripped incessantly. The sparrows, huddling 
 under the house-eaves or in interstices of the mould- 
 ings, chirped feebly from time to time, sitting discon- 
 solate, their feathers puffed out till their bodies as- 
 sumed globular shapes. Delivery wagons trundled up 
 and down the street at intervals, the horses and drivers 
 housed in oil-skins. 
 
 The neighborhood was quiet. There was no sound 
 of voices in the streets. But occasionally, from far 
 away in the direction of the river or the Lake Front, 
 came the faint sounds of steamer and tug whistles. 
 The sidewalks in either direction were deserted. Only 
 a solitary policeman, his star pinned to the outside of 
 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 55 
 
 his dripping rubber coat, his helmet shedding rivulets, 
 stood on the corner absorbed in the contemplation of 
 the brown torrent of the gutter plunging into a sewer 
 vent. 
 
 Landry and Laura were in the library at the rear of 
 the house, a small room, two sides of which were oc- 
 cupied with book-cases. They were busy putting the 
 books in place. Laura stood half-way up the step- 
 ladder taking volume after volume from Landry as he 
 passed them to her. 
 
 “ Do you wipe them carefully, Landry? ” she asked. 
 
 He held a strip of cloth torn from an old sheet in his 
 hand, and rubbed the dust from each book before he 
 handed it to her. 
 
 “ Yes, yes ; very carefully,” he assured her. “ Say,” 
 he added, “ where are all your modern novels? You’ve 
 got Scott and Dickens and Tbar.kpray^ of course, and 
 Eliot — yes, and here’s Hawthorne an d Poe . But I 
 haven’t struck anything later than Oliver Wendell 
 Holmes.” 
 
 Laura put up her chin. “ Modern novels — no in- 
 deed. When I’ve yet to read ‘ Jane Eyre,’ and have 
 only read ‘ Ivanhoe ’ and ‘ The Newcomes ’ once.” 
 
 She made a point of the fact that her taste was the 
 extreme of conservatism, refusing to acknowledge 
 hardly any fiction that was not almost classic. Even 
 Stevenson aroused her suspicions. 
 
 “ Well, here’s ‘ The Wrecker,’ ” observed Landry, 
 handing it up to her. “ I read it last summer-vaca- 
 tion at Waukesha. Just about took the top of my 
 head off.” 
 
 “ I tried to read it,” she answered. “ Such an out- 
 landish story, no love story in it, and so coarse, so 
 brutal, and then so improbable. I couldn’t get in- 
 terested.” 
 
56 
 
 The Pit 
 
 But abruptly Landry uttered an exclamation: 
 
 “Well, what do you call this? ‘Wanda,’ by Ouida. 
 How is this for modern? ” 
 
 She blushed to her hair, snatching the book from 
 him. 
 
 “ Page brought it home. It’s hers.’’ 
 
 But her confusion betrayed her, and Landry shouted 
 derisively. 
 
 “ Well, I did read it then,’’ she suddenly declared de- 
 fiantly. “ No, I’m not ashamed. Yes, I read it from 
 cover to cover. It made me cry like I haven’t cried 
 over a book since I was a little tot. You can say what 
 you like, but it’s beautiful — a beautiful love story — 
 and it does tell about noble, unselfish people. I sup- 
 pose it has its faults, but it makes you feel better for 
 reading it, and that’s what all your ‘ Wreckers ’ in the 
 world would never do.’’ 
 
 “ Well,’’ answered Landry, “ I don’t know much 
 about that sort of thing. Corthell does. He can talk 
 you blind about literature. I’ve heard him run on by 
 the hour. He says the novel of the future is going to 
 be the novel without a love story.’’ 
 
 But Laura nodded her head incredulously. 
 
 “ It will be long after I am dead — that’s one conso- 
 lation,” she said. 
 
 “ Corthell is full of crazy ideas anyhow,” Landry 
 went on, still continuing to pass the books up to her. 
 “ He’s a good sort, and I like him w'ell enough, but 
 he’s the kind of man that gets up a reputation for being 
 clever and artistic by running down the very one par- 
 ticular thing that every one likes, and cracking up 
 some book or picture or play that no one has ever 
 heard of. Just let anything get popular once and 
 Sheldon Corthell can’t speak of it without shudder- 
 ing. But he’ll go over here to some Archer Avenue 
 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 57 
 
 pawn shop, dig up an old brass stewpan, or coffee- 
 pot that some greasy old Russian Jew has chucked 
 away, and he’ll stick it up in his studio and regularly 
 kow-tow to it, and talk about the ‘ decadence of Arneri- 
 can industrial arts.’ I’ve heard him. I say it’s pure 
 affectation, that’s what it is, pure affectation.” 
 
 But the book-case meanwhile had been filling up, 
 and now Laura remarked : 
 
 “ No more, Landry. That’s all that will go here.” 
 
 She prepared to descend from the ladder. In filling 
 the higher shelves she had mounted almost to the top- 
 most step. 
 
 “ Careful now,” said Landry, as he came forward. 
 “ Give me your hand.” 
 
 She gave it to him, and then, as she descended', 
 Landry had the assurance to put his arm around her 
 waist as if to steady her. He was surprised at his own 
 audacity, for he had premeditated nothing, and his arm 
 was about her before he was well aware. He yet found 
 time to experience a qualm of apprehension. Just how 
 would Laura take it? Had he gone too far? 
 
 But Laura did not even seem to notice, all her at- 
 tention apparently fixed upon coming safely down to 
 the floor. She descended and shook out her skirts. 
 
 “ There,” she said, “ that’s over with. Look, I’m all 
 dusty.” 
 
 There was a knock at the half-open door. It was the 
 cook. 
 
 “ What are you going to have for supper. Miss Dear- 
 born?” she inquired. “There’s nothing in the house.” 
 
 “ Oh, dear,” said Laura with sudden blankness, “ I 
 never thought of supper. Isn’t there anything?” 
 
 “ Nothing but some eggs and coffee.” The cook 
 assumed an air of aloofness, as if the entire affair were 
 
58 
 
 The Pit 
 
 totally foreign to any interest or concern of hers. 
 Laura dismissed her, saying that she would see to it. 
 
 “ We’ll have to g-o out and get some things,” she 
 said. “ We’ll all go. I’m tired of staying in the house.” 
 
 “ No, I’ve a better scheme,” announced Landry. 
 “ I’ll invite you all out to dine with me. I know a place 
 where you can get the best steak in America. It has 
 stopped raining. See,” he showed her the window. 
 
 “ But, Landry, we are all so dirty and miserable.” 
 
 “ We’ll go right now and get there early. There will 
 be nobody there, and we can have a room to ourselves. 
 Oh, it’s all right,” he declared. “ You just trust me.” 
 
 “ We’ll see what Page and Aunt Wess’ say. Of 
 course Aunt Wess’ would have to come.” 
 
 “ Of course,” he said. “ I wouldn’t think of asking 
 you unless she could come.” 
 
 A little later the two sisters, Mrs. Wessels, and 
 Landry came out of the house, but before taking their 
 car they crossed to the opposite side of the street, 
 Laura having said that she wanted to note the effect of 
 her parlour curtains from the outside. 
 
 “ I think they are looped up just far enough,” she 
 declared. -But Landry was observing the house itself. 
 
 “ It is the best-looking place on the block,” he an- 
 swered. 
 
 In fact, the house was not without a certain attrac- 
 tiveness. It occupied a corner lot at the intersection 
 of Huron and North State streets. Directly opposite 
 was St. James’ Church, and at one time the house had 
 served as the rectory. For the matter of that, it had 
 been built for just that purpose. Its style of archi- 
 tecture was distantly ecclesiastic, with a suggestion of 
 Gothic to some of the doors and windows. The ma- 
 terial used was solid, massive, the walls thick, the foun- 
 dation heavy. It did not occupy the entire lot, the 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 59 
 
 original builder seeming to have preferred garden space 
 to mere amplitude of construction, and in addition to 
 the inevitable “ back yard,” a lawn bordered it on three 
 sides. It gave the place a certain air of distinction 
 and exclusiveness. Vines grew thick upon the southern 
 walls ; in the summer time fuchsias, geraniums, and 
 pansies would flourish in the flower beds by the front 
 stoop. The grass plat by the curb boasted a couple 
 of trees. The whole place was distinctive, individual, 
 and very homelike, and came as a grateful relief to 
 the endless lines of houses built of yellow Michigan 
 limestone that pervaded the rest of the neighbourhood 
 in every direction. 
 
 “ I love the place,” exclaimed Laura. “ I thinlt it’s 
 as pretty a house as* I have seen in Chicago.” 
 
 “ Well, it isn’t so spick and span,” commented Page. 
 “ It gives you the idea that we’re not new-rich and 
 showy and all.” 
 
 But Aunt Wess’ was not yet satisfied. 
 
 “ You may see, Laura,” she remarked, “ how you are 
 going to heat all that house with that one furnace, but 
 I declare I don’t.” 
 
 Their car, or rather their train of cars, coupled to- 
 gether in threes, in Chicago style, came, and Landry 
 escorted them down town. All the way Laura could 
 not refrain from looking out of the windows, ab- 
 sorbed in the contemplation of the life and aspects of 
 the streets. 
 
 “ You will gpve yourself away,” said Page. “ Every- 
 body will know you’re from the country.” 
 
 “ I am,” she retorted. “ But there’s a difference be- 
 tween just mere ‘ country ’ and Massachusetts, and I’m 
 not ashamed of it.” 
 
 Chicago, the great grey city, interested her at every 
 instant and under every condition. As yet she was not 
 
6o 
 
 The Pit 
 
 sure that she liked it; she could not forgive its dirty 
 streets, the unspeakable squalor of some of its poorer 
 neighbourhoods that sometimes developed, like can- 
 cerous growths, in the very heart of fine residence dis- 
 tricts. The black murk that closed every vista of the 
 business streets oppressed her, and the soot that 
 stained linen and gloves each time she stirred abroad 
 was a never-ending distress. 
 
 But the life was tremendous. All around, on every 
 side, in every direction the vast machinery of Common- 
 wealth clashed and thundered from dawn to dark and 
 from dark till dawn. Even now, as the car carried her 
 farther into the business quarter, she could hear it, see 
 it, and feel in her every fibre the trepidation of its mo- 
 tion. The blackened waters of the river, seen an in- 
 stant between stanchions as the car trundled across 
 the State Street bridge, disappeared under fleets of 
 tugs, of lake steamers, of lumber barges from She- 
 boygan and Mackinac, of grain boats from Duluth, of 
 coal scows that filled the air with impalpable dust, of 
 cumbersome schooners laden with produce, of grimy 
 rowboats dodging the prows and paddles of the larger 
 craft, while on all sides, blocking the horizon, red in 
 color and designated by Brobdignag letters, towered 
 the hump-shouldered grain elevators. 
 r Just before crossing the bridge on the north side of 
 the river she had caught a glimpse of a great railway 
 terminus. Down below there, rectilinear, scientifically 
 paralleled and squared, the Yard disclosed itself. A 
 system of grey rails beyond words complicated opened 
 out and spread immeasurably. Switches, semaphores, 
 and signal towers stood here and there. A dozen 
 trains, freight and passenger, puffed and steamed, wait- 
 ing the word to depart. Detached engines hurried in 
 and out of sheds and roundhouses, seeking their trains, 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 6i 
 
 or bunted the ponderous freight cars into switches; 
 trundling up and down, clanking, shrieking, their bells 
 filling the air with the clangour of tocsins. Men in 
 visored caps shouted hoarsely, waving their arms or red 
 flags; drays, their big dappled horses, feeding in their 
 nose bags, stood backed up to the open doors of freight 
 cars and received their loads. A train departed roar- 
 ing. Before midnight it would be leagues away bor- 
 ing through the Great Northwest, carrying Trade — 
 the life blood of nations — into communities of which 
 Laura had never heard. Another train, reeking with 
 fatigue, the air brakes screaming, arrived and halted, 
 debouching a flood of passengers, business men, bring- 
 ing Trade — a galvanising elixir — from the very ends and 
 corners of the continent. 
 
 Or, again, it was South Water Street — a jam of de- 
 livery wagons and market carts backed to the curbs, 
 leaving only a tortuous path between the endless files 
 of horses, suggestive of an actual barrack of cavalry. 
 Provisions, market produce, “ garden truck ” and fruits, 
 in an infinite welter of crates and baskets, boxes, and 
 sacks, crowded the sidewalks. The gutter was choked 
 with an overflow of refuse cabbage leaves, soft or- 
 anges, decaying beet tops. The air was thick with 
 the heavy smell of vegetation. Food was trodden 
 under foot, food crammed the stores and warehouses 
 to bursting. Food mingled with the mud of the high- 
 way. The very dray horses were gorged with an un- 
 ending nourishment of snatched mouthfuls picked from 
 backboard, from barrel top, and from the edge of the 
 sidewalk. The entire locality reeked with the fatness 
 of a hundred thousand furrows. A land of plenty, 
 the inordinate abundance of the earth itself emptied 
 itself upon the asphalt and cobbles of the quarter. It 
 was the Mouth of the City, and drawn from all direc- 
 
62 
 
 The Pit 
 
 tions, over a territory of immense area, this glut of 
 crude subsistence was sucked in, as if into a rapacious 
 gullet, to feed the sinews and to nourish the fibres of 
 an immeasurable colossusy 
 
 Suddenly the meaning and significance of it all 
 dawned upon Laura. The Great Grey City, brooking 
 no rival, imposed its dominion upon a reach of country 
 larger than many a kingdom of the Old World. For 
 thousands of miles beyond its confines was* its influ- 
 ence felt. Out, far out, far away in the snow and 
 shadow of Northern Wisconsin forests, axes and saws 
 bit the bark of century-old trees, stimulated by this city’s 
 energy. Just as far to the southward pick and drill 
 leaped to the assault of veins of anthracite, moved by 
 her central power. Her force turned the wheels of 
 harvester and seeder a thousand miles distant in Iowa 
 and Kansas. Her force spun the screws and pro- 
 pellers of innumerable squadrons of lake steamers 
 crowding the Sault Sainte Marie. For her and because 
 of her all the Central States, all the Great Northwest 
 roared with traffic and industry ; sawmills screamed ; 
 factories, their smoke blackening the sky, clashed and 
 flamed; wheels turned, pistons leaped in their cylin- 
 ders ; cog gripped cog ; beltings clasped the drums of 
 mammoth wheels ; and converters of forges belched 
 into the clouded air their tempest breath of molten 
 steel. 
 
 [^It was Empire, the resistless subjugation of all this 
 central world of the lakes and the prairies. Here, mid- 
 most in the land, beat the Heart of the Nation, whence 
 inevitably must come its immeasurable power, its in- 
 finite, infinite, inexhaustible vitality. Here, of all hei 
 cities, throbbed the true life — the true power and spirit 
 of America; gigantic, crude with the crudity of youth, 
 disdaining rivalry ; sane and healthy and vigorous ; 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 63 
 
 brutal in its ambition, arrogant in the new-found knowl- 
 edge of its giant strength, prodigal of its wealth, in- 
 finite in its desires. In its capacity boundless, in its 
 courage indomitable ; subduing the wilderness in a 
 single generation, defying calamity, and through the 
 flame and the debris of a commonwealth in ashes, rising 
 suddenly renewed, formidable, and Titanic?^ 
 
 Laura, her eyes dizzied, her ears stunned, watched 
 tirelessly. 
 
 “ There is something terrible about it,” she mur- 
 mured, half to herself, “ something insensate. In a 
 way, it doesn’t seem human. It’s like a great tidal wave. 
 It’s all very well for the individual just so long as he 
 can keep afloat, but once fallen, how horribly quick 
 it would crush him, annihilate him, how horribly quick, 
 and with such horrible indifference ! I suppose it’s 
 civilisation in the making, the thing that isn’t meant 
 to be seen, as though it were too elemental, too — pri- 
 tnordial ; like the first verses of Genesis.” 
 
 The impression remained long with her, and not 
 ;ven the gaiety of their little supper could altogether 
 disperse it. She was a little frightened — frightened of 
 Ithe vast, cruel machinery of the city’s life, and of the 
 men who could dare it, who conquered it. fFor a mo- 
 ment they seemed, in a sense, more terrible than the 
 city itself — men for whom all this crash of conflict 
 and commerce had no terrors. Those who could sub- 
 due it to their purposes, must they not be themselves 
 more terrible, more pitiless, more brutal ? She shrank i 
 a little. What could women ever know of the life of/I 
 
 men, after all? Even Landry, extravagant as he was, 
 so young, so exuberant, so seemingly innocent — she 
 knew that he was spoken of as a good business man. 
 He, too, then had his other side. For him the Battle 
 of the Street was an exhilaration. Beneath that boyish 
 
The Pit 
 
 ;rior was the tough coarseness, the male hardness, 
 ''iie callousness that met the brunt and withstood the 
 slock of onsetTi 
 
 (^h, these men of the city, what could women ever 
 know of them, of their lives, of that other existence 
 through which — freed from the influence of wife or 
 mother, or daughter or sister — they passed every day 
 from nine o’clock till evening? It was a life in which 
 women had no part, and in which, should they enter 
 it, they would no longer recognise son or husband, or 
 father or brother. The gentle-mannered fellow, clean- 
 minded, clean-handed, of the breakfast or supper table 
 was one man. The other, who and what was he ? Down 
 there in mnrk and grimp of the business district 
 raged the( Battle ~of the Streetj . and therein he ^^’as a 
 being transformed, case hardened, supremely selfish, 
 asking no quarter; no, nor giving any. Fouled with 
 the clutchings and grapplings of the attack, besmirched 
 with the elbowing of low associates and obscure allies, 
 he set his feet toward conquest, and mingled with the 
 marchings of an army that surged forever forward and 
 back; now in merciless assault, beating the fallen enemy 
 under foot, now in repulse, equally merciless, trampling 
 down the auxiliaries of the day before, in a panic dash 
 for safety ; always cruel, always selfish, always pitilessT\ 
 To contrast these men with such as Corthell was in- 
 evitable. She remembered him, to whom the business 
 district was an unexplored country, who kept himself 
 far from the fighting, his hands unstained, his feet un- 
 sullied. He passed his life gently, in the calm, still 
 atmosphere of art, in the cult of the beautiful, unper- 
 turbed, tranquil; painting, reading, or, piece by piece, 
 developing his beautiful stained glass. Him women 
 could know, with him they could sympathise. And he 
 could enter fully into their lives and help and stimu- 
 
A Story of Chicago 65 
 
 late them. Of the two existences which did she pre- 
 fer, that of the business man, or that of the artist ? 
 
 Then suddenly Laura surprised herself. After all, 
 she was a daughter of the frontier, and the blood of 
 those who had wrestled with a new world flowed in 
 her body. Yes, Corthell’s was a beautiful life; the 
 charm of dim painted windows, the attraction of dark- 
 ened studios with their harmonies of color, their 
 orientalisms, and their arabesques was strong. No 
 doubt it all had its place. It fascinated her at times, 
 in spite of herself. To relax the mind, to indulge the 
 senses, to live in an environment of pervading beauty 
 was delightful. But the men to whom the woman in 
 her turned were not those of the studio. Terrible as \ 
 the Battle of the Street was, it was yet battle. Only ! 
 the strong and the brave might dare it, and the figiire \ 
 that held her imagination and her sympathy was not 
 the artist, soft of hand and of speech, elaborating , 
 graces of sound and_,xolor and form, refined, sensitive, | 
 and temperamental i but the fighter, unknown and un- j 
 knowable to women'^s he was ; hard, rigqrous, pano- ; 
 plied in the harness of the warrior, who strove among | 
 the trumpets, and who, in the brunt of conflict, con- 
 spicuous, formidable, set the battle in a rage around ’ 
 him, and exulted like a champion in the shoutings of 
 the captains^ 
 
 They were not long at table, and by the time they 
 were ready to depart it was about half-past five. But 
 when they emerged into the street, it was discovered 
 that once more the weather had abruptly changed. It 
 was snowing thickly. Again a bitter wind from off 
 the Lake tore through the streets. The slush and 
 melted snow was freezing, and the north side of every 
 lamp post and telegraph pole was sheeted with ice. 
 
 To add to their discomfort, the North State Street 
 
 * 
 
66 
 
 The Pit 
 
 cars were blocked. When they gained the corner of 
 Washington Street they could see where the conges- 
 tion began, a few squares distant. 
 
 “ There’s nothing for it,” declared Landry, “ but to 
 go over and get the Clarke Street cars — and at that 
 you may have to stand up all the way home, at this time 
 of day.” 
 
 They paused, irresolute, a moment on the corner. It 
 was the centre of the retail quarter. Qose at hand a 
 vast dry goods house, built in the old “ iron-front ” 
 style, towered from the pavement, and through its hun- 
 dreds of windows presented to view a world of stuffs 
 and fabrics, upholsteries and textiles, kaleidoscopic, 
 gleaming in the fierce brilliance of a multitude of lights. 
 From each street doorway was pouring an army of 
 “ shoppers,” women for the most part ; and these — 
 since the store catered to a rich clientele — fashionably 
 dressed. Many of them stood for a moment on the 
 threshold of the storm-doorways, turning up the col- 
 lars of their sealskins, settling their hands in their 
 muffs, and searching the street for their coupes and 
 carriages. 
 
 Among the number of those thus engaged, one, sud- 
 denly catching sight of Laura, waved a muff in her di- 
 rection, then came quickly forward. It was Mrs. Cress- 
 ler. 
 
 “ Laura, my dearest girl ! Of all the people. I am 
 so glad to see you ! ” She kissed Laura on the cheek, 
 shook hands all around, and asked about the sisters’ 
 new home. Did they want anything, or was there any- 
 thing she could do to help ? Then interrupting herself, 
 and laying a glove on Laura’s arm : 
 
 “ I’ve got more to tell you.” 
 
 She compressed her lips and stood off from Laura, 
 fixing her with a significant glance. 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 67 
 
 “Me? To tell me?” 
 
 “ Where are you going now? ” 
 
 “ Home ; but our cars are stopped. We naust go 
 over to ” 
 
 “ Fiddlesticks ! You and Page and Mrs. Wessels — 
 all of you are coming home and dine with me.” 
 
 “ But we’ve had dinner already,” they all cried, speak- 
 ing at once. 
 
 Page explained the situation, but Mrs. Cressler would 
 not be denied. 
 
 “ The carriage is right here,” she said. “ I don’t 
 have to call for Charlie. He’s got a man from Cin- 
 cinnati in tow, and they are going to dine at the 
 Calumet Club.” 
 
 It ended by the two sisters and Mrs. Wessels getting 
 into Mrs. Cressler’s carriage. Landry excused himself. 
 He lived on the South Side, on Michigan Avenue, and 
 declaring that he knew they had had enough of him for 
 one day, took himself off. 
 
 But whatever Mrs. Cressler had to tell Laura, she 
 evidently was determined to save for her ears only. 
 Arrived at the Dearborns’ home, she sent her footman 
 in to tell the “ girl ” that the family would not be home 
 that night. The Cresslers lived hard by on the same 
 street, and within ten minutes’ walk of the Dearborns. 
 The two sisters and their aunt would be back immedi- 
 ately after breakfast. 
 
 When they had got home with Mrs. Cressler, this 
 latter suggested hot tea and sandwiches in the library, 
 for the ride had been cold. But the others, worn out, 
 declared for bed as soon as Mrs. Cressler herself had 
 dined. 
 
 “Oh, bless you, Carrie,” said Aunt Wess’; “I 
 couldn’t think of tea. My back is just about broken, 
 and I’m going straight to my bed.” 
 
68 
 
 The Pit 
 
 Mrs. Cressler showed them to their rooms. Page 
 and Mrs. Wessels elected to sleep together, and once 
 the door had closed upon them the little girl unbur- 
 dened herself. 
 
 “ I suppose Laura thinks it’s all right, running off like 
 this for the whole blessed night, and no one to look 
 after the house but those two servants that nobody 
 knows anything about. As though there weren’t heaven 
 knows what all to tend to there in the morning. I 
 just don’t see,” she exclaimed decisively, “ how we’re 
 going to get settled at all. That Landry Court ! My 
 goodness, he’s more hindrance than help. Did you 
 ever see ! He just dashes in as though he were doing 
 it all, and messes everything up, and loses things, and 
 gets things into the wrong place, and forgets this and 
 that, and then he and Laura sit down and spoon. I 
 never saw anything like it. First it’s Corthell and then 
 Landry, and next it will be somebody else. Laura 
 regularly mortifies me ; a great, grown-up girl like 
 that, flirting, and letting every man she meets think 
 that he’s just the one particular one of the whole earth. 
 It’s not good form. And Landry — as if he didn’t know 
 we’ve got more to do now than just to dawdle and 
 dawdle. I could slap him. I like to see a man take 
 life seriously and try to amount to something, and not 
 waste the best years of his life trailing after women 
 who are old enough to be his grandmother, and don’t 
 mean that it will ever come to anything.” 
 
 In her room, in the front of the house, Laura was 
 partly undressed when Mrs. Cressler knocked at her 
 door. The latter had put on a wrapper of flowered 
 silk, and her hair was bound in “ invisible nets.” 
 
 “ I brought you a dressing-gown,” she said. She 
 hung it over the foot of the bed, and sat dowm on the 
 bed itself, watching Laura, who stood before the glass 
 
69 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 of the bureau, her head bent upon her breast, her 
 hands busy with the back of her, hair. 'From time to 
 time the hairpins clicked as she laid them down in 
 the silver trays close at hand. Then putting her chin 
 in the air, she shook her head, and the great braids, 
 unlooped, fell to her waist. 
 
 “ What pretty hair you have, child,” murmured Mrs. 
 Cressler. She was settling herself for a long talk with 
 her protege. She had much to tell, but now that they 
 had the whole night before them, could aflford to take 
 her time. 
 
 Between the two women the conversation began 
 slowly, with detached phrases and observations that did 
 not call necessarily for answers — mere beginnings that 
 they did not care to follow up. 
 
 “ They tell me,” said Mrs. Cressler, “ that that Gretry 
 girl smokes ten cigarettes every night before she goes 
 to bed. You know the Gretrys — they were at the opera 
 the other night.” 
 
 Laura permitted herself an indefinite murmur of in- 
 terest. Her head to one side, she drew the brush in 
 slow, deliberate movements downward underneath the 
 long, thick strands of her hair. Mrs. Cressler watched 
 her attentively. 
 
 “ Why don’t you wear your hair that new way, 
 Laura,” she remarked, “farther down on your neck? 
 I see every one doing it now.” 
 
 The house was very still. Outside the double win- 
 dows they could hear the faint murmuring click of the 
 frozen snow. A radiator in the hallway clanked and 
 strangled for a moment, then fell quiet again. 
 
 “ What a pretty room this is,” said Laura. “ I think 
 I’ll have to do our guest room something like this — a 
 sort of white and gold effect. My hair? Oh, I don’t 
 know. Wearing it low that way makes it catch so on 
 
70 
 
 The Pit 
 
 the hooks of your collar, and, besides, I was afraid it 
 would make my head look so flat.” 
 
 There was a silence. Laura braided a long strand, 
 with quick, regular motions of both hands, and letting 
 it fall over her shoulder, shook it into place with a twist 
 of her head. She stepped out of her skirt, and Mrs. 
 Cressler handed her her dressing-gown, and brought 
 out a pair of quilted slippers of red satin from the ward- 
 robe. 
 
 In the grate, the fire that had been lighted just be- 
 fore they had come upstairs was crackling sharply. 
 Laura drew up an armchair and sat down in front of 
 it, her chin in her hand. Mrs. Cressler stretched her- 
 self upon the bed, an arm behind her head. 
 
 “ Well, Laura,” she began at length, “ I have some 
 real news for you. My dear, I believe you’ve made a 
 conquest.” 
 
 “ I ! ” murmured Laura, looking around. She feigned 
 a surprise, though she guessed at once that Mrs. Cress- 
 ler had Corthell in mind. 
 
 “ That Mr. Jadwin — ^the one you met at the opera.” 
 
 Genuinely taken aback, Laura sat upright and stared 
 wide-eyed. 
 
 “ Mr. Jadwin ! ” she exclaimed. “ Why, we didn’t 
 have five minutes’ talk. Why, I hardly know the man. 
 I only met him last night.” 
 
 But Mrs. Cressler shook her head, closing her eyes 
 and putting her lips together. 
 
 “ That don’t make any difference, Laura. Trust me 
 to tell when a man is taken with a girl. My dear, you 
 can have him as easy as that.” She snapped her fingers. 
 
 “ Oh, I’m sure you’re mistaken, Mrs. Cressler.” 
 
 “ Not in the least. I’ve known Curtis Jadvnn now 
 for fifteen years — nobody better. He’s as old a family 
 
A Story of Chicago 71 
 
 friend as Charlie and I have. I know him like a book. 
 And I tell you the man is in love with you.” 
 
 “ Well, I hope he didn’t tell you as much,” cried 
 Laura, promising herself to be royally angry if such 
 was the case. But Mrs. Cressler hastened to reassure 
 her. 
 
 “ Oh my, no. But all the way home last night — he 
 came home with us, you know — he kept referring to 
 you, and just so soon as the conversation got on some 
 other subject he would lose interest. He wanted to 
 know all about you — oh, you know how a man will 
 talk,” she exclaimed. “ And he said you had more 
 sense and more intelligence than any girl he had ever 
 known.” 
 
 “ Oh, well,” answered Laura deprecatingly, as if to 
 say that that did not count for much with her. 
 
 “ And that you were simply beautiful. He said that 
 he never remembered to have seen a more beautiful 
 woman.” 
 
 Laura turned her head away, a hand shielding her 
 cheek. She did not answer immediately, then at length: 
 
 “ Has he — this Mr. Jadwin — has he ever been married 
 before ? ” 
 
 “ No, no. He’s a bachelor, and rich ! He could buy 
 and sell us. And don’t think, Laura dear, that I’m 
 jumping at conclusions. I hope I’m woman of the 
 world enough to know that a man who’s taken with a 
 pretty face and smart talk isn’t going to rush right into 
 matrimony because of that. It wasn’t so much what 
 Curtis Jadwin said — though, dear me suz, he talked 
 enough about you — as what he didn’t say. I could tell. 
 He was thinking hard. He was hit, Laura. I know he 
 was. And Charlie said he spoke about you again this 
 morning at breakfast. Charlie makes me tired some- 
 times,” she added irrelevantly. 
 
72 
 
 The Pit 
 
 “ Charlie ? ” repeated Laura. 
 
 “ Well, of course I spoke to him about Jadwin, and 
 how taken he seemed with you, and the man roared at 
 me, 
 
 “ He didn’t believe it, then.” 
 
 “ Yes he did — when I could get him to talk seriously 
 about it, and when I made him remember how Mr. 
 Jadwin had spoken in the carriage coming home.” 
 
 Laura curled her leg under her and sat nursing her 
 foot and looking into the fire. For a long time neither 
 spoke. A little clock of brass and black marble be- 
 gan to chime, very prettily, the half hour of nine. Mrs. 
 Cressler observed: 
 
 “ That Sheldon Corthell seems to be a very agree- 
 able kind of a young man, doesn’t he? ” 
 
 “ Yes,” replied Laura thoughtfully, “ he is agreeable.” 
 
 “ And a talented fellow, too,” continued Mrs. Cress- 
 ler. " But somehow it never impressed me that there 
 was very much to him.” 
 
 “ Oh,” murmured Laura indifferently, “ I don’t 
 know.” 
 
 “ I suppose,” Mrs. Cressler went on, in a tone of 
 resignation, “ I suppose he thinks the world and all of 
 you ? ” 
 
 Laura raised a shoulder without answering. 
 
 “ Charlie can’t abide him,” said Mrs. Cressler. 
 “Funny, isn’t it what prejudices men have? Charlie 
 always speaks of him as though he were a higher order 
 of glazier. Curtis Jadwin seems to like him. . . . 
 
 What do you think of him, Laura — of Mr. Jadwin? ” 
 
 “ I don’t know,” she answered, looking vaguely into 
 the fire. “ I thought he was a strong man — mentally 
 I mean, and that he would be kindly and — and — gen- 
 erous. Somehow,” she said, musingly, “ I didn’t think 
 he would be the sort of man that women would take to, 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 73 
 
 at first — but then I don’t know. I saw very little of 
 him, as I say. He didn’t impress me as being a woman’s 
 man.” 
 
 “ All the better,” said the other. “ Who would want 
 to marry a woman’s man? / wouldn’t. Sheldon Cor- 
 thell is that. I tell you one thing, Laura, and when 
 you are as old as I am, you’ll know it’s true : the kind 
 of a jnan that men like — not women — is the kind of a 
 man that makes the best- husband.” 
 
 Laura nodded her head. 
 
 “Yes,” she answered, listlessly, “I suppose that’s 
 true.” 
 
 “ You said Jadwin struck you as being a kindly man, 
 a generous man. He’s just that, and that charitable ! 
 You know he has a -Sunday-school over on the West 
 Side, a Sunday-school for mission children, and I do 
 believe he’s more interested in that than in his business. 
 He wants to make it the biggest Sunday-school in Chi- 
 cago. It’s an ambition of his. I don’t want you to 
 think that he’s good in a goody-goody way, because 
 he’s not. Laura,” she exclaimed, “ he’s a Une man. I 
 didn’t intend to brag him up to you, because I wanted 
 you to like him. But no one knows — as I say — no one 
 knows Curtis Jadwin better than Charlie and I, and we 
 just love him. The kindliest, biggest-hearted fellow — 
 oh, well, you’ll know him for yourself, and then you’ll 
 see. He passes the plate in our church.” 
 
 “Dr. Wendell’s church?” asked Laura. 
 
 “ Yes you know — the Second Presbyterian.” 
 
 “ I’m Episcopalian myself,” observed Laura, still 
 thoughtfully gazing into the fire. 
 
 “ I knov/, I know. But Jadwin isn’t the blue-nosed 
 sort. And now see here, Laura, I want to tell you. 
 J. — that’s what Charlie and I call Jadwin — ^J. was talk- 
 ing to us the other day about supporting a ward in 
 
74 
 
 The Pit 
 
 the Children’s Hospital for the children of his Sunday- 
 school that get hurt or sick. You see he has nearly 
 eight hundred boys and girls in his school, and there’s 
 not a week passes that he don’t hear of some one of 
 them who has been hurt or taken sick. And he wants 
 to start a ward at the Children’s Hospital, that can take 
 care of them. He says he wants to get other people 
 interested, too, and so he wants to start a contribution. 
 He says he’ll double any amount that’s raised in the 
 next six months — that is, if there’s two thousand raised, 
 he’ll make it four thousand; understand? And so 
 Charlie and I and the Gretrys are going to get up an 
 amateur play — a charity affair — and raise as much 
 money as we can. J. thinks it’s a good idea, and — 
 here’s the point — ^we were talking about it coming 
 home in the carriage, and J. said he wondered if that 
 Miss Dearborn wouldn’t take part. And we are all 
 wild to have you. You know you do that sort of thing 
 so well. Now don’t say yes or no to-night. You sleep 
 over it. J. is crazy to have you in it.” 
 
 “ I’d love to do it,” answered Laura. “ But I would 
 have to see — it takes so long to get settled, and there’s 
 so much to do about a big house like ours, I might not 
 have time. But I will let you know.” 
 
 Mrs. Cressler told her in detail about the proposed 
 play. Landry Court was to take part, and she enlisted 
 Laura’s influence to get Sheldon Corthell to under- 
 take a role. Page, it appeared, had already promised 
 to help. Laura remembered now that she had heard 
 her speak of it. However, the plan was so immature 
 as yet, that it hardly admitted of very much discussion, 
 and inevitably the conversation came back to its start- 
 ing-point. 
 
 “You know,” Laura had remarked in answer to one 
 of Mrs. Cressler’s observations upon the capabilities 
 
75 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 and business ability of “ J.” “ you know I never heard 
 of him before you spoke of our theatre party. I don’t 
 know anything about him.” 
 
 ^But Mrs. Cressler promptly supplied the information. 
 Curtis Jadwin was a man about thirty-five, who had 
 begun life without a sou in his pockets. He was a 
 native of Michigan, His people were farmers, nothing 
 more nor less than hardy, honest fellows, who ploughed 
 and sowed for a living. Curtis had only a rudimentary 
 schooling, because he had given up the idea of finishing 
 his studies in the High School in Grand Rapids, on the 
 chance of going into business with a livery stable 
 keeper. Then in time he had bought out the business 
 and had run it for himself. Some one in Chicago owed 
 him money, and in default of payment had offered him 
 a couple of lots on Wabash Avenue. That was how 
 he happened to come to Chicago. Naturally enough 
 as the city grew the Wabash Avenue property — it was 
 near Monroe Street — increased in value. He sold the 
 lots and bought other real estate, sold that and bought 
 somewhere else, and so on, till he owned some of the 
 best business sites in the city. Just his ground rent 
 alone brought him, heaven knew how many thousands a 
 year. He was one of the largest real estate owners 
 in Chicago. But he no longer bought and sold. His 
 property had grown so large that just the manage- 
 ment of it alone took up most of his time. He had 
 an office in the Rookery, and perhaps being so close 
 to the Board of Trade Building, had given him a taste 
 for trying a little deal in wheat now and then. As a 
 rule, he deplored speculation. He had no fixed prin- 
 ciples abouOtTlike CharTteT’ Only he was conservative ; 
 occasionally he hazarded small operations. Somehow 
 he had never married. There had been affairs. Oh, 
 yes, one or two, of course. Nothing very serious. He 
 
76 
 
 The Pit 
 
 just didn’t seem to have met the right girl, that was 
 all. He lived on Michigan Avenue, near the corner of 
 Twenty-first Street, in one of those discouraging eter- 
 nal yellow limestone houses with a basement dining- 
 room. His aunt kept house for him, and his nieces 
 and nephews overran the place. There was always a 
 raft of them there, either coming or going; and the way 
 they exploited him! He supported them all; heaven 
 knew how many there were ; such drabs and gawks, all 
 elbows and knees, who soaked themselves with cologne 
 and made companions of the servants. They and the 
 second girls were always squabbling about their things 
 that they found in each other’s room^ 
 
 It was growing late. At length Mrs. Cressler rose. 
 
 “ My goodness, Laura, look at the time ; and I’ve 
 been keeping you up when you must be killed for sleep.” 
 
 She took herself away, pausing at the doorway long 
 enough to say : 
 
 “ Do try to manage to take part in the play. J. 
 made me promise that I would get you.” 
 
 “Well, I think I can,” Laura answered. “Only I’ll 
 have to see first how our new regime is going to run — 
 the house I mean.” 
 
 When Mrs. Cressler had gone Laura lost no time in 
 getting to bed. But after she turned out the gas she 
 remembered that she had not “ covered ” the fire, a 
 custom that she still retained from the daily round of 
 her life at Barrington. She did not light the gas again, 
 but guided by the firelight, spread a shovelful of ashes 
 over the top of the grate. Yet when she had done this, 
 she still knelt there a moment, looking wide-eyed into 
 the glow, thinking over the events of the last twenty- 
 four hours. When all was said and done, she had, 
 after all, found more in Chicago than the clash and 
 trepidation of empire-making, more than the reverbera- 
 
A Story of Chicago 77 
 
 tion of the thunder of battle, more than the piping and 
 choiring of sweet music. 
 
 First it had been Sheldon Corthell, quiet, persuasive, 
 eloquent. Then Landry Court with his exuberance 
 and extravagance and boyishness, and now — unex- 
 pectedly — behold, a new element had appeared — this 
 other one, this man of the world, of affairs, mature, 
 experienced, whom she hardly knew. It was charming 
 she told herself, exciting. Life never had seemed half 
 so delightful. Romantic, she felt Romance, unseen, in- 
 tangible, at work all about her. And love, which of all 
 things knowable was dearest to her, came to her un- 
 sought. 
 
 Her first aversion to the Great Grey City was fast 
 disappearing. She saw it now in a kindlier aspect. 
 
 “ I think,” she said at last, as she still knelt before 
 the fire, looking deep into the coals, absorbed, ab- 
 stracted, “ I think that I am going to be very happy 
 here.” 
 
Ill 
 
 On a certain Monday morning, about a month later, | 
 Curtis Jadwin descended from his office in the Rookery | 
 Building, and turning southward, took his way toward i 
 the brokerage and commission office of Gretry, Con- ■ 
 verse and Co., on the ground floor of the Board of 
 Trade Building, only a few steps away. 
 
 It was about nine o’clock ; the weather was mild, the 
 sun shone. La Salle Street swarmed with the multi- \ 
 tudinous life that seethed about the doors of the in- 
 numerable offices of brokers and commission men of i 
 the neighbourhood. To the right, in the peristyle of i 
 the Illinois Trust Building, groups of clerks, of mes- 
 sengers, of brokers, of clients, and of depositors formed 
 and broke incessantly. To the left, where the facade 
 of the Board of Trade blocked the street, the activity ’ 
 was astonishing, and in and out of the swing doors of 
 its entrance streamed an incessant tide of coming and 
 going. All the life of the neighbourhood seemed to 
 centre at this point — the entrance of the Board of 
 Trade. Two currents that trended swiftly through La 
 Salle and Jackson streets, and that fed, or were fed by, 
 other tributaries that poured in through Fifth Avenue j 
 and through Clarke and Dearborn streets, met at this 
 point — one setting in, the other out. The nearer the 
 currents the greater their speed. Men — mere flotsam 
 in the flood — as they turned into La Salle Street from ^ 
 Adams or from Monroe, or even from as far as Madi- 
 son, seemed to accelerate their pace as they approached. ' 
 At the Illinois Trust the walk became a stride, at the 
 
79 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 Rookery the stride was almost a trot. But at the 
 corner of Jackson Street, the Board of Trade now 
 merely the width of the street away, the trot became a 
 run, and young men and boys, under the pretence of 
 escaping the trucks and wagons of the cobbles, dashed 
 across at a veritable gallop, flung themselves panting 
 into the entrance of the Board, were engulfed in the 
 turmoil of the spot, and disappeared with a sudden 
 fillip into the gloom of the interior. 
 
 Often Jadwin had noted the scene, and, unimaginative 
 though he was, had long since conceived the notion of 
 some great, some resistless force within the Board of 
 Trade Building that held the tide of the streets within 
 its grip, alternately drawing it in and throwing it forth. 
 Within there, a great whirlpool, a pit of roaring waters 
 spun and thundered, sucking in the life tides of the 
 city, sucking them in as into the mouth of some tre- 
 mendous cloaca, the maw of some colossal sewer ; then 
 vomiting them forth again, spewing them up and out, 
 only to catch them in the return eddy and suck them 
 in afresh. 
 
 Thus it went, day after day. Endlessly, ceaselessly 
 the Pit, enormous, thundering, sucked in and spewed 
 out, sending the swirl of its mighty central eddy far out j 
 through the city’s channels. Terrible at the centre, it 
 was, at the circumference, gentle, insidious and per- 
 suasive, the send of the flowing so mild, that to embark 
 upon it, yielding to the influence, was a pleasure that ' 
 seemed all devoid of risk. But the circumference was 
 not bounded by the city. All through the Northwest, 
 all through the central world of the Wheat the set and 
 whirl of that innermost Pit made itself felt; and it 
 spread and spread and spread till grain in the ele- 
 vators of Western Iowa moved and stirred and an- 
 swered to its centripetal force, and men upon the 
 
8o 
 
 The Pit 
 
 streets of New York felt the mysterious tugging of its 
 undertow engage their feet, embrace their bodies, over- 
 whelm them, and carry them bewildered and unresist- 
 ing back and downwards to the Pit itself. 
 
 Nor was the Pit’s centrifugal power any less. Be- 
 cause of some sudden eddy spinning outward from the 
 middle of its turmoil, a dozen bourses of continental 
 Europe clamoured with panic, a dozen Old-World 
 banks, firm as the established hills, trembled and vi- 
 brated. Because of an unexpected caprice in the 
 swirling of the inner current, some far-distant channel 
 suddenly dried, and the pinch of famine made itself felt 
 among the vine dressers of Northern Italy, the coal 
 miners of Western Prussia. Or another channel filled, 
 and the starved moujik of the steppes, and the hunger^ 
 shrunken coolie of the Ganges’ watershed fed suddenly 
 fat and made thank offerings before ikon and idol. 
 
 There* in the centre of the Nation, midmost of that 
 continent that lay between the oceans of the New 
 World and the Old, in the heart’s heart of the affairs 
 of men, roared and r umbled the ^it. It was as if the 
 Wheat, Nourisher of the Nation s^-^as it rolled gigantic 
 and' fnaje^^c~in‘a'vast llo^ from West to East, here, 
 like a Niagara, finding its flow impeded, burst suddenly 
 into the appalling fury of the Maelstrom, into the cha- 
 otic spasm of a world-force, a primeval energ}', blood- 
 brother of the earthquake and the glacier, raging and 
 wrathful that its power should be braved by some pinch 
 of human spawn that dared raise barriers across its 
 courses. 
 
 Small wonder that Cressler laughed at the thought 
 of cornering wheat, and even now as Jadwin crossed 
 Jackson Street, on his way to his broker’s office on the 
 lower floor of the Board of Trade Building, he noted 
 the ebb and flow that issued from its doors, and re- 
 
A Story of Chicago 8i 
 
 membered the huge river of wheat that rolled through 
 this place from the farms of Iowa and ranches of Da- 
 kota to the mills and bakeshops of Europe. 
 
 “ There’s something, perhaps, in what Charlie says,”' 
 he said to himself. “ Corner this stuff — my God ! ” 
 
 Gretry, Converse & Co. was the name of the bro- 
 kerage firm that always handled Jadwin’s rare specu- 
 lative ventures. Converse was dead long since, but the 
 firm still retained its original name. The house was 
 as old and as well established as any on the Board of 
 Trade. It had a reputation for conservatism, and was 
 known more as a Bear than a Bull concern. It was 
 immensely wealthy and immensely important. It dis- 
 couraged the growth of a clientele of country cus- 
 tomers, of small adventurers, knowing well that these 
 were the first to go in a crash, unable to meet margin 
 calls, and leaving to their brokers the responsibility 
 of their disastrous trades. The large, powerful Bears 
 were its friends, the Bears strong of grip, tenacious 
 of jaw, capable of pulling down the strongest Bull. 
 Thus the firm had no consideration for the “ outsiders,” 
 the “ public ” — the Lambs. The Lambs ! Such a herd, 
 timid, innocent, feeble, as much out of place in La Salle 
 Street as a puppy in a cage of panthers; the Lambs, 
 whom Bull and Bear did not so much as condescend 
 to notice, but who, in their mutual struggle of horn 
 and claw, they crushed to death by the mere rolling of 
 their bodies. 
 
 Jadwin did not go directly into Gretry’s main office, 
 but instead made his way in. at the entrance of the 
 Board of Trade Building, and going on past the stair- 
 ways that on either hand led up to the “ Floor ” on the 
 second story, entered the corridor beyond, and thence 
 gained the customers’ room of Gretry, Converse & Co. 
 All the more important brokerage firms had offices on 
 
 6 
 
82 
 
 The Pit 
 
 the ground floor of the building, oflices that had two en- 
 trances, one giving upon the street, and one upon the 
 corridor of the Board. Generally the corridor entrance 
 admitted directly to the firm’s customers’ room. This 
 was the case with the Gretry-Converse house. 
 
 Once in the customers’ room, Jadwin paused, look- 
 ing about him. 
 
 He could not tell why Gretry had so earnestly desired 
 him to come to his office that morning, but he wanted 
 to know how wheat was selling before talking to the 
 broker. The room was large, and but for the lighted 
 gas, burning crudely without globes, would have been 
 dark. All one wall opposite the door was taken up 
 by a great blackboard covered with chalked figures in 
 columns, and illuminated by a row of overhead gas jets 
 burning under a tin reflector. Before this board files 
 of chairs were placed, and these were occupied by 
 groups of nondescripts, shabbily dressed men, 5'oung 
 and old, with tired eyes and unhealthy complexions, 
 who smoked and expectorated, or engaged in inter- 
 minable conversations. 
 
 In front of the blackboard, upon a platform, a young 
 man in shirt-sleeves, his cuffs caught up by metal 
 clamps, walked up and down. Screwed to the black- 
 board itself was a telegraph instrument, and from time 
 to time, as this buzzed and ticked, the young man 
 chalked up cabalistic, and almost illegible figures under 
 columns headed by initials of certain stocks and bonds, 
 or by the words ‘‘ Pork,” “ Oats,” or, larger than all the 
 others, “ May Wheat.” The air of the room was stale, 
 close, and heavy with tobacco fumes. The only noises 
 were the low hum of conversations, the unsteady click 
 of the telegraph key, and the tapping of the chalk in 
 the marker’s fingers. 
 
 But no one in the room seemed to pay the least at* 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 83 
 
 tention to the blackboard. One quotation replaced an- 
 other, and the key and the chalk clicked and tapped 
 incessantly. The occupants of the room, sunk in their 
 chairs, seemed to give no heed ; some even turned their 
 backs; one, his handkerchief over his knee, adjusted 
 his spectacles, and opening a newspaper two days old, 
 began to read with peering deliberation, his lips form- 
 ing each word. These nondescripts gathered there, 
 they knew not why. Every day found them in the same 
 place, always with the same fetid, unlighted cigars, 
 always with the same frayed newspapers two days old. 
 There they sat, inert, stupid, their decaying senses hyp- 
 notised and soothed by the sound of the distant rumble 
 of the Pit, that came through the ceiling from the floor 
 of the Board overhead. 
 
 One of these figures, that of a very old man, blear- 
 eyed, decrepit, dirty, in a battered top hat and faded 
 frock coat, discoloured and weather-stained at the shoul- 
 ders, seemed familiar to Jadwin. It recalled some an- 
 cient association, he could not say what. But he was 
 unable to see the old man’s face distinctly; the light 
 was bad, and he sat with his face turned from him, eat- 
 ing a sandwich, which he held in a trembling hand. 
 
 Jadwin, having noted that wheat was selling at 94, 
 went away, glad to be out of the depressing atmosphere 
 of the room. 
 
 Gretry was in his office, and Jadwin was admitted at 
 once. He sat down in a chair by the broker’s desk, 
 .^nd for the moment the two talked of trivialities. 
 (jGretry was a large, placid, smooth-faced man, stolid 
 as an ox ; inevitably dressed in blue serge, a quill tooth- 
 pick behind his ear, a Grand Army button in his lapel. 
 He and Jadwin were intimates. The two had come to 
 Chicago almost simultaneously, and had risen together 
 to become the wealthy men they were at the mo- 
 
84 
 
 The Pit 
 
 merit. They belonged to the same club, lunched to- 
 gether every day at Kinsley’s, and took each other 
 driving behind their respective trotters on alternate 
 Saturday afternoons. In the middle of summer each 
 stole a fortnight from his business, and went fishing at 
 Geneva Lake in Wisconsin^ 
 
 “ I say,” Jadwin observed, “ I saw an old fellow out- 
 side in your customers’ room just now that put me in 
 mind of Hargus. You remember that deal of his, the 
 one he tried to swing before he died. Oh — how long 
 ago was that ? Bless my soul, that must have been fif- 
 teen, yes twenty years ago.” 
 
 The deal of which Jadwin spoke was the legendary 
 operation of the Board of Trade — a mammoth corner 
 in September wheat, manipulated by this same Hargus, 
 a millionaire, who had tripled his fortune by the corner, 
 and had lost it by some chicanery on the part of his asso- 
 ciate before another year. He had run wheat up to 
 nearly two dollars, had been in his day a king all-power- 
 ful. Since then all deals had been spoken of in terms of 
 the Hargus affair. Speculators said, “ It was almost as 
 bad as the Hargus deal.” “ It was like the Hargus 
 smash.” “ It was as big a thing as the Hargus corner.” 
 Hargus had become a sort of creature of legends, myth- 
 ical, heroic, transfigured in the glory of his millions. 
 
 “ Easily twenty years ago,” continued Jadwin. “ If 
 Hargus could come to life now, he’d be surprised at 
 the difference in the way we do business these days. 
 Twenty years. Yes, it’s all of that. I declare, Sam, 
 we’re getting old, aren’t we ? ” 
 
 “ I guess that was Hargus you saw out there,” an- 
 swered the broker. “ He’s not dead. Old fellow in a 
 stove-pipe and greasy frock coat? Yes, that’s Har- 
 gus.” 
 
 “ What ! ” exclaimed Jadwin. “ That Hargus ? ” 
 
A Story of Chicago 85 
 
 " Of course it was. He comes ’round every day. The 
 clerks give him a dollar every now and then.” 
 
 ! “And he’s not dead? And that was Hargus, that 
 wretched, broken — whew! I don’t want to think of it, 
 Sam ! ” And Jadwin, taken all aback, sat for a moment 
 speechless. 
 
 j “ Yes, sir,” muttered the broker grimly, “ that was 
 Hargus.” 
 
 I There was a long silence. Then at last Gretry ex- 
 claimed briskly : 
 
 “ Well, here’s what I want to see you about.” 
 
 He lowered his voice : “ You know I’ve got a corre- 
 spondent or two at Paris — all the brokers have — and we 
 make no secret as to who they are. But I’ve had an 
 extra man at work over there for the last six months, 
 very much on the quiet. I don’t mind telling you this 
 much — that he’s not the least important member of the 
 United States Legation. Well, now and then he is 
 supposed to send me what the reporters call “ exclu- 
 sive news ” — that’s what I feed him for, and I could 
 run a private steam yacht on what it costs me. But 
 news I get from him is a day or so in advance of every- 
 body else. He hasn’t sent me anything very important 
 till this morning. This here just came in.” 
 
 He picked up a despatch from his desk and read : 
 
 “‘Utica — headquarters — modification — organic — 
 concomitant — within one month,’ which means,” he 
 added, “ this. I’ve just deciphered it,” and he handed 
 Jadwin a slip of paper on which was written : 
 
 “ Bill providing for heavy import duties on foreign 
 grains certain to be introduced in French Chamber of 
 Deputies within one month.” 
 
 “ Have you got it ? ” he demanded of Jadwin, as he 
 took the slip back. “Won’t forget it?” He twisted 
 the paper into a roll and burned it carefully in the of- 
 fice cuspidor. 
 
86 
 
 The Pit 
 
 “Now,” he remarked, “do you come in? It’s just 
 the two of us, J., and I think we can make that Porteous 
 digue look very sick.” 
 
 C“Hum!” murmured Jadwin surprised. “That does 
 giVe you a twist on the situation. But to tell the truth, 
 Sam, I had sort of made up my mind to keep out of 
 speculation since my last little deal. A man gets into 
 this game, and into it, and into it, and before you know 
 he can’t pull out — and he don’t want to. Next he gets 
 his nose scratched, and he hits back to make up for it, 
 and just hits into the air and loses his balance — and 
 down he goes. I don’t want to make any more money, 
 Sam. I’ve got my little pile, and before I get too old 
 I want to have some fun out of it.” 
 
 “But lord love you, J.,” objected the other, “this 
 ain’t speculation. You can see for yourself how sure it 
 is. I’m not a baby at this business, am I? You’ll let 
 me know something of this game, won’t you? And I 
 tell you, J., it’s found money. The man that sells wheat 
 short on the strength of this has as good as got the 
 money in his vest pocket already. Oh, nonsense, of 
 course you’ll come in. I’ve been laying for that Bull 
 gang since long before the Helmick failure, and now 
 I’ve got it right where I want it. Look here, J., you 
 aren’t the man to throw money away. You’d bu)' a 
 ' ■ 11- 1 -r 1 ou could sell it over again 
 
 chance to make really a 
 
 fine Bear deal. Why, as soon as this news gets on the 
 floor there, the price will bust right down, and down, 
 and down. Porteous and his crowd couldn’t keep it up 
 to save ’em from the receiver’s hand one single minute^ 
 “ I know, Sam,” answered Jadwin, “ and the trouble 
 is, not that I don’t want to speculate, but that I do-^ 
 too much. That’s why I said I’d keep out of it. It isn’t 
 so much the money as the fun of playing the game. 
 
8 ; 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 With half a show, I would get in a little more and 
 a little more, till by and by I’d try to throw a big thing, 
 and instead, the big thing would throw me. Why, 
 Sam, when you told me that that wreck out there 
 mumbling a sandwich was Hargus, it made me turn 
 cold.” 
 
 “ Yes, in your feet,” retorted Gretry. “ I’m not ask- 
 ing you to risk all your money, am I, or a fifth of it, 
 or a twentieth of it? Don’t be an ass, J. Are we a 
 conservative house, or aren’t we? Do I talk like this 
 when I’m not sure? Look here. Let me sell a mil- 
 lion bushels for you. Yes, I know it’s a bigger order 
 than I’ve handled for you before. But this time I 
 want to go right into it, head down and heels up, and get 
 a twist on those Porteous buckoes, and raise ’em right 
 out of their boots. We get a crop report this morn- 
 ing, and if the visible supply is as large as I think it 
 is, the price will go off and unsettle the whole market. 
 I’ll sell short for you at the best figures we can get, 
 and you can cover on the slump any time between now 
 and the end of May.” 
 
 Jadwin hesitated. In spite of himself he felt a 
 Chance had come, ^^gain that strange sixth sense of 
 his, the inexplicable instinct, that only the born specu- 
 lator knows, warned him. Every now and then during 
 the course of his business career, this intuition came 
 to him, this hair, this intangible, vague premonition, 
 this presentiment that he must seize Opportunity or else 
 Fortune, that so long had stayed at his elbow, would 
 desert him. In the air about him he seemed to feel 
 an influence, a sudden new element, the presence of 
 a new force. It was Luck, the great power, the great 
 goddess, and all at once it had stooped from out the 
 invisible, and just over his head passed swiftly in a rush 
 of glittering winf^ 
 
88 
 
 The Pit 
 
 “ The thing would have to be handled like glass,” ob- 
 served the broker thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing. 
 “A tip like this is public property in twenty-four hours, 
 and it don’t give us any too much time. I don’t want 
 to break the price by unloading a million or more 
 bushels on ’em all of a sudden. I’ll scatter the orders 
 pretty evenly. You see,” he added, “ here’s a big 
 point in our favor. We’ll be able to sell on a strong 
 market. The Pit traders have got some crazy war 
 rumour going, and they’re as flighty over it as a young 
 ladies’ seminary over a great big rat. And even with- 
 out that, the market is top-heavy. Porteous makes me 
 weary. He and his gang have been bucking it up till 
 we’ve got an abnormal price. Ninety-four for May 
 wheat ! Why, it’s ridiculous. Ought to be selling way 
 down in the eighties. The least little jolt would tip 
 her over. Well,” he said abruptly, squaring himself 
 at Jadwin, “ do we come in? If that same luck of yours 
 is still in working order, here’s your chance, J., to make 
 a killing. There’s just that gilt-edged, full-morocco 
 chance that a report of big ‘ visible ’ would give us.” 
 
 Jadwin laughed. “ Sam,” he said, “ I’ll flip a coin 
 for it.” 
 
 ” Oh, get out,” protested the broker ; then suddenly 
 — the gambling instinct that a lifetime passed in that 
 place had cultivated in him — exclaimed : 
 
 “ All right. Flip a coin. But give me your word 
 you’ll stay by it. Heads you come in; tails you don’t. 
 Will you give me your word ? ” 
 
 ” Oh, I don’t know about that,” replied Jadvdn, 
 amused at the foolishness of the whole proceeding. 
 But as he balanced the half-dollar on his thumb-nail, 
 he was all at once absolutely assured that it would fall 
 heads. He flipped it in the air, and even as he watched 
 it spin, said to himself, “ It will come heads. It could 
 not possibly be anything else. I know it will be heads.” 
 
89 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 And as a matter of course the coin fell heads. 
 
 “ All right/’ he said, “ I’ll come in.” 
 
 “ For a million bushels ? ” 
 
 “ Yes — for a million. How much in margins will you 
 want ? ” 
 
 Gretry figured a moment on the back of an en- 
 velope. 
 
 “ Fifty thousand dollars,” he announced at length. 
 
 Jadwin wrote the check on a corner of the broker’s 
 desk, and held it a moment before him. 
 
 “ Good-bye,” he said, apostrophising the bit of paper. 
 “ Good-bye. I ne’er shall look upon your like again.” 
 
 Gretry did not laugh. 
 
 “ Huh ! ” he grunted. “ You’ll look upon a hatful of 
 tnem before the month is out.” 
 
 That same morning Landry Court found himself in 
 the corridor on the ground floor of the Board of Trade 
 about nine o’clock. He had just come out of the office 
 of Gretry, Converse & Co., where he and the other 
 Pit traders for the house had been receiving their 
 orders for the day. 
 
 As he was buying a couple of apples at the news 
 stand at the end of the corridor, Semple and a young 
 Jew named Hirsch, Pit traders for small firms in La 
 Salle Street, joined him. 
 
 “ Hello, Court, what do you know?” 
 
 “ Hello, Barry Semple ! Hello, Hirsch ! ” Landry 
 offered the halves of his second apple, and the three 
 stood there a moment, near the foot of the stairs, talk- 
 ing and eating their apples from the points of their 
 penknives. 
 
 “ I feel sort of seedy this morning,” Semple observed 
 between mouthfuls. “ Was up late last night at a stag. 
 A friend of mine just got back from Europe, and some 
 
90 
 
 The Pit 
 
 of the boys were giving him a little dinner. He was 
 all over the shop, this friend of mine ; spent most of 
 his time in Constantinople ; had some kind of news- 
 paper business there. It seems that it’s a pretty crazy 
 proposition, Turkey and the Sultan and all that. He 
 said that there was nearly a row over the ‘ Higgins- 
 Pasha ’ incident, and that the British agent put it pretty 
 straight to the Sultan’s secretary. My friend said Con- 
 stantinople put him in mind of a lot of opera bouffe 
 scenery that had got spilled out in the mud. Say, 
 Court, he said the streets were dirtier than the Chicago 
 streets.” 
 
 “ Oh, come now,” said Hirsch. 
 
 “ Fact ! And the dogs ! He told us he knows now 
 where all the yellow dogs go to when they die.” 
 
 “ But say,” remarked Hirsch, “ what is that about the 
 Higgins-Pasha business? I thought that was over long 
 ago. 
 
 “ Oh, it is,” answered Semple easily. He looked at 
 his watch. “ I guess it’s about time to go up, pretty 
 near half-past nine.” 
 
 The three mounted the stairs, mingling with the 
 groups of floor traders who, in steadily increasing 
 numbers, had begun to move in the same direction. 
 But on the way Hirsch was stopped by his brother. 
 
 “ Hey, I got that box of cigars for you.” 
 
 Hirsch paused. “ Oh ! All right,” he said, then he 
 added: “Say, how about that Higgins-Pasha affair? 
 You remember that row between England and Turkey. 
 They tell me the British agent in Constantinople put it 
 pretty straight to the Sultan the other day.” 
 
 The other was interested. “He did, hey?” he said. 
 “ The market hasn’t felt it, though. Guess there’s 
 nothing to it. But there’s Kelly yonder. He’d know. 
 He’s pretty thick with Porteous’ men. Might ask him.” 
 
A Story of Chicago 91 
 
 “ You ask him and let me know. I got to go on the 
 floor. It’s nearly time for the gong.” 
 
 Hirsch’s brother found Kelly in the centre of a group 
 of settlement clerks. 
 
 “ Say, boy,” he began, “ you ought to know. They 
 tell me there may be trouble between England and 
 Turkey over the Higgins-Pasha incident, and that the 
 British Foreign Office has threatened the Sultan with an 
 ultimatum. I can see the market if that’s so.” 
 
 “ Nothing in it,” retorted Kelly. “ But I’ll find out 
 — to make sure, by jingo.” 
 
 Meanwhile Landry had gained the top of the stairs, 
 and turning to the right, passed through a great door- 
 way, and came out upon the floor of the Board of Trade. 
 
 It was a vast enclosure, lighted on either side by 
 great windows of coloured glass, the roof supported by 
 thin iron pillars elaborately decorated. To the left 
 were the bulletin blackboards, and beyond these, in the 
 northwest angle of the floor, a great railed-in space 
 where the Western Union Telegraph was installed. 
 To the right, on the other side of the room, a row of 
 tables, laden with neatly arranged paper bags half full 
 of samples of grains, stretched along the east wall from 
 the doorway of the public room at one end to the tele- 
 phone room at the other. 
 
 The centre of the floor was occupied by the pits. 
 To the left and to the front of Landry the provision pit, 
 to the right the corn pit, while further on at the north 
 extremity of the floor, and nearly under the visitors’ 
 gallery, much larger than the other two, and flanked 
 by the wicket of the official recorder, was the wheat 
 pit itself. 
 
 Directly opposite the visitors’ gallery, high upon the 
 south wall a great dial was affixed, and on the dial a 
 marking hand that indicated the current price of wheat, 
 
92 
 
 The Pit 
 
 fluctuating with the changes made in the Pit. Just now 
 it stood at ninety-three and thr^-eighths, the closing 
 quotation of the preceding day^^ 
 
 As yet all the pits were er^ty. It was some fifteen 
 minutes after nine. Landry checked his hat and coat 
 at the coat room near the north entrance, and slipped 
 into an old tennis jacket of striped blue flannel. Then, 
 hatless, his hands in his pockets, he leisurely crossed the 
 floor, and sat down in one of the chairs that were 
 ranged in files upon the floor in front of the telegraph 
 enclosure. He scrutinised again the despatches and 
 orders that he held in his hands ; then, having fixed 
 them in his memory, tore them into very small bits, 
 looking vaguely about the room, developing his plan 
 of_campaign for the morning. 
 
 .ii" a sense Landry Court had a double personality. 
 Away from the neighbourhood and influence of La Salle 
 Street, he was “ rattle-brained,” absent-minded, im- 
 practical, and easily excited, the last fellow in the world 
 to be trusted with any business responsibility. But the 
 thunder of the streets around the Board of Trade, and, 
 above all, the movement and atmosphere of the floor 
 itself awoke within him a very different Landry Court ; 
 a whole new set of nerves came into being with the tap 
 of the nine-thirty gong, a whole new system of brain 
 machinery began to move with the first figure called 
 in the Pit. And from that instant until the close of 
 the session, no floor trader, no broker’s clerk nor 
 scalper was more alert, more shrewd, or kept his head 
 more surely than the same young fellow who confused 
 his social engagements for the evening of the same day. 
 The Landry Court the Dearborn girls knew was a far 
 different young man from him who now leaned his el- 
 bows on the arms of the chair upon the floor of the 
 Board, and, his eyes narrowing, his lips tightening, 
 
A Story of Chicago 93 
 
 began to speculate upon what was to be the temper 
 of the Pit that morningQ 
 
 Meanwhile the floor was beginning to All up. Over 
 in the railed-in space, where the hundreds of telegraph 
 instruments were in place, the operators were arriving 
 in twos and threes. They hung their hats and ulsters 
 upon the pegs in the wall back of them, and in linen 
 coats, or in their shirt-sleeves, went to their seats, or, 
 sitting upon their tables, called back and forth to each 
 other, joshing, cracking jokes. Some few addressed 
 themselves directly to work, and here and there the in- 
 termittent clicking of a key began, like a diligent cricket 
 busking himself in advance of its mates. 
 
 From the corridors on the ground floor up through 
 the south doors came the pit traders in increasing 
 groups. The noise of footsteps began to echo from the 
 high vaulting of the roof. A messenger boy crossed 
 the floor chanting an unintelligible name. 
 
 The groups of traders gradually converged upon the 
 corn and wheat pits, and on the steps of the latter, 
 their arms crossed upon their knees, two men, one 
 wearing a silk skull cap all awry, conversed earnestly 
 in low tones. 
 
 Winst on, a great, broad-shouldered bass-voiced fel- 
 low of some thirty-five years, who was associated with 
 Landry in executing the orders of the Gretry-Converse 
 house, came up to him, and, omitting any salutation, 
 remarked, deliberately, slowly: 
 
 “ What’s all this about this trouble between Turkey 
 and England ? ” 
 
 But before Landry could reply a third trader for the 
 Gretry Company joined the two. This was a young 
 fellow named Rusbr idge, lean, black-haired, a constant 
 excitement glinting m~HIs deep-set eyes. 
 
 “ Say,” he exclaimed, “ there’s something in that, 
 there’s something in that ! ” 
 
94 
 
 The Pit 
 
 “ Where did you hear it ? ” demanded Landry. 
 
 “ Oh — everywhere.” Rusbridge made a vague ges- 
 ture with one arm. “ Hirsch seemed to know all about 
 it. It appears that there’s talk of mobilising the Medi- 
 terranean squadron. Darned if I know.” 
 
 “ Might ask that ‘ Inter-Ocean ’ reporter. He’d be 
 likely to know. I’ve seen him ’round here this morn- 
 ing, or you might telephone the Associated Press,” sug- 
 gested Landry. “ The office never said a word to me.” 
 
 “ Oh, the ‘ Associated.’ They know a lot always, 
 don’t they?” jeered Winston. “Yes, I rung ’em up. 
 They ‘ couldn’t confirm the rumour.’ That’s always the 
 way. You can spend half a million a year in leased 
 wires and special service and subscriptions to news 
 agencies, and you get the first smell of news like this 
 right here on the floor. Remember that time when 
 the Northwestern millers sold a hundred and fifty thou- 
 sand barrels at one lick? The floor was talking of it 
 three hours before the news slips were sent ’round, or 
 a single wire was in. Suppose we had waited for the 
 Associated people or the Commercial people then? ” 
 
 “ It’s that Higgins-pasha incident, I’ll bet,” observed j 
 Rusbridge, his eyes snapping. j 
 
 “ I heard something about that this morning,” re- 
 turned Landry. “ But only that it was ” i 
 
 “There! What did I tell you?” interrupted Rus- , 
 bridge. “ I said it was everywhere. There’s no smoke 
 without some fire. And I wouldn’t be a bit surprised 
 if we get cables before noon that the British War Of- 
 fice had sent an ultimatum.” 
 
 And very naturally a few minutes later Winston, at | 
 that time standing on the steps of the corn pit, heard j 
 from a certain broker, who had it from a friend who ^ 
 had just received a despatch from some one “ in the I 
 know,” that the British Secretary of State for War 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 95 
 
 had forwarded an ultimatum to the Porte, and that 
 diplomatic relations between Turkey and England were 
 about to be suspended. 
 
 All in a moment the entire Floor seemed to be talk- 
 ing of nothing else, and on the outskirts of every group 
 one could overhear the words : “ Seizure of custom 
 house,” “ ultimatum,” “ Eastern question,” “ Higgins- 
 pasha incident.” It was the rumour of the day, and 
 before very long the pit traders began to receive a 
 multitude of despatches countermanding selling orders, 
 and directing them not to close out trades under cer- 
 tain very advanced quotations. The brokers began 
 wiring their principals that the market promised to 
 open strong and bullish. 
 
 But by now it was. near to half-past nine. From the 
 Western Union desks the clicking of the throng of 
 instruments rose into the air in an incessant staccato 
 stridulation. The mesenger boys ran back and forth 
 at top speed, dodging in and out among the knots of 
 clerks and traders, colliding with one another, and 
 without interruption intoning the names of those for 
 whom they had despatches. The throng of traders 
 concentrated upon the pits, and at every moment the 
 deep-toned hum of the murmur of many voices swelled 
 like the rising of a tide. j/ 
 
 And at this moment, as Landry stood on the rini of 
 the wheat pit, looking towards the telephone booth 
 under the visitors’ gallery, he saw the osseous, stoop- 
 shouldered figure of Mr. Cressler — who, though he 
 never speculated, appeared regularly upon the Board 
 every morning — making his way towards one of the 
 windows in the front 'of the building. His pocket was 
 full of wheat, taken from a bag on one of the sample 
 tables. Opening the window, he scattered the grain 
 upon the sill, and stood for a long moment absorbed 
 
96 
 
 The Pit 
 
 and interested in the dazzling flutter of the wings of 
 innumerable pigeons who came to settle upon the ledge, 
 pecking the grain with little, nervous, fastidious taps of 
 their yellow beaks. 
 
 Landry cast a glance at the clock beneath the dial 
 on the wall behind him. It was twenty-five minutes after 
 nine. He stood in his accustomed place on the north 
 side of the Wheat Pit, upon the topmost stair. The 
 Pit was fully^Below him and on either side of him 
 were the brokers, scalpers, and traders — Hirsch, Sem- 
 ple, Kelly, Winston, and Rusbridge. The redoubtable 
 Leaycraft, who, bidding for himself, was supposed to 
 hold the longest line of May wheat of any one man in 
 the Pit, the insignificant Grossmann, a Jew who wore 
 a flannel shirt, and to whose outcries no one ever 
 paid the least attention. Fairchild, Paterson, and 
 Goodlock, the inseparable trio who represented the 
 Porteous gang, silent men, middle-aged, who had but 
 to speak in order to buy or sell a million bushels on 
 the spot. And others, and still others, veterans of 
 sixty-five, recruits just out of their teens, men who — 
 some of them — in the past had for a moment domi- 
 nated the entire Pit, but who now were content to play 
 the part of “eighth-chasers,” buying and selling on 
 the same da)’’, content with a profit of ten dollars. 
 Others who might at that very moment be nursing 
 plans which in a week’s time would make them mil- 
 lionaires ; still others ’vVho, under a mask of nonchal- 
 ance, strove to hide the chagrin of yesterday’s defeat. 
 And they were there, ready, inordinately alert, ears 
 turned to the faintest sound, eyes searching for the 
 vaguest trace of meaning in those of their rivals, nerv- 
 ous, keyed to the highest tension, ready to thrust deep 
 into the slightest opening, to spring, mercilessly, upon 
 the smallest undefended spot. Grossmann, the little 
 
97 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 Jew of the grimy flannel shirt, perspired in the stress 
 of the suspense, all but powerless to maintain silence 
 till the signal should be given, drawing trembling fin- 
 gers across his mouth. Winston, brawny, solid, unper- 
 turbed, his hands behind his back, waited immovably 
 planted on his feet with all the gravity of a statue, his 
 eyes preternaturally watchful, keeping Kelly — whom he 
 had divined had some “ funny business ” on hand — ■ 
 perpetually in sight. The Porteous trio-^F^child, 
 Paterson, and Goodlock — as if unalarmed, unassailable", 
 all bur turned their backs to the Pit, laughing among 
 themselves. 
 
 The official reporter climbed to his perch in the little 
 cage on the edge of the Pit, shutting the door after 
 him. By now the chanting of the messenger boys was 
 an uninterrupted chorus. From all sides of the build- 
 ing, and in every direction they crossed and recrossed 
 each other, always running, their hands full of yellow 
 envelopes. From the telephone alcoves came the pro- 
 longed, musical rasp of the call bells. In the Western 
 Union booths the keys of the multitude of instruments 
 raged incessantly. Bare-headed young men hurried up 
 to one another, conferred an instant comparing de- 
 spatches, then separated, darting away at top speed. 
 Men called to each other half-way across the building. 
 Over by the bulletin boards clerks and agents made 
 careful memoranda of primary receipts, and noted down 
 the amount of wheat on passage, the exports and the 
 imports. 
 
 And all these sounds, the chatter of the telegraph, 
 the intoning of the messenger boys, the shouts and 
 cries of clerks and traders, the shuffle and trampling 
 of hundreds of feet, the whirring of telephone signals 
 rose into the troubled air, and mingled overhead to 
 form a vast note, prolonged, sustained, that rever- 
 7 
 
98 
 
 The Pit 
 
 berated from vault to vault of the airy roof, and issued 
 from every doorway, every opened window in one long 
 roll of uninterrupted thunder. In the Wheat Pit the 
 bids, no longer obedient of restraint, began one by one 
 to burst out, like the first isolated shots of a skirmish 
 line. Grossmann had flung out an arm crying : 
 
 “ ’Sell twenty-five May at ninety-five and an eighth,” 
 while Kelly and Semple had almost simultaneously 
 shouted, “ ’Give seven-eighths for May 1 ” 
 
 The official reporter had been leaning far over to 
 catch the first quotations, one eye upon the clock at the 
 end of the room. The hour and minute hands were at 
 right angles. 
 
 Then suddenly, cutting squarely athwart the vague | 
 crescendo of the floor came the single incisive stroke of ' 
 a great gong. Instantly a tumult was unchained. Arms 
 were flung upward in strenuous gestures, and from 
 above the crowding heads In the Wheat Pit a multitude 
 of hands, eager, the fingers extended, leaped into the 
 air. All articulate expression was lost in the single 
 explosion of sound as the traders surged downwards 
 to the centre of the Pit, grabbing each other, struggling 
 towards each other, tramping, stamping, charging 
 through with might and main. Promptly the hand on 
 the great dial above the clock stirred and trembled, and 
 as though driven by the tempest breath of the Pit moved 
 upward through the degrees of its circle. It paused, 
 wavered, stopped at length, and on the instant the hun- 
 dreds of telegraph keys scattered throughout the build- 
 ing began clicking off the news to the whole country, 
 from the Atlantic to the Pacific and from Mackinac to 
 Mexico, that the Chicago market had made a slight ad- 
 vance and that May wheat, which had closed the day 
 before at ninety-three and three-eighths, had opened 
 that morning at ninety-four and a half. 
 
99 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 But the advance brought out no profit-taking sales. 
 The redoubtable Leaycraft and the Porteous trio, Fair- 
 child, Paterson, and Goodlock, shook their heads when 
 the Pit offered ninety-four for parts of their holdings. 
 The price held firm. Goodlock even began to offer 
 ninety-four. At every suspicion of a flurry Grossmann, 
 always with the same gesture as though hurling a jave- 
 lin, always with the same lamentable wail of distress, 
 cried out : 
 
 “ ’Sell twentynfive May at ninety-five and a fourth.” 
 
 He held his five fingers spread to indicate the number 
 of “ contracts,” or lots of five thousand bushels, which 
 he wished to sell, each finger representing one “ con- 
 tract.” 
 
 And it was at this, moment that selling orders began 
 suddenly to pour in upon the Gretry-Converse traders. 
 Even other houses — Teller and West, Burbank & Co., 
 Mattieson and Knight — received their share. The 
 movement was inexplicable, puzzling. With a power- 
 ful Bull clique dominating the trading and every pros- 
 pect of a strong market, who was it who ventured to sell 
 short ? 
 
 Landry among others found himself commissioned 
 to sell. His orders were to unload three hundred thou- 
 sand bushels on any advance over and above ninety-four. 
 He kept his eye on Leaycraft, certain that he would force 
 up the figure. But, as it happened, it was not Leaycraft 
 but the Porteous trio who made the advance. Standing 
 in the centre of the Pit, Patterson suddenly flung up 
 his hand and drew it towards him, clutching the air — 
 the conventional gesture of the buyer. 
 
 “ ’Give an eighth for May.” 
 
 Landry was at him in a second. Twenty voices 
 shouted “ sold,” and as many traders sprang towards 
 him with outstretched arms. Landry, however, was 
 
lOO 
 
 The Pit 
 
 before them, and his rush carried Paterson half way 
 across the middle space of the Pit. 
 
 “ Sold, sold.” 
 
 Paterson nodded, and as Landry noted down the 
 transaction the hand on the dial advanced again, and 
 ^ain held firm. 
 
 - But after this the activity of the Pit fell away. The 
 trading languished. By degrees the tension of the 
 opening was relaxed. Landry, however, had refrained 
 from selling more than ten “ contracts ” to Paterson. 
 He had a feeling that another advance would come later 
 on. Rapidly he made his plans. He would sell another 
 fifty thousand bushels if the price went to ninety-four 
 and a half, and would then “ feel ” the market, letting 
 go small lots here and there, to test its strength, then, 
 the instant he felt the market strong enough, throw a 
 full hundred thousand upon it with a rush before it had 
 time to break. He could feel — almost at his very' finger 
 tips — how this market moved, how it strengthened, how • 
 it weakened. He knew just when to nurse it, to humor 
 it, to let it settle, and when to crowd it, when to hustle 
 it, when it would stand rough handling 
 
 Grossmann still uttered his plaint from time to time, 
 but no one so much as pretended to listen. The Por- 
 teous trio and Leaycraft kept the price steady at ninety- 
 four and an eighth, but showed no inclination to force 
 it higlier. For a full five minutes not a trade was re- 
 corded. The Pit waited for the Report on the Visible 
 Supply. 
 
 And it w'as during this lull in the morning’s business 
 that the idiocy of the English ultimatum to the Porte 
 melted aw'ay. As inexplicably and as suddenly as the 
 rumour had started, it now disappeared. Everyone, 
 simultaneously, seemed to ridicule it. England declare 
 war on Turkey! Where was the joke? Who was the 
 
A Story of Chicago lOi 
 
 damn fool to 'have started that old, worn-out war scare ? 
 But, for all that, there was no reaction from the ad- 
 vance. It seemed to be understood that either Leay- 
 craft or the Porteous crowd stood ready to support the 
 market; and in place of the ultimatum story a feeling 
 began to gain ground that the expected report would 
 indicate a falling off in the “ visible,” and that it was 
 quite on the cards that the market might even advance 
 another point. 
 
 As the interest in the immediate situation declined, 
 the crowd in the Pit grew less dense. Portions of it 
 were deserted; even Grossmann, discouraged, retired to 
 a bench under the visitors’ gallery. And a spirit of 
 horse-play, sheer foolishness, strangely inconsistent 
 with the hot-eyed excitement of the few moments after 
 the opening invaded the remaining groups. Leaycraft, 
 the formidable, as well as Paterson of the Porteous 
 gang, and even the solemn Winston, found an appar- 
 ently inexhaustible diversion in folding their telegrams 
 into pointed javelins and sending them sailing across 
 the room, watching the course of the missiles with pro- 
 found gravity. A visitor in the gallery — no doubt a 
 Western farmer on a holiday — having put his feet upon 
 the rail, the entire Pit began to groan “ boots, boots, 
 boots.” 
 
 A little later a certain broker came scurrying across 
 the floor from the direction of the telephone room. 
 Panting, he flung himself up the steps of the Pit, forced 
 his way among the traders with vigorous workings of 
 his elbows, and shouted a bid. 
 
 “ He’s sick,” shouted Hirsch. “ Look out, he’s sick. 
 He’s going to have a fit.” He grabbed the broker by 
 both arms and hustled him into the centre of the Pit. 
 The others caught up the cry, a score of hands pushed 
 the newcomer from man to man. The Pit traders 
 
102 
 
 The Pit 
 
 clutched him, pulled his necktie loose, knocked off his 
 hat, vociferating all the while at top voice, “ He’s sick! 
 He’s sick! ” 
 
 Other brokers and traders came up, and Grossmann, 
 mistaking the commotion for a flurry, ran into the Pit, 
 his eyes wide, waving his arm and wailing ; 
 
 “ ’Sell twenty-five May at ninety-five and a quarter.” 
 
 But the victim, good-natured, readjusted his battered 
 hat, and again repeated his bid. 
 
 “ Ah, go to bed,” protested Hirsch. 
 
 “ He’s the man who struck Billy Paterson.” 
 
 “ Say, a horse bit him. Look out for him, he’s going 
 to have a duck-fit.” 
 
 The incident appeared to be the inspiration for a new 
 “ josh ” that had a great success, and a group of traders 
 organized themselves into an “ anti-cravat committee,” 
 and made the rounds of the Pit, twitching the carefully 
 tied scarfs of the unwary out of place. Grossman, in- 
 dignant at “ t’ose monkey-doodle pizeness,” withdrew 
 from the centre of the Pit. But while he stood in front 
 of Leaycraft, his back turned, muttering his disgust, 
 the latter, while carrying on a grave conversation wdth 
 his neighbour, carefully stuck a file of paper javelins 
 all around the Jew’s hat band, and then — still without 
 mirth and still continuing to talk — set them on fire. 
 
 Landry imagined by now that ninet3’'-four and an 
 eighth was as high a figure as he could reasonably 
 expect that morning, and so began to ” work off ” his 
 selling orders. Little by little he sold the wheat 
 “ short,” till all but one large lot was gone. 
 
 Then all at once, and for no discoverable immediate 
 reason, wheat, amid an explosion of shouts and vocifera- 
 tions, jumped to ninety-four and a quarter, and before 
 the Pit could take breath, had advanced another eighth, 
 broken to one-quarter, then jumped to the five-eighths 
 mark. 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 103 
 
 It was the Report on the Visible Supply beyond ques- 
 tion, and though it had not yet been posted, this sudden 
 flurry was a sign that it was not only near at hand, but 
 would be bullish. 
 
 A few moments later it was bulletined in the gallery 
 beneath the dial, and proved a tremendous surprise to 
 nearly every man upon the floor. No one had imagined 
 the supply was so ample, so all-sufficient to meet the 
 demand. Promptly the Pit responded. Wheat began 
 to pour in heavily. Hirsch, Kelly, Grossmann, Leay- 
 craft, the stolid Winston, and the excitable Rusbridge 
 were hard at it. The price began to give. Suddenly 
 it broke sharply. The hand on the great dial dropped 
 to ninety-three and seven-eighths.” 
 
 Landry was beside-himself. He had not foreseen this 
 break. There was no reckoning on that cursed “ vis- 
 ible,” and he still had 50,000 bushels to dispose of. 
 There was no telling now how low the price might sink. 
 He must act quickly, radically. He fought his way to- 
 wards the Porteous crowd, reached over the shoulder 
 of the little Jew Grossmann, who stood in his way, and 
 thrust his hand almost into Paterson’s face, shouting : 
 
 “ ’Sell fifty May at seven-eighths.” 
 
 It was the last one of his unaccountable selling orders 
 of the early morning. 
 
 The other shook his head. 
 
 “ ’Sell fifty May at three-quarters.” 
 
 Suddenly some instinct warned Landry that another 
 break was coming. It was in the very air around him. 
 He could almost physically feel the pressure of renewed 
 avalanches of wheat crowding down the price. Des- 
 perate, he grabbed Paterson by the shoulder. 
 
 “ ’Sell fifty May at five-eighths.” 
 
 *‘Take it,” vociferated the other, as though answer- 
 ing a challenge. 
 
104 
 
 The Pit 
 
 And in the heart of this confusion, in this downward 
 rush of the price, Luck, the golden goddess, passed with 
 the flirt and flash of glittering wings, and hardly before 
 the ticker in Gretry’s office had signalled the decline, the 
 memorandum of the trade was down upon Landry’s card 
 and Curtis Jadwin stood pledged to deliver, before noon 
 on the last day of May, one million bushels of wheat 
 into the hands of the representatives of the great Bulls 
 of the Board of Trade. 
 
 But by now the real business of the morning was over. 
 The Pit knew it. Grossmann, obstinate, hypnotized as it 
 were by one idea, still stood in his accustomed place on 
 the upper edge of the Pit, and from time to time, with 
 the same despairing gesture, emitted his doleful outcry 
 of “ ’Sell twenty-five May at ninety-five and three- 
 quarters.” 
 
 Nobody listened. The traders stood around in ex- 
 pectant attitudes, looking into one another’s faces, wait- 
 ing for what they could not exactly say; loath to leave 
 the Pit lest something should “ turn up ” the moment 
 their backs were turned. 
 
 By degrees the clamour died away, ceased, began 
 again irregularly, then abruptly stilled. Here and 
 there a bid was called, an offer made, like the intermit- 
 tent crack of small arms after the stopping of the can- 
 nonade. 
 
 “ ’Sell five May at one-eighth.” 
 
 “ ’Sell twenty at one-quarter.” 
 
 ** ’Give one-eighth for May.” 
 
 For an instant the shoutings were renewed. Then 
 suddenly the gong struck. The traders began slowly 
 to leave the Pit. One of the floor officers, an old fel- 
 low in uniform and vizored cap, appeared, gently shoul- 
 dering towards the door the groups wherein the bidding 
 and offering were still languidly going on. His voice 
 full of remonstration, he repeated continually: 
 
A Story of Chicago 1 05 
 
 “ Time’s up, gentlemen. Go on now and get your 
 lunch. Lunch time now. Go on now, or I’ll have to 
 report you. Time’s up.” 
 
 The tide set toward the doorways. In the gallery the 
 , few visitors rose, putting on coats and wraps. Over 
 i by the check counter, to the right of the south entrance 
 ; to the floor, a throng of brokers and traders jostled each 
 other, reaching over one another’s shoulders for hats 
 and ulsters. In steadily increasing numbers they poured 
 out of the north and south entrances, on their way to 
 I turn in their trading cards to the offices. 
 
 Little by little the floor emptied. The provision and 
 j grain pits were deserted, and as the clamour of the 
 place lapsed away the telegraph instruments began to 
 make themselves heard once more, together with the 
 chanting of the messenger boys. 
 
 Swept clean in the morning, the floor itself, seen now 
 through the thinning groups, was littered from end to 
 , end with scattered grain — oats, wheat, corn, and barley, 
 _ with wisps of hay, peanut shells, apple parings, and 
 I orange peel, with torn newspapers, odds and ends of 
 memoranda, crushed paper darts, and above all with 
 a countless multitude of yellow telegraph forms, thou- 
 sands upon thousands, crumpled and muddied under the 
 trampling of innumerable feet. It was the debris of the 
 battle-field, the abandoned impedimenta and broken 
 weapons of contending armies, the detritus of conflict, 
 torn, broken, and rent, that at the end of each day’s 
 ; combat encumbered the field. 
 
 At last even the click of the last of telegraph keys 
 died down. Shouldering themselves into their over- 
 j coats, the operators departed, calling back and forth 
 I to one another, making “ dates,” and cracking jokes. 
 ■ Washerwomen appeared with steaming pails, porters 
 1 pushing great brooms before them began gathering the 
 (refuse of the floor into heaps. 
 
io6 
 
 The Pit 
 
 Between the wheat and corn pits a band of young 
 fellows, some of them absolute boys, appeared. These 
 were the settlement clerks. They carried long account 
 books. It was their duty to get the trades of the day 
 into a “ ring ” — to trace the course of a lot of wheat 
 which had changed hands perhaps a score of times dur- 
 ing the trading — and their calls of “ Wheat sold to Teller 
 and West,” “ May wheat sold to Burbank & Co.,” “ May 
 oats sold to Matthewson and Knight,” “ Wheat sold to 
 Gretry, Converse & Co.,” began to echo from wall to 
 wall of the almost deserted room. 
 
 A cat, grey and striped, and wearing a dog collar of 
 nickel and red leather, issued from the coat-room and 
 picked her way across the floor. Evidently she was in 
 a mood of the most ingratiating friendliness, and as one 
 after another of the departing traders spoke to her, 
 raised her tail in the air and arched her back against 
 the legs of the empty chairs. The janitor put in an 
 appearance, lowering the tall colored windows with a 
 long rod. A noise of hammering and the scrape of saws 
 began to issue from a corner where a couple of carpen- 
 ters tinkered about one of the sample tables. 
 
 Then at last even the settlement clerks took them- 
 selves off. At once there was a great silence, broken 
 only by the harsh rasp of the carpenters’ saws and the 
 voice of the janitor exchanging jokes with the washer- 
 women. The sound of footsteps in distant quarters 
 re-echoed as if in a church. 
 
 The washerwomen invaded the floor, spreading soapy 1 
 and steaming water before them. Over by the sample I 
 tables a negro porter in shirt-sleeves swept entire bush- | 
 els of spilled wheat, crushed, broken, and sodden, into | 
 his dust pans. ) 
 
 ^The day’s campaign was over. It was past two I 
 * o’clock. On the great dial against the eastern wall the 
 
A Story of Chicago 107 
 
 indicator stood — sentinel fashion — at ninety-three. Not 
 till the following morning would the whirlpool, the great 
 central force that spun the Niagara of wheat in its grip, 
 thunder and bellow again. 
 
 Later on even the washerwomen, even the porter and 
 janitor, departed. An unbroken silence, the peaceful- 
 ness of an untroubled calm, settled over the place. The 
 rays of the afternoon sun flooded through the west win- 
 dows in long parallel shafts full of floating golden motes. 
 There was no sound; nothing stirred. The floor of the 
 Board of Trade was deserted. Alone, on the edge of 
 the abandoned Wheat Pit, in a spot where the sunlight 
 fell warmest — an atom of life, lost in the immensity of 
 the empty floor — the grey cat made her toilet, diligently 
 licking the fur on the. inside of her thigh, one leg, as if 
 dislocated, thrust into the air above her head. 
 
IV 
 
 In the front parlor of the Cresslers’ house a little 
 company was gathered — Laura Dearborn and Page, 
 Mrs. Wessels, Mrs. Cressler, and young Miss Gretry, 
 an awkward, plain-faced girl of about nineteen, dressed 
 extravagantly in a decollete gown of blue silk. Curtis 
 Jadwin and Cressler himself stood by the open fireplace 
 smoking. Landry Court fidgeted on the sofa, pretend- 
 ing to listen to the Gretry girl, who told an interminable 
 story of a visit to some wealthy relative who had a 
 country seat in Wisconsin and who raised fancy poultry. 
 She possessed, it appeared, three thousand hens, 
 Brahma, Faverolles, Houdans, Dorkings, even peacocks 
 and tame quails. 
 
 Sheldon Corthell, in a dinner coat, an unlighted cigar- 
 ette between his fingers, discussed the spring exhibit of 
 water-colors with Laura and Mrs. Cressler, Page listen- 
 ing with languid interest. Aunt Wess’ turned the leaves 
 of a family album, counting the number of photographs 
 of Mrs. Cressler which it contained. 
 
 Black coffee had just been served. It was the occa- j 
 sion of the third rehearsal for the play which was to be j 
 given for the benefit of the hospital ward for Jadwin’s , 
 mission children, and Mrs. Cressler had invited the j 
 members of the company for dinner. Just now every- 
 one awaited the arrival of the “ coach,” Monsieur Ger- 
 ardy, who was always late. 
 
 “ To my notion,” observed Corthell, “ the water-color 
 that pretends to be anything more than a sketch over- 
 steps its intended limits. The elaborated water-color, I 
 contend, must be judged by the same standards as an I 
 
A Story of Chicago 109 
 
 oil painting. And if that is so, why not have the oil 
 painting at once?” 
 
 “ And with all that, if you please, not an egg on the 
 place for breakfast,” declared the Gretry girl in her thin 
 voice. She was constrained, embarrassed. Of all those 
 present she was the only one to mistake the character 
 of the gathering and appear in formal costume. But 
 one forgave Isabel Gretry such lapses as these. Invari- 
 ably she did the wrong thing; invariably she was out of 
 place in the matter of inadvertent speech, an awkward 
 accident, the wrong toilet. For all her nineteen years, 
 she yet remained the hoyden, young, undeveloped, and 
 clumsy. 
 
 “ Never an egg, and three thousand hens in the runs,” 
 she continued. “ Think of that! The Plymouth Rocks 
 had the pip. And the others, my lands ! I don’t know. 
 They just didn’t lay.” 
 
 “ Ought to tickle the soles of their feet,” declared 
 Landry with profound gravity. 
 
 “ Tickle their feet! ” 
 
 “ Best thing in the world for hens that don’t lay. It 
 sort of stirs them up. Oh, every one knows that.” 
 
 “ Fancy now! I’ll write to Aunt Alice to-morrow.” 
 
 Cressler clipped the tip of a fresh cigar, and, turning 
 to Curtis jadwin, remarked : 
 
 “ I understand that Leaycraft alone lost nearly fifteen 
 thousand.” 
 
 He referred to Jadwin’s deal in May wheat, the con- 
 summation of which had been effected the previous 
 week. Squarely in the midst of the morning session, 
 on the day following the “ short ” sale of Jadwin’s mil- 
 lion of bushels, had exploded the news of the intended 
 action of the French chamber. Amid a tremendous 
 clamour the price fell. The Bulls were panicstricken. 
 Leaycraft the redoubtable was overwhelmed at the very 
 
no 
 
 The Pit 
 
 start. The Porteous trio heroically attempted to shoul- 
 der the wheat, but the load was too much. They as 
 well gave ground, and, bereft of their support. May 
 wiheat, which had opened at ninety-three and five- 
 eighths to ninety-two and a half, broke with the very 
 first attack to ninety-two, hung there a moment, then 
 dropped again to ninety-one and a half, then to ninety- 
 one. Then, in a prolonged shudder of weakness, sank 
 steadily down by quarters to ninety, to eighty-nine, 
 and at last — a final collapse — touched eighty-eight 
 cents. At that figure Jadwin began to cover. There 
 was danger that the buying of so large a lot might 
 bring about a rally in the price. But Gretry, a consum- 
 mate master of Pit tactics, kept his orders scattered and 
 bought gradually, taking some two or three days to 
 accumulate the grain. Jadwin’s luck — the never-failing 
 guardian of the golden wings — seemed to have the affair 
 under immediate supervision, and reports of timely rains 
 in the wheat belt kept the price inert while the trade 
 was being closed. In the end the “ deal ” was brilliantly 
 successful, and Gretry was still chuckling over the set- 
 back to the Porteous gang. Exactly the amount of his 
 friend’s profits Jadwin did not know. As for himself, 
 he had received from Gretry a check for fifty thousand 
 dollars, every cent of which was net profit. 
 
 “ Pm not going to congratulate you,” continued 
 Cressler. “As far as that’s concerned, I would rather 
 you had lost than won — if it would have kept you out 
 of the Pit for good. You’re cocky now. I know — good 
 Lord, don’t I know. I had my share of it. I know 
 how a man gets drawn into this speculating game ” 
 
 “ Charlie, this wasn’t speculating,” interrupted Jad- 
 win. “ It was a certainty. It was found money. If I 
 had known a certain piece of real estate was going to 
 appreciate in value I would have bought it, wouldn’t I? ” 
 
Ill 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 “ All the worse, if it made it seem easy and sure to 
 you. Do you know,” he added suddenly. “ Do you 
 know that Leaycraft has gone to keep books for a manu- 
 facturing concern out in Dubuque? ” 
 
 Jadwin pulled his mustache. He was looking at Laura 
 Dearborn over the heads of Landry and the Gretry girl. 
 
 “ I didn’t suppose he’d be getting measured for a 
 private yacht,” he murmured. Then he continued, pull- 
 ing his mustache vigorously : 
 
 “ Charlie, upon my word, what a beautiful — what 
 beautiful hair that girl has ! ” 
 
 Laura was wearing it very high that evening, the shin- 
 ing black coils transfixed by a strange hand-cut ivory 
 comb that had been her grandmother’s. She was dressed 
 in black taffeta, with a single great cabbage-rose pinned 
 to her shoulder. She sat very straight in her chair, one 
 hand upon her slender hip, her head a little to one side, 
 listening attentively to Corthell. 
 
 By this time the household of the former rectory was 
 running smoothly; everything was in place, the Dear- 
 borns were “ settled,” and a routine had begun. Her 
 first month in her new surroundings had been to Laura 
 an unbroken series of little delights. For formal social 
 distractions she had but little taste. She left those to 
 Page, who, as soon as Lent was over, promptly became 
 involved in a bewildering round of teas, “ dancing 
 clubs,” dinners, and theatre parties. Mrs. Wessels was 
 her chaperone, and the little middle-aged lady found the 
 satisfaction of a belated youth in conveying her pretty 
 niece to the various functions that occupied her time. 
 Each Friday night saw her in the gallery of a certain 
 smart dancing school of the south side, where she 
 watched Page dance her way from the “ first waltz ” to 
 the last figure of the german. She counted the couples 
 carefully, and on the way home was always able to say 
 
II2 
 
 The Pit 
 
 how the attendance of that particular evening compared 
 with that of the former occasion, and also to inform 
 Laura how many times Page had danced with the same 
 young man. 
 
 Laura herself was more serious. She had begun a 
 course of reading; no novels, but solemn works full of 
 allusions to “ Man ” and “ Destiny,” which she under- 
 lined and annotated. Twice a week — on IMondays and 
 Thursdays — she took a French lesson. Corthell man- 
 aged to enlist the good services of Mrs. Wessels and 
 escorted her to numerous piano and ’cello recitals, to 
 lectures, to concerts. He even succeeded in achieving 
 the consecration of a specified afternoon once a week, 
 spent in his studio in the Fine Arts’ Building on the 
 Lake Front, where he read to them “ Saint Agnes Eve,” 
 “ Sordello,” “ The Light of Asia ” — poems which, with 
 their inversions, obscurities, and astonishing arabesques 
 of rhetoric, left Aunt Wess’ bewildered, breathless, all 
 but stupefied. 
 
 Laura found these readings charming. The studio 
 was beautiful, lofty, the light dim; the sound of Cor- 
 thell’s voice returned from the thick hangings of velvet 
 and tapestry in a subdued murmur. The air was full of 
 the odor of pastilles. 
 
 Laura could not fail to be impressed with the ar- 
 tist’s tact, his delicacy. In words he never referred 
 to their conversation in the foyer of the Auditorium; 
 only by some unexplained subtlety of attitude he man- 
 aged to convey to her the distinct impression that he 
 loved her always. That he was patient, waiting for some 
 indefinite, unexpressed development. 
 
 Landry Court called upon her as often as she would 
 allow. Once he had prevailed upon her and Page to 
 accompany him to the matinee to see a comic opera. 
 He had pronounced it “ bully,” unable to see that Laura 
 
A Story of Chicago 1 13 
 
 evinced only a mild interest in the performance. On 
 each propitious occasion he had made love to her ex- 
 travagantly. He continually protested his profound 
 respect with a volubility and earnestness that was quite 
 uncalled for. 
 
 But, meanwhile, the situation had speedily become 
 more complicated by the entrance upon the scene of an 
 unexpected personage. This was Curtis Jadwin. It 
 was impossible to deny the fact that “ J.” was in love 
 with Mrs. Cressler’s protegee. The business man had 
 none of Corthell’s talent for significant reticence, none 
 of his tact, and older than she, a man-of-the-world, ac- 
 customed to deal with situations with unswerving direct- 
 ness, he, unlike Landry Court, was not in the least afraid 
 of her. From the very first she found herself upon the 
 defensive. Jadwin was aggressive, assertive, and his 
 addresses had all the persistence and vehemence of ver- 
 itable attack. Landry she could manage with the lift- 
 ing of a finger, Corthell disturbed her only upon those 
 rare occasions when he made love to her. But Jadwin 
 gave her no time to so much as think of finesse. She 
 was not even allowed to choose her own time and place 
 for fencing, and to parry his invasion upon those inti- 
 mate personal grounds which she pleased herself to keep 
 secluded called upon her every feminine art of procras- 
 tination and strategy. 
 
 He contrived to meet her everywhere. He impressed 
 Mrs. Cressler as auxiliary into his cafnpaign, and a series 
 of rencontres followed one another with astonishing 
 rapidity. Now it was another opera party, now a box 
 at McVicker’s, now a dinner, or more often a drive 
 through Lincoln Park behind Jadwin’s trotters. He 
 even had the Cresslers and Laura over to his mission 
 Sunday-school for the Easter festival, an occasion of 
 which Laura carried away a confused recollection of 
 
 8 
 
114 
 
 The Pit 
 
 enormous canvas mottoes, that looked more like cam- 
 paign banners than texts from the Scriptures, sheaves of 
 calla lilies, imitation bells of tin-foil, revival hymns vo- 
 ciferated with deafening vehemence from seven hundred 
 distended mouths, and through it all the disagreeable 
 smell of poverty, the odor of uncleanliness that mingled 
 strangely with the perfume of the lilies and the aromatic 
 whiffs from the festoons of evergreen. 
 
 Thus the first month of her new life had passed. 
 Laura did not trouble herself to look very far into the 
 future. She was too much amused with her emancipa- 
 tion from the narrow horizon of her New England en- 
 vironment. She did not concern herself about conse- 
 quences. Things would go on for themselves, and con- 
 sequences develop without effort on her part. She 
 never asked herself whether or not she was in love with j 
 any of the three men who strove for her favor. She was 
 quite sure she was not ready — yet — to be married. There 
 was even something distasteful in the idea of marriage. 
 
 She liked Landry Court immensely; she found the after- 
 noons in Corthell’s studio delightful; she loved the rides 
 in the park behind Jadwin’s horses. She had no desire 
 that any one of these affairs should exclude the other 
 two. She wished nothing to be consummated. As for 
 love, she never let slip an occasion to shock Aunt Wess’ 
 by declaring: 
 
 “ I love — nobody. I shall never marry.” 
 
 Page, prim, with great parades of her ideas of “ good 
 form,” declared between her pursed lips that her sister 
 was a flirt. But this was not so. Laura never man- 
 oeuvered with her lovers, nor intrigued to keep from any 
 one of them knowledge of her companionship with the 
 other two. So upon such occasions as this, when all 
 three found themselves face to face, she remained un- 
 perturbed. 
 
115 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 At last, towards half-past eight, Monsieur Gerardy 
 arrived. All through the winter amateur plays had 
 been in great favor, and Gerardy had become, in a sense, 
 a fad. He was in great demand. Consequently, he 
 I gave himself airs. His method was that of severity; he 
 I posed as a task-master, relentless, never pleased, hust- 
 ling the amateur actors about without ceremony, scold- 
 ing and brow-beating. He was a small, excitable man 
 who wore a frock-coat much too small for him, a flowing 
 purple cravatte drawn through a finger ring, and enor- 
 mous cuffs set off with huge buttons of Mexican onyx. 
 In his lapel was an inevitable carnation, dried, shrunken, 
 and lamentable. He was redolent of perfume and spoke 
 of himself as an artist. He caused it to be understood 
 that in the intervals of “ coaching society plays ” he gave 
 his attention to the painting of landscapes. Corthell 
 feigned to ignore his very existence. 
 
 The play-book in his hand. Monsieur Gerardy clicked 
 his heels in the middle of the floor and punctiliously 
 saluted everyone present, bowing only from his shoul- 
 ders, his head dropping forward as if propelled by suc- 
 cessive dislocations of the vertebrae of his neck. 
 
 He explained the cause of his delay. His English was 
 without accent, but at times suddenly entangled itself in 
 curious Gallic constructions. 
 
 “ Then I propose we begin at once,” he announced. 
 “ The second act to-night, then, if we have time, the 
 third act — from the book. And I expect the second act 
 to be letter-perfect — let-ter-per-fect. There is nothing 
 there but that.” He held up his hand, as if to refuse to 
 consider the least dissention. “ There is nothing but 
 that — no other thing.” 
 
 All but Corthell listened attentively. The artist, how- 
 ever, turning his back, had continued to talk to Laura 
 without lowering his tone, and all through Monsieur 
 
The Pit 
 
 1 16 
 
 Gerardy’s exhortation his voice had made itself heard. 
 “ Management of light and shade ” . . . “ color 
 scheme ” . . . “ effects of composition.” 
 
 Monsieur Gerardy’s eye glinted in his direction. He 
 struck his play-book sharply into the palm of his hand. 
 
 “Come, come!” he cried. “No more nonsense. 
 Now we leave the girls alone and get to work. Here 
 is the scene. Mademoiselle Gretry, if I derange you ! ” 
 He cleared a space at the end of the parlor, pulling the 
 chairs about. “ Be attentive now. Here ” — he placed 
 a chair at his right with a flourish, as though planting a 
 banner — “ is the porch of Lord Glendale’s country 
 house.” 
 
 “ Ah,” murmured Landry, winking solemnly at Page, 
 “ the chair is the porch of the house.” 
 
 “ And here,” shouted Monsieur Gerardy, glaring at 
 him and slamming down another chair, “ is a rustic 
 bench and practicable table set for breakfast.” 
 
 Page began to giggle behind her play-book. Ger- 
 ardy, his nostrils expanded, gave her his back. The 
 older people, who were not to take part — Jadwin, the 
 Cresslers, and Aunt Wess’ — retired to a far corner, Mrs. 
 Cressler declaring that they would constitute the audi- 
 ence. 
 
 “ On stage,” vociferated Monsieur Gerardy, perspir- 
 ing from his exertions with the furniture. “ ‘ hlarion en- 
 ters, timid and hesitating, L. C.’ Come, who’s IMarion? 
 Mademoiselle Gretry, if you please, and for the love of 
 God remember your crossings. Sh! sh! ” he cried, wav- 
 ing his arms at the others. “ A little silence if you 
 please. Now, Marion.” 
 
 Isabel Gretry, holding her play-book at her side, one 
 finger marking the place, essayed an entrance with the 
 words: 
 
 “ ‘ Ah, the old home once more. See the clambering 
 roses have * " 
 
17 
 
 A Story of Chicag< 
 
 But Monsieur Gerardy, suddenly compressing his lips 
 as if in a heroic effort to repress his emotion, flung him- 
 self into a chair, turning his back and crossing his legs 
 violently. Miss Gretry stopped, very much disturbed, 
 gazing perplexedly at the coach’s heaving shoulders. 
 
 There was a strained silence, then: 
 
 “ Isn’t — isn’t that right? ” 
 
 As if with the words she had touched a spring. Mon- 
 sieur Gerardy bounded to his feet. 
 
 "Grand God! Is that left-centre where you have 
 made the entrance? In fine, I ask you a little — is that 
 left-centre? You have come in by the rustic bench and 
 practicable table set for breakfast. A fine sight on the 
 night of the performance that. Marion climbs over the 
 rustic breakfast and practicable — over the rustic bench 
 and practicable table, ha, ha, to make the entrance.” 
 Still holding the play-book, he clapped hands with 
 elaborate sarcasm. “ Ah, yes, good business that. 
 That will bring down the house.” 
 
 Meanwhile the Gretry girl turned again from left- 
 centre. 
 
 “ ‘ Ah, the old home again. See ’ ” 
 
 “Stop!” thundered Monsieur Gerardy. "Is that 
 what you call timid and hesitating? Once more, those 
 lines. . . . No, no. It is not it at all. More of 
 slowness, more of — Here, watch me.” 
 
 He made the entrance with laborious exaggeration of 
 effect, dragging one foot after another, clutching at the 
 palings of an imaginary fence, while pitching his voice 
 at a feeble falsetto, he quavered : 
 
 “ ‘ Ah ! The old home — ah , . . once more. 
 
 See — ’ like that,” he cried, straightening up. “ Now 
 then. We try that entrance again. Don’t come on too 
 quick after the curtain. Attention. I clap my hands 
 for the curtain, and count three.” He backed away and, 
 
The Pit 
 
 Ii8 
 
 tucking the play-book under his arm, struck his palms 
 together. “ Now, one — two — three.” 
 
 But this time Isabel Gretry, in remembering her 
 “ business,” confused her stage directions once more. 
 
 “ ‘ Ah, the old home ’ ” 
 
 “ Left-centre,” interrupted the coach, in a tone of 
 long-suf¥ering patience. 
 
 She paused bewildered, and believing that she had 
 spoken her lines too abruptly, began again: 
 
 “ ‘ See, the clambering ’ ” 
 
 “ Left-ctnivt.” 
 
 “ ‘ Ah, the old home ’ ” 
 
 Monsieur Gerardy settled himself deliberately in his 
 chair and resting his head upon one hand closed his 
 eyes. His manner was that of Galileo under torture 
 declaring “ still it moves.” 
 
 “ Lr/t-centre.” 
 
 “ Oh — oh, yes. I forgot.” 
 
 Monsieur Gerardy apostrophized the chandelier with 
 mirthless humour. 
 
 “ Oh, ha, ha! She forgot.” 
 
 Still another time Marion tried the entrance, and, as 
 she came on. Monsieur Gerardy made vigorous signals 
 to Page, exclaiming in a hoarse whisper : 
 
 “ Lady Mary, ready. In a minute you come on. Re- 
 member the cue.” 
 
 Meanwhile Marion had continued : 
 
 “ ‘ See the clambering vines ’ ” 
 
 ” Roses.” 
 
 “ ‘ The clambering rose vines ’ ” 
 
 “ Roses, pure and simple.” 
 
 “ ‘ See ! The clambering roses, pure and ’ ” 
 
 “ Mademoiselle Gretry, will you do me the extreme 
 obligation to bound yourself by the lines of the book? ” 
 
 “ I thought you said ” 
 
A Story of Chicago 1 1 9 
 
 “ Go on, go on, go on! Is it God-possible to be thus 
 stupid? Lady Mary, ready.” 
 
 “ ‘ See, the clambering roses have wrapped the old 
 stones in a loving embrace. The birds build in the same 
 old nests ’ ” 
 
 “ Well, well. Lady Mary, where are you? You enter 
 from the porch.” 
 
 “ I’m waiting for my cue,” protested Page. “My cue 
 is ; ‘ Are there none that will remember me.’ ” 
 
 “ Say,” whispered Landry, coming up behind Page, 
 “ it would look bully if you could come out leading a 
 greyhound.” 
 
 “ Ah, so. Mademoiselle Gretry,” cried Monsieur Ger- 
 ardy, “ you left out the cue.” He became painfully 
 polite. “ Give the speech once more, if you please.” 
 
 “ A dog would look bully on the stage,” whispered 
 Landry. “ And I know where I could get one.” 
 
 “ Where?” 
 
 “ A friend of mine. He’s got a beauty, blue grey ” 
 
 They become suddenly aware of a portentous silence. 
 The coach, his arms folded, was gazing at Page with 
 tightened lips. 
 
 “‘None w'ho will remember me,’” he burst out at 
 last. “ Three times she gave it.” 
 
 Page hurried upon the scene with the words: 
 
 “ ‘ Ah, another glorious morning. The vines are 
 drenched in dew.’ ” Then, raising her voice and turn- 
 ing toward the “ house,” “ ‘ Arthur.’ ” 
 
 “ ‘ Arthur,’ ” warned the coach. “ That’s you, Mr. 
 Corthell. Ready. Well then. Mademoiselle Gretry, 
 you have something to say there.” 
 
 “ I can’t say it,” murmured the Gretry girl, her hand- 
 kerchief to her face. 
 
 “ What now? Continue. Your lines are ‘ I must not 
 be seen here. It would betray all,’ then conceal your- 
 
1 20 The Pit 
 
 self in the arbor. Continue. Speak the line. It is the 
 cue of Arthur.” 
 
 ” I can’t,” mumbled the girl behind her handkerchief. 
 
 “Can’t? Why, then?” 
 
 “ I — I have the nose-bleed.” 
 
 Upon the instant Monsieur Gerardy quite lost his 
 temper. He turned away, one hand to his head, rolling 
 his eyes as if in mute appeal to heaven, then, whirling 
 about, shook his play-book at the unfortunate Marion, 
 crying out furiously: 
 
 “ Ah, it lacked but that. You ought to understand 
 at last, that when one rehearses for a play one does not 
 have the nose-bleed. It is not decent.” 
 
 Miss Gretry retired precipitately, and Laura came for- 
 ward to say that she would read Marion’s lines. 
 
 “No, no!” cried Monsieur Gerardy. “You — ah, if 
 they were all like yoit! You are obliging, but it does 
 not suffice. I am insulted.” 
 
 The others, astonished, gathered about the “ coach.” 
 They laboured to explain. Miss Gretry had intended no 
 slight. In fact she was often taken that way; she was 
 excited, nervous. But Monsieur Gerardy was not to be 
 placated. Ah, no! He knew what was due a gentle- 
 man. He closed his eyes and raised his eyebrows to his 
 very hair, murmuring superbly that he was offended. 
 He had but one phrase in answer to all their explana- 
 tions: 
 
 “ One does not permit one’s self to bleed at the nose 
 during rehearsal.” 
 
 Laura began to feel a certain resentment. The unfor- 
 tunate Gretry girl had gone away in tears. What with 
 the embarrassment of the wrong gown, the brow-beat- 
 ing, and the nose-bleed, she was not far from hysterics. 
 She had retired to the dining-room with Mrs. Cressler, 
 and from time to time the sounds of her distress made 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 I2I 
 
 themselves heard. Laura believed it quite time to inter- 
 fere. After all, who was this Gerardy person, to give 
 himself such airs? Poor Miss Gretry was to blame for 
 nothing. She fixed the little Frenchman with a direct 
 glance, and Page, who caught a glimpse of her face, 
 recognised “ the grand manner,” and whispered to 
 Landry : 
 
 “ He’d better look out; he’s gone just about as far as 
 Laura will allow.” 
 
 “ It is not convenient,” vociferated the " coach.” “ It 
 is not permissible. I am offended.” 
 
 “ Monsieur Gerardy,” said Laura, “ we will say noth- 
 ing more about it, if you please.” 
 
 There was a silence. Monsieur Gerardy had pre- 
 tended not to hear. H e brea th ed loud through his no se. 
 and Page hastened to observe that anyhow Marion was 
 not on in the next scenes. Then abruptly, and resum- 
 ing his normal expression, Monsieur Gerardy said: 
 
 “ Let us proceed. It advances nothing to lose time. 
 
 Come. Lady Mary and Arthur, ready.” 
 
 The rehearsal continued. Laura, who did not come 
 on during the act, went back to her chair in the corner 
 of the room. 
 
 But the original group had been broken up. Mrs. 
 Cressler was in the dining-room with the Gretry girl, 
 while Jadwin, Aunt Wess’, and Cressler himself were • 
 deep in a discussion of mind-reading and spiritualism. 
 
 As Laura came up, Jadwin detached himself from the 
 others and met her. 
 
 “Poor Miss Gretry!” he observed. “Always the 
 square peg in the round hole. I’ve sent out for some 
 smelling salts.” 
 
 It seemed to Laura that the capitalist was especially 
 well-looking on this particular evening. He never 
 dressed with the “ smartness ” of Sheldon Corthell or 
 
122 
 
 The Pit 
 
 Landry Court, but in some way she did not expect that 
 he should. His clothes were not what she was aware 
 were called “ stylish,” but she had had enough experi- 
 ence with her own tailor-made gowns to know that the 
 material was the very best that money could buy. The 
 apparent absence of any padding in the broad shoulders 
 of the frock coat he wore, to her mind, more than com- 
 pensated for the “ ready-made ” scarf, and if the white 
 waistcoat was not fashionably cut, she knew that she had 
 never been able to afford a pique skirt of just that par- 
 ticular grade. 
 
 “ Suppose we go into the reception-room,” he ob- 
 served abruptly. “ Charlie bought a new clock last 
 week that’s a marvel. You ought to see it.” 
 
 “ No,” she answered. “ I am quite comfortable here, 
 and I want to see how Page does in this act.” 
 
 “ I am afraid. Miss Dearborn,” he continued, as they 
 found their places, “ that you did not have a very good 
 time Sunday afternoon.” 
 
 He referred to the Easter festival at his mission 
 school. Laura had left rather early, alleging neuralgia 
 and a dinner engagement. 
 
 “ Why, yes I did,” she replied. “ Only, to tell the 
 truth, my head ached a little.” She was ashamed that she 
 did not altogether delight in her remembrance of Jad- 
 win on that afternoon. He had “ addressed ” the school, 
 with earnestness it was true, but in a strain decidedly 
 conventional. And the picture he made leading the 
 singing, beating time with the hymn-book, and between 
 the verses declaring that “ he wanted to hear everyone’s 
 voice in the next verse,” did not appeal very forcibly to 
 her imagination. She fancied Sheldon Corthell doing 
 these things, and could not forbear to smile. She had 
 to admit, despite the protests of conscience, that she 
 did prefer the studio to the Sunday-school. 
 
123 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 “ Oh/* remarked Jadwin, “ I’m sorry to hear you had 
 a headache. I suppose my little micks ” (he invariably 
 spoke of his mission children thus) “ do make more 
 noise than music.” 
 
 “I found them very interesting.” 
 
 ^ No, excuse me, but I’m afraid you didn’t. My little 
 micks are not interesting — to look at nor to listen to. 
 
 But I, kind of — ^well, I don't know,” he began pulling his 
 mustache. “ It seems to suit me to get down there and 
 get hold of these people. You know Moodv put me up 
 to it. He was here about five years ago, and I went 
 to one of his big meetings, and then to all of them. And 
 I met the fellow, too, and I tell you. Miss Dearborn, he 
 stirred me all up. I didn’t “ get religion.” No, nothing 
 like that. But I got -a notion it was time to be up and/XA-^*"*^ 
 doing, and I figured it out that business principles were 
 as good in religion as they are — well, in La Salle Street, 
 and that if the church people — the men I mean — put 
 as much energy, and shrewdness, and competitive spirit 
 into the saving of souls as they did into the saving of 
 dollars that we might get somewhere. And so I took 
 hold of a half dozen broken-down, bankrupt Sunday- 
 school concerns over here on Archer Avenue that were 
 fighting each other all the time, and amalgamated them 
 all — a regular trust, just as if they were iron foundries — 
 and turned the incompetents out and put my subordi- 
 nates in, and put the thing on a business basis, and by 
 now, I’ll venture to say, there’s not a better organised 
 Sunday-school in all Chicago, and I’ll bet if D. L. Moody 
 were here to-day he’d say^ ‘ Jadwin, well done, 'thou 
 good and faithful servant.’^ 
 
 “ I haven’t a doubt of it, Mr. Jadwin,” Laura hastened 
 to exclaim. “ And you must not think that I don’t be- 
 lieve you are doing a splendid work.” 
 
 “Well, it suits me,” he repeated. “I like my little 
 
micks, and now and then I have a chance to get hold of 
 the kind that it pays to push along. About four months 
 ago I came across a boy in the Bible class; I guess he’s 
 about sixteen ; name is Bradley— ^illy Bradley, father a 
 confirmed drunk, mother takes in washing, sister — we 
 won’t speak about; and he seemed to be bright and will- 
 ing to work, and I gave him a job in my agent’s office, 
 just directing envelopes. Well, Miss Dearborn, that 
 boy has a desk of his own now, and the agent tells me 
 he’s one of the very best men he’s got. He does his 
 work so well that I’ve been able to discharge two other 
 fellows who sat around and watched the clock for lunch 
 hour, and Bradley does their work now better and 
 uicker than they did,^and saves me twenty dollars a 
 week; that’s a thousand a year^. So much for a business 
 like Sunday-school ; so much for taking a good aim when 
 you cast your bread upon the waterOThe last time I saw 
 
 
 Moody I said, IMoodv. mv motto 'is “ not slothful in 
 
 business, fervent in spirit, pr aising the Lord.” ’ I re- 
 member we were out driving at the time, 1 took him out 
 behind Lizella — she’s almost straight Wilkes’ blood and 
 can trot in two-ten, but you can believe he didn’t know 
 that — and, as I say, I told him what my motto was, and 
 he said, ‘J., good for you; you keep to that. There's 
 no better motto in the world for the American man of 
 business.’ He shook my hand when he said it, and I 
 haven’t ever forgotten it.” 
 
 Not a little embarrassed, Laura was at a loss just 
 what to say, and in the end remarked lamely enough : 
 
 “ I am sure it is the right spirit — the best motto.” 
 
 “ Miss Dearborn,” Jadwin began again suddenly, 
 “ why don’t you take a class down there. The little 
 micks aren’t so dreadful when you get to know them.” 
 
 “I!” exclaimed Laura, rather blankly. She shook 
 her head. “ Oh, no, Mr. Jadwin. I should be only an 
 
125 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 encumbrance. Don’t misunderstand me. I approve of 
 the work with all my heart, but I am not fitted — I feel 
 no call. I should be so inapt that I know I should do 
 no good. My training has been so different, you know,” 
 she said, smiling. “ I am an Episcopalian — ‘ of the 
 straightest sect of the Pharisees.’ I should be teaching 
 your little micks all about the meaning of candles, and 
 ‘ Eastings,’ and the absolution and remission of sins.” 
 
 “ I wouldn’t care if you did,” he answered. “ It’s the 
 indirect influence I’m thinking of — the indirect influence 
 that a beautiful, pure-hearted, noble-minded woman 
 spreads around her wherever she goes. I know what 
 it has done for me. And I know that not only my little 
 micks, but every teacher and every superintendent in 
 that school would be- inspired, and stimulated, and born 
 again so soon as ever you set foot in the building. Men 
 need good women. Miss Dearborn. Men who are doing 
 the work of the world. I believe in women as I be- 
 lieve in Christ. But I don’t believe they were 
 made — any more than Christ was — to cultivate — be- 
 yond a certain point — their own souls, and refine 
 their own minds, and live in a sort of warmed- 
 over, dilettante, stained-glass world of seclusion and 
 e.rclusion. s No, sir, that won’t do for the United States 
 and the men who are making them the greatest nation 
 of the world. The men have got all the get-up-and-get 
 they want, but they need the women to point them 
 straight, and to show them how to lead that other kind 
 of life that isn’t all grind. Since I’ve known you. Miss 
 Dearborn, I’ve just begun to wake up to the fact that 
 there is that other kind, but I can’t lead that life without 
 you. There’s no kind of life that’s worth anything to me 
 
 now that don’t include you. ^I don’t need to tell you 
 
 that I want you to marry me. You know that by now, 
 T guess, without any words from me. I love you, and 
 
126 
 
 The Pit 
 
 I love you as a man, not as a boy, seriously and ear- 
 nestly. I can give you no idea how seriously, how ear- 
 nestly. I want you to be my wife. Laura, my dear 
 girl, I know I could make you happy.” 
 
 “ It isn’t,” answered Laura slowly, perceiving as he 
 paused that he expected her to say something, “ so 
 much a question of that.” 
 
 “ What is it, then ? I won’t make a scene. Don’t 
 you love me? Don’t you think, my girl, you could 
 ever love me ? ” 
 
 Laura hesitated a long moment. She had taken the 
 rose from her shoulder, and plucking the petals one by 
 one, put them delicately between her teeth. From the 
 other end of the room came the clamorous exhorta- 
 tions of Monsieur Gerardy. Mrs. Cressler and the 
 Gretry girl watched the progress of the rehearsal atten- 
 tively from the doorway of the dining-room. Aunt 
 Wess’ and Mr. Cressler were discussing psychic re- 
 search and seances, on the sofa on the other side of the 
 room. After a while Laura spoke. 
 
 “ It isn’t that either,” she said, choosing her words 
 carefully. 
 
 “ What is it, then? ” 
 
 “ I don’t know — exactly. For one thing, I don’t 
 think I want to be married, Mr. Jadwin — to anybody.” 
 
 “ I would wait for you.” 
 
 “ Or to be engaged.” 
 
 “ But the day must come, sooner or later, when you 
 must be both engaged and married. You must ask 
 yourself some time if you love the man who wishes to 
 be your husband. Why not ask yourself now'? ” 
 
 “ I do,” she answered. “ I do ask myself. I have 
 asked myself.” 
 
 “ Well, what do you decide? ” 
 
 “ That I don’t know.” 
 
A Story of Chicago 127 
 
 “ Don’t you think you would love me in time ? 
 Laura, I am sure you would. I would make you.” 
 
 “ I don’t know. I suppose that is a stupid answer. 
 But it is, if I am to be honest, and I am trying very 
 hard to be honest — with you and with myself — the only 
 one I have. I am happy just as I am. I like you and 
 Mr. Cressler and Mr. Corthell — everybody. But, Mr. 
 Jadwin ” — she looked him full in the face, her dark 
 eyes full of gravity — “ with a woman it is so serious 
 — to be married. More so than any man ever under- 
 stood. And, oh, one must be so sure, so sure. And 
 I am not sure now. I am not sure now. Even if I 
 were sure of you, I could not say I was sure of myself. 
 Now and then I tell myself, and even poor, dear Aunt 
 Wess’, that I shall never love anybody, that I shall never 
 marry. But I should be bitterly sorry if I thought 
 that was true. It is one of the greatest h appinesse s 
 to w'hich I look forward, that some day I shall love 
 some one with all my heart and soul, and shall be a 
 true wife, and find my husband’s love for me the sweet- 
 est thing in my life. But I am sure that that day has 
 not come yet.” 
 
 “ And when it does come,” he urged, “ may I be the 
 first to know ? ” 
 
 She smiled a little gravely. 
 
 “ Ah,” she answered, “ I would not know myself that 
 that day had come until I woke to the fact that I loved 
 the man who had asked me to be his wife, and then it 
 might be too late — for you.” . 
 
 “ But now, at least,” he persisted, “ you love no one.” ' 
 
 “ Now,” she repeated, “ I love — no one.” 
 
 “ And I may take such encouragement in that as I 
 can ? ” 
 
 And then, suddenly, capriciously even, Laura, an in- 
 explicable spirit of inconsistency besetting her, was a 
 
128 
 
 The Pit 
 
 very different woman from the one Who an instant be- 
 fore had spoken so gravely of the seriousness of mar- 
 riage. She hesitated a moment before answering Jad- 
 win, her head on one side, looking at the rose leaf 
 between her fingers. In a low voice she said at last: 
 
 “ If you like.” 
 
 But before Jadwin could reply, Cressler and Aunt 
 Wess’ who had been telling each other of their “ ex- 
 periences,” of their “ premonitions,” of the unaccount- 
 able things that had happened to them, at length in- 
 cluded the others in their conversation. 
 
 “ J.,” remarked Cressler, “ did anything funny ever 
 happen to you — warnings, presentiments, that sort of 
 thing? Mrs. Wessels and I have been talking spiritual- 
 ism. Laura, have you ever had any ‘ experiences ’ ? ” 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 “ No, no. I am too material, I am afraid.” 
 
 “ How about you, ‘ J.’ ? ” 
 
 “ Nothing much, except that I believe in ‘ luck ’ — a 
 little. The other day I flipped a coin in Gretry’s office. 
 If it fell heads I was to sell wheat short, and somehow 
 I knew all the time that the coin would fall heads — and 
 so it did.” 
 
 “ And you made a great deal of money,” said Laura. 
 ” I know. Mr. Court was telling me. That was splen- 
 did.” 
 
 “ That was deplorable, Laura,” said Cressler, gravely. 
 “ I hope some day,” he continued, “ we can all of us 
 get hold of this man and make him solemnly promise 
 never to gamble in wheat again.” 
 
 Laura stared. To her mind the word “ gambling ” 
 had always been suspect. It had a bad sound; it seemed 
 to be associated with depravity of the baser sort. 
 
 “ Gambling ! ” she murmured. 
 
 “ They call it buying and selling,” he went on, “ down 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 129 
 
 there in La Salle Street. But it is simply betting. 
 Betting on the condition of the market weeks, even 
 months, in advance. You bet wheat goes up. I bet 
 it goes down. Those fellows in the Pit don’t own the 
 wheat; never even see it. Wouldn’t know what to do 
 with it if they had it. They don’t care in the least 
 about the grain. But there are thousands upon thou- 
 sands of farmers out here in Iowa and Kansas or Da- 
 kota who do, and hundreds of thousands of poor devils • . 
 in Europe who care even more than the farmer. I 
 mean the fellows who raise the grain, and the. other 
 fellows who eat it. It’s life or death for either of 
 them. And right between these two comes the Chi- 
 cago speculator, who raises or lowers the price out of 
 all reason, for the -benefit of his pocket. You see 
 Laura, here is what I mean.” Cressler had suddenly 
 become very earnest. Absorbed, interested, Laura list- 
 ened intently. “ Here is what I mean,” pursued 
 Cressler. “ It’s like this : If we send the price of wheat 
 down too far, the farmer suffers, the fellow who raises 
 it; if we send it up too far, the poor man in Europe 
 suffers, the fellow who eats it. And food to the peas- 
 ant on the continent is bread — not meat or potatoes, 
 as it is with us. The only way to do so that neither 
 the American farmer nor the European peasant suffers, 
 is to keep wheat at an average, legitimate value. The 
 moment you inflate or depress that, somebody suffers 
 right away. And that is just what these gamblers are 
 doing all the time, booming it up or booming it down. 
 
 Think of it, the food of hundreds and hundreds of thou- 
 sands of people just at the mercy of a few men down 
 there on the Board of Trade. They make the price. 
 
 They say just how much the peasant shall pay for his 
 loaf of bread. If he can’t pay the price he simply 
 starves. And as for the farmer, why it’s ludicrous. 
 
 9 
 
130 
 
 The Pit 
 
 If I build a house and offer it for sale, I put my own 
 price on it, and if the price offered don’t suit me I don’t 
 sell. But if I go out here in Iowa and raise a crop 
 of wheat, I’ve got to sell it, whether I want to or not, 
 at the figure named by some fellows in Chicago. And 
 to make themselves rich, they may make me sell it at a 
 price that bankrupts me.” 
 
 Laura nodded. She was intensely interested. A 
 whole new order of things was being disclosed, and 
 for the first time in her life she looked into the work- 
 ings of political economy. 
 
 “ Oh, that’s only one side of it,” Cressler went on, 
 heedless of Jadwin’s good-humoured protests. “Yes, 
 I know I am a crank on speculating. I’m going to 
 preach a little if you’ll let me. I’ve been a speculator 
 myself, and a ruined one at that, and I know what I 
 am talking about. Here is what I was going to say. 
 These fellows themselves, the gamblers — ^well, call them 
 speculators, if you like. Oh, the fine, promising 
 manly young men I’ve seen wrecked — absolutely and 
 hopelessly wrecked and ruined by speculation ! It’s as 
 easy to get into as going across the street. They make 
 three hundred, five hundred, yes, even a thousand dol- 
 lars sometimes in a couple of hours, without so much 
 as raising a finger. Think what that means to a boy 
 of twenty-five who’s doing clerk work at seventy-five 
 a month. Why, it would take him maybe ten years 
 to save a thousand, and here he’s made it in a single 
 morning. Think you can keep him out of speculation 
 then? First thing you know he’s thrown up his hon- 
 est, humdrum position — oh. I’ve seen it hundreds of 
 times — and takes to hanging round the customers’ 
 rooms down there on La Salle Street, and he makes a 
 little, and makes a little more, and finally he is so far 
 in that he can’t pull out, and then some billionaire fel- 
 
A Story of Chicago 13 1 
 
 low, who has the market in the palm of his hand, 
 tightens one finger, and our young man is ruined, body 
 and mind. He’s lost the taste, the very capacity for 
 legitimate business, and he stays on hanging round the 
 Board till he gets to be — all of a sudden — an old man. 
 And then some day some one says, ‘ Why, where’s So- 
 and-so ? ’ and you wake up to the fact that the young 
 fellow has simply disappeared — lost. I tell you the 
 fascination of this Pit gambling is something no one 
 who hasn’t experienced it can have the faintest con- 
 ception of. I believe it’s worse than liquor, worse than 
 morphine. Once you get into it, it grips you and 
 draws you and draws you, and the nearer you get to 
 the end the easier it seems to win, till all of a sudden, 
 ah ! there’s the whirlpool. . . . ‘ J.,’ keep away from 
 it, my boy.” 
 
 Jadwin laughed, and leaning over, put his fingers 
 upon Cressler’s breast, as though turning off a switch. 
 
 “ Now, Miss Dearborn,” he announced, “ we’ve shut 
 him off. Charlie means all right, but now and then 
 some one brushes against him and opens that switch.” 
 
 Cressler, good-humouredly laughed with the others, 
 but Laura’s smile was perfunctory and her eyes were 
 grave. But there was a diversion. While the others 
 had been talking the rehearsal had proceeded, and now 
 Page beckoned to Laura from the far end of the parlor, 
 calling out : 
 
 “ Laura — ‘ Beatrice,’ it’s the third act. You are 
 wanted.” 
 
 “ Oh, I must run,” exclaimed Laura, catching up her 
 play-book. “ Poor Monsieur Gerardy — we must be a 
 trial to him.” 
 
 She hurried across the room, where the coach was 
 disposing the furniture for the scene, consulting the 
 stage directions in his book: 
 
132 
 
 The Pit 
 
 “ Here the kitchen table, here the old-fashioned writ- 
 ing-desk, here the armoire with practicable doors, here 
 the window. Soh! Who is on? Ah, the young lady 
 of the sick nose, ‘ Marion.’ She is discovered — knitting. 
 And then the duchess — ^later. That’s you Mademoi- 
 selle Dearborn. You interrupt — you remember. But 
 then you, ah, you always are right. If they were all 
 like you. Very well, we begin.” 
 
 Creditably enough the Gretry girl read her part, 
 Monsieur Gerardy interrupting to indicate the cross- 
 ings and business. Then at her cue, Laura, who was 
 to play the role of the duchess, entered with the words : 
 
 “ I beg your pardon, but the door stood open. May 
 I come in? ” 
 
 Monsieur Gerardy murmured: 
 
 “ Elle est vraiment superbe.” 
 
 Laura to the very life, to every little trick of carriage 
 and manner was the high-born gentlewoman visiting 
 the home of a dependent. Nothing could have been 
 more dignified, more gracious, more gracefully conde- 
 scending than her poise. She dramatised not only her 
 role, but the whole of her surroundings. The interior 
 of the little cottage seemed to define itself with almost 
 visible distinctness the moment she set foot upon the 
 scene. 
 
 Gerardy tiptoed from g^oup to group, whispering: 
 
 “Eh? Very fine, our duchess. She would do well 
 professionally.” 
 
 But Mrs. Wessels was not altogether convinced. 
 Her eyes following her niece, she said to Corthell : 
 
 “ It’s Laura’s ‘ grand manner.’ My word, I know her 
 in that part. That’s the way she is when she comes 
 down to the parlor of an evening, and Page introduces 
 her to one of her young men.” 
 
 “ I nearly die,” protested Page, beginning to laugh. 
 
133 
 
 A Story o{ Chicago 
 
 “ Of course it’s very natural I should want my friends 
 to like my sister. And Laura comes in as though she 
 were walking on eggs, and gets their names wrong, 
 as though it didn’t much matter, and calls them Pinky 
 when their name is Pinckney, and don’t listen to what 
 they say, till I want to sink right through the floor with 
 mortification.” 
 
 In haphazard fashion the rehearsal wore to a close. 
 Monsieur Gerardy stormed and fretted and insisted 
 upon repeating certain scenes over and over again. 
 By ten o’clock the actors were quite worn out. A 
 little supper was served, and very soon afterward Laura 
 made a move toward departing. She was wondering 
 who would see her home, Landry, Jadwin, or Sheldon 
 Corthell. 
 
 The day had been sunshiny, warm even, but since 
 nine o’clock the weather had changed for the worse, 
 and by now a heavy rain was falling, Mrs. Cressler 
 begged the two sisters and Mrs. Wessels to stay at her 
 house over night, but Laura refused. Jadwin was sug- 
 gesting to Cressler the appropriateness of having the 
 coupe brought around to take the sisters home, when 
 Corthell came up to Laura. 
 
 “ I sent for a couple of hansoms long since,” he said. 
 “ They are waiting outside now.” And that seemed to 
 settle the question. 
 
 For all Jadwin’s perseverance, the artist seemed— for 
 this time at least — to have the better of the situation. 
 
 As the good-bys were being said at the front door 
 Page remarked to Landry : 
 
 “You had better go with us as far as the house, so 
 that you can take one of our umbrellas. You can get 
 in with Aunt Wess’ and me. There’s plenty of room. 
 You can’t go home in this storm without an umbrella.” 
 
 Landry at first refused, haughtily. He might be too 
 
134 
 
 The Pit 
 
 poor to parade a lot of hansom cabs around, but he 
 was too proud, to say the least, to ride in ’em when 
 some one else paid. 
 
 Page scolded him roundly. What next? The idea. 
 He was not to be so completely silly. She didn’t pro- 
 pose to have the responsibility of his catching pneu- 
 monia just for the sake of a quibble. 
 
 “ Some people,” she declared, “ never seemed to be 
 able to find out that they are grown up.” 
 
 “Very well,” he announced, “ I’ll go if I can tip the 
 driver a dollar.” 
 
 Page compressed her lips. 
 
 “ The man that can afford dollar tips,” she said, “ can 
 afford to hire the cab in the first place.” 
 
 “ Seventy-five cents, then,” he declared resolutely. 
 “ Not a cent less. I should feel humiliated with any 
 less.” 
 
 “ Will you please take me down to the cab, Landry 
 Court ? ” she cried. And without further comment Lan- 
 dry obeyed. 
 
 “ Now, Miss Dearborn, if you are ready,” exclaimed 
 Corthell, as he came up. He held the umbrella over 
 her head, allowing his shoulders to get the drippings. 
 
 They cried good-by again all around, and the artist 
 guided her down the slippery steps. He handed her 
 carefully into the hansom, and following, drew down 
 the glasses. 
 
 Laura settled herself comfortably far back in her 
 corner, adjusting her skirts and murmuring: 
 
 “ Such a wet night. Who would have thought it was 
 going to rain? I was afraid you were not coming at 
 first,” she added. “ At dinner Mrs. Cressler said you 
 had an important committee meeting — something to 
 do with the Art Institute, the award of prizes ; was that 
 it?” 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 135 
 
 “ Oh, yes,” he answered. Indifferently, “ something 
 of the sort was on. I suppose it was important — for 
 the Institute. But for me there is only one thing of im- 
 portance nowadays,” he spoke with a studied careless- 
 ness, as though announcing a fact that Laura must 
 know already, “ and that is, to be near you. It is aston- 
 ishing. You have no idea of it, how I have ordered 
 my whole life according to that idea.” 
 
 “As though you expected me to believe that,” she 
 answered. 
 
 In her other lovers she knew her words would have 
 provoked vehement protestation. But for her it was 
 part of the charm of Corthell’s attitude that he never 
 did or said the expected, the ordinary. Just now he 
 seemed more Interested in the effect of his love for 
 Laura upon himself than in the manner of her recep- 
 tion of it. 
 
 “ It is curious,” he continued. “ I am no longer a 
 boy. I have no enthusiasms. I have known many 
 women, and I have seen enough of what the crowd 
 calls love to know how futile it is, how empty, a vanity 
 of vanities. I had imagined that the poets were wrong, 
 were idealists, seeing the things that should be rather 
 than the things that were. And then,” suddenly he 
 drew a deep breath; “ i his happiness; and to me. And 
 the miracle, the wonderful is there — all at once — in 
 my heart, in my very hand, like a mysterious, beautiful 
 exotic. The poets are wrong,” he added. “ They have 
 not been idealists enough. I wish — ah, well, never 
 mind.” 
 
 “ What is it that you wish? ” she asked, as he broke 
 off suddenly. Laura knew even before she spoke that 
 it would have been better not to have prompted him 
 to continue. Intuitively she had something more than 
 a suspicion that he had led her on to say these very 
 
136 
 
 The Pit 
 
 words. And in admitting that she cared to have the 
 conversation proceed upon this footing, she realised 
 that she was sheering towards unequivocal coquetry. 
 She saw the false move now, knew that she had lowered 
 her guard. On all accounts it would have been more 
 dignified to have shown only a mild interest in what 
 Corthell wished. She realised that once more she had 
 acted upon impulse, and she even found time to wonder 
 again how it was that when with this man her im- 
 pulses, and not her reason prevailed so often. With 
 Landry or with Curtis Jadwin she was always calm, 
 tranquilly self-possessed. But Corthell seemed able to 
 reach all that was impetuous, all that was unreasoned 
 in her nature. To Landry she was more than any- 
 thing else, an older sister. Indulgent, kind-hearted. 
 With Jadwin she found that all the serious, all the sin- 
 cere, earnest side of her character was apt to come to 
 the front. But Corthell stirred troublous, unknown 
 deeps in her, certain undefined trends of recklessness ; 
 and for so long as he held her within his influence, she 
 could not forget her sex a single instant. 
 
 It dismayed her to have this strange personality of 
 hers, this other headstrong, impetuous self, discovered 
 to her. She hardly recognised it. It made her a little 
 afraid; and yet, wonder of wonders, she could not 
 altogether dislike it. There was a certain fascination 
 in resigning herself for little instants to the dominion 
 of this daring stranger that was yet herself. 
 
 Meanwhile Corthell had answered her: 
 
 “ I wish,” he said, “ I wish you could say something 
 — I hardly know what — something to me. So little 
 would be so much.” 
 
 “But what can I say?” she protested. “I don't 
 know — I — what can I say?” 
 
 “ It must be yes or no for me,” he broke out. “ I 
 can’t go on this way.” 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 137 
 
 “But why not? Why not?” exclaimed Laura. 
 
 ‘Why must we — terminate anything? Why not let 
 things go on just as they are? We are quite happy as 
 we are. There’s never been a time of my life when I’ve 
 been happier than this last three or four months. I 
 don’t want to change anything. Ah, here we are.” 
 
 The hansom drew up in front of the house. Aunt 
 Wess’ and Page were already inside. The maid stood 
 in the vestibule in the light that streamed from the 
 half-open front door, an umbrella in her hand. And as 
 Laura alighted, she heard Page’s voice calling from 
 the front hall that the others had umbrellas, that the 
 maid was not to wait. 
 
 The hansom splashed away, and Corthell and Laura 
 mounted the steps of the house. 
 
 “Won’t you come in?” she said. “There is a fire 
 in the library.” 
 
 But he said no, and for a few seconds they stood 
 under the vestibule light, talking. Then Corthell, draw- 
 ing off his right-hand glove, said : 
 
 “ I suppose that I have my answer. You do not 
 wish for a change. I understand. You wish to say 
 by that, that you do not love me. If you did love me 
 as I love you, you would wish for just that — a change. 
 You would be as eager as I for that wonderful, wonder- 
 ful change that makes a new heaven and a new earth.” 
 
 This time Laura did not answer. There was a mo- 
 ment’s silence. Then Corthell said: 
 
 “ Do you know, I think I shall go away.” 
 
 “ Go away? ” 
 
 “Yes, to New York. Possibly to Paris. There is 
 a new method of fusing glass that I’ve promised my- 
 self long ago I would look into. I don’t know that it 
 interests me much — now. But I think I had better 
 go. At once, within the week. I’ve not much heart 
 
138 
 
 The Pit 
 
 in it; but it seems — under the circumstances — to be 
 appropriate.” He held out his bared hand. Laura 
 saw that he was smiling-. 
 
 “ Well, Miss Dearborn — good-by.” 
 
 “ But why should you go ? ” she cried, distressfully. 
 “ How perfectly — ah, don’t go,” she exclaimed, then in 
 desperate haste added: “It would be absolutely fool- 
 ish.” 
 
 ^ “ Shall I stay? ” he urged. “ Do you tell me to stay? ” 
 
 “ Of course I do,” she answered. “ It would break 
 up the play — your going. It would spoil my part. 
 You play opposite me, you know. Please stay.” 
 
 “ Shall I stay,” he asked, “ for the sake of your 
 part ? There is no one else you would rather have ? ” 
 He was smiling straight into her eyes, and she guessed 
 what he meant. 
 
 She smiled back at him, and the spirit of daring 
 never more awake in her, replied, as she caught his 
 eye : 
 
 “ There is no one else I would rather have.” 
 
 Corthell caught her hand of a sudden. 
 
 “ Laura,” he cried, “ let us end this fencing and 
 quibbling once and for all. Dear, dear girl, I love 
 you with all the strength of all the good in me. Let 
 me be the best a man can be to the woman he loves.” 
 
 Laura flashed a smile at him. 
 
 “ If you can make me love you enough,” she an- 
 swered. 
 
 “ And you think I can ? ” he exclaimed, 
 
 " You have my permission to tr}%” she said. 
 
 She hoped fervently that now, without further words, 
 he would leave her. It seemed to her that it would 
 be the most delicate chivalry on his part — having won 
 this much — to push his advantage no further. She 
 waited anxiously for his next words. She began to 
 
A Story of Chicago 13^ 
 
 fear that she had trusted too much upon her assurance 
 of his tact. 
 
 Corthell held out his hand again. 
 
 “ It is good-night, then, not good-by.” 
 
 “ It is good-night,” said Laura. 
 
 With the words he was gone, and Laura, entering 
 the house, shut the door behind her with a long breath 
 of satisfaction. 
 
 Page and Landry were still in the library. Laura 
 joined them, and for a few moments the three stood 
 before the fireplace talking about the play. Page at 
 length, at the first opportunity, excused herself and 
 went to bed. She made a great show of leaving Lan- 
 dry and Laura alone, and managed to convey the im- 
 pression that she understood they were anxious to be 
 rid of her. 
 
 “ Only remember,” she remarked to Laura severely, 
 “ to lock up and turn out the hall gas. Annie has gone 
 to bed long ago.” 
 
 “ I must dash along, too,” declared Landry when 
 Page was gone. 
 
 He buttoned his coat about his neck, and Laura fol- 
 lowed him out into the hall and found an umbrella for 
 him. 
 
 “ You were beautiful to-night,” he said, as he stood 
 with his hand on the door knob. “ Beautiful. I could 
 not keep my eyes off of you, and I could not listen to 
 anybody but you. And now,” he declared, solemnly, 
 “ I will see your eyes and hear your voice all the rest 
 of the night. I want to explain,” he added, “ about 
 those hansoms — about coming home with Miss Page 
 and Mrs. Wessels. Mr. Corthell — those were his han- 
 i soms, of course. But I wanted an umbrella, and I gave 
 I the driver seventy-five cents.” 
 
 “Why of course, of course,” said Laura, not quite 
 divining what he was driving at. 
 
140 
 
 The Pk 
 
 I don’t want you to think that I would be willing to 
 put myself under obligations to anybody.” 
 
 “Of course, Landry; I understand.” 
 
 He thrilled at once. 
 
 “ Ah,” he cried, “ you don’t know what it means to 
 me to look into the eyes of a woman who really under- 
 stands.” 
 
 Laura stared, wondering just what she had said. 
 
 “ Will you turn this hall light out for me, Landry? ” 
 she asked. “ I never can reach.” 
 
 He left the front door open and extinguished the jet 
 in its dull red globe. Promptly they were involved in 
 darkness. 
 
 “ Good-night,” she said. “ Isn’t it dark ? ” 
 
 He stretched out his hand to take hers, but instead 
 his groping fingers touched her waist. Suddenly 
 Laura felt his arm clasp her. Then all at once, before 
 she had time to so much as think of resistance, he had 
 put both arms about her and kissed her squarely on her 
 cheek. 
 
 Then the front door closed, and she was left ab- 
 ruptly alone, breathless, stunned, staring wide-eyed into 
 the darkness. 
 
 Her first sensation was one merely of amazement. 
 She put her hand quickly to her cheek, first the palm 
 and then the back, murmuring confusedly: 
 
 “What? Why?— why?” 
 
 Then she whirled about and ran up the stairs, her 
 silks clashing and fluttering about her as she fled, 
 gained her own room, and swung the door violently 
 shut behind her. She turned up the lowered gas and, 
 without knowing why, faced her mirror at once, study- 
 ing her reflection and watching her hand as it all but 
 scoured the offended cheek. 
 
 Then, suddenly, with an upward, uplifting rush, her 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 141 
 
 anger surged within her. She, Laura, Miss Dearborn, 
 who loved no man, who never conceded, never capitu- 
 lated, whose “ grand manner ” was a thing proverbial, 
 in all her pitch of pride, in her own home, her own 
 fortress, had been kissed, like a school-girl, like a 
 chambermaid, in the dark, in a corner. 
 
 And by — great heavens ! — Landry Court. The 
 
 whom she fancied she held in such subjection, such pro- 
 found respect. Landry Court had dared, had dared to 
 kiss her, to offer her this wretchedly commonplace and 
 petty affront, degrading her to the level of a pretty 
 waitress, making her ridiculous. 
 
 She stood rigid, drawn to her full height, in the cen- 
 tre of her bedroom, her fists tense at her sides, her 
 breath short, her eyes flashing, her face aflame. From 
 time to time her words, half smothered, burst from her. 
 
 “What does he think I am f How dared he? How 
 dared he ? ” 
 
 All that she could say, any condemnation she could 
 formulate only made her position the more absurd, the 
 more humiliating. It had all been said before by 
 generations of shop-girls, school-girls, and servants, in 
 whose company the affront had ranged her. Landry 
 was to be told in effect that he was never to presume 
 to seek her acquaintance, again. Just as the enraged 
 hussy of the street corners and Sunday picnics shouted 
 that the offender should “ never dare speak to her 
 again as long as he lived.” Never before had she been 
 subjected to this kind of indignity. And simultane- 
 ously with the assurance she could hear the shrill voice 
 of the drab of the public balls proclaiming that she 
 had “ never been kissed in all her life before.” 
 
 Of all slights, of all insults, it was the one that robbed 
 her of the very dignity she should assume to rebuke it. 
 The more vehemently she resented it, the more laugh- 
 able became the whole affair. 
 
142 
 
 The Pit 
 
 But she would resent it, she would resent it, and 
 Landry Court should be driven to acknowledge that 
 the sorriest day of his life was the one on which he had 
 forgotten the respect in which he had pretended to hold 
 her. He had deceived her, then, all along. Because 
 she had — foolishly — relaxed a little towards him, per- 
 mitted a certain intimacy, this 'was"” how he abused it. 
 Ah, well, it would teach her a lesson. Men were like 
 that. She might have known it would~come'~to~~Efiis.' 
 Wilfully they chose to misunderstand, to take advan- 
 tage of her frankness, her good nature, her good com- 
 radeship. 
 
 She had been foolish all along, flirting — yes, that 
 was the word for it — ^flirting with Landry and Corthell 
 and Jadwin. No doubt they all compared notes about 
 her. Perhaps they had bet who first should kiss her. 
 Or, at least, there was not one of them who would not 
 kiss her if she gave him a chance. 
 
 But if she, in any way, had been to blame for what 
 Landry had done, she would atone for it. She had made 
 herself too cheap, she had found amusement in en- 
 couraging these men, in equivocating, in coquetting 
 with them. Now it was time to end the whole business, 
 to send each one of them to the right-about with an 
 wn-equivocal definite word. She was a good girl, she 
 told herself. She was, in her heart, sincere ; she was 
 above the inexpensive diversion of flirting. She had 
 started wrong in her new life, and it was time, high 
 time, to begin over again — with a clean page — to show 
 these men that they dared not presume to take liber- 
 ties with so much as the tip of her little finger. 
 
 So great was her agitation, so eager her desire to 
 act upon her resolve, that she could not wait till morn- 
 ing. It was a physical impossibility for her to remain 
 under what she chose to believe suspicion another hour. 
 
A Story of Chicago ' 143 
 
 If there was any remotest chance that her three lovers 
 had permitted themselves to misunderstand her, they 
 were to be corrected at once, were to be shown their 
 place, and that without mercy. 
 
 She called for the maid, Annie, whose husband was 
 the janitor of the house, and who slept in the top story. 
 
 “ If Henry hasn’t gone to bed,” said Laura, “ tell him 
 to wait up till I call him, or to sleep with his clothes 
 on. There is something I want him to do for me — 
 something important.” 
 
 It was close upon midnight. Laura turned back into 
 her room, removed her hat and veil, and tossed them, 
 with her coat, upon the bed. She lit another burner of 
 the chandelier, and drew a chair to her writing-desk 
 between the windows.. 
 
 Her first note was to Landry Court. She wrote it 
 almost with a single spurt of the pen, and dated it care- 
 fully, so that he might know it had been written im- 
 mediately after he had left. Thus it ran : 
 
 “ Please do not try to see me again at any time or 
 under any circumstances. I want you to understand, 
 very clearly, that I do not wish to continue our ac- 
 quaintance. ” 
 
 Her letter to Corthell was more difficult, and it was 
 not until she had rewritten it two or three times that 
 it read to her satisfaction. 
 
 “ My dear Mr. Corthell,” so it was worded, “ you 
 asked me to-night that our fencing and quibbling be 
 brought to an end. I quite agree with you that it is 
 desirable. I spoke as I did before you left upon an 
 Impulse that I shall never cease to regret. I do not 
 wish you to misunderstand me, nor to misinterpret 
 my attitude m any way. You asked me to be your wife, 
 and, very foolishly and wrongly, I gave you — inten- 
 
144 
 
 The Pit 
 
 tionally — an answer which might easily be construed 
 into an encouragement. Understand now that I do not 
 wish you to try to make me love you. I would find it 
 extremely distasteful. And, believe me, it would be 
 quite hopeless. I do not now, and never shall care for 
 you as I should care if I were to be your wife. I be- 
 seech you that you will not, in any manner, refer again 
 to this subject. It would only distress and pain me. 
 
 “ Cordially yours, 
 
 “ Laura Dearborn.” 
 
 The letter to Curtis Jadwin was almost to the same 
 eflect. But she found the writing of it easier than the 
 others. In addressing him she felt herself grow a little 
 more serious, a little more dignified and calm. It ran 
 as follows : 
 
 “ My dear Mr. Jadwin : 
 
 “ When you asked me to become your wife this eve- 
 ning, you deserved a straightforward answer, and in- 
 stead I replied in a spirit of capriciousness and disin- 
 genuousness, which I now earnestly regret, and which 
 I ask you to pardon and to ignore. 
 
 “ I allowed myself to tell you that you might find 
 encouragement in my foolishly spoken words. I am 
 deeply sorry that I should have so forgotten what was 
 due to my own self-respect and to your sincerity. 
 
 “ If I have permitted myself to convey to you the 
 impression that I would ever be willing to be your wife, 
 let me hasten to correct it. Whatever I said to you 
 this evening, I must answer now — as I should have 
 answered then — truthfully and unhesitatingly, no. 
 
 “ This, I insist, must be the last word between us 
 upon this unfortunate subject, if we are to continue, as 
 I hope, very good friends. 
 
 “ Cordially yours, 
 
 “Laura Dearborn.” 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 145 
 
 She sealed, stamped, and directed the three en- 
 velopes, and glanced at the little leather-cased travelling 
 clock that stood on the top of her desk. It was nearly 
 two. 
 
 “ I could not sleep, I could not sleep,” she mur- 
 mured, “ if I did not know they were on the way.” 
 
 In answer to the bell Henry appeared, and Laura 
 gave him the letters, with orders to mail them at once 
 in the nearest box. 
 
 When it was all over she sat down again at her desk, 
 and leaning an elbow upon it, covered her eyes with 
 her hand for a long moment. She felt suddenly very 
 tired, and when at last she lowered her hand, her fin- 
 gers were wet. But in the end she grew calmer. She 
 felt that, at all events, she had vindicated herself, that 
 her life would begin again to-morrow with a clean 
 page ; and when at length she fell asleep, it was to the 
 dreamless unconsciousness of an almost tranquil mind. 
 
 She slept late the next morning and breakfasted in 
 bed between ten and eleven. Then, as the last vibra- 
 tions of last night’s commotion died away, a very nat- 
 ural curiosity began to assert itself. She wondered 
 how each of the three men “ would take it.” In spite of 
 herself she could not keep from wishing that she could 
 be by when they read their dismissals. 
 
 Towards the early part of the afternoon, while Laura 
 was in the library reading " Queen’s Gardens,” the 
 special delivery brought Landry Court’s reply. It was 
 one roulade of incoherence, even in places blistered 
 with tears. Landry protested, implored, debased him- 
 self to the very dust. His letter bristled with exclama- 
 tion points, and ended with a prolonged wail of dis- 
 tress and despair. 
 
 Quietly, and with a certain merciless sense of paci- 
 fication, Laura deliberately reduced the letter to strips, 
 
 10 
 
The Pit 
 
 14b 
 
 burned it upon the hearth, and went back to her Rus- 
 kin. 
 
 A little later, the afternoon being fine, she deter- 
 mined to ride out to Lincoln Park, not fifteen minutes 
 from h ^r home, to take a little walk there, and to see 
 how many new buds were out. 
 
 As she was leaving, Annie gave into her hands a 
 pasteboard box, just brought to the house by a mes- 
 senger boy. 
 
 The box was full of Jacqueminot roses, to the stems of 
 which a note from Corthell was tied. He wrote but a 
 single line ; 
 
 “So t should have been ‘ good-by ’ after all.” 
 
 Laura had Annie put the roses in Page’s room. 
 
 “Tell Page she can have them; I don’t want them. 
 She ca? wear them to her dance to-night,” she said. 
 
 Whil ' to herself she added: 
 
 “ The little buds in the park will be prettier.” 
 
 She was gone from the house over two hours, for she 
 had elected to walk all the way home. She came back 
 flushed and buoyant from her exercise, her cheeks cool 
 with the Lake breeze, a young maple leaf in one of the 
 revers of her coat. Annie let her in, murmuring: 
 
 “ A gentleman called just after you went out. I told 
 him you were not at home, but he said he would wait. 
 He is in the library now.” 
 
 “Who is he? Did he give his name?” demanded 
 Laura. 
 
 The maid handed her Curtis Jadwin’s card. 
 
V 
 
 That year the spring burst over Chicago in a pro-'A 
 longed scintillation of pallid green. For weeks con- 
 tinually the sun shone. The Lake, after persistently 
 cherishing the greys and bitter greens of the winter 
 months, and the rugged white-caps of the northeast 
 gales, mellowed at length, turned to a softened azure 
 blue, and lapsed by degrees to an unruffled calmness, 
 incrusted with innumerable coruscations. 
 
 In the parks, first of all, the buds and earliest shoots 
 asserted themselves. The horse-chestnut bourgeons 
 burst their sheaths to spread into trefoils and^ flame- 
 shaped leaves. The elms, maples, and cottonwoods fol- 
 lowed. The sooty, blackened snow upon the grass 
 plats, in the residence quarters, had long since subsided, 
 softening the turf, filling the gutters with rivulets. On 
 all sides one saw men at work laying down the new sod 
 in rectangular patches. 
 
 There was a delicious smell of ripening in the air, a 
 smell of sap once more on the move, of humid earths 
 disintegrating from the winter rigidity, of twigs and 
 slender branches stretching themselves under the re- 
 turning warmth, elastic once more, straining in their 
 bark. 
 
 On the North Side, in Washington Square, along the 
 Lake-shore Drive, all up and down the Lincoln Park 
 Boulevard, and all through Erie, Huron, and Superior 
 streets, through North State Street, North Clarke Street, 
 and La Salle Avenue, the minute sparkling of green 
 flashed from tree top to tree top, like the first kindling 
 of dry twigs. One could almost fancy that the click 
 
148 
 
 The Pit 
 
 of igniting branch tips was audible as whole beds of yel- 
 low-green sparks defined themselves within certain elms 
 and cottonwoods. 
 
 Every morning the sun invaded earlier the east win- 
 dows of Laura Dearborn’s bedroom. Every day at noon 
 it stood more nearly overhead above her home. Every 
 afternoon the checkered shadows of the leaves thick- 
 ened upon the drawn curtains of the library. Within 
 doors the bottle-green flies came out of their lethargy 
 ^ and droned and bumped on the panes. T he dou ble 
 wind ows were removed, screens and awnings took their 
 places; the summer pieces were put into the fireplaces. 
 
 All of a sudden vans invaded the streets, piled high 
 with mattresses, rocking-chairs, and bird cages; the in- 
 evitable “ spring moving ” took place. And these furni- 
 ture vans alternated with great trucks laden with huge 
 elm trees on their way from nursery to lawn. Families 
 and trees alike submitted to the impulse of transplant- 
 ing, abandoning the winter quarters, migrating with the 
 spring to newer environments, taking root in other soils. 
 Sparrows wrangled on the sidewalks and built ragged 
 nests in the interstices of cornice and coping. In the 
 parks one heard the liquid modulations of robins. The 
 florists’ wagons appeared, and from house to house, 
 from lawn to lawn, iron urns and window boxes filled up 
 with pansies, geraniums, fuchsias, and trailing vines. 
 The flower beds, stripped of straw and manure, bloomed 
 again, and at length the great cottonwoods shed their 
 berries, like clusters of tiny grapes, over street and side- 
 walk. 
 
 At length came three days of steady rain, followed by 
 cloudless sunshine and full-bodied, vigorous winds 
 straight from out the south. 
 
 Instantly the living embers in tree top and grass plat 
 were fanned to flame. Like veritable fire, the leaves 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 149 
 
 blazed up. Branch after branch caught and crackled; 
 even the dryest, the deadest, were enfolded in the resist' 
 less swirl of green. Tree top ignited tree top ; the parks 
 and boulevards were one smother of radiance. From 
 end to end and from side to side of the city, fed by the 
 rains, urged by the south winds, spread billowing and 
 surging the superb conflagration of the coming summer. 
 
 Then, abruptly, everything hung poised; the leaves, 
 the flowers, the grass, all at fullest stretch, stood mo- 
 tionless, arrested, while the heat, distilled, as it were, 
 from all this seething green, rose like a vast pillar over 
 the city, and stood balanced there in the iridescence of 
 the sky, moveless and immeasurable. 
 
 From time to time it appeared as if this pillar broke 
 in the guise of summer storms, and came toppling down 
 upon the city in tremendous detonations of thunder and 
 weltering avalanches of rain. But it broke only to re- 
 form, and no sooner had the thunder ceased, the rain 
 intermitted, and the sun again come forth, than one re- 
 ceived the vague impression of the swift rebuilding of 
 the vast, invisible column that smothered the city under 
 its bases, towering higher and higher into the rain- 
 washed, crystal-clear atmosphere. 
 
 Then the aroma of wet dust, of drenched pavements, 
 musty, acute — the unforgettable exhalation of the city’s 
 streets after a shower — pervaded all the air, and the 
 little out-door activities resumed again under the drip- 
 ping elms and upon the steaming sidewalks. 
 
 The evenings were delicious. It was yet too early 
 for the exodus northward to the Wisconsin lakes, but 
 to stay indoors after nightfall was not to be thought of. 
 After six o’clock, all through the streets in the neigh- 
 bourhood of the Dearborns’ home, one could see the 
 family groups “ sitting out ” upon the front “ stoop.” 
 Chairs were brought forth, carpets and rugs unrolled 
 
*50 
 
 The Pit 
 
 upon the steps. From within, through the opened win- 
 dows of drawing-room and parlour, came the brisk gaiety 
 of pianos. The sidewalks were filled with children 
 - clamouring at “ tag,” “ I-spy,” or “ run-sheep-run.” 
 Girls in shirt-waists and young men in flannel suits 
 promenaded to and fro. Visits were exchanged from 
 “ stoop ” to “ stoop,” lemonade was served, and claret 
 punch. In their armchairs on the top step, elderly men, 
 householders, capitalists, well-to-do, their large stom- 
 achs covered with white waistcoats, their straw hats 
 upon their knees, smoked very fragrant cigars in silent 
 enjoyment, digesting their dinners, taking the air after 
 the grime and hurry of the business districts. 
 
 It was on such an evening as this, well on towards 
 the last days of the spring, that Laura Dearborn and 
 Page joined the Cresslers and their party, sitting out 
 like other residents of the neighbourhood on the front 
 steps of their house. Almost every evening nowadays 
 the Dearborn girls came thus to visit with the Cresslers. 
 Sometimes Page brought her mandolin. 
 
 Every day of the warm weather seemed only to in- 
 crease the beauty of the two sisters. Page’s brown hair 
 was never more luxuriant, the exquisite colouring of her 
 cheeks never more charming, the boyish outlines of her 
 small, straight figure — immature and a little angular as 
 yet — never more delightful. The seriousness of her 
 straight-browed, grave, grey-blue eyes was still present, 
 but the eyes themselves were, in some indefinable way, 
 deepening, and all the maturity that as yet was with- 
 held from her undeveloped little form looked out from 
 beneath her long lashes. 
 
 But Laura was veritably regal. Very slender as yet, 
 no trace of fulness to be seen over hip or breast, the 
 curves all low and flat, she yet carried her extreme 
 height with tranquil confidence, the unperturbed assur- 
 ance of a chaiclaine of the days of feudalism. 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 151 
 
 Her coal-black hair, high-piled, she wore as if it were 
 a coronet. The warmth of the exuberant spring days 
 had just perceptibly mellowed the even paleness of her 
 face, but to compensate for this all the splendour of 
 coming midsummer nights flashed from her deep-brown 
 eyes. 
 
 On this occasion she had put on her coat over her 
 shirt-waist, and a great bunch of violets was tucked 
 into her belt. But no sooner had she exchanged greet- 
 ings with the others and settled herself in her place than 
 she slipped her coat from her shoulders. 
 
 It was while she was doing this that she noted, for the 
 first time, Landry Court standing half in and half out 
 of the shadow of the vestibule behind Mr. Cressler’s 
 chair. 
 
 “ This is the first time he has been here since — since 
 that night,” Mrs. Cressler hastened to whisper in 
 Laura’s ear. “ He told me about — well, he told me 
 what occurred, you know. He came to dinner to-night, 
 and afterwards the poor boy nearly wept in my arms. 
 You never saw such penitence.” 
 
 Laura put her chin in the air with a little movement 
 of incredulity. But her anger had long since been a 
 thing of the past. Good-tempered, she could not cher- 
 ish resentment very long. But as yet she had greeted 
 Landry only by the briefest of nods. 
 
 “Such a warm night!” she murmured, fanning her- 
 self with part of Mr. Cressler’s evening paper. “ And 
 I never was so thirsty.” 
 
 “ Why, of course,” exclaimed Mrs, Cressler. “ Isa- 
 bel,” she called, addressing Miss Gretry, who sat on the 
 opposite side of the steps, “ isn’t the lemonade near 
 you? Fill a couple of glasses for Laura and Page.” 
 
 Page murmured her thanks, but Laura declined. 
 
 “ No; just plain water for me,” she said. “ Isn’t there 
 
*52 
 
 The Pit 
 
 some inside? Mr. Court can get it for me, can’t he? ” 
 
 Landry brought the pitcher back, running at top 
 speed and spilling half of it in his eagerness. Laura 
 thanked him with a smile, addressing him, however, by 
 his last name. She somehow managed to convey to 
 him in her manner the information that though his of- 
 fence was forgotten, their old-time relations were not, 
 for one instant, to be resumed. 
 
 Later on, while Page was thrumming her mandolin, 
 Landry whistling a “ second,” Mrs. Cressler took occa- 
 sion to remark to Laura; 
 
 “ I was reading the Paris letter in the ‘ Inter-Ocean ’ 
 to-day, and I saw Mr. Corthell’s name on the list of 
 American arrivals at the Continental. I guess,” she 
 added, “ he’s going to be gone a long time. I wonder 
 sometimes if he will ever come back. A fellow -with his 
 talent, I should imagine would find Chicago — well, less 
 congenial, anyhow, than Paris. But, just the same, I 
 do think it was mean of him to break up our play by 
 going. I’ll bet a cookie that he wouldn’t take part any 
 more just because you wouldn’t. He was just crazy to 
 do that love scene in the fourth act with you. And when 
 you wouldn’t play, of course he wouldn’t; and then every- 
 body seemed to lose interest with you two out. ‘ J.’ 
 took it all very decently though, don’t you think? ” 
 
 Laura made a murmur of mild assent. 
 
 “ He was disappointed, too,” continued Mrs. Cressler. 
 “ I could see that. He thought the play was going to 
 interest a lot of our church people in his Sunday-school. 
 But he never said a word when it fizzled out. Is he 
 coming to-night?” 
 
 “ Well I declare,” said Laura. “ How should I know, 
 if you don’t?” 
 
 Jadwin was an almost regular visitor at the Cresslers’ 
 during the first warm evenings. He lived on the 
 
153 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 South Side, and the distance between his home and that 
 of the Cresslers was very considerable. It was seldom, 
 however, that Jadwin did not drive over. He came in 
 his double-seated buggy, his negro coachman beside him 
 the two coach dogs, “ Rex ” and “ Rox,” trotting under 
 the rear axle. His horses were not showy, nor were 
 they made conspicuous by elaborate boots, bandages, 
 and all the other solemn paraphernalia of the stable, yet 
 men upon the sidewalks, amateurs, breeders, and the 
 like — men who understood good stock — never failed to 
 stop to watch the team go by, heads up, the check rein 
 swinging loose, ears all alert, eyes all alight, the breath 
 deep, strong, and slow, and the stride, machine-like, even 
 as the swing of a metronome, thrown out from the 
 shoulder to knee, snapped on from knee to fetlock, from 
 fetlock to pastern, finishing squarely, beautifully, with 
 the thrust of the hoof, planted an instant, then, as it 
 were, flinging the roadway behind it, snatched up again, 
 and again cast forward. 
 
 On these occasions Jadwin himself inevitably wore 
 a black “ slouch ” hat, suggestive of the general of the 
 Civil War, a grey “ dust overcoat ” with a black velvet 
 collar, and tan gloves, discoloured with the moisture of 
 his palms and all twisted and crumpled with the strain 
 of holding the thoroughbreds to their work. 
 
 He always called the time of the trip from the buggy 
 at the Cresslers’ horse block, his stop watch in his hand, 
 and, as he joined the groups upon the steps, he was al- 
 most sure to remark: “Tugs were loose all the way 
 from the river. They pulled the whole rig by the reins. 
 My hands are about dislocated.” 
 
 “ Page plays very well,” murmured Mrs. Cressler as 
 the young girl laid down her mandolin. “ I hope J. 
 does come to-night,” she added. “ I love to have him 
 'round. He’s so hearty and whole-souled.” 
 
154 
 
 The Pit 
 
 Laura did not reply. She seemed a little preoccu- 
 pied this evening, and conversation in the group died 
 away. The night was very beautiful, serene, quiet and, 
 at this particular hour of the end of the twilight, no one 
 cared to talk much. Cressler lit another cigar, and the 
 filaments of delicate blue smoke hung suspended about 
 his head in the moveless air. Far off, from the direction 
 of the mouth of the river, a lake steamer whistled a pro- 
 longed tenor note. Somewhere from an open window 
 in one of the neighbouring houses a violin, accompanied 
 by a piano, began to elaborate the sustained phrases of 
 “ Schubert’s ^eren^ de.” Theatrical as was the theme, 
 the twilight and the muffled hum of the city, lapsing to 
 quiet after the febrile activities of the day, combined to 
 lend it a dignity, a persuasiveness. The children were 
 still playing along the sidewalks, and their staccato 
 gaiety was part of the quiet note to which all sounds of 
 the moment seemed chorded. 
 
 After a while Mrs. Cressler began to talk to Laura in 
 a low voice. She and Charlie were going to spend a 
 part of June at Oconomowoc, in Wisconsin. Why could 
 not Laura make up her mind to come with them? She 
 had asked Laura a dozen times already, but couldn’t get 
 a yes or no answer from her. What was the reason she 
 could not decide? Didn’t she think she would have a 
 good time? 
 
 “ Page can go,” said Laura. “ I would like to have 
 you take her. But as for me, I don’t know. My plans 
 are so unsettled this summer.” She broke off suddenly. 
 “ Oh, now, that I think of it, I want to borrow your 
 ‘ I dylls of the^ inp-.’ May I take it for a day or two ? 
 I’ll run in and get it now,” she added as she rose. “ I 
 know just Where to find it. No, please sit still, Mr. 
 Cressler. I’ll go.” 
 
 And with the words she disappeared in doors, Ieav« 
 ing Mrs. Cressler to murmur to hef husband: 
 
155 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 “ Strange girl. Sometimes I think I don’t know 
 Laura at all. She’s so inconsistent. How funny she 
 acts about going to Oconomowoc with us ! ” 
 
 Mr. Cressler permitted himself an amiable grunt of 
 protest. 
 
 “Pshaw! Laura’s all right. The handsomest girl in 
 Cook County.” 
 
 “ Well, that’s not much to do with it, Charlie,” 
 sighed Mrs. Cressler. “ Oh, dear,” she added vaguely. 
 “ I don’t know.” 
 
 “ Don’t know what? ” 
 
 “ I hope Laura’s life will be happy.” 
 
 “ Oh, for God’s sake, Carrie! ” 
 
 “ There’s something about that girl,” continued Mrs. 
 Cressler, “ that makes my heart bleed for her.” 
 
 Cressler frowned, puzzled and astonished. 
 
 “ Hey — what! ” he exclaimed. “ You’re crazy, Car- 
 rie! ” 
 
 “ Just the same,” persisted Mrs. Cressler, “ I just 
 yearn towards her sometimes like a mother. Some 
 people are born to trouble, Charlie; born to trouble, as 
 the sparks fly upward. And you mark my words, 
 Charlie Cressler, Laura is that sort. There’s all the 
 pathos in the world in just the way she looks at yoii 
 from under all that black, black hair, and out of her 
 eyes — the saddest eyes sometimes, great, sad, mournful 
 eyes.” 
 
 “Fiddlesticks!” said Mr. Cressler, resuming his 
 paper. 
 
 “ I’m positive that Sheldon Corthell asked her to 
 marry him,” mused Mrs. Cressler after a moment’s si- 
 lence. “ I’m sure that’s why he left so suddenly.” 
 
 Her husband grunted grimly as he turned his paper 
 so as to catch the reflection of the vestibule light. 
 
 “Don’t you think so, Charlie?” 
 
156 
 
 The Pit 
 
 “ Uh ! I don’t know. I never had much use for that 
 fellow, anyhow.” 
 
 “ He’s wonderfully talented,” she commented, “ and 
 so refined. He always had the most beautiful manners. 
 Did you ever notice his hands?” 
 
 » / “ I thought they were like a barber’s. Put him in 
 / J.’s ’ rig there, behind those horses of his, and how long 
 f do you suppose he’d hold those trotters with that pair 
 lof hands? Why,” he blustered, suddenly, “they’d pull 
 mim right over the dashboard.” 
 
 ' “ Poor little Landry Court ! ” murmured his wife, low- 
 ering her voice. “ He’s just about heart-broken. He 
 wanted to marry her too. My goodness, she must have 
 brought him up with a round turn. I can see Laura 
 when she is really angry. Poor fellow! ” 
 
 “ If you women would let that boy alone, he might 
 amount to something.” 
 
 “ He told me his life was ruined.” 
 
 Cressler threw his cigar from him with vast impa- 
 tience. 
 
 “ Oh, rot! ” he muttered. 
 
 “ He took it terribly, seriously, Charlie, just the 
 same.” 
 
 “ I’d like to take that young boy in hand and shake 
 some of the nonsense out of him that you women have 
 filled him with. He’s got a level head. On the floor 
 every day, and never yet bought a hatful of wheat on 
 his own account. Don’t know the meaning of specula- 
 tion and don’t want to. There’s a boy with some sense.” 
 
 “ It’s just as well,” persisted Mrs. Cressler reflect- 
 ively, “ that Laura wouldn’t have him. Of course 
 they’re not made for each other. But I thought that 
 Corthell would have made her happy. But she won’t 
 ever marry ‘ J.’ He asked her to; she didn’t tell me, 
 but I know he did. And she’s refused him flatly. She 
 
157 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 won’t marry anybody, she says. Said she didn’t love 
 anybody, and never would. I’d have loved to have seen 
 her married to ‘ J.,’ but I can see now that they wouldn’t 
 have been congenial; and if Laura wouldn’t have Shel- 
 don Corthell, who was just made for her, I guess it was 
 no use to expect she’d have ‘ J.’ Laura’s got a tem- 
 perament, and she’s artistic, and loves paintings, and 
 poetry, and Shakespeare, and all that, and Curtis don’t 
 care for those things at all. They wouldn’t have had 
 anything in common. But Corthell — that was different. 
 And Laura did care for him, liCa~way. He interested 
 her immensely. When he’d get started on art subjects 
 Laura would just hang on every word. My lands, I 
 wouldn’t have gone away if I’d been in his boots. You 
 mark my words, Charlie, there was the man for Laura 
 Dearborn, and she’ll marry him yet, or I’ll miss my 
 guess.” 
 
 “ That’s just like you, Carrie — you and the rest of the 
 women,” exclaimed Cressler, “ always scheming to 
 marry each other off. Why don’t you let the girl alone? 
 Laura’s all right. She minds her own business, and 
 she’s perfectly happy. But you’d go to work and get 
 up a sensation about her, and say that your ‘ heart 
 bleeds for her,’ and that she’s born to trouble, and has 
 sad eyes. If she gets into trouble it’ll be because some 
 one else makes it for her. You take my advice, and let 
 her paddle her own canoe. She’s got the head to do it; 
 don’t you worry about that. By the way — ” Cressler 
 interrupted himself, seizing the opportunity to change 
 the subject. “ By the way, Carrie, Curtis has been 
 speculating again. I’m sure of it.” 
 
 “ Too bad,” she murmured. 
 
 “ So it is,” Cressler went on. “ He and Gretry are 
 thick as thieves these days. Gretry, I understand, has 
 been selling September wheat for him all last week, and 
 
158 
 
 The Pit 
 
 only this morning they closed out another scheme- 
 some corn game. It was all over the Floor just about 
 closing time. They tell me that Curtis landed between 
 eight and ten thousand. Always seems to win. I’d 
 give a lot to keep him out of it; but since his deal in 
 May wheat he’s been getting into it more and more.” 
 
 “ Did he sell that property on Washington Street? ” 
 she inquired. 
 
 “ Oh,” exclaimed her husband, “ I’d forgot. I meant 
 to tell you. No, he didn’t sell it. But he did better. 
 Fie wouldn’t sell, and those department store people 
 took a lease. Guess what they pay him. Three hun- 
 dred thousand a year. ‘ J.’ is getting richer all the 
 time, and why he can’t be satisfied with his own business 
 instead of monkeying ’round La Salle Street is a mys- 
 tery to me.” 
 
 But, as Mrs. Cressler was about to reply, Laura came 
 to the open window of the parlour. 
 
 “ Oh, Mrs. Cressler,” she called, “ I don’t seem to find 
 your ‘ Idylls ’ after all. I thought they were in the little 
 book-case.” 
 
 “ Wait. I’ll find them for you,” exclaimed Mrs. 
 Cressler. 
 
 “ Would you mind?” answered Laura, as Mrs. Cress- 
 ler rose. 
 
 Inside, the gas had not been lighted. The library 
 was dark and cool, and when Mrs. Cressler had found 
 the book for Laura the girl pleaded a headache as an 
 excuse for remaining within. The two sat down by the 
 raised sash of a window at the side of the house, that 
 overlooked the “ side yard,” where the morning-glories 
 and nasturtiums were in full bloom. 
 
 “ The house is cooler, isn’t it ? ” observ’^ed Mrs. Cress- 
 ler. 
 
 Laura settled herself in her wicker chair, and with a 
 
159 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 gesture that of late had become habitual with her pushed 
 her heavy coils of hair to one side and patted them softly 
 to place. 
 
 “ It is getting warmer, I do believe,” she said, rather 
 listlessly. “ I understand it is to be a very hot sum- 
 mer.” Then she added, “I’m to be mar ried in July, 
 Mrs. Cressler.” 
 
 MrsT'Cressler gasped, and sitting bolt upright stared 
 for one breathless instant at Laura’s face, dimly visible 
 in the darkness. Then, stupefied, she managed to vo- 
 ciferate : 
 
 “What! Laura! Married? My darling girl! ” 
 
 “ Yes,” answered Laura calmly. “ In July — or may- 
 be sooner.” 
 
 “ Why, I thought you had rejected Mr. Corthell. I 
 thought that’s why- he went away.” 
 
 “ Went away? He never went a way. I mean it’s not 
 M^CorthelT. ' -MT.TaTwi n.” 
 
 Thank God! ’’ declared Mrs. Cressler fervently, and 
 with the words kissed Laura on both cheeks. “ My 
 dear, dear child, you can’t tell how glad I am. From 
 the very first I’ve said you were made for one another. 
 And I thought all the time that you’d told him you 
 wouldn’t have him.” 
 
 “ I did,” said Laura. Her manner was quiet. She 
 seemed a little grave. “ I told him I did not love him. 
 Only last week I told him so.” 
 
 “ Well, then, why did you promise? ” 
 
 “My goodness!” exclaimed Laura, with a show of 
 animation. “ You don’t realize what it’s been. Do you 
 suppose you can say ‘ no ’ to that man? ” 
 
 “ Of course not, of course not,” declared Mrs. Cress- 
 ler joyfully. “ That’s * J.’ all over. I might have known 
 he’d have you if he set out to do it.” 
 
 “ Morning, noon, and night,” Laura continued. “ He 
 
i6o 
 
 The Pit 
 
 seemed willing to wait as long as I wasn’t definite; but 
 one day I wrote to him and gave him a square ‘ No,’ so 
 as he couldn’t mistake, and just as soon as I’d said that 
 he — he — began. I didn’t have any peace until I’d prom- 
 ised him, and the moment I had promised he had a ring 
 on my finger. He’d had it ready in his pocket for weeks 
 it seems. No,” she explained, as Mrs. Cressler laid 
 her fingers upon her left hand, “ That I would not have 
 
 it was like ‘ J.’ to be persistent,” repeated Mrs. 
 
 “ Persistent ! ” murmured Laura. “ He simply 
 wouldn’t talk of anything else. It was making him sick, 
 he said. And he did have a fever — often. But he would 
 come out to see me just the same. One night, when it 
 was pouring rain — Well, I’ll tell you. He had been 
 to dinner with us, and afterwards, in the drawing-room, 
 I told him ‘ no ’ for the hundredth time just as plainly 
 as I could, and he went away early — it wasn’t eight. I 
 thought that now at last he had given up. But he was 
 back again before ten the same evening. He said he 
 had come back to return a copy of a book I had loaned 
 him — ‘Jane Eyre’ it was. Raining! I never saw it 
 rain as it did that night. He was drenched, and even 
 at dinner he had had a low fever. And then I was sorry 
 for him. I told him he could come to see me again. 
 I didn’t propose to have him come down with pneu- 
 monia, or typhoid, or something. And so it all began 
 over again.” 
 
 “ But you loved him, Laura?” demanded Mrs. Cress- 
 ler. “ You love him now? ” 
 
 Laura was silent. Then at length: 
 
 “ I don’t know,” she answered. 
 
 “ Why, of course you love him, Laura,” insisted Mrs. 
 Cressler. “ You wouldn’t have promised him if you 
 hadn’t. Of course vou love him, don’t you?” 
 
 • — ^yet.” 
 ^Oh, 
 Chfissler 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 i6i 
 
 “ Yes, I— I suppose I must love him, or — as you say— 
 I wouldn’t have promised to marry him. He does every- 
 thing, every little thing I say. He just seems to think 
 of nothing else but to please me from morning until 
 night. And when I finally said I would marry him, why, 
 Mrs. Cressler, he choked all up, and the tears ran down 
 his face, and all he could say was, ‘ May God bless you! 
 May God bless you 1 ’ over and over again, and his hand 
 shook so that — Oh, well,” she broke off abruptly. 
 Then added, “ Somehow it makes tears come to my 
 eyes to think of it.” 
 
 “ But, Laura,” urged Mrs. Cressler, “ you love Curtis, 
 don’t you? You — you’re such a strange girl some- 
 times. Dear child, talk to me as though I were your 
 mother. There’s no one in the world loves you more 
 than I do. You love Curtis, don’t you? ” 
 
 Laura hesitated a long moment. 
 
 “ Yes,” she said, slowly at length. “ I think I love 
 him very much — sometimes. And then sometimes I 
 think I don’t. I can’t tell. There are days when I’m 
 sure of it, and there are others when I wonder if I want 
 to be married, after all. I thought when love came it 
 was to be — oh, uplifting, something glorious like Juliet’s 
 love or Marguerite’s. Something that would — ” Sud- 
 denly she struck her hand to her breast, her fingers shut 
 tight, closing to a fist. “ Oh, something that would 
 shake me all to pieces. I thought that was the only 
 kind of love there was.” 
 
 “ Oh, that’s what you read about in trashy novels,” 
 Mrs. Cressler assured her, “ or the kind you see at the 
 matinees. I wouldn’t let that bother me, Laura. There’s 
 no doubt that ‘ loves you” 
 
 Laura brightened a little. “ Oh, no,” she answered, 
 “ there’s no doubt about that. It’s splendid, that part 
 of it. He seems to think there’s nothing in the world 
 
i 62 
 
 The Pit 
 
 Vr 
 
 too good for me. Just imagine, only yesterday I was 
 saying something about my gloves, I really forget what 
 — something about how hard it was for me to get the 
 kind of gloves I liked. Would you believe it, he got me 
 to give him my measure, and when I saw him in the 
 evening he told me he had cabled to Brussels to some 
 famous glovemaker and had ordered I don’t know how 
 many pairs.” 
 
 “Just like him, just like him!” cried Mrs. Cressler. 
 “ I know you will be happy, Laura, dear. You can’t 
 help but be/with a man who loves you as ‘ J.’ does.” 
 
 “ I think I shall be happy,” answered Laura, suddenly 
 grave. “ Oh, Mrs. Cressler, I want to be. I hope that 
 I won’t come to myself some day, after it is too late, 
 and find that it was all a mistake.” Her voice shook a 
 little. “ You don’t know how nervous I am these days. 
 One minute I am one kind of girl, and the next another 
 kind. I’m so nervous and — oh, I don’t know. Oh, I 
 guess it will be all right.” She wiped her eyes, and 
 laughed a note. “ I don’t see why I should cry about 
 it,” she murmured. 
 
 “ Well, Laura,” answered Mrs. Cressler, “ if you don’t 
 love Curtis, don’t marry him. That’s very simple.” 
 
 “ It’s like this, Mrs. Cressler,” Laura explained. “ I 
 suppose I am very uncharitable and unchristian, but I 
 like the people that like me, and I hate those that don’t 
 like me. I can’t help it. I know it’s wrong, but that’s 
 the way I am. And I love to be loved. The man that 
 would love me the most would make me love him. 
 And when Mr. Jadwin seems to care so much, and do 
 so much, and — you know how I mean; it does make a 
 difference of course. I suppose I care as much for 
 Mr. Jadwin as I ever will care for any man. I suppose 
 I must be cold and unemotional.” 
 
 Mrs. Cressler could not restrain a movement of sur* 
 prise. 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 163 
 
 "You unemotional? Why, I thought you Just said, 
 Laura, that you had imagined love would be like Juliet 
 and like that girl in ‘ Faust ’ — that it was going to 
 shake you all to pieces.” 
 
 “ Did I say that ? Well, I told you I was one girl 
 one minute and another another. I don’t know my- 
 self these days. Oh, hark,” she said, abruptly, as the 
 cadence of hoofs began to make itself audible from the 
 end of the side street. “ That’s the team now. I 
 could recognise those horses’ trot as far as I could hear 
 it. Let’s go out. I know he would like to have me 
 there when he drives up. And you know ” — she put her 
 hand on Mrs. Cressler’s arm as the two moved towards 
 the front door — “ this is all absolutely a secret as yet.” 
 
 “ Why, of course, Laura dear. But tell me just one 
 thing more,” Mrs. Cressler asked, in a whisper, “ are 
 you going to have a church wedding ? ” 
 
 " Hey, Carrie,” called Mr. Cressler from the stoop, 
 " here’s J.” 
 
 Laura shook her head. 
 
 " No, I want it to be very quiet — at our house. We’ll 
 go to Geneva Lake for the summer. That’s why, you 
 see, I couldn’t promise to go to Oconomowoc with 
 you.” 
 
 They came out upon the front steps, Mrs. Cressler’s 
 arm around Laura’s waist. It was dark by now, and the 
 air was perceptibly warmer. 
 
 The team was swinging down the street close at 
 hand, the hoof beats exactly timed, as if there were but 
 one instead of tw6 horses. 
 
 " Well, what’s the record to-night J.P ” cried Cressler, 
 as Jadwin brought the bays tO' a stand at the horse 
 block. Jadwin did not respond until he had passed the 
 reins to the coachman, and taking the stop watch from 
 the latter’ s hand, he drew on his cigar, a nd he ld the 
 glowing tip to the dial. 
 
164 
 
 The Pit 
 
 “ Eleven minutes and a quarter,” he announced, “ and 
 we had to wait for the bridge at that.” 
 
 He came up the steps, fanning himself with his slouch 
 hat, and dropped into the chair that Landry had brought 
 for him. 
 
 “ Upon my word,” he exclaimed, gingerly drawing off 
 his driving gloves, “ I’ve no feeling in my fingers at all. 
 Those fellows will pull my hands clean off some day.” 
 
 But he was hardly settled in his place before he pro- 
 posed to send the coachman home, and to take Laura 
 for a drive towards Lincoln Park, and even a little way 
 into the park itself. He promised to have her back 
 within an hour. 
 
 “ I haven’t any hat,” objected Laura. “ I should 
 love to go, but I ran over here to-night without any 
 hat.” 
 
 “ Well, I wouldn’t let that stand in my way, Laura,” 
 protested Mrs. Cressler. “ It will be simply heavenly in 
 the Park on such a night as this.” 
 
 In the end Laura borrowed Page’s hat, and Jadwin 
 took her away. In the light of the street lamps Mrs. 
 Cressler and the others watched them drive off, sitting 
 side by side behind the fine horses. Jadwin, broad- 
 shouldered, a fresh cigar in his teeth, each rein in a 
 double turn about his large, hard hands; Laura, slim, 
 erect, pale, her black, thick hair throwing a tragic 
 shadow low upon her forehead. 
 
 “ A fine-looking couple,” commented Mr. Cressler as 
 they disappeared. 
 
 The hoof beats died away, the team vanished. Lan- 
 dry Court, who stood behind the others, watching, 
 turned to Mrs. Cressler. She thought she detected a 
 little unsteadiness in his voice, but he repeated bravely : 
 
 “ Yes, yes, that’s right. They are a fine, a — a fine- 
 looking couple together, aren’t they? A fine-looking 
 couple, to say the least.” 
 
A Story of Chicago 1 65 
 
 A week went by, then two, soon May had passed. 
 On the fifteenth of that month Laura’s engagement to 
 Curtis Jadwin was formally announced. The day of the 
 wedding was set for the first week in June. 
 
 During this time Laura was never more changeable, 
 more puzzling. Her vivacity seemed suddenly to have 
 been trebled, but it was invaded frequently by strange 
 reactions and perversities that drove her friends and 
 family to distraction. 
 
 About a week after her talk with Mrs. Cressler, Laura 
 broke the news to Page. It was a Monday morning. 
 She had spent the time since breakfast in putting her 
 bureau drawers to rights, scattering sachet powders in 
 them, then leaving them open so as to perfume the 
 room. At last she came into the front “ upstairs sitting- 
 room,” a heap of gloves, stockings, collarettes — the 
 odds and ends of a wildly disordered wardrobe — in her 
 lap. She tumibled all these upon the hearth rug, and sat 
 down upon the floor to sort them carefully. At her 
 little desk near by. Page, in a blue and white shirt waist 
 and golf skirt, her slim little ankles demurely crossed, 
 a cone of foolscap over her forearm to guard against 
 ink spots, was writing in her journal. This was an in- 
 terminable affair, voluminous, complex, that the young 
 girl had kept ever since she was fifteen. She wrote 
 in it — she hardly knew what — the small doings of the 
 previous day, her comings and goings, accounts of 
 dances, estimates of new acquaintances. But besides 
 this she filled page after page with “ impressions,” 
 “ outpourings,” queer little speculations about her 
 soul, quotations from poets, solemn criticisms of new 
 novels, or as often as not mere purposeless mean-, 
 derings of words, exclamatory, rhapsodic — involved 
 lucubrations quite meaningless and futile, but which 
 
The Pit 
 
 1 66 
 
 at times she re-read with vague thrills of emotion and 
 mystery. 
 
 On this occasion Page wrote rapidly and steadily for 
 a few moments after Laura’s entrance into the room. 
 Then she paused, her eyes growing wide and thoughtful. 
 She wrote another line and paused again. Seated on 
 the floor, her hands full of gloves, Laura was murmur- 
 ing to herself. 
 
 “ Those are good . . . and those, and the black 
 suedes make eight. . . . And if I could only find 
 the mate to this white one. . . . Ah, here it is. 
 That makes nine, nine pair.” 
 
 She put the gloves aside, and turning to the stock- 
 ings drew one of the silk ones over her arm, and spread 
 out her fingers in the foot. 
 
 “ Oh, dear,” she whispered, “ there’s a thread started, 
 and now it will simply run the whole length. . . .” 
 
 Page’s scratching paused again. 
 
 “ Laura,” she asked dreamily, “ Laura, how do you 
 spell ‘ abysmal ’? ” 
 
 “ With a y, honey,” answered Laura, careful not to 
 smile. 
 
 “ Oh, Laura,” asked Page, “ do you ever get ver}", 
 very sad without knowing why? ” 
 
 “ No, indeed,” answered her sister, as she peeled the 
 stocking from her arm. “ When I’m sad I know just 
 the reason, you may be sure.” 
 
 Page sighed again. 
 
 “ Oh, I don’t know,” she murmured indefinitely. “ I 
 lie awake at night sometimes and wish I were dead.” 
 
 “ You mustn’t get morbid, honey,” answered her 
 older sister calmly. “ It isn’t natural for a young 
 healthy little body like you to have such gloomy no- 
 Ai* tions.” 
 
 “ Last night,” continued Page, “ I got up out of bed 
 
A Story of Chicago 167 
 
 and sat by the window a long time. And everything 
 was so still and beautiful, and the moonlight and all — ■ 
 ■ and I said right out loud to myself, 
 
 " My breath to Heaven in vapour goe s — 
 
 You know those lines from Tennyson: 
 
 “ My breath to Heaven in vapour goes. 
 
 May my soul follow soon.” 
 
 I I said it right out loud just like that, and it was just as 
 i|i though something in me had spoken. I got my jour- 
 (j nal and wrote down, ‘ Yet in a few days, and thee, the 
 I all-beholding sun shall see no more.’ It’s from Thana- 
 |i topsis, you know, and I thought how beautiful it would 
 I be to leave all this world, and soar and soar, right up to 
 ; higher planes and be at peace. Laura, dearest, do you 
 I' think I ever ought to marry ? ” 
 
 I “ Why not, girlie ? Why shouldn’t you marry. Of 
 
 |i course you’ll marry some day, if you find ” 
 
 j “ I should like to be a nun,” Page interrupted, shak- 
 ! ing her head, mournfully. 
 
 " “ if you find the man who loves you,” continued 
 
 ^ Laura, “ and whom you — ^you admire and respect — 
 whom you love. What would you say, honey, if — if 
 your sister, if I should be married some of these days ? ” 
 Page wheeled about in her chair, 
 i “Oh, Laura, tell me,” she cried, “are you joking? 
 Are you going to be married? Who to? I hadn’t an 
 
 idea, but I thought — I suspected ” 
 
 “ Well,” observed Laura, slowly, “ I might as well 
 ; tell you — some one will if I don’t — Mr. Jadwin wants me 
 I to marry him.” 
 
 “And what did you say? What did you say? Oh, 
 j I’ll never tell. Oh, Laura, tell me all about it.” 
 
 ' I “Well, why shouldn’t I marry him? Yes — I prom- 
 I ised. I said yes. Why shouldn’t I? He loves me, 
 . i and he is rich. Isn’t that enough ? ” 
 
The Pit 
 
 1 68 
 
 “ Oh, no. It isn’t. You must love — ^you do love 
 him?” 
 
 “ I ? Love ? Pooh ! ” cried Laura. “ Indeed not. 
 I love nobody.” 
 
 “ Oh, Laura,” protested Page earnestly. “ Don’t, 
 don’t talk that way. You mustn’t. It’s wicked.” 
 
 Laura put her head in the air. 
 
 “J wouldn’t give any man that much satisfaction. I 
 think that is the way it ought to be. A man ought to 
 love a woman more than she loves him. It ought to 
 be enough for him if she lets him give her everything 
 she wants in the world. He ought to serve her like 
 the old knights — give up his whole life to satisfy some 
 whim of hers ; and it’s her part, if she likes, to be cold 
 and distant. That’s my idea of love.” 
 
 “Yes, but they weren’t cold and proud to their 
 knights after they’d promised to marry them,” urged 
 Page. “ They loved them in the end, and married them 
 for love.” 
 
 “ Oh, ‘ love ’ ! ” mocked Laura. “ I don’t believe in 
 love. You only get your ideas of it from trashy novels 
 and matinees. Girlie,” cried Laura, “ I am going to 
 have the most beautiful gowns. They’re the last things 
 that Miss Dearborn shall buy for herself, and ” — she 
 fetched a long breath — “ I tell you they are going to be 
 creations.” 
 
 When at length the lunch bell rang Laura jumped to 
 her feet, adjusting her coiffure with thrusts of her long, 
 white hands, the fingers extended, and ran from the 
 room exclaiming that the whole morning had gone and 
 that half her bureau drawers were still in disarray. 
 
 Page, left alone, sat for a long time lost in thought, 
 sighing deeply at intervals, then at last she wrote in 
 her journal : 
 
 “A world without Love — oh, what an awful thing 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 169 
 
 that would be. Oh, love is so beautiful — so beautiful, 
 that it makes me sad. When I think of love in all its 
 beauty I am sad, sad like Romola in George Eliot’s 
 well-known novel of the same name.” 
 
 She locked up her journal in the desk drawer, and 
 wiped her pen point until it shone, upon a little square 
 of chamois skin. Her writing-desk was a miracle of 
 neatness, everything in its precise place, the writing- 
 paper in geometrical parallelograms, the pen tray neatly 
 polished. 
 
 On the hearth rug, where Laura had sat. Page’s 
 searching eye discovered traces of her occupancy — a 
 glove button, a white thread, a hairpin. Page was at 
 great pains to gather them up carefully and drop them 
 into the waste basket. 
 
 “ Laura is so fly-away,” she observed, soberly. 
 
 When Laura told the news to Aunt Wess’ the little 
 old lady showed no surprise. 
 
 “ Pve been expecting it of late,” she remarked. 
 “ Well, Laura, Mr. Jadwin is a man of parts. Though, 
 to tell the truth, I thought at first it was to be that Mr. 
 Corthell. He always seemed so distinguished-looking 
 and elegant. I suppose now that that young Mr. Court 
 will have a regular conniption fit.” 
 
 “ Oh, Landry,” murmured Laura. 
 
 “ Where are you going to live, Laura .? Here ? My 
 word, child, don’t be afraid to tell me I must pack. 
 Why, bless you ” 
 
 “ No, no,” exclaimed Laura, energetically, “ you are 
 to stay right here. We’ll talk it all over just as soon 
 as I know more decidedly what our plans are to be. 
 No, we won’t live here. Mr. Jadwin is going to buy a 
 new house — on the corner of North Avenue and State 
 Street. It faces Lincoln Park — you know it, the Farns- 
 worth place.” 
 
170 
 
 The Pit 
 
 “ Why, my word, Laura,” cried Aunt Wess’ amazed, 
 “ why, it’s a palace ! Of course I know it. Why, it 
 takes in the whole block, child, and there’s a conser- 
 vatory pretty near as big as this house. Well ! ” 
 
 “ Yes, I know,” answered Laura, shaking her head. 
 “ It takes my breath away sometimes. Mr. Jadwin tells 
 me there’s an art gallery, too, with an organ in it — a 
 full-sized church organ. Think of it. Isn’t it beautiful, 
 beautiful? Isn’t it a happiness ? And I’ll have my own 
 carriage and coupe, and oh. Aunt Wess’, a saddle horse 
 if I want to, and a box at the opera, and a country 
 place — that is to^be bought day after to-morrow. It’s 
 at Geneva Lake. We’re to go there after we are mar- 
 ried, and Mr. Jadwin has bought the dearest, love- 
 liest, daintiest little steam yacht. He showed the pho- 
 tograph of her yesterday. Oh, honey, honey] It all 
 comes over me sometimes. [^Think, only a year ago, 
 less than that, I was vegetating there at Barrington, 
 among those wretched old blue-noses, helping Martha 
 with the preserves and all and all Hand now” — she 
 threw her arife wide — “ I’m just going to live. Think 
 of it, that beautiful house, and servants, and carriages, 
 and paintings, and, oh, honey, how I will dress the 
 part ! ” 
 
 “ But I wouldn’t think of those things so much, 
 Laura,” answered Aunt Wess’, rather seriously. 
 “ Child, you are not marrying him. for carriages and 
 organs and saddle horses and such. You’re marrying 
 this Mr. Jadwin because you love him. Aren’t you? ” 
 
 “ Oh,” cried Laura, “ I would marry a ragamuffin if 
 he gave me all these things — gave them to me because 
 he loved me.” 
 
 Aunt Wess’ stared. “I wouldn’t talk that way, 
 Laura,” she remarked. “ Even in fun. At least not 
 before Page.” 
 
A Story of Chicago 171 
 
 That same evening Jadwin came to dinner with the 
 two sisters and their aunt. The usual evening drive 
 with Laura was foregone for this occasion, Jadwin 
 had stayed very late at his office, and from there was 
 to come direct to the Dearborns. Besides that, Nip — 
 the trotters were named Nip and Tuck — was lame. 
 
 As early as four o’clock in the afternoon Laura, sud- 
 denly moved by an unreasoning caprice, began to pre- 
 pare an elaborate toilet. Not since the opera night 
 had she given so much attention to her appearance. 
 She sent out for an extraordinary quantity of flowers ; 
 flowers for the table, flowers for Page and Aunt Wess’, 
 great “ American beauties ” for her corsage, and 
 a huge bunch of violets for the bowl in the library. 
 She insisted that Page should wear her smartest frock, 
 and Mrs. Wessels her grenadine of great occasions. 
 As for herself, she decided upon a dinner gown of 
 black, decollete, with sleeves of lace. Her hair she 
 dressed higher than ever. She resolved upon wearing 
 all her jewelry, and to that end put on all her rings, 
 secured the roses in place with an amethyst brooch, 
 caught up the little locks at the back of her head with 
 a heart-shaped pin of tiny diamonds, and even fastened 
 the ribbon of satin that girdled her waist, with a clasp 
 of flawed turquoises. 
 
 Until five in the afternoon she was in the gayest spir- 
 its, and went down to the dining-room to supervise the 
 setting of the table, singing to herself. 
 
 Then, almost at the very last, when Jadwin might be 
 expected at any moment, her humour changed again, 
 and again, for no discoverable reason. 
 
 Page, who came into her sister’s room after dressing, 
 to ask how she looked, found her harassed and out of 
 sorts. She was moody, spoke in monosyllables, and 
 suddenly declared that the wearing anxiety of house- 
 
172 
 
 The Pit 
 
 keeping was driving her to distraction. Of all days in 
 the week, why had Jadwin chosen this particular one 
 to come to dinner. Men had no sense, could not appre- 
 ciate a woman’s difficulties. Oh, she would be glad 
 when the evening was over. 
 
 Then, as an ultimate disaster, she declared that she 
 herself looked “ Dutchy.” There was no style, no 
 smartness to her dress; her hair was arranged unbecom- 
 ingly; she was growing thin, peaked. In a word, she 
 looked “ Dutchy.” 
 
 All at once she flung off her roses and dropped into 
 a chair. 
 
 “ I will not go down to-night,” she cried. “ You and 
 Aunt Wess’ must make out to receive Mr. Jadwn. I 
 simply will not see any one to-night, Mr. Jadwin least of 
 all. Tell him I’m gone to bed sick — which is the truth, 
 I am going to bed, my head is splitting.” 
 
 All persuasion, entreaty, or cajolery availed nothing. 
 Neither Page nor Aunt Wess’ could shake her decision. 
 At last Page hazarded a remonstrance to the effect that 
 if she had known that Laura was not going to be at 
 dinner she would not have taken such pains with her 
 own toilet. 
 
 Promptly thereat Laura lost her temper. 
 
 “ I do declare. Page,” she exclaimed, “ it seems to me 
 that I get very little thanks for ever taking any interest 
 in your personal appearance. There is not a girl in 
 Chicago — no millionaire’s dai:ghter — has an}’ prettier 
 gowns than you. I plan and plan, and go to the most 
 expensive dressmakers so that you will be well dressed, 
 and just as soon as I dare to express the desire to see 
 you appear like a gentlewoman, I get it thrown in my 
 face. And why do I do it? I’m sure I don’t know. 
 It’s because I’m a poor weak, foolish, indulgent sister. 
 I’ve given up the idea of ever being loved by you; but 
 
173 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 I do insist on being respected.” Laura rose, stately, 
 severe. It was the “ grand manner ” now, unequivo- 
 cally, unmistakably. “ I do insist upon being respected,” 
 she repeated. “ It would be wrong and wicked of me 
 to allow you to ignore and neglect my every wish. I’ll 
 not have it. I’ll not tolerate it.” 
 
 Page, aroused, indignant, disdained an answer, but 
 drew in her breath and held it hard, her lips tight 
 pressed. 
 
 “ It’s all very well for you to pose, miss,” Laura went 
 on; “ to pose as injured innocence. But you understand 
 very well what I mean. If you don’t love me, at least I 
 shall not allow you to flout me — deliberately, defiantly. 
 And it does seem strange,” she added, her voice begin- 
 ning to break, “ that when we two are all alone in the 
 world, when there’s no father or mother — and you are 
 all I have, and when I love you as I do, that there might 
 be on your part — a little consideration — when I only 
 want to be loved for my own sake, and not — and not — 
 — when I want to be, oh, loved — loved — loved ” 
 
 The two sisters were in each other’s arms by now, and 
 Page was crying no less than Laura. 
 
 “ Oh, little sister,” exclaimed Laura, “ I know you love 
 me. I know you do. I didn’t mean to say that. You 
 must forgive me and be very kind to me these days. I 
 know I’m cross, but sometimes these days I’m so ex- 
 cited and nervous I can’t help it, and you must try to 
 bear with me. Hark, there’s the bell.” 
 
 Listening, they heard the servant open the door, and 
 then the sound of Jad win’s voice and the clank of h is 
 cane in th e^porcelaiif cane r ack. But still Laura could 
 not be persuaded to go down. No, she was going to 
 bed; she had neuralgia; she was too nervous to so much 
 as think. Her gown was “ Dutchy.” And in the end, 
 so unshakable was her resolve, that Page and her aunt 
 
174 
 
 The Pit 
 
 had to sit through the dinner with Jadwin and entertain 
 him as best they could. 
 
 But as the coffee was being served the three received 
 a genuine surprise. Laura appeared. All her finery 
 was laid off. She wore the simplest, the most veritably 
 monastic, of her dresses, plain to the point of severity. 
 Her hands were bare of rings. Not a single jewel, not 
 even the most modest ornament relieved her sober ap- 
 pearance. She was very quiet, spoke in a low voice, 
 and declared she had come down only to drink a glass 
 of mineral water and then to return at once to her room. 
 
 As a matter of fact, she did nothing of the kind. The 
 others prevailed upon her to take a cup of coffee. Then 
 the dessert was recalled, and, forgetting herself in an 
 animated discussion with Jadwin as to the name of their 
 steam yacht, she ate two plates of wine jelly before she 
 was aware. She expressed a doubt as to whether a little 
 salad would do her good, and after a vehement exhorta- 
 tion from Jadwin, allowed herself to be persuaded into 
 accepting a sufficiently generous amount. 
 
 “ I think a classical name would be best for the boat,” 
 she declared. “ Something like ‘ A rethu sa ’ or ‘ The 
 Nereid.’ ” 
 
 They rose from the table and passed into the library. 
 The evening was sultry, threatening a rain-storm, and 
 they preferred not to sit on the “ stoop.” Q^adwn lit 
 a cigar ; he still wore his business clothq^ — the inevitable 
 “ cutaway,” white waistcoat, and grey trousers of the 
 middle-aged man of affairs. 
 
 “ Oh, call her the ‘ Artemis,’ ” suggested Page. 
 
 “ Well now, to tell the truth,” observed Jadwin, 
 “ those names look pretty in print; but somehow I don’t 
 fancy them. They’re hard to read, and they sound 
 somehow frilled up and fancy. But if you’re satisfied, 
 Laura ” 
 
175 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 “ I knew a young man once,” began Aunt Wess’, 
 “ who had a boat — that was when we lived at Kenwood 
 and Mr. Wessels belonged to the ‘ Farragut ’ — and this 
 young man had a boat he called ‘ Fanchon.’ He got 
 tipped over in her one day, he and the three daughters of 
 a lady I knew well, and two days afterward they found 
 them at the bottom of the lake, all holding on to each 
 other; and they fetched them up just like that in one 
 piece. The mother of those girls never smiled once 
 since that day, and her hair turned snow white. That 
 was in ’seventy-nine. I remember it perfectly. The 
 boat’s name was ‘ Fanchon.’ ” 
 
 “ But that was a sail boat. Aunt Wess’,” objected 
 Laura. “ Ours is a steam yacht. There’s all the dif- 
 ference in the world.” 
 
 “ I guess they’re all pretty risky, those pleasure 
 boats,” answered Aunt Wess’. “ My word, you couldn’t 
 get me to set foot on one.” 
 
 Jadwin nodded his head at Laura, his eyes twinkling. 
 
 “Well, we’ll leave ’em all at home, Laura, when we 
 go,” he said. 
 
 A little later one of Page’s “ young men ” called to 
 see her, and Page took him off into the drawing-room 
 across the hall. Mrs. Wessels seized upon the occasion 
 to slip away unobserved, and Laura and Jadwin were 
 left alone. 
 
 “ Well, my girl,” began Jadwin, “ how’s the day gone 
 with you? ” 
 
 She had been seated at the centre table, by the drop 
 light — the only light in the room — turning over the 
 leaves of “ The Age of Fable,” looking for graceful and 
 appropriate names for the yacht. Jadwin leaned over 
 her and put his hand upon her shoulder. 
 
 “ Oh, about the same as usual,” she answered. “ I 
 told Page and Aunt Wess’ this morning.” 
 
176 
 
 The Pit 
 
 “ What did they have to say? ” Jadwin laid a soft 
 but clumsy hand upon Laura’s head, adding, “ Laura, 
 you have the most wonderful hair I ever saw.” 
 
 “ Oh, they were not surprised. Curtis* don’t, you are 
 mussing me.” She moved her head impatiently; but* 
 then smiling, as if to mitigate her abruptness, said, “ It 
 always makes me nervous to have my hair touched. 
 No, they were not surprised; unless it was that we were 
 to be married so soon. They were surprised at that. 
 You know I always said it was too soon. Why not put 
 it off, Curtis — until the winter?” 
 
 But he scouted this, and then, as she returned to the 
 subject again, interrupted her, drawing some papers 
 from his pocket. 
 
 “ Oh, by the way,” he said, “ here are the sketch plans 
 for the alterations of the house at Geneva. The con- 
 tractor brought them to the office to-day. He’s made 
 that change about the dining-room.” 
 
 “ Oh,” exclaimed Laura, interested at once, “ you 
 mean about building on the conservatory? ” 
 
 “ Hum — no,” answered Jadwin a little slowly. “ You 
 see, Laura, the difficulty is in getting the thing done 
 this summer. When we go up there we want every- 
 thing finished, don’t we? We don’t want a lot of work- 
 men clattering around. I thought maybe we could wait 
 about that conservatory till next year, if you didn’t 
 m.ind.” 
 
 Laura acquiesced readily enough, but Jadwin could 
 see that she was a little disappointed. Thoughtful, he 
 tugged his mustache in silence for a moment. Perhaps, 
 after all, it could be arranged. Then an idea presented 
 itself to him. Smiling a little awkwardly, he said : 
 
 “ Laura, I tell you what. I’ll make a bargain with 
 you.” 
 
 She looked up as he hesitated. Jadwin sat down at 
 
A Story of Chicago 177 
 
 the table opposite her and leaned forward upon his 
 folded arms. 
 
 “ Do you know,” he began, “ I happened to think — 
 Well, here’s what I mean,” he suddenly declared de- 
 l|;isively. “ Do you know, Laura, that ever since we’ve 
 been engaged you’ve never — Well, you’ve never — 
 never kissed me of your own accord. It’s foolish to 
 talk that way now, isn’t it? But, by George! That 
 would be — ^would be such a wonderful thing for me. I 
 know,” he hastened to add, “ I know, Laura, you aren’t 
 demonstrative. I ought not to expect, maybe, that 
 you — Well, maybe it isn’t much. But I was thinking 
 a while ago that there wouldn’t be a sweeter thing im- 
 aginable for me than if my own girl would come up to 
 me some time — when I wasn’t thinking — and of her own 
 accord put her two arms around me and kiss me. 
 And — well, I was thinking about it, and — ” He hesi- 
 tated again, then finished abruptly with, “ And it oc- 
 curred to me that you never had.” 
 
 Laura made no answer, but smiled rather indefinitely, 
 as she continued to search the pages of the book, her 
 head to one side. 
 
 Jadwin continued: 
 
 “We’ll call it a bargain. Some day — ^before very 
 long, mind you — ^you are going to kiss me — that way, 
 understand, of your own accord, when I’m not thinking 
 of it; and I’ll get that conservatory in for you. I’ll 
 manage it somehow. I’ll start these fellows at it to- 
 morrow — twenty of ’em if it’s necessary. How about 
 it? Is it a bargain? Some day before long. What 
 do you say? ” 
 
 Laura hesitated, singularly embarrassed, unable to 
 find the right words. 
 
 “ Is it a bargain? ” persisted Jadwin. 
 
 “ Oh, if you put it that way,” she murmured, “ I sup- 
 pose so — ^yes.” 
 
178 
 
 The Pit 
 
 “ You won’t forget, because I shan’t speak about it 
 again. Promise you won’t forget.” 
 
 “No, I won’t forget. Why not call her the 
 'Thetis’?” 
 
 “ I was going to suggest the ‘ Dart,’ or the ‘ Swallow,^ 
 or the ‘ Arrow.’ Something like that — to give a' notion 
 of speed.” 
 
 “ No. I like the ‘ Thetis ’ best.” 
 
 “ That settles it then. She’s your steam yacht, 
 Laura.” 
 
 Later on, when Jadwin was preparing to depart, they 
 stood for a moment in the hallway, while he drew on 
 his gloves and took a fresh cigar from his case. 
 
 “ I’ll call for you here at about ten,” he said. “ Will 
 that do?” 
 
 He spoke of the following morning. He had planned 
 to take Page, Mrs. Wessels, and Laura on a day’s 
 excursion to Geneva Lake to see how work was pro- 
 gressing on the country house. Jadwin had set his mind 
 upon passing the summer months after the marriage at 
 the lake, and as the early date of the ceremony made it 
 impossible to erect a new building, he had bought, and 
 was now causing to be remodelled, an old but very well 
 constructed house just outside of the town and once 
 occupied by a local magistrate The grounds were 
 ample, filled with shade and fruit trees, and fronted upon 
 the lake. Laura had never seen her future country 
 home. But for the past month Jadwin had had a small 
 army of workmen and mechanics busy about the place, 
 and had managed to galvanise the contractors with 
 some of his own energy and persistence. There w'as 
 every probability that the house and grounds would be 
 finished in time. 
 
 “ Very well,” said Laura,” in answer to his question, 
 “ at ten we’ll be ready. Good-night.” She held out her 
 
179 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 hand. But Jadwin put it quickly aside, and took her 
 swiftly and strongly into his arms, and turning her face 
 to his, kissed her cheek again and again. 
 
 Laura submitted, protesting: 
 
 • “ Curtis ! Such foolishness. Oh, dear ; can’t you 
 love me without crumpling me so ? Curtis ! Please. 
 You are so rough with me, dear.” 
 
 She pulled away from him, and looked up into his 
 face, surprised to find it suddenly flushed ; his eyes were 
 flashing. 
 
 “ My God,” he murmured, with a quick intake of 
 breath, “ my God, how I love you, my girl ! Just the 
 touch of your hand, the smell of your hair. Oh, sweet- 
 heart. It is wonderful ! Wonderful!” Then abruptly 
 he was master of himself again. 
 
 “ Good-night,” he said. “ Good-night. God bless 
 you,” and with the words was gone. 
 
 They were married on the last day of June of that 
 summer at eleven o’clock in the morning in the church 
 opposite Laura’s house — the Episcopalian church of 
 which she was a member. The wedding was very quiet. 
 Only the Cresslers, Miss Gretry, Page, and Aunt Wess’ 
 were present. Immediately afterward the couple were 
 to take the train for Geneva Lake — ^Jadwin having 
 chartered a car for the occasion. 
 
 But the weather on the wedding day was abominable. 
 A warm drizzle, which had set in early in the morning, 
 developed by eleven o’clock into a steady downpour, 
 accompanied by sullen grumblings of very distant 
 thunder. 
 
 About an hour before the appointed time Laura in- 
 sisted that her aunt and sister should leave her. She 
 would allow only Mrs. Cressler to help her. The time 
 passed. The rain continued to fall. At last it wanted 
 but fifteen minutes to eleven. 
 
i8o 
 
 The Pit 
 
 Page and Aunt Wess’, who presented themselves at 
 the church in advance of the others, found the interior 
 cool, dark, and damp. They sat down in a front pew, 
 talking in whispers, looking about them. Druggeting 
 shrouded the reader’s stand, the baptismal font, and* 
 bishop’s chair. Every footfall and every minute sound 
 echoed noisily from the dark vaulting of the nave and 
 chancel. The janitor or sexton, a severe old fellow, 
 who wore a skull cap and loose slippers, was making a 
 great to-do with a pile of pew cushions in a remote 
 corner. The rain drummed with incessant monotony 
 upon the slates overhead, and upon the stained win- 
 dows on either hand. Page, who attended the church 
 regularly every Sunday morning, now found it all 
 strangely unfamiliar. The saints in the windows 
 looked odd and unecclesiastical ; the whole suggestion 
 of the place was uncanonical. In the organ loft a tuner 
 was at work upon the organ, and from time to time 
 the distant mumbling of the thunder was mingled with 
 a sonorous, prolonged note from the pipes. 
 
 “ My word, how it is raining,” whispered Aunt Wess’, 
 as the pour upon the roof suddenly swelled in volume. 
 
 But Page had taken a prayer book from the rack, 
 and kneeling upon a hassock was repeating the Litany 
 to herself. 
 
 It annoyed Aunt Wess*. Excited, aroused, the little 
 old lady was never miore in need of a listener. Would 
 Page never be through? 
 
 “ And Laura’s new frock,” she whispered, vaguely. 
 “ It’s going to be ruined.” 
 
 Page, her lips forming the words, “ Good Lord de- 
 liver us,” fixed her aunt with a reproving glance. To 
 pass the time Aunt Wess’ began counting the pews, 
 missing a number here and there, confusing herself, 
 always obliged to begin over again. From the direc- 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 i8i 
 
 tion of the vestry room came the sound of a closing 
 door. Then all fell silent again. Even the shuffling 
 of the janitor ceased for an instant. 
 
 “Isn’t it still?” murmured Aunt Wess’, her head in 
 the air. “ I wonder if that was them. I heard a door 
 slam. They tell me that the rector has been married 
 three times.” Page, unheeding and demure, turned a 
 leaf, and began with “ All those who travel by land or 
 water.” Mr. Cressler and young Miss Gretry appeared. 
 They took their seats behind Page and Aunt Wess’, and 
 the party exchanged greetings in low voices. Page re- 
 luctantly laid down her prayer book. 
 
 “ Laura will be over soon,” whispered Mr. Cressler. 
 “ Carrie is with her. I’m going into the vestry room. 
 J. has just come.” He took himself off, walking upon 
 his tiptoes. 
 
 Aunt Wess’ turned to Page, repeating; 
 
 “ Do you know they say this rector has been married 
 three times ? ” 
 
 But Page was once more deep in her prayer book, 
 so the little old lady addressed her remark to the Gretry 
 girl. 
 
 This other, however, her lips tightly compressed, 
 made a despairing gesture with her hand, and at length 
 managed to say: 
 
 “ Can’t talk.” 
 
 “Why, heavens, child, whatever is the matter?” 
 
 “ Makes them worse — ^when I open my mouth — I’ve 
 got the hiccoughs.” 
 
 Aunt Wess’ flounced back in her seat, exasperated, 
 out of sorts. 
 
 “ Well, my word,” she murmured to herself, “ I never 
 saw such girls.” 
 
 “ Preserve to our use the kindly fruits of the earth,” 
 continued Page. 
 
i 82 
 
 The Pit 
 
 Isabel Gretry’s hiccoughs drove Aunt Wess’ into 
 “ the fidgets.” They “ got on her nerves.” What with 
 them and Page’s uninterrupted murmur, she was at 
 length obliged to sit in the far end of the pew, and just 
 as she had settled herself a second lime the door of the 
 vestry room opened and the wedding party came out ; 
 first Mrs. Cressler, then Laura, then Jadwin and Cress- 
 ler, and then, robed in billowing white, venerable, his 
 prayer book in his hand, the bishop of the diocese him- 
 self. Last of all came the clerk, osseous, perfumed, a 
 gardenia in the lapel of his frock coat, terribly excited, 
 and hurrying about on tiptoe, saying “ Sh ! Sh ! ” as a 
 matter of principle. 
 
 Jadwin wore a new frock coat and a resplendent 
 Ascot scarf, which Mr. Cressler had bought for him, 
 and Page knew at a glance that he was agitated be- 
 yond all measure, and was keeping himself in hand 
 only by a tremendous effort. She could guess that his 
 teeth were clenched. He stood by Cressler’s side, his 
 head bent forward, his hands — the fingers incessantly 
 twisting and untwisting — clasped behind his back. 
 Never for once did his eyes leave Laura’s face. 
 
 She herself was absolutely calm, only a little paler per- 
 haps than usual ; but never more beautiful, never more 
 charming. Abandoning for this once her accustomed 
 black, she wore a tan travelling dress, tailor made, very 
 smart, a picture hat with heavy plumes set off with a 
 clasp of rhinestones, while into her belt was thrust a 
 great bunch of violets. She drew off her gloves and 
 handed them to Mrs. Cressler. At the same moment 
 Page began to cry softly to herself. 
 
 “ There’s the last of Laura,” she whimpered. 
 “ There’s the last of my dear sister for me.” 
 
 Aunt Wess’ fixed her with a distressful gaze. She 
 sniffed once or twice, and then began fumbling in hef 
 reticule for her handkerchief. 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 183 
 
 “ If only her dear father were here,” she whispered 
 huskily. “ And to think that’s the same little girl I 
 used to rap on the head with my thimble for annoying 
 the cat ! Oh, if Jonas could be here this day.” * 
 
 “ She’ll never Be the same to me after now,” sobbed 
 Page, and as she spoke the Gretry girl, hypnotised with 
 emotion and taken all unawares, gave vent to a shrill 
 hiccough, a veritable yelp, that woke an explosive echo 
 in every corner of the building. 
 
 Page could not restrain a giggle, and the giggle 
 strangled with the sobs in her throat, so that the little 
 girl was not far from hysterics. 
 
 And just then a sonorous voice, magnificent, oro- 
 tund, began suddenly from the chancel with the words : 
 
 “ Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in 
 the sight of God, and in the face of this company to 
 join together this Man and this Woman in holy matri- 
 mony.” 
 
 Promptly a spirit of reverence, not to say solemnity, 
 pervaded the entire surroundings. The building no 
 longer appeared secular, unecclesiastical. Not in the 
 midst of all the pomp and ceremonial of the Easter 
 service had the chancel and high altar disengaged a 
 more compelling influence. All other intrusive noises 
 died away; the organ was hushed; the fussy janitor 
 was nowhere in sight; the outside clamour of the city 
 seemed dwindling to the faintest, most distant vibra- 
 tion ; the whole world was suddenly removed, while the 
 great moment in the lives of the Man and the Woman 
 began. 
 
 Page held her breath; the intensity of the situation 
 seemed to her, almost physically, straining tighter and 
 tighter with every passing instant. She was awed, 
 stricken; and Laura appeared to her to be all at once 
 a woman transfigured, semi-angelic, unknowable, ex- 
 
184 
 
 The Pit 
 
 alted. The solemnity of those prolonged, canorous 
 syllables : “ I require and charge you both, as ye shall 
 answer at the dreadful day of judgment, when the secrets 
 of hearts shall be disclosed,” weighed down upon her 
 spirits with an almost intolerable majesty. Oh, it was 
 all very well to speak lightly of marriage, to consider it 
 in a vein of mirth. It was a pretty solemn affair, after 
 all; and she herself. Page Dearborn, was a wicked, 
 wicked girl, full of sins, full of deceits and frivolities, 
 meriting of punishment — on “ that dreadful day of 
 judgment.” Only last week she had deceived Aunt 
 Wess’ in the matter of one of her “young men.” It 
 was time she stopped. To-day would mark a change. 
 Henceforward, she resolved, she would lead a new life. 
 
 “ God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy 
 Ghost . . .” 
 
 To Page’s mind the venerable bishop’s voice was fill- 
 ing all the church, as on the day of Pentecost, when the 
 apostles received the Holy Ghost, the building was 
 filled with a “ mighty rushing wind.” 
 
 She knelt down again, but could not bring herself 
 to close her eyes completely. From under her lids she 
 still watched her sister and Jadwin. How Laura must 
 be feeling now! She was, in fact, very pale. There 
 was emotion in Jadwin’s eyes. Page could see them 
 plainly. It seemed beautiful that even he, the strong, 
 modern man-of-affairs, should be so moved. How he 
 must love Laura. He was fine, he was noble ; and all 
 at once this fineness and nobility of his so affected her 
 that she began to cry again. Then suddenly came the 
 words : 
 
 “ . . . That in the world to come ye may have 
 
 life everlasting. Amen.” 
 
 There was a moment’s silence, then the group about 
 the altar rail broke up. 
 
i85 
 
 A Storx'' of Chica??o 
 
 “ Come,” said Aunt Wess’, getting to her feet, “ it’s 
 all over. Page. Come, and kiss your sister — Mrs. Jad- 
 win.” 
 
 In the vestry room Laura stood for a moment, while 
 one after another of the wedding party — even Mr. 
 Cressler — kissed her. When Page’s turn came, the two 
 sisters held each other in a close embrace a long mo- 
 ment, but Laura’s eyes were always dry. Of all pres- 
 ent she was the least excited. 
 
 “ Here’s something,” vociferated the ubiquitous clerk, 
 pushing his way forward. “ It was on the table when 
 we came out just now. The sexton says a messenger 
 boy brought it. It’s for Mrs. Jadwin.” 
 
 He handed her a large box. Laura opened it. In- 
 side was a great sheaf of Jacqueminot roses and a card, 
 on which was written : 
 
 “ May that same happiness which you have always 
 inspired in the lives and memories of all who know you 
 be with you always. 
 
 “Yrs. S. C.” 
 
 The party, emerging from the church, hurried across 
 the street to the Dearborns’ home, where Laura and 
 Jadwin were to get their valises and hand bags. Jad- 
 win’s carriage was already at the door. 
 
 They all assembled in the parlor, every one talking 
 at once, while the servants, bare-headed, carried the 
 baggage down to the carriage. 
 
 “ Oh, wait — wait a minute. I’d forgotten something,” 
 cried Laura. 
 
 “ What is it? Here, I’ll get it for you,” cried Jadwin 
 and Cressler as she started toward the door. But she 
 waved them oif, crying : 
 
 “ No, no. It’s nothing. You wouldn’t know where 
 to look.” 
 
i86 
 
 The Pit 
 
 Alone she ran up the stairs, and gained the second 
 story ; then paused a moment on the landing to get her 
 breath and to listen. The rooms near by were quiet, 
 deserted. From below she could hear the voices of the 
 others — their laughter and gaiety. She turned about, 
 and went from room to room, looking long into each ; 
 first Aunt Wess’s bedroom, then Page’s, then the “ front 
 sitting-room,” then, lastly, her own room. It was still 
 in the disorder caused by that eventful morning; many 
 of the ornaments — her own cherished knick-knacks — 
 were gone, packed and shipped to her new home the 
 day before. Her writing-desk and bureau were bare. 
 On the backs of chairs, and across the footboard of the 
 bed, were the odds and ends of dress she was never 
 to wear again. 
 
 For a long time Laura stood looking silently at the 
 empty room. Here she had lived the happiest period 
 of her life ; not an object there, however small, that 
 was not hallowed by association. Now she was leaving 
 it forever. Now the new life, the Untried, was to be- 
 gin. Forever the old days, the old life were gone. 
 Girlhood was gone ; the Laura Dearborn that only last 
 night had pressed the pillows of that bed, where was 
 she now? Where was the little black-haired girl of 
 Barrington? 
 
 And what was this new life to which she was going 
 forth, under these leaden skies, under this warm mist 
 of rain? The tears — at last — were in her eyes, and the 
 sob in her throat, and she found herself, as she leaned 
 an arm upon the lintel of the door, whispering : 
 
 “ Good-by. Good-by. Good-by.” 
 
 Then suddenly Laura, reckless of her wedding finery, 
 forgetful of trivialities, crossed the room and knelt 
 down at the side of the bed. Her head in her folded 
 arms, she prayed — prayed in the little unstudied words 
 
A Story of Chicago 187 
 
 of her childhood, prayed that God would take care of 
 her and make her a good girl; prayed that she might 
 be happy; prayed to God to help her in the new life, 
 and that she should be a good and loyal wife. 
 
 And then as she knelt there, all at once she felt an 
 arm, strong, heavy even, laid upon her. She raised 
 her head and looked — for the first time — direct into 
 her husband’s eyes. 
 
 “ I knew — ” began Jadwin. “ I thought — Dear, I 
 understand, I understand.” 
 
 He said no more than that. But suddenly Laura A 
 knew that he, Jadwin, her husband, did “ understand,” 
 and she discovered, too, in that moment just what it 
 meant to be completely, thoroughly understood — under- 
 stood without chance of misapprehension, without 
 shadow of doubt ; understood to her heart’s heart. 
 And with the knowledge a new feeling was born within 
 her. No woman, not her dearest friend ; not even Page 
 had ever seemed so close to her as did her husband now. 
 How could she be unhappy henceforward? The future 
 was already brightening. 
 
 Suddenly she threw both arms around his neck, and 
 drawing his face down to her, kissed him again and 
 again, and pressed her wet cheek to his — tear-stained 
 like her own. 
 
 “ It’s going to be all right, dear,” he said, as she stood 
 from him, though still holding his hand. “ It’s going to 
 be all right.” 
 
 “ Yes, yes, all right, all right,” she assented. “ I 
 never seemed to realise it till this minute. From the 
 first I must have loved you without knowing it. And 
 I’ve been cold and hard to you, and now I’m sorry, 
 sorry. You were wrong, remember that time in the 
 library, when you said I was undemonstrative. I’m not. 
 
 I love you dearly, dearly, and never for once, for one 
 
l8g the Pit 
 
 little moment, am I ever going to allow you to forget 
 it.” 
 
 Suddenly, as Jadwin recalled the incident of which she 
 spoke, an idea occurred to him. 
 
 “Oh, our bargain — remember? You didn’t forget, 
 after all.” 
 
 “ I did. I did,” she cried. “ I did forget it. That’s 
 the very sweetest thing about it.” 
 
VI 
 
 The months passed. Soon three years had gone by, 
 and the third winter since the ceremony in St. James’ 
 Church drew to its close. 
 
 Since that day when — acting upon the foreknowledge 
 of the French import duty — ^Jadwin had sold his million 
 of bushels short, the price of wheat had been steadily 
 going down. From ninety-three and ninety-four it had 
 dropped to the eighties. Heavy crops the world over 
 had helped the decline. No one was willing to buy 
 wheat. The Bear leaders were strong, unassailable. 
 Lower and lower sagged the price ; now it was seventy- 
 five, now seventy-two. From all parts of the country in 
 solid, waveless tides wheat — the mass of it incessantly 
 crushing down the price — came rolling in upon Chicago 
 and the Board of Trade Pit. All over the world the 
 farmers saw season after season of good crops. They 
 were good in the Argentine Republic, and on the Rus- 
 sian steppes. In India, on the little farms of Burmah, of 
 Mysore, and of Sind the grain, year after year, headed 
 out fat, heavy, and well-favoured. In the great San 
 Joaquin valley of California the ranches were one welter 
 of fertility. All over the United States, from the Dako- 
 tas, from Nebraska, Iowa, Kansas, and Illinois, from all 
 the wheat belt came steadily the reports of good crops. 
 
 But at the same time the low price of grain kept the ^ 
 farmers poor. New mortgages were added to farms 
 already heavily “ papered ” ; even the crops were mort- 
 gaged in advance. No new farm implements were 
 bought. Throughout the farming communities of the 
 “ Middle West ” there were no longer purchases of bug- 
 
190 
 
 The Pit 
 
 gies and parlour organs. Somewhere in other remoter 
 corners of the world the cheap wheat, that meant cheap 
 bread, made living easy and induced prosperity, but in 
 the United States the poverty of the farmer worked up- 
 ward through the cogs and wheels of the whole great 
 machine of business. It was as though a lubricant had 
 dried up. The cogs and wheels worked slowly and 
 with dislocations. Things were a little out of joint. 
 Wall Street stocks were down. In a word, “ times were 
 bad.” Thus for three years. It became a proverb on 
 the Chicago Board of Trade that the quickest way to 
 make money was to sell wheat short. One could with 
 almost absolute certainty be sure of buying cheaper 
 than one had sold. And that peculiar, indefinite thing 
 known — among the most unsentimental men in the 
 world — as “ sentiment ” prevailed more and more 
 strongly in favour of low prices. “ The ‘ sentiment,’ ” 
 said the market reports, “ was bearish ” ; and the 
 traders, speculators, eighth-chasers, scalpers, brokers, 
 bucket-shop men, and the like — all the world of La 
 Salle Street — had become so accustomed to these 
 “ Bear conditions,” that it was hard to believe that they 
 would not continue indefinitely. 
 
 ^adwin, inevitably, had been again drawn into the 
 troubled waters of the Pit. Always, as from the very 
 first, a Bear, he had once more raided the market, and 
 had once more been succesful. Two months after this 
 raid he and Gretry planned still another coup, a deal of 
 greater magnitude than any they had previously haz- 
 arded. Laura, who knew' very little of her husband’s 
 affairs — to whicH he seldom alluded — saw' by the daily 
 papers that at one stage of the affair the “ deal ” 
 trembled to its base. 
 
 But Jadwin w'as by now “ blooded to the game.” He 
 no longer needed Gretry’s urging to spur him. He had 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 191 
 
 developed into a strategist, bold, of inconceivable ef- 
 frontery, delighting in the shock of battle, never more 
 jovial, more daring than when under stress of the most 
 merciless attack. On this occasion, when the “ other 
 side ” resorted to the usual tactics to drive him from 
 the Pit, he led on his enemies to make one single false 
 step. Instantly — disregarding Gretry’s entreaties as 
 to caution — ^Jadwin had brought the vast bulk of his 
 entire fortune to bear, in the manner of a general con- 
 centrating his heavy artillery, and crushed the oppo- 
 sition with appalling swiftnes^ 
 
 He issued from the grapple triumphantly, and it was 
 not till long afterward that Laura knew how near, for a 
 few hours, he had been to defeat. 
 
 And again the price of wheat declined. In the first 
 week in April, at the end of the third winter of Jadwin’s 
 married life. May wheat was selling on the floor of the 
 Chicago Board of Trade at sixty-four, the July option at 
 sixty-five, the September at sixty-six and an eighth. 
 During February of the same year Jadv/in had sold 
 short five hundred thousand bushels of May. He be- 
 lieved with Gretry and with the majority of the profes- 
 sional traders that the price would go to sixty. 
 
 March passed without any further decline. All 
 through this month and through the first days of April 
 Jadwin was unusually thoughtful. His short wheat 
 gave him no concern, ^^e was now so rich that a mere 
 half-million bushels was not a matter for anxjety. It 
 was the “ situation ” that arrested his attention. ^ 
 
 L^n some indefinable way, warned by that blessed 
 sixth sense that had made him the successful speculator 
 he was, he felt that somewhere, at some time during the 
 course of the winter, a change had quietly, gradually 
 come about, that it was even then operating. The 
 conditions that had prevailed so consistently for three 
 
192 
 
 The Pit 
 
 years, were they now to be shifted a little ? He did not 
 know, he could not say. But in the plexus of financial 
 affairs in which he moved and lived he felt — a difference^ 
 
 For one thing “ times ” were better, business was bet- 
 ter. He could not fail to see that trade was picking 
 up. In dry goods, in hardware, in manufactures there 
 seemed to be a different spirit, and he could imagine 
 that it was a spirit of optimism. There, in that great 
 city where the Heart of the Nation beat, where the 
 diseases of the times, or the times’ healthful activities 
 were instantly reflected, Jadwin sensed a more rapid, 
 an easier, more untroubled run of life blood. All 
 through the Body of Things, money, the vital fluid, 
 seemed to be flowing more easily. People seemed richer, 
 the banks were lending more, securities seemed stable, 
 solid. In New York, stocks were booming. Men were 
 making money — were making it, spending it, lending it, 
 exchanging it. Instead of being congested in vaults, 
 safes, and cash boxes, tight, hard, congealed, it was 
 loosening, and, as it were, liquefying, so that it spread 
 and spread and permeated the entire community. The 
 People had money. They were willing to take chances. 
 
 So much for the financial conditions. 
 
 ^The spring had been backward, cold, bitter, inhospit- 
 able, and Jadwin began to suspect that the wheat crop 
 of his native country, that for so long had been gen- 
 erous, and of excellent quality, was now to prove — it 
 seemed quite possible — scant and of poor condition. He 
 began to watch the weather, and to keep an eye upon 
 the reports from the little county seats and “ centres ” 
 in the winter Vv^heat States. These, in part, seemed to 
 confirm his suspicions. 
 
 From Keokuk, in Iowa, came the news that winter 
 wheat was suffering from want of moisture. Benedict, 
 Yates’ Centre, and Douglass, in southeastern Kansas, 
 
J93 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 sent in reports of dry, windy weather that was killing 
 the young grain in every direction, and the same con- 
 ditions seemed to prevail in the central counties. In 
 Illinois, from Quincy and Waterloo in the west, and 
 from Ridgway in the south, reports came steadily to 
 hand of freezing weather and bitter winds. All through 
 the lower portions of the State the snowfall during 
 the winter had not been heavy enough to protect the 
 seeded grain. But the Ohio crop, it would appear, 
 was promising enough, as was also that of Missouri. 
 In Indiana, however, Jadwin could guess that the hopes 
 of even a moderate yield were fated to be disappointed ; 
 persistent cold weather, winter continuing almost up 
 to the first of April, seemed to have definitely settled the 
 question. 
 
 But more especially Jadwin watched Nebraska, that 
 State which is one single vast wheat field. How 
 would Nebraska do, Nebraska which alone might feed 
 an entire nation? County seat after county seat began 
 to send in its reports. All over the State the grip of 
 winter held firm even yet. The wheat had been bat- 
 tered by incessant gales, had been nipped and harried 
 by frost; everywhere the young half-grown grain 
 seemed to be perishing. It was a massacre, a veritable 
 slaughter?) 
 
 But, for all this, nothing could be decided as yet. 
 Other winter wheat States, from which returns were as 
 yet only partial, might easily compensate for the fail- 
 ures elsewhere, and besides all that, the Bears of the 
 Board of Trade might keep the price inert even in face 
 of the news of short yields. As a matter of fact, the 
 more important and stronger Bear traders were al- 
 ready piping their usual strain. Prices were bound to 
 decline, the three years’ sagging was not over yet. 
 They, the Bears, were too strong; no Bull news could 
 13 
 
194 
 
 He Pit 
 
 frighten them. Somehow there was bound to be plenty 
 of wheat. In face of the rumours of a short crop they 
 kept the price inert, weak. 
 
 On the tenth of April came the Government report on 
 the condition of winter wheat. It announced an aver- 
 age far below any known for ten years past. On March 
 tenth the same bulletin had shown a moderate supply 
 in farmers’ hands, less than one hundred million bushels, 
 in fact, and a visible supply of less than forty millions. 
 
 The Bear leaders promptly set to work to discount 
 this news. They showed how certain foreign condi- 
 tions would more than offset the effect of a poor Ameri- 
 can harvest. They pointed out the fact that the Gov- 
 ernment report on condition was brought up only to 
 the first of April, and that since that time the weather 
 in the wheat belt had been favorable beyond the wildest 
 hopes. 
 
 The April report was made public on the afternoon of 
 the tenth of the month. That same evening Jadwin in- 
 vited Gretry and his wife to dine at the new house on 
 North Avenue ; and after dinner, leaving Mrs. Gretry 
 and Laura in the <irawing-room, he brought the broker 
 up to the billiard'*'oom for a game of pool. 
 
 But when Greiry had put the balls in the triangle, 
 the two men did not begin to play at once. Jadwin had 
 asked the question that had been uppermost in the 
 minds of each during dinner. 
 
 “Well, Sam,” he had said, by way of a beginning, 
 “ what do you think of this Government report? ” 
 
 The broker chalked his cue placidly. 
 
 “ I expect there’ll be a bit of reaction on the strength 
 of it, but the market will go off again. I said wheat 
 would go to sixty, and I still say it. It’s a long time be- 
 tween now and May.” 
 
 “ I wasn’t thinking of crop conditions only,” ob- 
 
A Story of Chicago 195 
 
 served Jadwin. “ Sarn,>*we’re going to have better 
 times and higher prices this summer.” 
 
 Gretry shook his head and entered into a long argu- 
 ment to show that Jadwin was wrong. 
 
 But Jadwin refused to be convinced. All at once he 
 laid the flat of his hand upon the table. 
 
 “ Sam, we’ve touched bottom,” he declared, “ touched 
 bottom all along the line. It’s a paper dime to the 
 Sub-Treasury.” 
 
 “ I don’t care about the rest of the line,” said the 
 . broker doggedly, sitting on the edge of the table, 
 “ wheat will go to sixty.” He indicated the nest of balls 
 with a movement of his chin. “ Will you break? ” 
 
 Jadwin broke and scored, leaving one ball three 
 ■, inches in front of a corner pocket. He called the shot, 
 and as he drew back his cue he said, deliberately : 
 
 . “ Just as sure as I make this pocket wheat will — not 
 go — off — another — cent.” 
 
 With the last word he drove the ball home and 
 ■ straightened up. Gretry laid down his cue and looked 
 at him quickly. But he did not speak. Jadwin sat 
 down on one of the straight-backed chairs upon the 
 raised platform against the wall and rested his elbows 
 upon his knees. 
 
 “Sam,” he said, “the time is come for a great big 
 change.” * He emphasised the word with a tap of his 
 cue upon the floor. “We can’t play our game the way 
 we’ve been playing it the last three years. We’ve been 
 hammering wheat down and down and down, till we’ve 
 got it below the cost of production ; and now she won’t 
 go any further with all the hammerin'i^ha the world. 
 The other fellows, the rest of this 1 >1 "^’owd, don’t 
 1 seem t' see it, but I see it. Before fall we’i^j going to 
 have hifher prices. Wheat is going up, and when it 
 does I mean to be right there.” 
 
196 
 
 The Pit 
 
 “ We’re going to have a dull market right up to the 
 beginning of winter,” persisted the other. 
 
 “ Come and say that to me at the beginning of win- 
 ter, then,” Jadwin retorted. “ Look here, Sam, I’m 
 short of May five hundred thousand bushels, and to- 
 morrow morning you are going to send your boys on 
 the floor for me and close that trade.” 
 
 “ You’re crazy, J.,” protested the broker. “ Hold on 
 another month, and I promise you, you’ll thank me.” 
 
 [^Not another day, not another hour. This Bear cam- 
 paign of ours has come to an end. That’s said and 
 signed.” 
 
 “ Why, it’s just in its prime,” protested the broker. 
 “ Great heavens, you mustn’t get out of the game now, 
 after hanging on for three years.” 
 
 “ I’m not going to get out of it.” 
 
 “Why, good Lord!” said Gretry, “you don’t mean 
 to say that ” 
 
 ^That I’m going over. That’s exactly what I do 
 mean. I’m going to change over so quick to the other 
 side that I’ll be there before you can take off your hat. 
 I’m done with a Bear game. It was' good while it 
 lasted, but we’ve worked it for all there was in it. I’m 
 not only going to cover my May shorts and get out of 
 that trade, but ” — ^Jadwin leaned forward and struck his 
 hand upon his knee — “ but I'm going to buy. I’m go- 
 ing to buy September wheat, and I’m going to buy it 
 to-morrow, five hundred thousand bushels of it, and if 
 the market goes as I think it will later on. I’m going to 
 buy more. I’m no Bear any longer. I’m going to 
 boost this tn^*X-pt right through till the last bell rings ; 
 and from Curtis Jadwin spells B-u- double 1 — 
 
 Bull.” 
 
 “ They’ll slaughter you,” said Gretry, “ slaugl ter you 
 in cold blood. You’re just one man against a gang— 
 
197 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 a gang of cutthroats. Those Bears have got millions 
 and millions back of them. You don’t suppose, do 
 you, that old man Crookes, or Kenniston, or little 
 Sweeny, or all that lot would give you one little bit of a 
 chance for your life if they got a grip on you. Cover 
 your shorts if you want to, but, for God’s sake, don’t 
 begin to buy in the same breath. You wait a while. 
 If this market has touched bottom, we’ll be able to tell 
 in a few days. I’ll admit, for the sake of argument, that 
 just now there’s a pause. But nobody can tell whether 
 it will turn up or down yet. Now’s the time to be con- 
 s^yative, to play it cautious.” 
 
 If I was conservative and cautious,” answered Jad- 
 win, “ I wouldn’t be in this game at all. I’d be buying 
 U. S. four percents. That’s the big mistake so many 
 of these fellows down here make. They go into a 
 game where the only ones who can possibly win are 
 the ones who take big chances, and then they try to 
 play the thing cautiously. If I wait a while till the 
 market turns up and everybody is buying, how am I 
 any the better off? No, sir, you buy the September 
 option for me to-morrow — five hundred thousand 
 bushels. I deposited the margin to your credit in the 
 Illinois Trust this afternoon^ 
 
 There was a long silence. Gretry spun a ball be- 
 tween his fingers, top-fashion. 
 
 “ Well,” he said at last, hesitatingly, “ well — I don’t 
 know, J. — ^you are either Napoleonic — or — or a colos- 
 sal idiot.” 
 
 “ Neither one nor the other, Samuel. I’m just using 
 a little common sense. . . . Is it yorn shot ? ” 
 
 “ I’m blessed if I know.” 
 
 " Well, well start a new game. Sam, I’ll give you six 
 balls and beat you in ” — he looked at his watch — beat 
 you before half-past nine.” 
 
The Pit 
 
 198 
 
 “For a doUar?” 
 
 “ I never bet, Sam, and you know it,” 
 
 Half an hour later Jadwin said: 
 
 “ Shall we go down and join the ladies? Don’t put 
 out your cigar. That’s one bargain I made with Laura 
 before we moved in here — that smoking was allowable 
 everywhere.” 
 
 “ Room enough, I guess,” observed the broker, as 
 the two stepped into the elevator. “ How many rooms 
 have you got here, by the way? ” 
 
 “ Upon my word, I don’t know,” answered Jadwin. 
 “ I discovered a new one yesterday. Fact. I was hav- 
 ing a look around, and I came out into a little kind of 
 smoking-room or other that, I swear, I’d never seen 
 before. I had to get Laura to tell me about it.” 
 
 The elevator sank to the lower floor, and Jadwin 
 and the broker stepped out into the main hallway. 
 From the drawing-room near by came the sound of 
 women’s voices. 
 
 “ Before we go in,” said Jadwin, “ I want you to see 
 our art gallery and the organ. Last time you were up, 
 remember, the men were still at work in here.” 
 
 They passed down a broad corridor, and at the end, 
 just before parting the heavy, sombre curtains, Jadwin 
 pressed a couple of electric buttons, and in the open 
 space above the curtain sprang up a lambent, steady 
 glow. 
 
 The broker, as he entered, gave a long whistle. The 
 art gallery took in the height of two of the stories of 
 the house. It was shaped like a rotunda, and topped 
 with a vast airy dome of coloured glass. Here and 
 there about the, room were glass cabinets full of bibelots, 
 ivory statuettes, old snuff boxes, fans of the sixteenth 
 and seventeenth centuries. The walls themselves were 
 covered with a multitude of pictures, oils, water-colours, 
 with one or two pastels. 
 
199 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 But to the left of the entrance, let into the frame of 
 the building, stood a great organ, large enough for a 
 cathedral, and giving to view, in the dulled incandes- 
 cence of the electrics, its sheaves of mighty pipes. 
 
 “ Well, this is something like,” exclaimed the broker. 
 
 “ I don’t know much about ’em myself,” hazarded 
 Jadwin, looking at the pictures, “ but Laura can tell 
 you. We bought most of ’em while we were abroad, 
 year before last. Laura says this is the best.” He in- 
 dicated a large “ Bougereau ” that represented a group 
 of nymphs bathing in a woodland pool. 
 
 “ H’m ! ” said the broker, “ you wouldn’t want some 
 of your Sunday-school superintendents to see this now. 
 This is what the boys down on the Board would call a 
 bar-room picture.” 
 
 But Jadwin did not laugh. 
 
 “ It never struck me in just that way,” he said, 
 gravely. 
 
 “ It’s a fine piece of work, though,” Gretry hastened 
 to add. “ Fine, great colouring.” 
 
 “ I like this one pretty well,” continued Jadwin, mov- 
 ing to a canvas by Detaille. It was one of the inevitable 
 studies of a cuirassier; in this case a trumpeter, one 
 arm high in the air, the hand clutching the trumpet, the 
 horse, foam-flecked, at a furious gallop. In the rear, 
 through clouds of dust, the rest of the squadron was 
 indicated by a few points of colour. 
 
 “ Yes, that’s pretty neat,” concurred Gretry. “ He’s 
 sure got a gait on. Lord, what a lot of accoutrements 
 those French fellows stick on. Now our boys would 
 chuck about three-fourths of that truck before going 
 into action. . . . Queer way these artists work,” 
 
 he went on, peering close to the canvas. “ Look at it 
 close up and it’s just a lot of little daubs, but you get 
 off a distance ” — he drew back, cocking his head to 
 
200 
 
 The Pit 
 
 one side — “ and you see now. Hey — see how the 
 thing bunches up. Pretty neat, isn’t it ? ” He turned 
 from the picture and rolled his eyes about the room. 
 
 “ Well, well,” he murmured. “ This certainly is the 
 real thing, J. I suppose, now, it all represents a pretty 
 b^ pot of money.” 
 
 1 “ I’m not quite used to it yet myself,” said Jadwin. 
 “I was in here last Sunday, thinking it all over, the 
 new house, and the money and all. And it struck me 
 as kind of queer the way things have turned out for 
 me. . . . Sam, do you know, I can remember the 
 time, up there in Ottawa County, Michigan, on my old 
 dad’s farm, when I used to have to get up before day- 
 break to tend the stock, and my sister and I used to 
 run out quick into the stable and stand in the warm 
 cow fodder in the stalls to warm our bare feet. . . . 
 
 She up and died when she was about eighteen — gallop- 
 ing consumption. Yes, sir. By George, how I loved 
 that little sister of mine! You remember her, Sam. 
 Remember how you used to come out from Grand 
 Rapids every now and then to go squirrel shooting with 
 me? ” 
 
 “ Sure, sure. Oh, I haven’t forgot.” 
 
 “ Well, I was wishing the other day that I could 
 bring Sadie down here, and — oh, I don’t know — give 
 her a good time. She never had a good time when she 
 was alive. Work, work, work; morning, noon, and 
 night. I’d like to have made it up to her. I believe 
 in making people happy, Sam. That’s the way I take 
 my fun. But it’s too late to do it now for my little 
 sister.” 
 
 “ Well,” hazarded Gretry, “ you got a good wife in 
 yonder to——” 
 
 Jadwin interrupted him. He half turned away, thrust- 
 ing his hands suddenly into his pockets. Partly to him- 
 self, partly to his friend he murmured : 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 20t 
 
 " You bet I have, you bet I have. Sam,” he ex- 
 claimed, then turned away again. “ „ „ „ Oh, well, 
 never mind,” he murmured. 
 
 Gretry, embarrassed, constrained, put his chin in the 
 air, shutting his eyes in a knowing fashion. 
 
 “ I understand,” he answered. “ I understand, J.” 
 
 “Say, look at this organ here,” said Jadwin briskly. 
 “ Here’s the thing I like to play with.” 
 
 They crossed to the other side of the room. 
 
 “ Oh, you’ve got one of those attachment things,” ob- 
 served the broker. 
 
 ^Listen now,” said Jadwin. He took a perforated 
 roll from the case near at hand and adjusted it, Gretry 
 looking on with the solemn interest that all American 
 business me n have in mechanical inventions. Jadwin 
 sat down befof^it,’ pulled out a stop or two, and placed 
 his feet on the pedals. A vast preliminary roaring 
 breath soughed through the pipes, with a vibratory 
 rush of power. Then there came a canorous snarl of 
 bass, and then, abruptly, with resistless charm, and 
 with full-bodied, satisfying amplitude of volume the 
 opening movement of the overture of “ Carmen.” 
 
 “ Great, great ! ” shouted Gretry, his voice raised to 
 make himself heard. “ That’s immense.” 
 
 The great-lunged harmony was filling the entire gal- 
 lery, clear cut, each note clearly, sharply treated 
 with a precision that, if mechanical, was yet effective. 
 Jadwin, his eyes now on the stops, now on the sliding 
 strip of paper, played on. Through the sonorous 
 clamour of the pipes Gretry could hear him speaking, 
 but he caught only a word or two. 
 
 “Toreador . . . horse power . . , Madame 
 Calve . . . electric motor . o o fine song , . . 
 storage battery.” 
 
 The “ movement ” thinned out, and dwindled to a 
 
202 
 
 The Pit 
 
 strain of delicate lightness, sustained by the smallest 
 pipes and developing a new motive; this was twice re- 
 peated, and then ran down to a series of chords and 
 bars that prepared for and prefigured some great effect 
 close at hand. There was a short pause, then with the 
 sudden releasing of a tremendous rush of sound, back 
 surged the melody, with redoubled volume and power, 
 to the original movement. 
 
 “ That’s bully, bully ! ” shouted Gretry, clapping his 
 hands, and his e)'e, caught by a movement on the other 
 side of the room, he turned about to see Laura Jadwin 
 standing between the opened curtains at the entrance. 
 
 Seen thus unexpectedly, the broker was again over- 
 whelmed with a sense of the beauty of Jadwin’s wife. 
 Laura was in evening dress of black lace ; her arms 
 and neck were bare. Her black hair was piled high 
 upon her head, a single American Beauty rose nodded 
 against her bare shoulder. She was even y'et slim 
 and very tall, her face pale with that unusual paleness 
 of hers that was yet a colour. Around her slender 
 neck was a marvellous collar of pearls many strands 
 deep, set off and held in place by diamond clasps. 
 
 With Laura came Mrs. Gretry and Page. The 
 broker’s wife was a vivacious, small, rather pretty 
 blonde woman, a little angular, a little faded. She was 
 garrulous, witty, slangy. She wore turquoises in her 
 ears morning, noon, and night. 
 
 But three years had made a vast difference in Page 
 Dearborn. All at once she was a young woman. Her 
 straight, hard, little figure had developed, her arms 
 were rounded, her eyes were calmer. She had grown 
 taller, broader. Her former exquisite beauty was per- 
 haps not quite so delicate, so fine, so virginal, so charm- 
 ingly angular and boyish. There was infinitely more of 
 the woman in it; and perhaps because of this she looked 
 
203 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 more like Laura than at any time of her life before. 
 But even yet her expression was one of gravity, of seri- 
 ousness. There was always a certain aloofness about 
 Page. She looked out at the world solemnly, and as if 
 separated from its lighter side. Things humorous in- 
 terested her only as inexplicable vagaries of the human 
 animal. 
 
 “ We heard the organ,” said Laura, “ so we came in. 
 I wanted Mrs. Gretry to listen to it.” 
 
 • O O • • 9 
 
 The three years that had just passed had been the most 
 important years of Laura Jadwin’s life. Since her mar- 
 riage she had grown intellectually and morally with 
 amazing rapidity. Indeed, so swift had been the change, 
 that it was not so much a growth as a transformation. 
 She was no longer the same half-formed, impulsive girl 
 who had found a delight in the addresses of her three 
 lovers, and who had sat on the floor in the old home 
 on State Street and allowed Landry Court to hold her 
 hand. She looked back upon the Miss Dearborn of 
 those days as though she were another person. How 
 she had grown since then ! How she had changed ! 
 How different, how infinitely more serious and sweet 
 her life since then had become ! 
 
 A great fact had entered her world, a great new ele- 
 ment, that dwarfed all other thoughts, all other con- 
 siderations. ___This was her- love for her husband. It 
 was as though until the time of her marriage she had 
 walked in darkness, a darkness that she fancied was 
 day; walked perversely, carelessly, and with a frivolity 
 that was almost wicked. Then, suddenly, she had seen 
 a great light. Love had entered her world. In her new 
 heaven a new light was fixed, and all other things were 
 seen only because of this light; all other things were 
 touched by it, tempered by it, warmed and vivified by it. 
 
204 
 
 The Pit 
 
 It had seemed to date from a certain evening at their 
 country house at Geneva Lake in Wisconsin, where she 
 had spent her honeymoon with her husband. They had 
 been married about ten days. It was a July evening, 
 and they were quite alone on board the little steam 
 yacht the “ Thetis.” She remembered it all very plainly. 
 It had been so warm that she had not changed her dress 
 after dinner — she recalled that it was of Honiton lace 
 over old-rose silk, and that Curtis had said it was the 
 prettiest he had ever seen. It was an hour before mid- 
 night, and the lake was so still as to appear veritably 
 solid. The moon was reflected upon the surface with 
 never a ripple to blur its image. The sky was grey with 
 starlight, and only a vague bar of black between the 
 star shimmer and the pale shield of the water marked 
 the shore line. Never since that night could she hear 
 the call of whip-poor-wills or the piping of night frogs 
 that the scene did not come back to her. The little 
 ” Thetis ” had throbbed and panted steadily. At the 
 door of the engine room, the engineer — the grey Mac- 
 Kenny, his back discreetly turned — sat smoking a pipe 
 and taking the air. From time to time he would swing 
 himself into the engine room, and the clink and scrape 
 of his shovel made itself heard as he stoked the fire 
 vigorously. 
 
 Stretched out in a long wicker deck chair, hatless, a 
 drab coat thrown around her shoulders, Laura had sat 
 near her husband, who had placed himself upon a camp 
 stool, where he could reach the wheel with one hand. 
 
 “ Well,” he had said at last, “ are you glad 3'ou mar- 
 ried me. Miss Dearborn? ” And she had caught him 
 about the neck and drawn his face down to hers, and 
 her head thrown back, their lips all but touching, had 
 whispered over and over again; 
 
 “ I love you — love you — love you! ” 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 205 
 
 That night was final. The marriage ceremony, even 
 that moment in her room, when her husband had taken 
 her in his arms and she had felt the first stirring of love 
 in her heart, all the first week of their married life had 
 been for Laura a whirl, a blur. She had not been able 
 to find herself. Her affection for her husband came and 
 went capriciously. There were moments when she be- 
 lieved herself to be really unhappy. Then, all at once, 
 she seemed to awake. Not the ceremony at St. James’ 
 Church, but that awakening had been her marriage. 
 Now it was irrevocable; she was her husband’s; she be- 
 longed to him indissolubly, forever and forever, and the 
 surrender was a glory. Laura in that moment knew 
 that love, the supreme triumph of a woman’s life, was 
 less a victory than a capitulation. 
 
 Since then her happiness had been perfect. Literally 
 and truly there was not a cloud, not a mote in her sun- 
 shine. She had everything — the love of her husband, 
 great wealth, extraordinary beauty, perfect health, an 
 untroubled n.md, friends, position — everything. God 
 had been good to her, beyond all dreams and all deserv- 
 ing. For her had been reserved all the prizes, all the 
 guerdons ; for her who had done nothing to merit them. 
 
 Her husband she knew was no less happy. In those 
 first three years after their marriage, life was one un- 
 ending pageant; and their happiness became for them 
 some marvellous, bewildering thing, dazzling, resplen- 
 dent, a strange, glittering, jewelled Wonder-worker that 
 suddenly had been put into their hands. 
 
 As one of the first results of this awakening, Laura 
 reproached herself with having done but little for Page. 
 She told herself that she had not been a good sister, 
 that often she had been unjust, quick tempered, and had 
 made the little girl to suffer because of her caprices. She 
 had not sympathised sufficiently with her small troubles 
 
2o6 
 
 The Fit 
 
 — so she made herself believe — and had found too many 
 occasions to ridicule Page’s intenseness and queer little 
 solemnities. True she had given her a good home, 
 good clothes, and a good education, but she should 
 have given more — more than mere duty-gifts. She 
 should have been more of a companion to the little girl, 
 more of a help ; in fine, more of a mother. Laura felt all 
 at once the responsibilities of the elder sister in a family 
 bereft of parents. Page was growing fast, and growing 
 astonishingly beautiful; in a little while she would be a 
 young woman, and over the near horizon, very soon 
 now, must inevitably loom the grave question of her 
 marriage. 
 
 But it was only this realisation of certain responsi- 
 bilities that during the first years of her married life at 
 any time drew away Laura’s consideration of her hus- 
 band. She began to get acquainted with the real man- 
 within-the-man that she knew now revealed himself 
 only after marriage. Jadwin her husband was so dif- 
 ferent from, so infinitely better than, Jadwdn her lover, 
 that Laura sometimes found herself looking back with 
 a kind of retrospective apprehension on the old days 
 and the time when she was simply Miss Dearborn. 
 How little she had known him after all ! And how, in 
 the face of this ignorance, this innocence, this absence 
 of any insight into his real character, had she dared to 
 take the irretrievable step that bound her to him for 
 life? The Curtis Jadwin of those early days was so 
 much another man. He might have been a rascal ; she 
 could not have known it. As it was, her husband had 
 promptly come to be, for her, the best, the finest man 
 she had ever known. But it might easily have been dif- 
 ferent. 
 
 His attitude to^^ards her was thoughtfulness itself. 
 Hardly ever was he absent from her, even for a day, that 
 he did not bring her some little present, some little keep- 
 
207 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 sake — or even a bundh of flowers — when he returned in 
 the evening. The anniversaries — Christmas, their wed- 
 ding day, her birthday — ^he always observed with great 
 eclat. He took a holiday from his business, surprised 
 her with presents under her pillow, or her dinner-plate, 
 and never failed to take her to the theatre in the evening. 
 
 However, it was not only Jadwin’s virtues that en- 
 deared him to his wife. He was no impeccable hero in 
 her eyes. He was tremendously human. He had his 
 faults, his certain lovable weaknesses, and it was pre- 
 cisely these traits that Laura found so adorable. 
 
 For one thing, Jadwin could be magnificently incon- 
 sistent. Let him set his mind and heart upon a given 
 pursuit, pleasure, or line of conduct not altogether ad- 
 visable at the moment, and the ingenuity of the excuses 
 by which he justified himself were monuments of elabo- 
 rate sophistry. Yet, if later he lost interest, he reversed 
 his arguments with supreme disregard for his former 
 words. 
 
 Then, too, he developed a boyish pleasure in certain 
 unessential though cherished objects and occupations, 
 that he indulged extravagantly and to the neglect of 
 things, not to say duties, incontestably of more im- 
 portance. 
 
 One of these objects was the “ Thetis.” In every 
 conceivable particular the little steam yacht was com- 
 plete down to the last bolt, the last coat of varnish; but 
 at times during their summer vacations, when Jadwin, 
 in all reason, should have been supervising the laying 
 out of certain unfinished portions of the “ grounds ” — 
 supervision which could be trusted to no subordinate — 
 he would be found aboard the “ Thetis,” hatless, in his 
 shirt-sleeves, in solemn debate with the grey MacKenny 
 and — a cleaning rag, or monkey-wrench, or paint brush 
 in his hand — tinkering and pottering about the boat, 
 
2o8 
 
 The Pit 
 
 over and over again. Wealthy as he was, he could 
 have maintained an entire crew on board whose whole 
 duty should have been to screw, and scrub, and scour. 
 But Jadwin would have none of it. “ Cost^too much,” 
 he would declare, with profound gravity. (_He had the 
 self-made American’s handiness with implements and 
 paint brushes, and he would, at high noon and under a 
 murderous sun, make the trip from the house to the 
 dock where the “ Thetis ” was moored, for the trivial 
 pleasure of tightening a bolt — which did not need tight- 
 ening; or wake up in the night to tell Laura of some 
 wonderful new idea he had conceived as to the equip- 
 ment or decoration of the yacht. He had blustered 
 about the extravagance of a “ crew,” but the sums of 
 money that went to the brightening, refitting, overhaul- 
 ing, repainting, and reballasting of the boat — all abso- 
 lutely uncalled-for — made even Laura gasp, and would 
 have maintained a dozen sailors an entire year!^ 
 
 ^^his same inconsistency prevailed also in other direc- 
 tions. In the matter of business Jadwdn’s economy 
 was unimpeachable. He would cavil on a half-dollar’s 
 overcharge ; he would put himself to downright incon- 
 venience to save the useless expenditure of a dime — 
 and boast of it. But no extravagance was ever too 
 great, no time ever too valuable, when bass were to be 
 caught^ 
 
 For Jadwin was a fisherman unregenerate. Laura, 
 though an early riser when in the city, was apt to sleep 
 late in the country, and never omitted a two-hours’ nap 
 in the heat of the afternoon. Her husband improved 
 these occasions when he w'as deprived of her society, 
 to indulge in his pastime. Never a morning so for- 
 bidding that his lines were not in the water by five 
 o’clock; never a sun so scorcning that he \vzs not 
 coaxing a “ strike ” in the stumps and reeds in the shade 
 under the shores. 
 
209 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 It was the one pleasure he could not share with his 
 wife. Laura was unable to bear the monotony of the 
 slow-moving boat, the hours spent without results, the 
 enforced idleness, the cramped positions. Only occa- 
 sionally could Jadwin prevail upon her to accompany 
 him. And then what preparations ! Queen Elizabeth 
 approaching her barge was attended with no less solici- 
 tude. MacKenny (who sometimes acted as guide and 
 oarsman) and her husband exhausted their ingenuity 
 to make her comfortable. They held anxious debates: 
 “Do you think she’ll like that?” “Wouldn’t this 
 make it easier for her?” “Is that the way she liked 
 it last time ? ” Jadwin himself arranged the cush- 
 ions, spread the carpet over the bottom of the boat, 
 handed her in, found her old gloves for her, baited her 
 hook, disentangled her line, saw to it that the mineral 
 water in the ice-box was sufficiently cold, and performed 
 an endless series of little attentions looking to her com- 
 fort and enjoyment. It was all to no purpose, and at 
 length Laura declared: 
 
 “ Curtis, dear, it is no use. You just sacrifice every 
 bit of your pleasure to make me comfortable — ^to make 
 me enjoy it; and I just don’t. I’m sorry, I want to 
 share every pleasure with you, but I don’t like to fish, 
 and never will. You go alone. I’m just a hindrance 
 to you.” And though he blustered at first, Laura had 
 her way. 
 
 Once in the period of these Aree years Laura and her 
 husband had gone abroad. I But her experience in 
 England — they did not get to me Continent — had been 
 a disappointment to her. The museums, art galleries, 
 and cathedrals were not of the least interest to Jadwin, 
 and though he followed her from one to another with 
 uncomplaining stoicism, she felt his distress, and had 
 contrived to return home three months ahead of tim^ 
 
 14 
 
210 
 
 The Pit 
 
 It was during this trip that they had bought so many 
 of the pictures and appointments for the North Avenue 
 house, and Laura’s* disappointment over her curtailed 
 European travels was mitigated by the anticipation of 
 her pleasure in settling in the new home. This had not 
 been possible immediately after their marriage. For 
 nearly two years the great place had been given over 
 to contractors, architects, decorators, and gardeners, 
 and Laura and her husband had lived, while in Chicago, 
 at a hotel, giving up the one-time rectory on Cass 
 Street to Page and to Aunt Wess’. 
 
 But when at last Laura entered upon possession of 
 the North Avenue house, she was not — after the first 
 enthusiasm and excitement over its magnificence had 
 died down — altogether pleased with it, though she told 
 herself the contrary. Outwardly it was all that she 
 could desire. It fronted Lincoln Park, and from all the 
 windows upon that side the most delightful outlooks 
 were obtainable — green woods, open lawns, the parade 
 ground, the Lincoln monument, dells, bushes, smooth 
 drives, flower beds, and fountains. From the great bay 
 window of Laura’s own sitting-room she could see far 
 out over Lake Michigan, and watch the procession of 
 great lake steamers, from Milwaukee, far-distant Du- 
 luth, and the Sault Sainte Marie — the famous “ Soo ” — • 
 defiling majestically past, making for the mouth of the 
 river, laden to the water’s edge with whole harvests of 
 wheat. At night, when the windows were open in the 
 warm weather, she could hear the mournful wash and 
 lapping of the water on the embankments. 
 
 The grounds about her home were beautiful. The 
 stable itself was half again as large as her old home op- 
 posite St. James’s, and the conservatory, in which she 
 took the keenest delight, was a wonderful affair — a 
 vast bubble-like structure of green panes, whence, 
 
211 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 winter and summer, came a multitude of flowers for the 
 house — violets, lilies of the valley, jonquils, hyacinths, 
 tulips, and her own loved roses. 
 
 But the interior of the house was, in parts, less 
 satisfactory. Jadwin, so soon as his marriage was 
 a certainty, had bought the house, and had given 
 over its internal furnishings to a firm of decorators. 
 Innocently enough he had intended to surprise his 
 wife, had told himself that she should not be bur- 
 dened with the responsibility of selection and plan- 
 ning. Fortunately, however, the decorators were men 
 of taste. There was nothing to offend, and much to 
 delight in the results they obtained in the dining-room, 
 breakfast-room, parlors, drawing-rooms, and suites of 
 bedrooms. But Laura, though the beauty of it all en- 
 chanted her, could never rid herself of a feeling that it 
 was not hers. It impressed her with its splendour of 
 natural woods and dull “ colour effects,” its cunning 
 electrical devices, its mechanical contrivances for com- 
 fort, like the ready-made luxury and “ convenience ” of 
 a Pullman. 
 
 However, she had intervened in time to reserve certain 
 of the rooms to herself, and these — the library, her bed- 
 room, and more especially that apartment from whose 
 bay windows she looked out upon the Lake, and which, 
 as if she were still in her old home, she called the “ up- 
 stairs sitting-room ” — she furnished to suit herself. 
 
 For very long she found it difficult, even with all her 
 resolution, with all her pleasure in her new-gained 
 wealth, to adapt herself to a manner of living upon so 
 vast a scale. She found herself continually planning the 
 marketing for the next day, forgetting that this now 
 was part of the housekeeper’s duties. For months she 
 persisted in “ doing her room ” after breakfast. Just as 
 she had been taug'ht to do in the old days when she 
 
212 
 
 The Pit 
 
 was a little girl at Barrington. She was afraid of the 
 elevator, and never really learned how to use the neat 
 little system of telephones that connected the various 
 parts of the house with the servants’ quarters. For 
 months her chiefest concern in her wonderful surround- 
 ings took the form of a dread of burglars. 
 
 Her keenest delights were her stable and the great 
 organ in the art gallery; and these alone more than 
 compensated for her uneasiness in other particulars. 
 
 Horses Laura adored — ^black ones with flowing tails 
 and manes, like certain pictures she had seen. Nowa- 
 days, except on the rarest occasions, she never set foot 
 out of doors, except to take her carriage, her coupe, 
 her phaeton, or her dog-cart. Best of all she loved her 
 saddle horses. She had learned to ride, and the morn- 
 ing was inclement indeed that she did not take a long 
 and solitary excursion through the Park, followed by 
 the groom and Jadwin’s two spotted coach dogs. 
 
 The great organ terrified her at first. But on closer 
 acquaintance she came to regard it as a vast-hearted, 
 sympathetic friend. She already played the piano very 
 well, and she scorned Jadwin’s self-playing “ attach- 
 ment.” A teacher was engaged to instruct her in the 
 intricacies of stops and of pedals, and in the difficulties 
 of the “ echo ” organ, “ great ” organ, “ choir,” and 
 “ swell.” So soon as she had mastered these, Laura 
 entered upon a new world of delight. Her taste in 
 music was as yet a little immature — Gounod and even 
 Verdi were its limitations. But to hear, responsive to 
 the lightest pressures of her finger-tips, the mighty in- 
 strument go thimdering through the cadences of the 
 “ Anvil Chorus ” gave her a thrilling sense of power that 
 was superb. 
 
 The untrained, unguided instinct of the actress in 
 Laura had fostered in her a curious penchant toward 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 213 
 
 melodrama. She had a taste for the magnificent. She 
 revelled in these great musical “ effects ” upon her or- 
 gan, the grandiose easily appealed to her, while as for 
 herself, the role of the “ grande dame,” with this won- 
 derful house for background and environment, came to 
 be for her, quite unconsciously, a sort of game in which 
 she delighted. 
 
 It was by this means that, in the end, she succeeded 
 in fitting herself to her new surroundings. Innocently 
 enough, and with a harmless, almost childlike, affecta- 
 tion, she posed a little, and by so doing found the solu- 
 tion of the incongruity between herself — the Laura of 
 moderate means and quiet life — and the massive lux- 
 ury with which she was now surrounded. Without 
 knowing it, she began to act the part of a great lady — 
 and she acted it well. She assumed the existence of 
 her numerous servants as she assumed the fact of the 
 trees in the park; she gave herself into the hands of 
 her maid, not as Laura Jadwin of herself would have 
 done it, clumsily and with the constraint of inexperi- 
 ence, but as she would have done it if she had been 
 acting the part on the stage, with an air, with all the 
 nonchalance of a marquise, with — in fine — all the su- 
 perb condescension of her “ grand manner.” 
 
 She knew very well that if she relaxed this hauteur, 
 that her servants would impose on her, would run over 
 her, and in this matter she found new cause for wonder 
 in her husband. 
 
 The servants, from the frigid butler to the under 
 groom, adored Jadwin. A half-expressed wish upon 
 his part produced a more immediate effect than Laura’s 
 most explicit orders. He never descended to famil- 
 iarity with them, and, as a matter of fact, ignored them 
 to such an extent that he forgot or confused their 
 names. But where Laura was obeyed with precise 
 
214 
 
 The Pit 
 
 formality and chilly deference, Jadwin was served with 
 obsequious alacrity, and with a good humour that even 
 livery and “ correct form ” could not altogether con- 
 ceal. 
 
 Laura’s eyes were first opened to this genuine af- 
 fection which Jadwin inspired in his servants by an in- 
 cident which occurred in the first months of their 
 occupancy of the new establishment. One of the 
 gardeners discovered the fact that Jadwin affected gar- 
 denias in the lapel of his coat, and thereat was at im- 
 mense pains to supply him with a fresh bloom from 
 the conservatory each morning. The flower was to be 
 placed at Jadwin’s plate, and it was quite the event of 
 the day for the old fellow when the master appeared on 
 the front steps with the flower in his coat. But a feud 
 promptly developed over this matter between the gar- 
 dener and the maid who took the butler’s place at 
 breakfast every morning. Sometimes Jadwin did not 
 get the flower, and the gardener charged the maid with 
 remissness in forgetting to place it at his plate after he 
 had given it into her hands. In the end the affair be- 
 came so clamourous that Jadwin himself had to inter- 
 vene. The gardener was summoned and found to have 
 been in fault only in his eagerness to please. 
 
 “ Billy,” said Jadwin, to the old man at the conclu- 
 sion of the whole matter, “ you’re an old fool.” 
 
 And the gardener thereupon had bridled #nd stam- 
 mered as though Jadwin had conferred a gift. 
 
 “ Now if I had called him ‘ an old fool,’ ” observ^ed 
 Laura, “ he wouFd have sulked the rest of the week.” 
 
 The happiest time of the day for Laura was the eve- 
 ning. In the daytime she was variously occupied, but 
 her thoughts continually ran forward to the end of the 
 day, when her husband would be with her. Jadwin 
 breakfasted early, and Laura bore him company no 
 
215 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 I matter how late she had stayed up the night before. 
 ! By half-past eight he was out of the house, driving 
 i down to his office in his buggy behind Nip and Tuck. 
 
 ' By nine Laura’s own saddle horse was brought to the 
 ! carriage porch, and until eleven she rode in the park. 
 
 At twelve she lunched with Page, and in the afternoon 
 I — in the “ upstairs sitting-room ” — read her Browning 
 or her Meredith, the latter one of her newest discov- 
 eries, till three or four. Sometimes after that she went 
 out in her carriage. If it was to “ shop ” she drove to 
 the “ Rookery,” in La Salle Street, after her purchases 
 were made, and sent the footman up to her husband’s 
 office to say that she would take him home. Or as 
 often as not she called for Mrs. Cressler or Aunt Wess’ 
 or Mrs. Gretry, and carried them off to some exhibit 
 of painting, or flowers, or more rarely — for she had not 
 the least interest in social affairs — to teas or receptions. 
 
 But in the evenings, after dinner, she had her hus- 
 band to herself. Page was almost invariably occupied 
 by one or more of her young men in the drawing-room, 
 but Laura and Jadwin shut themselves in the library, 
 a lofty panelled room — a place of deep leather chairs, 
 tall bookcases, etchings, and sombre brasses — and 
 1 there, while Jadwin lay stretched out upon the broad 
 ' sofa, smoking cigars, one hand behind his head, Laura 
 I read aloud to him. 
 
 I His tastes in fiction were very positive. Laura at 
 first had tried to introduce him to her beloved Mere- 
 dith. But after three chapters, when he had exclaimed, 
 “ What’s the fool talking about ? ” she had given over 
 and begun again from another starting-point. Left to 
 himself, his wife sorrowfully admitted that he would 
 have gravitated to the “ Mysterious Island ” and “ Mi- 
 chael Strogoff,” or even to “ Mr. Potter of Texas ” and 
 “Mr. Barnes of New York.” But she had set her- 
 
The Pit 
 
 i6 
 
 self to accomplish his literary education, so, Meredith 
 failing, she took up “Treasure Island” and “The 
 Wrecker.” Much of these he made her skip. 
 
 “ Oh, let’s get on with the ‘ story,’ ” he urged. But 
 Pinkerton for long remained for him an ideal, because 
 he was “ smart ” and “ alive.” 
 
 “ I’m not long very many of art,” he announced. 
 “ But I believe that any art that don’t make the world 
 better and happier is no art at all, and is only fit for th' 
 dump heap.” 
 
 But at last Laura found his abiding affinity in 
 Howells. 
 
 Nothing much happens,” he said. “ But I hww all 
 those people.” He never could rid himself of a sur- 
 reptitious admiration for Bartley Hubbard. He, too, 
 was “ smart ” and “ alive.” He had the “ get there ” 
 to him. “ Why,” he would say, “ I know fifty boys 
 just like him down there in La Salle Street.” Lapham 
 he loved as a brother. Never a point in the develop- 
 ment of his character that he missed or failed to chuckle 
 over. Bromfield Cory was poohed and boshed quite 
 out of consideration as a “ loafer,” a “ dilletanty,” but 
 Lapham had all his sympathy. 
 
 “ Yes, sir,” he would exclaim, interrupting the nar- 
 rative, “ that’s just it. That’s just what I would have 
 done if I had been in his place. Come, this chap knows 
 what he’s writing about — not like that IMiddleton ass, 
 with his ‘ Dianas ’ and ‘ Amazing Marriages.’*^ 
 
 Occasionally the Jadwins entertained. Laura’s hus- 
 band was proud of his house, and never tired of show- 
 \ing his friends about it. Laura gave Page a “ coming- 
 out ” dance, and nearly every Sunday the Cresslers came 
 to dinner. But Aunt Wess’ could, at first, rarely be in- 
 duced to pay the household a visit. So much grandeur 
 made the little widow uneasy, even a little suspicious. 
 She would shake her head at Laura» murmuring; 
 
 r 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 217 
 
 “My word, it’s all very fine, but, dear me, Laura, I hope 
 you do pay for everything on the nail, and don’t run up 
 any bills. I don’t know what your dear father would 
 say to it all, no, I don’t.” And she would spend hours 
 in counting the electric bulbs, which she insisted were 
 only devices for some new-fangled gas. 
 
 “ Thirty-three in this one room alone,” she would 
 say. “ I’d like to see your dear husband’s face when 
 he gets his gas bill. And a dressmaker that lives in the 
 house. . . . Well, — I don’t wa^t to say anything.” 
 
 Thus three years had gone by. ^^TThe new household 
 settled to a regime. Continually Jadwin grew richer. 
 His real estate appreciated in value ; rents went up. 
 Every time he speculated in wheat, it was upon a larger 
 scale, and every time he won. He was a Bear always, 
 and on those rare occasions when he referred to his 
 ventures in Laura’s hearing, it was invariably to say 
 that prices were going down. Till at last had come 
 that spring when he believed that the bottom had been 
 touched, had had the talk with Gretry, and had, in se- 
 cret, “ turned Bull,” with the suddenness of a strate- 
 gist?^ 
 
 The matter was yet in Gretry’s mind while the party 
 remained in the art gallery; and as they were return- 
 ing to the drawing-room he detained Jadwin an instant. 
 
 “ If you are set upon breaking your neck,” he said, 
 “ you might tell me at what figure you want me to buy 
 for you to-morrow.” 
 
 “ At the market,” returned Jadwin. “ I want to get 
 into the thing quick.” 
 
 A little later, when they had all reassembled in the 
 drawing-room, and while Mrs. Gretry was telling an 
 interminable story of how Isabel had all but asphyxiated 
 herself the night before, a servant announced Landry 
 Court, and the young man entered, spruce and debonair, 
 a bouquet in one hand and a box of candy in the other. 
 
2i8 
 
 The Pit 
 
 Some days before this Page had lectured him sol- 
 emnly on the fact that he was over-absorbed in busi- 
 ness, and was starving his soul. He should read more, 
 she told him, and she had said that if he would call upon 
 her on this particular night, she would indicate a course 
 of reading for him. 
 
 So it came about that, after a few moments’ conver- 
 sation with the older people in the drawing-room, the 
 two adjourned to the library. 
 
 There, by way of a beginning. Page asked him what 
 was his favourite character in fiction. She spoke of the 
 beauty of Ruskin’s thoughts, of the gracefulness of 
 Charles Lamb’s style. The conversation lagged a little. 
 Landry, not to be behind her, declared for the modern 
 novel, and spoke of the “ newest book.” But Page j 
 never read new books ; she was not interested, and their ' 
 talk, unable to establish itself upon a common ground, i 
 halted, and was in a fair way to end, until at last, and by 
 insensible degrees, they began to speak of themselves 
 and of each other. Promptly they were all aroused. 
 They listened to one another’s words with studious at- 
 tention, answered with ever-ready promptness, dis- 
 cussed, argued, agreed, and disagreed over and over 
 again. 
 
 ^Landry had said : 
 
 ^ When I was a boy, I always had an ambition to excel 
 all the other boys. I wanted to be the best baseball 
 player on the block — and I was, too. I could pitch three 
 curves when I was fifteen, and I find I am the same now 
 that I am a man grown. When I do a thing, I want to 
 do it better than any one else. From the very first I 
 have always been ambitious. It is my strongest trait. 
 Now,” he went on, turning to Page, “your strongest 
 trait is your_thoughtfulness. You are what they call 
 introspective.” j 
 
A Story of Chicago iig 
 
 “ Yes, yes,” she answered. “ Yes, I think so, too.” 
 
 “ You don’t need the stimulation of competition. 
 You are at your best when you are with just one per- 
 son. A crowd doesn’t interest you.” 
 
 “ I hate it,” she exclaimed. 
 
 “ Now with me, with a man of my temperament, a 
 crowd is a real inspiration. When every one is talking 
 and shouting around me, or to me, even, my mind works 
 at its best. But,” he added, solemnly, “ it must be a 
 crowd of men. I can’t abide a crowd of women.” 
 
 “ They chatter so,” she assented. “ I can’t either.” 
 
 “ But I find that the companionship of one intelli- 
 gent, sympathetic woman is as much of a stimulus as 
 a lot of men. It’s funny, isn’t it, that I should be like 
 that?” 
 
 “ Yes,” she said, “ it is funny — strange. But I be- 
 lieve in companionship. I believe that between man 
 and woman that is the great thing — companionship. 
 Love,” she added, abruptly, and then broke off with a 
 deep sigh. “ Oh, I don’t know,” she murmured. “ Do 
 you remember those lines : 
 
 “ Man’s love is of his life a thing apart, 
 
 ’Tis woman’s whole existence. 
 
 Do you believe that ? ” 
 
 “ Well,” he asserted, gravely, choosing his words with 
 deliberation, “ it might be so, but all depends upon the 
 man and woman. Love,” he added, with tremendous 
 gravity, “ is the greatest power in the universe.” 
 
 “ I have never been in love,” said Page. “ Yes, love 
 is a wonderful power.” 
 
 “ I’ve never been in love, either.” 
 
 “ Never, never been in love ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, I’ve thought I was in love,” he said, with a wave 
 of his hand. 
 
2 20 
 
 The Pit 
 
 “ I’ve never even thought I was,” she answered, mus- 
 ing. 
 
 “ Do you believe in early marriages ? ” demanded 
 Landry. 
 
 “ A man should never marry,” she said, deliberately, 
 “ till he can give his wife a good home, and good clothes 
 and — and that sort of thing. I do not think I shall 
 ever marry.” 
 
 “You! Why, of course you will. Why not?” 
 
 “ No, no. It is my disposition. I am morose and 
 taciturn. Laura says so.” 
 
 Landry protested with vehemence. 
 
 “ And,” she w’ent on, “ I have long, brooding fits of 
 melancholy.” 
 
 “ Well, so have I,” he threw out recklessly. “ At 
 night, sometimes — ^when I wake up. Then I’m all down 
 in the mouth, and I say, ‘ What’s the use, by jingo? ’ ” 
 
 “Do you believe in pessimism? I do. They say 
 Carlyle was a terrible pessimist.” 
 
 “ Well — talking about love. I understand that you 
 can’t believe in pessimism and love at the same time. 
 Wouldn’t you feel unhappy if you lost your faith in 
 love?” 
 
 “ Oh, yes, terribly.” 
 
 There was a moment’s silence, and then Landrj’ re- 
 marked : 
 
 “ Now you are the kind of woman that would only 
 love once, but love for that once mighty deep and 
 strong.” 
 
 Page’s eyes grew wide. She murmured : 
 
 “ ’Tis a woman’s whole existence — whole existence.’ 
 Yes, I think I am like that.” 
 
 “ Do you think Enoch Arden did right in going away 
 after he found them married ? ” i 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 221 
 
 “ Oh, have you read that ? Oh, isn’t that a beauti- 
 ful poem? Wasn’t he noble? Wasn’t he grand? Oh, 
 yes, yes, he did right.” 
 
 “ By George, I wouldn’t have gone away. I’d have 
 gone right into that house, and I would have made 
 things hum. I’d have thrown the other fellow out, lock, 
 stock, and barrel.” 
 
 “ That’s just like a man, so selfish, only thinking of 
 himself. You don’t know the meaning of love — great, 
 true, unselfish love.” 
 
 “ I know the meaning of what’s mine. Think I’d 
 give up the woman I loved to another man ? ” 
 
 “Even if she loved the other man best?” 
 
 “ I’d have my girl first, and find out how she felt 
 about the other man afterwards.” 
 
 “ Oh, but think if you gave her up, how noble it 
 would be. You would have sacrificed all that you held 
 the dearest to an ideal. Oh, if I were in Enoch Arden’s 
 place, and my husband thought I was dead, and I knew 
 he was happy with another woman, it would just be a 
 joy to deny myself, sacrifice myself to spare him un- 
 happiness. That would be my idea of love. Then 
 I’d go into a convent.” 
 
 “ Not much. I’d let the other fellow go to the con- 
 vent. If I loved a woman, I wouldn’t let anything in 
 the world stop me from winning her.” 
 
 “You have so much determination, haven’t you?” 
 she said, looking at him. 
 
 Landry enlarged his shoulders a little and wagged his 
 head. 
 
 “Well,” he said, “I don’t know, but I’d try pretty 
 hard to get what I wanted, I guess.” 
 
 “ I love to see that characteristic in men,” she ob- 
 served. (^^trength, determination.” 
 
 “Just as a man loves to see a woman womanly,” he 
 
222 
 
 The Pit 
 
 answered. “ Don’t you hate strong-minded women ? ” 
 
 “ Utterly.” 
 
 “ Now, you are what I would call womanly — the 
 womanliest woman I’ve ever known.” 
 
 “ Oh, I don’t know,” she protested, a little confused. 
 
 “ Yes, you are. You are beautifully womanly — and 
 so high-minded and well read. It’s been inspiring to 
 me. I want you should know that. Yes, sir, a real 
 inspiration. It’s been inspiring, elevating, to say the 
 least.” 
 
 “ I like to read, if that’s what you mean,” she hastened 
 to say. 
 
 “ By Jove, I’ve got to do some reading, too. It’s 
 so hard to find time. But I’ll make time. I’ll get that 
 ‘ Stones of Venice ’ I’ve heard you speak of, and I’ll sit 
 up nights — and keep awake with black coffee — but I’ll 
 read that book from cover to cover.” 
 
 “ That’s your determination again,” Page exclaimed. 
 “Your eyes just flashed when )"Ou said it. I believe if 
 you once made up your mind to do a thing, you would 
 do it, no matter how hard it was, wouldn’t you? ” 
 
 “ Well, I’d — I’d make things hum, I guess,” he ad- 
 mitted. 
 
 The next day was Easter Sunday, and Page came 
 down to nine o’clock breakfast a little late, to find Jad- 
 win already finished and deep in the pages of the morn- 
 ing paper. Laura, still at table, was pouring her last 
 cup of coffee. 
 
 They were in the breakfast-room, a small, charming 
 apartment, light and airy, and with many windows, one 
 end opening upon the house conservatory. Jadwin was 
 in his frock coat, which later he would wear to church. 
 The famous gardenia wns in his lapel. He was freshly 
 shaven, and his fine cigar made a blue haze over his 
 head, Laura was radiant in a white morning gown. 
 
A Story of Chicago 223 
 
 A newly cut bunch of violets, large as a cabbage, lay 
 on the table before her. 
 
 The whole scene impressed itself sharply upon Page’s 
 mind — the fine sunlit room, with its gay open spaces 
 and the glimpse of green leaves from the conservatory, 
 the view of the smooth, trim lawn through the many 
 windows, where an early robin, strayed from the park, 
 was chirruping and feeding; her beautiful sister Laura, 
 with her splendid, overshadowing coiffure, her pale, 
 clear skin, her slender figure ; Jadwin, the large, solid 
 man of affairs, with his fine cigar, his gardenia, his well- 
 groomed air. And then the little accessories that 
 meant so much — the smell of violets, of good tobacco, 
 of fragrant coffee ; the gleaming damasks, china and 
 silver of the breakfast table ; the trim, fresh-looking 
 maid, with her white cap, apron, and cuffs, who came 
 and went; the thoroughbred setter dozing in the sun, 
 and the parrot dozing and chuckling to himself on his 
 perch upon the terrace outside the window. 
 
 At the bottom of the lawn was the stable, and upon the 
 concrete in front of its wide-open door the groom was 
 currying one of the carriage horses. While Page ad- 
 dressed herself to her fruit and coffee, Jadwin put down 
 his paper, and, his elbows on the arms of his rattan 
 chair, sat for a long time looking out at the horse. By 
 and by he got up and said: 
 
 “ That new feed has filled ’em out in good shape. 
 Think Pll go out and tell Jarvis to try it on the buggy 
 team.” He pushed open the French windows and went 
 out, the setter sedately following. 
 
 Page dug her spoon into her grape-fruit, then sud- 
 denly laid it down and turned to Laura, her chin upon 
 her palm. 
 
 “ Laura,” she said, “ do you think I ought to marry — ■ 
 a girl of my temperament ? ” 
 
224 
 
 The Pit 
 
 “ Marry? ” echoed Laura, 
 
 “ Sh-h 1 ” whispered Page. “ Laura — don’t talk so 
 loud. Yes, do you? ” 
 
 “Well, why not marry, dearie? Why shouldn’t you 
 marry when the time comes? Girls as young as you 
 are not supposed to have temperaments.” 
 
 But instead of answering Page put another question : 
 
 “ Laura, do you think I am womanly ? ” 
 
 “ I think sometimes. Page, that you take your books 
 and your reading too seriously. You’ve not been out 
 of the house for three days, and I never see you without 
 your note-books and text-books in your hand. You 
 are at it, dear, from morning till night. Studies are all 
 very well ” 
 
 “ Oh, studies ! ” exclaimed Page. “ I hate them. 
 Laura, what is it to be womanly ? ” 
 
 “ To be womanly? ” repeated Laura. “ Why, I don’t 
 know, honey. It’s to be kind and well-bred and gentle 
 mostly, and never to be bold or conspicuous — and to 
 love one’s home and to take care of it, and to love and 
 believe in one’s husband, or parents, or children — or 
 even one’s sister — above any one else in the world.” 
 
 “ I think that being womanly is better than being 
 well read,” hazarded Page. 
 
 “ We can be both, Page,” Laura told her. “ But, 
 honey, I think you had better hurry through your 
 breakfast. If we are going to church this Easter, we 
 want to get an early start. Curtis ordered the carriage 
 half an hour earlier.” 
 
 “ Breakfast ! ” echoed Page. “ I don’t want a thing.” 
 She drew a deep breath and her eyes grew large. 
 “ Laura,” she began again presently, “ Laura , . . 
 
 Landry Court was here last night, and — oh, I don’t 
 know, he’s so silly. But he said — well, he said this — 
 well, I said that I understood how he felt about certain 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 225 
 
 things, about ‘ getting on,’ and being clean and fine 
 and all that sort of thing you know ; and then he said, 
 ‘ Oh, you don’t know what it means to me to look into 
 the eyes of a woman who really understands.’ ” 
 
 “ Did he ? ” said Laura, lifting her eyebrows. 
 
 “ Yes, and he seemed so fine and earnest. Laura, 
 wh — ” Page adjusted a hairpin at the back of her 
 head, and moved closer to Laura, her eyes on the floor. 
 “ Laura — ^what do you suppose it did mean to him — ■ 
 don’t you think it was foolish of him to talk like that ? ” 
 
 “ Not at all,” Laura said, decisively. “ If he said that 
 he meant it — meant that he cared a great deal for you.” 
 
 “ Oh, I didn’t mean that ! ” shrieked Page. “ But 
 there’s a great deal more to Landry than I think we’ve 
 suspected. He wants to be more than a mere money- 
 getting machine, he says, and he wants to cultivate his 
 mind and understand art and literature and that. And 
 he wants me to help him, and I said I would. So if 
 you don’t mind, he’s coming up here certain nigbts 
 every week, and we’re going to — I’m going to read to 
 him. We’re going to begin with the ‘ Ring and the 
 Book.’ ” 
 
 In the later part of May, the weather being unusually 
 hot, the Jadwins, taking Page with them, went up to 
 Geneva Lake for the summer, and the great house 
 fronting Lincoln Park was deserted. 
 
 Laura had hoped that now her husband would be 
 able to spend his entire time with her, but in this she 
 was disappointed. At first Jadwin went down to the 
 city but two days a week, but soon this was increased 
 to alternate days. Gretry was a frequent visitor at the 
 country house, and often he and Jadwin, their rocking- 
 chairs side by side in a remote corner of the porch, 
 talked “ business ” in low tones till far into the night. 
 
 “ Dear,” said Laura, finally, “ I’m seeing less and 
 
 15 
 
226 
 
 The Pit 
 
 ^ess of you every day, and I had so looked forward to 
 this summer, when we were to be together all the time.” 
 
 “ I hate it as much as you do, Laura,” said her hus- 
 band. “ But I do feel as though I ought to be on the 
 spot just for now. I can’t get it out of my head that 
 we’re going to have livelier times in a few months.” 
 
 “ But even Mr. Gretry says that you don’t need to be 
 right in your office every minute of the time. He says 
 you can manage your Board of Trade business from 
 out here just as well, and that you only go into town 
 because you can’t keep away from La Salle Street and 
 the sound of the Wheat Pit.” 
 
 Was this true? Jadwin himself had found it diffi- 
 cult to answer. There had been a time when Gretry 
 had been obliged to urge and coax to get his friend to 
 so much as notice the swirl of the great maelstrom in 
 the Board of Trade Building. But of late Jadwin’s eye 
 and ear were forever turned thitherward, and it was he, 
 and no longer Gretry, who took initiatives. 
 
 Meanwhile he was making money. As he had pre- 
 dicted, the price of wheat had advanced. May had been 
 a fair-weather month with easy prices, the monthly 
 Government report showing no loss in the condition of 
 the crop. Wheat had gone up from sixty to sixty-six 
 cents, and at a small profit Jadwin had sold some two 
 hundred and fifty thousand bushels. Then had come 
 the hot weather at the end of May. On the floor of the 
 Board of Trade the Pit traders had begun to peel off 
 their coats. It began to look like a hot June, and when 
 cash wheat touched sixty-eight, Jadwin, now more than 
 ever convinced of a coming Bull market, bought another 
 five hundred thousand bushel^ 
 
 This line he added to in June. Unfavorable weather 
 — excessive heat, followed by flooding rains — had hurt 
 the spring wheat, and in every direction there w’ere 
 
227 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 complaints of weevils and chinch bugs. Later on other 
 deluges had discoloured and damaged the winter crop. 
 Jadwin was now, by virtue of his recent purchases, 
 “ long ” one million bushels, and the market held firm 
 at seventy-two cents — a twelve-cent advance in two 
 months, 
 
 “ She’ll react,” warned Gretry, “ sure. Crookes and 
 Sweeny haven’t taken a hand yet. Look out for a 
 heavy French crop. We’ll get reports on it soon now. 
 You’re playing with a gun, J., that kicks further than 
 it shoots.” 
 
 “ We’ve not shot her yet,” Jadwin said. “ We’re 
 only just loading her — for Bears,” he added, with a wink. 
 
 In July came the harvesting returns from all over 
 the country, proving conclusively that for the first time 
 in six years, the United States crop was to be small and 
 poor. The yield was moderate. Only part of it could 
 be graded as “ contract.” Good wheat would be valu- 
 able from now on. Jadwin bought again, and again 
 it was a “ lot ” of half a million bushels. 
 
 Then came the first manifestation of that marvellous 
 golden luck that was to follow Curtis Jadwin through all 
 the coming months. The French wheat crop was an- 
 nounced as poor. In Germany the yield was to be far 
 below the normal. All through Hungary the potato 
 and rye crops were light. 
 
 About the middle of the month Jadwin again called 
 the broker to his country house, and took 'him for a 
 long evening’s trip around the lake, aboard the “ The- 
 tis.” They were alone. MacKenny was at the wheel, 
 and, seated on camp stools In the stern of the little boat, 
 Jadwin outlined his plans for the next few months. 
 
 “ Sam,” he said, “ I thought back In April there that 
 we were to touch top prices about the first of this 
 month, but this French and German news has coloured 
 
228 
 
 The Pit 
 
 the cat different. I’ve been figuring that I would get 
 out of this market around the seventies, but she’s going 
 higher. I’m going to hold on yet awhile.” 
 
 “ You do it on your own responsibility, then,” said 
 the broker. “ I warn you the price is top heavy.” 
 
 “Not much. Seventy-two cents is too cheap. Now I’m 
 going into this hard ; and I want to have my own lines 
 out — to be independent of the trade papers that Crookes 
 could buy up any time he wants to. I want you to get 
 me some good, reliable correspondents in Europe ; 
 smart, bright fellows that we can depend on. I want 
 one in Liverpool, one in Paris, and one in Odessa, and 
 I want them to cable us about the situation every day.” 
 
 Gretry thought a while. 
 
 “ Well,” he said, at length, “ . . . yes. I guess I 
 
 can arrange it. I can get you a good man in Liver- 
 pool — Traynard is his name — and there’s two or three 
 in Paris we could pick up. Odessa — I don’t know. I 
 couldn’t say just this minute. But I’ll fix it.” 
 
 These correspondents began to report at the end of 
 July. All over Europe the demand for wheat was active. 
 Grain handlers were not only buying freely, but were 
 contracting for future delivery. In August came the 
 first demands for American wheat, scattered and spo- 
 radic at first, then later, a little, a very little more in- 
 sistent. 
 
 Thus the summer wore to its end. The fall “ situa- 
 tion ” began slowly to define itself, with eastern Eu- 
 rope — densely populated, overcrowded — commencing 
 to show uneasiness as to its supply of food for the win- 
 ter; and with but a moderate crop in America to meet 
 foreign demands. Russia, the United States, and Ar- 
 gentine would have to feed the world during the next 
 twelve months. 
 
 Over the Chicago Wheat Pit the hand of the great 
 
229 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 indicator stood at seventy-five cents. Jadwin sold out his 
 September wheat at this figure, and then in a single vast 
 clutch bought three million bushels of the December 
 option. 
 
 hNever before had he ventured so deeply into the Pit. 
 Never before had he committed himself so irrevocably 
 to the send of the current. But something was prepar- 
 ing. Something indefinite and huge. He guessed it, 
 felt it, knew it. On all sides of him he felt a quicken- 
 ing movement. Lethargy, inertia were breaking up. 
 There was buoyancy to the current. In its ever-in- 
 creasing swiftness there was exhilaration and exuber- 
 ance. 
 
 And he was upon the crest of the wave. Now the 
 forethought, the shrewdness, and the prompt action of 
 those early spring days were beginning to tell. Con- 
 fident, secure, unassailable, Jadwin plunged in. Every 
 week the swirl of the Pit increased in speed, every week 
 the demands of Europe for American wheat grew more 
 frequent ; and at the end of the month the price — which 
 had fluctuated between seventy-five and seventy-eight 
 — in a sudden flurry rushed to seventy-nine, to seventy- 
 nine and a half, and closed, strong, at the even eighty 
 cents. 
 
 On the day when the latter figure was reached Jad- 
 win bought a seat upon the Board of Trade. 
 
 He was now no longer an “ outsider.'^ 
 
VII 
 
 One morning in November of the same year Laura 
 joined her husband at breakfast, preoccupied and a 
 little grave, her mind full of a subject about which, she 
 told herself, she could no longer keep from speaking. 
 So soon as an opportunity presented itself, which was 
 when Jadwin laid down his paper and drew his coffee- 
 cup towards him, Laura exclaimed : 
 
 “ Curtis.” 
 
 “ Well, old girl?” 
 
 “ Curtis, dear, . . , when is it all going to end — ■ 
 
 your speculating? You never used to be this way. It 
 seems as though, nowadays, I never had you to my- 
 self. Even when you are not going over papers and 
 reports and that, or talking by the hour to Mr. Gretry 
 in the library — even when you ar-e not doing all that, 
 your mind seems to be away from me — down there in 
 La Salle Street or the Board of Trade Building. 
 Dearest, you don’t know. I don’t mean to complain, 
 and I don’t want to be exacting or selfish, but — some- 
 times I — I am 'lonesome. Don’t interrupt,” she said, 
 hastily. “ I want to say it all at once, and then never 
 speak of it again. Last night, when Mr. Gretry was 
 here, you said, just after dinner, that you would be all 
 through your talk in an hour. And I waited. . . . 
 
 I waited till eleven, and then I went to bed. Dear I — I 
 — I was lonesome. The evening was so long. I had 
 put on my very prettiest gown, the one you said you 
 liked so much, and you never seemed to notice. You 
 told me Mr. Gretry was going by nine, and I had it 
 all planned how we would spend the evening together.” 
 
231 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 But she got no further. Her husband had taken her 
 in his arms, and had interrupted her words with blus- 
 tering exclamations of self-reproach and self-condem- 
 nation. He was a brute, he cried, a senseless, selfish 
 ass, who had no right to such a wife, who was not worth 
 a single one of the tears that by now were trembling 
 on Laura’s lashes. 
 
 “ Now we won’t speak of it again,” she began. “ I 
 suppose I am selfish ” 
 
 “ Selfish, nothing ! ” he exclaimed. “ Don’t talk that 
 way. I’m the one ” 
 
 “ But,” Laura persisted, “ some time you will — get 
 out of this speculating for good? Oh, I do look for- 
 ward to it so ! And, Curtis, what is the use? We’re so 
 rich now we can’t spend our money. What do you 
 want to make more for ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, it’s not the money,” he answered. “ It’s the 
 fun of the thing ; the excitement ” 
 
 “ That’s just it, the ‘ excitement.’ You don’t know, 
 Curtis. It is changing you. You are so nervous some- 
 times, and sometimes you don’t listen to me when I 
 talk to you. I can just see what’s in your mind. It’s 
 wheat — ^wheat — ^wheat, wheat — wheat — wheat, all the 
 time. Oh, if you knew how I hated and feared it! ” 
 
 “ Well, old girl, that settles it. I wouldn’t make you 
 unhappy a single minute for all the wheat in the world.” 
 
 “ And you will stop speculating? ” 
 
 “Well, I can’t pull out all in a moment, but just as 
 soon as a chance comes I’ll get out of the market. At 
 any rate, I won’t have any business of mine come be- 
 tween us. I don’t like it any more than you do. Why, 
 how long is it since we’ve read any book together, like 
 we used to when you read aloud to me ? ” 
 
 “ Not since we came back from the country.” 
 
 “ By George, that’s so, that’s so.” He shook his 
 
232 
 
 The Pit 
 
 head. “ I’ve got to taper off. You’re right, Laura, 
 But you don’t know, you haven’t a guess how this trad- 
 ing in wheat gets a hold of you. And, then, what am 
 I to do? What are we fellows, who have made our |] 
 money, to do? I’ve got to be busy. I can’t sit down I 
 and twiddle my thumbs. And I don’t believe in loung- I 
 ing around clubs, or playing with race horses, or mur- i 
 dering game birds, or running some poor, helpless fox to 
 death. Speculating seems to be about the only game, 
 or the only business that’s left open to me — that ap- 
 pears to be legitimate. I know I’ve gone too far into 
 it, and I promise you I’ll quit. But it’s fine fun. When 
 you know how to swing a deal, and can look ahead, 
 a little further than the other fellows, and can take 
 chances they daren’t, and plan and manoeuvre, and then 
 see it all come out just as you had known it would all 
 along — I tell you it’s absorbing.” 
 
 “ But you never do tell me,” she objected. “ I never 
 know what you are doing. I hear through Mr. Court 
 or Mr. Gretry, but never through you. Don’t you 
 think you could trust me? I want to enter into your 
 life on its every side, Curtis. Tell me,” she suddenly 
 demanded, “ what are you doing now? ” 
 
 “ Very well, then,” he said, “ I’ll tell you. Of course 
 you mustn’t speak about it. It’s nothing very secret, 
 but it’s always as well to keep quiet about these things.” 
 
 She gave her word, and leaned her elbows on the 
 table, prepared to listen intently. Jadwin crushed a 
 lump of sugar against the inside of his coffee cup. 
 
 “ Well,” he began, “ I’ve not been doing anything 
 very exciting, except to buy wheat.” 
 
 “What for?” 
 
 “ To sell again. You see, I’m one of those who be- 
 lieve that wheat is going up. I was the very first to 
 see it, I guess, way back last April. Now in August 
 
A Story of Chicago 233 
 
 this year, while we were up at the lake, I bought three 
 million bushels.” 
 
 “ Three — million — bushels ! ” she murmured. “ Why, 
 what do you do with it ? Where do you put it ? ” 
 
 He tried to explain that he had merely bought the 
 right to call for the grain on a certain date, but she 
 ! could not understand this very clearly. 
 
 I “ Never mind,” she told him, “ go on.” 
 
 “ Well, then, at the end of August we found out that 
 the wet weather in England would make a short crop 
 there, and along in September came the news that Si- 
 beria would not raise enough to supply the southern 
 provinces of Russia. That left only the United States 
 and the Argentine Republic to feed pretty much the 
 whole world. Of course that would make wheat valu- 
 I able. Seems to be a short-crop year everywhere. I 
 I saw that wheat would go higher and higher, so I bought 
 ; another million bushels in October, and another early 
 ' in this month. That’s all. You see, I figure that pretty 
 soon those people over in England and Italy and Ger- 
 many — the people that eat wheat — will be willing to 
 pay us in America big prices for it, because it’s so hard 
 to get. They’ve got to have the wheat — it’s bread ’n’ 
 P' butter to them.” 
 
 “ Oh, then why not give it to them ? ” she cried. 
 
 I “ Give it to those poor people — your five million bush- 
 > els. Why, that would be a godsend to them.” 
 
 Jadwin stared a moment. 
 
 “ Oh, that isn’t exactly how it works out,” he said. 
 
 Before he could say more, however, the maid came 
 I in and handed to Jadwin three despatches. 
 
 “ Now those,” said Laura, when the servant had gone 
 out, “ you get those every morning. Are those part of 
 your business? What do they say? ” 
 
 “ I’ll read them to you,” he told her as he slit the 
 
The Pit 
 
 234 
 
 first envelopes. “ They are cablegrams from agents of 
 mine in Europe. Gretry arranged to have them sent 
 to me. Here now, this is from Odessa. It’s in cipher, 7 
 but ” — he drew a narrow memorandum-book from his 
 breast pocket — “ I’ll translate it for you.” 
 
 He turned the pages of the key book a few moments, • 
 jotting down the translation on the back of an envel- 
 ope with the gold pencil at the end of his watch chain. 
 
 “ Here’s how it reads,” he said at last. “ ‘ Cash wheat r 
 advanced one cent bushel on Liverpool buying, stock 
 light. Shipping to interior. European price not at- 
 tractive to sellers.” 
 
 “ What does that mean?” she asked. 
 
 “ Well, that Russia will not export wheat, that she ' 
 has no more than enough for herself, so that Western 
 Europe will have to, look to us for her wheat.” 
 
 “ And the others ? Read those to me.” 
 
 Again Jadwin translated. 
 
 “ This is from Paris : 
 
 “ ‘ Answer on one million bushels wheat in your 
 market — stocks lighter than expected, and being cleared 
 up.’ ” 
 
 “ Which is to say? ” she queried. 
 
 “ They want to know how much I would ask for a mil- 
 lion bushels. They find it hard to get the stuff over 
 there — ^just as I said they would.” 
 
 “ Will you sell it to them? ” 
 
 “ Maybe. I’ll talk to Sam about it.^ 
 
 “ And now the last one.” 
 
 “ It’s from Liverpool, and Liverpool, you must under- 
 stand, is the great buyer of wheat. It’s a tremendously , 
 influential place.” ( 
 
 He began once more to consult the key book, one 1 
 finger following the successive code words of the des- ' 
 patch. 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 235 
 
 Laura, watching him, saw his eyes suddenly contract, 
 “ By George,” he muttered, all at once, “ by George, 
 what’s this ? ” 
 
 ! “ What is it ? ” she demanded. “ Is it important ? ” 
 
 But all-absorbed, Jadwin neither heard nor re- 
 sponded. Three times he verified the same word. 
 
 “ Oh, please tell me,” she begged. 
 
 Jadwin shook his head impatiently and held up a 
 warning hand. 
 
 “ Wait, wait,” he said. “ Wait a minute.” 
 
 Word for word he wrote out the translation of the 
 cablegram, and then studied it intently. 
 
 “ That’s it,” he said, at last. Then he got to his feet. 
 “ I guess I’ve had enough breakfast,” he declared. He 
 looked at his watch, touched the call bell, and when the 
 maid appeared said: 
 
 “ Tell Jarvis to bring the buggy around right away.” 
 “ But, dear, what is it? ” repeated Laura. “ You said 
 you would tell me. You see,” she cried, “ it’s just as I 
 said. You’ve forgotten my very existence. When it’s 
 a question of wheat I count for nothing. And just now, 
 when you read the despatch to yourself, you were all 
 different; such a look came into your face, so cruelly 
 eager, and triumphant and keen ” 
 
 “ You’d be eager, too,” he exclaimed, “ if you under- 
 stood. Look; read it for yourself.” 
 
 He thrust the cable into her hands. Over each code 
 word he had written its translation, and his wife read : 
 
 “ Large firms here short and in embarrassing posi- 
 tion, owing to curtailment in Argentine shipments. 
 Can negotiate for five million wheat if price satisfac- 
 tory.” 
 
 “Well?” she asked. 
 
 “ Well, don’t you see what that means ? It’s the * Eu- 
 ropean demand ’ at last. They must have wheat, and 
 
236 
 
 The Pit 
 
 I’ve got It to give ’em — ^wheat that I bought, oh, at 
 seventy cents, some of it, and they’ll pay the market— 
 that is, eighty cents, for it. Oh, they’ll pay more. 
 They’ll pay eighty-two if I want ’em to. France is after 
 the stuff, too. Remember that cable from Paris I just 
 read. They’d bid against each other. Why, if I pull 
 this off, if this goes through — and, by George,” he went 
 on, speaking as much to himself as to her, new phases 
 of the affair presenting themselves to him at every mo- 
 ment, “ by George, I don’t have to throw this wheat 
 into the Pit and break down the price — and Gretry 
 has understandings with the railroads, through the 
 elevator gang, so we get big rebates. Why, this wheat 
 is worth eighty-two cents to them — and then there’s 
 this ‘ curtailment in Argentine shipments.’ That’s the 
 first word we’ve had about small crops there. Holy 
 Moses, if the Argentine crop is off, wheat will knock 
 the roof clean off the Board of Trade ! ” The maid 
 reappeared in the doorway. “ The buggy ? ” queried | 
 Jadwin. “ All right. I’m off, Laura, and — until it’s \ 
 over keep quiet about all this, you know. Ask me to I 
 read you some more cables some dayi It brings good 1 
 luck.” I 
 
 He gathered up his despatches and the mail and was I 
 gone. Laura, left alone, sat looking out of the win- !, 
 dow a long moment. She heard the front door close, 
 and then the sound of the horses’ hoofs on the asphalt 
 by the carriage porch. They died down, ceased, and all 
 at once a great silence seemed to settle over the house. 
 Laura sat thinking. At last she rose. 
 
 ^ “ It is the first time,” she said to herself, “ that Curtis ■ 
 
 ever forgot to kiss me good-by.” | 
 
 The day, for all that the month was December, was < 
 fine. The sun shone; under foot the ground was dry | 
 and hard. The snow which had fallen ten days before 
 
237 
 
 ! A Story of Chicago 
 
 1 was practically gone. In fine, it was a perfect day for 
 - jriding. Laura called her maid and got into her habit, 
 t The groom with his own horse and “ Crusader ” were 
 ; jwaiting for her when she descended. 
 
 ; j That forenoon Laura rode further and longer than 
 I 'usual. Preoccupied at first, her mind burdened with 
 , vague anxieties, she nevertheless could not fail to be 
 [aroused and stimulated by the sparkle and efferves- 
 cence of the perfect morning, and the cold, pure glitter 
 |of Lake Michigan, green with an intense mineral hue, 
 dotted with whitecaps, and flashing under the morn- 
 ling sky. Lincoln Park was deserted and still ; a blue 
 jhaze shrouded the distant masses of leafless trees, where 
 the gardeners were burning the heaps of leaves. Under 
 her the thoroughbred moved with an ease and a freedom 
 [that were superb, throwing back one sharp ear at her 
 lightest word; his rippling mane caressed her hand and 
 forearm, and as she looked down upon his shoulder 
 ■ she could see the long, slender muscles, working 
 smoothly, beneath the satin sheen of the skin. At the 
 [water works she turned into the long, straight road 
 [that leads to North Lake, and touched Crusader with 
 I the crop, checking him slightly at the same time. 
 
 I With a little toss of his head he broke from a trot into 
 I'a canter, and then, as she leaned forward in the saddle, 
 into his long, even gallop. There was no one to see ; 
 [she would not be conspicuous, so Laura gave the horse 
 his head, and in another moment he was carrying her 
 swith a swiftness that brought the water to her eyes, 
 land that sent her hair flying from her face. She 
 had him completely under control. A touch upon the 
 bit, she knew, would suffice to bring him to a stand- 
 still. She knew him to be without fear and without 
 j nerves, knew that his every instinct made for her safety, 
 and that this morning’s gallop was as much a pleasure 
 
238 
 
 The Fit 
 
 to him as to his rider. Beneath her and around her the 
 roadway and landscape flew; the cold air sang in her ■ 
 ears and whipped a faint colour to her pale cheeks; 
 in her deep brown eyes a frosty sparkle came and went, ^ 
 and throughout all her slender figure the blood raced 
 spanking and careering in a full, strong tide of health 
 and gaiety. 
 
 She made a circle around North Lake, and came back 
 by way of the Linne monument and the Palm House, 
 Crusader ambling quietly by now, the groom trot- 
 ting stolidly in the rear. Throughout all her ride she 
 had seen no one but the park gardeners and the single 
 grey-coated, mounted policeman whom she met each 
 time she rode, and who always touched his helmet to 
 her as she cantered past. Possibly she had grown a 
 little careless in looking out for pedestrians at the cross- 
 ings, for as she turned eastward at the La Salle statue, 
 she all but collided with a gentleman who was travers- 
 ing the road at the same time. 
 
 She brought her horse to a standstill with a little • 
 start of apprehension, and started again as she saw that 
 the gentleman was Sheldon Corthell. 
 
 “ Well,” she cried, taken all aback, unable to think 
 of formalities, and relapsing all at once into the young 
 girl of Barrington, Massachusetts, “ well, I never — of 
 all the people.” 
 
 But, no doubt, she had been more in his mind than 
 he in hers, and a meeting with her was for him an 
 eventuality not at all remote. There was more of 
 pleasure than of embarrassment in that first look in 
 which he recognised the wife of Curtis Jadwin. 
 
 The artist had changed no whit in the four years | 
 since last she had seen him. He seemed as young as 
 ever; there was the same “elegance” to his figure; 1 
 his hands were just as long and slim as ever; his black 
 
239 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 beard was no less finely pointed, and the mustaches 
 were brushed away from his lips in the same French 
 style that she remembered he used to affect. He was, 
 
 •I as always, carefully dressed. He wore a suit of tweeds 
 f of a foreign cut, but no overcoat, a cloth cap of green- 
 ish plaid was upon his head, his hands were gloved in 
 dogskin, and under his arm he carried a slender cane 
 of varnished brown bamboo. The only unconvention- 
 ality in his dress was the cravat, a great bow of black 
 silk that overflowed the lapels of his coat. 
 
 iBut she had no more than time to register a swift 
 impression of the details, when he came quickly for- 
 ward, one hand extended, the other holding his cap. 
 
 “ I cannot tell you how glad I am,” he exclaimed, 
 j It was the old Corthell beyond doubting or denial. 
 Not a single inflection of his low-pitched, gently modu- 
 lated voice was wanting ; not a single infinitesimal 
 mannerism was changed, even to the little tilting of the 
 chin when he spoke, or the quick winking of the eye- 
 : lids, or the smile that narrowed the corners of the eyes 
 
 I themselves, or the trick of perfect repose of his whole 
 body. Even his handkerchief, as always, since first she 
 had known him, was tucked into his sleeve at the wrist. 
 
 “ And so you are back again,” she cried. “ And when, 
 and how ? ” ' 
 
 I' “ And so — yes — so I am back again,” he repeated, as 
 
 <hey shook hands. “ Only day before yesterday, and 
 : quite surreptitiously. No one knows yet that I am 
 ' here. I crept in — or my train did — under the cover of 
 ; night. I have come straig*ht from Tuscany.” 
 
 I “ From Tuscany? ” 
 
 I “ and gardens and marble pergolas.” 
 
 “ Now why any one should leave Tuscan gardens 
 and — and all that kind of thing for a winter in Chicago, 
 i I cannot see,” she said. 
 
240 
 
 The Pit 
 
 “ It is a little puzzling,” he answered. “ But I fancy 
 that my gardens and pergolas and all the rest had come 
 to seem to me a little — as the French would put it — ' 
 malle. I began to long for a touch of our hard, harsh 
 city again. Harshness has its place, I think, if it is only 
 to cut one’s teeth on.” 
 
 Laura looked down at him, smiling. 
 
 “ I should have thought you had cut yours long ago,” 
 she said. 
 
 “ Not my wisdom teeth,” he urged. “ I feel now that 
 I have come to that time of life when it is expedient 
 to have wisdom.” 
 
 “ I have never known that feeling,” she confessed, 
 “ and I live in the ‘ hard, harsh ’ city.” 
 
 “ Oh, that is because you have never known what it 
 meant not to have wisdom,” he retorted. “ Tell me 
 about everybody,” he went on. “ Your husband, he is 
 well, of course, and distressfully rich. I heard of him 
 in New York. And Page, our little, solemn Minerva of 
 Dresden china? ” 
 
 “ Oh, yes. Page is well, but you will hardly recognise 
 her; such a young lady nowadays.” 
 
 “ And Mr. Court, ' Landry ’ ? I remember he always 
 impressed me as though he had just had his hair cut; 
 and the Cresslers, and Mrs. Wessels, and ” 
 
 “ All well. Mrs. Cressler will be delighted to hear 
 you are back. Yes, everybody is well.” 
 
 “And, last of all, Mrs. Jadwin? But I needn’t ask; 
 I can see how well and happy you are.” 
 
 “ And Mr. Corthell,” she queried, “ is also well and 
 happy? ” 
 
 “ Mr. Corthell,” he responded, “ is very well, and — 
 tolerably — happy, thank you. One has lost a few illu- 
 sions, but has managed to keep enough to grow old 
 on. One’s latter days are provided for.” 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 241 
 
 “ I shouldn’t imagine,” she told him, “ that one lost 
 illusions in Tuscan gardens.” 
 
 “ Quite right,” he hastened to reply, smiling cheer- 
 fully. “ One lost no illusions in Tuscany. One went 
 there to cherish the few that yet remained. But,” he 
 added, without change of manner, “ one begins to be- 
 lieve that even a lost illusion can be very beautiful 
 sometimes — even in Chicago.” 
 
 “ I want you to dine with us,” said Laura. “ You’ve 
 hardly met my husband, and I think you will like some 
 of our pictures. I will have all your old friends there, 
 the Cresslers and Aunt Wess’ and all. When can you 
 come? ” 
 
 “ Oh, didn’t you get my note ? ” he asked. “ I wrote 
 you yesterday, asking if I might call to-night. You 
 see, I am only in Chicago for a couple of days. I must 
 go on to St. Louis to-morrow, and shall not be back 
 for a week.” 
 
 “Note? No, I’ve had no note from you. Oh, I 
 know what happened. Curtis left in a hurry this morn- 
 ing, and he swooped all the mail into his pocket 
 the last moment. I knew some of my letters were 
 with his. There’s where your note went. But, never 
 mind, it makes no difference now that we’ve met. Yes, 
 by all means, come to-night — to dinner. We’re not a 
 bit formal. Curtis won’t have it. We dine at six ; and 
 I’ll try to get the others. Oh, but Page won’t be there, 
 I forgot. She and Landry Court are going to have din- 
 ner with Aunt Wess’, and they are all going to a lecture 
 afterwards.” 
 
 The artist expressed his appreciation and accepted her 
 invitation. 
 
 “ Do you know where we live ? ” she demanded. 
 “ You know we’ve moved since.” 
 
 “ Yes, I know,” he told her. “ I made up my mind 
 16 
 
242 
 
 The Pit 
 
 to take a long walk here in the Park this morning, and 
 I passed your house on my way out. You see, I had 
 to look up your address in the directory before writ- 
 ing. Your house awed me, I contess, and the style is 
 surprisingly good.” 
 
 “ But tell me,” asked Laura, “ you never speak of 
 yourself, what have you been doing since you went 
 away ? ” 
 
 “ Nothing. Merely idling, and painting a little, and 
 studying some thirteenth century glass in Avignon 
 and Sienna.” 
 
 “ And shall you go back ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, I think so, in about a month. So soon as I 
 have straightened out some little businesses of mine — 
 which puts me in mind,” he said, glancing at his watch, 
 “ that I have an appointment at eleven, and should be 
 about it.” 
 
 He said good-by and left her, and Laura cantered 
 homeward in high spirits. She was very glad that Cor- 
 thell had come back. She had always liked him. He 
 not only talked w'ell himself, but seemed to have the 
 faculty of making her do the same. She remembered 
 that in the old days, before she had met Jadwin, her 
 mind and conversation, for undiscoverable reasons, had 
 never been nimbler, quicker, nor more effective than 
 when in the company of the artist. 
 
 Arrived at home, Laura (as soon as she had looked 
 up the definition of “ pergola ” in the dictionary) lost 
 no time in telephoning to Mrs. Cressler. 
 
 “ What,” this latter cried when she told her the news, 
 “ that Sheldon Corthell back again ! Well, dear me, 
 if he wasn’t the last person in my mind. I do re- 
 member the lovely windows he used to paint, and how 
 refined and elegant he always was — and the loveliest 
 hands and voice.” 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 243 
 
 “ He’s to dine with us to-night, and I want you and 
 Mr. Cressler to come.” 
 
 “ Oh, Laura, child, I just simply can’t. Charlie’s got 
 a man from Milwaukee coming here to-night, and I’ve 
 got to feed him. Isn’t it too provoking ? I’ve got to sit 
 and hsten to those two, clattering commissions and 
 percentages and all, when I might be hearing Sheldon 
 Corthell talk art and poetry and stained glass. I de- 
 clare, I never have any luck.” 
 
 At quarter to six that evening Laura sat in the library, 
 before the fireplace, in her black velvet dinner gown, 
 cutting the pages of a new novel, the ivory cutter as 
 it turned and glanced in her hand, appearing to be a 
 mere prolongation of her slender fingers. But she 
 was not interested in the book, and from time to time 
 glanced nervously at the clock upon the mantel-shelf 
 over her head. Jadwin was not home yet, and she was 
 distressed at the thought of keeping dinner waiting. 
 He usually came back from down town at five o’clock, 
 and even earlier. To-day she had expected that quite 
 possibly the business implied in the Liverpool cable 
 of the morning might detain him, but surely he should 
 be home by now; and as the minutes passed she list- 
 ened more and more anxiously for the sound of hoofs 
 on the driveway at the side of the house. 
 
 At five minutes of the hour, when Corthell was an- 
 nounced, there was still no sign of her husband. But 
 as she was crossing the hall on her way to the draw- 
 ing-room, one of the servants informed her that Mr. 
 Jadwin had just telephoned that he would be home in 
 half an hour. 
 
 “Is he on the telephone now?” she asked, quickly. 
 “ Where did he telephone from? ” 
 
 But it appeared that Jadwin had “ hung up ” without 
 mentioning his whereabouts. 
 
244 
 
 The Pit 
 
 “ The buggy came home,” said the servant, “ Mr, 
 Jadwin told Jarvis not to wait. He said he would come 
 in the street cars,” 
 
 Laura reflected that she could delay dinner a half 
 hpur, and gave orders to that effect, 
 
 ^“We shall have to wait a little,” she explained to 
 Corthell as they exchanged greetings in the drawing- 
 room, “ Curtis has some special business on hand to- 
 day, and is half an hour late.’^ 
 
 They sat down on either side of the fireplace in the 
 lofty apartment, with its sombre hangings of wine- 
 coloured brocade and thick, muffling rugs, and for up- 
 wards of three-quarters of an hour Corthell interested 
 her with his description of his life in the cathedral towns 
 of northern Italy, But at the end of that time dinner 
 was announced. 
 
 “ Has Mr. Jadwin come in yet? ” Laura asked of the 
 servant. 
 
 “ No, madam.” 
 
 She bit her lip in vexation. 
 
 “ I can’t imagine what can keep Curtis so late,” she 
 murmured. “ Well,” she added, at the end of her re- 
 sources, “ we must make the best of it. I think we 
 will go in, Mr. Corthell, without waiting. Curtis must 
 be here soon now.” 
 
 But, as a matter of fact, he was not. In the great din- 
 ing-room, filled with a dull crimson light, the air just 
 touched with the scent of lilies of the valley, Corthell 
 and ]\Irs. Jadwin dined alone. 
 
 “ I suppose,” observed the artist, “ that Mr. Jadwin 
 is a very busy man.” 
 
 “ Oh, no,” Laura answered. “ His real estate, he 
 says, runs itself, and, as a rule, Mr. Gretrj' manages 
 most of his Board of Trade business. It is only occa- 
 sionally that anything keeps him down town late. I 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 245 
 
 scolded him this morning, however, about his speculat- 
 ing, and made him promise not to do so much of it. 
 I hate speculation. It seems to absorb some men so; 
 and I don’t believe it’s right for a man to allow himself 
 to become absorbed altogether in business.” 
 
 “ Oh, why limit one’s absorption to business ? ” re- 
 plied Corthell, sipping his wine. “ Is it right for one 
 to be absorbed ‘ altogether ’ in anything — even in art, 
 even in religion ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, religion, I don’t know,” she protested. 
 
 “ Isn’t that certain contribution,” he hazarded, 
 “ which we make to the general welfare, over and 
 above our own individual work, isn’t that the essential? 
 I suppose, of course, that we must hoe, each of us, 
 his own little row, but it’s the stroke or two we give 
 to our neighbour’s row — don’t you think? — that helps 
 most to cultivate the field.” 
 
 “ But doesn’t religion mean more than a stroke or 
 two ? ” she ventured to reply. 
 
 “ I’m not so sure,” he answered, thoughtfully. “ If 
 the stroke or two is taken from one’s own work instead 
 of being given in excess of it. One must do one’s own 
 hoeing first. That’s the foundation of things. A religion 
 that would mean to be ‘ altogether absorbed ’ in my 
 neighbour’s hoeing would be genuinely pernicious, 
 surely. My row, meanwhile, would lie open to weeds.” 
 
 “ But if your neighbour’s row grew flowers ? ” 
 
 “ Unfortunately weeds grow faster than the flowers, 
 and the weeds of my row would spread until they 
 choked and killed my neighbour’s flowers, I am sure.” 
 
 “ That seems selfish though,” she persisted. “ Sup- 
 pose my neighbour were maimed or halt or blind? His 
 poor little row would never be finished. My stroke or 
 two would not help very much.” 
 
 “ Yes, but every row lies between two others, you 
 
246 
 
 The Pit 
 
 know. The hoer on the far side of the cripple’s row 
 would contribute a stroke or two as well as you. No,” 
 he went on, “ I am sure one’s first duty is to do one’s 
 own work. It seems to me that a work accomplished 
 benefits the whole world — the people — pro rata. If we 
 help another at the expense of our work instead of in 
 excess of it, we benefit only the individual, and, pro 
 rata again, rob the people. A little good contributed 
 by everybody to the race is of more, infinitely more, 
 importance than a great deal of good contributed by 
 one individual to another.” 
 
 “ Yes,” she admitted, beginning at last to be con- 
 vinced, “ I see what you mean. But one must think 
 very large to see that. It never occurred to me be- 
 fore. The individual — I, Laura Jadwin — counts for 
 nothing. It is the type to which I belong that’s im- 
 portant, the mould, the form, the sort of composite 
 photograph of hundreds of thousands of Laura Jad- 
 wins. Yes,” she continued, her brows bent, her mind 
 hard at work, “ what I am, the little things that dis- 
 tinguish me from everybody else, those pass away very 
 quickly, are very ephemeral. But the type Laura Jad- 
 win, that always remains, doesn’t it? One must help 
 building up only the permanent things. Then, let’s see, 
 the individual may deteriorate, but the type always 
 grows better. . . . Yes, I think one can say that.” 
 
 “ At least the type never recedes,” he prompted. 
 
 “Oh, it began good,” she cried, as though at a dis- 
 covery, “ and can never go back of that original good. 
 Something keeps it from going below a certain point, 
 and it is left to us to lift it higher and higher. No, 
 the type can’t be bad. Of course the type is more im- 
 portant than the individual. And that something that 
 keeps it from going below a certain point is God.” 
 
 “ Or nature.” 
 
247 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 “ So that God and nature,” she cried again, “ work 
 together? No, no, they are one and the same thing.” 
 
 “ There, don’t you see,” he remarked, smiling back 
 at her, “ how simple it is ? ” 
 
 “ Oh-h,” exclaimed Laura, with a deep breath, “ isn’t 
 it beautiful ? ” She put her hand to her forehead with 
 a little laugh of deprecation. “ My,” she said, “ but 
 those things make you think.” 
 
 Dinner was over before she was aware of it, and they 
 were still talking animatedly as they rose from the table. 
 
 “We will have our coffee in the art gallery,” Laura 
 said, “ and please smoke.” 
 
 He lit a cigarette, and the two passed into the great 
 glass-roofed rotunda. 
 
 “ Here is the one I like best,” said Laura, standing 
 before the Bougereau. 
 
 “Yes?” he queried, observing the picture thought- 
 fully. “ I suppose,” he remarked, “ it is because it de- 
 mands less of you than some others. I see what you 
 mean. It pleases you because it satisfies you so easily. 
 You can grasp it without any effort.” 
 
 “ Oh, I don’t know,” she ventured. 
 
 “ Bougereau ‘ fills a place.’ I know it,” he answered. 
 “ But I cannot persuade myself to admire his art.” 
 
 “ But,” she faltered, “ I thought that Bougereau was 
 considered the greatest — one of the greatest — his won- 
 derful flesh tints, the drawing, and colouring ” 
 
 “ But I think you will see,” he told her, “ if you think 
 about it, that for all there is in his picture — back of it 
 — a fine hanging, a beautiful vase would have exactly 
 the same value upon your wall. Now, on the other 
 hand, take this picture.” He indicated a small canvas 
 to the right of the bathing nymphs, representing a 
 twilight landscape. 
 
 “ Oh, that one,” said Laura. “ We bought that here 
 
248 
 
 The Pit 
 
 in America, in New York. It’s by a Western artist. 
 I never noticed it much, I’m afraid.” 
 
 “ But now look at it,” said Corthell. “ Don’t you 
 know that the artist saw something more than trees 
 and a pool and afterglow? He had that feeling of night 
 coming on, as he sat there before his sketching easel 
 on the edge of that little pool. He heard the frogs 
 beginning to pipe, I’m sure, and the touch of the night 
 mist was on his hands. And he was very lonely and 
 even a little sad. In those deep shadows under the 
 trees he put something of himself, the gloom and the 
 sadness that he felt at the moment. And that little 
 pool, still and black and sombre — why, the whole thing 
 is the tragedy of a life full of dark, hidden secrets. 
 And the little pool is a heart. No one can say how 
 deep it is, or what dreadful thing one would find at the 
 bottom, or what drowned hopes or what sunken am- 
 bitions. That little pool says one word as plain as if 
 it were whispered in the ear — despair. Oh, yes, I pre- 
 fer it to the nymphs.” 
 
 “ I am very much ashamed,” returned Laura, “ that 
 I could not see it all before for myself. But I see it 
 now. It is better, of course. I shall come in here 
 often now and study it. Of all the rooms in our house, 
 this is the one I like best. But, I am afraid, it has been 
 more because of the organ than of the pictures.” 
 
 Corthell turned about. 
 
 “ Oh, the grand, noble organ,” he murmured. “ I 
 envy you this of all your treasures. May I play for 
 you? Something to compensate for the dreadful, de- 
 spairing little tarn of the picture.” 
 
 “ I should love to have you,” she told him. 
 
 He asked permission to lower the lights, and stepping 
 outside the door an instant, pressed the buttons that 
 extinguished all but a very few of them. After he had 
 
249 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 done this he came back to the organ and detached the 
 ; self-playing “ arrangement ” without comment, and 
 seated himself at the console. 
 
 Laura lay back in a long chair close at hand. The 
 moment was propitious. The artist’s profile silhouetted 
 itself against the shade of a light that burned at the 
 side of the organ, and that gave light to the keyboard. 
 And on this keyboard, full in the reflection, lay his long, 
 slim hands. They were the only things that moved in 
 the room, and the chords and bars of Mendelssohn’s 
 “ Consolation ” seemed, as he played, to flow, not from 
 the instrument, but, like some invisible ether, from his 
 finger-tips themselves. 
 
 “You hear,” he said to Laura, “the effect of ques' 
 tions and answer in this. The questions are passion- 
 ! ate and tumultuous and varied, but the answer is al- 
 ways the same, always calm and soothing and dignified.” 
 
 She answered with a long breath, speaking just above 
 a whisper: 
 
 “ Oh, yes, yes, I understand.” 
 
 He finished and turned towards her a moment. “ Pos- 
 sibly not a very high order of art,” he said ; “ a little too 
 ‘ easy,’ perhaps, like the Bougereau, but ‘ Consolation ’ 
 should appeal very simply and directly, after all. Do 
 you care for Beethoven?” 
 
 “ I — I am afraid — ” began Laura, but he had con- 
 tinued without waiting for her reply. 
 
 “You remember this? The ‘ Appassionata,’ the F 
 minor sonata — ^just the second movement.” 
 
 But when he had finished Laura begged him to con- 
 tinue. 
 
 “ Please go on,” she said. “ Play anything. You 
 can’t tell how I love it.” 
 
 “ Here is something I’ve always liked,” he answered, 
 turning back to the keyboard. “ It is the * Mephisto 
 
250 
 
 The Pit 
 
 Walzer ’ of Liszt. He has adapted it himself from his 
 own orchestral score, very ingeniously. It is difficult 
 to render on the organ, but I think you can get the idea 
 of it.” As he spoke he began playing, his head very 
 slightly moving to the rhythm of the piece. At the 
 beginning of each new theme, and without interrupting 
 his playing, he offered a word of explanation; 
 
 “Very vivid and arabesque this, don’t you think? 
 . . . And now this movement; isn’t it reckless and 
 
 capricious, like a woman who hesitates and then takes 
 the leap? Yet there’s a certain nobility there, a feel- 
 ing for ideals. You see it, of course. . . . And all 
 the while this undercurrent of the sensual, and that 
 feline, eager sentiment . . . and here, I think, is 
 the best part of it, the very essence of passion, the 
 voluptuousness that is a veritable anguish. . . . 
 
 These long, slow rhythms, tortured, languishing, really 
 dying. It reminds one of ‘ Phedre ’ — V enus toute en- 
 tiere,’ and the rest of it; and Wagner has the same. 
 You find it again in Isolde’s motif continually.” 
 
 Laura was transfixed, all but transported. Here was 
 something better than Gounod and Verdi, something 
 above and beyond the obvious one, two, three, one, 
 two, three of the opera scores as she knew them and 
 played them. Music she understood with an intuitive 
 quickness ; and those prolonged chords of Liszt’s, heavv' 
 and clogged and cloyed with passion, reached some 
 hitherto untouched string within her heart, and ^vith 
 resistless power twanged it so that the vibration of it 
 shook her entire being, and left her quivering and 
 breathless, the tears in her eyes, her hands clasped till 
 the knuckles whitened. 
 
 She felt all at once as though a whole new world were 
 opened to her. She stood on Pisgah. And she was 
 ashamed and confused at her ignorance of those things 
 
251 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 which Corthell tactfully assumed that she knew as a 
 matter of course. What wonderful pleasures she had 
 ignored! How infinitely removed from her had been 
 the real world of art and artists of which Corthell was 
 a part ! Ah, but she would make amends now. No 
 more Verdi and Bougereau. She would get rid of 
 the “ Bathing Nymphs.” Never, never again would 
 she play the “ Anvil Chorus,” Corthell should select 
 her pictures, and should play to her from Liszt and 
 Beethoven that music which evoked all the turbulent 
 emotion, all the impetuosity and fire and exaltation 
 that she felt was hers. 
 
 She wondered at herself. Surely, surely there were 
 two Laura Jadwins. One calm and even and steady, 
 loving the quiet life, loving her home, finding a pleas- 
 ure in the duties of the housewife. This was the Laura 
 who liked plain, homely, matter-of-fact Mrs. Cressler, 
 who adored her husband, who delighted in Mr. How- 
 ells’s novels, who abjured society and the formal con- 
 ventions, who went to church every Sunday, and who 
 was afraid of her own elevator. 
 
 But at moments such as this she knew that there was 
 another Laura Jadwin — the Laura Jadwin who might 
 have been a great actress, who had a “ temperament,” 
 who was impulsive. This was the Laura of the “ grand 
 manner,” who played the role of the great lady from 
 room to room of her vast house, who read Mere- 
 dith, who revelled in swift gallops through the park 
 on jet-black, long-tailed horses, who affected black 
 velvet, black jet, and black lace in her gowns, who 
 was conscious and proud of her pale, stately beauty — 
 the Laura Jadwin, in fine, who delighted to recline in a 
 long chair in the dim, beautiful picture gallery and 
 listen with half-shut eyes to the great golden organ 
 thrilling to the passion of Beethoven and Liszt. 
 
252 
 
 The Pit 
 
 The last notes of the organ sank and faded into 
 silence — a silence that left a sense of darkness like that 
 which follows upon the flight of a falling star, and 
 after a long moment Laura sat upright, adjusting the 
 heavy masses of her black hair with thrusts of her 
 long, white fingers. She drew a deep breath. 
 
 “ Oh,” she said, “ that was wonderful, wonderful. 
 It is like a new language — no, it is like new thoughts, 
 too fine for language.” 
 
 “ I have always believed so,” he answered. “ Of all 
 the arts, music, to my notion, is the most intimate. At 
 the other end of the scale you have architecture, which 
 is an expression of and an appeal to the common multi- 
 tude, a whole people, the mass. Fiction and painting, 
 and even poetry, are affairs of the classes, reaching 
 the groups of the educated. But music — ah, that is 
 different, it is one soul speaking to another soul. The 
 composer meant it for you and himself. No one else 
 has anything to do with it. Because his soul was hea\’y 
 and broken with grief, or bursting with passion, or tor- 
 tured with doubt, or searching for some unnamed ideal, 
 he has come to you — you of all the people in the world 
 — with his message, and he tells you of his yearnings 
 and his sadness, knowing that you will sympathise, 
 knowing that your soul has, like his, been acquainted 
 with grief, or with gladness ; and in the music his soul 
 speaks to yours, beats with it, blends with it, yes, is 
 even, spiritually, married to it.” 
 
 And as he spoke the electrics all over the gallery 
 flashed out in a sudden blaze, and Curtis Jadwin entered 
 the room, crying out : 
 
 “Are you here, Laura? By George, my girl, we 
 pulled it off, and I’ve cleaned up five — hundred — ^thou- 
 sand — dollars.” 
 
 Laura and the artist faced quickly about, blinking at 
 the sudden glare, and Laura put her hand over her eyes. 
 
253 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 ** Oh, I didn’t mean to blind you,” said her husband, 
 as he came forward. “But I thought it wouldn’t be 
 appropriate to tell you the good news in the dark.” 
 
 Corthell rose, and for the first time Jadwin caught 
 sight of him. 
 
 “This is Mr. Corthell, Curtis,” Laura said. “You 
 remember him, of course ? ” 
 
 “ Why, certainly, certainly,” declared Jadwin, shaking 
 Corthell’s hand. “ Glad to see you again. I hadn’t an 
 
 I idea you were here.” He was excited, elated, very 
 
 talkative. “ I guess I came in on you abruptly,” he 
 ; observed. “ They told me Mrs. Jadwin was in here, and 
 ' I was full of my good news. By the way, I do remem- 
 ber now. When I came to look over my mail on the 
 way down town this morning, I found a note from you 
 to my wife, saying you would call to-night. Thought 
 it was for me, and opened it before I found the mistake.” 
 
 “ I knew you had gone off with it,” said Laura. 
 
 “ Guess I must have mixed it up with my own mail 
 this morning. I’d have telephoned you about it, Laura, 
 but upon my word I’ve been so busy all day I clean for- 
 got it. I’ve let the cat out of the bag already, Mr. 
 Corthell, and I might as well tell the whole thing now. 
 I’ve been putting through a little deal with some Liver- 
 pool fellows to-day, and I had to wait down town to get 
 their cables to-night. You got my telephone, did you, 
 Laura?” 
 
 “ Yes, but you said then you’d be up in half an hour.” 
 
 “ I know — I know. But those Liverpool cables didn’t 
 come till all hours. Well, as I was saying, Mr. Corthell, 
 I had this deal on hand — it was that wheat, Laura, I was 
 telling you about this morning — five million bushels of 
 it, and I found out from my English agent that I could 
 slam it right into a couple of fellows over there, if we 
 could come to terms. We came to terms right enouglv 
 
254 
 
 The Pit 
 
 Some of that wheat I sold at a profit of fifteen cents on 
 every bushel. My broker and I figured it out just now, 
 before I started home, and, as I say, I’m a clean half 
 million to the good. So much for looking ahead a little 
 further than the next man.” He dropped into a chair 
 and stretched his arms wide. “ Whoo ! I’m tired, 
 Laura. Seems as though I’d been on my feet all day. 
 Do you suppose Mary, or Martha, or Maggie, or what- 
 ever her name is, could rustle me a good strong cup of 
 tea?” 
 
 “ Haven’t you dined, Curtis ? ” cried Laura. 
 
 “ Oh, I had a stand-up lunch somewhere with Sam. 
 But we were both so excited we might as well have 
 eaten sawdust. Heigho, I sure am tired. It takes it 
 out of you, Mr. Corthell, to make five hundred thousand 
 in about ten hours.” 
 
 {j,‘ Indeed I imagine so,” assented the artist. Jadwin 
 turned to his wife, and held her glance in his a moment. 
 He was full of triumph, full of the grim humour of the 
 suddenly successful American^ 
 
 “ Hey ? ” he said. “ What do you think of that, 
 Laura,” he clapped down his big hand upon his chair 
 arm, “ a whole half million — at one grab ? Maybe they’ll 
 say down there in La Salle Street now that I don’t know 
 wheat. Why, Sam — that’s Gretry my broker, IMr. Cor- 
 thell, of Gretry, Converse & Co. — Sam said to me, 
 Laura, to-night, he said, ‘ J.,’ — they call me ‘ J.’ down 
 there, Mr. Corthell — ‘ J., I take off my hat to jmu. 
 I thought you were wrong from the very first, but I 
 guess you know this game better than I do.’ Yes, sir, 
 that’s what he said, and Sam Gretry has been trading 
 in wheat for pretty nearly thirty years. Oh, I knew it,” 
 he cried, with a quick gesture ; “ I knew wheat was going 
 to go up. I knew it from the first, when all the rest of 
 ’em laughed at me. I knew this European demand 
 
255 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 would hit us hard about this time. I knew it was a good 
 thing to buy wheat ; I knew it was a good thing to have 
 special agents over in Europe. Oh, they’ll all buy now 
 — when I’ve showed ’em the way. Upon my word, I 
 haven’t talked so much in a month of Sundays. You 
 must pardon me, Mr. Corthell. I don’t make five hun- 
 dred thousand every day.” 
 
 “ But this is the last — isn’t it ? ” said Laura. 
 
 “ Yes,” admitted Jadwin, with a quick, deep breath. 
 “ I’m done now. No more speculating. Let some one 
 else have a try now. See if they can hold five million 
 bushels till it’s wanted. My, my, I am tired — as I’ve said 
 before. D’that tea come, Laura?” 
 
 “ What’s that in your hand ? ” she answered, smiling. 
 
 Jadwin stared at the cup and saucer he held, whimsi- 
 cally. “ Well, well,” he exclaimed, “ I must be flust- 
 ered. Corthell,” he declared between swallows, “ take 
 my advice. Buy May wheat. It’ll beat art all hollow.” 
 
 “ Oh, dear, no,” returned the artist. “ I should lose 
 my senses if I won, and my money if I didn’t.” 
 
 “ That’s so. Keep out of it. It’s a rich man’s game. 
 And at that, there’s no fun in it unless you risk more 
 than you can afford to lose. Well, let’s not talk shop. 
 You’re an artist, Mr. Corthell. What do you think of 
 our house? ” 
 
 Later on, when they had said good-by to Corthell, 
 and when Jadwin was making the rounds of the library, 
 art gallery, and drawing-rooms — a nightly task which 
 he never would intrust to the servants — turning down 
 the lights and testing the window fastenings, his wife 
 said: 
 
 “ And now you are out of it — for good.” 
 
 “ I don’t own a grain of wheat,” he assured her. 
 “ I’ve got to be out of it.” 
 
 The next day he went down town for only two or 
 
The Pit 
 
 256 
 
 three hours in the afternoon. But he did not go near 
 the Board of Trade building. He talked over a few 
 business matters with the manager of his real estate 
 office, wrote an unimportant letter or two, signed a few 
 orders, was back at home by five o’clock, and in the 
 evening took Laura, Page, and Landry Court to the 
 theatre. 
 
 After breakfast the next morning, when he had read 
 his paper, he got up, and, thrusting his hands in his 
 pockets, looked across the table at his wife, 
 
 “Well,” he said. “ Now what’ll we do?” 
 
 She put down at once the letter she was reading. 
 
 “Would you like to drive in the park?” she sug- 
 gested. “ It is a beautiful morning.” 
 
 “ M — m — yes,” he answered slowly. “ All right. 
 Let’s drive in the park.” 
 
 But she could see that the prospect was not alluring 
 to him. 
 
 “ No,” she said, “ no, I don’t think you want to do 
 that.” 
 
 “ I don’t think I do, either,” he Admitted. “ The fact 
 is, Laura, I just about know that park by heart. Is 
 there anything good in the magazines this month?” 
 
 She got them for him, and he installed himself com- 
 fortably in the library, with a box of cigars near at hand. 
 
 “ Ah,” he said, fetching a long breath as he settled 
 back in the deep-seated leather chair. “ Now this is 
 what I call solid comfort. Better than stewing and fuss- 
 ing about La Salle Street with your mind loaded down 
 with responsibilities and all. This is my idea of life.” 
 
 But an hour later, when Laura — who had omitted her 
 ride that morning — looked into the room, he was not 
 there. The magazines were helter-skeltered upon the 
 floor and table, where he had tossed each one after 
 turning the leaves. A servant told her that Mr. Jadwin 
 was out in the stables. 
 
257 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 She saw him through the window, in a cap and great- 
 coat, talking with the coachman and looking over one 
 of the horses. But he came back to the house in a little 
 while, and she found him in his smoking-room with a 
 novel in his hand. 
 
 “ Oh, I read that last week,” she said, as she caught 
 a glimpse of the title. “Isn’t it interesting? Don’t 
 you think it is good ? ” 
 
 “ Oh — ^yes — pretty good,” he admitted. “ Isn’t it 
 about time for lunch? Let’s go to the matinee this 
 afternoon, Laura. Oh, that’s so, it’s Thursday; I for- 
 got.” 
 
 “ Let me read that aloud to you,” she said, reaching 
 for the book. “ I know you’ll be interested when you 
 get farther along.” 
 
 “ Honestly, I don’t think I would be,” he declared. 
 “ I’ve looked ahead in it. It seems terribly dry. Do 
 you know,” he said, abruptly, “ if the law was off I’d 
 go up to Geneva Lake and fish through the ice. Laura, 
 how would you like to go to Florida ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, I tell you,’^ she exclaimed. “ Let’s go up to 
 Geneva Lake over Christmas. We’ll open up the house 
 and take some of the servants along and have a house 
 party.” 
 
 Eventually this was done. The Cresslers and the 
 Gretrys were invited, together with Sheldon Corthell 
 and Landry Court. Page and Aunt Wess’ came as a 
 matter of course. Jadwin brought up some of the 
 horses and a couple of sleighs. On Christmas night 
 they had a great tree, and Corthell composed the words 
 and music for a carol which had a great success. 
 
 About a week later, two days after New Year’s day, 
 when Landry came down from Chicago on the afternoon 
 train, he was full of the tales of a great day on the 
 Board of Trade. Laura, descending to the sitting-room. 
 
258 
 
 The Pit 
 
 just before dinner, found a group in front of the fire« 
 place, where the huge logs were hissing and crackling. 
 Her husband and Cressler were there, and Gretry, who 
 had come down on an earlier train. Page sat near at 
 hand, her chin on her palm, listening intently to Landry, 
 who held the centre of the stage for the moment. In 
 a far corner of the room Sheldon Corthell, in a dinner 
 coat and patent-leather pumps, a cigarette between his 
 fingers, read a volume of Italian verse. 
 
 “ It was the confirmation of the failure of the Argen- 
 tine crop that did it,” Landry was saying; “ that and the 
 tremendous foreign demand. She opened steady 
 enough at eighty-three, but just as soon as the gong 
 tapped we began to get it. Buy, buy, buy. Everybody 
 is in it now. The public are speculating. For one 
 fellow who wants to sell there are a dozen buyers. We 
 had one of the hottest times I ever remember in the 
 Pit this morning.” 
 
 Laura saw Jadwin’s eyes snap. 
 
 “ I told you we’d get this, Sam,” he said, nodding to 
 the broker. 
 
 “ Oh, there’s plenty of wheat,” answered Gretry, eas- 
 ily. “ Wait till we get dollar wheat — if we do — and see 
 it come out. The farmers haven’t sold it all yet. There’s 
 always an army of ancient hayseeds who have the stuff 
 tucked away — in old stockings, I gness — and who’ll 
 dump it on you all right if you pay enough. There’s 
 plenty of wheat. I’ve seen it happen before. Work 
 the price high enough, and. Lord, how they’ll scrape the 
 bins to throw it at you ! You’d never guess from what 
 out-of-the-way places it would come.” 
 
 “ I tell you, Sam,” retorted Jadwin, “ the surplus of 
 wheat is going out of the country — and it’s going fast 
 And some of these shorts will have to hustle lively for 
 it pretty soon,” 
 
25S 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 “The Crookes gang, though,” observed Landry., 
 “ seem pretty confident the market will break. I’m sure 
 
 I they were selling short this morning.” 
 
 [ “ The idea,” exclaimed Jadwin, incredulously, “ the 
 
 I I idea of selling short in face of this Argentine collapse, 
 : and all this Bull news from Europe ! ” 
 
 “ Oh, there are plenty of shorts,” urged Gretry. 
 “ Plenty of them.” 
 
 Try as he would, the echoes of the rumbling of the Pit 
 reached Jadwin at every hour of the day and night, 
 i The maelstrom there at the foot of La Salle Street was 
 swirling now with a mightier rush than for years past, 
 
 ‘ Thundering, its vortex smoking, it sent its whirling far 
 out over the country, from ocean to ocean, sweeping 
 the wheat into its currents, sucking it in, and spewing 
 1 it out again in the gigantic pulses of its ebb and flow. 
 
 And he, Jadwin, who knew its every eddy, who could 
 foretell its every ripple, was out of it, out of it. Inactive, 
 he sat there idle while the clamour of the Pit swelled 
 daily louder, and while other men, men of little minds, 
 of narrow imaginations, perversely, blindly shut their 
 eyes to the swelling of its waters, neglecting the chances 
 which he would have known how to use with such large, 
 such vast results. That mysterious event which long 
 ago he felt was preparing, was not yet consummated. 
 The great Fact, the great Result which was at last to 
 issue forth from all this turmoil was not yet achieved. 
 Would it refuse to come until a master hand, all power- 
 ful, all daring, gripped the levers of the sluice gates that 
 controlled the crashing waters of the Pit ? He did not 
 know. Was it the moment for a chief? 
 
 Was this upheaval a revolution that called aloud for 
 its Napoleon? Would another, not himself, at last, see- 
 ing where so many shut their eyes, step into the place 
 of high command ? 
 
26 o 
 
 The Pit 
 
 Jadwin chafed and fretted in Wg inaction. As the 
 time when the house party should break up drew to its 
 close, his impatience harried him like a gadfly. He 
 took long drives over the lonely country roads, or 
 tramped the hills or the frozen lake, thoughtful, pre- 
 occupied. He still held his seat upon the Board of 
 Trade. He still retained his agents in Europe. Each 
 morning brought him fresh despatches, each evening’s 
 paper confirmed his forecasts. 
 
 “ Oh, I’m out of it for good and all,” he assured his 
 wife. “ But I know the man who could take up the 
 whole jing-bang of that Crookes crowd in one hand 
 and ” — his large fist swiftly knotted as he spoke the 
 words — “ scrunch it up like an eggshell, by George.” 
 
 Landry Court often entertained Page with accounts 
 of the doings on the Board of Trade, and about a fort- 
 night after the Jadwins had returned to their city home 
 he called on her one evening and brought two or three 
 of the morning’s papers. 
 
 “ Have you seen this ? ” he asked. She shook her 
 head. 
 
 “ Well,” he said, compressing his lips, and narrowing 
 his eyes, “ let me tell you, we are having pretty — lively — • 
 times — down there on the Board these days. The whole 
 country is talking about it.” 
 
 He read her certain extracts from the newspapers he 
 had brought. The first article stated that recently a new 
 factor had appeared in the Chicago wheat market. A 
 “ Bull ” clique had evidently been formed, presumably 
 of New York capitalists, who were ousting the Crookes 
 crowd and were rapidly coming into control of the mar- 
 ket. In consequence of this the price of wheat was 
 again mounting. 
 
 Another paper spoke of a combine of St. Louis firms 
 who were advancing prices, bulling the market. Still 
 a third said, at the beginning of a half-column article : 
 
26 i 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 “ It is now universally conceded that an Unknown 
 Bull has invaded the Chicago wheat market since the 
 beginning of the month, and is now dominating the en- 
 tire situation. The Bears profess to have no fear of this 
 mysterious enemy, but it is a matter of fact that a mul- 
 titude of shorts were driven ignominiously to cover on 
 Tuesday last, when the Great Bull gathered in a long 
 line of two million bushels in a single half hour. Scalp- 
 ing and eighth-chasing are almost entirely at an end, 
 the smaller traders dreading to be caught on the horns 
 of the Unknown. The new operator’s identity has been 
 carefully concealed, but whoever he is, he is a wonder- 
 ful trader and is possessed of consummate nerve. It 
 has been rumoured that he hails from New York, and 
 is but one of a large clique who are inaugurating a Bull 
 campaign. But our New York advices are emphatic in 
 denying this report, and we can safely state that the 
 Unknown Bull is a native, and a present inhabitant of 
 the Windy City.” 
 
 Page looked up at Landry quickly, and he returned 
 her glance without speaking. There was a moment’s 
 silence. 
 
 “ I guess,” Landry hazarded, lowering his voice, 
 “ I guess we’re both thinking of the same thing.” 
 
 “ But I know he told my sister that he was going to 
 stop all that kind of thing. What do you think ? ” 
 
 “ I hadn’t ought to think anything.” 
 
 “ Say ‘ shouldn’t think,’ Landry.” 
 
 “ Shouldn’t think, then, anything about it. My busi- 
 ness is to execute Mr. Gretry’s orders.” 
 
 “ Well, I know this,” said Page, “ that Mr. Jadwin 
 is down town all day again. You know he stayed away 
 for a while.” 
 
 “ Oh, that may be his real estate business that keeps 
 him down town so much,” replied Landry. 
 
The Pit 
 
 262 
 
 ^Laura is terribly distressed,” Page went on. “ I 
 can see that. They used to spend all their evenings 
 together in the library, and Laura would read aloud to 
 him. But now he comes home so tired that sometimes 
 he goes to bed at nine o’clock, and Laura sits there 
 alone reading till eleven and twelve. But she’s afraid, 
 too, of the effect upon him. He’s getting so absorbed. 
 He don’t care for literature now as he did once, or was 
 beginning to when Laura used to read to him ; and he 
 never thinks of his Sunday-school. And then, too, if 
 you’re to believe Mr. Cressler, there’s a chance that he 
 may lose if he is speculating again.” 
 
 But Landry stoutly protested; 
 
 “ Well, don’t think for one moment that Mr. Curtis 
 Jadwin is going to let any one get the better of him. 
 There’s no man — no, nor gang of men — could down 
 him. He’s head and shoulders above the biggest of 
 them down there. I tell you he’s Napoleonic. Yes, 
 sir, that’s what he is, Napoleonic, to say the least. 
 Page,” he declared, solemnly, “ he’s the greatest man 
 Pve ever known.” 
 
 Very soon after this it was no longer a secret to 
 Laura Jadwin that her husband had gone back to the 
 wheat market, and that, too, with such impetuosity, 
 such eagerness, that his rush had carried him to the 
 very heart’s heart of the turmoil. 
 
 He was now deeply involved; his influence began to 
 be felt. Not an important move on the part of the 
 “ Unknown Bull,” the nameless mysterious stranger 
 that was not duly not^ and discussed by the entire 
 world of La Salle Street^ 
 
 Almost his very first move, carefully guarded, ex- 
 ecuted with profoundest secrecy, had been to replace 
 the five million bushels sold to Liverpool by five mil- 
 
263 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 lion more of the May option. This was in January, 
 and all through February and all through the first days 
 of March, while the cry for American wheat rose, in- 
 sistent and vehement, from fifty cities and centres of 
 eastern Europe ; while the jam of men in the Wheat Pit 
 grew ever more frantic, ever more furious, and while 
 the impassive hand on the great dial over the floor of 
 the Board rose, resistless, till it stood at eighty-seven, 
 he bought steadily, gathering in the wheat, calling for 
 it, welcoming it, receiving full in the face and with 
 opened arms the cataract that poured in upon the Pit 
 from Iowa and Nebraska, Minnesota and Dakota, from 
 the dwindling bins of Illinois and the fast-emptying ele- 
 vators of Kansas and Missouri. 
 
 Then, squarely in the midst of the commotion, at a 
 time when Curtis Jadwin owned some ten million 
 bushels of May wheat, fell the Government report on 
 the visible supply. 
 
 “Well,” said Jadwin, “what do you think of it?” 
 
 He and Gretry were in the broker’s private room in 
 the offices of Gretry, Converse & Co. They were study- 
 ing the report of the Government as to the supply of 
 wheat, which had just been published in the editions of 
 the evening papers. It was very late in the afternoon 
 of a lugubrious March day. Long since the gas and 
 electricity had been lighted in the office, while in the 
 streets the lamps at the corners were reflected down- 
 ward in long shafts of light upon the drenched pave- 
 ments. From the windows of the room one could see 
 directly up La Salle Street. The cable cars, as they 
 made the turn into or out of the street at the corner of 
 Monroe, threw momentary glares of red and green 
 lights across the mists of rain, and filled the air con- 
 tinually with the jangle of their bells. Further on one 
 
264 
 
 The Pit 
 
 caught a glimpse of the Court House rising from the 
 pavement like a rain-washed cliff of black basalt, 
 picked out with winking lights, and beyond that, at the 
 extreme end of the vista, the girders and cables of the 
 La Salle Street bridge. 
 
 The sidewalks on either hand were encumbered with 
 the “ six o’clock crowd ” that poured out incessantly 
 from the street entrances of the office buildings. It was 
 a crowd almost entirely of men, and they moved only in 
 one direction, buttoned to the chin in rain coats, their 
 umbrellas bobbing, their feet scuffling through the little 
 pools of wet in the depressions of the sidewalk. They 
 streamed from out the brokers’ offices and commis- 
 sion houses on either side of La Salle Street, contin- 
 ually, unendingly, moving with the dragging sluggish- 
 ness of the fatigue of a hard day’s work. Under that 
 grey sky and blurring veil of rain they lost their in- 
 dividualities, they became conglomerate — a mass, slow- 
 moving, black. All day long the torrent had seethed 
 and thundered through the street — the torrent that 
 swirled out and back from that vast Pit of roaring 
 within the Board of Trade. Now the Pit was stilled, 
 the sluice gates of the torrent locked, and from out the 
 thousands of offices, from out the Board of Trade it- 
 self, flowed the black and sluggish lees, the lifeless 
 dregs that filtered back to their level for a few hours’ 
 stagnation, till in the morning, the whirlpool revolv- 
 ing once more, should again suck them back into its 
 vortex. 
 
 The rain fell uninterruptedly. There was no wind. 
 The cable cars jolted and jostled over the tracks with 
 a strident whir of vibrating window glass. In the street, 
 immediately in front of the entrance to the Board of 
 Trade, a group of pigeons, garnet-eyed, trim, with coral- 
 coloured feet and iridescent breasts, strutted and flut- 
 
265 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 tered, pecking at the handfuls of wheat that a porter 
 threw them from the windows of the floor of the Board. 
 
 “ Well,” repeated Jadwin, shifting with a movement 
 of his lips his unlit cigar to the other corner of his 
 mouth, “well, what do you think of it?” 
 
 The broker, intent upon the figures and statistics, re- 
 plied only by an indefinite movement of the head. 
 
 “ Why, Sam,” observed Jadwin, looking up from the 
 paper, “ there’s less than a hundred million bushels in 
 the farmers’ hands. . . . That’s awfully small. 
 Sam, that’s awfully small.” 
 
 “ It ain't, as you might say, colossal,” admitted 
 Gretry. 
 
 There was a long silence while the two men studied 
 the report still further. Gretry took a pamphlet of 
 statistics from a pigeon-hole of his desk, and compared 
 certain figures with those mentioned in the report. 
 
 Outside the rain swept against the windows with the 
 subdued rustle of silk. A newsboy raised a Gregorian 
 chant as he went down the street. 
 
 “ By George, Sam,” Jadwin said again, “ do you know 
 that a whole pile of that wheat has got to go to Europe 
 before July? How have the shipments been? ” 
 
 “ About five millions a week.” 
 
 “Why, think of that, twenty millions a month, and 
 it’s — let’s see, April, May, June, July — four months be- 
 fore a new crop. Eighty million bushels will go out of 
 the country in the next four months — eighty million 
 out of less than a hundred millions.” 
 
 “ Looks that way,” answered Gretry. 
 
 “ Here,” said Jadwin, “ let’s get some figures. Let’s 
 get a squint on the whole situation. Got a ‘ Price Cur- 
 rent ’ here ? Let’s find out what the stocks are in Chi- 
 cago. I don’t believe the elevators are exactly burst' 
 ing, and, say,” he called after the broker, who had 
 
266 
 
 The Pit 
 
 started for the front office, “ say, find out about the 
 primary receipts, and the Paris and Liverpool stocks. 
 Bet you what you like that Paris and Liverpool to- 
 gether couldn’t show ten million to save their necks.” i 
 In a few moments Gretry was back again, his hands 
 full of pamphlets and “ trade ” journals. 
 
 By now the offices were quite deserted. The last 
 clerk had gone home. Without, the neighbourhood 
 was emptying rapidly. Only a few stragglers hurried I 
 over the glistening sidewalks ; only a few lights yet | 
 remained in the fagades of the tall, grey office build- 
 ings. And in the widening silence the cooing of the 
 pigeons on the ledges and window-sills of the Board ‘ 
 of Trade Building made itself heard with increasing 
 distinctness. ' 
 
 Before Gretry’s desk the two men leaned over the ‘ 
 litter of papers. The broker’s pencil was in his hand, 
 and from time to time he figured rapidly on a sheet of . 
 note paper. 
 
 “ And,” observed Jadwin after a while, “ and you see 
 how the millers up here in the Northwest have been | 
 grinding up all the grain in sight. Do you see that? ” 
 “Yes,” said Gretry, then he added, “navigation will 
 be open in another month up there in the straits.” 
 
 “ That’s so, too,” exclaimed Jadwin, “ and what 
 wheat there is here will be moving out. I’d forgotten 
 that point. Ain’t you glad you aren’t short of wheat I 
 these days ? ” 
 
 “ There’s plenty of fellows that are, though,” returned 
 Gretry. “ I’ve got a lot of short wheat on my books — ■ 
 a lot of it.” 
 
 All at once as Gretry spoke Jadwin started, and 
 looked at him with a curious glance. < 
 
 “You have, hey?” he said. “There are a lot of 
 fellows who have sold short ? ” 
 
i A Story of Chicago 267 
 
 I 
 
 ' “ Oh, yes, some of Crookes’ followers — ^yes, quite a 
 
 I lot of them.” 
 
 Jadwin was silent a moment, tugging at his mustache. 
 Then suddenly he leaned forward, his finger almost 
 in Gretry’s face. 
 
 “ Why, look here,” he cried. “ Don’t you see ? Don’t 
 you see ” 
 
 “ See what ? ” demanded the broker, puzzled at the 
 other’s vehemence. 
 
 Jadwin loosened his collar with a forefinger. 
 
 “Great Scott! I’ll choke in a minute. See what? 
 Why, I own ten million bushels of this wheat already, 
 and Europe will take eighty million out of the country. 
 Why, there ain’t going to be any wheat left in Chicago 
 by May ! If I get in now and buy a long line of cash 
 wheat, where are all these fellows who’ve sold short go- 
 ing to get it to deliver to me? Say, where are they 
 going to get it? Come on now, tell me, where are they 
 going to get it ? ” 
 
 Gretry laid down his pencil and stared at Jadwin, 
 looked long at the papers on his desk, consulted his 
 pencilled memoranda, then thrust his hands deep into 
 his pockets, with a long breath. Bewildered, and as if 
 stupefied, he gazed again into Jadwin’s face. 
 
 “ My God ! ” he murmured at last. 
 
 “ Well, where are they going to get it? ” Jadwin cried 
 once more, his face suddenly scarlet. 
 
 “ J.,” faltered the broker, “ J., I — I’m damned if I 
 know.” 
 
 And then, all in the same moment, the two men were 
 on their feet. The event which all those past eleven 
 months had been preparing was suddenly consum- 
 mated, suddenly stood revealed, as though a veil had 
 been ripped asunder, as though an explosion had 
 crashed through the air upon them, deafening, blinding. 
 
268 
 
 The Pit 
 
 Jadwin sprang forward, gripping the broker by the 
 shoulder. 
 
 “ Sam,” he shouted, “ do you know — great God ! — do 
 you know what this means? Sam, we can corner the 
 market 1 ” 
 
vni 
 
 On that particular morning in April, the trading 
 around the Wheat Pit on the floor of the Chicago 
 Board of Trade, began practically a full five minutes 
 ahead of the stroke of the gong; and the throng of 
 brokers and clerks that surged in and about the Pit 
 itself was so great that it overflowed and spread out 
 over the floor between the wheat and corn pits, ousting 
 the traders in oats from their traditional ground. The 
 market had closed the day before with May wheat at 
 ninety-eight and five-eighths, and the Bulls had prophe- 
 sied and promised that the magic legend “Dollar wheat” 
 would be on the Western Union wires before another 
 twenty-four hours. 
 
 The indications pointed to a lively morning’s work. 
 Never for an instant during the past six weeks had the 
 trading sagged or languished. The air of the Pit was 
 surcharged with a veritable electricity; it had the effer- 
 vescence of champagne, or of a mountain-top at sun- 
 rise. It was buoyant, thrilling. 
 
 The “ Unknown Bull ” was to all appearance still in 
 control; the whole market hung upon his horns; and 
 from time to time, one felt the sudden upward thrust, 
 powerful, tremendous, as he flung the wheat up another 
 notch. The “ tailers ” — the little Bulls — ^were radiant. 
 In the dark, they hung hard by their unseen and mys- 
 terious friend who daily, weekly, was making them 
 richer. The Bears were scarcely visible. The Great 
 Bull in a single superb rush had driven them nearly out 
 of the Pit. Growling, grumbling they had retreated, 
 and only at distance dared so much as to bare a claw. 
 
270 
 
 The Pit 
 
 Just the formidable lowering of the Great Bull’s frontlet 
 sufficed, so it seemed, to check their every move of 
 aggression or resistance. And all the while, Liverpool, 
 Paris, Odessa, and Buda-Pesth clamoured ever louder 
 and louder for the grain that meant food to the 
 crowded streets and barren farms of Europe. 
 
 A few moments before the opening Charles Cressler 
 was in the public room, in the southeast corner of the 
 building, where smoking was allowed, finishing his 
 morning’s cigar. But as he heard the distant striking 
 of the gong, and the roar of the Pit as it began to get 
 under way, with a prolonged rumbling trepidation like 
 the advancing of a great flood, he threw his cigar away 
 and stepped out from the public room to the main floor, 
 going on towards the front windows. At the sample 
 tables he filled his pockets with wheat, and once at the 
 windows raised the sash and spread the pigeons’ break- 
 fast on the granite ledge. 
 
 While he was watching the confused fluttering of 
 flashing wings, that on the instant filled the air in front 
 of the window, he was all at once surprised to hear a 
 voice at his elbow, wishing him good morning. 
 
 “ Seem to know you, don’t they? ” 
 
 Cressler turned about. 
 
 “ Oh,” he said. “ Hullo, hullo — yes, they know me 
 all right. Especially that red and white hen. She’s got 
 a lame wing since yesterday, and if I don’t watch, the 
 others would drive her off. The pouter brute yonder, 
 for instance. He’s a regular pirate. Wants all the 
 wheat himself. Don’t ever seem to get enough.” 
 
 “ Well,” observed the new-comer, laconicall}', “ there 
 are others.” 
 
 The man who spoke was about forty years of age. 
 His name was Calvin Hardy Crookes. He was verv 
 small and very slim. His hair was yet dark, and hiii 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 271 
 
 ^face — smooth-shaven and triangulated in shape, like a 
 I cat’s — was dark as well. The eyebrows were thin and 
 ;■ black, and the lips too were thin and were puckered a 
 Ij little, like the mouth of a tight-shut sack. The face 
 | was secretive, impassive, and cold. 
 
 1 The man himself was dressed like a dandy. His coat 
 
 111 
 
 ;and trousers were of the very newest fashion. He 
 [wore a white waistcoat, drab gaiters, a gold watch and 
 li chain, a jewelled scarf pin, and a seal ring. From the 
 i top pocket of his coat protruded the finger tips of a pair 
 of unworn red gloves. 
 
 “Yes,” continued Crookes, unfolding a brand-new 
 pocket handkerchief as he spoke. “ There are others — 
 who never know when they’ve got enough wheat.” 
 
 “ Oh, you mean the ‘ Unknown Bull.’ ” 
 
 “ I mean the unknown damned fool,” returned 
 Crookes placidly. 
 
 There was not a trace of the snob about Charles Cress- 
 ler. No one could be more democratic. But at the 
 same time, as this interview proceeded, he could not 
 i fight down nor altogether ignore a certain qualm of 
 gratified vanity. Had the matter risen to the realm of 
 his consciousness, he would have hated himself for this. 
 But it went no further than a vaguely felt increase of 
 self-esteem. He seemed to feel more important in his 
 own eyes ; he would have liked to have his friends see 
 him just now talking with this man. “ Crookes was 
 saying to-day — ” he would observe when next he met 
 an acquaintance. For C. H. Crookes was conceded to 
 be the “ biggest man ” in La Salle Street. Not even 
 the growing importance of the new and mysterious Bull 
 could quite make the market forget the Great Bear. 
 Inactive during all this trampling and goring in the Pit, 
 there were yet those who, even as they strove against 
 the Bull, cast uneasy glances over their shoulders, 
 
272 
 
 The Pit 
 
 wondering why the Bear did not come to the help of 
 his own. 
 
 “Well, yes,” admitted Cressler, combing his short 
 beard, “ yes, he is a fool.” 
 
 The contrast between the two men was extreme. 
 Each was precisely what the other was not. The one, 
 long, angular, loose-jointed; the other, tight, trig, small, 
 and compact. The one osseous, the other sleek; the 
 one stoop-shouldered, the other erect as a corporal of 
 infantry. 
 
 But as Cressler was about to continue Crookes put 
 his chin in the air. 
 
 “Hark!” he said. “ What’s that? ” 
 
 For from the direction of the Wheat Pit had come 
 a sudden and vehement renewal of tumult. The traders 
 as one man were roaring in chorus. There were cheers; 
 hats went up into the air. On the floor by the lowest 
 step two brokers, their hands trumpet-wise to their 
 mouths, shouted at top voice to certain friends at a 
 distance, while above them, on the topmost step of the 
 Pit, a half-dozen others, their arms at fullest stretch, 
 threw the hand signals that interpreted the fluctua- 
 tions in the price, to their associates in the various parts 
 of the building. Again and again the cheers rose, vio- 
 lent hip-hip-hurrahs and tigers, while from all corners 
 and parts of the floor men and boys came scurrying 
 up. Visitors in the gallery leaned eagerly upon the 
 railing. Over in the provision pit, trading ceased for 
 the moment, and all heads were turned towards the 
 commotion of the wheat traders. 
 
 “ Ah,” commented Crookes, “ they did get it there at 
 last.” 
 
 For the hand on the dial had suddenly jumped an- 
 other degree, and not a messenger boy, not a porter, 
 not a janitor, none whose work or life brought him in 
 
273 
 
 A Stoiy of Chicago 
 
 I touch with the Board of Trade, that did not feel the 
 thrill. The news flashed out to the world on a hun- 
 dred telegraph wires; it was called to a hundred of- 
 ; flees across the telephone lines. From every doorway, 
 even, as it seemed, from every window of the building, 
 spreading thence all over the city, the State, the North- 
 J west, the entire nation, sped the magic words, “ Dollar 
 I wheat.” 
 
 j Crookes turned to Cressler. 
 
 I “ Can you lunch with me to-day — at Kinsley’s? I’d 
 j like to have a talk with you.” 
 
 And as soon as Cressler had accepted the invitation, 
 i Crookes, with a succinct nod, turned upon his heel and 
 |, walked away. 
 
 i At Kinsley’s that day, in a private room on the sec- 
 ; ond floor, Cressler met not only Crookes, but his as- 
 I sociate Sweeny, and another gentleman by the name of 
 i Freye, the latter one of his oldest and best-liked friends. 
 
 Sweeny was an Irishman, florid, flamboyant, talka- 
 tive, who spoke with a faint brogue, and who tagged 
 every observation, argument, or remark with the 
 phrase, “ Do you understand me, gen’lemen? ” Freye, 
 a German-American, was a quiet fellow, very hand- 
 some, with black side whiskers and a humourous, twink- 
 ling eye. The three were members of the Board of 
 Trade, and were always associated with the Bear forces. 
 Indeed, they could be said to be its leaders. Between 
 them, as Cressler afterwards was accustomd to say, 
 “ They could have bought pretty much all of the West 
 Side.” 
 
 And during the course of the luncheon these three, 
 with a simplicity and a directness that for the moment 
 left Cressler breathless, announced that they were pre- 
 paring to drive the Unknown Bull out of the Pit, and 
 asked him to become one of the clique. 
 
The Fit 
 
 274 
 
 Crookes, whom Cressler intuitively singled out as the 
 leader, did not so much as open his mouth till Sweeny 
 had talked himself breathless, and all the preliminaries 
 were out of the way. Then he remarked, his eye as 
 lifeless as the eye of a fish, his voice as expressionless 
 as the voice of Fate itself: 
 
 “ I don’t know who the big Bull is, and I don’t care 
 a curse. But he don’t suit my book. I want him out 
 of the market. We’ve let him have his way now for 
 three or four months. We figured we’d let him run to 
 the dollar mark. The May option closed this morn- 
 ing at a dollar and an eighth. . . . Now we take 
 hold.” 
 
 “But,” Cressler hastened to object, “you forget — 
 I’m not a speculator.” 
 
 Freye smiled, and tapped his friend on the arm. 
 
 “ I guess, Charlie,” he said, “ that there won’t be 
 much speculating about this.” 
 
 “ Why, gen’lemen,” cried Sweeny, brandishing a fork, 
 “ we’re going to sell him right out o’ the market, so 
 we are. Simply flood out the son-of-a-gun — ^you under- 
 stand me, gen’lemen?” 
 
 Cressler shook his head. 
 
 “ No,” he answered. “ No, you must count me out. 
 I quit speculating years ago. And, besides, to sell short 
 on this kind of market — I don’t need to tell you what 
 you risk.” 
 
 “ Risk hell! ” muttered Crookes. 
 
 “ Well, now. I’ll explain to you, Charlie,” began 
 Freye. 
 
 The other two withdrew a little from the conversa* 
 tion. Crookes, as ever monosyllabic, took himself off 
 in a little while, and Sweeny, his chair tipped back 
 against the wall, his hands clasped behind his head, 
 listened to Freye explaining to Cressler the plans of the 
 proposed clique and the lines of their attack. 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 275 
 
 He talked for nearly an hour and a half, at the end 
 of which time the lunch table was one litter of papers — 
 letters, contracts, warehouse receipts, tabulated statis- 
 tics, and the like. 
 
 “ Well,” said Freye, at length, “ well, Charlie, do you 
 see the game? What do you think of it? ” 
 
 “ It’s about as ingenious a scheme as I ever heard 
 of, Billy,” answered Cressler. “ You can’t lose, with 
 Crookes back of it.” 
 
 “ Well, then, we can count you in, hey? ” 
 j “ Count nothing,” declared Cressler, stoutly. “ I 
 ! don’t speculate.” 
 
 ! “But have you thought of this?” urged Freye, and 
 jwent over the entire proposition, from a fresh point of 
 iview, winding up with the exclamation: “ Why, Charlie, 
 
 ; we’re going to make our everlasting fortunes.” 
 
 “ I don’t want any everlasting fortune, Billy Freye,” 
 protested Cressler. “ Look here, Billy. You must re- 
 member I’m a pretty old cock. You boys are all 
 , youngsters. I’ve got a little money left and a little 
 ‘ business, and I want to grow old quiet-like. I had my 
 : fling, you know, when you boys were in knickerbockers, 
 j Now you let me keep out of all this. You get some one 
 else.” 
 
 “ No, we’ll be jiggered if we do,” exclaimed Sweeny. 
 “Say, are ye scared we can’t buy that trade journal? 
 Why, we have it in our pocket, so we have. D’ye 
 think Crookes, now, couldn’t make Bear sentiment with 
 the public, with just the lift o’ one forefinger? Why, he 
 owns most of the commercial columns of the dailies 
 already. D’ye think he couldn’t swamp that market 
 with sellin’ orders in the shorter end o’ two days? 
 D’ye think we won’t all hold together, now? Is that 
 the bug in the butter? Sure, now, listen. Let me tell 
 
276 
 
 The Pit 
 
 “ You can’t tell me anything about this scheme that 
 you’ve not told me before,” declared Cressler. " You’ll 
 win, of course. Crookes & Co. are like Rothschild 
 — earthquakes couldn’t budge ’em. But I promised 
 myself years ago to keep out of the speculative market, 
 and I mean to stick by it.” 
 
 “ Oh, get on with you, Charlie,” said Freye, good- 
 humouredly, “ you’re scared.” 
 
 “ Of what,” asked Cressler, “ speculating? You bet 
 I am, and when you’re as old as I am, and have been 
 through three panics, and have known what it meant 
 to have a corner bust under you, you’ll be scared of 
 speculating too.” 
 
 “ But suppose we can prove to you,” said Sweeny, 
 all at once, “ that we’re not speculating — that the other 
 fellow, this fool Bull is doing the speculating? ” 
 
 “ I’ll go into anything in the way of legitimate trad- 
 ing,” answered Cressler, getting up from the table. 
 “You convince me that your clique is not a specula- 
 tive clique, and I’ll come in. But I don’t see how your 
 deal can be anything else.” 
 
 “ Will you meet us here to-morrow? ” asked Sweeny, 
 as they got into their overcoats. 
 
 “ It won’t do you any good,” persisted Cressler. 
 
 “Well, will you meet us just the same?” the other 
 insisted. And in the end Cressler accepted. 
 
 On the steps of the restaurant they parted, and the 
 two leaders watched Cressler’s broad, stooped shoulders 
 disappear down the street. 
 
 “ He’s as good as in alread}",” Sweeny declared. 
 “ I’ll fix him to-morrow. Once a speculator, always a 
 speculator. He was the cock of the cow-yard in his 
 day, and the thing is in the blood. He gave himself 
 clean, clean away when he let out he was afraid o’ 
 speculating. You can’t be afraid of anything that ain’t 
 got a hold on you. Y’ understand me. now? ** 
 
A Story ot Chicago 
 
 277 
 
 “ Well,” observed Freye, “ we’ve got to get him in.” 
 
 “ Talk to me about that now,” Sweeny answered, 
 “I’m new to some parts o’ this scheme o’ yours yet. 
 Why is Crookes so keen on having him in? I’m not 
 ISO keen. We could get along without him. He ain’t 
 ■ so god-awful rich, y’ know.” 
 
 “ No, but he’s a solid, conservative cash grain man,” 
 answered Freye, “ who hasn’t been associated with 
 speculating for years. Crookes has got to have that 
 element in the clique before we can approach Stires & 
 Co. We may have to get a pile of money from them, 
 and they’re apt to be scary and cautious. Cressler 
 being in, do you see, gives the clique a substantial, 
 conservative character. You let Crookes manage it. 
 He knows his business.” 
 
 “ Say,” exclaimed Sweeny, an idea occurring to him, 
 “ I thought Crookes was going to put us wise to-day. 
 He must know by now who the Big Bull is.” 
 
 “ No doubt he does know,” answered the other. 
 “ He’ll tell us when he’s ready. But I think I could 
 copper the individual. There was a great big jag of 
 wheat sold to Liverpool a little while ago through 
 Gretry, Converse & Co., who’ve been acting for Cur- 
 tis Jadwin for a good many years.” 
 
 “ Oh, Jadwin, hey? Hi! we’re after big game now. 
 I’m thinking.” 
 
 “ But look here,” warned Freye. “ Here’s a point. 
 Cressler is not to know by the longest kind of chalk; 
 anyhow not until he’s so far in, he can’t pull out. He 
 and Jadwin are good friends. I’m told. Hello, it’s rain- 
 ing a little. Well, I’ve got to be moving. See you at 
 lunch to-morrow.” 
 
 As Cressler turned into La Salle Street the light 
 sprinkle of rain suddenly swelled to a deluge, and he 
 had barely time to dodge into the portico of the Illi- 
 
278 
 
 The Pit 
 
 nois Trust to escape a drenching. All the passers-by 
 close at hand were making for the same shelter, and 
 among these Cressler was surprised to see Curtis Jad- 
 win, who came running up the narrow lane from the 
 cafe entrance of the Grand Pacific Hotel. 
 
 “Hello! Hello, J.,” he cried, when his friend came 
 panting up the steps, “ as the whale said to Jonah, 
 ‘ Come in out of the wet.’ ” 
 
 The two friends stood a moment under the portico, 
 their coat collars turned up, watching the scurrying 
 in the street. 
 
 “ Well,” said Cressler, at last, “ I see we got ‘ dollar 
 wheat ’ this morning.” 
 
 “ Yes,” answered Jadwin, nodding, “ ‘ dollar wheat.’ ” 
 
 “ I suppose,” went on Cressler, “ I suppose you are 
 sorry, now that you’re not in it any more.” 
 
 “ Oh, no,” replied Jadwin, nibbling off the end of a 
 cigar. “ No, I’m — I’m just as well out of it.” 
 
 “ And it’s for good and all this time, eh? ” 
 
 “ For good and all.” 
 
 “ Well,” commented Cressler, “ some one else has be- 
 gun where you left off, I guess. This Unknown Bull, 
 I mean. All the boys are trying to find out who he is. 
 Crookes, though, was sajdng to me — Cal Crookes, you 
 know — he was saying he didn’t care who he was. 
 Crookes is out of the market, too, I understand — and 
 means to keep out, he says, till the Big Bull gets tired. 
 Wonder who the Big Bull is.” 
 
 “ Oh, there Isn’t any Big Bull,” blustered Jadwn. 
 “ There’s simply a lot of heavy buying, or maybe there 
 might be a ring of New York men operating through 
 Gretry. I don’t know; and I guess I’m like Crookes, 
 I don’t care — now that I’m out of the game. Real 
 estate is too lively^ now to think of anything else; keeps 
 me on the keen Jump early and late. I tell j'ou what, 
 
A Story of Chicago 279 
 
 Charlie, this city isn’t half grown yet. And do you 
 know, I’ve noticed another thing — cities grow to the 
 westward. I’ve got a building and loan association 
 going," out in the suburbs on the West Side, that’s a 
 dandy. Well, looks as though the rain had stopped. 
 Remember me to madam. So long, Charlie.” 
 
 On leaving Cressler Jadwin went on to his offices in 
 The Rookery, close at hand. But he had no more than 
 settled himself at his desk, when he was called up on 
 his telephone. 
 
 “ Hello! ” said a small, dry transformation of Gretry’s 
 voice. “ Hello, is that you, J.? Well, in the matter of 
 that cash wheat in Duluth, I’ve bought that for you.” 
 
 “ All right,” answered Jadwin, then he added, “ I 
 guess we had better have a long talk now.” 
 
 “ I was going to propose that,” answered the broker. 
 “ Meet me this evening at seven at the Grand Pacific. 
 It’s just as well that we’re not seen together nowadays. 
 Don’t ask for me. Go right into the smoking-room. 
 I’ll be there. And, by the way, I shall expect a reply 
 from Minneapolis about half-past five this afternoon. 
 I would like to be able to get at you at once when that 
 comes in. Can you wait down for that? ” 
 
 “ Well, I was going home,” objected Jadwin. “ ] 
 
 wasn’t home to dinner last night, and Mrs. Jadwin ” 
 
 “ This is pretty important, you know,” warned the 
 broker. “ And if I call you up on your residence tele- 
 phone, there’s always the chance of somebody cutting 
 in and overhearing us.” 
 
 “ Oh, very well, then,” assented Jadwin. “ I’ll call it 
 a day. I’ll get home for luncheon to-morrow. It can’t 
 be helped. By the way, I met Cressler this afternoon, 
 Sam, and he seemed sort of suspicious of things, to me 
 
 — as though he had an inkling ” 
 
 “ Better hang up,” came back the broker’s voice. 
 
The Pit 
 
 “ Better hang up, J. There’s big risk telephoning like 
 this. I’ll see you to-night. Good-by.” 
 
 And so it was that about half an hour later Laura 
 was called to the telephone in the library. 
 
 “Oh, not coming home at all to-night?” she cried 
 blankly in response to Jadwn’s message. 
 
 “ It’s just impossible, old girl,” he answered. 
 
 “ But why? ” she insisted. 
 
 “ Oh, business; this building and loan association of 
 mine.” 
 
 “ Oh, I know it can’t be that. Why don’t you let Mr. 
 Gretry manage your ” 
 
 But at this point Jadwin, the warning of Gretry still 
 fresh in his mind, interrupted quickly: 
 
 “ I must hang up now, Laura. Good-by. I’ll see you 
 to-morrow noon and explain it all to you. Good- 
 by. . . . Laura. . . . Hello! . . . Are you 
 
 there yet? . . . Hello, hello! ” 
 
 But Jadwin had heard in the receiver the rattle and 
 click as of a tiny door closing. The receiver was silent 
 and dead; and he knew that his wife, disappointed and 
 angry, had “ hung up ” without saying good-by. 
 
 The days passed. Soon another week had gone by. 
 The wheat market steadied down after the dollar mark 
 was reached, and for a few days a calmer period inter- 
 vened. Down beneath the surface, below the ebb and 
 flow of the currents, the great forces were silently at 
 work reshaping the “ situation.” IMillions of dollars 
 were beginning to be set in motion to govern the mil- 
 lions of bushels of wheat. At the end of the third w'eek 
 of the month Freye reported to Crookes that Cressler 
 was “ in,” and promptly negotiations were opened be- 
 tween the clique and the great banking house of the 
 Stires. But meanwhile Jadwin and Gretry, foreseeing 
 no opposition, realising the incalculable advantage that 
 
28 i 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 their knowledge of the possibility of a “ corner ” gave 
 them, were, quietly enough, gathering in the grain. 
 As early as the end of March Jadwin, as incidental to 
 his contemplated corner of May wheat, had bought up 
 a full half of the small supply of cash wheat in Duluth, 
 Chicago, Liverpool and Paris — some twenty million 
 bushels; and against this had sold short an equal 
 amount of the July option. Having the actual wheat 
 in hand he could not lose. If wheat went up, his twenty 
 million bushels were all the more valuable; if it went 
 
 ij down, he covered his short sales at a profit. And all 
 I the while, steadily, persistently, he bought May wheat, 
 till Gretry’s book showed him to be possessed of over 
 
 ? twenty million bushels of the grain deliverable for that 
 
 nth. 
 
 LBut all this took not only his every minute of time, 
 but his every thought, his every consideration. He who 
 had only so short a while before considered the amount 
 of five milKon bushels burdensome, demanding careful 
 attention, was now called upon to watch, govern, and 
 control the tremendous forces latent in a line of forty 
 million. At times he remembered the Curtis Jadwin of 
 the spring before his marriage, the Curtis Jadwin who 
 had sold a pitiful million on the strength of the news of 
 the French import duty, and had considered the deal 
 “ big.” Well, he was a different man since that time. 
 Then he had been suspicious of speculation, had feared 
 it even. Now he had discovered that there were in him 
 powers, capabilities, and a breadth of grasp hitherto 
 unsuspected. He could control the Chicago wheat 
 market; and the man who could do that might well call 
 himself “ great,” without presumption. He knew that 
 he overtopped them all — Gretry, the Crookes gang, 
 the arrogant, sneering Bears, all the men of the world 
 of the Board of Trade. He was stronger, bigger, 
 
282 
 
 The Pit 
 
 shrewder than them all. A few days now would show, 
 when they would all wake to the fact that wheat, which 
 they had promised to deliver before they had it in hand, 
 was not to be got except from him — and at whatever 
 price he chose to impose. He could exact from them 
 a hundred dollars a bushel if he chos^ and they must 
 pay him the price or become bankrupts^ 
 
 By now his mind was upon this one great fact — May 
 Wheat — continually. It was with him the instant he 
 woke in the morning. It kept him company during his 
 hasty breakfast; in the rhythm of his horses’ hoofs, 
 as the team carried him down town he heard, “ Wheat — 
 wheat — wheat, wheat — wheat — wheat.” No sooner did 
 he enter La Salle Street, than the roar of traffic came to 
 his ears as the roar of the torrent of wheat which drove 
 through Chicago from the Western farms to the mills 
 and bakeshops of Europe. There at the foot of the 
 street the torrent swirled once upon itself, forty mil- 
 lion strong, in the eddy which he told himself he mas- 
 tered. The afternoon waned, night came on. The day’s 
 business was to be gone over; the morrow’s campaign 
 was to be planned; little, unexpected side issues, a score 
 of them, a hundred of them, cropped out from hour to 
 hour; new decisions had to be taken each minute. At 
 dinner time he left the office, and his horses carried him 
 home again, while again their hoofs upon the asphalt 
 beat out unceasingly the monotone of the one refrain, 
 “ Wheat — wheat — wheat, wheat — ^wheat — wheat.” At 
 dinner table he could not eat. Between each course he 
 found himself going over the day’s work, testing it, 
 questioning himself, “ Was this rightly done? ” “ Was 
 
 that particular decision sound?” “ Is there a loophole 
 here?” “Just what was the meaning of that de- 
 spatch? ” After the meal the papers, contracts, statis- 
 tics and reports which he had brought with him in his 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 283 
 
 I Gladstone bag were to be studied. As often as not 
 Gretry called, and the two, shut in the library, talked, 
 discussed, and planned till long after midnight. 
 
 Then at last, when he had shut the front door upon 
 I his lieutenant and turned to face the empty, silent house, 
 came the moment’s reaction. The tired brain flagged 
 I and drooped; exhaustion, like a weight of lead, hung 
 ‘iupon his heels. But somewhere a hall clock struck, 
 a single, booming note, like a gong — like the signal 
 that would unchain the tempest in the Pit to-morrow 
 morning. Wheat — • wheat — wheat, w'heat — ■ wheat — 
 wheat ! Instantly the jaded senses braced again, in- 
 stantly the wearied mind sprang to its post. He turned 
 out the lights, he locked the front door. Long since 
 the great house was asleep. In the cold, dim silence of 
 the earliest dawn Curtis Jadwin went to bed, only to lie 
 awake, staring up into the darkness, planning, devising 
 I! new measures, reviewing the day’s doings, while the 
 I faint tides of blood behind the eardrums murmured 
 ceaselessly to the overdriven brain, “ Wheat — ^wheat — 
 wheat, wheat — wheat — wheat. Forty million bushels, 
 forty million, forty million.” 
 
 Whole days now went by when he saw his wife only 
 at breakfast and at dinner. At times she was angry, 
 hurt, and grieved that he should leave her so much 
 alone. But there were moments when she was sorry 
 for him. She seemed to divine that he was not all to 
 blame. 
 
 • What Laura thought he could only guess. She no 
 longer spoke of his absorption in business. At times 
 he thought he saw reproach and appeal in her dark eyes, 
 at times anger and a pride cruelly wounded. A few 
 months ago this would have touched him. But now he 
 all at once broke out vehemently: 
 
 “ You think I am wilfully doing this ! You don’t 
 
284 
 
 The Pit 
 
 know, you haven’t a guess. I corner the wheat ! Great 
 heavens, it is the wheat that has cornered me! The 
 corner made itself. I happened to stand between two 
 sets of circumstances, and they made me do what 
 I’ve done. I couldn’t get out of it now, with all the 
 good will in the world. Go to the theatre to-night 
 with you and the Cresslers? Why, old girl, you might 
 as well ask me to go to Jericho. Let that Mr. Corthell 
 take m.y place.” 
 
 And .very naturally this is what was done. The artist 
 sent a great bunch of roses to Mrs. Jadwin upon the 
 receipt of her invitation, and after the play had the party 
 to supper in his apartments, that overlooked the Lake 
 Front. Supper over, he escorted her, Mrs. Cressler, and 
 Page back to their respective homes. 
 
 By a coincidence that struck them all as very amus- 
 ing, he was the only man of the party. At the last mo- 
 ment Page had received a telegram from Landry. He 
 was, it appeared, sick, and in bed. The day’s work on 
 the Board of Trade had quite used him up for the mo- 
 ment, and his doctor forbade him to stir out of doors. 
 Mrs. Cressler explained that Charlie had something on 
 his mind these days, that was making an old man of him. 
 
 “ He don’t ever talk shop with me,” she said. “ I’m 
 sure he hasn’t been speculating, but he’s worried and 
 fidgety to beat all I ever saw, this last week; and now . 
 this evening he had to take himself off to meet some » 
 customer or other at the Palmer House.” | 
 
 They dropped Mrs. Cressler at the door of her home, j 
 and then went on to the Jadwins’. | 
 
 “ I remember,” said Laura to Corthell, “ that once be- 1 
 fore the three of us came home this way. Remember? | 
 It was the night of the opera. That was the night I 
 first met Mr. Jadwin.” 
 
 “ It was the night of the Helmick failure,” said Page, 
 
285 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 seriously, "and the office buildings were all lit up. 
 I See,” she added, as they drove up to the house, “ there’s 
 a light in the library, and it must be nearly one o’clock. 
 Mr. Jadwin is up yet.” 
 
 Laura fell suddenly silent. When was it all going to 
 I end, and how? Night after night her husband shut him- 
 self thus in the library, and toiled on till early dawn. 
 She enjoyed no companionship with him. Her eve- 
 nings were long, her time hung with insupportable 
 heaviness upon her hands. 
 
 “Shall you be at home?” inquired Corthell, as he 
 held her hand a moment at the door. “ Shall you be 
 i at home to-morrow evening? May I come and play 
 I to you again? ” 
 
 “Yes, yes,” she answered. “Yes, I shall be home. 
 I Yes, do come.” 
 
 Laura’s carriage drove the artist back to his apart- 
 I ments. All the way he sat motionless in hiS place, look- 
 i ing out of the window with unseeing eyes. His ciga- 
 ; rette went out. He drew another from his case, but 
 forgot to light It. 
 
 Thoughtful and abstracted he slowly mounted the 
 i stairway — the elevator having stopped for the night— 
 
 , to his studio, let himself In, and, throwing aside his hat 
 and coat, sat down without lighting the gas in front of 
 the fireplace, where (the weather being even yet sharp) 
 
 , an armful of logs smouldered on the flagstones. 
 
 His man, Evans, came from out an inner room to ask 
 if he wanted anything. Corthell got out of his eve- 
 ning coat, and Evans brought him his smoking-jacket 
 and set the little table with its long tin box of cigarettes 
 and ash trays at his elbow. Then he lit the tall lamp 
 of corroded bronze, with its heavy silk shade, that 
 stood on a table in the angle of the room, drew the 
 curtains, put a fresh log upon the fire, held the tiny 
 
286 
 
 The Pit 
 
 silver alcohol burner to Corthell while the latter lighted 
 a fresh cigarette, and then with a murmured “ Good- 
 night, sir,” went out, closing the door with the pre- 
 caution of a depredator. 
 
 This suite of rooms, facing the Lake Front, was what 
 Corthell called “ home,” Whenever he went away, he 
 left it exactly as it was, in the charge of the faithful 
 Evans; and no mater how long he was absent, he never 
 returned thither without a sense of welcome and relief. 
 Even now, perplexed as he was, he was conscious of a 
 feeling of comfort and pleasure as he settled himself 
 in his chair. 
 
 The lamp threw a dull illumination about the room. 
 It was a picturesque apartment, carefully planned. 
 Not an object that had not been chosen with care and 
 the utmost discrimination. The walls had been treated 
 with copper leaf till they produced a sombre, irides- 
 cent effect of green and faint gold, that suggested the 
 depth of a forest glade shot through with the sunset. 
 Shelves bearing eighteenth-century books in seal brown 
 tree calf — ^Addison, the “ Spectator,” Junius and Racine, 
 Rochefoucauld and Pascal hung against it here and 
 there. On every hand the eye rested upon some small 
 masterpiece of art or workmanship. Now it was an 
 antique portrait bust of the days of decadent Rome, 
 black marble with a bronze tiara; now a framed page 
 of a fourteenth-century version of “ Li Quatres Filz 
 d’Aymon,” with an illuminated letter of miraculous 
 workmanship; or a Renaissance gonfalon of silk once 
 w'hite but now brown with age, yet in the centre blaz- 
 ing with the escutcheon and quarterings of a dead 
 queen. Between the windows stood an ivory statuette 
 of the “ Venus of the Heel,” done in the daj's of the 
 magnificent Lorenzo. An original Cazin, and a chalk 
 drawing by Baudry hung against the wall close by to- 
 
287 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 gather with a bronze tablet by Saint Gaudens; while 
 across the entire end of the room opposite the fire- 
 place, worked in the tapestry of the best period of the 
 northern French school, Halcyone, her arms already 
 blossoming into wings, hovered over the dead body of 
 Ceyx, his long hair streaming like seaweed in the blue 
 waters of the ^gean. 
 
 For a long time Corthell sat motionless, looking 
 into the fire. In an adjoining room a clock chimed the 
 half hour of one, and the artist stirred, passing his long 
 fingers across his eyes. 
 
 After a long while he rose, and going to the fireplace, 
 leaned an arm against the overhanging shelf, and rest- 
 ing his forehead against it, remained in that position, 
 looking down at the smouldering logs. 
 
 “ She is unhappy,” he murmured at length. “ It is 
 not difficult to see that. . . . Unhappy and lonely. 
 
 Oh, fool, fool to have left her when you might have 
 stayed! Oh, fool, fool, not to find the strength to leavff 
 her now when you should not remain! ” 
 
 The following evening Corthell called upon Mrs. Jad- 
 win. She was alone, as he usually found her. He had 
 brought a book of poems with him, and instead of pass- 
 ing the evening in the art gallery, as they had planned, 
 he read aloud to her from Rossetti. Nothing could 
 have been more conventional than their conversation, 
 nothing more impersonal. But on his way home one 
 feature of their talk suddenly occurred to him. It 
 struck him as significant ; but of what he did not care to 
 put into words. Neither he nor Laura had once spoken 
 of Jadwin throughout the entire evening. 
 
 Little by little the companionship grew. Corthell 
 shut his eyes, his ears. The thought of Laura, the 
 recollection of their last evening together, the anticipa- 
 tion of the next meeting filled all his waking hours. 
 
288 
 
 The Pit 
 
 He refused to think; he resigned himself to the drift of 
 the current. Jadwin he rarely saw. But on those few 
 occasions when he and Laura’s husband met, he could 
 detect no lack of cordiality in the other’s greeting. 
 Once even Jadwin had remarked: 
 
 “ I’m very glad you have come to see Mrs. Jadwin, 
 Corthell. I have to be away so much these days. I’m 
 afraid she would be lonesome if it wasn’t for some one 
 like you to drop in now and then and talk art to her.” 
 
 By slow degrees the companionship trended toward 
 intimacy. At the various theatres and concerts he was 
 her escort. He called upon her two or three times 
 each week. At his studio entertainments Laura was 
 always present. How — Corthell asked himself — did she 
 regard the affair? She gave him no sign; she never in- 
 timated that his presence was otherwise than agreeable. 
 Was this tacit acquiescence of hers an encouragement? 
 Was she willing to aificher herself, as a married woman, 
 with a cavalier? Her married life was intolerable, he 
 was sure of that; her husband uncongenial. He told 
 himself that she detested him. 
 
 Once, however, this belief was rather shocked by an 
 unexpected and (to him) an inconsistent reaction on 
 Laura’s part. She had made an engagement with him 
 to spend an afternoon in the Art Institute, looking over 
 certain newly acquired canvases. But upon calling for 
 her an hour after luncheon he was informed that Mrs. 
 Jadwin was not at home. When next she saw him she 
 told him that she had spent the entire day with her 
 husband. They had taken an early train and had gone 
 up to Geneva Lake to look over their country house, 
 and to prepare for its opening, later on in the spring. 
 They had taken the decision so unexpectedly that she 
 had no time to tell him of the change in her plans. 
 Corthell wondered if she had — as a matter of fact — 
 forgotten all about her appointment with him. He 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 289 
 
 never quite understood the incident, and afterwards 
 asked himself whether or no he could be so sure, after 
 all, of the estrangement between the husband and wife. 
 He guessed it to be possible that on this occasion Jad- 
 wm had suddenly decided to give himself a holiday, and 
 that Laura had been quick to take advantage of it. 
 Was it true, then, that Jadwin had but to speak the 
 word to have Laura forget all else? Was it true that 
 the mere nod of his head was enough to call her back 
 to him? Corthell was puzzled. He would not admit this 
 to be true. She was, he was persuaded, a woman of 
 more spirit, of more pride than this would seem to in- 
 dicate. Corthell ended by believing that Jadwin had, in 
 some way, coerced her; though he fancied that for the 
 few days immediately following the excursion Laura 
 had never been gayer, more alert, more radiant. • 
 
 But the days went on, and it was easy to see that his 
 business kept Jadwin more and more from his wife. 
 Often now, Corthell knew, he passed the night down 
 town, and upon those occasions when he managed to 
 get home after the day’s work, he was exhausted, worn 
 out, and went to bed almost immediately after dinner. 
 More than ever now the artist and Mrs. Jadwin were 
 thrown together. 
 
 On a certain Sunday evening, the first really hot day 
 of the year, Laura and Page went over to spend an hour 
 with the Cresslers, and — as they were all wont to do in 
 the old days before Laura’s marriage — the party “ sat 
 out on the front stoop.” For a wonder, Jadwin was 
 able to be present. Laura had prevailed upon him to 
 give her this evening and the evening of the following 
 Wednesday — on which latter occasion she had planned 
 that they were to take a long drive in the park in the 
 buggy, just the two of them, as it had been in the days 
 of their courtship. 
 
290 
 
 The Pit 
 
 Corthell came to the Cresslers quite as a matter oi 
 course. He had dined with the Jadwins at the great 
 North Avenue house and afterwards the three, prefer- 
 ring to walk, had come down to the Cresslers on foot. 
 
 But evidently the artist was to see but little of Laura 
 Jadwin that evening. She contrived to keep by her 
 husband continually. She even managed to get him 
 away from the others, and the two, leaving the rest upon 
 the steps, sat in the parlour of the Cresslers’ house, talk- 
 ing. 
 
 By and by Laura, full of her projects, exclaimed : 
 
 “ Where shall we go? I thought, perhaps, we would 
 not have dinner at home, but you could come back to 
 the house just a little — a little bit — early, and you could 
 drive me out to the restaurant there in the park, and 
 we could have dinner there, just as though we weren’t 
 married — 'just as though we were sweethearts again. 
 Oh, I do hope the weather will be fine.” 
 
 “ Oh,” answered Jadwin, “ you mean Wednesday 
 evening. Dear old girl, honestly, I — I don’t believe I 
 can make it after all. You see, Wednesday ” 
 
 Laura sat suddenly erect. 
 
 “ But you said,” she began, her voice faltering a little, 
 “ you said ” 
 
 “ Honey, I know I did, but you must let me oflf this 
 time again.” 
 
 She did not answer. It was too dark for him to see 
 her face ; but, uneasy at her silence, he began an elab- 
 orate explanation. Laura, however, interrupted. Calmly 
 enough, she said : 
 
 “ Oh, that’s all right. No, no, I don’t mind. Of 
 course, if you are busy.” 
 
 “Well, you see, don’t you, old girl?” 
 
 “ Oh, yes, yes, I see,” she answered. She rose. 
 
 “ I think,” she said, “ we had better be going home. 
 Don’t you ? ” 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 291 
 
 ** Yes, I do,” he assented. “ I’m pretty tired myself. 
 I’ve had a hard day’s work. I’m thirsty, too,” he added, 
 as he got up. “ Would you like to have a drink of 
 water, too ? ” 
 
 She shook her head, and while he disappeared in the 
 direction of the Cresslers’ dining-room, she stood alone 
 a moment in the darkened room looking out into the 
 street. She felt that her cheeks were hot. Her hands, 
 hanging at her sides, shut themselves into tight fists. 
 
 “ What, you are all alone ? ” said Corthell’s voice, be- 
 hind her. 
 
 She turned about quickly. 
 
 “ I must be going,” he said. “ I came to say good 
 :| night.” He held out his hand. 
 
 1 “ Good night,” she answered, as she gave him hers, 
 
 j Then all at once she added: 
 
 I “ Come to see me again — soon, will you ? Come 
 i Wednesday night.” 
 
 And then, his heart leaping to his throat, Corthell felt 
 her hand, as it lay in his, close for an instant firmly 
 I about his fingers. 
 
 ' “ I shall expect you Wednesday then? ” she repeated. 
 
 He crushed her hand in his grip, and suddenly bent 
 and kissed it. 
 
 “ Good night,” she said, quietly. Jadwin’s step 
 [ sounded at the doorway. 
 
 “ Good night,” he whispered, and in another moment 
 was gone. 
 
 During these days Laura no longer knew herself. 
 At every hour she changed ; her moods came and went 
 with a rapidity that bewildered all those who were 
 around her. At times her gaiety filled the whole of 
 her beautiful house ; at times she shut herself in her 
 apartments, denying herself to every one, and, her head 
 bowed upon her folded arms, wept as though her heart 
 was breaking, without knowing why. 
 
292 
 
 The Pit 
 
 For a few days a veritable seizure of religious enthu- 
 siasm held sway over her. She spoke of endowing a 
 hospital, of doing church work among the “ slums ” of 
 the city. But no sooner had her friends readjusted their 
 points of view to suit this new development than she 
 was off upon another tangent, and was one afternoon 
 seen at the races, with Mrs. Gretry, in her showiest vic- 
 toria, wearing a great flaring hat and a bouquet of crim- 
 son flowers. 
 
 She never repeated this performance, however, for a 
 new fad took possession of her the very next day. She 
 memorised the role of Lady Macbeth, built a stage in 
 the ballroom at the top of the house, and, locking her- 
 self in, rehearsed the part, for three days uninterrupt- 
 edly, dressed in elaborate costume, declaiming in chest 
 tones to the empty room: 
 
 “ ‘ The raven himself is hoarse that croaks the en- 
 trance of Duncan under my battlements.’ ” 
 
 Then, tiring of Lady Macbeth, she took up Juliet, Por- 
 tia, and Ophelia ; each with appropriate costumes, study- 
 ing with tireless avidity, and frightening Aunt Wess’ 
 with her declaration that “ she might go on the stage 
 after all.” She even entertained the notion of having 
 Sheldon Corthell paint her portrait as Lady Macbeth. 
 
 As often as the thought of the artist presented itself 
 to her she fought to put it from her. Yes, yes, he came 
 to see her often, very often. Perhaps he loved her yet. 
 Well, suppose he did? He had always loved her. It 
 was not wrong to have him love her, to have him with 
 her. Without his company, great heavens, her life 
 would be lonely beyond words and beyond endurance. 
 Besides, was it to be thought, for an instant, that she, 
 she, Laura Jadwin, in her pitch of pride, with all her 
 beauty, with her quick, keen mind, was to pine, to droop, 
 to fade in oblivion and neglect? Was she to blame? 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 293 
 
 Let those who neglected her look to it. Her youth was 
 all with her yet, and all her power to attract, to compel 
 I admiration. 
 
 When Corthell came to see her on the Wednesday 
 evening in question, Laura said to him, after a few 
 moments’ conversation in the drawing-room : 
 
 “ Oh, you remember the picture you taught me to 
 appreciate — the picture of the little pool in the art 
 
 [ gallery, the one you called ‘ Despair ’ ? ” I have hung 
 it in my own particular room upstairs — my sitting-room 
 — so as to have it where I can see it always. I love it 
 now. But,” she added, “ I am not sure about the light, 
 lii I think it could be hung to better advantage.” She 
 li hesitated a moment, then, with a sudden, impulsive 
 i! movement, she turned to him. 
 
 j; “ Won’t you come up with me, and tell me where to 
 I hang it ? ” 
 
 j; They took the little elevator to the floor above, and 
 ij Laura led the artist to the room in question — her “ sit- 
 ; ting-room,” a wide, airy place, the polished floor cov- 
 !' ered with deep skins, the walls wainscotted half way to 
 the ceiling, in dull woods. Shelves of books were every- 
 j where, together with potted plants and tall brass lamps. 
 
 I A long “ Madeira ” chair stood at the window which 
 overlooked the park and lake, and near to it a great 
 round table of San Domingo mahogany, with tea things 
 and almost diaphanous china. 
 
 “ What a beautiful room,” murmured Corthell, as she 
 touched the button in the wall that opened the current, 
 “ and how much you have impressed your individuality 
 upon it. I should have known that you lived here. If 
 you were thousands of miles away and I had entered 
 here, I should have known it was yours — and loved it 
 for such.” 
 
 “ Here is the picture,” she said, indicating where it 
 hung. “ Doesn’t it seem to you that the light is bad? ’* 
 
The Pit 
 
 ^94 
 
 But he explained to her that it was not so, and that 
 she had but to incline the canvas a little more from 
 the wall to get a good ef¥ect. 
 
 “ Of course, of course,” she assented, as he held the 
 picture in place. “ Of course. I shall have it hung 
 over again to-morrow.” 
 
 For some moments they remained standing in the 
 centre of the room, looking at the picture and talking 
 of it. And then, without remembering just how it had 
 happened, Laura found herself leaning back in the Ma- 
 deira chair, Corthell seated near at hand by the round 
 table. 
 
 “ I am glad you like my room,” she said. “ It is here 
 that I spend most of my time. Often lately I have had 
 my dinner here. Page goes out a great deal now, and 
 so I am left alone occasionally. Last night I sat here 
 in the dark for a long time. The house was so still, 
 everybody was out — even some of the servants. It 
 was so warm, I raised the windows and I sat here for 
 hours looking out over the lake. I could hear it lapping 
 and washing against the shore — almost like a sea. And 
 it was so still, so still; and I was thinking of the time 
 when I was a little girl back at Barrington, years and 
 years ago, picking whortle-berries down in the ‘ water 
 lot,’ and how I got lost once in the corn — the stalks 
 were away above my head — and how happy I was when 
 my father would take me up on the hay wagon. Ah, I 
 was happy in those days — just a freckled, black-haired 
 slip of a little girl, with my frock torn and my hands all 
 scratched with the berry bushes.” 
 
 She had begun by dramatising, but by now she was 
 acting — acting with all her histrionic power at fullest 
 stretch, acting the part of a woman unhappy amid luxu- 
 ries. who looked back with regret and with longing to- 
 wards a joyous, simple childhood. She was sincere and 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 295 
 
 she was not sincere. Part of her — one of those two 
 Laura Jadwins who at different times, but with equal 
 right called themselves “ I,” knew just what effect 
 her words, her pose, would have upon a man who 
 sympathised with her, who loved her. But the other 
 Laura Jadwin would have resented as petty, as even 
 wrong, the insinuation that she was not wholly, thor- 
 oughly sincere. All that she was saying was true. No 
 one, so she believed, ever was placed before as she was 
 placed now. No one had ever spoken as now she spoke. 
 Her chin upon one slender finger, she went on, her eyes 
 growing wide: 
 
 “ If I had only known then that those days were to be 
 the happiest of my life. . . . This great house, all 
 
 the beauty of it, and all this wealth, what does it amount 
 to ? ” Her voice was the voice of Phedre, and the ges- 
 ture of lassitude with which she let her arms fall into 
 her lap was precisely that which only the day before she 
 had used to accompany Portia’s plaint of 
 
 —my little body is a-weary of this great world. 
 
 Yet, at the same time, Laura knew that her heart 
 was genuinely aching with real sadness, and that the 
 tears which stood in her eyes were as sincere as any 
 she had ever shed. 
 
 “ All this wealth,” she continued, her head dropping 
 back upon the cushion of the chair as she spoke, “ what 
 does it matter; for what does it compensate? Oh, I 
 would give it all gladly, gladly, to be that little black- 
 haired girl again, back in Squire Dearborn’s water lot; 
 with my hands stained with the whortle-berries and the 
 nettles in my fingers — and my little lover, who called me 
 his beau-heart and bought me a blue hair ribbon, and 
 kissed me behind the pump house.” 
 
 “ Ah,” said Corthell, quickly and earnestly, “ that is 
 
296 
 
 The Pit 
 
 the secret. It was love — even the foolish boy and girl 
 love — love that after all made your life sweet then.” 
 
 She let her hands fall into her lap, and, musing, turned 
 the rings back and forth upon her fingers. 
 
 “ Don’t you think so ? ” he asked, in a low voice. 
 
 She bent her head slowly, without replying. Then 
 for a long moment neither spoke. Laura played with 
 her rings. The artist, leaning forward in his chair, 
 looked with vague eyes across the room. And no inter- 
 val of time since his return, no words that had ever 
 passed between them, had been so fraught with signifi- 
 cance, so potent in drawing them together as this brief, 
 wordless moment. 
 
 At last Corthell turned towards her. 
 
 “ You m ust not think,” he murmured, “ that your life 
 is without love now. I will not have you believe that.” 
 
 But she made no answer. 
 
 “ If you would only see,” he went on. “ If you would 
 only condescend to look, you would know that there is 
 a love which has enfolded your life for years. You have 
 shut it out from you always. But it has been yours, 
 just the same; it has lain at your door, it has looked — 
 oh, God knows with what longing ! — through your win- 
 dows. You have never stirred abroad that it has not 
 followed you. Not a footprint of yours that it does not 
 know and cherish. Do you think that your life is with- 
 out love ? Why, it is all around you — all around you but 
 voiceless. It has no right to speak, it only has the right 
 to suffer.” 
 
 Still Laura said no word. Her head turned from 
 him, she looked out of the window, and once more the 
 seconds passed while neither spoke. The clock on the 
 table ticked steadily. In the distance, through the open 
 window, came the incessant, mournful wash of the lake. 
 All around them the house was still. At length Laura 
 sat upright in her cliair 
 
297 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 “ I think I will have this room done over while we are 
 away this summer,” she said. “ Don’t you think it would 
 ibe effective if the wainscotting went almost to the ceil- 
 |ing? ” 
 
 I He glanced critically about the room. 
 
 I “ Very,” he answered, briskly. “ There is no back- 
 1 ground so beautiful as wood.” 
 
 ( “ And I might finish it off at the top with a narrow 
 
 j shelf.” 
 
 “ Provided you promised not to put brass ‘ plaques ’ 
 'or pewter kitchen ware upon it.” 
 
 “ Do smoke,” she urged him. “ I know you want to. 
 ;You will find matches on the table.” 
 
 But Corthell, as he lit his cigarette, produced his own 
 match box. It was a curious bit of antique silver, which 
 [he had bought in a Viennese pawnshop, heart-shaped 
 [and topped with a small ducal coronet of worn gold. On 
 'one side he had caused his name to be engraved in small 
 [script. Now, as Laura admired it, he held it towards 
 I her. 
 
 “ An old pouncet-box, I believe,” he informed her, 
 I “ or possibly it held an ointment for her finger nails.” 
 ijHe spilled the matches into his hand. “You see the 
 I red stain still on the inside; and — smell,” he added, as 
 * she took it from him. “ Even the odour of the sulphur 
 matches cannot smother the quaint old perfume, distilled 
 I perhaps three centuries ago.” 
 
 I An hour later Corthell left her. She did not follow 
 I him further than the threshold of the room, but let him 
 find his way to the front door alone. 
 
 When he had gone she returned to the room, and for 
 ^ a little while sat in her accustomed place by the window 
 overlooking the park and the lake. Very soon after 
 Corthell’s departure she heard Page, Landry Court, and 
 i Mrs. Wessels come in; then at length rousing from her 
 
298 
 
 The Pit 
 
 reverie she prepared for bed. But, as she passed the 
 round mahogany table, on her way to her bedroom, she 
 was aware of a little object lying upon it, near to where 
 she had sat. 
 
 “ Oh, he forgot it,” she murmured, as she picked up 
 Corthell’s heart-shaped match box. She glanced at it 
 a moment, indifferently ; but her mind was full of other 
 things. She laid it down again upon the table, and 
 going on to her own room, went to bed. 
 
 Jadwin did not come home that night, and in the 
 morning Laura presided at breakfast table in his place. 
 Landry Court, Page, and Aunt Wess’ were there; for 
 occasionally nowadays, when the trio went to one of 
 their interminable concerts or lectures, Landry stayed 
 over night at the house. 
 
 “Any message for your husband, Mrs. Jadwin?” in- 
 quired Landry, as he prepared to go down town after 
 breakfast. “ I always see him in Mr. Gretry’s office the 
 first thing. Any message for him ? ” 
 
 “ No,” answered Laura, simply. 
 
 “Oh, by the way,” spoke up Aunt Wess’, “we met 
 that Mr. Corthell on the corner last night, just as he 
 was leaving. I was real sorry not to get home here 
 before he left. I’ve never heard him play on that big 
 organ, and I’ve been wanting to for ever so long. I 
 hurried home last night, hoping I might have caught 
 him before he left. I was regularly disappointed.” 
 
 “ That’s too bad,” murmured Laura, and then, for ob- 
 scure reasons, she had the stupidity to add : “ And we 
 were in the art gallery the whole evening. He played 
 beautifully.” 
 
 Towards eleven o’clock that morning Laura took her 
 usual ride, but she ’nad not been away from the house 
 quite an hour before she turned back. 
 
 All at once she had remembered something. She re- 
 
I 
 
 I A Story of Chicago 299 
 
 I turned homeward, now urging Crusader to a flying gal- 
 lop, now curbing him to his slowest ambling walk. That 
 j which had so abruptly presented itself to her mind was 
 I the fact that Corthell’s match box — his name engraved 
 i across its front — still lay in plain sight upon the table in 
 her sitting-room — the peculiar and particular place of 
 I her privacy. 
 
 ! It was so much her own, this room, that she had given 
 orders that the servants were to ignore it in their day’s 
 I routine. She looked after its order herself. Yet, for 
 I all that, the maids or the housekeeper often passed 
 [ through it, on their way to the suite beyond, and occa- 
 |i sionally Page or Aunt Wess’ came there to read, in her 
 f< absence. The family spoke of the place sometimes as 
 t the “ upstairs sitting-room,” sometimes simply as 
 ’ “ Laura’s room.” 
 
 ‘ Now, as she cantered homeward, Laura had it vividly 
 in her mind that she had not so much as glanced at the 
 room before leaving the house that morning. The 
 i servants would not touch the place. But it was quite 
 ! possible that Aunt Wess’ or Page 
 
 Laura, the blood mounting to her forehead, struck 
 ’ the horse sharply with her crop. The pettiness of the 
 I predicament, the small meanness of her situation struck 
 across her face like the flagellations of tiny whips. 
 That she should stoop to this ! She who had held her 
 head so high. 
 
 Abruptly she reined in the horse again. No, she 
 would not hurry. Exercising all her self-control, she 
 went on her way with deliberate slowness, so that it was 
 past twelve o’clock when she dismounted under the 
 carriage porch. 
 
 Her fingers clutched tightly about her crop, she 
 mounted to her sitting-room and entered, closing the 
 door behind her. 
 
300 
 
 The Pit 
 
 She went directly to the table, and then, catching her 
 breath, with a quick, apprehensive sinking of the heart, 
 stopped short. The little heart-shaped match box was 
 gone, and on the conch in the corner of the room Page, 
 her book falle^ to the floor beside her, lay curled up 
 and asleep. / 
 
 A loop eB her riding-habit over her arm, the toe of 
 her boof^' tapping the floor nervously, Laura stood 
 motionless in the centre of the room, her lips tight 
 pressed, the fingers of one gloved hand drumming 
 rapidly upon her riding-crop. She was bewildered, and 
 an anxiety cruelly poignant, a dread of something she 
 could not name, gripped suddenly at her throat. 
 
 Could she have been mistaken? Was it upon the 
 table that she had seen the match box after all? If it 
 lay elsewhere about the room, she must find it at once. 
 Never had she felt so degraded as now, when, moving 
 with such softness and swiftness as she could in her agi- 
 tation command, she went here and there about the 
 room, peering into the corners of her desk, searching 
 upon the floor, upon the chairs, everywhere, any^vhere ; 
 her face crimson, her breath failing her, her hands open- 
 ing and shutting. 
 
 But the silver heart with its crown of worn gold was 
 not to be found. Laura, at the end of half an hour, was 
 obliged to give over searching. She was certain the 
 match box lay upon the mahogany table when last she 
 left the room. It had not been mislaid; of that she was 
 now persuaded. 
 
 But while she sat at the desk, still in habit and hat, 
 rummaging for the fourth time among the drawers and 
 shelves, she was all at once aware, even without turning 
 around, that Page was awake and watching her. Laura 
 cleared her throat. 
 
 “ Have you seen my blue note paper. Page ? ” she 
 
I A Story of Chicago 301 
 
 'I asked. “ I want to drop a note to Mrs. Cressler, right 
 away.” 
 
 “ No,” said Page, as she rose from the couch. “ No, 
 ' I haven’t seen it.” She came towards her sister across 
 I the room. “ I thought, maybe,” she added, gravely, as 
 she drew the heart-shaped match box from her pocket, 
 i “ that you might be looking for this. I took it. I 
 knew you wouldn’t care to have Mr. Jadwin find it here.” 
 I Laura struck the little silver heart from Page’s hand, 
 r with a violence that sent it spinning across the room, 
 
 ! and sprang to her feet. 
 
 “You took it!” she cried. “You took it! How 
 dare you ! What do you mean ? What do I care if Cur- 
 f tis should find it here? What’s it to me that he should 
 I know that Mr. Corthell came up here ? Of course he was 
 here.” 
 
 But Page, though very pale, was perfectly calm under 
 her sister’s outburst. 
 
 “ If you didn’t care whether any one knew that Mr. 
 f Corthell came up here,” she said, quietly, “ why did you 
 jl tell us this morning at breakfast that you and he were 
 I in the art gallery the whole evening? I thought,” she 
 I added, with elaborate blandness, “ I thought I would 
 be doing you a service in hiding the match box.” 
 
 " “A service! You! What have I to hide?” cried 
 Laura, almost inarticulate. “ Of course I said we were 
 ' in the art gallery the whole evening. So we were. We 
 did — I do remember now — we did come up here for an 
 instant, to see how my picture hung. We went down- 
 stairs again at once. We did not so much as sit dcwn. 
 He was not in the room two minutes.” 
 
 “ He was here,” returned Page, “ long enough to 
 smoke half a dozen times.” She pointed to a silver pen 
 tray on the mahogany table, hidden behind a book rack 
 and littered with the ashes and charred stumps of some 
 five or six cigarettes. 
 
302 
 
 The Pit 
 
 “ Really, Laura,” Page remarked. “ Really, you man- 
 age very awkwardly, it seems to me.” 
 
 Laura caught her riding-crop in her right hand. 
 
 “ Don’t you — don’t you make me forget myself,” she 
 cried, breathlessly. 
 
 “ It seems to me,” observed Page, quietly, “ that 
 you’ve done that long since, yourself.” 
 
 Laura flung the crop down and folded her arms. 
 
 “ Now,” she cried, her eyes blazing and rivetted upon 
 Page’s. “Now, just what do you mean? Sit down,” 
 she commanded, flinging a hand towards a chair, “ sit 
 down, and tell me just what you mean by all this.” 
 
 But Page remained standing. She met her sister’s 
 gaze without wavering. 
 
 “ Do you want me to believe,” she answered, “ that it 
 made no difference to you that Mr. Corthell’s match 
 safe was here ? ” 
 
 “ Not the least,” exclaimed Laura. “ Not the least.’^ 
 
 “ Then why did you search for it so when you came 
 in? I was not asleep all of the time. I saw you.” 
 
 “ Because,” answered Laura, “ because — I — be- 
 cause — ” Then all at once she burst out afresh: 
 “ Have I got to answer to you for what I do? Have 
 I got to explain? All your life long you’ve pretended 
 to judge your sister. Now you’ve gone too far. Now 
 I forbid it — from this day on. What I do is my affair; 
 I’ll ask nobody’s advice. I’ll do as I please, do you 
 understand?” The tears sprang to her eyes, the sobs 
 strangled in her throat. “ I’ll do as I please, as I 
 please,” and with the words she sank down in the chair 
 by her desk and struck her bare knuckles again and 
 again upon the open lid, crying out through her tears 
 and her sobs, and from between her tight-shut teeth: 
 “ I’ll do as I please, do you understand? As I please, 
 as I please! I will be happy. I will, I will, I will! ” 
 
303 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 “ Oh, darling, dearest ” cried Page, running for- 
 
 ward. But Laiu-a, on her feet once more, thrust her 
 back. 
 
 “ Don’t touch me,” she cried. “ I hate you ! ” She 
 put her fists to her temples and, her eyes closed, rocked 
 herself to and fro. “ Don’t you touch me. Go away 
 from me; go away from me. I hate you; I hate you 
 all. I hate this house, I hate this life. You are all kill- 
 ing me. Oh, my God, if I could only die ! ” 
 
 She flung herself full length upon the couch, face 
 downward. Her sobs shook her from head to foot. 
 
 Page knelt at her side, an arm about her shoulder, 
 but to all her sister’s consolations Laura, her voice 
 muffled in her folded arms, only cried : 
 
 “ Let me alone, let me alone. Don’t touch me.” 
 
 For a time Page tried to make herself heard; then, 
 after a moment’s reflection, she got up and drew out 
 the pin in Laura’s hat. She took off the hat, loosened 
 the scarf around Laura’s neck, and then deftly, silently, 
 while her sister lay inert and sobbing beneath her hands, 
 removed the stiff, tight riding-habit. She brought a 
 towel dipped in cold water from the adjoining room and 
 bathed Laura’s face and hands. 
 
 But her sister would not be comforted, would not 
 respond to her entreaties or caresses. The better part 
 of an hour went by ; Page, knowing her sister’s nature, 
 in the end held her peace, waiting for the paroxysm to 
 wear itself out. 
 
 After a while Laura’s weeping resolved Itself into 
 long, shuddering breaths, and at length she managed to 
 say, in a faint, choked voice; 
 
 “ Will you bring me the cologne from my dressing- 
 table, honey? My head aches so.” 
 
 And, as Page ran towards the door, she added : “And 
 my hand mirror, too. Are my eyes all swollen? ” 
 
304 
 
 The Pit 
 
 And that was the last word upon the subject between 
 the two sisters. 
 
 But the evening of the same day, between eight and 
 nine o’clock, while Laura was searching the shelves of 
 the library for a book with which to while away the 
 long evening that she knew impended, Corthell’s card 
 was brought to her. 
 
 “ I am not at home,” she told the servant. “ Or — > 
 wait,” she added. Then, after a moment’s thought, she 
 said; “Very well. Show him In here.” 
 
 Laura received the artist, standing very erect and pale 
 upon the great white rug before the empty fireplace. 
 Her hands were behind her back when he came in, and 
 as he crossed the room she did not move. 
 
 “ I was not going to see you at first,” she said. “ I 
 told the servant I was not at home. But I changed my 
 mind — I wanted to say something to you.” 
 
 He stood at the other end of the fireplace, an elbow 
 upon an angle of the massive mantel, and as she spoke 
 the last words he looked at her quickly. As usual, they 
 were quite alone. The heavy, muffling curtain of the 
 doorway shut them in effectually. 
 
 “ I have something to say to you,” continued Laura. 
 Then, quietly enough, she said: 
 
 “ You must not come to see me any more.” 
 
 He turned abruptly away from her, and for a moment 
 did not speak. Then at last, his voice low, he faced her 
 again and asked: 
 
 “ Have I offended?” 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 “ No,” he said, quietly. “ No, I knew it was not that.” 
 There was a long silence. The artist looked at the floor, 
 his hand slowly stroking the back of one of the big 
 leather chairs. 
 
 “ I knew it must come,” he answered, at lengfth, 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 305 
 
 ' “ sooner or later. You are right — of course. I should 
 [ not have come back to America. I should not have 
 ! believed that I was strong enough to trust myself. 
 
 I Then ” — he looked at her steadily. His words came 
 I from his lips one by one, very slowly. His voice was 
 I hardly more than a whisper. “ Then, I am — never to 
 see you — again. . . Is that it ? ” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “ Do you know what that means for me ? ” he cried. 
 
 “ Do you realise ” he drew in his breath sharply. 
 
 “ Never to see you again! To lose even the little that 
 
 is left to me now. I — I ” He turned away quickly 
 
 and walked to a window and stood a moment, his back 
 turned, looking out, his hands clasped behind him. 
 Then, after a long moment, he faced about. His man- 
 ner was quiet again, his voice very low. 
 
 “ But before I go,” he said, “ will you answer me, at 
 least, this — it can do no harm now that I am to leave you 
 — answer me, and I know you will speak the truth : Are 
 you happy, Laura ? ” 
 
 She closed her eyes. 
 
 “ You have not the right to know.” 
 
 “ You are not happy,” he declared. “ I can see it, I 
 know it. If you were, you would have told me so. 
 . . . If I promise you,” he went on. “ If I promise 
 you to go away now, and never to try to see you again, 
 may I come once more — to say good-by ? ” 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 “ It is so little for you to grant,” he pleaded, “ and it 
 is so incalculably much for me to look forward to in the 
 little time that yet remains. I do not even ask to see 
 you alone. I will not harass you with any heroics.” 
 
 “ Oh, what good will it do,” she cried, wearily, “ for 
 you to see me again? Why will you make me more 
 unhappy than I am ? Why did you come back ? ” 
 
3o6 
 
 The Pit 
 
 r “ Because,” he answered, steadily, “because I love you 
 more than ” — he partly raised a clenched fist and let it 
 fall slowly upon the back of the chair, “ more than any- 
 other consideration in the world.” 
 
 “ Don’t ! ” she cried. “ You must not. Never, never 
 say that to me again. Will you go — ^please ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, if I had not gone from you four years ago ! ” 
 he cried. “If I had only stayed then! Not a day of 
 my life since that I have not regretted it. You could 
 have loved me then. I know it, I know it, and, God for- 
 give me, but I know you could love me now ” 
 
 “ Will you go ? ” she cried. 
 
 “ I dare you to say you could not,” he flashed out. 
 Laura shut her eyes and put her hands over her ears. 
 “ I could not, I could not,” she murmured, monoto- 
 nously, over and over again. “ I could not, I could not.” 
 
 She heard him start suddenly, and opened her eyes in 
 time to see him come quickly towards her. She threw 
 out a defensive hand, but he caught the arm itself to 
 him and, before she could resist, had kissed it again and 
 again through the interstices of the lace sleeve. Upon 
 her bare shoulder she felt the sudden passion of his lips. 
 
 A quick, sharp gasp, a sudden qualm of breathless- 
 ness wrenched through her, to her very finger tips, with 
 a fierce leap of the blood, a wild bound of the heart. 
 
 She tore back from him with a violence that rent away 
 the lace upon her arm, and stood off from him, erect 
 and rigid, a fine, delicate, trembling vibrating through 
 all her being. On her pale cheeks the colour suddenly 
 flamed. 
 
 “ Go, go,” was all she had voice to utter. 
 
 “ And may I see you once more — only once? ” 
 
 “Yes, yes, anything, only go, go — if you love me! ” 
 He left the room. In another moment she heard the 
 front door close. 
 
 i 
 
I A Story of Chicago 307 
 
 I I “ Curtis,” said Laura, when next she saw her husband, 
 II “ Curtis, you could not — stay with me, that last time. 
 I, Remember? When we were to go for a drive. Can 
 
 I; you spend this evening with me? Just us two, here at 
 home — or I’ll go out with you. I’ll do anything you 
 say.” She looked at him steadily an instant. “ It is 
 : not — not easy for a woman to ask — for me to ask fa- 
 I vours like this. Each time I tell myself it will be the 
 j last. I am — you must remember this, Curtis, I am — 
 
 I perhaps I am a little proud. Don’t you see?” 
 
 They were at breakfast table again. It was the morn- 
 I ing after Laura had given Corthell his dismissal. As 
 she spoke Jadwin brought his hand down upon the table 
 J with a bang. 
 
 i “You bet I will,” he exclaimed; “you bet I’ll stay 
 '|i with you to-night. Business can go to the devil ! And 
 I we won’t go out either; we’ll stay right here. You get 
 li something to read *0 me, and we’ll have one of our old 
 I; evenings again. We ” 
 
 All at once Jad\vin paused, laid down his knife and 
 fork, and looked strangely to and fro about the room. 
 
 “ We’ll have one of our old evenings again,” he re- 
 ' peated, slowly. 
 
 j “ What is it, Curtis? ” demanded his wife. “ What is 
 the matter?” 
 
 “ Oh — nothing,” he answered. 
 
 “Why, yes there was. Tell me.” 
 
 “ No, no. I’m all right now,” he returned, briskly 
 enough. 
 
 “ No,” she insisted. “ You must tell me. Are you 
 sick?” 
 
 He hesitated a moment. Then: 
 
 “ Sick ? ” he queried. “ No, indeed. But — I’ll tell you. 
 Since a few days I’ve had,” he put his fingers to his fore- 
 head between his eyes, “ I’ve had a queer sensation right 
 there. It comes and goes.”- 
 
3o8 
 
 The Pit 
 
 “ A headache ? ” 
 
 “ N-no. It’s hard to describe. A sort of numbness. 
 Sometimes it’s as though there was a heavy iron cap — 
 a helmet on my head. And sometimes it — I don’t know, 
 it seems as if there were fog, or something or other, in- 
 side. I’ll take a good long rest this summer, as soon 
 as we can get away. Another month or six weeks, and 
 I’ll have things ship-shape and so as I can leave them. 
 Then we’ll go up to Geneva, and, by Jingo, I’ll loaf.” 
 He was silent for a moment, frowning, passing his hand 
 across his forehead and winking his eyes. Then, with 
 a return of his usual alertness, he looked at his watch. 
 
 “ Hi ! ” he exclaimed. “ I must be off. I won’t be 
 home to dinner to-night. But you can expect me by 
 eight o’clock, sure. I promise I’ll be here on the 
 minute.” 
 
 But, as he kissed his wife good-by, Laura put her arms 
 about his neck. 
 
 “ Oh, I don’t want you to leave me at all, ever, ever ! 
 Curtis, love me, love me always, dear. And be thought- 
 ful of me and kind to me. And remember that you are 
 all I have in the world; you are father and mother to 
 me, and my dear husband as well. I know you do love 
 me ; but there are times — Oh,” she cried, suddenly, 
 “ if I thought you did not love me — love me better than 
 anything, anything — I could not love you ; Curtis, I 
 could not, I could not. No, no,” she cried, “ don’t in- 
 terrupt. Hear me out. Maybe it is wrong of me to 
 feel that way, but I’m only a woman, dear. I love you, 
 but I love Love too. Women are like that ; right or 
 wrong, weak or strong, they must be — must be loved 
 above ever>hhing else in the world. Now go, go to your 
 business ; you mustn’t be late. Hark, there is Jarvis 
 with the team. Go now. Good-by, good-by, and I’ll 
 expect you at eight.” 
 
A Story of Chicago 309 
 
 True to his word, Jadwin reached his home that even- 
 ing promptly at the promised hour. As he came into 
 the house, however, the door-man met him in the hall, 
 and, as he took his master’s hat and stick, explained that 
 Mrs. Jadwin was in the art gallery, and that she had said 
 he was to come there at once. 
 
 Laura had planned a little surprise. The art gallery 
 was darkened. Here and there behind the dull-blue 
 shades a light burned low. But one of the movable re- 
 flectors that were used to throw a light upon the 
 pictures in the topmost rows was burning brilliantly. 
 It was turned from Jadwin as he entered, and its broad 
 cone of intense white light was thrown full upon Laura, 
 who stood over against the organ in the full costume 
 of “ Theodora.” 
 
 For an instant Jadwin was taken all aback. 
 
 “ What the devil ! ” he ejaculated, stopping short in 
 the doorway. 
 
 Laura ran forward to him, the chains, ornaments, and 
 swinging pendants chiming furiously as she moved. 
 
 “ I did surprise you, I did surprise you,” she laughed. 
 “ Isn’t it gorgeous ? ” She turned about before him, her 
 arms raised. “ Isn’t it superb ? Do you remember 
 Bernhardt — and that scene in the Emperor Justinian’s 
 box at the amphitheatre? Say now that your wife 
 isn’t beautiful. I am, am I not ? ” she exclaimed defi- 
 antly, her head raised. “ Say it, say it.” 
 
 “ Well, what for a girl ! ” gasped Jadwin, “ to get her- 
 self up ” 
 
 “ Say that I am beautiful,” commanded Laura. 
 
 “ Well, I just about guess you are,” he cried. 
 
 “The most beautiful woman you have ever known? ” 
 she insisted. Then on the instant added : “ Oh, I may 
 be really as plain as a kitchen-maid, but you must believe 
 that I am not. I would rather be ugly and have you 
 
310 
 
 The Pit 
 
 think me beautiful, than to be the most beautiful woman 
 in the world and have you think me plain. Tell me — 
 am I not the most beautiful woman you ever saw? ” 
 
 “ The most beautiful I ever saw,” he repeated, fer- 
 vently. “ But — Lord, what will you do next ? What- 
 ever put it into your head to get into this rig? ” 
 
 “ Oh, I don’t know. I just took the notion. You’ve 
 seen me in every one of my gowns. I sent down for 
 this, this morning, just after you left. Curtis, if you 
 hadn’t made me love you enough to be your wife, Laura 
 Dearborn would have been a great actress. I feel it in 
 my finger tips. Ah ! ” she cried, suddenly flinging up 
 her head till the pendants of the crown clashed again. 
 “ I could have been magnificent. You don’t believe it. 
 Listen. This is Athalia — the queen in the Old Testa- 
 ment, you remember.” 
 
 “ Hold on,” he protested. “ I thought you were this 
 Theodora person.” 
 
 “ I know — but never mind. I am anything I choose. 
 Sit down; listen. It’s from Racine’s ‘ Athalie,’ and the 
 wicked queen has had this terrible dream of her mother, 
 Jezabel. It’s French, but I’ll make you see.” 
 
 And “ taking stage,” as it were, in the centre of the 
 room, Laura began : 
 
 “Son ombre vers mon lit a paru se haisser 
 Et moi, je lui tendais les mains pour i embrasser ; 
 
 Mais je n'ai plus trouvd quun horrible melange 
 D'os ei de chair meurtris et trainee dans la fange, 
 
 Des lambeaux pleins de sang, et des membres affreux 
 Que les chiens d/vorants se disputaient entre eux." 
 
 “ Great God ! ” exclaimed Jadwin, ignorant of the 
 words yet, in spite of himself, carried away by the fury 
 and passion of her rendering. 
 
 Laura struck her palms together. 
 
 “ Just what ‘ Abner ’ says,” she cried. “ The very 
 words.” 
 
A Story of Chicago 31 1 
 
 ' “Abner?” 
 
 “ In the play. I knew I could make you feel it.” 
 
 “ Well, well,” murmured her husband, shaking his 
 head, bewildered even yet. “ Well, it’s a strange wife 
 I’ve got here.” 
 
 “ When you’ve realised that,” returned Laura, 
 “ you’ve just begun to understand me.” 
 
 Never had he seen her gayer. Her vivacity was be- 
 wildering. 
 
 “ I wish,” she cried, all at once, “ I wish I had dressed 
 as ‘ Carmen,’ and I would have danced for you. Oh, and 
 you could have played the air for me on the organ. I 
 have the costume upstairs now. Wait ! I will, I will ! 
 Sit right where you are — no, fix the attachment to the 
 organ while I’m gone. Oh, be gay with me to-night,” 
 she cried, throwing her arms around him. “ This is my 
 night, isn’t it? And I am to be just as foolish as I 
 please.” 
 
 With the words she ran from the room, but was back 
 in an incredibly short time, gowned as Bizet’s cigarette 
 girl, a red rose in her black hair, castanets upon her 
 fingers. 
 
 Jadwin began the bolero. 
 
 “ Can you see me dance, and play at the same time? ” 
 
 “Yes, yes. Go on. How do you know anything 
 about a Spanish dance? ” 
 
 “ I learned it long ago. I know everything about 
 anything I choose, to-night. Play, play it fast.” 
 
 She danced as though she would never tire, with the 
 same force of passion that she had thrown into “Athalie.” 
 Her yellow skirt was a flash of flame spurting from the 
 floor, and her whole body seemed to move with the same 
 wild, untamed spirit as a tongue of fire. The castanets 
 snapped like the crackling of sparks ; her black mantilla 
 was a hovering cloud of smoke. She v/as incarnate 
 flame, capricious and riotous, elusive and dazzling. 
 
312 
 
 the Pit 
 
 Then suddenly she tossed the castanets far across the 
 room and dropped upon the couch, panting and laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 “ There,” she cried, “ now I feel better. That had to 
 come out. Come over here and sit by me. Now, may- 
 be you’ll admit that I can dance too.” 
 
 “ You sure can,” answered Jadwin, as she made a 
 place for him among the cushions. “ That was wonder- 
 ful. But, at the same time, old girl, I wouldn’t — 
 wouldn’t ” 
 
 “Wouldn’t what?” 
 
 “ Well, do too much of that. It’s sort of over- 
 wrought — a little, and unnatural. I like you best when 
 you are your old self, quiet, and calm, and dignified. It’s 
 when you are quiet that you are at your best. I didn’t 
 know you had this streak in you. You are that excit- 
 able to-night ! ” 
 
 “ Let me be so then. It’s myself, for the moment, 
 whatever it is. But now I’ll be quiet. Now we’ll talk. 
 Have you had a hard day? Oh, and did your head 
 bother you again ? ” 
 
 “No, things were a little easier down town to-day. But 
 that queer feeling in my head did come back as I was 
 coming home — and my head aches a little now, besides.” 
 
 “Your head aches!” she exclaimed. “Let me do 
 something for it. And I’ve been making it worse with 
 all my foolishness.” 
 
 “ No, no ; that’s all right,” he assured her. “ I tell 
 you what we’ll do. I’ll lie down here a bit, and you play 
 something for me. Something quiet. I get so tired 
 down there in La Salle Street, Laura, you don’t know.” 
 
 And while he stretched out at full length upon the 
 couch, his wife, at the organ, played the music she knew 
 he liked best — old songs, “ Daisy Dean,” “ Lord 
 Lovell,” “ When Stars Are in the Quiet Sky,” and 
 “ Open Thv Lattice to Me.” 
 
I A Story of Chicago 313 
 
 Ij When at length she paused, he nodded his head with 
 pleasure. 
 
 “ That’s pretty,” he said. “ Ah, that is blame pretty, 
 ii Honey, it’s just like medicine to me,” he continued, “ to 
 lie here, quiet like this, with the lights low, and have my 
 dear girl play those old, old tunes. My old governor, 
 I Laura, used to play that ‘ Open the Lattice to me,’ that 
 and ‘ Father, oh. Father, Come Home with me Now ’ — 
 fused to play ’em on his fiddle.” His arm under his head, 
 the went on, looking vaguely at the opposite wall. “ Lord 
 i love me, I can see that kitchen in the old farmhouse 
 as plain! The walls were just logs and plaster, and 
 ! there were upright supports in each corner, where we 
 used to measure our heights — we children. And the fire- 
 place was there,” he added, gesturing with his arm, “ and 
 there was the wood box, and over here was an old kind 
 of dresser with drawers, and the torty-shell cat always 
 had her kittens under there, (jioney, I was happy then. 
 Of course I’ve got you now, and that’s all the difference 
 in the world. B ut you ’re_the only thing that does make 
 a ^difference; We’ve got a fine place and a mint of 
 money I suppose — and I’m proud of it. But I don’t 
 know. ... If they’d let me be and put us two — 
 just you and me — back in the old house with the bare 
 floors and the rawhide chairs and the shuck beds, I 
 guess we’d manage. If you’re happ^^, you’re happy; 
 that’s about. the„size ofTt And sometimes I think that 
 wed~15eTiappier — you and I — chumming along shoul- 
 der to shoulder, poor an’ working hard, than making 
 big money an’ spending big money, why — oh, I don’t 
 know ... if you’re happy, that’s the thing that 
 counts, and if all this stuff,” he kicked out a careless foot 
 at the pictures, the heavy hangings, the glass cabinets 
 of bibelots, “if all this stuff stood in the way of it — well — 
 it could go to the devil ! That’s not poetry maybe, but 
 
 it’s the truth7\ 
 
314 
 
 The Pit 
 
 Laura came over to where her husband lay, and sat 
 by him, and took his head in her lap, smoothing his fore- 
 head with her long white hands. 
 
 “ Oh, if I could only keep you like this always,” she 
 murmured. “ Keep you untroubled, and kind, and true. 
 This is my husband again. Oh, you are a man, Curtis ; 
 a great, strong, kind-hearted man, with no little graces, 
 nor petty culture, nor trivial fine speeches, nor false 
 sham, imitation polish. I love you. Ah, I love you, 
 love you, dear ! ” 
 
 “ Old girl ! ” said Jadwin, stroking her hand. 
 
 “ Do you want me to read to you now? ” she asked. 
 
 “ Just this is pretty good, it seems to me.” 
 
 As he spoke, there came a step in the hall and a 
 knock. 
 
 Laura sat up, frowning. 
 
 “ I told them I was not to be disturbed,” she ex- i 
 claimed under her breath. Then, “ Come in,” she called. 
 
 “ Mr. Gretry, sir,” announced the servant. “ Said he 
 wished to see you at once, sir.” 
 
 “ Tell him,” cried Laura, turning quickly to Jadwin, 
 
 “ tell him you’re not at home — that you can’t see him.” ; 
 
 “ I’ve got to see him,” answered Jadwin, sitting up. ; 
 “ He wouldn’t come here himself unless it was for some- 
 thing important.” 
 
 “ Can I come in, J. ? ” spoke the broker, from the hall. 
 And even through the thick curtains they could hear 
 how his voice rang with excitement and anxiety. 
 
 “ Can I come in ? I followed the servant right up, ^ 
 you see. I know ” ; 
 
 “ Yes, yes. Come in,” answered Jadwin. Laura, her ; 
 face flushing, threw a fold of the couch cover over her \ 
 costume as Gretry, his hat still on his head, stepped 
 quickly into the room. 
 
 Jadwin met him half way, and Laura from her place 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 315 
 
 on the couch heard the rapidly spoken words between 
 the general and his lieutenant. 
 
 “ Now we’re in for it ! ” Gretry exclaimed. 
 
 “Yes — ^well?” Jadwin’s voice was as incisive and 
 quick as the fall of an axe. 
 
 “ I’ve just found out,” said Gretry, “ that Crookes 
 and his crowd are going to take hold to-morrow. 
 There’ll be hell to pay in the morning. They are going 
 to attack us the minute the gong goes.” 
 
 “Who’s with them?” 
 
 “ I don’t know ; nobody does. Sweeny, of course. 
 But he has a gang back of him — besides, he’s got good 
 credit with the banks. I told you you’d have to fight 
 him sooner or later.” 
 
 “ Well, we’ll fight him then. Don’t get scared. 
 Crookes ain’t the Great Mogul.” 
 
 “ Holy Moses, I’d like to know who is, then.” 
 
 “ I am. And he’s got to know it. There’s not room 
 for Crookes and me in this game. One of us two has 
 got to control this market. If he gets in my way, by 
 God, I’ll smash him ! ” 
 
 “ Well, then, J., you and I have got to do some tall 
 talking to-night. You’d better come down to the 
 Grand Pacific Hotel right away. Court is there al- 
 ready. It was him, nervy little cuss, that found out 
 about Crookes. Can you come now, at once? Good 
 evening, Mrs. Jadwin. I’m sorry to take him from you, 
 but business is^ business.” 
 
 '"'NoTTTw^ not. To the wife of the great manipulator, 
 listening with a sinking heart to this courier from the 
 front, it was battle. The Battle of the Stree ts was again 
 in array. Again the trumpet sounded, again the rush 
 of thousands of feet filled all the air. Even here, here in 
 her home, her husband’s head upon her lap, in the quiet 
 and stillness of her hour, the distant rumble came to her 
 
3i6 
 
 The Pit 
 
 ears. Somewhere, far off there in the darkness of the 
 night, the great forces were manoeuvring for position 
 once more. To-morrow would come the grapple, and 
 one or the other must fall — her husband or the enemy. 
 How keep him to herself when the great conflict im- 
 pended ? She knew how the thunder of the captains and 
 the shoutings appealed to him. She had seen him al- 
 most leap to his arms out of her embrace. He was all 
 the man she had called him, and less strong, less eager, 
 less brave, she would have loved him less. 
 
 Yet she had lost him again, lost him at the very mo- 
 ment she believed she had won him back. 
 
 “ Don’t go, don’t go,” she whispered to him, as he 
 kissed her good-by. “ Oh, dearest, don’t go ! This was 
 my evening.” 
 
 “ I must, I must, Laura. Good-by, old girl. Don’t 
 keep me — see, Sam is waiting.” 
 
 He kissed her hastily twice. 
 
 “ Now, Sam,” he said, turning toward the broker. 
 
 “ Good night, Mrs. Jadwin.” 
 
 “ Good-by, old girl.” 
 
 They turned toward the door. 
 
 “ You see, young Court was down there at the bank, 
 and he noticed that checks ” 
 
 The voices died away as the hangings of the entrance 
 fell to place. The front door clashed and closed. 
 
 Laura sat upright in her place, listening, one fist 
 pressed against her lips. 
 
 There was no more noise. The silence of the vast 
 empty house widened around her at the shutting of the 
 door as the ripples widen on a pool with the falling of 
 the stone. She crushed her knuckles tighter and tighter 
 over her lips, she pressed her fingers to her eyes, she 
 slowly clasped and reclasped her hands, listening for 
 what she did not know. She thought of her husband 
 
A Story of Chicago 317 
 
 hurrying away from her, ignoring her and her love for 
 him in the haste and heat of battle. She thought of 
 Corthell, whom she had sent from her, forever, shutting 
 his love from out her life. 
 
 Crushed, broken, Laura laid herself down among the 
 cushions, her face buried in her arm. Above her and 
 around her rose the dimly lit gallery, lowering with 
 luminous shadows. Only a point or two of light illu- 
 minated the place. The gold frames of the pictures re- 
 flected it dully; the massive organ pipes, just outlined 
 in faint blurs of light, towered far into the gloom above. 
 The whole place, with its half-seen gorgeous hangings, 
 its darkened magnificence, was like a huge, dim interior 
 of Byzantium. 
 
 Lost, beneath the great height of the dome, and in the 
 wide reach of the floor space, in her foolish finery of 
 bangles, silks, high comb, and little rosetted slippers, 
 Laura Jadwin lay half hidden among the cushions of 
 the couch. If she wept, she wept in silence, and the 
 muffling stillness of the lofty gallery was broken but 
 once, when a cry, half whisper, half sob, rose to the deaf, 
 blind darkness : 
 
 “ Oh, now I am alone, alone, alone 1 ” 
 
IX 
 
 “ Well, that’s about all then, I guess,” said Gretry at 
 last, as he pushed back his chair and rose from the 
 table. 
 
 He and Jadwin were in a room on the third floor of 
 the Grand Pacific Hotel, facing Jackson Street. It was 
 three o’clock in the morning. Both men were in their 
 shirt-sleeves ; the table at which they had been sitting 
 was scattered over with papers, telegraph blanks, and 
 at Jadwin’s elbow stood a lacquer tray filled with the 
 stumps of cigars and burnt matches, together with one 
 of the hotel pitchers of ice water. 
 
 “Yes,” assented Jadwin, absently, running through 
 a sheaf of telegrams, “ that’s all we can do — until we see 
 what kind of a game Crookes means to play. I’ll be at 
 your office by eight.” 
 
 “ Well,” said the broker, getting into his coat, “ I 
 guess I’ll go to my room and try to get a little sleep. I 
 wish I could see how we’ll be to-morrow night at this 
 time.” 
 
 Jadwin made a sharp movement of impatience. 
 
 “ Damnation, Sam, aren’t you ever going to let up 
 croaking? If you’re afraid of this thing, get out of it. 
 Haven’t I got enough to bother me?” 
 
 “ Oh, say ! Say, hold on, hold on, old man,” remon- 
 strated the broker, in an injured voice. “ You’re terrible 
 touchy sometimes, J., of late. I was only trying to look 
 ahead a little. Don’t think I want to back out. You 
 ought to know me by this time, J.” 
 
 “ There, there. I’m sorry, Sam,” Jadwin hastened to 
 answer, getting up and shaking the other by the shoul- 
 
I A Story of Chicago 319 
 
 I der. “ I am touchy these days. There’s so many things 
 to think of, and all at the same time. I do get nervous. 
 H I never slept one little wink last night — and you know 
 ; the night before I didn’t turn in till two in the morning.” 
 
 “ Lord, you go swearing and damning ’round here 
 j like a pirate sometimes, J.,” Gretry went on. “ I haven’t 
 ; heard you cuss before in twenty years. Look out, now, 
 
 I that I don’t tell on you to your Sunday-school superin- 
 ' tendents.” 
 
 i “ I guess they’d cuss, too,” observed Jadwin, “ if they 
 E were long forty million wheat, and had to know just 
 where every hatful of it was every second of the time. 
 
 , It was all very well for us to whoop about swinging a 
 ! corner that afternoon in your office. But the real thing 
 ■ — well, you don’t have any trouble keeping awake. Do 
 you suppose we can keep the fact of our corner dark 
 much longer? ” 
 
 “ I fancy not,” answered the broker, putting on his 
 hat and thrusting his papers into his breast pocket. “ If 
 we bust Crookes, it’ll come out — and it won’t matter 
 then. I think we’ve got all the shorts there are.” 
 
 “ I’m laying particularly for Dave Scannel,” remarked 
 Jadwin. “ I hope he’s in up to his neck, and if he is, by 
 the Great Horn Spoon, I’ll bankrupt him, or my name 
 is not Jadwin ! I’ll wring him bone-dry. If I once get 
 a twistjaf that rat, I won’t leave him hide nor hair to 
 cover the wart he calls his heart.” 
 
 “ Why, what all has Scannel ever done to you ? ” de- 
 manded the other, amazed. 
 
 “ Nothing, but I found out the other day that old Har- 
 gus — poor old, broken-backed, half-starved Hargus — I 
 found out that it was Scannel that ruined him. Hargus 
 and he had a big deal on, you know — oh, ages ago — and 
 Scannel sold out on him. Great God, it was the dirtiest, 
 damnedest treachery I ever heard of ! Scannel made his 
 
320 
 
 The Pit 
 
 pile, and what’s Hargus now ? Why, he’s a scarecrow. 
 And he has a little niece that he supports, heaven only 
 knows how. I’ve seen her, and she’s pretty as a picture. 
 Well, that’s all right; I’m going to carry fifty thousand 
 wheat for Hargus, and I’ve got another scheme for 
 him, too. By God, the poor old boy won’t go hungry 
 again if I know it ! But if I lay my hands on Scannel— 
 if we catch him in the corner — holy, suffering Moses, 
 but I’ll make him squeal! ” 
 
 Gretry nodded, to say he understood and approved. 
 “ I guess you’ve got him,” he remarked. “ Well, I 
 must get to bed. Good night, J.” 
 
 “ Good night, Sam. See you in the morning.” 
 
 And before the door of the room was closed, Jadwin 
 was back at the table again. Once more, painfully, toil- 
 fully, he went over his plans, retesting, altering, recom- 
 bining, his hands full of lists, of despatches, and of end- 
 less columns of memoranda. Occasionally he murmured 
 fragments of sentences to himself. “ H’m ... I 
 
 must look out for that. . . . They can’t touch us 
 
 there. . . . The annex of that Nickel Plate eleva- 
 tor will hold — let’s see . . . half a million. . . . 
 
 If I buy the grain within five days after arrival I’ve got 
 to pay storage, which is, let’s see — three-quarters of a 
 cent times eighty thousand. . . .” 
 
 An hour passed. At length Jadwin pushed back from 
 the table, drank a glass of ice water, and rose, stretching. 
 
 “ Lord, I must get some sleep,” he muttered. 
 
 He threw off his clothes and went to bed, but even as 
 he composed himself to sleep, the noises of the street 
 in the awakening city invaded the room through the 
 chink of the window he had left open. The noises were 
 vague. They blended easily into a far-off murmur; they 
 came nearer ; they developed into a cadence : 
 \^^^^heat-wheat-wheat, wheat-wheat-wheat.” 
 
321 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 Jadwin roused up. He had just been dropping off to 
 sleep. He rose and shut the window, and again threw 
 himself down. He was weary to death; not a nerve of 
 his body that did not droop and flag. His eyes closed 
 slowly. Then, all at once, his whole body twitched 
 sharply in a sudden spasm, a simultaneous recoil of 
 every muscle. His heart began to beat rapidly, his 
 breath failed him. Broad awake, he sat up in bed. 
 
 “ H’m ! ” he muttered. “ That was a start — must 
 have been dreaming, surely.” 
 
 Then he paused, frowning, his eyes narrowing ; he 
 looked to and fro about the room, lit by the subdued 
 glow that came in through the transom from a globe in 
 the hall outside. Slowly his hand went to his forehead. 
 
 With almost the abruptness of a blow, that strange, 
 indescribable sensation had returned to his head. It 
 was as though he were struggling with a fog in the in- 
 terior of his brain ; or again it was a numbness, a weight, 
 or sometimes it had more of the feeling of a heavy, tight- 
 drawn band across his temples. 
 
 “ Smoking too much, I guess,” murmured Jadwin. 
 But he knew this was not the reason, and as he spoke, 
 there smote across his face the first indefinite sensation 
 of an unnamed fear. 
 
 He gave a quick, short breath, and straightened him- 
 self, passing his hands over his face. 
 
 “What the deuce,” he muttered, “does this mean?” 
 
 For a long moment he remained sitting upright in 
 bed, looking from wall to wall of the room. He felt a 
 little calmer. He shrugged his shoulders impatiently. 
 
 “ Look here,” he said to the opposite wall, “ I guess 
 I’m not a schoolgirl, to have nerves at this late date. 
 High time to get to sleep, if I’m to mix things with 
 Crookes to-morrow.” 
 
 But he could not sleep. While the city woke to its 
 
322 
 
 The Pit 
 
 multitudinous life below his windows, while the grey 
 light of morning drowned the yellow haze from the gas 
 jet that came through the transom, while the “ early 
 call ” alarms rang in neighbouring rooms, Curtis Jadwin 
 lay awake, staring at the ceiling, now concentrating his 
 thoughts upon the vast operation in which he found 
 himself engaged, following out again all its complexi- 
 ties, its inconceivable ramifications, or now puzzling 
 over the inexplicable numbness, the queer, dull weight 
 that descended upon his brain so soon as he allowed its 
 activity to relax. 
 
 By five o’clock he found it intolerable to remain 
 longer in bed; he rose, bathed, dressed, ordered his 
 breakfast, and, descending to the office of the hotel, read 
 the earliest editions of the morning papers for half an 
 hour. 
 
 Then, at last, as he sat in the corner of the office deep 
 in an armchair, the tired shoulders began to droop, the 
 wearied head to nod. The paper slipped from his fin- 
 gers, his chin sank upon his collar. 
 
 To his ears the early clamour of the street, the cries 
 of newsboys, the rattle of drays came in a dull murmur. 
 It seemed to him that very far off a great throng was 
 forming. It was menacing, shouting. It stirred, it 
 moved, it was advancing. It came galloping down the 
 street, shouting with insensate fury; now it was at the 
 corner, now it burst into the entrance of the hotel. Its 
 clamour was deafening, but intelligible. For a thou- 
 sand, a million, forty million voices were shouting in 
 cadence : 
 
 “ Wheat-wheat-wheat, wheat-wheat-wheat.” 
 
 Jadwin woke abruptly, half starting from his chair. 
 The morning sun was coming in through the windows, 
 the clock above the hotel desk was striking seven, and 
 a waiter stood at his elbow, saying: 
 
A Story of Chicago 323 
 
 “ Your breakfast is served, Mr. Jadwin.” 
 
 He had no appetite. He could eat nothing but a 
 few mouthfuls of toast, and long before the appointed 
 i hour he sat in Gretry’s office, waiting for the broker to 
 ' appear, drumming on the arm of his chair, plucking at 
 i the buttons of his coat, and wondering why it was that 
 i every now and then all the objects in his range of vision 
 I seemed to move slowly back and stand upon the same 
 plane. 
 
 By degrees he lapsed into a sort of lethargy, a 
 wretched counterfeit of sleep, his eyes half closed, his 
 breath irregular. But, such as it was, it was infinitely 
 grateful. The little, over-driven cogs and wheels of the 
 mind, at least, moved more slowly. Perhaps by and by 
 this might actually develop into genuine, blessed 
 oblivion. 
 
 But there was a quick step outside the door. Gretry 
 came in. 
 
 “Oh, J. ! Here already, are you? Well, Crookes 
 will begin to sell at the very tap of the bell.” 
 
 “ He will, hey? ” Jadwin was on his feet. Instantly 
 the jaded nerves braced taut again ; instantly the tiny 
 machinery of the brain spun again at its fullest limit. 
 “He’s going to try to sell us out, is he? All right. 
 We’ll sell, too. We’ll see who can sell the most — 
 Crookes or Jadwin.” 
 
 “ Sell! You mean buy, of course.” 
 
 “ No, I don’t. I’ve been thinking it over since you 
 left last night. Wheat is worth exactly what it is sell- 
 ing for this blessed day. I’ve not inflated it up one 
 single eighth yet; Crookes thinks I have. Good Lord, 
 I can read him like a book ! He thinks I’ve boosted the 
 stuff above what it’s worth, and that a little shove will 
 send it down. He can send it down to ten cents if he 
 likes, but it’ll jump back like a rubber ball. I’ll sell 
 
324 
 
 The Pit 
 
 bushel for bushel with him as long as he wants to keep 
 it up.” 
 
 “ Heavens and earth, J.,” exclaimed Gretry, with a 
 long breath, “ the risk is about as big as holding up the 
 Bank of England. You are depreciating the value of 
 about forty million dollars’ worth of your property with 
 every cent she breaks.” 
 
 “ You do as I tell you — you’ll see I’m right,” answered 
 Jadwin. “ Get your boys in here, and we’ll give ’em the 
 day’s orders.” 
 
 The “ Crookes affair ” — as among themselves the 
 group of men who centred about Jadwinspoke of it — was 
 one of the sharpest fights known on the Board of Trade 
 for many a long day It developed with amazing unex- 
 pectedness and was watched with breathless interest 
 from every produce exchange between the oceans. 
 
 It occupied every moment of each morning's session 
 of the Board of Trade for four furious, never-to-be- 
 forgotten days. Promptly at half-past nine o’clock on 
 Tuesday morning Crookes began to sell May wheat 
 short, and instantly, to the surprise of every Pit trader 
 on the floor, the price broke with his very first attack. 
 In twenty minutes it was down half a cent. Then came 
 the really big surprise of the day. Landry Court, the 
 known representative of the firm which all along had 
 fostered and encouraged the rise in the price, appeared 
 in the Pit, and instead of buying, upset all precedent and 
 all calculation by selling as freely as the Crookes men 
 themselves For three days the battle went on. But 
 to the outside world — even to the Pit itself — it seemed 
 less a battle than a rout. The “ Unknown Bull ” was 
 down, was beaten at last. He had inflated the price of the 
 wheat, he had backed a false, an artificial, and unw'ar- 
 rantable boom, and now he was being broken. Ah, 
 Crookes knew when to strike. Here was the great gen- 
 eral — the real leader who so long had held back. 
 
A Story of Chicago 3^5 
 
 By the end of the Friday session, Crookes and his 
 clique had sold five million bushels, “ going short,” 
 promising to deliver wheat that they did not own, but 
 expected to buy at low prices. The market that day 
 closed at ninety-five. 
 
 Friday night, in Jadwin’s room in the Grand Pacific, 
 a conference was held between Gretry, Landry Court, 
 two of Gretry’s most trusted lieutenants, and Jadwin 
 himself. Two results issued from this conference. One 
 took the form of a cipher cable to Jadwin’s Liverpool 
 agent, which, translated, read : “ Buy all wheat that is 
 offered till market advances ,one penny.” The other 
 was the general order issued to Landry Court and the 
 four other Pit traders for the Gretry-Converse house, to 
 the effect that in the morning they were to go into the 
 Pit and, making no demonstration, begin to buy back 
 the wheat they had been selling all the week. Each of 
 them was to buy one million bushels. ■ Jadwin had, as 
 Gretry put it, “ timed Crookes to a split second,” fore- 
 seeing the exact moment when he would make his su- 
 preme effort. Sure enough, on that very Saturday 
 Crookes was selling more freely than ever, confident of 
 breaking the Bull ere the closing gong should ring. 
 
 But before the end of the morning wheat was up two 
 cents. Buying orders had poured in upon the market. 
 The price had stiffened almost of itself. Above the in- 
 dicator upon the great dial there seemed to be an in- 
 visible, inexplicable magnet that lifted it higher and 
 higher, for all the strenuous efforts of the Bears to drag 
 it down. 
 
 A feeling of nervousness began to prevail. The 
 small traders, who had been wild to sell short during 
 the first days of the movement, began on Monday to 
 cover a little here and there. 
 
 “ Now,” declared Jadwin that night, " now’s the time 
 
326 
 
 The Pit 
 
 to open up all along the line hard. If we start her with 
 a rush to-morrow morning, she’ll go to a dollar all by 
 herself.” 
 
 Tuesday morning, therefore, the Gretry-Converse 
 traders bought another five million bushels. The price 
 under this stimulus went up with the buoyancy of a 
 feather. The little shorts, more and more uneasy, and 
 beginning to cover by the scores, forced it up even 
 higher. 
 
 The nervousness of the “ crowd ” increased. Per- 
 haps, after all, Crookes was not so omnipotent. Per- 
 haps, after all, the Unknown Bull had another fight in 
 him. Then the “ outsiders ” came into the market. 
 All in a moment all the traders were talking “ higher 
 prices.” Everybody now was as eager to buy as, a 
 week before, they had been eager to sell. The price 
 went up by convulsive bounds. Crookes dared not 
 buy, dared not purchase the wheat to make good his 
 promises of delivery, for fear of putting up the price 
 on himself higher still. Dismayed, chagrined, and 
 humiliated, he and his clique sat back inert, watching 
 the tremendous reaction, hoping against hope that the 
 market would break again. 
 
 But now it became difficult to get wheat at all. All 
 of a sudden nobody was selling. The buyers in the 
 Pit commenced to bid against each other, offering a 
 dollar and two cents. The wheat did not “ come out.” 
 They bid a dollar two and a half, a dollar two and five- 
 eighths; still no wheat. Frantic, they shook their fin- 
 gers in the very faces of Landry Court and the Gretry 
 traders, shouting: “A dollar, two and seven-eighths! 
 A dollar, three! Three and an eighth! A quarter! 
 Three-eighths! A half!” But the others shook their 
 heads. Except on extraordinary advances of a w^hole 
 cent at a time, there was no wheat for sale. 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 327 
 
 At the last-named price Crookes acknowledged de- ^ 
 feat. Somewhere in his big machine a screw had been 
 loose. Somehow he had miscalculated. So long as he 
 and his associates sold and sold and sold, the price 
 would go down. The instant they tried to cover there 
 was no wheat for sale, and the price leaped up again 
 with an elasticity that no power could control. 
 
 He saw now that he and his followers had to face 
 a loss of several cents a bushel on each one of the five 
 million they had sold. They had not been able to cover 
 one single sale, and the situation was back again exactly 
 as before his onslaught, the Unknown Bull in securer 
 control than ever before. 
 
 But Crookes had, at last, begun to suspect the true 
 condition of affairs, and now that the market was hourly 
 growing tighter and more congested, his suspicion was 
 confirmed. Alone, locked in his private office, he 
 thought it out, and at last remarked to himself : 
 
 “ Somebody has a great big line of wheat that is not 
 on the market at alt. Somebody has got all the wheat 
 there is. I guess I know his name. I guess the visible 
 supply of May wheat in the Chicago market is cor- 
 nered.” 
 
 This was at a time when the price stood at a dollar 
 and one cent. Crookes — who from the first had man- 
 aged and handled the operations of his confederates — 
 knew very, well that if he now bought in all the wheat 
 his clique had sold short, the price would go up long 
 before he could complete the deal, [^e said nothing 
 to the others, further than that they should “ hold on a 
 little longer, in the hopes of a turn,” but very quietly he 
 began to cover his own personal sales — his share of the 
 five million sold by his clique. Foreseeing the collapse 
 of his scheme, he got out of the market; at a loss, it 
 was true, but still no more than he could stand. If he 
 
328 
 
 The Pk 
 
 “ held on a little longer, in the hopes of a turn,” there 
 was no telling how deep the Bull would gore him. This 
 was no time to think much about “ obligations.” It 
 had got to be “ every man for himself ” by no\^ 
 
 A few days after this Crookes sat in his office in the 
 building in La Salle Street that bore his name. It was 
 about eleven o’clock in the morning. His dry, small, 
 beardless face creased a little at the corners of the 
 mouth as he heard the ticker chattering behind him. 
 He knew how the tape read. There had been another 
 flurry on the Board that morning, not half an hour 
 since, and wheat was up again. In the last thirty-six 
 hours it had advanced three cents, and he knew very 
 well that at that very minute the “ boys ” on the floor 
 were offering nine cents over the dollar for the May 
 option — and not getting it. The market was in a tu- 
 mult. He fancied he could almost hear the thunder of 
 the Pit as it swirled. All La Salle Street was listening 
 and watching, all Chicago, all the nation, all the world. 
 Not a “ factor ” on the London ’Change who did not 
 turn an ear down the wind to catch the echo of this 
 turmoil, not an agent de change In the peristyle of the 
 Paris Bourse, who did not strain to note the every 
 modulation of its mighty diapason. 
 
 “ Well,” said the little voice of the man-within-the- 
 man, who in the person of Calvin Hardy Crookes sat 
 listening to the ticker in his office, “ well, let it roar. 
 It sure can’t hurt C. H. C.” 
 
 “ Can you see Mr. Cressler? ” said the clerk at the 
 door. 
 
 He came in with a hurried, unsteady step. The long, 
 stooping figure was unkempt; was, in a sense, un- 
 jointed, as though some support had been withdrawn. 
 The eyes were deep-sunk, the bones of the face were 
 gaunt and bare; and from moment to moment the man 
 swallowed quickly and moistened his lips. 
 
A Story of Chicago 329 
 
 Crookes nodded as his ally came up, and one finger 
 raised, pointed to a chair. He himself was impassive, 
 calm. He did not move. Taciturn as ever, he waited 
 for the other to speak. 
 
 “ I want to talk with you, Mr. Crookes,” began 
 Cressler, hurriedly. “ I — I made up my mind to it day 
 before yesterday, but I put it off. I had hoped that 
 things would come our way. But I can’t delay now. 
 . . . Mr. Crookes, I can’t stand this any longer. I 
 must get out of the clique. I haven’t the ready money 
 to stand this pace.” 
 
 There was a silence. Crookes neither moved nor 
 changed expression. His small eyes fixed upon the 
 other, he waited for Cressler to go on. 
 
 “ I might remind you,” Cressler continued, “ that 
 when I joined your party I expressly stipulated that 
 our operations should not be speculative.” 
 
 “ You knew — ” began Crookes. 
 
 “ Oh, I have nothing to say,” Cressler interrupted. 
 " I did know. I knew from the first it was to be specu- 
 lation. I tried to deceive myself. I — well, this don’t 
 interest you. The point is I must get out of the market. 
 I don’t like to go back on you others ” — Cressler’s fin- 
 gers were fiddling with his watch chain — “ I don’t like 
 to — I mean to say you must let me out. You must let 
 me cover — at once. I am — very nearly bankrupt now. 
 Another half-cent rise, and I’m done for. It will take 
 as it is — my — my — all my ready money — all my savings 
 for the last ten years to buy in my wheat.” 
 
 “Let’s see. How much did I sell for you?” de- 
 manded Crookes. “ Five hundred thousand? ” 
 
 “Yes, five hundred thousand at ninety-eight — and 
 we’re at a dollar nine now. It’s an eleven-cent jump. 
 I — I can’t stand another eighth. I must cover at once.” 
 
 Crookes, without answering, drew his desk telephone 
 
 to him. 
 
330 
 
 The Pit 
 
 “Hello!” he said after a moment. “Hello! . . . 
 Buy five hundred May, at the market, right away.” 
 
 He hung up the receiver and leaned back in his chair. 
 
 “ They’ll report the trade in a minute,” he said. 
 “ Better wait and see.” 
 
 Cressler stood at the window, his hands clasped be- 
 hind his back, looking down into the street. He did 
 not answer. The seconds passed, then the minutes. 
 Crookes turned to his desk and signed a few letters, 
 the scrape of his pen the only noise to break the silence 
 of the room. Then at last he observed : 
 
 “ Pretty bum weather for this time of the year.” 
 
 Cressler nodded. He took off his hat, and pushed 
 the hair back from his forehead with a slow, persis- 
 tent gesture; then as the ticker began to click again, 
 he faced around quickly, and crossing the room, ran the 
 tape through his fingers. 
 
 “ God,” he muttered, between his teeth, “ I hope your 
 men didn’t lose any time. It’s up again.” 
 
 There Avas a step at the door, and as Crookes called 
 to come in, the office messenger entered and put a slip 
 of paper into his hands. Crookes looked at it, and 
 pushed it across his desk towards Cressler. 
 
 “ There you are,” he observed. “ That’s your trade. 
 Five hundred May, at a dollar ten. You were lucky to 
 get it at that — or at any price.” 
 
 “ T.en l ’-’ cried the other, as he took the paper. 
 
 Crookes turned away again, and glanced indifferently 
 over his letters. Cressler laid the slip carefully down 
 upon the ledge of the desk, and though Crookes did 
 not look up, he could almost feel how the man braced 
 himself, got a grip of himself, put all his resources to 
 the stretch to meet this blow squarely in the front. 
 
 “ And I said another eighth would bust me,” Cressler 
 remarked, with a short laugh. “ Well,” he added, 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 331 
 
 ' grimly, “ it looks as though I were busted. I suppose, 
 j though, we must all expect to get the knife once in a 
 '■j while — mustn’t we? Well, there goes fifty thousand 
 dollars of my good money.” 
 
 i “I can tell you who’s got it, if you care to know,” 
 [answered Crookes. “ It’s a pewter quarter to Govern- 
 fment bonds that Gretry, Converse & Co. sold that 
 wheat to you. They’ve got about all the wheat there 
 !is.” 
 
 ! “ I know, of course, they’ve been heavy buyers — for 
 this Unknown Bull they talk so much about.” 
 
 ‘ “ Well, he ain’t Unknown to me,” declared Crookes. 
 
 , “ I know him. It’s Curtis Jadwin. He’s the man we’ve 
 \ been fighting all along, and all hell’s going to break 
 tloose down here in three or four days. He’s cornered 
 pthe market.” 
 
 Jj “Jadwin! You mean J. — Curtis — my friend?” 
 t Crookes grunted an affirmative. 
 
 1, “ But — why, he told me he was out of the market — 
 
 [’ for good.” 
 
 I Crookes did not seem to consider that the remark 
 pcalled for any useless words. He put his hands in his 
 pockets and looked at Cressler. 
 
 “ Does he know? ” faltered Cressler. “ Do you sup- 
 'pose he could have heard that I was in this clique of 
 yours ? ” 
 
 j “ Not unless you told him yourself.” 
 
 , Cressler stood up, clearing his throat. 
 
 “ I have not told him, Mr. Crookes,” he said. “ You 
 would do me an especial favor if you would keep it 
 from the public, from everybody, from Mr. Jadwin. 
 that I was a member of this ring.” 
 
 Crookes swung his chair around and faced his desk. 
 
 “ Hell! You don’t suppose I’m going to talk, do 
 you? ” 
 
The Pit 
 
 332 
 
 “ Well. . . , Gc^d-morning, Mr. Crookes.” 
 
 “ Good-morning.” y' 
 
 Left alone, Croefkes took a turn the length of the 
 room. Then he paused in the middle of the floor, look- 
 ing down thoughtfully at his trim, small feet. 
 
 “ Jadwin! ” he muttered. “Hm! . . . Think you’re 
 boss of the boat now, don’t you? Think I’m done 
 with you, hey? Oh, yes, you’ll run a corner in wheat, 
 will you? Well, here’s a point for your consideration, 
 Mr. Curtis Jadwin, ‘ Don’t get so big that all the other 
 fellows can see you — they throw bricks.’ ” 
 
 He sat down in his chair, and passed a thin and deli- 
 cate hand across his lean mouth. 
 f No,” he muttered, “ I won’t try to kill j'ou any more. 
 You’ve cornered wheat, have you? All right. . . . 
 
 Your own wheat, my smart Aleck, will do all the kill- 
 ing I want.” 
 
 Then at last the news of the great corner, authori- 
 tative, definite, went out over all the country, and 
 promptly the figure and name of Curtis Jadwin loomed 
 suddenly huge and formidable in the eye of the public. 
 There was no wheat on the Chicago market. He, the 
 great man, the “ Napoleon of La Salle Street,” had it 
 all. He sold it or hoarded it, as suited his pleasure. 
 He dictated the price to those men who must buy it 
 of him to fill their contracts. His hand ^ras upon the 
 indicator of the wheat dial of the Board of Trade, and 
 he moved it through as many or as few of the degrees 
 of the circle as he chose. I 
 
 The newspapers, not only of Chicago, but of every I 
 city in the Union, exploited him for “ stories.” The > 
 history of his corner, how he had eflfected it, its chronol- i 
 ogy, its results, were told and retold, till his name was 
 familiar In the homes and at the firesides of uncounted , 
 thousands. " Anecdotes ” were circulated concerning | 
 
ij 
 
 I A Story of Chicago 333 
 
 him, interviews — concocted for the most part in the 
 [editorial rooms — were printed. His picture appeared. 
 [He was described as a cool, calm man of steel, with a 
 cold and calculating grey eye, “ piercing as an eagle’s 
 ^as a desperate gambler, bold as a buccaneer, his eye 
 [black and fiery — a veritable pirate; as a mild, small man 
 (With a weak chin and a deprecatory demeanour; as a 
 jolly and roistering “ high roller,” addicted to actresses, 
 [suppers, and to bathing in champagne. 
 
 In the Democratic press he was assailed as little bet- 
 jter than a thief, vituperated as an oppressor of the 
 (people, who ground the faces of the poor, and battened 
 in the luxury wrung from the toiling millions. The 
 Republican papers spoke solemnly of the new era of 
 prosperity upon which the country was entering, re- 
 ferred to the stimulating effect of the higher prices 
 upon capitalised industry, and distorted the situation 
 [to an augury of a sweeping Republican victory in the 
 next Presidential campaign^ 
 
 Day in and day out Gretry’s office, where Jadwin 
 now fixed his headquarters, was besieged. Reporters 
 waited in the anteroom for whole half days to get but 
 a nod and a word from the great man. Promoters, 
 inventors, small financiers, agents, manufacturers, even 
 “ crayon artists ” and horse dealers, even tailors and 
 yacht builders rubbed shoulders with one another out- 
 side the door marked “ Private.” 
 
 Farmers from Iowa or Kansas come to town to sell 
 their little quotas of wheat at the prices they once had 
 deemed impossible, shook his hand on the street, and 
 : urged him to come out and see “ God’s own country.” 
 t But once, however, an entire deputation of these 
 wheat growers found their way into the sanctum. They 
 came bearing a presentation cup of silver, and their 
 spokesman, stammering and horribly embarrassed in 
 
334 
 
 The Pit 
 
 unwonted broadcloth and varnished boots, delivered a 
 short address. He explained that all through the 
 Middle West, all through the wheat belts, a great wave 
 of prosperity was rolling because of Jadwin’s corner. 
 Mortgages were being paid off, new and improved farm- 
 ing implements were being bought, new areas seeded, 
 new live stock acquired. The men were buying buggies 
 again, the women parlor melodeons, houses and homes 
 were going up; in short, the entire farming population 
 of the Middle West was being daily enriched. In a 
 letter that Jadwin received about this time from an old 
 fellow living in “ Bates Corners,” Kansas, occurred the 
 words: 
 
 “ — and, sir, you must know that not a night passes j 
 that my little girl, now going on seven, sir, and the 
 brightest of her class in the county seat grammar i 
 school, does not pray to have God bless Mister Jadwin, i 
 \yho helped papa save the farm.’y' ^ 
 
 ^ If there was another side, if the brilliancy of his tri- ^ 
 umph yet threw a shadow behind it, Jadwin could ignore 
 it. It was far from him, he could not see it. Yet for 
 all this a story came to him about this time that for 
 long would not be quite forgotten. It came through 
 Corthell, but very indirectly, passed on by a dozen 
 mouths before it reached his ears. 
 
 It told of an American, an art student, who at the 
 moment was on a tramping tour through the north of 
 Italy. It was an ugly story. Jadwin pished and ' 
 pshawed, refusing to believe it, condemning it as ridic- | 
 ulous exaggeration, but somehow it appealed to an i 
 uncompromising sense of the probable; it rang true. ^ 
 
 “ And I met this boy,” the student had said, “ on the 
 high road, about a kilometre outside of Arezzo. He 
 was a fine fellow of twenty or twenty-two. He knew 
 nothing of the world. England he supposed to be 
 
335 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 part of the mainland of Europe. For him Cavour and 
 and Mazzini were still alive. But when I announced 
 myself American, he roused at once. 
 
 “ ‘ Ah, American,’ he said. ‘ We know of your com- 
 patriot, then, here in Italy — ^this Jadwin of Chicago, 
 who has bought all the wheat. We have no more 
 bread. The loaf is small as the fist, and costly. We 
 cannot buy it, we have no money. For myself, I do not 
 care. I am young. I can eat lentils and cress. But ’ 
 and here his voice was a whisper — ‘ but my mother — 
 my mother!^ 
 
 “It’s a lie!” Jadwin cried. “Of course it’s a lie. 
 Good God, if I were to believe every damned story 
 the papers print about me these days I’d go insane.” 
 
 Yet when he put up the price of' wheat to a dollar and 
 twenty cents, the great flour mills of Minnesota and 
 Wisconsin stopped grinding, and finding a greater 
 profit in selling the grain than in milling it, threw their 
 stores upon the market. Though the bakers did not in- 
 crease the price of their bread as a consequence of this, 
 the loaf — even in Chicago, even in the centre of that 
 great Middle West that weltered in the luxury of pro- 
 duction — was smaller, and from all the poorer districts 
 of the city came complaints, protests, and vague 
 grumblings of discontent 
 
 On a certain Monday, about the middle of May, Jad- 
 win sat at Gretry’s desk (long since given over to his 
 use), in the office on the ground floor of the Board of 
 Trade, swinging nervously back and forth in the swivel 
 chair, drumming his fingers upon the arms, and glanc- 
 ing continually at the clock that hung against the op- 
 posite wall. It was about eleven in the morning. The 
 Board of Trade vibrated with the vast trepidation of the 
 Pit, that for two hours had spun and sucked, and gut- 
 tered and disgorged just overhead. The waiting-room 
 
33 ^ 
 
 The Pit 
 
 of the office was more than usually crowded. Parasites 
 of every description polished the walls with shoulder 
 and elbow. Millionaires and beggars jostled one an- 
 other about the doorway. The vice-president of a bank 
 watched the door of the private office covertly; the 
 traffic manager of a railroad exchanged yarns with a 
 group of reporters while awaiting his turn. 
 
 As Gretry, the great man’s lieutenant, hurried 
 through the anteroom, conversation suddenly ceased, 
 and half a dozen of the more impatient sprang for- 
 ward. But the broker pushed his way through the 
 crowd, shaking his head, excusing himself as best he 
 might, and entering the office, closed the door behind 
 him. 
 
 At the clash of the lock Jadwin started half-way from 
 his chair, then recognising the broker, sank back with 
 a quick breath. 
 
 “ Why don’t you knock, or something, Sam?” he ex- 
 claimed. “ Might as well kill a man as scare him to 
 death. Well, how goes it? ” 
 
 “ All right. I’ve fixed the warehouse crowd — and 
 we just about ‘ own ’ the editorial and news sheets of 
 these papers.” He threw a memorandum down upon 
 the desk. “ I’m off again now. Got an appointment 
 with the Northwestern crowd in ten minutes. Has 
 Hargus or Scannel shown up yet? ” 
 
 “ Hargus is always out in your customers’ room,” 
 answered Jadwin. “ I can get him whenever I want 
 him. But Scannel has not shown up yet. I thought 
 when we put up the price again Friday we’d bring him 
 in. I thought you’d figured out that he couldn’t stand i 
 that rise.” 
 
 “ He can’t stand it,” answered Gretry. “ He’ll be in 
 to see you to-morrow or next day.” 
 
 “ To-morrow or next day won’t do,” answered Jad- 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 337 
 
 j win. “ I want to put the knife into him to-day. You 
 go up there on the floor and put the price up another 
 cent. That will bring him, or I’ll miss my guess.” 
 j Gretry nodded. “ All right,” he said, “ it’s your game, 
 j Shall I see you at lunch? ” 
 
 ' “Lunch! I can’t eat. But I’ll drop around and 
 I hear what the Northwestern people had to say to you.” 
 
 A few moments after Gretry had gone Jadwin heard 
 the ticker on the other side of the room begin to chat- 
 ter furiously; and at the same time he could fancy that 
 the distant thunder of the Pit grew suddenly more vio- 
 lent, taking on a sharper, shriller note. He looked at 
 I the tape. The one-cent rise had been effected. 
 
 “You will hold out, will you, you brute?” muttered 
 ' Jadwin. “ See how you like that now.” He took out 
 his watch. “ You’ll be running in to me in just about 
 ten minutes’ time.” 
 
 He turned about, and calling a clerk, gave orders to 
 have Hargus found and brought to him. 
 
 When the old fellow appeared Jadwin jumped up and 
 gave him his hand as he came slowly forward. 
 
 His rusty top hat was in his hand; from the breast 
 pocket of his faded and dirty frock coat a bundle of 
 of ancient newspapers protruded. His shoestring tie 
 straggled over his frayed shirt front, while at his wrist 
 one of his crumpled cuffs, detached from the sleeve, 
 showed the bare, thin wrist between cloth and linen, 
 and encumbered the fingers in which he held the unlit 
 stump of a fetid cigar. 
 
 Evidently bewildered as to the cause of this sum- 
 mons, he looked up perplexed at Jadwin as he came up, 
 out of his dim, red-lidded eyes. 
 
 “ Sit down, Hargus. Glad to see you,” called Jadwin. 
 
 “ Hey? ” 
 
 The voice was faint and a little querulous. 
 
 33 
 
The Pit 
 
 338 
 
 “ I say, sit down. Have a chair. I want to have a 
 talk with you. You ran a corner in wheat once your- 
 self.” 
 
 “Oh. . , . Wheat.” I 
 
 “ Yes, your corner. You remember? ” 
 
 “ Yes. Oh, that was long ago. In seventy-eight it 
 was — the September option. ✓ And the Board made 
 wheat in the cars ‘ regular.’ 
 
 His voice trailed off into silence, and he looked 
 vaguely about on the floor of the room, sucking in his 
 cheeks, and passing the edge of one large, osseous hand 
 across his lips. 
 
 “Well, you lost all your money that time, I believe. 
 Scannel, your partner, sold out oh you.” I 
 
 “ Hey? It was in seventy-eight. . . . The sec- ‘ 
 
 retary of the Board announced our suspension at ten I 
 in the morning. If the Board had not voted to make | 
 wheat in the cars ‘ regular ’ ” \ 
 
 He went on and on, in an impassive monotone, re- ti 
 peating, word for word, the same phrases he had used | 
 for so long that they had lost all significance. ‘ 
 
 “ Well,” broke in Jadwin, at last, “ it was Scannel, | 
 your partner, did for you. Scannel, I say. You know, 
 Dave Scannel.” 
 
 The old man looked at him confusedly. Then, as the 
 name forced itself upon the atrophied brain, there 
 flashed, for one instant, into the pale, blurred eye, a 
 light, a glint, a brief, quick spark of an old, long-for- | 
 gotten fire. It gleamed there an instant, but the next 
 sank again. 
 
 Plaintively, querulously he repeated: 
 
 “ It was in seventy-eight. ... I lost three hun- 
 dred thousand dollars.” 
 
 “How’s your little niece getting on?” at last de- 
 manded Jadwin. 
 
339 
 
 I A Story of Chicago 
 
 i “My little niece — you mean Lizzie? . . . Well 
 1 and happy, well and happy. I — I got ” — he drew a 
 i.,. thick bundle of dirty papers from his pocket, envelopes, 
 1' newspapers, circulars, and the like — “ I — I — I got, I got 
 = her picture here somew'heres.” 
 
 “ Yes, yes, I know, I know,” cried Jadwin. “ I’ve 
 ; seen it. You showed it to me yesterday, you remem- 
 ^ ber.” 
 
 “ I — I got it here somewheres . . , somewheres,” 
 persisted the old man, fumbling and peering, and as he 
 I spoke the clerk from the doorway announced: 
 
 “ Mr. Scannel.” 
 
 This latter was a large, thick man, red-faced, with 
 ! white, short whiskers of an almost wiry texture. He 
 i had a small, gimlet-like eye, enormous, hairy ears, wore 
 I a “ sack ” suit, a highly polished top hat, and entered 
 the ofhce with a great flourish of manner and a defiant 
 trumpeting “ Well, how do. Captain? ” 
 
 Jadwin nodded, glancing up under his scowl. 
 
 “Hello!” he said. 
 
 The other subsided into a chair, and returned scowl 
 for scowl. 
 
 “ Oh, well,” he muttered, “ if that’s your style.” 
 
 He had observed Hargus sitting by the other side of 
 the desk, still fumbling and mumbling in his dirty mem- 
 oranda, but he gave no sign of recognition. There was 
 a moment’s silence, then in a voice from which all the 
 first bluffness was studiously excluded, Scannel said; 
 
 “ Well, you’ve rung the bell on me. I’m a sucker. 
 I know it. I’m one of the few hundred other God- 
 damned fools that you’ve managed to catch out shoot- 
 ing snipe. Now what I want to know is, how much is 
 it going to cost me to get out of your corner? What’s 
 the figure? What do you say? ” 
 
 “ I got a good deal to say,” remarked Jadwin, scowl- 
 ing again. 
 
340 
 
 The Pit 
 
 But Hargus had at last thrust a photograph into his 
 hands. 
 
 “ There it is,” he said. “ That’s it. That’s Lizzie.” 
 
 Jadwin took the picture without looking at it, and 
 as he continued to speak, held it in his fingers, and oc- 
 casionally tapped it upon the desk. 
 
 " I know. I know, Hargus,” he answered. “ I got 
 a good deal to say, Mr. David Scannel. Do you see 
 this old man here? ” 
 
 “ Oh-h, cut it out! ” growled the other. 
 
 “ It’s Hargus. You know him very well. You used 
 to know him better. You and he together tried to 
 swing a great big deal in September wheat once upon 
 a time. Hargus! I say, Hargus! ” 
 
 The old man looked up. 
 
 “ Here’s the man we were talking about, Scannel, 
 you remember. Remember Dave Scannel, who was 
 your partner in seventy-eight? Look at him. This 
 is him now. He’s a rich man now. Remember Scan- 
 nel?” 
 
 Hargus, his bleared old eyes blinking and watering, 
 looked across the desk at the other. 
 
 “ Oh, what’s the game? ” exclaimed Scannel. “ I ain’t 
 here on exhibition, I guess. I ” 
 
 But he was interrupted by a sharp, quick gasp that 
 all at once issued from Kargus’s trembling lips. The 
 old man said no word, but he leaned far forward in his 
 chair, his eyes fixed upon Scannel, his breath coming 
 short, his fingers dancing against his chin. 
 
 “Yes, that’s him, Hargus,” said Jadwin. “You and 
 he had a big deal on your hands a long time ago,” he 
 continued, turning suddenly upon Scannel, a pulse in his 
 temple beginning to beat. “ A big deal, and you sold 
 him out ” 
 
 “ It’s a lie! ” cried the other. 
 
A Story of Chicago 34 1 
 
 Jadwin beat his fist upon the arm of his chair. His 
 I voice was almost a shout as he answered: 
 j “ You — sold — him — out. I know you. I know the 
 
 , kind of bug you are. You ruined him to save your own 
 dirty hide, and all his life since poor old Hargus has 
 been living off the charity of the boys down here, 
 i pinched and hungry and neglected, and getting on, God 
 i knows how; yes, and supporting his little niece, too, 
 while you, you have been loafing about your clubs, and 
 i sprawling on your steam yachts, and dangling round 
 j after your kept women — on the money you stole from 
 ; him.” 
 
 Scannel squared himself In his chair, his little eyes 
 twinkling. 
 
 ; “ Look here,” he cried, furiously, “ I don’t take that 
 
 j kind of talk from the best man that ever wore shoe- 
 leather. Cut it out, understand? Cut it out.” 
 
 Jadwin’s lower jaw set with a menacing click; ag- 
 gressive, masterful, he leaned forward. 
 
 “You interrupt me again,” he declared, “and you’ll 
 go out of that door a bankrupt. You listen to me and 
 take my orders. That’s what you’re here to-day for. 
 If you think you can get your wheat somewheres else, 
 suppose you try.” 
 
 Scannel sullenly settled himself in his place. He did 
 not answer. Hargus, his eye wandering again, looked 
 distressfully from one to the other. Then Jadwin, after 
 shuffling among the papers of his desk, fixed a certain 
 memorandum with his glance. All at once, whirliiig 
 about and facing the other, he said quickly: 
 
 “ You are short to our firm two million bushels at a 
 dollar a bushel.” 
 
 “ Nothing of the sort,” cried the other. “ It’s a mil- 
 lion and a half.” 
 
 Jadwin could not forbear a twinkle of grim humour 
 as he saw how easily Scannel had fallen Into the trap. 
 
342 
 
 The Pit 
 
 “ You’re short a million and a half, then,” he repeated. 
 
 “ I’ll let you have six hundred thousand of it at a dollar 
 and a half a bushel.” ' 
 
 “A dollar and a half! Why, my God, man! Oh, 
 well ” — Scannel spread out his hands nonchalantly — “ I 
 shall simply go into bankruptcy — ^just as you said.” 
 
 “ Oh, no, you won’t,” replied Jadwin, pushing back 
 and crossing his legs. “ I’ve had your financial stand- 
 ing computed very carefully, Mr. Scannel. You’ve got 
 the ready money. I know what you can stand without 
 busting, to the fraction of a cent.” 
 
 “ Why, it’s ridiculous. That handful of wheat will 
 cost me three hundred thousand dollars.” 
 
 “ Pre-cisely.” 
 
 And then all at once Scannel surrendered. Stony, 
 imperturbable, he drew his check book from his pocket. 
 
 “ Make it payable to bearer,” said Jadwin. 
 
 The other complied, and Jadwin took the check and 
 looked it over carefully. 
 
 “ Now,” he said, “ watch here, Dave Scannel. You | 
 see this check? And now,” he added, thrusting it into I 
 Hargus’s hands, “ you see where it goes. There’s the ( 
 principal of your debt paid off.” 
 
 “ The principal? ” 
 
 “You haven’t forgotten the interest, have you? I ] 
 won’t compound it, because that mig/if bust you. But 
 six per cent, interest on three hundred thousand since 
 1878, comes to — let’s see — three hundred and sixty 
 thousand dollars. And you still owe me nine hundred 
 thousand bushels ol wheat.” He ciphered a moment 
 on a sheet of note paper. “ If I charge you a dollar 
 and forty a bushel for that wheat, it will come to that 
 sum exactly. . . . Yes, that’s correct. I’ll let you 
 have the balance of that wheat at a dollar forty. Make 
 the check payable to bearer as before.” 
 
1 
 
 t 
 
 i A Story of Chicago 343 
 
 f For a second Scannel hesitated, his face purple, his 
 teeth grinding together, then muttering his rage be- 
 neath his breath, opened his check book again. 
 
 “ Thank you,” said Jadwin as he took the check. 
 
 ; He touched his call bell. 
 
 “ Kinzie,” he said to the clerk who answered it, “ after 
 : the close of the market to-day send delivery slips for a 
 •; million and a half wlieat to Mr. Scannel. His account 
 I with us has been settled.” 
 
 I Jadwin turned to the old man, reaching out the sec- 
 (jiond check to him. 
 
 1 ' “Here you are, Hargus. Put it away carefully. 
 I You see what it is, don’t you? Buy your Lizzie a little 
 1 gold watch with a hundred of it, and tell her it’s from 
 Curtis Jadwin, with his compliments. , . . What, 
 
 I going, Scannel? Well, good-by to you, sir, and hey! ” 
 j he called after him, “ please don’t slam the door as you 
 I go out.” 
 
 ! But he dodged with a defensive gesture as the pane 
 of glass almost leaped from its casing, as Scannel 
 stormed across the threshold. 
 
 ; Jadwin turned to Hargus, with a solemn wink. 
 
 “ He did slam it after all, didn’t he? ” 
 
 The old fellow, however, sat fingering the two checks 
 in silence. Then he looked up at Jadwin, scared and 
 i trembling. 
 
 “ I — I don’t know,” he murmured, feebly. “ I am a 
 very old man. This — this is a great deal of money, 
 sir. I — I can’t say; I — I don’t know. I’m an old man 
 . . . an old man.” 
 
 “You won’t lose ’em, now?” 
 
 “ No, no. I’ll deposit them at once in the Illinois 
 
 Trust. I shall ask — I should like " 
 
 I “ I’ll send a clerk with you.” 
 
 ! “Yes, yes, that is about what — what I — what I was 
 t about to suggest. But I must say, Mr. Jadwin ” 
 
344 
 
 The Pit 
 
 He began to stammer his thanks. But Jadwin cut 
 him off. Rising, he guided Hargus to the door, one 
 hand on his shoulder, and at the entrance to the outer 
 office called a clerk. 
 
 “ Take Mr. Hargus over to the Illinois Trust, Kinzie, 
 and introduce him. He wants to open an account.” 
 
 The old man started off with the clerk, but before 
 Jadwin had reseated himself at his desk was back again. 
 He was suddenly all excitement, as if a great idea had 
 abruptly taken possession of him. Stealthy, furtive, he > 
 glanced continually over his shoulder as he spoke, talk- 
 ing in whispers, a trembling hand shielding his lips. 
 
 “ You — you are in — you are in control now,” he said. 
 
 “ You could give — hey? You could give me — ^just a J 
 little — ^just one word. A word would be enough, hey? 
 hey? Just a little tip. My God, I could make fifty j 
 S' dollars by noon.” j 
 
 “ Wiry, man. I’ve just given you about half a million.” 
 
 “ Half a million? I don’t know. But ” — he plucked ■ 
 Jadwin tremulously by the sleeve — “just a word,” he > 
 begged. “ Hey, just yes or no.” . 
 
 “ Haven’t you enough with those two checks? ” ' 
 
 “Those checks? Oh, I know, I know, I know. Ill 
 
 salt ’em down. Yes, in the Illinois Trust. I won’t j 
 touch ’em — not those. But just a little tip now, hey? ” ( 
 
 “ Not a word. Not a word. Take him along. Kin- ' 
 zie.” 
 
 One week after this Jadwin sold, through his agents ' 
 in Paris, a tremendous line of “ cash ” wheat at a dol- 
 lar and sixty cents the bushel. By now the foreign de- 
 mand was a thing almost insensate. There was no 
 question as to the price. It was, “ Give us the wheat, 
 at whatever cost, at whatever figure, at whatever ex- 
 pense; only that it be rushed to our markets \\nth all 
 the swiftness of steam and steel.” At home, upon the 
 
345 
 
 1 1 A Story of Chicago 
 
 r'' 
 
 jli Chicago Board of Trade, Jadwin was as completely 
 i|. master of the market as of his own right hand. Every- 
 
 i thing stopped when he raised a finger; everything leaped 
 <1 to life with the fury of obsession when he nodded his 
 1' head. His wealth increased with such stupefying ra- 
 ti pidity, that at no time was he able to even approxi- 
 ;i mate the gains that accrued to him because of his cor- 
 :| ner. It was more than twenty million, and less than 
 
 ii fifty million. That was all he knew Nor were the 
 everlasting hills more secure than he from the attack 
 of any human enemy. Out of the ranks of the con- 
 
 )|i quered there issued not so much as a whisper of hos- 
 i: tility. Within his own sphere no Czar, no satrap, no 
 Caesar ever wielded power more resistless. 
 
 “ Sam,” said Curtis Jadwin, at length to the broker, 
 “ Sam, nothing in the world can stop me now. They 
 I think I’ve been doing something big, don’t they, with 
 this corner. Why, I’ve only just begun. This is just a 
 >ji feeler. Now I’m going to let ’em know just how big 
 a gun C. J. really is. I’m going to swing this deal right 
 1 over into July. I’m going to buy in my July shorts.” 
 
 ^^^he two men were in Gretry’s office as usual, and as 
 ; Jadwin spoke, the broker glanced up incredulously. 
 
 “ Now you are for sure crazy.” 
 
 I Jadwin jumped to his feet. 
 
 “Crazy!” he vociferated. “Crazy! What do you 
 ! mean? Crazy! For God’s sake, Sam, w'hat — Look 
 here, don’t use that word to me. I — it don’t suit. 
 
 I What I’ve done isn’t exactly the work of — of — takes 
 1 brains, let me tell you. And look here, look here, I 
 say. I’m going to swing this deal right over into July. 
 
 I Think I’m going to let go now, when I’ve just begun 
 ' to get a real grip on things? A pretty fool I’d look 
 like to get out now — even if I could. Get out? How 
 - are we going to unload our big line of wheat without 
 
34 ^ 
 
 The Pit 
 
 breaking the price on us? No, sir, not much. This 
 market is going up to two dollars.” He smote a knee 
 with his clinched fist, his face going abruptly crimson. 
 “ I say two dollars,” he cried. “ Two dollars, do you 
 hear? It will go there, you’ll see, you’ll see.” 
 
 “ Reports on the new crop will begin to come in in 
 June.” Gretry’s warning was almost a cry. “ The 
 price of wheat is so high now, that God knows how 
 many farmers will plant it this spring. You may have 
 to take care of a record harvest.” 
 
 ‘T know better,” retorted Jadwin. “ I’m watching 
 this thing. You can’t tell me anything about it. I’ve 
 got it all figured out, your ‘ new crop.’ ” 
 
 Cl Well, then you’re the Lord Almighty himself.” 
 
 “ I don’t like that kind of joke. I don’t like that kind 
 of joke. It’s blasphemous,” exclaimed Jadwin. “ Go, 
 get it off on Grookes. He’d appreciate it, but I don’t. 
 But this new crop now — look hCi'e.” 
 
 And for upwards of two hours Jadwin argued and 
 figured, and showed to Gretry endless tables of statis- 
 tics to prove that he was right. 
 
 But at the end Gretry shook his head. Calmly and 
 deliberately he spoke his mind. 
 
 “ J., listen to me. You’ve done a big thing. I know 
 it, and I know, too, that there’ve been lots of times in 
 the last year or so when I’ve been wrong and you’ve 
 been right. But now, J., so help me God, we’ve reached 
 our limit. Wheat is worth a dollar and a half to-day, 
 and not one cent more. Every eighth over that figure 
 
 is inflation. If you run it up to two dollars ” 
 
 “ It will go there of itself, I tell you.” 
 
 “ — if you run it up to two dollars, it will be that 
 top-heavy, that the littlest kick in the world will knock 
 it over. Be satisfied now with what you got. J., it’s 
 common sense. Close out your long line of May, and 
 
A Story of Chicago 347 
 
 then stop. Suppose the price does break a little, you’d 
 Ij still make your pile. But swing this deal over into 
 ijjuly, and it’s ruin, ruin. I may have been mistaken 
 before, but I know I’m right now. And do you real- 
 ise, J., that yesterday in the Pit there were some 
 short sales? There’s some of them dared to go short 
 of wheat against you — even at the very top of your 
 corner — and there was more selling this morning. 
 You’ve always got to buy, you know. If they all be- 
 gan to sell to you at once they’d bust you. It’s only 
 because you’ve got ’em so scared — I believe — that 
 keeps ’em from it. But it looks to me as though this 
 selling proved that they were picking up heart. They 
 think they can get the wheat from the farmers when 
 harvesting begins. And I tell you, J., you’ve put the 
 price of wheat so high, that the wheat areas are extend- 
 ing all over the country.” 
 
 “ You’re scared,” cried Jadwin. “ That’s the trouble 
 with you, Sam. You’ve been scared from the start. 
 Can’t you see, mam can’t you see that this market is 
 a regular tornado? 
 
 “ I see that the farmers all over the country are plant- 
 ing wheat as they’ve never planted it before. Great 
 Scott, J., you’re fighting against the earth itself.” 
 
 “Well, we’ll fight it, then. I’ll stop those hayseeds. 
 What do I own all these newspapers and trade journals 
 for? We’ll begin sending out reports to-morrow that’ll 
 discourage any big wheat planting.” 
 
 “ And then, too,” went on Gretry, “ here’s another 
 point. Do you know, you ought to be in bed this very 
 minute. You haven’t got any nerves left at all. You 
 acknowledge yourself that you don’t sleep any more. 
 And, good Lord, the moment any one of us contradicts 
 you, or opposes you, you go off the handle to beat the 
 Dutch. I know it’s a strain, old man, but you want 
 
348 
 
 The Pit 
 
 to keep yourself in hand if you go on with this thing. 
 If you should break down now — ^well, I don’t like to 
 think of what would happen. You ought to see a doc- 
 tor.” 
 
 “ Oh-h, fiddlesticks,” exclaimed Jadwin, “ I’m all 
 right. I don’t need a doctor, haven’t time to see one, 
 anyhow. Don’t you bother about me. I’m all right.” 
 
 Was he? That same night, the first he had spent 
 under his own roof for four days, Jadwin lay awake 
 till the clocks struck four, asking himself the same ques- 
 tion. No, he was not all right. Something was very 
 wrong with him, and whatever it might be, it was 
 growing worse. The sensation of the iron clamp about 
 his head was almost permanent by now, and just the 
 walk between his room at the Grand Pacific and 
 Gretry’s office left him panting and exhausted. Then 
 had come vertigoes and strange, inexplicable qualms, 
 as if he were in an elevator that sank under him with 
 terrifying rapidity. 
 
 Going to and fro in La Salle Street, or sitting in 
 Gretry’s office, where the roar of the Pit dinned forever 
 in his ears, he could forget these strange symptoms. It 
 was the night he dreaded — the long hours he must 
 spend alone. The instant the strain was relaxed, the 
 gallop of hoofs, or as the beat of ungovernable tor- 
 rents began in his brain. Always the beat dropped to 
 the same cadence, always the pulse spelled out the same 
 words: 
 
 “ Wheat-wheat-wheat, wheat-wheat-wheat.” 
 
 And of late, during the long and still watches of the 
 night, while he stared at the ceiling, or counted the 
 hours that must pass before his next dose of bromide 
 of potassium, a new turn had been given to the screw. 
 
 This was a sensation, the like of which he found it 
 difficult to describe. But it seemed to be a slow, tense 
 
349 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 crisping of every tiniest nerve in his body. It would 
 begin as he lay in bed — counting interminably to get 
 himself to sleep — between his knees and ankles, and 
 thence slowly spread to every part of him, creeping 
 upward, from loin to shoulder, in a gradual wave of 
 torture that was not pain, yet infinitely worse. A dry, 
 pringling aura as of billions of minute electric shocks 
 crept upward over his flesh, till it reached his head, 
 where it seemed to culminate in a white flash, w’hich he 
 felt rather than saw. 
 
 His body felt strange and unfamiliar to him. It 
 seemed to have no weight, and at times his hands 
 would appear to swell swiftly to the size of mammoth 
 boxing-gloves, so that he must rub them together to 
 feel that they were his own. 
 
 He put off consulting a doctor from day to day, alleg- 
 ing that he had not the time. But the real reason, 
 though he never admitted it, was the fear that the doc- 
 tor might tell him what he guessed to be the truth. 
 
 Were his wits leaving him? The horror of the ques- 
 tion smote through him like the drive of a javelin. 
 What was to happen? What nameless calamity im- 
 pended? 
 
 “ Wheat-wheat-wheat, wheat-wheat-wheat.” 
 
 His watch under his pillow took up the refrain. How 
 to grasp the morrow’s business, how control the sluice 
 gates of that torrent he had unchained, with this un- 
 speakable crumbling and disintegrating of his faculties 
 going on? 
 
 Jaded, feeble, he rose to meet another day. He 
 drove down town, trying not to hear the beat of his 
 horses’ hoofs. Dizzy and stupefied, he gained Gretry’s 
 office, and alone with his terrors sat in the chair before 
 his desk, waiting, waiting. 
 
 Then far away the great gong struck. Just over his 
 
/ 
 
 350 The Pit ' 
 
 head, penetrating wood and iron, he heard the mighty 
 throe of the Pit once more beginning, moving. And 
 then, once again, the limp and ravelled fibres of being 
 grew tight with a wrench. Under the stimulus of the 
 roar of the maelstrom, the flagging, wavering brain 
 righted itself once more, and — how, he himself could 
 not say — the business of the day was despatched, the 
 battle was once more urged. Often he acted upon 
 what he knew to be blind, unreasoned instinct. I Judg- 
 ment, clear reasoning, at times, he felt, forsooK him. 
 Decisions that involved what seemed to be the very 
 stronghold of his situation, had to be taken without a 
 moment’s warning. He decided for or against without 
 knowing why. Under his feet fissures opened. He 
 must take the leap without seeing the other edge. 
 Somehow he always landed upon his feet ; somehow his 
 great, cumbersome engine, lurching, swaydng, in spite 
 of loosened joints, always kept the track. 
 
 Luck, his golden goddess, the genius of glittering 
 wings, was with him yet. Sorely tried, flouted even, 
 she yet remained faithful, lending a helping hand to lost 
 and wandering judgment!^ 
 
 So the month of May drew to its close. Between 
 the twenty-fifth and the thirtieth Jadwin covered his 
 July shortage, despite Gretry’s protests and warnings. 
 To him they seemed idle enough. He was too rich, 
 too strong now to fear any issue. Daily the profits 
 of the corner increased. The unfortunate shorts were 
 wrung dry and drier. Gretry’s office they heard 
 their sentences, and as time went on, and Jadwin be- 
 held more and more of these broken speculators, a 
 vast contempt, for human nature grew within hini^ 
 
 Some few of his beaten enemies were resolute enough, 
 accepting defeat with grim carelessness, or with sphinx- 
 like indifference, or even with airy jocularity. But foi 
 
351 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 the most part their alert, eager deference, their tame 
 subservience, the abject humility and debasement of 
 their bent shoulders drove Jadwin to the verge of self- 
 control. He grew to detest the business; he regretted 
 even the defiant brutality of Scannel, a rascal, but none 
 the less keeping his head high. The more the fellows 
 cringed to him, the tighter he wrenched the screw. In 
 a few cases he found a pleasure in relenting entirely, 
 selling his wheat to the unfortunates at a price that 
 left them without loss; but in the end the business 
 hardened his heart to any distress his mercilessness 
 might entail. He took his profits as a Bourbon took 
 his taxes, as if by right of birth. Somewhere, in a 
 long-forgotten history of his brief school days, he had 
 come across a phrase that he remembered now, by 
 some devious and distant process of association, and 
 when he heard of the calamities that his campaign had 
 wrought, of the shipwrecked fortunes and careers tha 
 were sucked down by the Pit, he found it possible ♦ 
 say, with a short laugh, and a lift of one shoulder: 
 
 “ Vae victis” 
 
 His wife he saw but seldom. Occasionally they bre' 
 fasted together; more often they met at dinner. 1: 
 that was all. Jadwin’s life by now had come to be 
 irregular, and his few hours of sleep so precious and s 
 easily disturbed, that he had long since occupied a 
 separate apartment. 
 
 What Laura’s life was at this time he no longer knew. 
 She never spoke of it to him; never nowadays com- 
 plained of loneliness. When he saw her she appeared 
 to be cheerful. But this very cheerfulness made him 
 uneasy, and at times, through the murk of the chaff of 
 wheat, through the bellow of the Pit, and the crash of 
 collapsing fortunes there reached him a suspicion that 
 all was not well with Laura. 
 
352 
 
 The Pit 
 
 Once he had made an abortive attempt to break from 
 the turmoil of La Salle Street and the Board of Trade, 
 and, for a time at least, to get back to the old life they 
 both had loved — to get back, in a word, to her. But 
 the consequences had been all but disastrous. Now he 
 could not keep away. 
 
 “Corner wheat!” he had exclaimed to her, the fol- 
 lowing day. “ Corner wheat! It’s the wheat that has 
 cornered me. It’s like holding a wolf by the ears, bad 
 to hold on, but worse to let go.” 
 
 But absorbed, blinded, deafened by the whirl of 
 things, Curtis Jadwin could not see how perilously 
 well grounded had been his faint suspicion as to Laura’s 
 distress. 
 
 On the day after her evening with her husband in 
 the art gallery, the evening when Gretry had broken 
 in upon them like a courier from the front, Laura had 
 risen from her bed to look out upon a world suddenly 
 mpty. 
 
 Corthell she had sent from her forever. Jadwin was 
 ice more snatched from her side. Where, now, was 
 'e to turn? Jadwin had urged her to go to the coun- 
 / — to their place at Geneva Lake — but she refused, 
 le saw the change that had of late come over her 
 .usband, saw his lean face, the hot, tired eyes, the 
 trembling fingers and nervous gestures. Vaguely she 
 imagined approaching disaster. If anything happened 
 to Curtis, her place was at his side. 
 
 During the days that Jadwin and Crookes were at 
 grapples Laura found means to occupy her mind with 
 all manner of small activities. She overhauled her ward- 
 robe, planned her summer gowns, paid daily visits to 
 her dressmakers, rode and drove in the park, till every 
 turn of the roads, everj^ tree, everj' bush was familiar, 
 to the point of wearisome contempt. 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 353 
 
 Then suddenly she began to indulge in a mania for 
 lold books and first editions. She haunted the sta- 
 tioners and second-hand bookstores, studied the au- 
 thorities, followed the auctions, and bought right and 
 left, with reckless extravagance. But the taste soon 
 palled upon her. With so much money at her com- 
 mand there was none of the spice of the hunt in the 
 affair. She had but to express a desire for a certain 
 treasure, and forthwith it was put into her hand. 
 
 She found it so in all other things. Her desires were 
 gratified with an abruptness that killed the zest of them. 
 She felt none of the joy of possession; the little per- 
 sonal relation between her and her belongings van- 
 ished away. Her gowns, beautiful beyond all she had 
 ever imagined, were of no more interest to her than a 
 drawerful of outworn gloves. She bought horses 
 till she could no longer tell them apart; her carriages 
 crowded three supplementary stables in the neighbour- 
 hood. Her flowers, miracles of laborious cultivation, 
 filled the whole house with their fragrance. Wherever 
 she went deference moved before her like a guard; her 
 beauty, her enormous wealth, her wonderful horses, 
 her exquisite gowns made of her a cynosure, a veritable 
 queen. 
 
 And hardly a day passed that Laura Jadwin, in the 
 solitude of her own boudoir, did not fling her arms 
 wide in a gesture of lassitude and infinite weariness, cry- 
 ing out: 
 
 “ Oh, the ennui and stupidity of all this wretched 
 fife! ” 
 
 She could look forward to nothing. One day was like 
 the next. No one came to see her. For all her great 
 house and for all her money, she had made but few 
 friends. Her “ grand manner ” had never helped her 
 popularity. She passed her evenings alone in her “ up- 
 
354 
 
 The Pit 
 
 stairs sitting-room,” reading, reading till far into the 
 night; or, the lights extinguished, sat at her open win- 
 dow listening to the monotonous lap and wash of the 
 lake. 
 
 At such moments she thought of the men who had 
 come into her life — of the love she had known al- 
 most from her girlhood. She remembered her first 
 serious affair. It had been with the impecunious theo- 
 logical student who was her tutor. He had worn 
 glasses and little black side whiskers, and had implored 
 her to marry him and come to China, where he was 
 to be a missionary. Every time that he came he had 
 brought her a new book to read, and he had taken her 
 for long walks up towards the hills where the old pow- 
 der mill stood. Then it was the young lawj^er — the 
 “ brightest man in Worcester County ” — who took her 
 driving in a hired buggy, sent her a multitude of paper 
 novels (which she never read), with every love passage 
 carefully underscored, and wrote very bad verse to 
 her eyes and hair, whose “ velvet blackness was the 
 shadow of a crown.” Or, again, it was the youthful 
 cavalry officer met in a flying visit to her Boston aunt, 
 who loved her on first sight, gave her his photograph 
 in uniform and a bead belt of Apache workmanship. 
 He was forever singing to her — to a guitar accompani- 
 ment — an old love song: I 
 
 “At midnight hour 
 Beneath the tower 
 He murmured soft, 
 
 “ Oh nothing fearing 
 With thine own true soldier fly.’" 
 
 Then she had come to Chicago, and Landr}' Court, : 
 with his bright enthusiasms and fine exaltations had : 
 loved her. She had never taken him very seriously, 
 but none the less it had been very sweet to know his J 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 355 
 
 I whole universe depended upon the nod of her head, and 
 that her influence over him had been so potent, had 
 I kept him clean and loyal and honest. 
 
 I And after this Corthell and Jadwin had come into her 
 life, the artist and the man of affairs. She remem- 
 bered Corthell’s quiet, patient, earnest devotion of 
 ! those days before her marriage. He rarely spoke to 
 1 her of his love, but by some ingenious subtlety he had 
 filled her whole life with it. His little attentions, his un- 
 demonstrative solicitudes came precisely when and 
 where they were most appropriate. He had never 
 failed her. Whenever she had needed him, or even, 
 when through caprice or impulse she had turned to him, 
 it always had been to find that long since he had care- 
 I fully prepared for that very contingency. His thought- 
 : fulness of her had been a thing to wonder at. He re- 
 membered for months, years even, her most trivial 
 fancies, her unexpressed dislikes. He knew her tastes, 
 
 ' as if by instinct; he prepared little surprises for her, 
 
 I and placed them in her way without ostentation, and 
 quite as matters of course. He never permitted her 
 to be embarrassed; the little annoying situations of the 
 day’s life he had smoothed away long before they had 
 I ensnared her. He never was off his guard, never dis- 
 ' turbed, never excited. 
 
 I And he amused her, he entertained her without seem- 
 ing to do so. He made her talk; he made her think. 
 He stimulated and aroused her, so that she herself 
 talked and thought with a brilliancy that surprised her- 
 I self. In fine, he had so contrived that she associated 
 !: him with everything that was agreeable. 
 
 I She had sent him away the first time, and he had gone 
 without a murmur; only to come back loyal as ever, 
 silent, watchful, sympathetic, his love for her deeper, 
 stronger than before, and — as always timely — bringing 
 
356 
 
 The Pit 
 
 to her a companionship at the moment of all others 
 when she was most alone. 
 
 Now she had driven him from her again, and this 
 time, she very well knew, it was to be forever. She 
 had shut the door upon this great love. 
 
 Laura stirred abruptly in her place, adjusting her 
 hair with nervous fingers. 
 
 And, last of all, it had been Jadwin, her husband. 
 She rose and went to the window, and stood there a 
 long moment, looking off into the night over the park. 
 It was warm and very still. A few carriage lamps 
 glimpsed among the trees like fireflies. Along the walks 
 and upon the benches she could see the glow of white 
 dresses and could catch the sound of laughter. Far off, 
 somewhere in the shrubbery, she thought she heard a 
 band playing. To the northeast lay the lake, shim- 
 mering under the moon, dotted here and there with the 
 coloured lights of steamers. 
 
 She turned back into the room. The great house was 
 still. From all its suites of rooms, its corridors, gal- 
 leries, and hallways there came no sound. There was 
 no one upon the same floor as herself. She had read 
 all her books. It was too late to go out — and there was 
 no one to go with. To go to bed was ridiculous. She 
 was never more wakeful, never more alive, never more 
 ready to be amused, diverted, entertained. 
 
 She thought of the organ, and descending to the art 
 gallery, played Bach, Palestrina, and Stainer for an 
 hour ; then suddenly she started from the console, with 
 a sharp, impatient movement of her head. 
 
 “ Why do I play this stupid music? ” she exclaimed. 
 She called a servant and asked : 
 
 “ Has Mr. Jadwin come in yet? ” 
 
 “ Mr. Gretry just this minute telephoned that Mr. 
 Jadwin would not be home to-night.” 
 
I A Story of Chicago 357 
 
 I When the servant had gone out Laura, her lips com- 
 jpressed, flung up her head. Her hands shut to hard 
 |fists, her eye flashed. Rigid, erect in the middle of the 
 (floor, her arms folded, she uttered a smothered ex- 
 iclamation over and over again under her breath, 
 j All at once anger mastered her — anger and a cer- 
 litain defiant recklessness, an abrupt spirit of revolt. 
 fShe straightened herself suddenly, as one who takes a 
 (decision. Then, swiftly, she went out of the art gal- 
 llery, and, crossing the hallway, entered the library and 
 opened a great writing-desk that stood in a recess under 
 la small stained window. 
 
 I She pulled the sheets of note paper towards her and 
 wrote a short letter, directing the envelope to Sheldon 
 |Corthell, The Fine Arts Building, Michigan Avenue. 
 
 ! “ Call a messenger,” she said to the servant who an- 
 iswered her ring, “and have him take — or send him in 
 here when he comes.” 
 
 ! She rested the letter against the inkstand, and leaned 
 hack in her chair, looking at it, her fingers plucking 
 I swiftly at the lace of her dress. Her head was in a 
 whirl. A confusion of thoughts, impulses, desires, 
 Falf-formed resolves, half-named regrets, swarmed and 
 spun about her. She felt as though she had all at once 
 taken a leap — a leap which had landed her in a place 
 whence she could see a new and terrible country, an 
 unfamiliar place — terrible, yet beautiful — unexplored, 
 and for that reason all the more inviting, a place of 
 shadows. 
 
 Laura rose and paced the floor, her hands pressed 
 [together over her heart. She was excited, her cheeks 
 
 I flushed, a certain breathless exhilaration came and 
 went within her breast, and in place of the intolerable 
 ennui of the last days, there came over her a sudden, 
 an almost wild animation, and from out her black eyes 
 Uhere shot a kind of furious gaiety. 
 
The Pit 
 
 158 
 
 But she was aroused by a step at the door. The 
 messenger stood there, a figure ridiculously inadequate 
 for the intensity of all that was involved in the issue of 
 the hour — a weazened, stunted boy, in a uniform many 
 sizes too large. 
 
 Laura, seated at her desk, held the note towards him 
 resolutely. Now was no time to hesitate, to temporise. 
 If she did not hold to her resolve now, what was there 
 to look forward to? Could one’s life be emptier than 
 hers — emptier, more intolerable, more humiliating? 
 
 “ Take this note to that address,” she said, putting 
 the envelope and a coin in the boy’s hand. “ Wait for 
 an answer.” 
 
 The boy shut the letter in his book, which he thrust 
 into his breast -pocket, buttoning his coat over it. He 
 nodded and turned away. 
 
 Still seated, Laura watched him moving towards the 
 door. Well, it was over now. She had chosen. She 
 had taken the leap. What new life was to begin for 
 her to-morrow? What did it all mean? With an in- 
 conceivable rapidity her thoughts began racing through 
 her brain. 
 
 She did not move. Her hands, gripped tight to- 
 gether, rested upon the desk before her. Without 
 turning her head, she watched the retreating messenger, 
 from under her lashes. He passed out of the door, the 
 curtain fell behind him. 
 
 And only then, when the irrevocableness of the step 
 was all but an accomplished fact, came the reaction. 
 
 “Stop!” she cried, springing up. “Stop! Come 
 back here. Wait a moment.” 
 
 What had happened? She could neither understand 
 nor explain. . Somehow an instant of clear Ausion had 
 come, and in that instant a power wfithin her that was 
 herself and not herself, and laid hold upon her will. 
 
A Story of Chicago 359 
 
 No, no, she could not, she could not, after all. She 
 took the note back. 
 
 “ I have changed my mind,” she said, abruptly. “ You 
 may keep the money. There is no message to be sent.” 
 
 As soon as the boy had gone she opened the en- 
 ivelope and read what she had written. But now the 
 words seemed the work of another mind than her own. 
 They were unfamiliar; they were not the words of the 
 [Laura Jadwin she knew. Why was it that from the 
 :Very first hours of her acquaintance with this man, and 
 in every circumstance of their intimacy, she had always 
 acted upon impulse? What was there in him that 
 called into being all that was reckless in her? 
 
 And for how long was she to be able to control these 
 impulses? This time she had prevailed once more 
 against that other impetuous self of hers. Would she 
 prevail the next time? And in these struggles, was she 
 growing stronger as she overcame, or weaker? She 
 did not know. She tore the note into fragments, and 
 making a heap of them in the pen tray, burned them 
 carefully. 
 
 During the week following upon this, Laura found 
 her trouble more than ever keen. She was burdened 
 with a new distress. The incident of the note to Cor- 
 thell, recalled at the last moment, had opened her eyes 
 to possibilities of the situation hitherto unguessed. 
 She saw now what she might be capable of doing in a 
 moment of headstrong caprice, she saw depths in her 
 nature she had not plumbed. Whether these hidden 
 pitfalls were peculiarly hers, or whether they were com- 
 mon to all women placed as she now found herself, she 
 did not pause to inquire. She thought only of results, 
 and she was afraid. 
 
 But for the matter of that, Laura had long since 
 passed the point of deliberate consideration or reasoned 
 
360 
 
 The Pit 
 
 calculation. The reaction had been as powerful as the 
 original purpose, and she was even yet struggling 
 blindly, intuitively. 
 
 For what she was now about to do she could give 
 no reason, and the motives for this final and supreme 
 effort to conquer the league of circumstances which 
 hemmed her in were obscure. She did not even ask 
 what they were. She knew only that she was in trouble, 
 and yet it was to the cause of her distress that she ad- 
 dressed herself. Blindly she turned to her husband; 
 and all the woman in her roused itself, girded itself, 
 called up its every resource in one last test, in one ulti- 
 j mate trial of strength between her and the terrible 
 growing power of that blind, soulless force that roared 
 and guttered and sucked, down there in the midst of the 
 city. 
 
 She alone, one unaided woman, her only auxiliaries 
 her beauty, her wit, and the frayed, strained bands of 
 a sorely tried love, stood forth like a challenger, against 
 Charybdis, joined battle with the Cloaca, held back with 
 her slim, white hands against the power of the mael- 
 strom that swung the Nations in its grip. 
 
 In the solitude of her room she took the resolve. : 
 Her troubles were multiplying; she, too, w^as in the j 
 current, the end of which was a pit — a pit black and I 
 without bottom. Once already its grip had seized her, ■ 
 once already she had yielded to the insidious drift, i 
 Now suddenly aware of a danger, she fought back, and | 
 her hands beating the air for help, turned towards the j 
 greatest strength she knew. 
 
 “ I want my husband,” she cried, aloud, to the empty I 
 darkness of the night. “ I want my husband. I \H11 ; 
 have him; he is mine, he is mine. There shall nothing j 
 take me from him; there shall nothing take him from I 
 me.” 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 361 
 
 I Her first opportunity came upon a Sunday soon after- 
 ward. Jadwin, wakeful all the Saturday night, slept a 
 little in the forenoon, and after dinner Laura came to 
 him in his smoking-room, as he lay on the leather 
 I lounge trying to read. His wife seated herself at a 
 writing-table in a corner of the room, and by and by 
 ■ began turning the slips of a calendar that stood at her 
 elbow. At last she tore off one of the slips and held it 
 up. 
 
 “ Curtis.” 
 
 “ Well, old girl?” 
 
 “ Do you see that date? ” 
 
 He looked over to her. 
 
 j “ Do you see that date ? Do you know of anything 
 that makes that day different — a little — from other 
 days? It’s June thirteenth. Do you remember what 
 June thirteenth is ? ” 
 
 Puzzled, he shook his head. 
 
 I “ No— no.” 
 
 i Laura took up a pen and wrote a few words in the 
 : space above the printed figures reserved for memo- 
 randa. Then she handed the slip to her husband, who 
 I read aloud what she had written. 
 
 “ ‘ Laura Jadwin’s birthday.’ Why, upon my word,” 
 he declared, sitting upright. “ So it is, so it is. June 
 thirteenth, of course. And I was beast enough not to 
 5! realise it. Honey, I can’t remember anything these 
 :'j days, it seems.” 
 
 J “But you are going to remember this time?” she 
 1; said. “ You are not going to forget it now. That 
 jj evening is going to mark the beginning of — oh, Cur- 
 'ji tis, it is going to be a new beginning of everything. 
 
 You’ll see. I’m going to manage it. I don’t know 
 I how, but you are going to love me so that nothing, no 
 I business, no money, no wheat will ever keep you from 
 
362 
 
 The Pit 
 
 me. I will make you. And that evening, that evening 
 of June thirteenth is mine. The day your business can 
 have you, but from six o’clock on you are mine.” She 
 crossed the room quickly and took both his hands in 
 hers and knelt beside him. “ It is mine,” she said, 
 “if you love me. Do you understand, dear? You 
 will come home at six o’clock, and whatever happens 
 — oh, if all La Salle Street should burn to the ground, 
 and all your millions of bushels of wheat with it — what- 
 ever happens, you — will — not — leave — me — nor think of 
 anything else but just me, me. That evening is mine, 
 and you will give it to me, just as I have said. I won’t 
 remind you of it again. I won’t speak of it again. I 
 will leave it to you. But — ^}^ou will give me that eve- 
 ning if you love me. Dear, do you see just what I 
 mean? If you love me. . . . No — no, 
 
 don’t say a word, we won’t talk about it at all. No, 
 no, please. Not another word. I don’t want you to 
 promise, or pledge yourself, or anything like that. 
 You’ve heard what I said — and that’s all there is about 
 it. We’ll talk of something else. By the way, have 
 you seen Mr. Cressler lately? ” 
 
 “ No,” he said, falling into her mood, “ No, I 
 haven’t seen Charlie in over a month. Wonder what’s 
 become of him? ” 
 
 “ I understand he’s been sick,” she told him. “ I met 
 Mrs. Cressler the other day, and she said she was 
 bothered about him.” 
 
 “ Well, what’s the matter with old Charlie? ” 
 
 “ She doesn’t know, herself. He’s not sick enough to 
 go to bed, but he doesn’t or won’t go down towm to his 
 business. She says she can see him growing thinner 
 every day. He keeps telling her he’s all right, but for 
 all that, she says, she’s afraid he’s going to come dow'n 
 with some kind of sickness pretty soon.” 
 
3^3 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 > Say,” said Jadwin, “ suppose we drop around to 
 ’ see them this afternoon? Wouldn’t you like to? I 
 ' haven’t seen him in over a month, as I say. Or tele- 
 ' phone them to come up and have dinner. Charlie’s 
 ’ about as old a friend as I have. We used to be together 
 about every hour of the day when we first came to 
 Chicago. Let’s go over to see him this afternoon and 
 cheer him up.” 
 
 “ No,” said Laura, decisively. “ Curtis, you must 
 have one day of rest out of the week. You are going 
 to lie down all the rest of the afternoon, and sleep if 
 you ca::. I’ll call on them to-morrow.” 
 
 “ Well, all right,” he assented. “ I suppose I ought 
 to sleep if I can. And then Sam is coming up here, by 
 five. He’s going to bring some railroad men with him. 
 We’ve got a lot to do. Yes, I guess, old girl. I’ll try to 
 get forty winks before they get here. And, Laura,” he 
 added, taking her hand as she rose to go, “ Laura, this 
 is the last lap. In just another month now — oh, at 
 i the outside, six weeks — I’ll have closed the corner, and 
 i then, old girl, you and I will go somewheres, any- 
 where you like, and then we’ll have a good time to- 
 gether all the rest of our lives — all the rest of our lives, 
 honey. Good-by. Now I think I can go to sleep.” 
 
 I She arranged the cushions under his head and drew 
 the curtains close over the windows, and went out, 
 softly closing the door behind her. And a half hour 
 later, when she stole in to look at him, she found him 
 asleep at last, the tired eyes closed, and the arm, with 
 its broad, strong hand, resting under his head. She 
 ' stood a long moment in the middle of the room, look- 
 ing down at him; and then slipped out as noiselessly as 
 she had come, the tears trembling on her eyelashes. 
 
 Laura Jadwin did not call on the Cresslers the next 
 day, nor even the next after that. For three days she 
 
3^4 
 
 The Pit 
 
 kept indoors, held prisoner by a series of petty inci- 
 dents ; now the delay in the finishing of her new gowns, 
 now by the excessive heat, now by a spell of rain. By 
 Thursday, however, at the beginning of the second 
 week of the month, the storm was gone, and the sun 
 once more shone. Early in the afternoon Laura tele- 
 phoned to Mrs. Cressler. 
 
 “ How are you and Mr. Cressler? ” she asked. “ I’m 
 coming over to take luncheon with you and your hus- 
 band, if you will let me.” 
 
 “ Oh, Charlie is about the same, Laura,” answered 
 Mrs. Cressler’s voice. “ I guess the dear man has been 
 working too hard, that’s all. Do come over and cheer 
 him up. If I’m not here when you come, you just make 
 yourself at home. I’ve got to go down town to see 
 about railroad tickets and all. I’m going to pack my 
 old man right off to Oconomowoc before I’m another 
 day older. Made up my mind to it last night, and I 
 don’t want him to be bothered with tickets or time 
 cards, or baggage or anything. I’ll run down and do 
 it all myself. You come right up whenever you’re 
 ready and keep Charlie company. How’s your hus- 
 band, Laura child? ” 
 
 “ Oh, Curtis is well,” she answered. “ He gets very 
 tired at times.” 
 
 “ Well, I can understand it. Lands alive, child, 
 whatever are you going to do with all your money? 
 They tell me that J. has made millions in the last three 
 or four months. A man I was talking to last week said 
 his corner was the greatest thing ever known on the 
 Chicago Board of Trade. Well, good-by, Laura, come 
 up whenever you’re ready. I’ll see you at lunch. 
 Charlie is right here. He says to give you his love.” 
 
 An hour later Laura’s victoria stopped in front of the 
 Cresslers’ house, and the little footman descended with 
 
A Story of Cliicago 365 
 
 ! the agility of a monkey, to stand, soldier-like, at the 
 steps, the lap robe over his arm. 
 
 Laura gave orders to have the victoria call for her 
 at three, and ran quickly up the front steps. The front 
 I entrance was open, the screen door on the latch, and 
 ! she entered without ceremony. 
 
 “ Mrs. Cresslerl ” she called, as she stood in the hall- 
 way drawing off her gloves. “ Mrs. Cressler! Carrie, 
 have you gone yet? ” 
 
 But the maid, Annie, appeared at the head of the 
 j stairs, on the landing of the second floor, a towel bound 
 about her head, her duster in her hand. 
 
 “ Mrs. Cressler has gone out, Mrs. Jadwin,” she said. 
 “ She said you was to make yourself at home, and she’d 
 be back by noon.” 
 
 Laura nodded, and standing before the hatrack in 
 the hall, took off her hat and gloves, and folded her 
 veil into her purse. The house was old-fashioned, very 
 homelike and spacious, cool, with broad halls and wide 
 I windows. In the “ front library,” where Laura entered 
 : first, were steel engravings of the style of the seventies, 
 i " whatnots ” crowded with shells, Chinese coins, lac- 
 ^ quer boxes, and the inevitable sawfish bill. The mantel 
 
 [ was mottled white marble, and its shelf bore the usual 
 bronze and gilt clock, decorated by a female figure in 
 '1 classic draperies, reclining against a globe. An oil paint- 
 I ing of a mountain landscape hung against one wall ; and 
 '! on a table of black walnut, with a red marble slab, that 
 ; stood between the front windows, were a stereoscope 
 ^ and a rosewood music box. 
 
 I The piano, an old style Chickering, stood diagonally 
 
 I ; across the far corner of the room, by the closed sliding 
 ■ doors, and Laura sat down here and began to play the 
 " Mephisto Walzer,” which she had been at pains to 
 learn since the night Corthell had rendered it on her 
 I great organ in the art gallery. 
 
366 
 
 The Pit 
 
 But when she had played as much as she could re- 
 member of the music, she rose and closed the piano, 
 and pushed back the folding doors between the room 
 she was in and the “ back library,” a small room where 
 Mrs. Cressler kept her books of poetry. 
 
 As Laura entered the room she was surprised to see 
 Mr. Cressler there, seated in his armchair, his back 
 turned toward her. 
 
 “ Why, I didn’t know you were here, Mr. Cressler,” 
 she said, as she came up to him. 
 
 She laid her hand upon his arm. But Cressler was 
 dead ; and as Laura touched him the head dropped upon 
 the shoulder and showed the bullet hole in the temple, 
 just in front of the ear. 
 
X 
 
 The suicide of Charles Cressler had occurred on the 
 tenth of June, and the report of it, together with the 
 wretched story of his friend’s final surrender to a tempta- 
 tion he had never outlived, reached Curtis Jadwin early 
 on the morning of the eleventh. 
 
 He and Gretry were at their accustomed places in the 
 latter’s office, and the news seemed to shut out all the sun- 
 shine that had been flooding in through the broad plate- 
 glass windows. After their first incoherent horror, the two 
 sat staring at each other, speechless, 
 
 “ My God, my God,” groaned Jadwin, as if in the 
 throes of a deadly sickness. “ He was in the Crookes’ 
 ring, and we never knew it — I’ve killed him, Sam, I 
 might as well have held that pistol myself.” He stamped 
 his foot, striking his fist across his forehead, “ Great 
 God — my best friend — Charlie — Charlie Cressler! Sam, 
 
 I shall go mad if this — if this ” 
 
 “ Steady, steady does it, J,,” warned the broker, his 
 hand upon his shoulder, “ we got to keep a grip on our- 
 selves to-day. We’ve got a lot to think of. We’ll think 
 about Charlie, later. Just now . . . well it’s busi- 
 ness now. Mathewson & Knight have called on us for 
 margins — twenty thousand dollars.” 
 
 He laid the slip down in front of Jadwin, as he sat at 
 his desk, 
 
 “ Oh, this can wait,” exclaimed Jadwin. “ Let it go 
 till this afternoon, I can’t talk business now. Think 
 
 of Carrie — Mrs. Cressler, I ” 
 
 “ No,” answered Gretry, reflectively and slowly, 
 looking anywhere but in Jadwin’s face. “ N — no, I don’t 
 
368 
 
 The Pit 
 
 think we’d better wait. I think we’d better meet these 
 margin calls promptly. It’s always better to keep our 
 trades margined up.” 
 
 Jadwin faced around. 
 
 “ Why,” he cried, “ one would think, to hear you talk, 
 as though there was danger of me busting here at any 
 hour.” 
 
 Gretry did not answer. There was a moment’s silence. 
 Then the broker caught his principal’s eye and held it a 
 second. 
 
 “ Well,” he answered, “ you saw how freely they sold 
 to us in the Pit yesterday. We’ve got to buy, and buy 
 and buy, to keep our price up ; and look here, look at these 
 reports from our correspondents — everything points to a 
 banner crop. There’s been an increase of acreage every- 
 where, because of our high prices. See this from 
 Travers” — he picked up a despatch and read: “‘Pre- 
 liminary returns of spring wheat in two Dakotas, sub- 
 ject to revision, indicate a total area seeded of sixteen 
 million acres, which added to area in winter wheat states, 
 makes total of forty-three million, or nearly four million 
 acres greater than last yea*r.’ ” 
 
 “ Lot of damned sentiment,” cried Jadwin, refusing to 
 be convinced. “ Two-thirds of that wheat won’t grade, 
 and Europe will take nearly all of it. What we ought to 
 do is to send our men into the Pit and buy another million, 
 buy more than these fools can offer. Buy ’em to a 
 standstill” 
 
 “ That takes a big pile of money then,” said the broker. 
 “ hlore than we can lay our hands on this morning. The 
 best we can do is to take all the Bears are offering, and 
 support the market. The moment they offer us wheat 
 and we don’t buy it, that moment — as you know, yourself 
 — they’ll throw wheat at you by the train load, and the 
 price will break, and we with it.” 
 
' A Story of Chicago 369 
 
 “ Think we’ll get rid of much wheat to-day ?” demanded 
 Jadwin. 
 
 I By now it had became vitally necessary for Jadwin 
 to sell out his holdings. His “long line” was a fearful 
 i expense, insurance and storage charges were eating 
 f rapidly into the profits. He must get rid of the load he 
 i was carrying, little by little. To do this at a profit, he had 
 adopted the expedient of flooding the Pit with buying 
 orders just before the close of the session, and then as the 
 price rose under this stimulus, selling quickly, before it 
 had time to break. At first this had succeeded. But of 
 j late he must buy more and more to keep the price up, 
 while the moment that he began to sell, the price began to 
 i drop ; so that now, in order to sell one bushel, he must 
 , buy two. 
 
 “ Think we can unload much on ’em to-day?” repeated 
 [ Jadwin. 
 
 “I don’t know,” answered Gretry, slowly and thought- 
 j fully. “ Perhaps — there’s a chance — . Frankly, J., I 
 don’t think we can. The Pit is taking heart, that’s the 
 truth of it. Those fellows are not so scared of us as they 
 I were a while ago. It’s the new crop, as I’ve said over and 
 over again. We’ve put wheat so high, that all the farmers 
 I have planted it, and are getting ready to dump it on us. 
 i The Pit knows that, of course. Why, just think, they are 
 j harvesting in some places. These fellows we’ve caught 
 in the corner will be able to buy all the wheat they want 
 ; from the farmers if they can hold out a little longer. 
 
 ! And that Government report yesterday showed that the 
 ' growing wheat is in good condition.” 
 
 I “ Nothing of the sort. It was a little over eighty-six.” 
 
 ! “ Good enough,” declared Gretry, “ good enough so 
 
 that it broke the price down to a dollar and twenty. Just 
 think, we were at a dollar and a half a little while ago.” 
 
 “ And we’ll be at two dollars in another ten days, I tell 
 you.” 
 
 24 
 
370 
 
 The Pit 
 
 “ Do you know how we stand J. ?” said the broker 
 gravely. “ Do you know how we stand — financially ? It’s 
 taken pretty nearly every cent of our ready money to sup- 
 port this July market. Oh, we can figure out our paper 
 profits into the millions. We’ve got thirty, forty, fifty 
 million bushels of wheat that’s worth over a dollar a 
 bushel, but if we can’t sell it, we’re none the better off — • 
 and that wheat is costing us six thousand dollars a day. 
 Hell, old man, where’s the money going to come from? 
 You don’t seem to realise that we are in a precarious 
 condition.” He raised an arm, and pointed above him, 
 in the direction of the floor of the Board of Trade. 
 
 “ The moment we can’t give our boys — Landiy" Court, 
 and the rest of ’em — the moment we can’t give them buy- 
 ing orders, that Pit will suck us down like a chip. The 
 moment we admit that we can’t buy all the wheat that’s 
 offered, there’s the moment we bust.” 
 
 “ Well, we’ll buy it,” cried Jadwin, through his set teeth. 
 
 “ I’ll show those brutes. Look here, is it money we 
 want? You cable to Paris and offer two million, at — oh, 
 at eight cents below the market; and to Liverpool, and 
 let ’em have twopence off on the same amount. They’ll 
 snap it up as quick as look at it. That will bring in one 
 lot of money, and as for the rest, I guess I’ve got some | 
 real estate in this town that’t pretty good security.” * 
 
 “ What — you going to mortgage part of that ?” I 
 
 “ No,” cried Jadwin, jumping up with a quick im- < 
 patient gesture, “ no, I’m going to mortgage all of it, and j 
 I’m going to do it to-day — this morning. If you say we’re \ 
 in a precarious condition, it’s no time for half measures. 
 I’ll have more money than you’ll know what to do with in ' 
 the Illinois Trust by three o’clock this afternoon, and when 
 the Board opens to-morrow morning. I’m going to light 
 into those cattle in the Pit there, so as they’ll think a 
 locomotive has struck ’em. They’d stand me off, would 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 371 
 
 they? They’d try to sell me down ; they won’t cover when 
 I turn the screw ! I’ll show ’em, Sam Gretry. I’ll run 
 wheat up so high before the next two days, that the 
 ‘ Bank of England can’t pull it down, and before the Pit 
 i can catch its breath. I’ll sell our long line, and with the 
 profits of that, by God ! I’ll run it up again. Two dollars ! 
 Why, it will be two fifty here so quick you won’t know how 
 ^ it’s happened. I’ve just been fooling with this crowd until 
 [ now. Now, I’m really going to get down to business.” 
 
 I Gretry did not answer. He twirled his pencil between 
 : his fingers, and stared down at the papers on his desk, 
 i Once he started to speak, but checked himself. Then at 
 last he turned about. 
 
 “ All right,” he said, briskly. “ We’ll see what that will 
 I do.” 
 
 “ I’m going over to the Illinois Trust now,” said 
 Jadwin, putting on his hat. “ When your boys come in for 
 their orders, tell them for to-day just to support the 
 I market. If there’s much wheat offered they’d better buy 
 it. Tell them not to let the market go below a dollar 
 twenty. When I come back we’ll make out those 
 I cables.” 
 
 That day Jadwin carried out his programme so vehe- 
 i mently announced to his broker. Upon every piece of real 
 ■ estate that he owned he placed as heavy a mortgage as 
 ;| the property would stand. Even his old house on 
 ; Michigan Avenue, even the “ homestead ” on North 
 tj State Street were encumbered. The time was come, he 
 ’! felt, for the grand coup, the last huge strategical move, 
 5 the concentration of every piece of heavy artillery. 
 
 ^ Never in all his multitude of operations on the Chicago 
 Board of Trade had he failed. He knew he would not 
 j fail now; Luck, the golden goddess, still staid at his 
 i shoulder. He did more than mortgage his property; 
 ! he floated a number of promissory notes. His credit, 
 
372 
 
 The Pit 
 
 always unimpeachable, he taxed to its farthest stretch; 
 from every source he gathered in the sinews of the war 
 he was waging. No sum was too great to daunt him, 
 none too small to be overlooked. Reserves, van and 
 rear, battle line and skirmish outposts he summoned 
 together to form one single vast column of attack. 
 
 It was on this same day while Jadwin, pressed for 
 money, was leaving no stone unturned to secure ready 
 cash, that he came across old Hargus in his usual place in 
 Gretry’s customers’ room, reading a two days old news- 
 paper. Of a sudden an idea occurred to Jadwin. He took 
 the old man aside. “ Hargus,” he said, “ do you want a 
 good investment for your money, that money I turned over 
 to you ? I can give you a better rate than the bank, and 
 pretty good security. Let me have about a hundred thou- 
 sand at — oh, ten per cent.” 
 
 “ Hey — what ?” asked the old fellow querulously. Jad- 
 win repeated his request. 
 
 But Hargus cast a suspicious glance at him and drew 
 away. 
 
 “ I — I don’t lend my money,” he observed. 
 
 “ Why — you old fool,” exclaimed Jadwin. Here, is 
 it more interest you want? Why, we’ll say fifteen per 
 cent., if you like.” 
 
 “ I don’t lend my money,” exclaimed Hargus, shaking 
 his head. “ I ain’t got any to lend,” and with the words 
 took himself off.” 
 
 One source of help alone Jadwin left untried. Sorely 
 tempted, he nevertheless kept himself from involving 
 his wife’s money in the hazard. Laura, in her own 
 name, was possessed of a little fortune; sure as he was 
 of winning, Jadwin none the less hesitated from seek- 
 ing an auxiliary here. He felt it was a matter of pride. 
 He could not bring himself to make use of a woman’s 
 succour. 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 373 
 
 But his entire personal fortune now swung in the 
 balance. It was the last fight, the supreme attempt — the 
 I final consummate assault, and the thrill of a victory more 
 brilliant, more conclusive, more decisive than any he had 
 I ever known, vibrated in Jadwin’s breast, as he went to and 
 fro in Jackson, Adams, and La Salle streets all through 
 j that day of the eleventh. 
 
 But he knew the danger — knew just how terrible was to 
 be the grapple. Once that same day a certain detail of 
 I business took him near to the entrance of the Floor. 
 Though he did not so much as look inside the doors, he 
 could not but hear the thunder of the Pit ; and even in that 
 moment of confidence, his great triumph only a few hours 
 distant, Jadwin, for the instant, stood daunted. The roar 
 was appalling, the whirlpool was again unchained, the 
 ' maelstrom was again unleashed. And during the briefest 
 of seconds he could fancy that the familiar bellow of its 
 swirling, had taken on another pitch. Out of that hideous 
 turmoil, he imagined, there issued a strange unwonted note ; 
 as it were, the first rasp and grind of a new avalanche 
 just beginning to stir, a diapason more profound than 
 any he had yet known, a hollow distant bourdon as of 
 the slipping and sliding of some almighty and chaotic 
 power. 
 
 It was the Wheat, the Wheat ! It was on the move 
 again. From the farms of Illinois and Iowa, from the 
 ranches of Kansas and Nebraska, from all the reaches 
 of the Middle West, the Wheat, like a tidal wave, was 
 rising, rising. Almighty, blood-brother to the earth- 
 quake, coeval with the volcano and the whirlwind, that 
 gigantic world-force, that colossal billow, Nourisher of 
 the Nations, was swelling and advancing. 
 
 There in the Pit Its first premonitory eddies already 
 swirled and spun. If even the first ripples of the tide 
 smote terribly upon the heart, what was it to be when 
 
374 
 
 The Pit 
 
 the ocean itself burst through, on its eternal way from 
 west to east? For an instant came clear vision. What 
 were these shouting, gesticulating men of the Board 
 of Trade, these brokers, traders, and speculators? It 
 was not these he fought, it was that fatal New Harvest; 
 it was the Wheat ; it was — as Gretry had said-^the very 
 Earth itself. What were those scattered hundreds of 
 farmers of the Middle W est, who because he had put the 
 price so high had planted the grain as never before? 
 What had they to do with it? Why the Wheat had 
 grown itself; demand and supply, these were the two 
 great laws the Wheat obeyed. Almost blasphemous 
 in his effrontery, he had tampered with these laws, 
 and had roused a Titan. He had laid his puny human 
 grasp upon Creation and the very earth herself, the 
 great mother, feeling the touch of the cobweb that 
 the human insect had spun, had stirred at last in her 
 sleep and sent her omnipotence moving through the 
 grooves of the world, to find and crush the disturber of her 
 appointed courses'TX 
 
 The new harvest was coming in ; the new harvest of 
 wheat, huge beyond possibility of control; so vast that 
 no money could buy it, so swift that no strateg}' could 
 turn it. But Jadwin hurried away from the sound of the 
 near roaring of the Pit. No, no. Luck was with him ; 
 he had mastered the current of the Pit many times be- 
 fore — he would master it again. The day passed and 
 the night, and at nine o’clock the following morning, he 
 and Gretry once more met in the broker’s office. 
 
 Gretry turned a pale face upon his principal. 
 
 “ I’ve just received,” he said, “ the answers to our cables 
 to Liverpool and Paris. I offered wheat at both places, as 
 you know, cheaper than we’ve ever offered it there 
 before,” 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 375 
 
 “ Yes— well?” 
 
 “ Well,” answered Gretry, looking gravely into Jad— 
 win’s eyes, “ well — they won’t take it.” 
 
 On the morning of her birthday — the thirteenth of the 
 month — when Laura descended to the breakfast room, 
 she found Page already there. Though it was barely 
 half-past seven, her sister was dressed for the street. 
 She wore a smart red hat, and as she stood by the 
 French windows, looking out, she drew her gloves back 
 and forth between her fingers, with a nervous, impatient 
 gesture. 
 
 “ Why,” said Laura, as she sat down at her place, 
 
 “ why, Pagie, what is in the wind to-day ?” 
 
 “ Landry is coming,” Page explained, facing about and 
 glancing at the watch pinned to her waist. “ He is going 
 to take me down to see the Board of Trade — from the 
 visitor’s gallery, you know. He said this would probably 
 be a great day. Did Mr. Jadwin come home last night?” 
 
 Laura shook her head, without speech. She did not 
 choose to put into words the fact that for three days — 
 with the exception of an hour or two, on the evening 
 after that horrible day of her visit to the Cresslers’ 
 house — she had seen nothing of her husband. 
 
 “ Landry says,” continued Page, “ that it is awful — 
 down there, these days. He says that it is the greatest 
 fight in the history of La Salle Street. Has Mr. Jadwin, 
 said anything to you ? Is he going to win ?” 
 
 “ I don’t know,” answered Laura, in a low voice ; “ I 
 don’t know anything about it. Page.” 
 
 She was wondering if even Page had forgotten. When 
 she had come into the room, her first glance had been 
 towards her place at table. But there was nothing there, 
 not even so much as an envelope; and no one had so 
 much as wished her joy of the little anniversary. She had 
 
376 
 
 The Pit 
 
 thought Page might have remembered, but her sister’s 
 next words showed that she had more on her mind than 
 birthdays. 
 
 “ Laura,” she began, sitting down opposite to her, and 
 unfolding her napkin, with laborious precision. “ Laura — ■ 
 Landry and I — Well . . . we’re going to be mar- 
 ried in the fall.” 
 
 “ Why, Pagie,” cried Laura, “ I’m just as glad as I j 
 can be for you. He’s a fine, clean fellow, and I know he 
 will make you a good husband.” 
 
 Page drew a deep breath. 
 
 “ Well,” she said, “ I’m glad you think so, too. Before 
 you and Mr. Jadwin were married, I wasn’t sure about 
 having him care for me, because at that time — well — ” 
 Page looked up with a queer little smile, “ I guess you 
 could have had him — if you had wanted to.” 
 
 “ Oh, that,” cried Laura. “ Why, Landry never really 
 cared for me. It was all the silliest kind of flirtation. 
 The moment he knew you better, I stood no chance at 
 all.” 
 
 “ We’re going to take an apartment on IMichigan 
 Avenue, near the Auditorium,” said Page, “ and keep 
 house. We’ve talked it all over, and know just how 
 much it will cost to live and keep one serv^ant. I’m going 
 to serve the loveliest little dinners ; I’ve learned the kind 
 of cooking he likes already. Oh, I guess there he is now,” 
 she cried, as they heard the front door close. 
 
 Landry came in, carrying a great bunch of cut flowers, 
 and a box of candy. He was as spruce as though he 
 were already the bridegroom, his cheeks pink, his blonde 
 hair radiant. But he was thin and a little worn, a dull 
 feverish glitter came and went in his eyes, and his ner\'- i 
 ousness, the strain and excitement which beset him were ■ 
 in his every gesture, in every word of his rapid speech. 
 
 “ We’ll have to hurry,” he told Page. “ I must be down ; 
 there hours ahead of time this morning.” ' 
 
377 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 “ How is Curtis? ” demanded Laura. “Have you seen 
 him lately? How is he getting on with — with his specu- 
 lating ?” 
 
 Landry made a sharp gesture of resignation. 
 
 “ I don’t know,” he answered. “ I guess nobody knows. 
 We had a fearful day yesterday, but I think we controlled 
 the situation at the end. We ran the price up and up and 
 up till I thought it would never stop. If the Pit thought 
 Mr. Jadwin was beaten, I guess they found out how they 
 were mistaken. For a time there, we were just driving 
 them. But then Mr. Gretry sent word to us in the Pit 
 to sell, and we couldn’t hold them. They came back at us 
 like wolves; they beat the price down five cents, in as 
 many minutes. We had to quit selling, and buy again. 
 But then Mr. Jadwin went at them with a rush. Oh, it 
 was grand ! We steadied the price at a dollar and fif- 
 teen, stiffened it up to eighteen and a half, and then sent 
 it up again, three cents at a time, till we’d hammered it 
 back to a dollar and a quarter.” 
 
 “ But Curtis himself,” inquired Laura, “ is he all 
 right, is he well ?” 
 
 “ I only saw him once,” answered Landry. “ He was 
 in Mr. Gretry’s office. Yes, he looked all right. He’s 
 nervous, of course. But Mr. Gretry looks like the sick 
 man. He looks all frazzled out.” 
 
 “ I guess, we’d better be going,” said Page, getting up 
 from the table. “ Have you had your breakfast, Landry ? 
 Won’t you have some coffee?” 
 
 “ Oh, I breakfasted hours ago,” he answered. “ But 
 you are right. We had better be moving. If you are 
 going to get a seat in the gallery, you must be there half 
 an hour ahead of time, to say the least. Shall I take any 
 word to your husband from you, Mrs. Jadwin?” 
 
 “ Tell him that I wish him good luck,” she answered, 
 “and — ^yes, ask him, if he remembers what day of the 
 
378 
 
 The Pit 
 
 month this is — or no, don’t ask him that. Say nothing 
 about it. Just tell him I send him my very best love, and 
 that I wish him all the success in the world.” 
 
 It was about nine o’clock, when Landry and Page 
 reached the foot of La Salle Street. The morning was 
 fine and cool. The sky over the Board of Trade sparkled 
 with sunlight, and the air was full of fluttering wings of 
 the multitude of pigeons that lived upon the leakage of 
 grain around the Board of Trade building. 
 
 “ Mr. Cressler used to feed them regularly,” said Lan- 
 dry, as they paused on the street corner opposite the 
 Board. “ Poor — poor Mr. Cressler — the funeral is to- 
 morrow, you know.” 
 
 Page shut her eyes. 
 
 “ Oh,” she murmure4, “ think, think of Laura finding 
 him there like that. Oh, it would have killed me, it 
 would have killed me.” 
 
 “ Somehow,” observed Landry', a puzzled expression 
 in his eyes, “ somehow, by George ! she don’t seem to mind 
 very much. You’d have thought a shock like that would 
 have made her sick.” 
 
 “ Oh ! Laura,” cried Page. “ I don’t know her any 
 more these days, she is just like stone — just as though she 
 were crowding down every emotion or any' feeling she 
 ever had. She seems to be holding herself in with all her 
 strength — for something — and afraid to let go a finger, for 
 fear she would give way altogether. When she told me 
 about that morning at the Cresslers’ house, her voice was 
 just like ice; she said, ‘ IMr. Cressler has shot himself. I 
 found him dead in his librar}'.’ She never shed a tear, and 
 she spoke, oh, in such a terrible monotone. Oh ! dear,” ! 
 cried Page, “ I wish all this was over, and we could all 1 
 get away from Chicago, and take IMr. Jadwin with us, 
 and get him back to be as he used to be, always so light- 
 hearted, and thoughtful and kindly. He used to be mak- 
 
A Story of Chicago 379 
 
 ing jokes from morning till ntght. Oh, I loved him just 
 as if he were my father.” 
 
 They crossed the street, and Landry, taking her by the 
 arm, ushered her into the corridor on the ground floor 
 of the Board. 
 
 “ Now, keep close to me,” he said, “ and see if we 
 can get through somewhere here.” 
 
 The stairs leading up to the main floor were already 
 crowded with visitors, some standing in line close to the 
 wall, others aimlessly wandering up and down, looking 
 and listening, their heads in the air. One of these, a 
 gentleman with a tall white hat, shook his head at Landry 
 and Page, as they pressed by him. 
 
 “ You can’t get up there,” he said, “ even if they let you 
 in. They’re packed in like sardines already.” 
 
 But Landry reassured Page with a knowing nod of his 
 head. 
 
 “ I told the guide up in the gallery to reserve a seat 
 for you. I guess we’ll manage.” 
 
 But when they reached the staircase that connected the 
 main floor with the visitors’ gallery, it became a question 
 as to whether or not they could even get to the seat. The 
 crowd was packed solidly upon the stairs, between the wall 
 and the balustrades. There were men in top hats, and 
 women in silks; rough fellows of the poorer streets, and 
 gaudily dressed queens of obscure neighborhoods, while 
 mixed with these one saw the faded and shabby wrecks 
 that perennially drifted about the Board of Trade, the 
 failures who sat on the chairs of the customers’ rooms 
 day in and day out, reading old newspapers, smoking 
 vile cigars. And there were young men of the type of 
 clerks and bookkeepers, young men with drawn, worn 
 faces, and hot, tired eyes, who pressed upward, silent, 
 their lips compressed, listening intently to the indefinite 
 echoing murmur that was filling the building. 
 
380 
 
 The Pit 
 
 For on this morning of the thirteenth of June, the 
 Board of Trade, its halls, corridors, offices, and stairways 
 were already thrilling with a vague and terrible sound. It 
 was only a little after nine o’clock. The trading would 
 not begin for another half hour, but, even now, the mutter 
 of the whirlpool, the growl of the Pit was making itself 
 felt. The eddies were gathering; the thousands of sub- 
 sidiary torrents that fed the cloaca were moving. From 
 all over the immediate neighborhood they came, from the 
 offices of hundreds of commission houses, from brokers’ 
 offices, from banks, from the tall, grey buildings of La 
 Salle Street, from the street itself. And even from 
 greater distances they came; auxiliary currents set in I 
 from all the reach of the Great Northwest, from Minne- 
 apolis, Duluth, and Milwaukee. From the Southwest, 
 
 St. Louis, Omaha, and Kansas City contributed to the 
 volume. The Atlantic Seaboard, New York, and Bos- 
 ton and Philadelphia sent out their tributary streams; 
 London, Liverpool, Paris, and Odessa merged their in- 
 fluences with the vast world-wide flowing that bore 
 down upon Chicago, and that now began slowly, slowly 
 to centre and circle about the Wheat Pit of the Board 
 of Trade. 
 
 Small wonder that the building to Page’s ears vibrated 
 to a strange and ominous humming. She heard it in the 
 distant clicking of telegraph keys, in the echo of hurried 
 whispered conversations held in dark corners, in the 
 noise of rapid footsteps, in the trilling of telephone bells. 
 These sounds came from all around her; they issued 
 from the offices of the building below her, above her and 
 on either side. She was surrounded with them, and they 
 mingled together to form one prolonged and muffled 
 roar, that from moment to moment increased in volume. 
 
 The Pit was getting under way; the whirlpool was 
 forming, and the sound of its courses was like the sound 
 of the - ocean in stonn^ heard at a distance. 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 381 
 
 Page and Landry were still halfway up the last stair- 
 way. Above and below, the throng was packed dense and 
 immobilised. But, little by little, Landry wormed a way 
 for them, winning one step at a time^ But he was very 
 anxious ; again and again he looked at his watch. At last 
 he said: 
 
 “ I’ve got to go. It's Just madness for me to stay an- 
 other minute. I’ll give you my card.” 
 
 “ Well, leave me here,” Page urged. “ It can’t be 
 helped. I’m all right. Give me your card. I’ll tell the 
 guide in the gallery that you kept the seat for me — if I 
 ever can get there. You must go. Don’t stay another 
 minute. If you can, come for me here in the gallery, 
 when it’s over. I’ll wait for you. But if you can’t come, 
 all right. I can take care of myself.” 
 
 He could but assent to this. This was no time to think 
 of small things. He left her and bore back with all his 
 might through the crowd, gained the landing at the turn 
 of the balustrade, waved his hat to her and disappeared. 
 
 A quarter of an hour went by. Page, caught in the 
 crowd, could neither advance nor retreat. Ahead of her, 
 some twenty steps away, she could see the back rows of 
 seats in the gallery. But they were already occupied. It 
 seemed hopeless to expect to see anything of the floor 
 that day. But she could no longer extricate herself from 
 the press; there was nothing to do but stay where she 
 was. 
 
 On every side of her she caught odds and ends of 
 dialogues and scraps of discussions, and while she waited 
 she found an interest in listening to these, as they reached 
 her from time to time. 
 
 “Well,” observed the man in the tall white hat, who 
 had discouraged Landry from attempting to reach the 
 gallery, “ well, he’s shaken ’em up pretty well. Whether 
 he downs ’em or they down him, he’s made a good fight.” 
 
382 
 
 The Pit 
 
 His companion, a young man with eyeglasses, who 
 wore a wonderful white waistcoat with queer glass but- 
 tons, assented, and Page heard him add ; 
 
 “ Big operator, that Jadwin.” 
 
 “ They’re doing for him now, though.” 
 
 “ I ain’t so sure. He’s got another fight in him. You’ll 
 see. 
 
 “ Ever see him? ” 
 
 “ No, no, he don’t come into the Pit — these big men 
 never do.” 
 
 Directly in front of Page two women kept up an in- 
 terminable discourse. 
 
 “ Well,” said the one, “ that’s all very well, but iMr. 
 Jadwin made my sister-in-law — she lives in Dubuque, you 
 know — a rich woman. She bought some wheat, just for 
 fun, you know, a long time ago, and held on till IMr. Jad- 
 win put the price up to four times what she paid for it. 
 Then she sold out. My, you ought to see the lovely 
 house she’s building, and her son’s gone to Europe, to 
 study art, if you please, and a year ago, my dear, they 
 didn’t have a cent, not a cent, but her husband’s salary.” 
 
 “ There’s the other side, too, though,” answered her 
 companion, adding in a hoarse whisper : “ If Mr. Jadwin 
 fails to-day — well, honestly, Julia, I don’t know what 
 Philip will do.” 
 
 But, from another group at Page’s elbow, a man’s bass 
 voice cut across the subdued chatter of the two women. 
 
 “ ’Guess we’ll pull through, somehow. Burbank & 
 Co., though — by George ! I’m not sure about them. 
 They are pretty well involved in this thing, and there’s 
 two or three smaller firms that are dependent on them. 
 If Gretry-Converse & Co. should suspend, Burbank 
 would go with a crash sure. And there’s tliat bank 
 in Keokuk ; they can’t stand much more. Their depositors 
 would run ’em quick as how-do-you-do, if there was a 
 smash here in Chicago.” 
 
383 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 “ Oh, Jadwin will pull through.” 
 
 " Well, I hope so — by Jingo ! I hope so. Say, by the 
 way, how did you come out?” 
 
 “ Me ! Hoh ! Say my boy, the next time I get into 
 a wheat trade you’ll know it. I was one of the merry 
 paretics who believed that Crookes was the Great Lum- 
 tum. I tailed on to his clique. Lord love you ! Jadwin 
 put the knife into me to the tune of twelve thousand 
 dollars. But, say, look here ; aren’t we ever going to get 
 up to that blame gallery? We ain’t going to see any of 
 this, and I — hark! — by God! there goes the gong. They’ve 
 begun. Say, say, hear 'em, will you ! Holy Moses ! say 
 — listen to that! Did you ever hear — Lord! I wish we 
 could see — could get somewhere where we could see 
 something.” 
 
 His friend turned to him and spoke a sentence that was 
 drowned in the sudden vast volume of sound that all at 
 once shook the building. 
 
 “ Hey — what ?” 
 
 The other shouted into his ear. But even then his 
 friend could not hear. Nor did he listen. The crowd 
 upon the staircases had surged irresistibly forward and 
 upward. There was a sudden outburst of cries. Women’s 
 voices were raised in expostulation, and even fear. 
 
 " Oh, oh — don’t push so !” 
 
 “ My arm ! oh ! — oh, I shall faint . . „ please.” 
 
 But the men, their escorts, held back furiously ; their 
 faces purple, they shouted imprecations over their 
 shoulders. 
 
 “Here, here, you damn fools, what you doing?” 
 
 “ Don’t crowd so !” 
 
 “ Get back, back!” 
 
 “ There’s a lady fainted here. Get back you ! We’ll all 
 have a chance to see. Good Lord ! ain’t there a police- 
 man anywheres ? ” 
 
384 
 
 The Pit 
 
 “ Say, say ! It’s going down — the price. It broke three 
 cents, just then, at the opening, they say.” 
 
 “ This is the worst I ever saw or heard of.” 
 
 “ My God ! if Jadwin can only hold ’em. 
 
 “ You bet he’ll hold ’em.” 
 
 “ Hold nothing! — Oh! say my friend, it don’t do you 
 any good to crov/d like that.” 
 
 “ It’s the people behind: I’m not doing it. Say, do you 
 know where they’re at on the floor? The wheat, I mean, 
 is it going up or down?” 
 
 “ Up, they tell me. There was a rally ; I don’t know. 
 How can we tell here? We — Hi! there they go again. 
 Lord ! that must have been a smash. I guess the Board 
 of Trade won’t forget this day in a hurry. Heavens, you 
 can’t hear yourself think! 
 
 “ Glad I ain’t down there in the Pit.” 
 
 But, at last, a group of policemen appeared. By main 
 strength they shouldered their way to the top of the stairs, 
 and then began pushing the crowd back. At every instant 
 they shouted : 
 
 “ Move on now, clear the stairway. No seats left !” 
 
 But at this Page, who, by the rush of the crowd had been 
 carried almost to the top of the stairs, managed to extri- 
 cate an arm from the press, and hold Landry’s card in 
 the air. She even hazarded a little deception : 
 
 “ I have a pass. Will you let me through, please ?” 
 
 Luckily one of the officers heard her. He bore dowm 
 heavily with all the mass of his two hundred pounds and 
 the majesty of the law he represented, to the rescue and 
 succour of this very pretty girl. 
 
 “ Let the lady through,” he roared, forcing a passage 
 with both elbows. “ Come right along, Miss. Stand back 
 you, now. Can’t you see the lady has a pass ? Now then, 
 ]\Iiss, and be quick about it, I can’t keep ’em back forever.” 
 
 Jostled and hustled, her dress crumpled, her hat awry, 
 
3^5 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 Page made her way forward, till the officer caught her 
 by the arm, and pulled her out of the press. With a long 
 breath she gained the landing of the gallery. 
 
 The guide, an old fellow in a uniform of blue, with brass 
 buttons and a visored cap, stood near by, and to him she 
 presented Landry’s card. 
 
 “ Oh, yes, oh, yes,” he shouted in her ear, after he had 
 glanced it over. “ You were the party Mr. Court spoke 
 about. You just came in time. I wouldn’t ’a dared hold 
 your seat a minute longer.” 
 
 He led her down the crowded aisle between rows of 
 theatre chairs, all of which were occupied, to one vacant 
 seat in the very front row. 
 
 “ You can see everything, now,” he cried, making a 
 trumpet of his palm. “ You’re Mister Jadwin’s niece. I 
 know, I know. Ah, it’s a wild day, Miss. They ain’t 
 done much yet, and Mr. Jadwin’s holding his own, just 
 now. But I thought for a moment they had him on the 
 run. You see that — my, my, there was a sharp rally. 
 But he’s holding on strong yet.” 
 
 Page took her seat, and leaning forward looked down 
 into the Wheat Pit. 
 
 Once free of the crowd after leaving Page, Landry ran 
 with all the swiftness of his long legs down the stair, 
 and through the corridors till, all out of breath, he gained 
 Gretry’s private office. The other Pit traders for the 
 house, some eight or ten men, were already assembled, and 
 just as Landry entered by one door, the broker himself 
 came in from the customers’ room. Jadwin was no- 
 where to be seen. 
 
 “ What are the orders for to-day, sir?” 
 
 Gretry was very pale. Despite his long experience on 
 the Board of Trade, Landry could see anxiety in every 
 change of his expression, in every motion of his hands. 
 The broker before answering the question crossed the 
 25 
 
386 
 
 The Pit 
 
 room to the water cooler and drank a brief swallow. 
 Then emptying the glass he refilled it, moistened his lips 
 again, and again emptied and filled the goblet. He put 
 it down, caught it up once more, filled it, emptied it, drink- 
 ing now in long draughts, now in little sips. He was quite 
 unconscious of his actions, and Landry as he watched, 
 felt his heart sink. Things must, indeed, be at a desperate 
 pass when Gretry, the calm, the clear-headed, the placid, 
 was thus upset. 
 
 “ Your orders?” said the broker, at last. “ The same as 
 yesterday ; keep the market up — that’s all. It must not 
 go below a dollar fifteen. But act on the defensive. 
 Don’t be aggressive, unless I send word. There will 
 probably be very heavy selling the first few moments. 
 You can buy, each of you, up to half a million bushels 
 apiece. If that don’t keep the price up, if they still are 
 selling after that . . . well ” ; Gretry paused a 
 
 moment, irresolutely, “ well,” he added suddenly, “ if 
 they are still selling freely after you’ve each bought half 
 a million. I’ll let you know what to do. And, look 
 here,” he continued, facing the group, “ look here — keep 
 your heads cool ... I guess to-day will decide 
 things. Watch the Crookes crowd pretty closely. I 
 understand they’re up to something again. That’s all, I 
 guess.” 
 
 Landry and the other Gretry traders hurried from the 
 office up to the floor. Landry’s heart was beating thick 
 and slow and hard, his teeth were shut tight. Every 
 nerve, every fibre of him braced itself with the rigidity 
 of drawn wire, to meet the issue of the impending hours. 
 Now, was to coime the last grapple. He had never lived 
 through a crisis such as this before. Would he prevail, 
 would he keep his head? Would he avoid or balk the 
 thousand and one little subterfuges, tricks, and traps that 
 the hostile traders would prepare for him — prepare with 
 
A Story of Chicago 387 
 
 a quickness, a suddenness that all but defied the sharpest, 
 
 ' keenest watchfulness ? 
 
 Was the gong never going to strike? He found him- 
 self, all at once, on the edge of the Wheat Pit. It was 
 , jammed tight with the crowd of traders and the excite- 
 : ment that disengaged itself from that tense, vehement 
 1 crowd of white faces and glittering eyes was veritably 
 sickening, veritably weakening. Men on either side of 
 him were shouting mere incoherencies, to which nobody, 
 
 I not even themselves, were listening. Others silent, 
 ; gnawed their nails to the quick, breathing rapidly, aud- 
 ' ibly even, their nostrils expanding and contracting. 
 , All around roared the vague thunder that since early 
 • morning had shaken the building. In the Pit the bids 
 leaped to and fro, though the time of opening had not 
 I yet come; the very planks under foot seemed spinning 
 I about in the first huge warning swirl of the Pit’s centrip- 
 etal convulsion. There was dizziness in the air. Some- 
 ! thing, some infinite immeasurable power, onrushing in 
 ■ its eternal courses, shook the Pit in its grasp. Some- 
 thing deafened the ears, blinded the eyes, dulled and 
 numbed the mind, with its roar, with the chaff and dust 
 I of its whirlwind passage, with the stupefying sense of its 
 I power, coeval with the earthquake and glacier, merci- 
 ; less, all-powerful, a primal basic throe of creation Itself, 
 unassailable, inviolate, and untamed. 
 
 Had the trading begun ? Had the gong struck ? Landry 
 never knew, never so much as heard the clang of the 
 great bell. All at once he was fighting ; all at once he was 
 caught, as it were, from off the stable earth, and flung 
 headlong Into the heart and centre of the Pit. What he 
 did, he could not say ; what went on about him, he could 
 not distinguish. He only knew that roar was succeeding 
 roar, that there was crashing through his ears, through his 
 very brain, the combined bellow of a hundred Niagaras. 
 
388 
 
 The Pit 
 
 Hands clutched and tore at him, his own tore and clutched 
 in turn. The Pit was mad, was drunk and frenzied; not 
 a man of all those who fought and scrambled and shouted 
 who knew what he or his neighbour did. They only knew 
 that a support long thought to be secure was giving way, 
 not gradually, not evenly, but by horrible collapses, and 
 equally horrible upward leaps. Now it held, now it broke, 
 now it reformed again, rose again, then again in hideous 
 cataclysms fell from beneath their feet to lower depths 
 than before. The official reporter leaned back in his 
 place, helpless. On the wall overhead, the indicator on the 
 dial was rocking back and forth, like the mast of a ship 
 caught in a monsoon. The price of July wheat no man 
 could so much as approximate. The fluctuations were no 
 longer by fractions of a cent, but by ten cents, fifteen cents, 
 twenty-five cents at a time. On one side of the Pit wheat 
 sold at ninety cents, on the other at a dollar and a 
 quarter. 
 
 And all the while above the din upon the floor, above 
 the tramplings and the shoutings in the Pit, there seemed 
 to thrill and swell that appalling roar of the Wheat itself 
 coming in, coming on like a tidal wave, bursting through, 
 dashing barriers aside, rolling like a measureless, almighty 
 river, from the farms of Iowa and the ranches of Cali- 
 fornia, on to the East — ^to the bakeshops and hungry ; 
 mouths of Europe. 
 
 Landry caught one of the Gretry traders by the arm. 
 
 “ What shall we do?” he shouted. “ I’ve bought up to 
 my limit. No more orders have come in. The market has : 
 gone from under us. What’s to be done ?” ' 
 
 “ I don’t know,” the other shouted back, “ I don’t know, j 
 We’re all gone to hell; looks like the last smash. There i 
 are no more supporting orders — something’s gone wrong. 
 Gretry hasn’t sent any word.” 
 
 Then, Landry, beside himself with excitement and with 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 389 
 
 actual terror, hardly knowing even yet what he did, 
 turned sharply about. He fought his way out of the Pit ; 
 he ran hatless and panting across the floor, in and out 
 between the groups of spectators, down the stairs to the 
 corridor below, and into the Gretry-Converse offices. 
 
 In the outer office a group of reporters and the represen- 
 tatives of a great commercial agency were besieging one 
 of the heads of the firm. They assaulted him with ques- 
 tions. 
 
 “ Just tell us where you are at — that’s all we want to 
 know.” 
 
 “ Just what is the price of July wheat ?” 
 
 “ Is Jadwin winning or losing?” 
 
 But the other threw out an arm in a wild gesture of 
 helplessness. 
 
 “We don’t know, ourselves,” he cried. “ The market 
 has run clean away from everybody. You know as 
 much about it as I do. It’s simply hell broken loose, 
 that’s all. We can’t tell where we are at for days to 
 come.” 
 
 Landry rushed on. He swung open the door of the 
 private office and entered, slamming it behind him and cry- 
 ing out : 
 
 “Mr, Gretry, what are we to do? We’ve had no 
 orders.” 
 
 But no one listened to him. Of the group that gathered 
 around Gretry’s desk, no one so much as turned a head. 
 
 Jadwin stood there in the centre of the others, hatless, 
 his face pale, his eyes congested with blood. Gretry 
 fronted him, one hand upon his arm. In the remainder 
 of the group Landry recognised the senior clerk of the 
 office, one of the heads of a great banking house, and a 
 couple of other men — confidential agents, who had helped 
 ’ to manipulate the great corner. 
 
 “ But you can’t,” Gretry was exclaiming. “ You 
 
39 ^ 
 
 The Pit 
 
 can’t; don’t you see we can’t meet our margin calls? 
 It’s the end of the game. You’ve got no more money.” 
 
 “ It’s a lie !” Never so long as he lived did Landry for- 
 get the voice in which Jadwin cried the words : “ It’s a 
 lie ! Keep on buying, I tell you. Take all they’ll offer. 
 I tell you we’ll touch the two dollar mark before noon.” 
 
 “ Not another order goes up to that floor,” retorted 
 Gretry. “ Why, J., ask any of these gentlemen here. 
 They’ll tell you.” 
 
 “ It’s useless, Mr. Jadwin,” said the banker, quietly. 
 “ You were practically beaten two days ago.” 
 
 “ Mr. Jadwin,” pleaded the senior clerk, “ for God’s 
 sake listen to reason. Our firm ” 
 
 But Jadwin was beyond all appeal. He threw off 
 Gretry’s hand. 
 
 “ Your firm, your firm — you’ve been cowards from 
 the start. I know you, I know you. You have sold me 
 out. Crookes has bought you. Get out of my way!” 
 he shouted. “ Get out of my way ! Do you hear ? I’ll play 
 my hand alone from now on.” 
 
 “ J., old man — why — see here, man,” Gretry implored, 
 still holding him by the arm ; “ here, where are you 
 going?” 
 
 Jadwin’s voice rang like a trumpet call: 
 
 “ Into the Pit.” 
 
 “ Look here — wait — here. Hold him back gentlemen. 
 He don’t know what he’s about.” 
 
 “If you won’t execute my orders, I’ll act myself. I’m 
 going into the Pit, I tell you.” 
 
 “ J., you’re mad, old fellow. You’re ruined — don’t you 
 understand ? — you’re ruined.” 
 
 “ Then God curse you, Sam Gretry, for the man who 
 failed me in a crisis.” And as he spoke Curtis Jadwin 
 struck the broker full in the face. 
 
 Gretry staggered back from the blow, catching at the 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 391 
 
 edge of his desk. His pale face flashed to crimson for an 
 instant, his fists clinched; then his hands fell to his sides. 
 
 “ No,” he said, “ let him go, let him go. The man is 
 merely mad.” 
 
 But, Jadwin, struggling for a second in the midst of the 
 group that tried to hold him, suddenly flung off the re- 
 straining clasps, thrust the men to one side, and rushed 
 from the room. 
 
 Gretry dropped into his chair before his desk. 
 
 “ It’s the end,” he said, simply. 
 
 He drew a sheet of note paper to him, and in a shaking 
 hand wrote a couple of lines. 
 
 “ Take that,” he said, handing the note to the senior 
 clerk, “ take that to the secretary of the Board at once.” 
 
 And straight into the turmoil and confusion of the Pit, 
 to the scene of so many of his victories, the battle ground 
 whereon again and again, his enemies routed, he had 
 remained the victor undisputed, undismayed came the 
 “ Great Bull.” No sooner had he set foot within the en- 
 trance to the Floor, than the news went flashing and fly- 
 ing from lip to lip. The galleries knew it, the public room, 
 and the Western Union knew it, the telephone booths 
 knew it, and lastly even the Wheat Pit, torn and tossed 
 and rent asunder by the force this man himself had 
 unchained, knew it, and knowing stood dismayed. 
 
 For even then, so great had been his power, so complete 
 his dominion, and so well-rooted the fear which he had 
 inspired, that this last move in the great game he had been 
 playing, this unexpected, direct, personal assumption of 
 control struck a sense of consternation into the heart of 
 the hardiest of his enemies. 
 
 Jadwin himself, the great man, the “ Great Bull ” in 
 the Pit ! What was about to happen ? Had they been too 
 premature in their hope of his defeat? Had he been 
 preparing some secret, unexpected manoeuvre? For 
 
39 ^ 
 
 The Pit 
 
 a second they hesitated, then moved by a common im- 
 pulse, feeling the push of the wonderful new harvest be- 
 hind them, they gathered themselves together for the 
 final assault, and again offered the wheat for sale; of- 
 fered it by thousands upon thousands of bushels; poured, 
 as it were, the reapings of entire principalities out upon 
 the floor of the Board of Trade. 
 
 Jadwin was in the thick of the confusion by now. And 
 the avalanche, the undiked Ocean of the Wheat, leap- 
 ing to the lash of the hurricane, struck him fairly in the 
 face. 
 
 He heard it now, he heard nothing else. The Wheat 
 had broken from his control. For months, he had, by the 
 might of his single arm, held it back; but now it rose like 
 the upbuilding of a colossal billow. It towered, tow- 
 ered, hung poised for an instant, and then, with a thunder 
 as of the grind and crash of chaotic worlds, broke upon 
 him, burst through the Pit and raced past him, on and on 
 to the eastward and to the hungry nations. 
 
 And then, under the stress and violence of the hour, 
 something snapped in his brain. The murk behind his 
 eyes had been suddenly pierced by a white flash. The 
 strange qualms and tiny nervous paroxysms of the last 
 few months all at once culminated in some indefinite, in- 
 definable crisis, and the wheels and cogs of all activities 
 save one lapsed away and ceased. Only one function 
 of the complicated machine persisted; but it moved 
 with a rapidity of vibration that seemed to be tearing the 
 tissues of being to shreds, while its rhHhm beat out the 
 old and terrible cadence : 
 
 “ Wheat — ^wheat — wheat, wheat — ^wheat — ^w’heat.” 
 
 Blind and insensate, Jadwin strove against the torrent 
 of the Wheat. There in the middle of the Pit, surrounded 
 and assaulted byherd after herd of wolves yelping for his' 
 destruction, he stood braced, rigid upon his feet, his head 
 
i: A Story of Chicago 393 
 
 t 
 
 ii 
 
 [ up, his hand, the great bony hand that once had held the 
 1 1 whole Pit in its grip, flung high in the air, in a gesture of 
 : I defiance, while his voice like the clangour of bugles 
 ['sounding to the charge of the forlorn hope, rang out 
 '[again and again, over the din of his enemies: 
 
 ! “ Give a dollar for July — give a dollar for July! ” 
 
 With one accord they leaped upon him. The little group 
 1 ' of his traders was swept aside. Landry alone, Landry 
 I who had never left his side since his rush from out 
 j Gretry’s office, Landry Court, loyal to the last, his one re- 
 maining soldier, white, shaking, the sobs strangling in his 
 throat, clung to him desperately. Anotherbillowof wheat 
 was preparing. They two — the beaten general and his 
 young armour bearer — ^heard it coming ; hissing, raging, 
 bellowing, it swept down upon them. Landry uttered a 
 cry. Flesh and blood could not stand this strain. He 
 cowered at his chief’s side, his shoulders bent, one arm 
 above his head, as if to ward off an actual physical force. 
 
 But Jadwin, iron to the end, stood erect. All unknow- 
 I ing what he did, he had taken Landry’s hand in his and 
 i the boy felt the grip on his fingers like the contracting 
 ' of a vise of steel. The other hand, as though holding 
 up a standard, was still in the air, and his great deep- 
 ; toned voice went out across the tumult, proclaiming to 
 the end his battle cry: 
 
 “ Give a dollar for July — give a dollar for July!” 
 
 But, little by little, Landry became aware that the 
 tumult of the Pit was intermitting. There were sudden 
 lapses in the shouting, and in these lapses he could hear 
 i from somewhere out upon the floor voices that were cry- 
 ing : “ Order — order, order, gentlemen.” 
 
 But, again and again the clamour broke out. It would 
 die down for an instant, in response to these appeals, only 
 to burst out afresh as certain groups of traders started the 
 pandemonium again, by the wild outcrying of their 
 
394 
 
 The Pit 
 
 offers. At last, however, the older men in the Pit, re- 
 gaining some measure of self-control, took up the word, 
 going to and fro in the press, repeating “ Order, order.” 
 
 And then, all at once, the Pit, the entire floor of the 
 Board of Trade was struck dumb. All at once the tension 
 was relaxed, the furious struggling and stamping was 
 stilled. Landry, bewildered, still holding his chief by the 
 hand, looked about him. On the floor, near at hand, stood 
 the president of the Board of Trade himself, and with 
 him the vice-president and a group "of the directors. 
 Evidently it had been these who had called the traders 
 to order. But it was not toward them now that the 
 hundreds of men in the Pit and on the floor were looking. 
 
 In the little balcony on the south wall opposite the visi- 
 tors’ gallery a figure had appeared, a tall grave man, in 
 a long black coat — the secretary of the Board of Trade. 
 Landry with the others saw him, saw him advance to the 
 edge of the railing, and fix his glance upon the Wheat Pit. 
 In his hand he carried a slip of paper. 
 
 And then in the midst of that profound silence the 
 secretary announced: 
 
 “ All trades with Gretry, Converse & Co. must be 
 closed at once.” 
 
 The words had not ceased to echo in the high vaultings I 
 of the roof before they were greeted with a wild, shrill yell 
 of exultation and triumph, that burst from the crowding 
 masses in the Wheat Pit. 
 
 Beaten; beaten at last, the Great Bull! Smashed! The , 
 great corner smashed ! Jadwin busted ! They themselves i 
 saved, saved, saved! Cheer followed upon cheer, yell ' 
 after yell. Hats went into the air. In a frenzy of delight ' 
 men danced and leaped and capered upon the edge of i 
 the Pit, clasping their arms about each other, shaking ; 
 each others’ hands, cheering and hurrahing till their i 
 strained voices became hoarse and faint. 
 
 1 
 
A Story of Chicago 395 
 
 Sotne few of the older men protested. There were cries 
 
 of : 
 
 “ Shame, shame !” 
 
 “ Order — let him alone.” 
 
 “ Let him be ; he’s down now. Shame, shame ! ” 
 
 But the jubilee was irrepressible, they had been too 
 cruelly pressed, these others ; they had felt the weight of 
 the Bull’s hoof, the rip of his horn. Now they had 
 beaten him, had pulled him down. 
 
 “ Yah-h-h, whoop, yi, yi, yi. Busted, busted, busted. 
 Hip, hip, hip, and a tiger ! ” 
 
 “ Come away, sir. For God’s sake, Mr. Jadwin, come 
 away.” 
 
 Landry was pleading with Jadwin, clutching his arm 
 in both his hands, his lips to his chief’s ear to make himself 
 heard above the yelping of the mob. 
 
 Jadwin was silent now. He seemed no longer to see or 
 hear; heavily, painfully he leaned upon the young man’s 
 .shoulder. 
 
 “ Come away, sir — for God’s sake ! ” 
 
 The group of traders parted before them, cheering 
 even while they gave place, cheering with eyes averted, 
 unwilling to see the ruin that meant for them salvation. 
 
 “ Yah-h-h. Yah-h-h, busted, busted !” 
 
 Landry had put his arm about Jadwin, and gripped him 
 close as he led him from the Pit. The sobs were in his 
 throat again, and tears of excitement, of grief, of anger 
 and impotence were running down his face. 
 
 “ Yah-h-h. Yah-h-h, he’s done for, busted, busted!” 
 
 “ Damn you all,” cried Landry, throwing out a furious 
 fist, “ damn you all ; you brutes, you beasts ! If he’d so 
 much as raised a finger a week ago, you’d have run for 
 your lives.” 
 
 But the cheering drowned his voice; and as the two 
 passed out of the Pit upon the floor, the gong that closed 
 
39 ^ 
 
 The Pit 
 
 the trading struck and, as it seemed, put a period, definite 
 and final to the conclusion of Curtis Jadwin’s career as 
 speculator. 
 
 Across the floor towards the doorway Landry led his 
 defeated captain. Jadwin was in a daze, he saw nothing, 
 heard nothing. Quietly he submitted to Landr)'’s guiding 
 arm. The visitors in the galleries bent far over to see him 
 pass, and from all over the floor, spectators, hangers-on, 
 corn-and-provision traders, messenger boys, clerks and 
 reporters came hurrying to watch the final exit of the 
 Great Bull, from the scene of his many victories and his 
 one overwhelming defeat. 
 
 In silence they watched him go by. Only in the distance 
 from the direction of the Pit itself came the sound of dy- 
 ing cheers. But at the doorway stood a figure that Lan- 
 dry recognised at once — a small man, lean-faced, trimly 
 dressed, his clean-shaven lips pursed like the mouth of a 
 shut money bag, imperturbable as ever, cold, unexcited — 
 Calvin Crookes himself. 
 
 ^And as Jadwin passed, Landry heard the Bear leader 
 say : 
 
 “ They can cheer now, all they want. They didn’t do 
 it. It was the wheat itself that beat him; no combina- 
 tion of men could have done it — go on, cheer, you damn 
 fools! He was a bigger man than the best of us.’^ 
 
 With the striking of the gong, and the general move- 
 ment of the crowd in the galleries towards the exits. Page 
 rose, drawing a long breath, pressing her hands an Instant 
 to her burning cheeks. She had seen all that had hap- 
 pened, but she had not understood. The whole morning 
 had been a whirl and a blur. She had looked down upon 
 a jam of men, who for three hours had done nothing but 
 shout and struggle. She had seen Jadwin come into the 
 Pit, and almost at once the shouts had turned to cheers. 
 That must have meant, she thought, that Jadwin had 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 397 
 
 done something to please those excited men. They were 
 all his friends, no doubt. They were cheering him— 
 cheering his success. He had won then ! And yet that 
 announcement from the opposite balcony, to the effect 
 that business with Mr. Gretry must be stopped, immedi- 
 ately! That had an ominous ring. Or, perhaps, that 
 meant only a momentary check. 
 
 As she descended the stairways, with the departing 
 spectators, she distinctly heard a man’s voice behind her 
 exclaim ; 
 
 “ Well, that does for Mm !’* 
 
 Possibly, after all, Mr. Jadwin had lost some money 
 that morning She was desperately anxious to find Lan- 
 dry, and to learn the truth of what had happened, and for 
 a long moment after the last visitors had disappeared she 
 remained at the foot of the gallery stairway, hoping that 
 he would come for her. But she saw nothing of him, and 
 soon remembered she had told him to come for her, only 
 in case he was able to get away. No doubt he was too 
 busy now. Even if Mr. Jadwin had won, the morning’s 
 work had evidently been of tremendous importance. This 
 had been a great day for the wheat speculators. It was 
 not surprising that Landry should be detained. She 
 would wait till she saw him the next day to find out all that 
 had taken place. 
 
 Page returned home. It was long past the hour for 
 luncheon when she came into the dining-room of the 
 North Avenue house. 
 
 “ Where is my sister ?” she asked of the maid, as she 
 sat down to the table ; “ has she lunched yet ?” 
 
 But it appeared that Mrs. Jadwin had sent down word 
 to say that she wanted no lunch, that she had a headache 
 and would remain in her room. 
 
 Page hurried through with her chocolate and salad, 
 and ordering a cup of strong tea, carried it up to Laura’s 
 “ sitting-room ” herself. 
 
398 
 
 The Pit 
 
 Laura, in a long tea-gown lay back in the Madeira chair, 
 her hands clasped behind her head, doing nothing ap- 
 parently but looking out of the window. She was paler 
 even than usual, and to Page’s mind seemed preoccupied, 
 and in a certain indefinite way tense and hard. Page, as 
 she had told Landry that morning, had remarked this 
 tenseness, this rigidity on the part of her sister, of late. 
 But to-day it was more pronounced than ever. Something 
 surely was the matter with Laura. She seemed like one 
 who had staked everything upon a hazard and, blind to 
 all else, was keeping back emotion with all her strength, 
 while she watched and waited for the issue. Page guessed 
 that her sister’s trouble had to do with Jadwin’s complete 
 absorption in business, but she preferred to hold her 
 peace. By nature the young girl “ minded her own busi- 
 ness,” and Laura was not a woman who confided her 
 troubles to anybody. Only once had Page presumed to 
 meddle in her sister’s affairs, and the result had not en- 
 couraged a repetition of the inten^ention. Since the affair 
 of the silver match box she had kept her distance. 
 
 Laura on this occasion declined to drink the tea Page 
 had brought. She wanted nothing, she said; her head 
 ached a little, she only wished to lie down and be quiet. 
 
 “ Pve been down to the Board of Trade all the morn- 
 ing,” Page remarked. 
 
 Laura fixed her with a swift glance; she demanded 
 quickly : 
 
 “ Did you see Curtis ?” 
 
 “ No — or, yes, once ; he came out on the floor. Oh, 
 Laura, it was so exciting there this morning. Something ; 
 important happened, I know. I can’t believe it’s that 
 way all the time. Pm afraid IMr. Jadwin lost a great deal 
 of money. I heard some one behind me say so, but I ] 
 couldn’t understand what was going on. For months 
 I’ve been trying to get a clear idea of wheat trading, just 
 
j A Story of Chicago 399 
 
 :! because it was Landry’s business, but to-day I couldn’t 
 I make anything of it at all.” 
 
 “ Did Curtis say he was coming home this evening?” 
 
 “ No. Don’t you understand, I didn’t see him to talk 
 !to.” 
 
 I “ Well, why didn’t you, Page ?” 
 
 “ Why, Laura, honey, don’t be cross. You don’t know 
 i:how rushed everything was. I didn’t even try to see 
 Landry.” 
 
 “ Did he seem very busy ?” 
 
 I “Who, Landry? I ” 
 
 [ “ No, no, no, Curtis.” 
 
 : “ Oh, I should say so. Why, Laura, I think, honestly, 
 
 I think wheat went down to — oh, way down. They say 
 that means so much to Mr. Jadwin, and it went down, 
 down, down. It looked that way to me. Don’t that mean 
 that he’ll lose a great deal of money? And Landry 
 seemed so brave and courageous through it all. Oh, I 
 felt for him so; I just wanted to go right into the Pit 
 with him and stand by his shoulder.” 
 
 Laura started up with a sharp gesture of impatience 
 and exasperation, crying: 
 
 “ Oh, what do I care about wheat — about this wretched 
 scrambling for money. Curtis was busy, you say? 
 He looked that way?” 
 
 Page nodded : “ Everybody was,” she said. Then she 
 hazarded : 
 
 “I wouldn’t worry, Laura. Of course, a man must give 
 a great deal of time to his business. I didn’t mind when 
 Landry couldn’t come home with me.” 
 
 “ Oh — Landry,” murmured Laura. 
 
 On the instant Page bjidled, her eyes snapping. 
 
 “ I think that was very uncalled for,” she exclaimed, 
 sitting bolt upright, “ and I can tell you this, Laura Jad- 
 win, if you did care a little more about wheat — about 
 
400 
 
 The Pit 
 
 your husband’s business — if you had taken more of an 
 interest in his work, if you had tried to enter more into 
 his life, and be a help to him — and — and sympathise — 
 and — ” Page caught her breath, a little bewildered at 
 her own vehemence and audacity. But she had com- 
 mitted herself now; recklessly she plunged on. “Just 
 think; he may be fighting the battle of his life down 
 there in La Salle Street, and you don’t know anything 
 about it — no, nor want to know. ‘ What do you care 
 about wheat,’ that’s what you said. Well, I don’t care 
 either, just for the wheat itself, but it’s Landry’s busi- 
 ness, his work; and right or wrong — ” Page jumped 
 to her feet, her fists tight shut, her face scarlet, her 
 head upraised, “ right or wrong, good or bad, I’d put 
 my two hands into the fire to help him.” 
 
 “What business — began Laura; but Page was not 
 to be interrupted. “ And if he did leave me alone some- 
 times,” she said; “do you think I would draw a long 
 face, and think only of my own troubles. I guess he’s 
 got his own troubles too. If my husband had a battle 
 to fight, do you think I’d mope and pine because he 
 left me at home; no I wouldn’t. I’d help him buckle 
 his sword on, and when he came back to me I wouldn’t 
 tell him how lonesome I’d been, but I’d take care of 
 him and cry over his wounds, and tell him to be brave — • 
 and — and — and I’d help him.” 
 
 And with the words. Page, the tears in her eyes and 
 the sobs in her throat, flung out of the room, shutting 
 the door violently behind her. 
 
 Laura’s first sensation was one of anger only. As 
 always, her younger sister had presumed again to judge 
 her, had chosen this day of all others, to annoy her. 
 She gazed an Instant at the closed door, then rose and 
 put her chin in the air. She was right, and Page, her 
 husband, everybody, were wrong. She had been 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 401 
 
 flouted, ignored. She paced the length of the room 
 a couple of times, then threw herself down upon the 
 couch, her chin supported on her palm. 
 
 As she crossed the room, however, her eye had been 
 caught by an opened note from Mrs. Cressler, received 
 the day before, and apprising her of the date of the fu- 
 neral. At the sight, all the tragedy leaped up again in 
 her mind and recollection, and in fancy she stood again 
 in the back parlour of the Cressler home; her fingers 
 pressed over her mouth to shut back the cries, horror 
 and the terror of sudden death rending her heart, shak- 
 ing the brain itself. Again and again since that dread- 
 ful moment had the fear come back, mingled with grief, 
 with compassion, and the bitter sorrow of a kind friend 
 gone forever from her side. And then, her resolution 
 girding itself, her will power at fullest stretch, she had 
 put the tragedy from her. Other and — for her — more 
 momentous events impended. Everything in life, even 
 death itself, must stand aside while her love was put 
 to the test. Life and death were little things. Love 
 only existed ; let her husband’s career fail ; what did it 
 import so only love stood the strain and issued from the 
 struggle triumphant? And now, as she lay upon her 
 couch, she crushed down all compunction for the pitiful 
 calamity whose last scene she had discovered, her 
 thoughts once more upon her husband and herself. 
 Had the shock of that spectacle in the Cresslers’ house, 
 and the wearing suspense in which she had lived of late, 
 so torn and disordered the delicate feminine nerves 
 that a kind of hysteria animated and directed her im- 
 pulses, her words, and actions? Laura did not know. 
 She only knew that the day was going and that her hus- 
 band neither came near her nor sent her word. 
 
 Even if he had been very busy, this was her birth- 
 day, — though he had lost millions! Could he not have 
 *6 
 
402 
 
 The Pit 
 
 sent even the foolishest little present to her, even a line 
 — three words on a scrap of paper? But she checked 
 herself. The day was not over yet; perhaps, perhaps 
 he would remember her, after all, before the afternoon 
 was over. He was managing a little surprise for her, 
 no doubt. He knew what day this was. After their 
 talk that Sunday in his smoking-room he would not for- 
 get. And, besides, it was the evening that he had prom- 
 ised should be hers. “ If he loved her,” she had said, 
 he would give that evening to her. Never, never would 
 Curtis fail her when conjured by that spell. 
 
 Laura had planned a little dinner for that night. It 
 was to be served at eight. Page would have dined ear- 
 lier; only herself and her husband were to be present. 
 It was to be her birthday dinner. All the noisy, clamour- 
 ous world should be excluded ; no faintest rumble of the 
 Pit would intrude. She would have him all to herself. 
 He would, so she determined, forget everHhing else in 
 his love for her. She would be beautiful as never be- 
 fore — brilliant, resistless, and dazzling. She would have 
 him at her feet, her own, her own again, as much her 
 own as her very hands. And before she would let him 
 go he would forever and forever have abjured the Battle 
 of the Street that had so often caught him from her. 
 The Pit should not have him; the sweep of that great 
 whirlpool should never again prevail against the power 
 of love. 
 
 Yes, she had suffered, she had known the humiliation 
 of a woman neglected. But it was to end now; her 
 pride would never again be lowered, her love never 
 again be ignored. 
 
 But the afternoon passed and evening drew on with- 
 out any word from him. In spite of her anxiety, she 
 yet murmured over and over again as she paced the 
 floor of her room, listening for the ringing of the door 
 bell: 
 
A Story of Chicago 403 
 
 “ He will send word, he will send word. I know he 
 will.” 
 
 By four o’clock she had begun to dress. Never had 
 she made a toilet more superb, more careful. She dis- 
 dained a “ costume ” on this great evening. It was not 
 to be “ Theodora ” now, nor “ Juliet,” nor “ Carmen.” 
 It was to be only Laura Jadwin — ^just herself, unaided 
 by theatricals, unadorned by tinsel. But it seemed con- 
 sistent none the less to choose her most beautiful gown 
 for the occasion, to panoply herself in every charm that 
 was her own. Her dress, that closely sheathed the low, 
 flat curves of her body and that left her slender arms 
 and neck bare, was one shimmer of black scales, iri- 
 descent, undulating with light to her every movement. 
 In the coils and masses of her black hair she fixed her 
 two great cabochons of pearls, and clasped about her 
 neck her palm-broad collaret of pearls and diamonds. 
 Against one shoulder nodded a bunch of Jacqueminots, 
 royal red, imperial. 
 
 It was hard upon six o’clock when at last she dis- 
 missed her maid. Left alone, she stood for a moment 
 in front of her long mirror that reflected her image 
 from head to foot, and at the sight she could not for- 
 bear a smile and a sudden proud lifting of her head. 
 All the woman in her preened and plumed herself in the 
 consciousness of the power of her beauty. Let the 
 Battle of the Street clamour never so loudly now, let 
 the suction of the Pit be never so strong. Eve tri- 
 umphed. Venus toute entiere s’attachait a sa proie. 
 
 These women of America, these others who allowed 
 business to draw their husbands from them more and 
 more, who submitted to those cruel conditions that 
 forced them to be content with the wreckage left after 
 the storm and stress of the day’s work — the jaded mind, 
 the exhausted body, the faculties dulled by overwork — • 
 
404 
 
 The Pit 
 
 she was sorry for them. They, less radiant than herself, 
 less potent to charm, could not call their husbands back. 
 But she, Laura, was beautiful ; she knew it ; she gloried 
 in her_beauty. It was her strength. She felt the same 
 pride in it as the warrior in a finely tempered weapon. 
 
 And to-night her beauty was brighter than ever. It 
 was a veritable aureole that crowned her. She knew 
 herself to be invincible. So only that he saw her thus, 
 she knew that she would conquer. And he would 
 come. “ If he loved her,” she had said. By his love 
 for her he had promised; by his love she knew she 
 would prevail. 
 
 And then at last, some^Vhere out of the twilight, 
 somewhere out of those lowest, unplumbed depths of her 
 own heart, came the first tremor of doubt, come the tardy 
 vibration of the silver cord which Page had struck so 
 sharply. Was it — after all — Love, that she cherished 
 and strove for — love, or self-love? Ever since Page 
 had spoken she seemed to have fought against the in- 
 trusion of this idea. But, little by little, it rose to the 
 surface. At last, for an instant, it seemed to confront 
 her. 
 
 Was this, after all, the right way to win her husband 
 back to her — this display of her beauty, this parade of 
 dress, this exploitation of self? 
 
 Self, self. Had she been selfish from the very first? 
 What real interest had she taken in her husband’s 
 work? “ Right or wrong, good or bad, I would put 
 my two hands into the fire to help him.” Was this 
 the way? Was not this the only way? Win him back 
 to her? What if there were more need for her to win 
 back to him? Oh, once she had been able to say that 
 love, the supreme triumph of a woman’s life, was less 
 a victory than a capitulation. Had she ordered her life 
 upon that ideal? Did she even believe in the ideal at 
 this day? Whither had this cruel cult of self led her? 
 
A Story of Chicago 405 
 
 I Dimly Laura Jadwin began to see and to understand 
 a whole new conception of her little world. The birth 
 |of a new being within her was not for that night. It 
 Iwas conception only — the sensation of a new element, 
 a new force that was not herself, somewhere in the 
 inner chambers of her being. 
 
 I The woman in her was too complex, the fibres of 
 Icharacter too intricate and mature to be wrenched into 
 Inew shapes by any sudden revolution. But just so 
 isurely as the day was going, just so surely as the New 
 Day would follow upon the night, conception had taken 
 place within her. Whatever she did that evening, what- 
 ever came to her, through whatever crises she should 
 hurry, she would not now be quite the same. She had 
 been accustomed to tell herself that there were two 
 Lauras. Now suddenly, behold, she seemed to recog- 
 nise a third — a third that rose above and forgot the 
 other two, that in some beautiful, mysterious way was 
 identity ignoring self. 
 
 But the change was not to be abrupt. Very, very 
 vaguely the thoughts came to her. The change would 
 be slow, slow — would be evolution, not revolution. The 
 consummation was to be achieved in the coming years. 
 For to-night she was — what was she? Only a woman, 
 weak, torn by emotion, driven by impulse, and entering 
 upon what she imagined was a great crisis in her life. 
 
 But meanwhile the time was passing. Laura de- 
 scended to the library and, picking up a book, composed 
 herself to read. When six o’clock struck, she made 
 haste to assure herself that of course she could not ex- 
 pect him exactly on the hour. No, she must make al- 
 lowances ; the day — as Page had suspected — had prob- 
 ably been an important one. He would be a little late, 
 but he would come soon. “ If you love me, you will 
 come,” she had said. 
 
4o6 
 
 The Pit 
 
 But an hour later Laura paced the room with tight- 
 shut lips and burning cheeks. She was still alone; her/ 
 day, her hour, was passing, and he had not so much as'; 
 sent word. For a moment the thought occurred to her' 
 that he might perhaps be in great trouble, in great 
 straits, that there was an excuse. But instantly she 
 repudiated the notion. 
 
 ' “ No, no,” she cried, beneath her breath. “ He should > 
 come, no matter what has happened. Or even, at the 
 very least, he could send word.” 
 
 The minutes dragged by. No roll of wheels echoed^ 
 under the carriage porch ; no step sounded at the outer 
 door. The house was still, the street without was still,; 
 the silence of the midsummer evening widened, un-' 
 broken around her, like a vast calm pool. Only the 
 musical Gregorians of the newsboys chanting the even- 
 ing’s extras from corner to corner of the streets rose 
 into the air from time to time. She was once more 
 alone. Was she to fail again? Was she to be set aside 
 once more, as so often heretofore — set aside, flouted, 
 ignored, forgotten ? “ If you love me,” she had said. 
 
 And this was to be the supreme test. This evening 
 was to decide which was the great influence of his life-^ 
 was to prove whether or not love was paramount. This 
 was the crucial hour. “ And he knows it,” cried Laura. 
 “ He knows it. He did not forget, could not have for- 
 gotten.” 
 
 The half hour passed, then the hour, and as eight 
 o’clock chimed from the clock over the mantelshelf 
 Laura stopped, suddenly rigid, in the midst of the floor. 
 
 Her anger leaped like fire within her. All the pas- 
 sion of the woman scorned shook her from head to 
 foot. At the very moment of her triumph she had been 
 flouted, in the pitch of her pride ! And this was not 
 the only time. All at once the past disappointments, 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 407 
 
 slig’hts, and humiliations came again to her memory. 
 She had pleaded, and had been rebuffed again and 
 again ; she had given all and had received neglect — she, 
 Laura, beautiful beyond other women, who had known 
 love, devoted service, and the most thoughtful con- 
 sideration from her earliest girlhood, had been cast 
 aside. 
 
 Suddenly she bent her head quickly, listening intently. 
 Then she drew a deep breath, murmuring “ At last, at 
 last ! ” 
 
 For the sound of a footstep in the vestibule was un- 
 mistakable, He had come after all. But so Hte, so 
 late! No, she could not be gracious at once; he must 
 be made to feel how deeply he had offended; he must 
 sue humbly, very humbly, for pardon. The servant’s 
 step sounded in the hall on the way towards the front 
 door. 
 
 “ I am in here, Matthew,” she called. “ In the library. 
 Tell him I am in here.” 
 
 She cast a quick glance at herself in the mirror close 
 at hand, touched her hair with rapid fingers, smoothed 
 the agitation trom her forehead, and sat down in a deep 
 chair near the fireplace, opening a book, turning her 
 back towards the door. 
 
 She heard him come in, but did not move. Even as 
 he crossed the floor she kept her head turned away. 
 The footsteps paused near at hand. There was a mo- 
 ment’s silence. Then slowly Laura, laying down her 
 book, turned and faced him. 
 
 “ With many very, very happy returns of the day,” 
 said Sheldon Corthell, as he held towards her a cluster 
 of deep-blue violets. 
 
 I Laura sprang to her feet, a hand upon her cheek, 
 her eyes wide and flashing. 
 
 “You?” was all she had breath to utter. “You?” 
 
4o8 
 
 The Pit 
 
 The artist smiled as he laid the flowers upon the table. 
 
 “ I am going away again to-morrow,” he said, “ for 
 aiways, I think. Have I startled you? I only came to 
 say good-by — and to wish you a happy birthday.” 
 
 “Oh you remembered!” she cried. “You remem- 
 bered! I might have known you would.” 
 
 But the revulsion had been too great. She had been 
 wrong after all. Jadwin had forgotten. Emotions to 
 which she could put no name swelled in her heart and 
 rose in a quick, gasping sob to her throat. The tears 
 sprang to her eyes. Old impulses, forgotten impetu- 
 osities whipped her on. 
 
 “ Oh, you remembered, you remembered! ” she cried 
 again, holding out both her hands. 
 
 He caught them in his own. 
 
 Remembered ! ” he echoed. “ I have never for- 
 gotten ” 
 
 “ No, no,” she replied, shaking her head, winking 
 back the tears. “ You don’t understand. I spoke be- 
 fore I thought. You don’t understand.” 
 
 “ I do, believe me, I do,” he exclaimed. “ I under- 
 stand you better than you understand yourself.” 
 
 Laura’s answer was a cry. 
 
 “ Oh, then, why did you ever leave me — you who did 
 understand me? Why did you leave me only because 
 I told you to go? Why didn’t you make me love you 
 then? Why didn’t you make me understand myself?” 
 She clasped her hands tight together upon her breast; 
 her words, torn by her sobs, came all but incoherent 
 from behind her shut teeth. “ No, no ! ” she exclaimed, 
 as he made towards her. “ Don’t touch me, don’t touch 
 me ! It is too late.” 
 
 “ It is not too late. Listen — ^listen to me.” 
 
 “ Oh, why weren’t 5'ou a man, strong enough to know 
 a woman’s weakness? You can only torture me now. 
 Ah, I hate you ! I hate you ! ” 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 409 
 
 “ You love me ! I tell you, you love me ! ” he cried, 
 passionately, and before she was aware of it she was in 
 his arms, his lips were against her lips, were on her 
 shoulders, her neck. 
 
 “You love me!” he cried. “You love me! I defy 
 you to say you do not.” 
 
 “ Oh, make me love you, then,” she answered. 
 “ Make me believe that you do love me.” 
 
 “ Don’t you know,” he cried, “ don’t you know how 
 I have loved you ? Oh, from the very first ! My love 
 has been my life, has been my death, my one joy, and 
 my one bitterness. It has always been you, dearest, 
 year after year, hour after hour. And now I’ve found 
 you again. And now I shall never, never let you go.” 
 
 “ No, no ! Ah, don’t, don’t ! ” she begged. “ I im- 
 plore you. I am weak, weak. Just a word, and I 
 would forget everything.” 
 
 “ And I do speak that word, and your own heart 
 answers me in spite of you, and you will forget — forget 
 everything of unhappiness in your life ” 
 
 “ Please, please,” she entreated, breathlessly. Then, 
 taking the leap : “ Ah, I love you, I love you ! ” 
 
 “ — Forget all your unhappiness,” he went on, hold- 
 ing her close to him. “ Forget the one great mistake 
 we both made. Forget everything, everything, every- 
 thing but that we love each other.” 
 
 “ Don’t let me think, then,” she cried. “ Don’t let me 
 think. Make me forget everything, every little hour, 
 every little moment that has passed before this day. Oh, 
 if I remembered once, I would kill you, kill you with 
 my hands ! I don’t know what I am saying,” she 
 moaned, “ I don’t know what I am saying. I am mad, 
 I think. Yes — I — it must be that.” She pulled back 
 from him, looking into his face with wide-opened eyes. 
 
 “ What have I said, what have we done, what are you 
 here for?” 
 
410 
 
 The Pit 
 
 “ To take you away,” he answered, gently, holding 
 her in his arms, looking down into her eyes. “ To take 
 you far away with me. To give my whole life to mak- 
 ing you forget that you were ever unhappy.” 
 
 “ And you will never leave me alone — never once ? ” 
 
 “ Never, never once.” 
 
 She drew back from him, looking about the room 
 with unseeing eyes, her fingers plucking and tearing at 
 the lace of her dress ; her voice was faint and small, like 
 the voice of a little child. 
 
 “ I — I am afraid to be alone. Oh, I must never be 
 alone again so long as I shall live. I think I should 
 die.” 
 
 “And you never shall be; never again. Ah, this is 
 my birthday, too, sweetheart. I am born again to- 
 night.” 
 
 Laura clung to his arm; it was as though she were 
 in the dark, surrounded by the vague terrors of her girl- 
 hood. “ And you will always love me, love me, love 
 me ? ” she whispered. “ Sheldon, Sheldon, love me al- 
 ways, always, with all 3’-our heart and soul and strength.” 
 
 Tears stood in Corthell’s eyes as he answered: 
 
 “ God forgive whoever — whatever has brought you to 
 this pass,” he said. 
 
 And, as if it were a realisation of his thought, there 
 suddenly came to the ears of both the roll of wheels 
 upon the asphalt under the carriage porch and the 
 trampling of iron-shod hoofs. 
 
 “ Is that your husband ? ” Corthell’s quick eye took 
 in Laura’s disarranged coiffure, one black lock low 
 upon her neck, the roses at her shoulder crushed and 
 broken, and the bright spot on either cheek. 
 
 “ Is that your husband? ” 
 
 “ My husband — I don’t know.” She looked up at 
 him with unseeing eyes. “Where is my husband? I 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 411 
 
 have no husband. You are letting me remember” she 
 cried, in terror. “ You are letting me remember. Ah, 
 no, no, you don’t love me ! I hate you ! ” 
 
 Quickly he bent and kissed her. 
 
 “ I will come for you to-morrow evening,” he said. 
 " You will be ready then to go with me? ” 
 
 “ Ready then? Yes, yes, to go with you an3rwihere.” 
 
 He stood still a moment, listening. Somewhere a 
 door closed. He heard the hoofs upon the asphalt 
 again. 
 
 “ Good-by,” he whispered. “ God bless you ! Good- 
 by till to-morrow night.” And with the words he was 
 gone. The front door of the house closed quietly. 
 
 Had he come back again ? Laura turned in her place 
 on the long divan at the sound of a heavy tread by the 
 door of the library. 
 
 Then an uncertain hand drew the heavy curtain aside. 
 Jadwin, her husband, stood before her, his eyes sunken 
 deep in his head, his face dead white, his hand shaking. 
 He stood for a long instant in the middle of the room, 
 looking at her. Then at last his lips moved : 
 
 “Old girl. . . . Honey.” 
 
 Laura rose, and all but groped her way towafds him, 
 her heart beating, the tears streaming down her face. 
 
 “ My husband, my husband ! ” 
 
 Together they made their way to the divan, and sank 
 down upon it side by side, holding to each other, 
 trembling and fearful, like children in the night. 
 
 “ Honey,” whispered Jadwin, after a while. “ Honey, 
 it’s dark, it’s dark. Something happened. ... I don't 
 remember,” he put his hand uncertainly to his head, 
 “ I can’t remember very well ; but it’s dark — a little.” 
 
 “ It’s dark,” she repeated, in a low whisper. “ It’s 
 dark, dark. Something happened. Yes. I must not 
 remember.” 
 
412 
 
 The Pit 
 
 They spoke no further. A long time passed. Pressed 
 close together, Curtis Jadwin and his wife sat there in 
 the vast, gorgeous room, silent and trembling, ridden 
 with unnamed fears, groping in the darkness. 
 
 And while they remained thus, holding close by one 
 another, a prolonged and wailing cry rose suddenly 
 from the street, and passed on through the city under 
 the stars and the wide canopy of the darkness. 
 
 “ Extra, oh-h-h, extra! All about the Smash of the 
 Great Wheat Corner! All about the Failure of Curtis 
 Jadwin ! ” 
 
CONCLUSION 
 
 The evening had closed in wet and misty. All day long 
 a chill wind had blown across the city from off the lake, 
 and by eight o’clock, when Laura and Jadwin came 
 down to the dismantled library, a heavy rain was falling. 
 
 Laura gave Jadwin her arm as they made their way 
 across the room — their footsteps echoing strangely from 
 the uncarpeted boards. 
 
 “ There, dear,” she said. “ Give me the valise. Now 
 sit down on the packing’ box there. Are you tired? 
 You had better put your hat on. It is full of draughts 
 here, now that all the furniture and curtains are out.” 
 
 “ No, no. I’m all right, old girl. Is the hack there 
 yet?” 
 
 “Not yet. You’re sure you’re not tired?” she in- 
 sisted. “ You had a pretty bad siege of it, you know, 
 and this is only the first week you’ve been up. You 
 remember how the doctor ” 
 
 “ I’ve had too good a nurse,” he answered, stroking 
 her hand, “ not to be fine as a fiddle by now. You must 
 be tired yourself, Laura. Why, for whole days there — 
 and nights, too, they tell me — you never left the room.” 
 
 She shook her head, as though dismissing the subject. 
 
 “I wonder,” she said, sitting down upon a smaller 
 packing-box and clasping a knee in her hands, “ I won- 
 der what the West will be like. Do you know I think 
 I am going to like it, Curtis? ” 
 
 “ It will be starting in all over again, old girl,” he said, 
 with a warning shake of his head. “ Pretty hard at first. 
 I’m afraid.” 
 
 She laughed an almost contemptuous note. 
 
414 
 
 The Pit 
 
 “ Hard ! Now ? ” She took his hand and laid it to 
 her cheek. 
 
 “ By all the rules you ought to hate me,” he began. 
 “ What have I done for you but hurt you and, at last, 
 bring you to ” 
 
 But she shut her gloved hand over his mouth. 
 
 “ Stop! ” she cried. “ Hush, dear. You have brought 
 me the greatest happiness of my life.” 
 
 Then under her breath, her eyes wide and thoughtful, 
 she murmured: 
 
 “ A capitulation and not a triumph, and I have won 
 a victory by surrendering.” 
 
 “ Hey — what? ” demanded Jadwin. “ I didn’t hear.” 
 
 Never mind,” she answered. “ It was nothing. 
 ‘ The world is all before us where to choose,’ now, isn’t 
 it? And this big house and all the life we have led in 
 it was just an incident in our lives — an incident that is 
 closed.” 
 
 “ Looks like it, to look around this room,” he said, 
 grimly. “ Nothing left but the wall paper. What do 
 you suppose are in these boxes ? ” 
 
 “ They’re labelled ‘ books and portieres.’ ” 
 
 “ Who bought ’em I wonder ? I’d have thought the 
 party who bought the house would have taken them. 
 Well, it was a wrench to see the place and all go so 
 dirt cheap, and the ‘Thetis,” too, by George! But I’m 
 glad now. It’s as though we had lightened ship.” He 
 looked at his watch. “ That hack ought to be here 
 pretty soon. I’m glad we checked the trunks from the 
 house ; gives us more time.” 
 
 “ Oh, by the way,” exclaimed Laura, all at once open- 
 ing her satchel. “ I had a long letter from Page this 
 morning,, from New York. Do you want to hear what 
 she has to say? I’ve only had time to read part of it 
 myself. It’s the first one I’ve had from her since their 
 marriage.” 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 4*5 
 
 He lit a cigar. 
 
 “ Go ahead,” he said, settling himself on the box. 
 “What does Mrs. Court have to say?” 
 
 “ ‘ My dearest sister,’ ” began Laura. “ ‘ Here we 
 are, Landry and I, in New York at last. Very tired 
 I and mussed after the ride on the cars, but in a darling 
 little hotel where the proprietor is head cook and every- 
 body speaks French. I know my accent is improving, 
 and Landry has learned any quantity of phrases already. 
 We are reading George Sand out loud, and are mak- 
 ' ing up the longest vocabulary. To-night we are going 
 I to a concert, and I’ve found out that there’s a really fine 
 I course of lectures to be given soon on “ Literary Ten- 
 f dencies,” or something like that. Quel chance. Landry 
 I is intensely interested. You’ve no idea what a deep 
 mind he has, Laura — a real thinker. 
 
 “ ‘ But here’s really a big piece of news. We may not 
 have to give up our old home where we lived when we 
 I first came to Chicago. Aunt Wess’ wrote the other 
 day to say that, if you were willing, she would rent it, 
 and then sublet all the lower floor to Landry and me, 
 so we could have a real house over our heads and not 
 the under side of the floor of the flat overhead. And 
 she IS such an old dear, I know we could all get along 
 beautifully. Write me about this as soon as you can. 
 I know you’ll be willing, and Aunt Wess’ said she’d 
 agree to w"hatever rent you suggested. 
 
 “‘We went to call on Mrs. Cressler day before yes- 
 terday. She’s been here nearly a fortnight by now, and 
 is living with a maiden sister of hers in a very beautiful 
 house fronting Central Park (not so beautiful as our 
 palace on North Avenue. Never, never will I forget 
 that house). She will probably stay here now always. 
 She says the very sight of the old neighbourhoods in 
 Chicago would be more than she could bear. Poor Mrs, 
 
4i6 
 
 The Pit 
 
 Cressler! How fortunate for her that her sister’ 
 
 and so on, and so on,” broke in Laura, hastily, 
 
 “ Read it, read it,” said Jadwin, turning sharply away. 
 “ Don’t skip a line. I want to hear every word.” 
 
 “ That’s all there is to it,” Laura returned. “ ‘ We’ll 
 be back,’ ” she went on, turning a page of the letter, 
 “ ‘ in about three weeks, and Landry will take up his 
 work in that railroad office. No more speculating for 
 him, he says. He talks of Mr. Jadwin continually. You 
 never saw or heard of such devotion. He says that Mr. 
 Jadwin is a genius, the greatest financier in the country, 
 and that he knows he could have won if they all hadn’t 
 turned against him that day. He never gets tired tell- 
 ing me that Mr. Jadwin has been a father to him — the 
 
 kindest, biggest-hearted man he ever knew ’ ” 
 
 Jadwin pulled his mustache rapidly. 
 
 “ Pshaw, pish, nonsense — ^little fool ! ” he blustered. 
 
 “ He simply worshipped you from the first, Curtis,” 
 commented Laura. “ Even after he knew I was to 
 marry you. He never once was jealous, never once 
 would listen to a word against you from any one.” 
 “Well — well, what else does Mrs. Court say?” 
 
 “ ‘ I am glad to hear,’ ” read Laura, “ ‘ ‘ that ^Mr. 
 Gretry did not fail, though Landry tells me he must 
 have lost a great deal of money. Landry tells me that 
 eighteen brokers’ houses failed in Chicago the day after 
 Mr. Gretry suspended. Isabel sent us a wedding pres- 
 ent — a lovely medicine chest full of homoeopathic medi- 
 cines, little pills and things, you know. But, as Landry 
 and I are never sick and both laugh at homoeopathy, I 
 declare I don’t know just what we will do with it. 
 Landry is as careful of me as though I were a wax doll. 
 But I do wish he would think more of his owm health. 
 He never ■will wear his mackintosh in rainy weather. 
 I’ve been studying his tastes so carefully. He likes 
 
A Story of Chicago 
 
 417 
 
 French light opera better than English, and bright 
 colours in his cravats, and he simply adores stuffed 
 tomatoes. 
 
 “ ‘ We both send our love, and Landry especially 
 wants to be remembered to Mr. Jadwin. I hope this 
 letter will come in time for us to wish you both hon 
 voyage and bon mocks. How splendid of Mr. Jadwin to 
 have started his new business even while he was con- 
 valescent ! Landry says he knows he will make two or 
 three more fortunes in the next few years. 
 
 “ ‘ Good-by, Laura, dear. Ever your loving sister, 
 
 “ ‘ Page Court. 
 
 “ ‘ P. S. — I open this letter again to tell you that we 
 met Mr. Corthell on the street yesterday. He sails for 
 Europe to-day.’ ” 
 
 “ Oh,” said Jadwin, as Laura put the letter quickly 
 down, “ Corthell — that artist chap. By the way, what- 
 ever became of him ? ” 
 
 Laura settled a comb in the back of her hair. 
 
 “ He went away,” she said. “ You remember — I told 
 you — told you all about it.” 
 
 She would have turned away her head, but he laid 
 a hand upon her shoulder. 
 
 “ I remember,” he answered, looking squarely into 
 her eyes, “ I remember nothing — only that I have been 
 to blame for everything. I told you once — long ago — 
 that I understood. And I understand now, old girl, 
 understand as I never did before. I fancy we both 
 have been living according to a wrong notion of things. 
 'We started right when we were first married, but I 
 worked away from it somehow and pulled you along 
 with me. But we’ve both been through a great big 
 change, honey, a great big change, and we’re starting 
 all over again. . . . Well, there’s the carriage, I 
 guess.” 
 
 27 
 
4i8 
 
 The Pit 
 
 They rose, gathering up their valises. 
 
 “ Hoh! ” said Jadwin. “ No servants now, Laura, to 
 carry our things down for us and open the door, and 
 it’s a hack, old girl, instead of the victoria or coupe.” 
 
 “ What if it is ? ” she cried. “ What do ‘ things,’ ser- 
 vants, money, and all amount to now ? ” 
 
 As Jadwin laid his hand upon the knob of the front 
 door, he all at once put down his valise and put his arm 
 about his wife. She caught him about the neck and 
 looked deep into his eyes a long moment. And then, 
 •without speaking, they kissed each other. 
 
 In the outer vestibule, he raised the umbrella and held 
 it over her head. 
 
 “ Hold it a minute, will you, Laura? ” he said. 
 
 He gave it into her hand and s^vung the door of the 
 house shut behind him. The noise woke a hollow echo 
 throughout all the series of empty, denuded rooms. 
 Jad-win slipped the key in his pocket. 
 
 “ Come,” he said. 
 
 They stepped out from the vestibule. It -was already 
 dark. The rain was falling in gentle slants through the 
 odorous, cool air. Across the street in the park the 
 first leaves were beginning to fall; the lake lapped and 
 washed quietly against the stone embankments and a 
 belated bicyclist stole past across the asphalt, wdth the 
 silent flitting of a bat, his lamp throwing a fan of orange- 
 coloured haze into the mist of rain. 
 
 In the street in front of the house the driver, descend- 
 ing from the box, held open the door of the hack. Jad- 
 win handed Laura in, gave an address to the driver, and 
 got in himself, slamming the door after. They heard 
 the driver mount to his seat and speak to his horses. 
 
 “Well,” said Jadwin, rubbing the fog from the -wdn- 
 dow pane of the door, “ look your last at the old place, 
 Laura. You’ll never see it again.” 
 
121 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 But she would not look. 
 
 “ No, no,” she said. “ I’ll look at you, dearest, at 
 you, and our future, which is to be happier than any years 
 we have ever known.” 
 
 Jadwin did not answer other than by taking her hand 
 in his, and in silence they drove through the city towards 
 the train that was to carry them to the new life. A phase 
 of the existences of each was closed definitely. The great 
 corner was a thing of the past ; the great corner with the 
 long train of disasters its collapse had started. The great 
 failure had precipitated smaller failures, and the aggre- 
 gate of smaller failures had pulled down one business 
 house after another. For weeks afterward, the successive 
 crashes were like the shock and reverberation of under- 
 mined buildings toppling to their ruin. An important 
 bank had suspended payment, and hundreds of deposi- 
 tors had found their little fortunes swept away. The 
 ramifications of the catastrophe were unbelievable. The 
 whole tone of financial affairs seemed changed. Money 
 was “ tight ” again, credit was withdrawn. The business 
 world began to speak of hard times, once more. 
 
 But Laura would not admit her husband was in any 
 way to blame. He had suffered, too. She repeated to 
 herself his words, again and again : 
 
 “ The wheat cornered itself. I simply stood between 
 two sets of circumstances. The wheat cornered me, not 
 I the wheat.” 
 
 And all those millions and millions of bushels of 
 Wheat were gone now. The Wheat that had killed 
 Cressler, that had ingulfed Jadwin’s fortune and all 
 but unseated reason itself; the Wheat that had inter- 
 vened like a great torrent to drag her husband from 
 her side and drown him in the roaring vortices of the 
 Pit, had passed on, resistless, along its ordered and 
 predetermined courses from West to East, like a vast 
 
The Pit 
 
 4-"o 
 
 Titanic flood, had passed, leaving Death and Ruin in 
 its wake, but bearing Life and Prosperity to the 
 crowded cities and centres of Europe. 
 
 For a moment, vague, dark perplexities assailed her, 
 questionings as to the elemental forces, the forces of de- 
 mand and supply that ruled the world. This huge resist- 
 less Nourisher of the Nations — why was it that it could 
 not reach the People, could not fulfil its destiny, un- 
 marred by all this suffering, unattended by all this mis- 
 ery? 
 
 She did not know. But as she searched, troubled and 
 disturbed for an answer, she was aware of a certain 
 familiarity in the neighbourhood the carriage was travers- 
 ing. The strange sense of having lived through this 
 scene, these circumstances, once before, took hold upon 
 her. ' 
 
 She looked out quickly, on either hand, through the 
 blurred glasses of the carriage doors. Surely, surely, this 
 locality had once before impressed itself upon her imagina- 
 tion. She turned to her husband, an exclamation upon 
 her lips ; but Jadwin, by the dim light of the carriage lan- 
 terns, was studying a railroad folder. 
 
 All at once, intuitively, Laura turned in her place, and 
 raising the flap that covered the little window at the back 
 of the carriage, looked behind. On either side of the vista 
 in converging lines stretched the tall office buildings, lights 
 burning in a few of their windows, even yet. Over the 
 end of the street the lead-coloured sky was broken by a 
 pale faint haze of light, and silhouetted against this rose 
 a sombre mass, unbroken by any glimmer, rearing a black 
 and formidable faqade against the blur of the sky behind 
 it. 
 
 And this was the last impression of the part of her 
 life that that day brought to a close : the tall gray office 
 buildings, the murk of rain, the haze of light in the 
 
421 
 
 A Story of Chicago 
 
 heavens, and raised against it, the pile of the Board of 
 Trade building, black, monolithic, crouching on its foun- 
 dations like a monstrous sphinx with blind eyes, silent, 
 grave — crouching there without a sound, without sig^ 
 of life, under the night and the drifting veil of rain. 
 
 THE END. 
 
S 3 
 
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4 
 

 Duke University Libraries 
 
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