Not half a mile away from the Allisons’ costly residence was the home of Major Cranston, an officer of some thirty years’ experience in the cavalry.  It was an unpretentious, old-fashioned frame house, that had escaped the deluge of fire that swept the city in ’71, and that looked oddly out of place now in the midst of towering apartment blocks or handsome edifices of brick and stone.  But Cranston loved the old place, and preferred to keep it intact and as left to him at the death of his father until such time as he should retire from active service.  Then he might see fit to rebuild.  The property was now of infinitely more value than the house.  “You could move that old barrack out to the suburbs, cut down them trees, and cut up the place into buildin’-lots and sell any one of them for enough to build a dozen better houses,” said a neighbor who had prospered, as had the Cranstons, by holding on to the paternal estate.  But Cranston smilingly said he preferred not to cut up or cut down.  “Them” trees and he had grown up together.  They were saplings when he was a boy, and had grown to sturdy oakhood when his own youngsters, plains-bred little cavaliers, used to gather their Chicago friends about them under the whispering leaves and thrill their juvenile souls with stirring tales of their doings “out in the Indian county.”  Louis Cranston was believed to have participated with his father’s troop in many a pitched battle with the savage foe before his tenth birthday, and “Patchie,” the younger, was known to be so called not because of his mother’s having sprung from the distinguished family in which George Patchen was a patron saint, but because he had been born in the Arizona mountains and rocked in a Tonto cradle.  Those two boys were now stalwart men, cattle-growers in the Far West, whose principal interest in Chicago was as a market for their branded steers.  They had their own vines and fig-trees, their own wives and olive-branches, and after the death of the venerable grandparents the homestead on the shores of Lake Michigan was for some years untenanted.

But therein were stored the old furniture and the old books and pictures, all carefully guarded by one of Cranston’s veteran sergeants, who, disabled by wounds and infirmities, was glad to accept his commander’s offer to give to him and his a home and suitable pension in return for scrupulous care of the old place.  At long intervals the master had come in on leave, and the neighbors always knew when to expect him, for the snow-shovel or the lawn-mower, holly wreaths or honeysuckles, seemed to pervade the premises, and old McGrath’s neatest uniform was hung out to sun and air on the back piazza.  Mac was a bibulous veteran at times, a circumstance of which place-hunters were not slow to take advantage on those rare occasions of the owner’s home-coming, and many a time did the major receive confidential intimation from the Sheehans, Morriseys, and Meiswinkles in service in the neighborhood that McGrath was neglectful of his patron’s premises and over-given to the flowing bowl; but in Mrs. McGrath’s stanch protectorate, as in McGrath’s own fidelity, Cranston had easy confidence.  Twenty years of close communion all over the frontier give fair inkling as to one’s characteristics, and Cranston had known Mac and his helpmeet even longer.  “Dhrink, yer honor?  Faith an’ I do, as regularly as iver I drunk the captain’s health and prosperity in the ould regiment; and I’d perhaps be doin’ it too often, out of excessive ghratitude, but for Molly yonder.  She convinces me wid me own crutch, sorr.”  And Molly confirmed the statement:  “I let him have no more than is good for him, major, barrin’ Patrick’s Day and the First of April, that’s Five Forks, ­when he always dhrinks as many fingers at a time.  Then he’s in arrest till Appomattox, nine days close, ­and then I let him out for a bit again.  Never fear, major, I’m the dishbursin’ officer of the family, an’ the grocer has his orders.”  Mac had his other anniversaries, be it understood, on all of which occasions he repaired to Donnelly’s Shades on a famous thoroughfare two blocks west of the Cranstons’ back gate, and entertained all comers with tales of dragoon days that began in the 50’s and spread all over the century.  Shrewd historians of the neighborhood made it a point to look up the dates of Brandy Station and Beverly Ford, of Aldie, Winchester, and Waynesboro’, of Yellow Tavern and Five Forks, as well as to keep tab on subsequent events of which history makes no mention, but which troopers know well, for Summit Springs, Superstition Mountain, Sunset Pass, and Slim Buttes ­a daring succession of sibilant tongue-tacklers ­were names of Indian actions from Dakota to the Gila the old soldier loved to dwell upon, even if Donnelly’s whiskey had not put clogs on his tongue.  Two things was Mac always sure of at the Shades, ­good listeners and bad liquor; but the trooper who has tasted every tipple, from “pine-top” to mescal, will forgive the latter if sure of the former.  Donnelly had his “ordhers,” as Mrs. Mac said.  The sergeant was to be accorded all respect and credit, and a hack to fetch him home when his legs got as twisted as his tongue:  Mrs. McGrath would be around within forty-eight hours to audit and pay the accounts.  Donnelly sought to swindle the shrewd old laundress at the start, and thereby lost Mac’s valuable custom for six long and anniversary-laden months.  Then he came to terms, and didn’t try it again for nearly two years, which was remarkable in a saloon-man.  This time Donnelly was forgiven only upon restitution of the amount involved and the presentation to Mrs. McGrath of a very ornate brooch in emeralds and brilliants ­or something imitative thereof ­representing the harp of Erin.  From this time on things had gone smoothly.

A wonderful woman was Mrs. Mac, as her husband never failed to admit.  She had slaved and saved for him in a score of garrisons.  They had their little hoard carefully invested.  They hired a young relative and countryman to do the hard work about the premises, and they guarded every item of the major’s property with a fidelity and care that knew no lapse, for Mrs. Mac was never so scrupulous as when her lord was in his cups.  “No,” said Cranston, when a neighbor once asked him if he wasn’t afraid of serious losses through Mac’s occasional inebriety.  “The more he drinks the stricter her vigilance, and she’s the smarter of the two.”

But there came a time when the major found it necessary to caution Mrs. Mac, and that was when it was brought to his ears that McGrath’s nephew, the young Irish helper above referred to, was a frequent attendant at certain turbulent meetings held over on the west side, where he had been seen drunk on two occasions.  “It’s one thing to allow an old soldier like Mac his occasional indulgence,” said Cranston; “he was started that way, and he never becomes riotous or ugly; but there is no excuse for the boy.  Those meetings alleged to be held in the interests of the workingmen are attended mainly by tramps and loafers, fellows who couldn’t be hired to do a day’s honest work, and are addressed by professional demagogues who have no end but mischief in view.  You saw what resulted here when you first came in, seven years ago.  I don’t want to hurt Mac’s feelings by saying he’s a bad example to his nephew, and I don’t want to let him know where the boy has been spending his evenings.  He’d break every bone in the youngster’s skin if he thought he was consorting with anarchists and rioters; and I tell you because you couldn’t have heard of it or you yourself would have taken the boy in hand.”

“Taken him in hand, sorr?  I’d ‘a’ broke the snow-shovel over the scandalous back av him if I’d heerd a worrd av it.  He’s aff to-day sparkin’ the girls in the block beyant, but I’ll wait for him to-night.  Thank ye, sorr, for not tellin’ Mac.  It’s his own poor sister’s boy, an’ like his own that was tuk from us at Apache, but Mac would kill him before he’d have him trainin’ wid them Dutchmen and daygoes.” (Mrs. McGrath did not share Mulvany’s views that “There are Oirish and Oirish.”  Even Phoenix Park had failed to shake her view that anarchy and assassination belonged only to “foreigners.”  No Irishman, said she, was in the bloody bomb business of ’86; and as for Dr. Cronin, that was a family matther entirely.) “But if Tim’s been goin’ to meetin’ wid the like av them, he’s been misguided by them as knows betther.  Savin’ your presence, major, what would the gentleman be doin’ wid him that was here last week?”

Cranston looked at his housekeeper in surprise.  “The gentleman who came to look over my books? ­Mr. Elmendorf?”

“The same, sorr.  He came three times while the major was away, and Tim was forever sayin’ what a fine, smart man he was for a foreigner, and how he was for helpin’ the poor man.”

Cranston gave vent to a long whistle of surprise and sudden enlightenment.  “When was Mr. Elmendorf last there?” he presently inquired.

“All last week, sorr; three times at least I let him into the library as usual, but he only stayed there awhile.  He was talkin’ outside wid Tim an hour.”

The major turned away in deep thought.  Only two months before, ordered from the Far West to take station at the new post near the city, he had met Elmendorf when dining at the Allisons’.  The next morning he found him at head-quarters, chatting affably with the aides-de-camp, and later he encountered him at Brentano’s.  Just how it came about Cranston could not now remember, but he had invited Elmendorf to step in and look over some old books of his father’s, and as the tutor became enthusiastic he was bidden to come again.  Out at the post the major established his modest soldier home, much missing the companionship of his devoted wife, who was in Europe at the time with their only daughter.  Every week, perhaps, he would run in for half a day to look over his possessions, but meantime he had given Elmendorf authority to make a complete catalogue of the books, as well as to make himself at home in the library, a room which Mrs. McGrath kept in apple-pie order.  But the fame of Elmendorf had spread from the city to the garrison, and Cranston had already begun to wish he had been less impulsive in his invitation, when Mrs. Mac told him of the missionary work being done among his retainers by this stranger within his gates.  The question now was, what action could be justifiably taken?

Entering the old dimly-lighted study, long sacred to his father’s use and now sacred to his memory, the major found on every hand evidences that Elmendorf had indeed been at work.  Out from their accustomed places on the shelves the books had been dragged, and were now stacked up about the room in perplexing disarray.  Some lay open upon the table, others on the desk near the north window, his father’s favorite seat, and here some of the rarest of the collection were now piled ten and fifteen deep.  On the table in loose sheets were some pencilled memoranda on names, authors, and dates of publication.  On the desk were several pads or blocks of the paper much used by writers for the press, and, face upward, among them, held by an old-fashioned glass paper-weight, were a dozen leaves closely pencilled in Elmendorf’s bold hand.  Cranston raised the weight, expecting to find some more memoranda concerning his precious books, but was not entirely surprised to read, in glaring head-lines, “The Wage-Worker’s Weapon,” followed by some vehement lines denunciatory of capital, monopoly, “pampered palates in palatial homes, boodle-burdened, beer-bloated legislators,” etc., the sort of alliterative and inflammatory composition which, distributed in the columns of the papers of the Alarm and Arbeiter Zeitung stamp, was read aloud over the evening pipes and beer to knots of applauding men, mostly tramps and idlers, in a thousand groggeries throughout the bustling city.  Cranston lifted the file from the desk as though to read beyond the first sheet, but on second thought replaced it.  Something about the “threatening bayonets of Federal hirelings” at the foot of the first page promised lively developments farther on, and recalled vividly the editorials in similar strain that had been brought to the attention of the officials at head-quarters, more than one of whom had expressed the belief that they could spot the author on sight.  Cranston turned from it in some disgust, and resumed the contemplation of the work already done.  All he expected ­all he had stipulated for ­was a catalogue of the books, ­something he himself had not had time to make, and a “job” which, to a man of scholarly tastes and education upon whose hands time was apparently hanging heavily and that equivalent of time, money, hanging not at all, would prove agreeable and acceptable.  Cranston’s father loved those books, and had grouped them on his shelves according to their subjects, history, art, science, the drama, the classics, standard fiction, and modern literature having received each its allotted space, and not for a heavy reward would the son have changed them; but here already were more than half these prized possessions tumbled promiscuously all over the room, and the soldier could have sworn in hearty trooper fashion over the disarray, but for the silent presence of his mother’s portrait above the mantel facing the father’s desk.  He had heard only recently of the tutor’s avowed proclivities for tearing down and stirring up the existing order of things, and here was conclusive evidence that the gifted Elmendorf proposed the complete rebuilding on his own lines of the fabric that was the revered father’s happiest work, even while incidentally devoting some hours each day to stirring up a similar overturning in society.  That Elmendorf was not destitute of practical business views, however, may be made apparent from the fact that when Cranston had intimated a desire to have him name the sum he would consider a fair compensation for the work, intending then to add a liberal percentage to the estimate, the scholar replied that it would have to depend upon the number of days and hours it took from other avocations, and it was now evident that a long engagement was in contemplation.

Closing the door after him and bidding Mrs. McGrath allow no one to enter the study until his return unless Mr. Elmendorf should come in, Major Cranston went in search of him.  It was barely noon, up to which hour he was supposed to be closeted with his pupil at the Allisons’ home.  Then after a light luncheon it was his wont to sally forth on a tramp, Cary starting, but rarely returning, with him.  When Cranston was at head-quarters a fortnight previous, the officers were speaking of the almost daily appearance about two o’clock of Mr. Elmendorf, who was possessed with a desire to get into the general’s office and impress that magnate with his views concerning the impending crisis.  The general, however, being forearmed, was always too busy to accord the interview, one experience having proved more than enough.  Everybody was beginning to give Elmendorf the cold shoulder there, and by this time, reasoned Cranston, he must have had sense enough to discontinue his visits.  Here, however, he underrated Elmendorf’s devotion to his principles, for such was the tutor’s conviction of their absolute wisdom and such his sense of duty to humanity that he was ready to encounter any snub rather than be balked in his determination to right the existing wrongs.  Cranston did not want to go to the Allisons’ and ask for Elmendorf.  He had that to say which could not be altogether pleasant and was altogether personal, and he had no right to carry possible discord into a fellow-citizen’s home.  The Lambert Library, a noble bequest, stood within easy range of Allison’s house and his own, a sort of neutral ground, and from there did Cranston despatch a special messenger with a note.

“Will Mr. Elmendorf kindly drop in at the Lambert Library when he has finished luncheon?  I have to take the three P.M. train back to Sheridan, and desire five minutes’ conversation relative to affairs at the study as I found them this morning,” was all the major wrote, but it was nearly half-past one before that boy returned with the answer.  There was no telephone at the Allisons’, for the millionaire had long since ordered it out, finding his home peace broken up by incessant summonses from all manner of people.  Cranston waited impatiently, and meant to upbraid the boy.  “It wasn’t my fault, sir:  the gentleman was at lunch and wouldn’t write until he had finished,” was the explanation.  Cranston tore open the unexpected reply: 

“Mr. Elmendorf deeply regrets that an important engagement in a distant quarter of the city will render it impossible to meet Major Cranston as proposed.  If the major will kindly write his suggestions they will receive all consideration and prompt acknowledgment.”

“And it had taken Elmendorf,” said Cranston, wrathfully, “at least three-quarters of an hour to concoct that palpable dodge.”

The railway station was a mile away, and he had several matters to attend to.  It was one of his weaknesses that when he had a thing to say and meant to say it, delay was a torment.  The librarian was a man whom he knew well.  “Mr. Wells, I’ve got to write quite a letter and do it quick,” said he, entering the office.  “Can I impose upon your good nature here?”

“Why, certainly, major.  Miss Wallen will type it for you as fast as you can talk it,” said the librarian, rising and indicating a slender girl who was bending busily over her typewriter.

“Oh, I didn’t mean that,” the major began; “and yet I don’t know, I’ve sometimes had to dictate reports.  The only thing is, I shouldn’t care to hurt a man’s feelings by letting him see that somebody else knew of the matter; yet I’ll want to keep a copy, for I’ve got to give him a rasping.”

“Miss Wallen can write a dozen copies at once, if you wish,” said Wells; “and as for hurting anybody’s feelings, nobody could extract a word from her on the subject.”

“Then if the young lady will be so kind,” said Cranston, bowing courteously, “I should be most glad to avail myself.”  Making no reply, the girl deftly fitted the sheets to the roller and waited expectant.  “Don’t go, Mr. Wells.  I assure you there is no need,” said Cranston, as the librarian started to leave the room.

“I’ve got to; it’s my dinner-hour.  Miss Wallen goes at twelve, and I after her return.  If there’s anything the office can do for you, don’t hesitate to ask.”  And with that he was gone.

Miss Wallen’s slim white hands were poised in readiness.  “Chicago, June ­, 1894,” began the major.  There was an instant of swift-clicking keys and a pause for more.  “June ­, 1894,” repeated Cranston.

“Yes, sir, I have that.”

“Already?  I didn’t suppose it could be done so fast.  Do I give you the address now?”

“If you please.”

“Mr. Max Elmendorf,” he began.  “Shall I spell it for you?”

The swift fingers faltered.  Some strange sudden cloud overshadowed the bright intelligent face.  The girl turned abruptly away a moment, then suddenly arose and hastened to the water-cooler under the great window across the room.  Keeping her back resolutely towards the visitor, she swallowed half a glass of water, then presently resumed her seat.  “Excuse me,” she said.  “I am ready now.”

“You found the heat very trying, I fear,” said the major.  “Pray do not attempt this if you are tired after your walk.  It can wait as well as not.”

“It is something that doesn’t have to be done to-day?” she asked, looking quickly up.

“Certainly not, if the sun has been too much for you.  Has it?”

No answer for a moment.  “It isn’t the sun,” finally replied Miss Wallen, “but I ­should rather not take this.”