The hammock between the two jack pines at the back of the Arrowhead ranch house had lured me to mid ­afternoon slumber.  The day was hot and the morning had been toilsome ­four miles of trout stream, rocky, difficult miles.  And my hostess, Mrs. Lysander John Pettengill, had ridden off after luncheon to some remote fastness of her domain, leaving me and the place somnolent.

In the shadowed coolness, aching gratefully in many joints, I had plunged into the hammock’s Lethe, swooning shamelessly to a benign oblivion.  Dreamless it must long have been, for the shadows of ranch house, stable, hay barn, corral, and bunk house were long to the east when next I observed them.  But I fought to this wakefulness through one of those dreams of a monstrous futility that sometimes madden us from sleep.  Through a fearsome gorge a stream wound and in it I hunted one certain giant trout.  Savagely it took the fly, but always the line broke when I struck; rather, it dissolved; there would be no resistance.  And the giant fish mocked me each time, jeered and flouted me, came brazenly to the surface and derided me with antics weirdly human.

Then, as I persisted, it surprisingly became a musical trout.  It whistled, it played a guitar, it sang.  How pathetic our mildly amazed acceptance of these miracles in dreams!  I was only the more determined to snare a fish that could whistle and sing simultaneously, and accompany itself on a stringed instrument, and was six feet in length.  It was that by now and ever growing.  It seemed only an attractive novelty and I still believed a brown hackle would suffice.  But then I became aware that this trout, to its stringed accompaniment, ever whistled and sang one song with a desperate intentness.  That song was “The Rosary.”  The fish had presumed too far.  “This,” I shrewdly told myself, “is almost certainly a dream.”  The soundless words were magic.  Gorge and stream vanished, the versatile fish faded to blue sky showing through the green needles of a jack pine.  It was a sane world again and still, I thought, with the shadows of ranch house, stable, hay barn, corral, and bunk house going long to the east.  I stretched in the hammock, I tingled with a lazy well-being.  The world was still; but was it ­quite?

On a bench over by the corral gate crouched Buck Devine, doing something needful to a saddle.  And as he wrought he whistled.  He whistled “The Rosary” shrilly and with much feeling.  Nor was the world still but for this.  From the bunk house came the mellow throbbing of a stringed instrument, the guitar of Sandy Sawtelle, star rider of the Arrowhead, temporarily withdrawn from a career of sprightly endeavour by a sprained ankle and solacing his retirement with music.  He was playing “The Rosary” ­very badly indeed, but one knew only too well what he meant.  The two performers were distant enough to be no affront to each other.  The hammock, less happily, was midway between them.

I sat up with groans.  I hated to leave the hammock.

“The trout also sang it,” I reminded myself.  Followed the voice, a voice from the stable, the cracked, whining tenor of a very aged vassal of the Arrowhead, one Jimmie Time.  Jimmie, I gathered, was currying a horse as he sang, for each bar of the ballad was measured by the double thud of a currycomb against the side of a stall.  Whistle, guitar, and voice now attacked the thing in differing keys and at varying points.  Jimmie might be said to prevail.  There was a fatuous tenderness in his attack and the thudding currycomb gave it spirit.  Nor did he slur any of the affecting words; they clave the air with an unctuous precision: 

    The ow-wurs I spu-hend with thu-hee, dee-yur heart,
          (The currycomb:  Thud, thud!)
    Are as a stru-hing of pur-rulls tuh me-e-e,
          (The currycomb:  Thud, thud!)

Came a dramatic and equally soulful interpolation:  “Whoa, dang you!  You would, would you?  Whoa-a-a, now!”

Again the melody: 

    I count them o-vurr, ev-ry one apar-rut,
    (Thud, thud!)
    My ro-sah-ree ­my ro-sah-ree! 
    (Thud, thud!)

Buck Devine still mouthed his woful whistle and Sandy Sawtelle valiantly strove for the true and just accord of his six strings.  It was no place for a passive soul.  I parted swiftly from the hammock and made over the sun-scorched turf for the ranch house.  There was shelter and surcease; doors and windows might be closed.  The unctuous whine of Jimmie Time pursued me: 

    Each ow-wur a pur-rull, each pur-rull a prayer,
    (Thud, thud!)
    Tuh stu-hill a heart in absence wru-hung,
    (Thud, thud!)

As I reached the hospitable door of the living-room I observed Lew Wee, Chinese chef of the Arrowhead, engaged in cranking one of those devices with a musical intention which I have somewhere seen advertised.  It is an important-looking device in a polished mahogany case, and I recall in the advertisement I saw it was surrounded by a numerous enthralled-looking family in a costly drawing-room, while the ghost of Beethoven simpered above it in ineffable benignancy.  Something now told me the worst, even as Lew Wee adjusted the needle to the revolving disk.  I waited for no more than the opening orchestral strains.  It is a leisurely rhythmed cacophony, and I had time to be almost beyond range ere the voice took up a tale I was hearing too often in one day.  Even so I distantly perceived it to be a fruity contralto voice with an expert sob.

A hundred yards in front of the ranch house all was holy peace, peace in the stilled air, peace dreaming along the neighbouring hills and lying like a benediction over the wide river-flat below me, through which the stream wove a shining course.  I exulted in it, from the dangers passed.  Then appeared Mrs. Lysander John Pettengill from the fringe of cottonwoods, jolting a tired horse toward me over the flat.

“Come have some tea,” she cordially boomed as she passed.  I returned uncertainly.  Tea?  Yes.  But ­However, the door would be shut and the Asiatic probably diverted.

As I came again to the rear of the ranch house Mrs. Pettengill, in khaki riding breeches, flannel shirt, and the hat of her trade, towered bulkily as an admirable figure of wrath, one hand on her hip, one poising a quirt viciously aloft.  By the corral gate Buck Devine drooped cravenly above his damaged saddle; at the door of the bunk house Sandy Sawtelle tottered precariously on one foot, his guitar under his arm, a look of guilty horror on his set face.  By the stable door stood the incredibly withered Jimmie Time, shrinking a vast dismay.

“You hear me!” exploded the infuriated chatelaine, and I knew she was repeating the phrase.

“Ain’t I got to mend this látigo?” protested Buck Devine piteously.

“You’ll go up the gulch and beyond the dry fork and mend it, if you whistle that tune again!”

Sandy Sawtelle rumpled his pink hair to further disorder and found a few weak words for his conscious guilt.

“Now, I wasn’t aiming to harm anybody, what with with my game laig and shet up here like I am ­”

“Well, my Lord!  Can’t you play a sensible tune then?”

Jimmie Time hereupon behaved craftily.  He lifted his head, showing the face of a boy who had somehow got to be seventy years old without ever getting to be more than a boy, and began to whistle softly and innocently ­an air of which hardly anything could be definitely said except that it was not “The Rosary.”  It was very flagrantly not “The Rosary.”  His craft availed him not.

“Yes, and you, too!” thundered the lady.  “You was the worst ­you was singing.  Didn’t I hear you?  How many times I got to tell you?  First thing you know, you little reprobate ­”

Jimmie Time cowered again.  Visibly he took on unbelievable years.

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispered.

“Yes, ma’am,” meekly echoed the tottering instrumentalist.

“Yes, ma’am,” muttered Buck Devine, “not knowing you was anywheres near ­”

“Makes no difference where I be ­you hear me!”

Although her back was toward me I felt her glare.  The wretches winced.  She came a dozen steps toward me, then turned swiftly to glare again.  They shuddered, even though she spoke no word.  Then she came on, muttering hotly, and together we approached the ranch house.  A dozen feet from the door she bounded ahead of me with a cry of baffled rage.  I saw why.  Lew Wee, unrecking her approach, was cold-bloodedly committing an encore.  She sped through the doorway, and I heard Lew Wee’s frightened squeal as he sped through another.  When I stood in the room she was putting violent hands to the throat of the thing.

“The hours I spend with th ­” The throttled note expired in a very dreadful squawk of agony.  It was as if foul murder had been done, and done swiftly.  The maddened woman faced me with the potentially evil disk clutched in her hands.  In a voice that is a notable loss to our revivals of Greek tragedy she declaimed: 

“Ain’t it the limit? ­and the last thing I done was to hide out that record up behind the clock where he couldn’t find it!”

In a sudden new alarm and with three long steps she reached the door of the kitchen and flung it open.  Through a window thus exposed we beheld the offender.  One so seldom thinks of the Chinese as athletes!  Lew Wee was well down the flat toward the cottonwoods and still going strong.

“Ain’t it the limit?” again demanded his employer.  “Gosh all ­excuse me, but they got me into such a state.  Here I am panting like a tuckered hound.  And now I got to make the tea myself.  He won’t dare come back before suppertime.”

It seemed to be not yet an occasion for words from me.  I tried for a look of intelligent sympathy.  In the kitchen I heard her noisily fill a teakettle with water.  She was not herself yet.  She still muttered hotly.  I moved to the magazine ­littered table and affected to be taken with the portrait of a smug ­looking prize Holstein on the first page of the Stock Breeder’s Gazette.

The volcano presently seethed through the room and entered its own apartment.

Ten minutes later my hostess emerged with recovered aplomb.  She had donned a skirt and a flowered blouse, and dusted powder upon and about her sunburned and rather blobby nose.  Her crinkly gray hair had been drawn to a knot at the back of her grenadier’s head.  Her widely set eyes gleamed with the smile of her broad and competent mouth.

“Tea in one minute,” she promised more than audibly as she bustled into the kitchen.  It really came in five, and beside the tray she pleasantly relaxed.  The cups were filled and a breach was made upon the cake she had brought.  The tea was advertising a sufficient strength, yet she now raised the dynamics of her own portion.

“I’ll just spill a hooker of this here Scotch into mine,” she said, and then, as she did even so:  “My lands!  Ain’t I the cynical old Kate!  And silly!  Letting them boys upset me that way with that there fool song.”  She decanted a saucerful of the re-enforced tea and raised it to her pursed lips.  “Looking at you!” she murmured cavernously and drank deep.  She put the saucer back where nice persons leave theirs at all times.  “Say, it was hot over on that bench to-day.  I was getting out that bunch of bull calves, and all the time here was old Safety First mumbling round ­”

This was rather promising, but I had resolved differently.

“That song,” I insinuated.  “Of course there are people ­”

“You bet there are!  I’m one of ’em, too!  What that song’s done to me ­and to other innocent bystanders in the last couple weeks ­”

She sighed hugely, drank more of the fortified brew ­nicely from the cup this time ­and fashioned a cigarette from materials at her hand.

In the flame of a lighted match Mrs. Pettengill’s eyes sparkled with a kind of savage retrospection.  She shrugged it off impatiently.

“I guess you thought I spoke a mite short when you asked about Nettie’s wedding yesterday.”

It was true.  She had turned the friendly inquiry with a rather mystifying abruptness.  I murmured politely.  She blew twin jets of smoke from the widely separated corners of her generous mouth and then shrewdly narrowed her gaze to some distant point of narration.

“Yes, sir, I says to her, ‘Woman’s place is the home.’  And what you think she come back with?  That she was going to be a leader of the New Dawn.  Yes, sir, just like that.  Five feet one, a hundred and eight pounds in her winter clothes, a confirmed pickle eater ­pretty enough, even if she is kind of peaked and spiritual looking ­and going to lead the New Dawn.

“Where’d she catch it?  My fault, of course, sending her back East to school and letting her visit the W.B.  Hemingways, Mrs. H. being the well-known clubwoman like the newspapers always print under her photo in evening dress.  That’s how she caught it all right.

“I hadn’t realized it when she first got back, except she was pale and far-away in the eyes and et pickles heavily at every meal ­oh, mustard, dill, sour, sweet, anything that was pickles ­and not enough meat and regular victuals.  Gaunted she was, but I didn’t suspect her mind was contaminated none till I sprung Chester Timmins on her as a good marrying bet.  You know Chet, son of old Dave that has the Lazy Eight Ranch over on Pipe Stone ­a good, clean boy that’ll have the ranch to himself as soon as old Dave dies of meanness, and that can’t be long now.  It was then she come out delirious about not being the pampered toy of any male ­male, mind you!  It seems when these hussies want to knock man nowadays they call him a male.  And she rippled on about the freedom of her soul and her downtrod sisters and this here New Dawn.

“Well, sir, a baby could have pushed me flat with one finger.  At first I didn’ know no better’n to argue with her, I was that affrighted.  ’Why, Nettie Hosford,’ I says, ’to think I’ve lived to hear my only sister’s only child talking in shrieks like that!  To think I should have to tell one of my own kin that women’s place is the home.  Look at me,’ I says ­we was down in Red Gap at the time ­’pretty soon I’ll go up to the ranch and what’ll I do there?” I says.

“‘Well, listen,’ I says, ’to a few of the things I’ll be doing:  I’ll be marking, branding, and vaccinating the calves, I’ll be classing and turning out the strong cattle on the range.  I’ll be having the colts rid, breaking mules for haying, oiling and mending the team harness, cutting and hauling posts, tattooing the ears and registering the thoroughbred calves, putting in dams, cleaning ditches, irrigating the flats, setting out the vegetable garden, building fence, swinging new gates, overhauling the haying tools, receiving, marking, and branding the new two ­year ­old bulls, plowing and seeding grain for our work stock and hogs, breaking in new cooks and blacksmiths’ ­I was so mad I went on till I was winded.  ‘And that ain’t half of it,’ I says.  ’Women’s work is never done; her place is in the home and she finds so much to do right there that she ain’t getting any time to lead a New Dawn.  I’ll start you easy,’ I says; ’learn you to bake a batch of bread or do a tub of washing ­something simple ­and there’s Chet Timmins, waiting to give you a glorious future as wife and mother and helpmeet.’

“She just give me one look as cold as all arctics and says, ’It’s repellent’ ­that’s all, just ‘repellent.’  I see I was up against it.  No good talking.  Sometimes it comes over me like a flash when not to talk.  It does to some women.  So I affected a light manner and pretended to laugh it off, just as if I didn’t see scandal threatening ­think of having it talked about that a niece of my own raising was a leader of the New Dawn!

“‘All right,’ I says, ’only, of course, Chet Timmins is a good friend and neighbour of mine, even if he is a male, so I hope you won’t mind his dropping in now and again from time to time, just to say howdy and eat a meal.’  And she flusters me again with her coolness.

“‘No,’ she says, ’I won’t mind, but I know what you’re counting on, and it won’t do either of you any good.  I’m above the appeal of a man’s mere presence,’ she says, ’for I’ve thrown off the age ­long subjection; but I won’t mind his coming.  I shall delight to study him.  They’re all alike, and one specimen is as good as another for that.  But neither of you need expect anything,’ she says, ’for the wrongs of my sisters have armoured me against the grossness of mere sex appeal.’  Excuse me for getting off such things, but I’m telling you how she talked.

“‘Oh, shucks!’ I says to myself profanely, for all at once I saw she wasn’t talking her own real thoughts but stuff she’d picked up from the well-known lady friends of Mrs. W.B.  Hemingway.  I was mad all right; but the minute I get plumb sure mad I get wily.  ‘I was just trying you out,’ I says.  ‘Of course you are right!’ ‘Of course I am,’ says she, ’though I hardly expected you to see it, you being so hardened a product of the ancient ideal of slave marriage.’

“At them words it was pretty hard for me to keep on being wily, but I kept all right.  I kept beautifully.  I just laughed and said we’d have Chet Timmins up for supper, and she laughed and said it would be amusing.

“And it was, or it would have been if it hadn’t been so sad and disgusting.  Chet, you see, had plumb crumpled the first time he ever set eyes on her, and he’s never been able to uncrumple.  He always choked up the minute she’d come into the room, and that night he choked worse’n ever because the little devil started in to lead him on ­aiming to show me how she could study a male, I reckon.  He couldn’t even ask for some more of the creamed potatoes without choking up ­with her all the time using her eyes on him, and telling him how a great rough man like him scared ‘poor little me.’  Chet’s tan bleaches out a mite by the end of winter, but she kept his face exactly the shade of that new mahogany sideboard I got, and she told him several times that he ought to go see a throat specialist right off about that choking of his.

“And after supper I’m darned if she didn’t lure him out onto the porch in the moonlight, and stand there sad looking and helpless, simply egging him on, mind you, her in one of them little squashy white dresses that she managed to brush against him ­all in the way of cold study, mind you.  Say, ain’t we the lovely tame rattlesnakes when we want to be!  And this big husky lummox of a Chester Timmins ­him she’d called a male ­what does he do but stand safely at a distance of four feet in the grand romantic light of the full moon, and tell her vivaciously all about the new saddle he’s having made in Spokane.  And even then he not only chokes but he giggles.  They do say a strong man in tears is a terrible sight.  But a husky man giggling is worse ­take it from one who has suffered.  And all the time I knew his heart was furnishing enough actual power to run a feed chopper.  So did she!

“‘The creature is so typical,’ she says when the poor cuss had finally stumbled down the front steps.  ‘He’s a real type.’  Only she called it ‘teep,’ having studied the French language among other things.  ’He is a teep indeed!’ she says.

“I had to admit myself that Chester wasn’t any self-starter.  I saw he’d have to be cranked by an outsider if he was going to win a place of his own in the New Dawn.  And I kept thinking wily, and the next P.M. when Nettie and I was downtown I got my hunch.  You know that music store on Fourth Street across from the Boston Cash Emporium.  It’s kept by C. Wilbur Todd, and out in front in a glass case he had a mechanical banjo that was playing ‘The Rosary’ with variations when we come by.  We stopped a minute to watch the machinery picking the strings and in a flash I says to myself, ‘I got it!  Eureka, California!’ I says, ’it’s come to me!’

“Of course that piece don’t sound so awful tender when it’s done on a banjo with variations, but I’d heard it done right and swell one time and so I says, ’There’s the song of songs to bring foolish males and females to their just mating sense.’”

The speaker paused to drain her cup and to fashion another cigarette, her eyes dreaming upon far vistas.

“Ain’t it fierce what music does to persons,” she resumed.  “Right off I remembered the first time I’d heard that piece ­in New York City four years ago, in a restaurant after the theatre one night, where I’d gone with Mrs. W.B.  Hemingway and her husband.  A grand, gay place it was, with an orchestra.  I picked at some untimely food and sipped a highball ­they wouldn’t let a lady smoke there ­and what interested me was the folks that come in.  Folks always do interest me something amazing.  Strange ones like that, I mean, where you set and try to figure out all about ’em, what kind of homes they got, and how they act when they ain’t in a swell restaurant, and everything.  Pretty soon comes a couple to the table next us and, say, they was just plain Mr. and Mrs. Mad.  Both of ’em stall-fed.  He was a large, shiny lad, with pink jowls barbered to death and wicked looking, like a well-known clubman or villain.  The lady was spectacular and cynical, with a cold, thin nose and eyes like a couple of glass marbles.  Her hair was several shades off a legal yellow and she was dressed!  She would have made handsome loot, believe me ­aigrette, bracelets, rings, dog collar, gold-mesh bag, vanity case ­Oh, you could see at a glance that she was one of them Broadway social favourites you read about.  And both grouchy, like I said.  He scowled till you knew he’d just love to beat a crippled step-child to death, and she ­well, her work wasn’t so coarse; she kept her mad down better.  She set there as nice and sweet as a pet scorpion.

“‘A scrap,’ I says to myself, ’and they’ve only half finished.  She’s threatened to quit and he, the cowardly dog, has dared her to.’  Plain enough.  The waiter knew it soon as I did when he come to take their order.  Wouldn’t speak to each other.  Talked through him; fought it out to something different for each one.  Couldn’t even agree on the same kind of cocktail.  Both slamming the waiter ­before they fought the order to a finish each had wanted to call the head waiter, only the other one stopped it.

“So I rubbered awhile, trying to figure out why such folks want to finish up their fights in a restaurant, and then I forgot ’em, looking at some other persons that come in.  Then the orchestra started this song and I seen a lady was getting up in front to sing it.  I admit the piece got me.  It got me good.  Really, ain’t it the gooey mess of heart-throbs when you come right down to it?  This lady singer was a good-looking sad-faced contralto in a low-cut black dress ­and how she did get the tears out of them low notes!  Oh, I quit looking at people while her chest was oozing out that music.  And it got others, too.  I noticed lots of ’em had stopped eating when I looked round, and there was so much clapping she had to get up and do it all over again.  And what you think?  In the middle of the second time I look over to these fighters, and darned if they ain’t holding hands across the table; and more, she’s got a kind of pitiful, crying smile on and he’s crying right out ­crying into his cold asparagus, plain as day.

“What more would you want to know about the powers of this here piece of music?  They both spoke like human beings to the scared waiter when he come back, and the lad left a five-spot on the tray when he paid his check.  Some song, yes?

“And all this flashed back on me when Nettie and I stood there watching this cute little banjo.  So I says to myself, ’Here, my morbid vestal, is where I put you sane; here’s where I hurl an asphyxiating bomb into the trenches of the New Dawn.’  Out loud I only says, ’Let’s go in and see if Wilbur has got some new records.’

“‘Wilbur?’ says she, and we went in.  Nettie had not met Wilbur.

“I may as well tell you here and now that C. Wilbur Todd is a shrimp.  Shrimp I have said and shrimp I always will say.  He talks real brightly in his way ­he will speak words like an actor or something ­but for brains!  Say, he always reminds me of the dumb friend of the great detective in the magazine stories, the one that goes along to the scene of the crime to ask silly questions and make fool guesses about the guilty one, and never even suspects who done the murder, till the detective tells on the last page when they’re all together in the library.

“Sure, that’s Wilbur.  It would be an ideal position for him.  Instead of which he runs this here music store, sells these jitney pianos and phonographs and truck like that.  And serious!  Honestly, if you seen him coming down the street you’d say, ’There comes one of these here musicians.’  Wears long hair and a low collar and a flowing necktie and talks about his technique.  Yes, sir, about the technique of working a machinery piano.  Gives free recitals in the store every second Saturday afternoon, and to see him set down and pump with his feet, and push levers and pull handles, weaving himself back and forth, tossing his long, silken locks back and looking dreamily off into the distance, you’d think he was a Paderewski.  As a matter of fact, I’ve seen Paderewski play and he don’t make a tenth of the fuss Wilbur does.  And after this recital I was at one Saturday he comes up to some of us ladies, mopping his pale brow, and he says, ’It does take it out of one!  I’m always a nervous wreck after these little affairs of mine.’  Would that get you, or would it not?

“So we go in the store and Wilbur looks up from a table he’s setting at in the back end.

“‘You find me studying some new manuscripts,’ he says, pushing back the raven locks from his brow.  Say, it was a weary gesture he done it with ­sort of languid and world-weary.  And what you reckon he meant by studying manuscripts?  Why, he had one of these rolls of paper with the music punched into it in holes, and he was studying that line that tells you when to play hard or soft and all like that.  Honest, that was it!

“’I always study these manuscripts of the masters conscientiously before I play them,’ says he.

“Such is Wilbur.  Such he will ever be.  So I introduced him to Nettie and asked if he had this here song on a phonograph record.  He had.  He had it on two records.  ’One by a barytone gentleman, and one by a mezzo-soprano,’ says Wilbur.  I set myself back for both.  He also had it with variations on one of these punched rolls.  He played that for us.  It took him three minutes to get set right at the piano and to dust his fingers with a white silk handkerchief which he wore up his sleeve.  And he played with great expression and agony and bending exercises, ever and anon tossing back his rebellious locks and fixing us with a look of pained ecstasy.  Of course it sounded better than the banjo, but you got to have the voice with that song if you’re meaning to do any crooked work.  Nettie was much taken with it even so, and Wilbur played it another way.  What he said was that it was another school of interpretation.  It seemed to have its points with him, though he favoured the first school, he said, because of a certain almost rugged fidelity.  He said the other school was marked by a tendency to idealism, and he pulled some of the handles to show how it was done.  I’m merely telling you how Wilbur talked.

“Nettie listened very serious.  There was a new look in her eyes.  ’That song has got to her even on a machinery piano,’ I says, ’but wait till we get the voice, with she and Chester out in the mischievous moonlight.’  Wasn’t I the wily old hound!  Nettie sort of lingered to hear Wilbur, who was going good by this time.  ’One must be the soul behind the wood and wire,’ he says; ’one rather feels just that, or one remains merely a brutal mechanic.’

“‘I understand,’ says Nettie.  ‘How you must have studied!’

“‘Oh, studied!’ says Wilbur, and tossed his mane back and laughed in a lofty and suffering manner.  Studied!  He’d gone one year to a business college in Seattle after he got out of high school!

“‘I understand,’ says Nettie, looking all reverent and buffaloed.

“‘It is the price one must pay for technique,’ says Wilbur.  ’And to-day you found me in the mood.  I am not always in the mood.’

“‘I understand,’ says Nettie.

“I’m just giving you an idea, understand.  Then Wilbur says, ’I will bring these records up this evening if I may.  The mezzo-soprano requires a radically different adjustment from the barytone.’  ‘My God!’ thinks I, ‘has he got technique on the phonograph, too!’ But I says he must come by all means, thinking he could tend the machine while Nettie and Chester is out on the porch getting wise to each other.

“‘There’s another teep for you,’ I says to Nettie when we got out of the place.  ‘He certainly is marked by tendencies,’ I says.  I meant it for a nasty slam at Wilbur’s painful deficiencies as a human being, but she took it as serious as Wilbur took himself ­which is some!

“‘Ah, yes, the artist teep,’ says she,’the most complex, the most baffling of all.’

“That was a kind of a sickish jolt to me ­the idea that something as low in the animal kingdom as Wilbur could baffle anyone ­but I thinks, ’Shucks!  Wait till he lines up alongside of a regular human man like Chet Timmins!’

“I had Chet up to supper again.  He still choked on words of one syllable if Nettie so much as glanced at him, and turned all sorts of painful colours like a cheap rug.  But I keep thinking the piece will fix that all right.

“At eight o’clock Wilbur sifted in with his records and something else flat and thin, done up in paper that I didn’t notice much at the time.  My dear heart, how serious he was!  As serious as ­well, I chanced to be present at the house of mourning when the barber come to shave old Judge Armstead after he’d passed away ­you know what I mean ­kind of like him Wilbur was, talking subdued and cat-footing round very solemn and professional.  I thought he’d never get that machine going.  He cleaned it, and he oiled it, and he had great trouble picking out the right fibre needle, holding six or eight of ’em up to the light, doing secret things to the machine’s inwards, looking at us sharp as if we oughtn’t to be talking even then, and when she did move off I’m darned if he didn’t hang in a strained manner over that box, like he was the one that was doing it all and it wouldn’t get the notes right if he took his attention off.

“It was a first-class record, I’ll say that.  It was the male barytone ­one of them pleading voices that get all into you.  It wasn’t half over before I seen Nettie was strongly moved, as they say, only she was staring at Wilbur, who by now was leading the orchestra with one graceful arm and looking absorbed and sodden, like he done it unconsciously.  Chester just set there with his mouth open, like something you see at one of these here aquariums.

“We moved round some when it was over, while Wilbur was picking out just the right needle for the other record, and so I managed to cut that lump of a Chester out of the bunch and hold him on the porch till I got Nettie out, too.  Then I said ‘Sh-h-h!’ so they wouldn’t move when Wilbur let the mezzo-soprano start.  And they had to stay out there in the golden moonlight with love’s young dream and everything.  The lady singer was good, too.  No use in talking, that song must have done a lot of heart work right among our very best families.  It had me going again so I plumb forgot my couple outside.  I even forgot Wilbur, standing by the box showing the lady how to sing.

“It come to the last ­you know how it ends ­’To kiss the cross, sweetheart, to kiss the cross!’ There was a rich and silent moment and I says, ’If that Chet Timmins hasn’t shown himself to be a regular male teep by this time ­’ And here come Chet’s voice, choking as usual, ’Yes, paw switched to Durhams and Herefords over ten years ago ­you see Holsteins was too light; they don’t carry the meat ­’ Honest!  I’m telling you what I heard.  And yet when they come in I could see that Chester had had tears in his eyes from that song, so still I didn’t give in, especially as Nettie herself looked very exalted, like she wasn’t at that minute giving two whoops in the bad place for the New Dawn.

“Nettie made for Wilbur, who was pushing back his hair with a weak but graceful sweep of the arm ­it had got down before his face like a portiere ­and I took Chet into a corner and tried to get some of the just wrath of God into his heart; but, my lands!  You’d have said he didn’t know there was such a thing as a girl in the whole Kulanche Valley.  He didn’t seem to hear me.  He talked other matters.

“‘Paw thinks,’ he says, ’that he might manage to take them hundred and fifty bull calves off your hands.’  ‘Oh, indeed!’ I says.  ’And does he think of buying ’em ­as is often done in the cattle business ­or is he merely aiming to do me a favour?’ I was that mad at the poor worm, but he never knew.  ’Why, now, paw says “You tell Maw Pettengill I might be willing to take ’em off her hands at fifty dollars a head,"’ he says.  ’I should think he might be,’ I says, ’but they ain’t bothering my hands the least little mite.  I like to have ’em on my hands at anything less than sixty a head,’ I says.  ‘Your pa,’ I went on, ’is the man that started this here safety-first cry.  Others may claim the honour, but it belongs solely to him.’  ‘He never said anything about that,’ says poor Chester.  ‘He just said you was going to be short of range this summer.’  ‘Be that all too true, as it may be,’ I says, ’but I still got my business faculties ­’ And I was going on some more, but just then I seen Nettie and Wilbur was awful thick over something he’d unwrapped from the other package he’d brought.  It was neither more nor less than a big photo of C. Wilbur Todd.  Yes, sir, he’d brought her one.

“’I think the artist has caught a bit of the real just there, if you know what I mean,’ says Wilbur, laying a pale thumb across the upper part of the horrible thing.

“‘I understand,’ says Nettie, ‘the real you was expressing itself.’

“‘Perhaps,’ concedes Wilbur kind of nobly.  ’I dare say he caught me in one of my rarer moods.  You don’t think it too idealized?’

“‘Don’t jest,’ says she, very pretty and severe.  And they both gazed spellbound.

“‘Chester,’ I says in low but venomous tones, ’you been hanging round that girl worse than Grant hung round Richmond, but you got to remember that Grant was more than a hanger.  He made moves, Chester, moves!  Do you get me?’

“‘About them calves,’ says Chester, ’pa told me it’s his honest opinion ­’

“Well, that was enough for once.  I busted up that party sudden and firm.

“‘It has meant much to me,’ says Wilbur at parting.

“‘I understand,’ says Nettie.

“‘When you come up to the ranch, Miss Nettie,’ says Chester, ’you want to ride over to the Lazy Eight, and see that there tame coyote I got.  It licks your hand like a dog.’

“But what could I do, more than what I had done?  Nettie was looking at the photograph when I shut the door on ’em.  ’The soul behind the wood and wire,’ she murmurs.  I looked closer then and what do you reckon it was?  Just as true as I set here, it was Wilbur, leaning forward all negligent and patronizing on a twelve-hundred-dollar grand piano, his hair well forward and his eyes masterful, like that there noble instrument was his bond slave.  But wait!  And underneath he’d writ a bar of music with notes running up and down, and signed his name to it ­not plain, mind you, though he can write a good business hand if he wants to, but all scrawly like some one important, so you couldn’t tell if it was meant for Dutch or English.  Could you beat that for nerve ­in a day, in a million years?

“‘What’s Wilbur writing that kind of music for?’ I asks in a cold voice.  ’He don’t know that kind.  What he had ought to of written is a bunch of them hollow slats and squares like they punch in the only kind of music he plays,’ I says.

“‘Hush!’ says Nettie.  ’It’s that last divine phrase, “To kiss the cross!"’

“I choked up myself then.  And I went to bed and thought.  And this is what I thought:  When you think you got the winning hand, keep on raising.  To call is to admit you got no faith in your judgment.  Better lay down than call.  So I resolve not to say another word to the girl about Chester, but simply to press the song in on her.  Already it had made her act like a human person.  Of course I didn’t worry none about Wilbur.  The wisdom of the ages couldn’t have done that.  But I seen I had got to have a real first-class human voice in that song, like the one I had heard in New York City.  They’ll just have to clench, I think, when they hear a good A-number-one voice in it.

“Next day I look in on Wilbur and say, ’What about this concert and musical entertainment the North Side set is talking about giving for the starving Belgians?’

“‘The plans are maturing,’ he says, ’but I’m getting up a Brahms concerto that I have promised to play ­you know how terrifically difficult Brahms is ­so the date hasn’t been set yet.’

“‘Well, set it and let’s get to work,’ I says.  ’There’ll be you, and the North Side Ladies’ String Quartet, and Ed Bughalter with a bass solo, and Mrs. Dr. Percy Hailey Martingale with the “Jewel Song” from Faust, and I been thinking,’ I says, ’that we had ought to get a good professional lady concert singer down from Spokane.’

“‘I’m afraid the expenses would go over our receipts,’ says Wilbur, and I can see him figuring that this concert will cost the Belgians money instead of helping ’em; so right off I says, ’If you can get a good-looking, sad-faced contralto, with a low-cut black dress, that can sing “The Rosary” like it had ought to be sung, why, you can touch me for that part of the evening’s entertainment.’

“Wilbur says I’m too good, not suspicioning I’m just being wily, so he says he’ll write up and fix it.  And a couple days later he says the lady professional is engaged, and it’ll cost me fifty, and he shows me her picture and the dress is all right, and she had a sad, powerful face, and the date is set and everything.

“Meantime, I keep them two records het up for the benefit of my reluctant couple:  daytime for Nettie ­she standing dreamy-eyed while it was doing, showing she was coming more and more human, understand ­and evenings for both of ’em, when Chester Timmins would call.  And Chet himself about the third night begins to get a new look in his eyes, kind of absent and desperate, so I thinks this here lady professional will simply goad him to a frenzy.  Oh, we had some sad musical week before that concert!  That was when this crazy Chink of mine got took by the song.  He don’t know yet what it means, but it took him all right; he got regular besotted with it, keeping the kitchen door open all the time, so he wouldn’t miss a single turn.  It took his mind off his work, too.  Talk about the Yellow Peril!  He got so locoed with that song one day, what does he do but peel and cook up twelve dollars’ worth of the Piedmont Queen dahlia bulbs I’d ordered for the front yard.  Sure!  Served ’em with cream sauce, and we et ’em, thinking they was some kind of a Chinese vegetable.

“But I was saying about this new look in Chester’s eyes, kind of far-off and criminal, when that song was playing.  And then something give me a pause, as they say.  Chet showed up one evening with his nails all manicured; yes, sir, polished till you needed smoked glasses to look at ’em.  I knew all right where he’d been.  I may as well tell you that Henry Lehman was giving Red Gap a flash of form with his new barber shop ­tiled floor, plate-glass front, exposed plumbing, and a manicure girl from Seattle; yes, sir, just like in the great wicked cities.  It had already turned some of our very best homes into domestic hells, and no wonder!  Decent, God-fearing men, who’d led regular lives and had whiskers and grown children, setting down to a little spindle-legged table with this creature, dipping their clumsy old hands into a pink saucedish of suds and then going brazenly back to their innocent families with their nails glittering like piano keys.  Oh, that young dame was bound to be a social pet among the ladies of the town, yes ­no?  She was pretty and neat figured, with very careful hair, though its colour had been tampered with unsuccessfully, and she wore little, blue-striped shirtwaists that fitted very close ­you know ­with low collars.  It was said that she was a good conversationalist and would talk in low, eager tones to them whose fingers she tooled.

“Still, I didn’t think anything of Chester resorting to that sanitary den of vice.  All I think is that he’s trying to pretty himself up for Nettie and maybe show her he can be a man-about-town, like them she has known in Spokane and in Yonkers, New York, at the select home of Mrs. W.B.  Hemingway and her husband.  How little we think when we had ought to be thinking our darndest!  Me?  I just went on playing them two records, the male barytone and the lady mezzo, and trying to curse that Chinaman into keeping the kitchen door shut on his cooking, with Wilbur dropping in now and then so him and Nettie could look at his photo, which was propped up against a book on the centre table ­one of them large three-dollar books that you get stuck with by an agent and never read ­and Nettie dropping into his store now and then to hear him practise over difficult bits from his piece that he was going to render at the musical entertainment for the Belgians, with him asking her if she thought he shaded the staccato passage a mite too heavy, or some guff like that.

“So here come the concert, with every seat sold and the hall draped pretty with flags and cut flowers.  Some of the boys was down from the ranch, and you bet I made ’em all come across for tickets, and old Safety First ­Chet’s father ­I stuck him for a dollar one, though he had an evil look in his eyes.  That’s how the boys got so crazy about this here song.  They brought that record back with ’em.  And Buck Devine, that I met on the street that very day of the concert, he give me another kind of a little jolt.  He’d been gossiping round town, the vicious way men do, and he says to me: 

“’That Chester lad is taking awful chances for a man that needs his two hands at his work.  Of course if he was a foot-racer or something like that, where he didn’t need hands ­’ ‘What’s all this?’ I asks.  ‘Why,’ says Buck, ’he’s had his nails rasped down to the quick till he almost screams if they touch anything, and he goes back for more every single day.  It’s a wonder they ain’t mortified on him already; and say, it costs him six bits a throw and, of course, he don’t take no change from a dollar ­he leaves the extra two bits for a tip.  Gee!  A dollar a day for keeping your nails tuned up ­and I ain’t sure he don’t have ’em done twice on Sundays.  Mine ain’t never had a file teched to ’em yet,’ he says.  ‘I see that,’ I says.  ’If any foul-minded person ever accuses you of it, you got abundant proofs of your innocence right there with you.  As for Chester,’ I says, ‘he has an object.’  ‘He has,’ says Buck.  ’Not what you think,’ I says.  ‘Very different from that.  It’s true,’ I concedes, ’that he ought to take that money and go to some good osteopath and have his head treated, but he’s all right at that.  Don’t you set up nights worrying about it.’  And I sent Buck slinking off shamefaced but unconvinced, I could see.  But I wasn’t a bit scared.

“Chet et supper with us the night of the concert and took Nettie and I to the hall, and you bet I wedged them two close in next each other when we got to our seats.  This was my star play.  If they didn’t fall for each other now ­Shucks!  They had to.  And I noticed they was more confidential already, with Nettie looking at him sometimes almost respectfully.

“Well, the concert went fine, with the hired lady professional singer giving us some operatic gems in various foreign languages in the first part, and Ed Bughalter singing “A King of the Desert Am I, Ha, Ha!” very bass ­Ed always sounds to me like moving heavy furniture round that ain’t got any casters under it ­and Mrs. Dr. Percy Hailey Martingale with the “Jewel Song” from Faust, that she learned in a musical conservatory at Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and “Coming Through the Rye” for an encore ­holding the music rolled up in her hands, though the Lord knows she knew every word and note of it by heart ­and the North Side Ladies’ String Quartet, and Wilbur Todd, of course, putting on more airs than as if he was the only son of old man Piano himself, while he shifted the gears and pumped, and Nettie whispering that he always slept two hours before performing in public and took no nourishment but one cup of warm milk ­just a bundle of nerves that way ­and she sent him up a bunch of lilies tied with lavender ribbon while he was bowing and scraping, but I didn’t pay no attention to that, for now it was coming.

“Yes, sir, the last thing was this here lady professional, getting up stern and kind of sweetish sad in her low-cut black dress to sing the song of songs.  I was awful excited for a party of my age, and I see they was, too.  Nettie nudged Chet and whispered, ‘Don’t you just love it?’ And Chet actually says, ‘I love it,’ so no wonder I felt sure, when up to that time he’d hardly been able to say a word except about his pa being willing to take them calves for almost nothing.  Then I seen his eyes glaze and point off across the hall, and darned if there wasn’t this manicure party in a cheek little hat and tailored gown, setting with Mrs. Henry Lehman and her husband.  But still I felt all right, because him and Nettie was nudging each other intimately again when Professor Gluckstein started in on the accompaniment ­I bet Wilbur thinks the prof is awful old-fashioned, playing with his fingers that way; I know they don’t speak on the street.

“So this lady just floated into that piece with all the heart stops pulled out, and after one line I didn’t begrudge her a cent of my fifty.  I just set there and thrilled.  I could feel Nettie and Chet thrilling, too, and I says, ‘There’s nothing to it ­not from now on.’

“The applause didn’t bust loose till almost a minute after she’d kissed the cross in that rich brown voice of hers, and even then my couple didn’t join in.  Nettie set still, all frozen and star-eyed, and Chester was choking and sniffling awful emotionally.  ’I’ve sure nailed the young fools,’ I thinks.  And, of course, this lady had to sing it again, and not half through was she when, sure enough, I glanced down sideways and Chet’s right hand and her left hand is squirming together till they look like a bunch of eels.  ‘All over but the rice,’ I says, and at that I felt so good and thrilled!  I was thinking back to my own time when I was just husband-high, though that wasn’t so little, Lysander John being a scant six foot three ­and our wedding tour to the Centennial and the trip to Niagara Falls ­just soaking in old memories that bless and bind that this lady singer was calling up ­well, you could have had anything from me right then when she kissed that cross a second time, just pouring her torn heart out.  ‘Worth every cent of that fifty,’ I says.

“Then everybody was standing up and moving out ­wiping their eyes a lot of ’em was ­so I push on ahead quick, aiming to be more wily than ever and leave my couple alone.  They don’t miss me, either.  When I look back, darned if they ain’t kind of shaking hands right there in the hall.  ‘Quick work!’ I says.  ‘You got to hand it to that song.’  Even then I noticed Nettie was looking back to where Wilbur was tripping down from the platform, and Chester had his eyes glazed over on this manicure party.  Still, they was gripping each other’s hands right there before folks, and I think they’re just a bit embarrassed.  My old heart went right on echoing that song as I pushed forward ­not looking back again, I was that certain.

“And to show you the mushy state I was in, here is old Safety First himself leering at me down by the door, with a clean shave and his other clothes on, and he says all about how it was a grand evening’s musical entertainment and how much will the Belgians get in cold cash, anyway, and how about them hundred and fifty head of bull calves that he was willing to take off my hands, and me, all mushed up by that song as I am telling you, saying to him in a hearty manner, ’They’re yours, Dave!  Take ’em at your own price, old friend.’  Honest, I said it just that way, so you can see.  ’Oh, I’ll be stuck on ’em at fifty a head,’ says Dave, ‘but I knew you’d listen to reason, we being such old neighbours.’  ‘I ain’t heard reason since that last song,’ I says.  I’m listening to my heart, and it’s a grand pity yours never learned to talk.’  ’Fifty a head,’ says the old robber.

“So, thus throwing away at least fifteen hundred dollars like it was a mere bagatelle or something, I walk out into the romantic night and beat it for home, wanting to be in before my happy couple reached there, so they’d feel free to linger over their parting.  My, but I did feel responsible and dangerous, directing human destinies so brashly the way I had.”

There was a pause, eloquent with unworded emotions.

Then “Human destinies, hell!” the lady at length intoned.

Hereupon I amazingly saw that she believed her tale to be done.  I permitted the silence to go a minute, perhaps, while she fingered the cigarette paper and loose tobacco.

“And of course, then,” I hinted, as the twin jets of smoke were rather viciously expelled.

“I should say so ­’of course, then’ ­you got it.  But I didn’t get it for near an hour yet.  I set up to my bedroom window in the dark, waiting excitedly, and pretty soon they slowly floated up to the front gate, talking in hushed tones and gurgles.  ‘Male and female created He them,’ I says, flushed with triumph.  The moon wasn’t up yet, but you hadn’t any trouble making out they was such.  He was acting outrageously like a male and she was suffering it with the splendid courage which has long distinguished our helpless sex.  And there I set, warming my old heart in it and expanding like one of them little squeezed-up sponges you see in the drug-store window which swells up so astonishing when you put it in water.  I wasn’t impatient for them to quit, oh, no!  They seemed to clench and unclench and clench again, as if they had all the time in the world ­with me doing nothing but applaud silently.

“After spending about twenty years out there they loitered softly up the walk and round to the side door where I’d left the light burning, and I slipped over to the side window, which was also open, and looked down on the dim fond pair, and she finally opened the door softly and the light shone out.”

Again Ma Pettengill paused, her elbows on the arms of her chair, her shoulders forward, her gray old head low between them.  She drew a long breath and rumbled fiercely: 

“And the mushy fool me, forcing that herd of calves on old Dave at that scandalous price ­after all, that’s what really gaffed me the worst!  My stars!  If I could have seen that degenerate old crook again that night ­but of course a trade’s a trade, and I’d said it.  Ain’t I the old silly!”

“The door opened and the light shone out ­”

I gently prompted.

She erected herself in the chair, threw back her shoulders, and her wide mouth curved and lifted at the corners with the humour that never long deserts this woman.

“Yep!  That light flooded out its golden rays on the reprehensible person of C. Wilbur Todd,” she crisply announced.  “And like they say in the stories, little remains to be told.

“I let out a kind of strangled yell, and Wilbur beat it right across my new lawn, and I beat it downstairs.  But that girl was like a sleepwalker ­not to be talked to, I mean, like you could talk to persons.

“‘Aunty,’ she says in creepy tones, ’I have brought myself to the ultimate surrender.  I know the chains are about me, already I feel the shackles, but I glory in them.’  She kind of gasped and shivered in horrible delight.  ‘I’ve kissed the cross at last,’ she mutters.

“I was so weak I dropped into a chair and I just looked at her.  At first I couldn’t speak, then I saw it was no good speaking.  She was free, white, and twenty-one.  So I never let on.  I’ve had to take a jolt or two in my time.  I’ve learned how.  But finally I did manage to ask how about Chet Timmins.

“‘I wronged dear Chester,’ she says.  ’I admit it freely.  He has a heart of gold and a nature in a thousand.  But, of course, there could never be anything between him and a nature like mine; our egos function on different planes,’ she says.  ’Dear Chester came to see it, too.  It’s only in the last week we’ve come to understand each other.  It was really that wonderful song that brought us to our mutual knowledge.  It helped us to understand our mutual depths better than all the ages of eternity could have achieved.’  On she goes with this mutual stuff, till you’d have thought she was reading a composition or something.  ’And dear Chester is so radiant in his own new-found happiness,’ she says.  ‘What!’ I yells, for this was indeed some jolt.

“‘He has come into his own,’ she says.  ’They have eloped to Spokane, though I promised to observe secrecy until the train had gone.  A very worthy creature I gather from what Chester tells me, a Miss Macgillicuddy ­’

“‘Not the manicure party?’ I yells again.

“‘I believe she has been a wage-earner,’ says Nettie.  ’And dear Chester is so grateful about that song.  It was her favourite song, too, and it seemed to bring them together, just as it opened my own soul to Wilbur.  He says she sings the song very charmingly herself, and he thought it preferable that they be wed in Spokane before his father objected.  And oh, aunty, I do see how blind I was to my destiny, and how kind you were to me in my blindness ­you who had led the fuller life as I shall lead it at Wilbur’s side.’

“‘You beat it to your room,’ I orders her, very savage and disorganized.  For I had stood about all the jolts in one day that God had meant me to.  And so they was married, Chester and his bride attending the ceremony and Oscar Teetz’ five-piece orchestra playing the ­” She broke off, with a suddenly blazing glance at the disk, and seized it from the table rather purposefully.  With a hand firmly at both edges she stared inscrutably at it a long moment.

“I hate to break the darned thing,” she said musingly at last.  “I guess I’ll just lock it up.  Maybe some time I’ll be feeling the need to hear it again.  I know I can still be had by it if all the circumstances is right.”

Still she stared at the thing curiously.

“Gee!  It was hot getting them calves out to-day, and old Safety First moaning about all over the place how he’s being stuck with ’em, till more than once I come near forgetting I was a lady ­and, oh, yes” ­she brightened ­“I was going to tell you.  After it was all over, Wilbur, the gallant young tone poet, comes gushing up to me and says, ’Now, aunty, always when you are in town you must drop round and break bread with us.’  Aunty, mind you, right off the reel.  ‘Well,’ I says, ’if I drop round to break any bread your wife bakes I’ll be sure to bring a hammer.’  I couldn’t help it.  He’ll make a home for the girl all right, but he does something sinful to my nerves every time he opens his face.  And then coming back here, where I looked for God’s peace and quiet, and being made to hear that darned song every time I turned round!

“I give orders plain enough, but say, it’s like a brush fire ­you never know when you got it stamped out.”

From the kitchen came the sound of a dropped armful of stove wood.  Hard upon this, the unctuous whining tenor of Jimmie Time: 

    Oh-h-h mem-o-reez thu-hat blu-hess and bu-hurn!

“You, Jimmie Time!” It is a voice meant for Greek tragedy and a theatre open to the heavens.  I could feel the terror of the aged vassal.

“Yes, ma’am!” The tone crawled abasingly.  “I forgot myself.”

I was glad, and I dare say he had the wit to be, that he had not to face the menace of her glare.