Nine Short Stories | Page 6

the sweet, helpless child. Would
he take it now if he had a chance? Would he!
The major's voice came:
"Go, please. I'm sleepy, and you've given me a lot of trouble. I shall
have to revive Hilda, if it is possible. I have doubts on the subject. She
refuses to keep herself in condition. She eats too much, she will not
take a cold bath, she won't train properly, she is sixty-eight pounds
overweight, and she sleeps with her mouth open. But she's a good
cook--"
"She is that," Bill put in feelingly, with his memory on the shortcake.
"--and I trust she has not expired. There is my father, too. To put it
mildly, he is a weakling. His lack of wind is deplorable. He sits down

immediately after eating. It is only three miles to his law office, and he
rides. He plays golf and calls it exercise. If you have gagged him
scientifically he may have ceased breathing by now.
"In one way it would be nothing to grieve over, but he is my father after
all, and the filial instinct impels me to his assistance against my better
judgment. You do not seem to be in good condition yourself. I doubt if
you know how to breathe properly, and it is evident that you do not
train systematically. There are books on the subject in the public library;
I would advise you to get one. You may give my name as reference.
Now go."
Bill went. The door of the room was open. He started toward the back
stairs, but the major halted him abruptly and made him right about; she
had switched on the lights in the hall. Down the wide front staircase he
tramped, and from behind came the major's voice:
"Keep your mouth closed. Head up! Arms at your side. Breathe through
your nose. Chest out forward! Hep, hep, hep--the door swings in. Leave
it open. Lift your foot and come down on the heel. Turn the corner
sharply. Head up!"
She stood in the doorway as he marched across the porch, down the
steps, and along the gravel path to the sidewalk. A turn to the right, and
thirty paces took him to the street corner. Still the major's voice
sounded from the doorway:
"Hep, hep, hep--lift your feet higher--breathe through your nose--hep,
hep, hep--"
And as he reached the street corner the command came sharply:
"Halt! About face! Salute!"
A glance over his shoulder showed him her nightgown framed in the
doorway. There were trees in between. Bill halted, but he did not about
face and he did not salute. It was too much. Instead, after a second's
hesitation, he bounded all at once into the street and across it, and was

off like a shot. And as he ran he replied to her command to salute by
calling back over his shoulder, as man to man:
"Go to hell!"
(All-Story Weekly, January 13, 1917)
The Rope Dance
It was on a bright October afternoon that Rick Duggett got off at Grand
Central Station, New York, with eight hundred dollars in the pocket of
his brand new suit of clothes. But first of all it is necessary to explain
how he got there and where the money came from.
He was one of those men who never do anything by halves. He ate
prodigiously or fasted, he slept eleven hours or not at all, he sat in a
poker game only when it was expressly understood that the roof was
the limit anal you might blow that off if you had enough powder.
Whatever he did he went just a little farther than any one else, so it was
only natural that he should reach the top of his profession. He was the
best roper in Eastern Arizona, which is no mean title even in these days
when good ropers are as scarce as water holes in a desert.
When a prize of one thousand dollars cash was hung up in the great
roping contest held at Honeville last October everybody expected Rick
Duggett to win it, and he did not disappoint them. He roped and tied ten
steers in fourteen minutes and twenty-eight seconds, seven full minutes
better than the nearest competitor.
There had been considerable speculation as to what Rick would do with
the money. Of course he would entertain the crowd at Ogilvy's, but
even a gang of thirsty ranchmen can't drink a thousand dollars' worth of
whisky. The rest would probably find its way into a poker game; but
then Rick Duggett was a surprising sort of fellow and you couldn't tell.
He might get married, or even take a trip to Denver.
As a matter of fact, Rick bought one round of drinks at Ogilvy's, made

arrangements for