标题：阅（一）L2—20

He came into the room to shut the windows while we were still in bed and I saw he looked ill. He was shivering, his face was white, and he walked slowly as though it ached to move.

“What’s the matter, Schatz?”

“I’ve got a headache.”

“No. I’m all right.”

“You go to bed. I’ll see you when I’m dressed.”

But when I came downstairs he was dressed, sitting by the fire, looking a very sick and miserable boy of nine years. When I put my hand on his forehead I knew he had a fever.

“You go up to bed,” I said, “you’re sick.”

“I’m all right,” he said.

When the doctor came he took the boy’s temperature. “What is it?” I asked him.

“One hundred and two.”

Downstairs, the doctor left three different medicines in different coloured capsules with instructions for giving them. One was to bring down the fever, another a purgative, the third to overcome an acid condition. The germs of influenza can only exist in an acid condition, he explained. He seemed to know all about influenza and said there was nothing to worry about if the fever did not go above one hundred and four degrees. This was a light epidemic of’ flu and there was no danger if you avoided pneumonia.

Back in the room I wrote the boy’s temperature down and made a note of the time to give the various capsules.

“Do you want me to read to you?”

“All right. If you want to,” said the boy. His face was very white and there were dark areas under his eyes. He lay still in the bed and seemed very detached from what was going on.

I read aloud from Howard Pyle’s Book of Pirates; but I could see he was not following what I was reading.

“How do you feel, Schatz?” I asked him.

“Just the same, so far,” he said.

I sat at the foot of the bed and read to myself while I waited for it to be time to give another capsule. It would have been natural for him to go to sleep, but when I looked up he was looking at the foot of the bed, looking very strangely.

“Why don’t you try to sleep? I’ll wake you up for the medicine.”

“I’d rather stay awake.”

After a while he said to me, “You don’t have to stay in here with me, Papa, if it bothers you.”

“It doesn’t bother me.”

“No, I mean you don’t have to stay if it’s going to bother you.’

I thought perhaps he was a little lightheaded and after giving him the prescribed capsules at eleven o’clock I went out for a while.

It was a bright, cold day, the ground covered with a sleet that had frozen so that it seemed as if all the bare trees, the bushes, the cut brush and all the grass and the bare ground had been varnished with ice. I took the young Irish setter for a little walk up the road and along a frozen creek, but it was difficult to stand or walk on the glassy surface and the red dog slipped and slithered and I fell twice, hard, once dropping my gun and having it slide away over the ice.

We flushed a covey of quail under a high clay bank with over hanging brush and I killed two as they went out of sight over the top of the bank. Some of the covey lit in trees, but most of them scattered into brush piles and it was necessary to jump on the ice-coated mounds of brush several times before they would flush. Coming out while you were poised unsteadily on the icy, springy brush they made difficult shooting and I killed two, missed five, and started back pleased to have found a covey close to the house and happy there were so many left to find on another day.

At the house they said the boy had refused to let anyone come into the room.

“You can’t come in,” he said. “You mustn’t get what I have.”

I went up to him and found him in exactly the position I had left him, white-faced, but with the tops of his cheeks flushed by the fever, staring still, as he had stared, at the foot of the bed.

I took his temperature.

“Something like a hundred,” I said. It was one hundred and two and four-tenths.

“It was a hundred and two,” he said.

“Who said so?”

“The doctor.”

“Your temperature is all right,” I said. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

“I don’t worry,” he said. “Just take it easy.”

“I’m taking it easy,” he said, and looked straight ahead. He was evidently holding tight onto himself about something.

“Take this with water.”

“Do you think it will do any good?”

“Of course it will.”

I sat down and opened the Pirate book and commenced to read, but I could see he was not following, so I stopped.

“About what time will it be before I die?”

“You aren’t going to die. What’s the matter with you?”

“Oh, yes, I am. I heard him say a hundred and two.”

“People don’t die with a fever of one hundred and two. That’s a silly way to talk.”

“I know they do. At school in France the boys told me you can’t live with forty-four degrees. I’ve got a hundred and two.”

“You poor Schatz,” I said. “Poor old Schatz. It’s like miles and kilometers. You aren’t going to die. That’s a different thermometer. On that thermometer thirty-seven is normal. On this kind it’s ninety-eight.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “It’s like miles and kilometers. You know, like how many kilometers we make when we do seventy miles in the car.”

“Oh,” he said.

But his gaze at foot of the bed relaxed slowly. The hold over himself relaxed too, finally, and the next day it was very slack and he cried very easily at little things that were of no importance.

Keith Koppel, private duty nurse to the extraordinarily wealthy Collis P. Ellsworth, was glad to leave his patient’s room to answer the door. He had had a tiring morning trying to get Ellsworth to cooperate in his own recovery.

“I can’t do a thing with him,” he told Dr. Caswell. “He won’t take his juice. He doesn’t want me to read to him. He hates listening to the radio or watching TV. He doesn’t like anything.”

Actually, he did like something: his business. The problem was that while he was still a fabulously man, he had recently begun to make big mistakes. He insisted at very high prices, only to watch them fail or go bankrupt.

Ellsworth was in pretty good shape for a 76-year-old, but his business failures were ruinous to his health. He had suffered his last heart attack after his disastrous purchase of a small railroad in Iowa. The health problem he suffered before that came about because of excitement over the failure of a chain of grocery stores, stores which he had purchased at an inflated price. It seemed that all his recent purchases had to be liquidated at a great sacrifice to both his pocketbook and his health. They were beginning to have serious effects.

Dr. Caswell had done his homework, however. He realized that he needed to interest the old man in something which would take his mind off his problem and redirect his energies. His answer was art. The doctor entered his patient’s room.

“I hear that you haven't been obeying orders,” the doctor said.

“Who’s giving me orders at my time of life?”

The doctor drew up his chair and sat down close to the old man. “I’ve got a suggestion for you,” he said quietly.

Old Ellsworth looked suspiciously over his eyeglasses. “What is it, more medicine, more automobile rides, more foolishness to keep me away from my office?”

“How would you like to take up art?” The doctor had his stethoscope ready in case the suddenness of the suggestion proved too much for the patient’s heart.

But the old man’s answer was a strong “foolishness!”

“I don’t mean seriously,” said the doctor, relieved that nothing had happened. “Just play around with chalk and crayons. It’ll be fun.”

But after several more scowls, which were met with gentle persuasion by the wise doctor, Ellsworth gave in. He would, at least, try it for a while.

Caswell went to his friend Judson Livingston, head of the Atlantic Art Institute, and explained the situation. Livingston introduced Frank Swain. Swain was an 18-year-old art student, quite good; who need money to continue his education. He would tutor Ellsworth on afternoon a week for ten dollars an hour.

Their first lesson was on the next afternoon. It was less than an overwhelming success. Swain began by arranging some paper and crayons on the table.

“Let’s try to draw that vase over there,” he suggested.

“What for? It’s only a bowl with some blue stains on it. Or are they green?”

“Try it, Mr. Ellsworth, please.”

“Umph!” The old man took a piece of crayon in a shaky hand and drew several lines. He drew several more and then connected these crudely. “There it is, young man,” he said with a tone of satisfaction. “Such foolishness!”

Frank swain was patient. He needed the ten dollars. “If you want to draw, you will have to look at what you’re drawing, sir.”

Ellsworth looked. “Gosh, it’s rather pretty. I never noticed it before.”

Koppel came in with the announcement that his patient had done enough for his first lesson.

“Oh, it’s pineapple juice again,” Ellsworth said. Swain left, not sure if he would be invited back.

When the art student came the following week, there was a drawing on the table that had a slight resemblance to a vase. The wrinkles deepened at the corners of the old gentleman’s eyes as he asked, “Well, what do you think of it？”

“Not bad, sir,” answered Swain. “But it’s not quite straight.”

“Gosh,” old Ellsworth smiled, “I see. The halves don’t match.” He added a few lines with a shaking hand and colored the open spaces blue, like a child playing with a picture book. Then he looked towards the door. “Listen, young man,” he whispered, “I want to ask you something before old Pineapple Juice comes back.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Swain politely.

“I was thinking——do you have the time to come twice a week, or perhaps three times?”

As the weeks went by, Swain’s visits grew more frequent. When Dr. Caswell called, Ellsworth would talk about the graceful lines of the chimney or the rich variety of color in a bowl of fruit.

The treatment was working perfectly. No more trips downtown to his office for the purpose of buying some business that was to fail later. No more crazy financial plans to try the strength of his tired old heart. Art was a complete cure for him.

The doctor thought it safe to allow Ellsworth to visit the Metropolitan Museum, the Museum of Modern Art, and other exhibitions with Swain. An entirely new world opened up its mysteries to him. The old man showed a tremendous curiosity in the art galleries and in the painters who exhibited in them. How were the galleries run? Who selected the pictures for the exhibitions? An idea was forming in his brain.

When the late spring began to cover the fields and gardens with color, Ellsworth painted a simply horrible picture which he called “Trees Dressed in White”. Then he made a surprising announcement. He was going to exhibit the picture in the summer show at the Lathrop Gallery.

The summer show at the Lathrop Gallery was the biggest art exhibition of the year——in quality, if not in size. The lifetime dream of every important artist in the United States was a prize from this exhibition. Among the paintings of this distinguished group of artists, Ellsworth was now going to place his “Trees Dressed in White”, which resembled a handful of salad dressing thrown violently against the side of a house.

“If the newspapers hear about this, everyone in town will be laughing at Mr. Ellsworth. We’ve got to stop him,” said Koppel.

“No,” warned the doctor. “We can’t interfere with him now and take a chance of running down all the good work which we have done.”

To the complete surprise of all three——and especially Swain——“Trees Dressed in White” was accepted for the Lathrop show. Not only was Mr. Ellsworth crazy, thought Koppel, but the Lathrop Gallery was crazy, too.”

Fortunately, the painting was hung in an inconspicuous place, where it did not draw any special notice or comment.

During the course of exhibition, the old man kept on taking lessons, seldom mentioning his picture. He was unusually cheerful. Every time Swain entered the room, he found Ellsworth laughing to himself. Maybe Koppel was right. The old man was crazy. But it seemed equally strange that the Lathrop committee should encourage his craziness by accepting his picture.

Two days before the close of the exhibition, a special messenger brought a long, official-looking envelope to Mr. Ellsworth while Swain, Koppel, and the doctor were in the room. “Read it to me,” said the old man. “My eyes are tired from painting.”

It gives the Lathrop Gallery great pleasure to announce that the First Prize of $1000 has been awarded to Collis P. Ellsworth for his painting “Trees Dressed in White”

Swain and Koppel were so surprised that they could not say a word. Dr. Caswell, exercising his professional self-control with a supreme effort, said, “Congratulations, Mr. Ellsworth. Fine, fine… Of cause, I didn’t expect such great news. But, but——well, now, you’ll have to admit that art is much more satisfying than business.”

“Art has nothing to do with it,” said the old man sharply. “I bought the Lathrup Gallery last month.”

Twenty years ago, I began studying how people become a millionaire. Surveying residents of posh neighborhoods across the country, I discovered something odd. Many who live in expensive homes and drive luxury cars don’t have much wealth. They may earn a fair amount of money, but they spend it all.

Then I discovered something even odder: many who have a great deal of wealth don’t live in posh neighborhoods. In one large metropolitan area I surveyed, fewer than half the millionaires lived in high-rent districts.

That small insight changed my life. It lend me out of an academic career (I was a professor of marketing at Georgia State University), inspired me to write three books on affluence, and made me an adviser to corporations that sell products to individuals with high net worth.

What most people don’t realize is that wealth isn’t the same as income. If you make $1 million a year and spend $1 million, you’re not getting wealthier, you are just living high. Wealth is what you accumulate, not what you spend.

How do you become wealthy? There, too, most people have it wrong. It’s rarely luck or inheritance or even intelligence that builds fortunes. Wealth is more often the inexorable result or a person’s hard work, perseverance and, most of all, self-discipline.

Who tends to become wealthy? Not the exotic back-stabbers and dabblers in high finance you see depicted on TV. The average person with a net worth of $1 million or more is usually a businessman who has lived all his adult life in the same town. He owns a small factory, a chain of stores or a service company. Married once, and still married, he lived in a middle-class neighborhood, next to people with a fraction of his wealth. He’s a compulsive saver and investor. And he’s made his money on his own: 80 percent of America’s millionaires are first-generation rich.

So millionaires are dull? By Hollywood standards, maybe. But these dull folds have something exciting to teach us about money.

Attitude is the greatest difference between millionaires and the rest of us. I’ve also learned that the rich follow certain rules. Here are some of the most important ones:

1. Live below your means. The most successful accumulators of wealth spend far less than they can afford on. Why? Because these things offer little or no return. The wealthy world rather put their money into investments or their businesses. It’s an attitude.

As many millionaires see it, a luxury house is a bad investment. Why pay $500,000 when a $150,000 house will do? That extra $350,000 could be earning interest or building equity.

Millionaires understand that when you buy a luxury house, you buy a luxury life-style too. Your property taxes skyrocket, along with the cost of utilities and insurance, and the prices of nearby services, such as grocery stores, tend to be higher. The only thing worse than a big house, millionaires have told me, is the flood of problems that comes with it.

The rich man’s attitude can also be seen in his car. Many drive old, unpretentious sedans. Sam Walton, billionaire founder of Wal-mart Stores, Inc., drove a pickup truck. Another fellow said, “I buy them by the pound——the biggest car I can find for the least amount of money.”

How simply can a millionaire live? A teacher in New York began investing in stocks. After a few years, he quit teaching and got a job with the fire department. Why? Fighters have lots of free time, and he needed more time to track his investments.

By his late 50s, he had accumulated a net worth of more than $5 million. But he continued living on his fireman’s salary, and remained with the department until retirement. Another example of the wealthy person’s attitude: he didn’t want to lose his pension.

2. Emphasize net worth; de-emphasize income. Most millionaires measure success by net worth, not income. Instead of taking their money home, they plow as much as they can into their business, stock portfolios and other assets. Why? Because the government doesn’t tax wealth; it taxes income. And the more income you bring home for consumption, the more the government takes.

The person who piles up net worth fastest tends to put every dollar he can into investments, not consumption. All the while, of course, he’s reinvesting his earnings from investments and watching his net worth soar. That’s the attitude as well.

3. Cultivate good advice. The best wealth-builders pay careful attention to their money and seek professional advice. Those who spend heavily on cars, boats and houses, I’ve found, tend to skimp on investment advice. Those who skimp on luxuries are usually more willing to pay top dollar for good legal and financial advice.

They are also always looking for new investment possibilities. The most mysterious part of wealth accumulation maybe this six sense that some millionaires develop for hidden opportunities.

One of the finest examples I’ve come across was a doctor in Tennessee. He was renown for buying a parcel of land just before a shopping mall located across the street, and stock in a new bank just as it was taking off.

Where did he get his information? From his patients. While rendering care, he learned of investment opportunities before they were common knowledge. And he was shrewd enough to separate the good tips from the bad.

4. Develop a plan. The self-made rich develop clear goals for their money. They may wish to retire early, or they may want to leave an estate to their children. The goals vary, but two things are consistent: they have a dollar figure in mind——the amount they want to save by age 50, perhaps——and they work unceasingly to ward that gold.

Start developing a plan now, regardless of your age. How much do you want to accumulate, and by what age? Then work backward. To meet your goal, how much should you save every year?

One thing may surprise you. If you make wealth——not just income——your goal, the luxury house you’ve been dreaming about, won’t seem so alluring. You’ll have the attitude.

The Kaatskill mountains rise on the west of the Hudson River, high above the surrounding country, in the State of New York. Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed, every hour of the day, produces some change in the colors and shapes of these mountains. By looking at Kaatskills from time to time, the people of the region can guess what the weather is going to be.

Just below these strange mountains, the voyager may have observed the thin smoke curling up from a Dutch village many years old. In that same village Rip Van Winkle lived. He lived there many years ago, while the country still belonged to England. Rip Van Winkle was a simple, good-natured fellow, whose ancestors had fought bravely in the days of the Dutch governors. Rip, however, had little of his ancestor’s military character. I have said that he was a simple, good-natured man. He was, in addition, a kind neighbor, and a husband who humbly obeyed his wife. Being firmly controlled by his wife at home, he seemed to have formed the habit of being agreeable to all. As a result, he was thought highly of by everyone except his wife.

Certainly he was a great favorite among all the good wives of the village. Whenever they discussed the Van Winkle family’s quarrels, they always decided that Rip was right, and that Dame Van Winkle was wrong. The children of the village, too, always shouted with joy when Rip Van Winkle approached. He watched them at their sports, made play-things for them, taught them how to play various games, and told them long stories of the most exciting kind. Wherever he went, he was usually surrounded by a crowd of children; and no dog in the village ever barked at him.

Rip Van Winkle had one great fault: he dislike——indeed, he hated——any kind of profitable labor. It is hard to understand just why he did not like to work. He never refused to help a neighbor, even with the roughest sort of the work, such as helping people build stone walls. The women of the village, too, often used him to carry messages for them, or to do small jobs that their husbands were not willing to do. In other words, Rip was ready to take care of anybody’s business except his own. As for his family duties, and for keeping his farm in order, he found such work impossible.

In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm; it was the worst little piece of ground in the whole country; everything about it was wrong. As a result, since he had lost much of his family’s land during years of bad management, his small farm was in worse condition than any neighboring farm.

His children, too, went about looking as poor as his farm. His son, Rip, who was very much like him, ran around wearing a pair of his father’s old trousers, which he had to hold up with one hand in order to prevent them from falling.

Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those fortunate people, with foolish, well-oiled natures, who take the world easily and cheerfully, eat fine food or poor, whichever can be got with least thought or trouble. If permitted, he would have sat whistling his life away in perfect contentment; but his wife kept continually reminding him about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was bring on his family. Morning, noon, and night, her tongue was ceaselessly going. Everything he said or did was sure to produce more angry talk.

Rip had just one way of replying to his wife’s talk; by frequent use it had become a habit. He merely put his head on his shoulders, looked up toward heaven, and said nothing. This, however, always produced a fresh burst of anger from his wife. There was nothing for Rip to do then except to leave the house.

Rip’s only friend in the Van Winkle home was his dog, whose name was Wolf. Wolf was often the object of Dame Van Winkle’s displeasure, for she considered the two of them companions in idleness; indeed, she sometimes even blamed the dog for Rip’s wandering way. True, in the woods Wolf was as brave as an honorable dog should be; but what dog is ever brave enough to stand firm against the terrors of a women’s tongue? As soon as Wolf entered the house, his head bent low, his tail lay on the ground or curled between his legs. He went around the house with a guilty look, watching Dame Van Winkle out of the corner of his eye, ready to run from the room at the slightest sign of her displeasure.

Rip Van Winkle’s troubles increased as the years of his marriage passed. For a long time he used to comfort himself by sitting with other idle men, when Dame Van Winkle’s talk had forced him out of the house. He and these idle persons used to sit in front of the village inn, a small hotel whose name was suggested by a picture of His Majesty George the Third. Here they often sat in the shade through a long summer day, telling endless sleepy stories abut nothing. Sometimes, by chance, one of the men found an old newspaper which had been left behind by some passing traveler. Then how seriously they would listen to the contents, as the newspaper was read aloud by Derrick Van Bummel, the schoolteacher, a man of great learning, who was not afraid of the longest word in the dictionary. And how wisely they would discuss the public events which had occurred several months before.

The opinions of this group were completely controlled by Nicholas Vedder, the oldest man in the village, who owned the inn. He sat at the door of the inn from morning till night, moving just enough to avoid the sun and keep in the shade of a large tree. It is true that he almost never spoke, but smoked his pipe continually. His admirers, however, understood him perfectly, and knew how to get his opinions on any subject. When anything that was read or told displeased him, he smoked his pipe angrily; but when he was pleased, he smoked slowly and calmly. Sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth, he let the smoke curl about his nose and moved his head up and down as a sign of agreement with what was being said.

But even the comforting companionship of this group was finally taken from the unlucky Rip. His wife suddenly broke in upon the pleasant discussion-club and gave its members her opinion of their worthlessness. Not even the great Nicholas Vedder himself was safe from the tongue of this daring woman, who blamed him directly for much of her husband’s idleness.

Poor Rip was thus driven almost to despair. His only remaining means of escape was to take his gun and walk away into the woods. Here he would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree with his faithful dog and fellow sufferer, Wolf. “Poor Wolf,” he would say. “Your life is hard and sad indeed, but never fear. While I live there will always be one friend to stand beside you!” Wolf would wag his tail and look sadly into his master’s face. If dogs can feel pity, I truly believe he pitied Rip with all his heart.

After a long, wandering walk of this kind on a certain autumn day, Rip found that he had climbed to one of the biggest parts of the Kaatskill mountains. He was engaged in his favorite sport of hunting, and the lonely stillness of the woods had often been broken by the sound of his gun. Tired and breathless, he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a little green hill at the highest point of land.

For some time Rip lay observing the scene. Evening had almost come; the mountains began to throw their long blue shadows over the valleys; he saw that it would be dark long before he could reach the village, and he sighed deeply when he thought of Dame Van Winkle’s angry face.

Just as he was about to go down the mountain, he heard a voice from the distance call. “Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!” He looked around, but could see nothing except a large bird winging its lonely flight across the mountain. He decided he had merely imagined the voice, and had turned again to climb down, when he heard the same cry ring through the quiet evening air: “Rip Van Winkle!” At the same time, the hairs on his dog’s back stood up straight, and the dog moved to his master’s side, looking fearfully into the valley. Rip now felt the same fear within him, and he looked anxiously in the same direction. There he saw a strange figure slowly climbing up the rocks, bending under the weight something he carried on his back. Rip was surprised to see any human being in this lonely place. But, supposing it was some neighbor in need of help, he hurried down to give it.

As he approached more closely, he was still more surprised at the oddness of the stranger’s appearance. He was a short old fellow, built quite square, with think bushy hair and a grayish beard! His clothes were in the old Dutch fashion——a short cloth jacket with a belt, and several pairs of trousers. The outer trousers were side and loose, with rows of buttons down the sides. On his shoulder he carried a wooden keg which seemed full of liquor; and he motioned to Rip to approach and help him with his load.

Though not entirely trusting this odd-looking stranger, Rip advanced to aid him. They carried the keg together up a narrow cut in the mountain side which might once have been made there by a mountain stream. As they climbed, Rip began to notice some unusual sounds. They were somewhat like the sounds of distant thunder, and they seemed to rise out a deep and narrow valley among the towering rocks toward which their rough path led.

He paused for an instant to listen, but decided there must be a passing thunderstorm not far away. Satisfied with this explanation of the noises, he proceeded. Passing through the cut in the mountain, they came to a small hollow, like one of the theaters cut into the earth in ancient Greece. During this whole time, Rip and his companion had labored on in silence; for through Rip wondered why anyone should carry a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, he lacked the courage to question his strange new friend.

When they entered the hollow, new objects of wonder could be seen. On a level spot in the center, a group of odd-looking persons was playing ninepins. The players were dressed in a most unusual fashion. Some had knives in their belts, and most of them had long, loose trousers similar to those worn by Rip’s guide. Their faces, too, were odd. They face of one seemed to consist entirely of a nose, topped by a large white hat. They all had beards, of various shapes and colors. There was one who seemed to be the leader of the group. He was a thick-bodies old gentleman, wearing a broad belt, a tall hat with a feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes.

Something else seemed particularly odd to Rip. Although these folk were evidently playing a game, yet their faces were serious and grave. They played in silence and were, in fact, the saddest party of pleasure that he had ever seen. Nothing interrupted the stillness of the scene except of the noise of the balls. Whenever these were rolled, the sound broke through the mountain air like thunder.

As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly stopped their game and stared at him with such a strange gaze that his heart turned within him and his knees knocked together. His companion now emptied the contents of the keg into a large metal cups, and motioned to him to serve the company. He obeyed with fear and trembling. They drank the liquor in deepest silence, and then returned to their game.

Little by little Rip’s nervous awe began to leave him. He even dared, when no one was looking, to taste the drink, and he liked it very much. He soon felt it was time to take another taste. One taste followed another, until at last his eyes refused to stay open, his head dropped upon his chest, and he fell into a deep sleep.

On waking, he found himself on the green hill where he had first seen the old man with the keg. He rubbed his eyes, and found it was a bright, sunny morning. The birds were singing happily among the bushes, where leaves were stirring with every movement of the pure mountain air.

“Surely,” thought Rip, “I have not slept here all night!” He remembered all that had happened before he fell asleep. The strange men with the keg of liquor——the way they had climbed down through the rocks——the serious players at ninepins——the excellent drink in the metal cup. “Oh! That cup! That powerful cup!” thought Rip. “What excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle?”

He looked around for his gun, but instead of the clean, well-oiled hunting-piece, he found an ancient rusty gun lying beside him. He now decided that the sad ninepin players of the mountain had tricked him: having put him to sleep with liquor, they had stolen his gun.

His dog Wolf, too, had disappeared. Perhaps he had wandered off to hurt a bird or a rabbit. Rip whistled for him and called his name, but all in vain. The mountains sent back his whistle and his shout, but no dog was to be seen.

Rip decided to return to the scene of the last evening’s party. “If I meet any of those men,” he said to himself, “I’ll demand my dog and gun.”

As he stood up to walk, he found that his legs seemed stiffer than usual; he felt pains in his legs and his back. “These mountain beds are not good for health,” thought Rip. “If this adventure puts me to bed sick, I shall hear nothing pleasant from Dame Van Winkle.”

With some difficulty, he went down into the valley. He found the cut in the mountain through which he and his companion had climbed the evening before; but to his great surprise a mountain stream was now running down it, leaping from rock to rock and filling the valley with laughing murmurs. However, he attempted to climb up its sides, pushing his way through bushes and climbing plants.

At last he reached the place where the rocks had opened up, at the entrance to the ninepins playing ground. But now no traces of such an opening remained. The rocks formed a high, impassable wall over which the mountain stream fell noisily to a pool below. Here poor Rip was forced to stop. He again called and whistled for his dog, but was answered only by a flock of birds.

With a troubled and anxious heart, he turned his steps toward home. As he approached the village, he met several people, but he knew none of them——a fact which surprised him, for he had thought he knew everyone in the country around. Their clothes, too, were of a different fashion from the clothes of his friends and neighbors. They all stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and all who looked at him lifted their hands to touch their chins. This happened so often that Rip, without thinking, did the same. Imagine this surprise when he found that his beard was a foot longer than it had been before!

He had now reached the edge of the village. A crowd of strange children ran at his hells, shouting after him and pointing at his gray beard. The dogs, too, were all different from the dogs he knew. They barked at him in almost unfriendly way. Even the village had changed; it was larger than it had been. There were rows of houses which Rip had never seen before, and those which he remembered had disappeared. Strange names were over the doors——strange faces at the windows——every thing was strange. Rip was now more anxious and puzzled than before. “That cup last night,” thought he, “has ruined my poor brain.”

With some difficulty, he found the way to his own house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the sharp voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found that the house was little more than a pile of old boards. The room had fallen in, the windows were broken, and the doors were lying on the ground. A bony dog that looked like Wolf was standing beside the ruined house. Rip called him by name, but the dog merely showed his teeth and then walked away. This was the cruelest wound of all. “My dog, my faithful dog,” sighed Rip, “even my dog has forgotten me.”

He entered the ruins of the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van Winkle had always kept in good order. It was empty; they had all gone away. He hurried forth, to the village inn where he had spent so may idle hours. But it, too, was gone. A large old wooden building stood in its place, with great windows, some of which were broken. Over the door there was a sign saying, “The Union Hotel, Jonathan Doolittle. Instead of the tree that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn, there was now a tall pole, with a flag bearing a strange collection of stars and stripes. All this was strange, impossible to understand. But Rip recognized the picture on the sign: it was the face of King George, under which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe. But even that was oddly different from what it had been. His Majesty’s red coat was changed to blue, his head wore a hat instead of a crown, and below there was the words, GENERAL WASHINGTON.

There was, as usual, a crowd of folk around the door, but Rip recognized none of them. He looked in vain for the wise Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face and double chin and his long pipe, uttering clouds of instead of foolish speeches. He looked for Van Bummel, the schoolteacher, reading aloud the cont4ents of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a thin, disagreeable-looking fellow was talking loudly about the rights of citizens——elections——Member of Congress——liberty——and other words, which meant nothing to the puzzled Van Winkle.

The group of hotel politicians soon noticed Rip, with his long gray beard, his old-fashioned clothes, his rusty gun, and the procession of curious women and children at his heels. People crowded around him, studying his appearance form head to foot. The political speaker approached him and inquired, in low tones, “On which side do you vote?”

Another short but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm and asked what party he belonged to. While Rip was considering what these questions might mean, an important-looking gentleman pushed his way through the crowd and planted himself in front of Rip Van Winkle, demanding “Why have you come to the election with a gun on your shoulder and a noisy crowd following at your heels? Do you intend to start trouble in this village?”

“Alas, gentlemen!” cried poor Rip. “I am a poor quiet man, a native of this place, and a faithful subject of the King, God Bless him!”

Hearing this, the crowd shouted in great anger, “‘God Bless the King,’ he says! Take him away! To prison with him!” The important-looking man had great difficulty calming the crowd, after which he again demanded to know why Rip had come there and whom he was seeking. Poor Rip humbly assured him that he meant no harm; he had merely come there to search for some of his neighbors, who used to sit in front of the hotel.

“Well, who are they? Name them.”

Rip thought for a moment, and then inquired, “Where’s Nicholas Vedder?”

There was a silence for a little while. Then an old man replied in a thin, high voice, “Nicholas Vedder! Why he’s been dead and gone for eighteen years!”

“Where’s Brom Dutcher?” asked Rip.

“Oh, he went off to the army at the beginning of the war. Some say he was killed in a battle at Stony Point. Perhaps he was, and perhaps he wasn’t. I don’t know. But he never came back again.”

“Where’s Van Bummel, the schoolteacher?”

“He went off to the wars, too,” said the old man. “He was a great General, and is now in Congress.”

Rips heart was filled with grief when he heard of these changes in his home and friends, finding himself thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled him, too. The answers suggested that much time had passed, and they mentioned matters which he could not understand——war——Congress——Stony Point. He was afraid to ask about any more friends, but cried out in despair, “Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle?”

“Oh, Rip Van Winkle,” two or three of his listeners exclaimed. “Yes, indeed! That’s Rip Van Winkle over there, leaning against the tree.”

Rip looked, and beheld a man who looked exactly as he had looked while climbing up the mountain. Apparently this man was no more interested in work than he himself had been; certainly his clothes were as poor.

The unfortunate Rip was now in a most pitiable state of mind. He began to wonder whether he was himself or some other man. And while he was wondering thus, someone in the crowd demanded, “Who are you? What is your name?”

“God knows!” exclaimed Rip, in despair. “I’m not myself’ I’m somebody else. That’s me over there. No, that’s somebody else who got into my shoes. I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they’ve changed my gun, and everything’s changed, and I’m changed, and I can’t tell my name or who I am.”

His listeners now began to look at each other with meaningful smiles. It was easy to see that this old man was mad. Someone whispered, “Get his gun! Who knows that the old fellow will think of doing next?”

But just at this moment a good-looking woman pushed her way through the crowd to look at the gray-bearded man. She had a child in her arms who began to cry, frightened by his appearance. “Be quiet, Rip,” she said to the child. “Be quiet, you little fool; the old man won’t hurt you.”

The name of the child, the attitude of the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of memories in Rip Van Winkle’s mind. “What is your name, good woman?” asked he.

“Judith Gardenier,” she replied.

“And your father’s name?”

“Oh, poor man! Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it is twenty years since he went away from hone with his gun, and no one has heard of him since. His dog came home without him; but whether he shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then just a little girl.”

Rip had only one more question to ask, and he asked it with a trembling voice:

“Where’s your mother?”

“Oh, she died, just a little while ago. She broke a blood vessel in anger at a man who came selling things at our door.”

There was a bit of comfort, at least, in this news. The honest man could no longer control his feelings. He caught his daughter and her child in his arms. “I am your father!” he cried. “Young Rip Van Winkle once——old Rip Van Winkle now. Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle?”

All stood too surprised to speak, until an old woman leaving the crowd, looked up into his face for a moment, and exclaimed, “Sure enough! It is Rip Van Winkle; it is Rip himself! Welcome home again, old neighbor! But where have you been these twenty long years?”

Rip’s story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been one night to him. The neighbors stared when they heard it. Some unbelieving ones were seen to smile at each other, and put their tongues in the side of their faces. The important-looking man pulled down the corners of his mouth and shook his head; and seeing this, there was a general shaking of the head throughout the entire crowd.

It was decided, however, to accept the opinion of Old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. Peter was the oldest man then living in the village; he knew all about the history of the region. He remembered Rip at once, and supported his story in the most satisfactory manner.

To make a long story short, the crowd broke up, and returned to the more important concerns of the election. Rip’s daughter took him home to live with her. She had a comfortable house and a cheerful farmer for a husband, whom Rip remembered as one of the children he had often carried on his back. And Rip’s son, who was an exact copy of himself, was employed to work on the farm though——like his father before him——he had the habit of attending to anything else but his business.

Rip now went back to his old ways. He soon found many of his former companions. As they all showed the effects of age and time, he preferred making friends among the younger folk, who soon learned to love him.

Having noting to do at home, and having arrived at the happy age when no one blames a man for being idle, he took a seat once more at the door of the village inn. There he was respected as one of the old men of the village; who could tell stories about the old times “before the war.” It was a long time before he could really understand the strange events that had occurred during his eighteen years of sleep. He had to learn that there had been a revolutionary war——that the country had freed itself from England——that instead of being a subject of His Majesty George the Third, he was now a free citizen of the United States. Rip, in fact, was not a politician. The changes of states and empires made little impression on him, But he well understood one kind of independence——independence from a sharp-tongued wife. Luckily he had that independence now; he could go in and out whenever he pleased. Whenever Dame Van Winkle’s name was mentioned, however, he shook his and cast his eyes toward heaven. No one knew whether this expressed acceptance of his fate or joy at his deliverance.

He used to tell his story to every stranger who arrived at Doolittle’s hotel. People noticed that at first he changed some of the details every time he told the story. But at last it settled down to exactly the account which I have given; and every man, woman, and child in the village knew it by heart. Some tried to say that they doubted the reality of it; but the old Dutch members of the community were sure that it was true. Even to this say, whenever they hear a thunderstorm on a summer afternoon around the Kaatskill mountains, they say Hendrick Hudson and his men are playing ninepins. And many unhappy husbands in the region sometimes wish for a quieting drink from Rip Van Winkle’s cup.

1. Miriam Storley left the bank at 4:15 exactly. People along Division Street said you could set your watch by Miriam; she always left her job at the First State Bank of Cannon Falls at this hour, Monday through Friday, except on holidays. On Fridays she returned to work the six-to-eight P.M. shift. On this particular day, a Monday, she stopped after closing the front door to the bank in order to look at the window display.

2. Miriam had spent the better part of the afternoon arranging gift items in the bank’s window. First State, which is how everyone in town referred to the bank, was having a promotion in order to attract new business. They were offering gifts which ranged in value all the way from a pocket calculator to a color TV. The value of a new depositor’s gift depended on how much was initially deposited.

3. The display in the window was attractive, but Miriam wondered where the new business was going to come from. Cannon Falls wasn’t a one-stoplight town, but it wasn’t a great metropolis either. There just weren’t that many people to warrant an extravagant new business promotion such as this. The bank manager, Al Gropin, had even invested in some full-page advertisements in the local paper and had hired some clowns to perform on the street in front of the bank——all to try to attract new customers.

4. But Miriam didn’t linger long in front of the window, and she didn’t waste much time on her thoughts of Al’s grand schemes. Her mission today was the same as it had been every weekday for the past weeks.

5. She nodded at passers-by, shopkeepers, and neighbors as she walked purposefully along the wide sidewalk toward The Computer Shack. There was a pleasant expression on her face as she smiled and said her “hellos” and “good afternoons” and “how are yous” to the people she saw almost everyday of her life. Her daily meeting with Officer Quanbeck never failed to amuse her. She smiled to herself as they exchanged greetings and wondered whether he would feel as stupid as he looked after she pulled off the crime of the century.

6. “Right on time, as usual, eh, Mrs. Storley?” The thin, kindly-looking man behind the counter in The Computer Shack seemed to have a perpetual smile on his face. Every day for the past several weeks, Tobe Barksdale had a short, simple conversation with this woman from the bank down the street. She said she wanted to buy the home computer which he had hooked up to a printer and which was fully operational, but so far all she did was sit and play with it.

7. Tobe didn’t mind the intrusion, though. Even though he opened his shop, gleamingly filled with electronic toys and machines, at noon, the majority of his customers came after six P.M. At first, he had closed the sore at eight, but the numbers of people interested in the latest gadgetry forced him to stay open later and later, and now he wasn’t closing until ten o’clock.

8. He could have insisted that his daily visitor make up her mind about the computer, or at least stop using the same program all the time, but she wasn’t really any bother, and latterly she had acquired such a solid knowledge of the field that he actually enjoyed her increasingly complex questions. She challenged his imagination, probing to see just how far a computer could go, just how much a simple machine could do.

9. Tobe probably knew as much about computer hardware and software as anybody in the entire town of Cannon Falls. Hardware and software. These were terms the general public rarely heard when Tobe began working a number of years back. Now, everyone used the terms to refer to the computers themselves and the programs which told the machines and operators what to do.

10. Miriam Storley had a long way to go to catch up with Tobe in her knowledge of this complex field, but she seemed determined, and Tobe was a patient instructor. Each day she would come to him with a new type of problem, an unusual twist, a tricky flow of information or instructions which she wanted to master. Every day he would guide her through the intricacies of the model which was advertised as the “latest, most technologically advanced home computer ever designed.” Every day she would listen and absorb, and then experiment for herself. She brought her own tapes and never seemed to tire of learning, even after a day’s work. Tobe believed in leaving people to themselves, so when the lesson was over and Miriam sat at the console, enwrapped in her task at hand, he busied himself in another part of the store.

11. Miriam’s teen-age son, who liked to be called by the nickname Zee, had introduced her to the world of computers through his interest in video games. True, she dealt with computers at the bank everyday in her job, but somehow they were just a part of the bank; they didn’t touch her.

12. She learned from her son and, almost by accident——as most great discoveries in the world seem to be——she discovered that the latest version of the home-type computers was actually compatible with the one she worked with in her office at First State.

13. The idea came to her at the end of a particularly tiring day as she tallied the day’s receipts and entered them into her desk-top computer. It was foolproof! She could transfer funds from various accounts which were relatively inactive by tampering with program. If she did it skillfully enough, she would never be caught. She would set up some fictitious accounts in other banks in the state, transfer funds, disguise herself and go to the other banks in order to withdraw the money, and then return the program to its original condition. No one would ever be able to figure out what she had down or where the money had gone. And even if they did trace it, they would never suspect her. How could they?

14. She decided no to risk working on the program she needed at home, since Zee might see what she was doing. Tobe Barksdale’s shop was the perfect cover, and that pleasant man certainly wouldn’t suspect her. He didn’t even seem to mind letting her use his floor-model computer.

15. After months of preparation. Miriam carried out her plan. She called Mr. Gropin to say that she was ill and couldn’t come to work. Then she drove to Mankato and Red Wing, disguised, and picked up her money. All went well until she arrived home to find Officer Quanbeck and several others waiting in her living room to arrest her for fraud and bank robbery.

16. As a kindness, to assuage her curiosity, Tobe Barksdale was there, too. He explained, “Your plan was brilliant, Miriam, and you were an excellent student. Indeed, I taught you almost everything you know. But I didn’t teach you everything you did on a master tape which I observed every afternoon after you left. After all, I had to see what kind of progress my pupil was making, didn’t I?”

The night was dark. And the house was dark. Dark-and silent. The two men ran toward it quietly. They slipped quickly through the dark bushes which surrounded the house. They reached the porch, ran up the steps, and knelt down, breathing heavily, in the dark shadow. They waited, listening.

Silence. Perfect silence. Then——out of the blackness——a whisper: “We can’t stay out here… Take this suitcase… Let me try those keys. We’ve got to get in.

Ten… twenty… thirty seconds. With one of the keys, the first man opened the door. Silently, the two men entered the house, closed the door behind them, and locked it.

Whispering, they discussed the situation. They wondered if they had awakened anyone in the house.

“Let’s have a look at this place. Careful, Hy. I hope there isn’t anybody awake!” And the soft rays of a flashlight swept the room.

It was a large room. A living room. Rugs, carefully rolled, lay piled on one side. The furniture——chairs, tables, couches——was covered by sheets. Dust lay like a light snow over everything.

The man who held the flashlight spoke first. “Well, Blackie,” he said, “we’re in luck. Looks as if the family’s away.

“Year, gone for the summer, I guess. We better make sure, though.”

Together they searched the house. They went on tiptoe through every room. There could be no doubt about it. The family was away. Had been away for weeks.

Yes, Hy Hogan and Blackie Burns were in lucky. Only once in the past ten days had their luck failed them. It had been with them when they made their big robbery——their truly magnificent robbery——on the Coast. It had been with them during their thousand-mile trip eastward, by car.

It had been with them every moment——but one.

That moment had come just one hour before. It came when Blackie, driving the car, ran over a policeman. And Blackie, think of the suitcase at Hy’s feet, had driven away. Swiftly.

There had been a chase, of course. A wild, crazy chase. And when a bullet had punctured the gasoline tank, they had had to abandon the car. But luck or no luck, here they were. Alone, and without a car, in a completely strange town. But safe and sound——with the suitcase.

The suitcase lay in the center of the table, in the center of the room. In it, neat little package on neat little package, lay nearly three hundred thousand dollars.

“Listen,” said Hogan. “We have to get a car. Quick, too. And we can’t steal one: It’s too dangerous. We have to buy one. That means that we have to wait until the lots open. That will be about eight o’clock in this town.”

“But what are we going to do with that?” Burns pointed to the suitcase.

“Hide it right here. Sure! Why not? It’s much safer here than with us——until we get a car.”

And so they hid the suitcase. They carried it down to the basement and buried it in an unfinished corner where no cement had been laid. Just before dawn, they slipped out.

As they were walking down the street, Hogan remarked that a Samuel W. Rogers lived in the house they had just left.

“How do you know?”

“Saw the name on some of the library books. They guy’s really got a lot of books. Looks like a library in there.”

The used car lots opened at eight, as they had supposed. Shortly before nine, Hogan and Burns had car. A nice little car. Very quiet. Very inconspicuous. Very speedy. They arranged for temporary plates and drove off.

Three blocks from the house, they stopped. Hogan got out. Walked toward the house. He’d just go around to the rear, he thought, and slip in.

Fifty yards from the house, he stopped. Stared, swore softly. The front door was open. The window shades were up. The family had returned!

Well, what bad luck! And what could they do? Break into the cellar that night, and pick up the suitcase? No——too dangerous. Hogan would have to think of something.

“Leave it to me, kid,” he told Burns. “You drive the car. I’ll do the special brain work. Let’s find a telephone. Quick!”

Ten minutes later, Hogan was consulting a telephone directory. Yes, there it was——Samuel W. Rogers, 555-6329.

A moment later he was talking to the surprised Mr. Rogers.

“Hello,” he began, “is this Mr. Rogers——Mr. Samuel Rogers?”

“Yes, this is Mr. Rogers.”

Hogan cleared his throat. “Mr. Rogers,” he said——and his tone was sharp, official, impressive——“this is Headquarters, Police Headquarters, talking. I am Simpson. Sergeant Simpson, of the detective division…”

“Yes, yes!” came over the wire.

“The Chief——the Chief of Police, you know,” here Hogan lowered his voice a little——“has ordered me to get in touch with you. He’s sending me out with one of our men to see you.”

“Am I in trouble of some kind?” asked Mr. Rogers.

“No, no, no. Nothing like that. But I have something of great importance to talk to you about.”

“Very well,”came the voice of Mr. Roger. “I’ll wait for you.”

“And, Mr. Rogers,” Hogan cautioned, “please keep quiet about this. Don’t say anything to anybody. You’ll understand why when I see you.”

On the way back to the house, Hogan explained his idea to Burns.

With in ten minutes, “Sergeant Simpson” and “Detective Johnson” were conversing with surprised Mr. Rogers. Mr. Rogers were a small man. Rather insignificant. He had pale blue eyes. Not much of a chin. A funny little face. He was nervous——a badly frightened man.

Hogan told the whole story. Somewhat changed, of course. Mr. Rogers was surprised, but he was delighted to be able to help the police.

He accompanied Hy Hogan to the cellar. And together they dug up the suitcase. Took it to the living room, opened it, saw that it had not been touched——that it really did hold a small fortune. Bills, bills, bills!

Hogan closed the suitcase.

“And now, Mr. Rogers,” he announced, in his best official manner, “Johnson and I must run along. The Chief wants a report——quick. We have to catch the rest of the robbers. I’ll keep in touch with you.”

He picked up the suitcase and rose. Burns also rose. Mr. Rogers also rose. The trio walked to the door. Mr. Rogers opened it. “Come on in, boys,” he said pleasantly——and in walked three men. Large men. Strong men. Men in police uniforms who, without fear, stared at Hy Hogan and Blackie Burns.

“What does this mean, Mr. Rogers?” asked Hogan.

“It’s quite simple,” said Mr. Rogers. “It just happens that I am the Chief of the Police!”

From the other side of the road he saw the only lighted window on the third floor go black. His eyes came down to the big door, the entrance to the building. The light came warmly through there into the cold of the evening.

After a little time a girl passed through the door, stopped at the top of the steps and pulled her coat close round her. He watched her come down the steps, turn to the left and disappear along the road. He had plenty of time. He knew that she would be gone for two hours. He knew a great many things. It wasn’t difficult to find out all you wanted to know so long as you took your time and were sensible.

He crossed the road. He went past the main entrance, turned the corner of the building and went in at a side door. There was a staircase there used by the servants. He climbed up to the third floor. Then he pushed open a small door. He came out into a brightly lit passage. At the end of the passage there was a door, on a plate on the door he could read “Mrs. Walter Courtenay”.

He turned the handle and went in. That door was never locked when the servant was out: the old lay did not like to be locked in. If she rang for the doorman she didn’t want to have to come and open the door, not at her age, not in her condition. He knew exactly the arrangement of the rooms in the flat. Four months ago the flat on the floor below was empty and he looked over it.

He crossed the hall to the door of the sitting-room. The window of this room looked out onto the street. He had seen its window when he watched, but it was not in this room that the light had gone out. The light had gone out in the servant’s room on the left. This room was dark.

He went in and shut the door behind him.

A voice said, “Who is that?” It was the first time he had heard her voice, and it was very much as he had expected, a thin old voice: she was over eighty years of age. It was the voice of a lady, of a proud woman who all her life had had wealth and an easy life, rich places——all the things which he had not had. That was why she spoke in that way——“Who are you, my man?”

He said, “Never mind who I am, and don’t get alarmed: I’m not going to hurt you.”

He went forward and sat down on a chair by the big desk. There was a certain amount of light in the room from the street outside, and he could see her sitting there on the other side of the desk. He could see her white hair and her straight back and the gold pin in her dress. She was holding up her hands a little and he saw that she had been knitting when he entered the room.

“Well,” she said, “what do you want?”

“I want the key to your safe.”

“How dare you ask such a thing!”

He felt the anger in him rise. This thing was so nearly done that he was eager to get it finished. He had lived with the thing for years, thinking it over.

“I said that I wouldn’t hurt you, and I won’t. I just want your key. Your servant had gone out for two hours and there is nothing that you can do.”

She moved forward a little in her chair and put her knitting down on the desk, but he noticed that one hand was still playing with a long knitting needle. Perhaps this was because she was a little bit afraid. Well, that suited him. He wanted her to be afraid.

“I understand,” she said. “And, when you have the key, I suppose that you will take my jewels.”

“That’s right,” he laughed. “They can give me a good life from now on.”

“So you have not had what you call a ‘good life’ up to now?”

“No, I have not.”

“I see. You’re that sort of young man.”

“How do you know I’m a young man?”

She shook her head and her hand tapped on the soft paper lying in front of her on the desk. “I have been blind for twenty years, and that only makes it easier for me to tell some things. You have a young man’s voice and you’re angry. You have a lot of anger in you. You feel that you have not had the tings which you have a right to have. And you are a fool to think that this is the way to get these things.”

“Just give me the key. You can tell the police later that your jewels were taken by an angry young man who never went to a good school. It will be a great help to them in picking me out from about ten million others.”

He pulled a case out of his pocket and lit the cigarette. “I want that key. If you won’t give it to me, I shall take it from that chain which you wear round your neck.”

“Listen to me, young man.” There was a sign of anger in her voice, and she tapped with her knitting needle on the desk calling him to order. “I do not mean to give you the key, and I advise you to leave here at once. I can give the police a better description of you than you imagine. But, if you go now, I will forget this unpleasant visit.”

“You don’t frighten me, and I’ve wasted enough time. Give me the key.”

“Once more, for your own good, young man, listen to me. Go away at once. Go away and work for the things which you want. Do you think that, because I am blind, I am helpless? Of course I’m not helpless. I know already a great deal about you which would help the police if you take my jewels. You are a young man about 5 feet 10 inches in height. I can tell that from the way in which your voice comes down to me. You are wearing a bowler hat, a round hard hat, and you are wearing a raincoat. I can hear it as you move. I am glad to know that you had the politeness to take off your hat when you came into the room, but I have noticed that you keep on tapping the top of that hard hat as you hold it on your knee. You smoke：you are smoking some kind of American cigarette, certainly not an English cigarette. You did not ask me if you might smoke.”

He laughed. “It’s still a description which would fit thousands and thousands of men in this country. Why do you want those jewels? You have plenty of money, and I haven’t; and I’m going to have some of the things which you’ve enjoyed all your life.”

The old lady was silent for a moment, and then she said: “You want to take my jewels because they mean money. I have never looked at them in that way. To me they are memories. They all mean something in my life. If you think that I’ll give you the key to my safe so that you can walk out of here with my memories, you are very much mistaken.”

He stood up. He had suddenly become angry. “You’re a silly old woman. What do I care about you memories, about your past, ‘each jewel a memory’.” He laughed. “Well, I’ll tell you what I think of your memories. There’s your husband’s gold watch and chain; and there’s a little curl of hair from your child in the back of that diamond pin. Memories are worth nothing to me, but jewels mean money, just that. That’s what they mean to me.”

As he moved to go round the desk her hands shook with a rapid and angry tap-tap-tap and she said, “Don’t you dare to come near me. Don’t you dare!”

“Then give me the key.”

“You fool, go away.”

But he did not go away, he moved slowly round the desk and stood at her side. If it had to be that way, well that’s how it had to be! He had come too far, dreamt too long of this to back away now. Even so, there was something in him which drew back at the thought of using force on such an old woman. She turned in her seat to face him. “Come on, give me the key,” he said. “You’ve got no choice.” He put out his cigarette and put the end of it carefully in his pocket.

But she shook her head. “I will do nothing to help you, nothing.”

He stepped towards her. He put out his hands and took her by the shoulder. She struck at his hand with a knitting needle. He caught her arms and held them with one hand, while his free hand went to her neck, searching for the chain. He pulled it free. It was then that he heard her give a little cry, and her body fell back from him pulling at the hand with which he held her arms. She was lying back in the chair. He let go of her arms: she made no move.

He stood there for a moment undecided. She was an old lady. He’d never meant it this way. It couldn’t be true! She couldn’t be dead! She’d be all right in a few moments.

He went to the wall and found the picture which covered the safe. Nothing could be allowed to stop him now, not after all these weeks of work, listening to the servant talking to her friend in the cafe three miles from here where she went on her night off. He learnt that the safe was behind the picture, and that the key was a on a chain round the old lady’s neck. He had done all that work to learn these things.

He put the jewel cases in the pockets of his raincoat. When the safe was empty he went back to the old lady. He put his hand on her heart. It was true: she was dead.

Well, what did it matter? He had what he wanted. She couldn’t tell the police the few little things that she had learned about him.

Detective Inspector Burros walked into Albert Munster & Sons’ shop. It was a small but very good-class jeweller’s shop. When he was along with Mr. Munster, Inspector Burrows said, “I believe that you did some work for a Mrs. Walter Courtenay.”

“Yes, that is so. Every two years her jewellery came here to be cleaned.”

“How many people in this shop dealt with the stuff?”

“There are only three of here: myself, Mr. Brown and the man we have in the workshop who does the cleaning.”

Burrows looked across at Mr. Munster. He was a very short fat man, more than sixty years of age. “No,” said Burrows. “No, I don’t think the description fits you.”

“What description, Inspector?”

“The description of the person who last night stole Mrs. Courtenay’s jewels. She was found dead by her servant.”

“Dead? What a terrible thing! Poor Mrs. Courtenay. But——but , Inspector, what has this to do with us?”

“You will see.” Burrows took a piece of paper out of his pocket. “What I want is a young man who did not go to one of the best schools. His height is about five feet ten inches. He smokes American cigarettes, and he wears a bowler hat and a raincoat. Does that description fit Mr. Brown?”

“No, no; he’s as old as I am, and he doesn’t smokes. The description fits young Grierson. He’s not a bad young fellow. He has been with me for about eight years,” He shook his head. “Dear me, dear me; Mrs. Courtenay’s dead! I can’t believe it.”

“Well, it’s true.”

“What makes you think it is young Grierson?”

“Mrs. Courtenay lived alone with her servant. She had never worn the jewels since she was blind twenty years ago. The servant has never seen them. The jewels left her room once every two years to come here for cleaning. So she knew that the thief came from your shop.”

“But how could she have told you? She’s dead, you say.”

“She was a very brave old lady. She was blind, but not helpless. She knew hoe to deal with young Grierson. He came in to her, and I imagine there was some talk between while she refused to hand over the sky; and while they talked, unknown to him, she was making notes about him.” Burrows looked at the piece of paper and read:

“Young man, not gentleman, height about five feet ten inches, bowler hat, raincoat, American cigarette, angry, knows jewels well, Walter’s watch and chain, Edith’s hair in pin. Must be from Munster & Sons.”

Burrows put the paper back in his pocket. “Yes, she was no fool. The room was in darkness. She was blind. She wrote it all down on the nice soft piece of paper on her desk. She wrote it pushing the point of her knitting needle into the paper. Wrote it in pin holes which you can arrange in sixty-three different ways. These can tell anything that a blind person wants to tell you. Braille. I think you had better send for young Grierson,” said the Inspector.

“Tapping away! Just think of it! Tapping away with her knitting needle in the dark,” said Mr. Munster.

1. All of us have read thrilling stories in which the hero had only a limited and specified time to live. Sometimes it was as long as a year; sometimes as short as twenty four hours. But always we were interested in discovering just how the doomed man chose to spend his last days or his last hours. I speak. Of course, of free men who have a choice, not condemned criminals whose sphere of activities is strictly delimited.

2. Such stories set us thinking, wondering what we should do under similar circumstances. What events, what experiences, what associations should we crowd into those last hours as mortal beings? What happiness should we find in reviewing the past, what regrets?

3. Sometimes I have thought it would be an excellent rule to live each day as if we should die tomorrow. Such an attitude would emphasize sharply the values of life. We should live each day with a gentleness, a vigor, and a keenness of appreciation which are often lost when time stretches before us in the constant panorama of more days and months and years to come. There those, of course, who would adopt the epicurean motto of ‘Eat, drink, and be merry’, but most people would be chastened by certainty of impending death.

4. In stories, the doomed hero is usually saved at the last minute by some stroke of fortune, but almost always his sense of values is changed. He becomes more appreciative of the meaning of life and its permanent spiritual values. It has often been noted that those who live, or have lived, in the shadow of death bring a mellow sweetness to everything they do.

5. Most of us, however, take life for granted. We know that one day we must die, but usually we picture that day as far in the future. When we are in buoyant health, death is all but unimaginable. We seldom think of it. The days stretch out in an endless vista. So we go about our petty task, hardly aware of our listless attitude toward life.

6. The same lethargy. I am afraid, characterizes the use of all our faculties and senses. Only the deaf appreciate hearing, only the blind realize the manifold blessings that lie in sight. Particularly does this observation apply to those who have lost sight and hearing in adult life. But those who have never suffered impairment of sight or hearing seldom make the fullest use of these blessed faculties. Their eyes and ears take in all sights and sounds hazily, without concentration, and with little appreciation. It is the same old story of not being grateful for what we have until we lose it, of not being conscious of health until we are ill.

7. I have often thought it would be a blessing if each human being were stricken blind and deaf for a few days at some time during his early adult life. Darkness would make him more appreciative of sight; silence would teach him the joys of sound.

8. Now and then I have tested my seeing friends to discover what they see. Recently I was visited by a very good friend who had just returned from a long walk in the woods, and I asked her what she had observed. ‘Nothing in particular,’ she replied. I might have been incredulous had I not been accustomed to such responses, for long ago I became convinced that the seeing see little.

9. How was it possible, I asked myself. To walk for an hour through the woods and see nothing worthy of note? I who cannot see find hundreds of things to interest me through mere touch. I feel the delicate symmetry of a leaf. I pass my hands lovingly about the smooth skin of a silver birch, or the rough shaggy bark of a pine. In spring I touch the branches of threes hopefully in search of a bud, the first sign of awakening Nature after her winter’s sleep. I feel the delightful, velvety texture of a flower, and discover its remarkable convolutions; and something of the miracle of Nature is revealed to me. Occasionally, if I am very fortunate, I place my hand gently on a small tree and feel the happy shiver of a bird in full song. I am delighted to have the cool waters of a brook rush through my open fingers. To me a lush carpet of pine needles or spongy grass is more welcome than the most luxurious Persian rug. To me the pageant of seasons is a thrilling and unending drama, the action of which streams through my fingertips.

10. At times my heart cries out with longing to see all these things. If I can get so much pleasure from mere touch, how much more beauty must be revealed by sight. Yet, those who have eyes apparently see little. The panorama of color and action which fills the world is taken for granted. It is human, perhaps, to appreciate little that which we have and to long for that which we have not, but it is a great pity that in the world of light the gift of sight is used only as a mere convenience rather than as a means of adding fullness to life.

11. If I were the president of a university I should establish a compulsory course in ‘How to Use Your Eyes’. The professor would try to show his pupils how they could add joy to their lives by really seeing what passes unnoticed before them. He would try to awake their dormant and sluggish faculties.

12. Suppose you set your mind to work on the problem of how you would use your own eyes if you had only three more days to see. If with the oncoming darkness of the third night you knew that the sun would never rise for you again, how would you spend those three precious intervening days? What would you most want to let your gaze rest upon?

13. I, naturally, should want most to see the things which have become dear to me through my years of darkness. You, too, would want to let your eyes rest long on the things that have become dear to you so that you could take the memory of them with you to the night that loomed before you.

14. I should want to see the people whose kindness and gentleness and companionship have made my life worth living. First I should like to gaze long upon the face of my dear teacher, Mrs. Anne Sullivan Macy, who came to me when I was a child and opened the outer world to me. I should want not merely to see the outline of her face, so that I could cherish it in my memory, but to study that face and find in it the living evidence of the sympathetic tenderness and patience with which she accomplished the difficult task of my education. I should like to see in her eyes that strength of character which has enabled her to stand firm in the face of difficulties, and that compassion for all humanity which she has revealed to me so often.

15. I don not know what it is to see into the heart of a friend through that ‘window of the soul’, the eye. I can only ‘see’ through my fingertips the outline of a face. I can detect laughter, sorrow, and many other obvious emotions. I know my friends from the feel of their faces. But I cannot really picture their personalities by touch. I know their personalities, of course, through other means, through the thoughts they express to me, through whatever of their actions are revealed to me. But I am denied that deeper understanding of them which I am sure would come though sight of them, through watching their reactions to various expressed thoughts and circumstances, through noting the immediate and fleeting reactions of their eyes and countenance.

16. Friends who are near to me I know well, because through the months and years they reveal themselves to me in all their phases; but of casual friends I have only an incomplete impression, an impression gained from a handclasp, from spoken words which I take from their lips with my fingertips, or which they tap into the palm of my hand.

17. How much easier, how much more satisfying it is for you who can see to grasp quickly the essential qualities of another person by watching the subtleties of expression, the quiver of a muscle, the flutter of a hand. But does it ever occur to you to use your sight to see into the inner nature of a friend or acquaintance? Do not most of you seeing people grasp casually the outward features of a face and let it go at that?

18. For instance, can you describe accurately the faces of five good friends? Some of you can, but many cannot. As an experiment. I have questioned husbands of long standing about the color of their wives’s eyes, and often they express embarrassed confusion and admit that they do not know. And incidentally, it is a chronic complaint of wives that their husbands don not notice new dresses, new hats, and changes in household arrangements.

19. The eyes of seeing persons soon become accustomed to the routine of their surroundings, and they actually see only the startling and spectacular. But even in viewing the most spectacular sights the eyes are lazy. Court records reveal every day how inaccurately ‘eyewitnesses’ see. A given event will be ‘seen’ in several different ways by as many witnesses. Some see more than others, but few see everything that is within the range of their vision.

20. Oh, the things that I should see if I had the power of sight for just three days!