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    The American Short Story, 1918
    The American Short Story, 1918
    The American Short Story, 1918
    Ebook397 pages7 hours

    The American Short Story, 1918

    By Sinclair Lewis, George Gilbert and Frances Gilchrist Wood

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    Short stories have long been regarded as a potent form of writing. Concentrated and distilled yet engaging the reader at a pace that commands attention in the pages it occupies. Narrative and characters are still fully fleshed and the story is usually no longer, or shorter, than it needs to be. Handed down from the oral tradition they have been variously regarded as ‘apprentice pieces’ written by authors on their way to becoming better writers as well as fodder for innumerable periodicals over the decades for those who liked their reading in more succinct chunks or perhaps with a ‘cliffhanger ending’ to keep the interest until the next exciting instalment. Today they are regarded as works in their own right and, in the pens of the most highly skilled, to be greatly admired. In this series we take the very best of those American Short stories and present them here, year by year, for you.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCopyright Group
    Release dateNov 10, 2014
    ISBN9781785430268
    The American Short Story, 1918
    Author

    Sinclair Lewis

    Sinclair Lewis (1885–1951) was the first American writer to win the Nobel Prize in Literature. In 1926 Lewis’s novel Arrowsmith garnered the Pulitzer Prize, which the author refused. His work has been lauded for its critical insight into capitalism and materialist culture in America. 

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      The American Short Story, 1918 - Sinclair Lewis

      The American Short Story, 1918

      Short stories have long been regarded as a potent form of writing.  Concentrated and distilled yet engaging the reader at a pace that commands attention in the pages it occupies.  Narrative and characters are still fully fleshed and the story is usually no longer, or shorter, than it needs to be.  Handed down from the oral tradition they have been variously regarded as ‘apprentice pieces’ written by authors on their way to becoming better writers as well as fodder for innumerable periodicals over the decades for those who liked their reading in more succinct chunks or perhaps with a ‘cliffhanger ending’ to keep the interest until the next exciting instalment. 

      Today they are regarded as works in their own right and, in the pens of the most highly skilled, to be greatly admired.

      In this series we take the very best of those American Short stories and present them here, year by year, for you.

      Index Of Stories  

      INTRODUCTION   

      A SIMPLE ACT OF PIETY by ACHMED ABDULLAH

      CRUELTIES by EDWINA STANTON BABCOCK

      BUSTER by KATHARINE HOLLAND BROWN

      THE OPEN WINDOW by CHARLES CALDWELL DOBIE

      BLIND VISION by MARY MITCHELL FREEDLEY

      IMAGINATION by GORDON HALL GEROULD

      IN MAULMAIN FEVER-WARD by GEORGE GILBERT

      THE FATHER’S HAND by G. HUMPHREY 

      THE VISIT OF THE MASTER by ARTHUR JOHNSON

      IN THE OPEN CODE by BURTON KLINE

      THE WILLOW WALK by SINCLAIR LEWIS

      THE STORY VINTON HEARD AT MALLORIE by KATHARINE PRESCOTT MOSELEY

      THE TOAST TO FORTY-FIVE by WILLIAM DUDLEY PELLEY

      EXTRA MEN by HARRISON RHODES

      SOLITAIRE by FLETA CAMPBELL SPRINGER

      THE DARK HOUR by WILBUR DANIEL STEELE

      THE BIRD OF SERBIA by JULIAN STREET

      AT ISHAM’S by EDWARD C. VENABLE

      DE VILMARTE’S LUCK by MARY HEATON VORSE

      THE WHITE BATTALION by FRANCES GILCHRIST WOOD

      INTRODUCTION

      In reviewing once more the short stories published in American periodicals during the year, it has been interesting, if partly disappointing, to observe the effect that the war has had upon this literary form. While I believe that this effect is not likely to be permanent, and that the final outcome will be a stiffening of fibre, the fact remains that the short stories published during the past ten months show clearly that the war has numbed most writers’ imaginations. This is true, not only of war stories, but of stories in which the war is not directly or indirectly introduced. There has been a marked ebb this year in the quality of the American short story. Life these days is far more imaginative than any fiction can be, and our writers are dazed by its forceful impact. But out of this present confusion a new literature will surely emerge, although the experience we are gaining now will not crystallize into art for at least ten years, and probably not for longer. If this war is to produce American masterpieces, they will be written by men of middle age looking back through the years’ perspective upon the personal experience of their youth. Such work, to quote the old formula, must be the product of emotion remembered in tranquillity.

      Not long ago Mr. Van Wyck Brooks, the keenest of the younger critics, was pointing out to us the value of a usable past. Such a usable past has clearly failed us in this emergency, but the war is rapidly creating a new one for us, if we have the vision to make use of it. During the past four years English writers have had such a past to fall back upon, when their minds failed before the stupendous reality of the present, and so they have come off better than we on the whole. It was such a usable past, to point out the most signal instance of it, that inspired Rupert Brooke’s last sonnets, which will always stand as the perfect relation of a noble past to an unknowable present.

      But if we are to make our war experience the beginning of a usable past, we must not sentimentalize it on the one hand, nor denaturalize it objectively on the other. Yet that is precisely what we have been doing for the most part, even in the better war stories of the past year. The superb exception is Wilbur Daniel Steele’s The Dark Hour, published last May in The Atlantic Monthly.

      I can do no better than to refer the reader to Henry Seidel Canby’s two admirable articles during the past year, in which he has developed these points far more adequately than I can pretend to do here. In his essay, On a Certain Condescension Towards Fiction, published in The Century Magazine last January, and in the companion article entitled Sentimental America, published last April in The Atlantic Monthly, he has diagnosed the disease and suggested the necessary cure. While I am not a realist in my sympathies, and while the poetry of life seems to me of more spiritual value than its prose, I cannot help agreeing with Professor Canby that our literary failure, by reason of its sentimentality, is rooted in a suppressed or misdirected idealism, based on a false pragmatism of commercial prosperity, and insisting on ignoring the facts instead of facing and conquering them.

      To repeat what I have said in these pages in previous years, for the benefit of the reader as yet unacquainted with my standards and principles of selection, I shall point out that I have set myself the task of disengaging the essential human qualities in our contemporary fiction which, when chronicled conscientiously by our literary artists, may fairly be called a criticism of life. I am not at all interested in formulæ, and organized criticism at its best would be nothing more than dead criticism, as all dogmatic interpretation of life is always dead. What has interested me, to the exclusion of other things, is the fresh living current which flows through the best of our work, and the psychological and imaginative reality which our writers have conferred upon it.

      No substance is of importance in fiction, unless it is organic substance, that is to say, substance in which the pulse of life is beating. Inorganic fiction has been our curse in the past, and bids fair to remain so, unless we exercise much greater artistic discrimination than we display at present.

      The present record covers the period from January to October inclusive, 1918. During the past ten months I have sought to select from the stories published in American magazines those which have rendered life imaginatively in organic substance and artistic form. Substance is something achieved by the artist in every act of creation, rather than something already present, and accordingly a fact or group of facts in a story only attain substantial embodiment when the artist’s power of compelling imaginative persuasion transforms them into a living truth. The first test of a short story, therefore, in any qualitative analysis is to report upon how vitally compelling the writer makes his selected facts or incidents. This test may be conveniently called the test of substance.

      But a second test is necessary if the story is to take rank above other stories. The true artist will seek to shape this living substance into the most beautiful and satisfying form, by skilful selection and arrangement of his material, and by the most direct and appealing presentation of it in portrayal and characterization.

      The short stories which I have examined in this study, as in previous years, have fallen naturally into four groups. The first group consists of those stories which fail, in my opinion, to survive either the test of substance or the test of form. These stories are listed in the yearbook without comment or a qualifying asterisk. The second group consists of those stories which may fairly claim that they survive either the test of substance or the test of form. Each of these stories may claim to possess either distinction of technique alone, or more frequently, I am glad to say, a persuasive sense of life in them to which a reader responds with some part of his own experience. Stories included in this group are indicated in the yearbook index by a single asterisk prefixed to the title.

      The third group, which is composed of stories of still greater distinction, includes such narratives as may lay convincing claim to a second reading, because each of them has survived both tests, the test of substance and the test of form. Stories included in this group are indicated in the yearbook index by two asterisks prefixed to the title.

      Finally, I have recorded the names of a small group of stories which possess, I believe, an even finer distinction—the distinction of uniting genuine substance and artistic form in a closely woven pattern with such sincerity that these stories may fairly claim a position in our literature. If all of these stories by American authors were republished, they would not occupy more space than five novels of average length. My selection of them does not imply the critical belief that they are great stories. It is simply to be taken as meaning that I have found the equivalent of five volumes worthy of republication among all the stories published between January first and October thirty-first, 1918. These stories are indicated in the yearbook index by three asterisks prefixed to the title, and are listed in the special Rolls of Honor. In compiling these lists, I have permitted no personal preference or prejudice to influence my judgment consciously for or against a story. To the titles of certain stories, however, in the Rolls of Honor, an asterisk is prefixed, and this asterisk, I must confess, reveals in some measure a personal preference. It is from this final short list that the stories reprinted in this volume have been selected.

      It has been a point of honor with me not to republish an English story, nor a translation from a foreign author. I have also made it a rule not to include more than one story by an individual author in the volume. The general and particular results of my study will be found explained and carefully detailed in the supplementary part of the volume.

      The Yearbook for 1918 contains three new features. I have compiled an index of all short stories published in a selected list of volumes issued during the year; another index is devoted to critical articles on the short story, and noteworthy reviews published in English and American magazines and newspapers this year; and I have added exact volume and page references to the index of short stories published in American magazines.

      As in past years it has been my pleasure and honor to associate this annual with the names of Benjamin Rosenblatt, Richard Matthews Hallet, and Wilbur Daniel Steele, whose stories, Zelig, Making Port, and Ching, Ching, Chinaman, seemed to me respectively the best short stories of 1915, 1916, and 1917, so it is my wish this year to dedicate the best that I have found in the American magazines as the fruit of my labors to Arthur Johnson, whose stories, The Little Family, His New Mortal Coil, and The Visit of the Master seem to me to be among the finest imaginative contributions to the short story made by an American artist this year.

      Edward J. O’Brien.

      Bass River, Massachusetts    

      November 6, 1918.

      A SIMPLE ACT OF PIETY by ACHMED ABDULLAH

      His affair that night was prosy. He was intending the murder of an old Spanish woman around the corner, on the Bowery, whom he had known for years, with whom he had always exchanged courteous greetings, and whom he neither liked nor disliked.

      He did kill her; and she knew that he was going to the minute he came into her stuffy, smelly shop, looming tall and bland, and yellow, and unearthly Chinese from behind the shapeless bundles of second-hand goods that cluttered the doorway. He wished her good evening in tones that were silvery, but seemed tainted by something unnatural. She was uncertain what it was, and this very uncertainty increased her horror. She felt her hair rise as if drawn by a shivery wind.

      At the very last she caught a glimmer of the truth in his narrow-lidded, purple-black eyes. But it was too late.

      The lean, curved knife was in his hand and across her scraggy throat—there was a choked gurgle, a crimson line broadening to a crimson smear, a thudding fall—and that was the end of the affair as far as she was concerned.

      A minute later Nag Hong Fah walked over to the other end of Pell Street and entered a liquor-store which belonged to the Chin Sor Company, and was known as the Place of Sweet Desire and Heavenly Entertainment. It was the gathering-place for the Chinese-born members of the Nag family, and there he occupied a seat of honor because of his wealth and charity and stout rectitude.

      He talked for about half an hour with the other members of his clan, sipping fragrant, sun-dried Formosa tea mixed with jessamine-flowers, until he had made for himself a bullet-proof alibi.

      The alibi held.

      For he is still at liberty. He is often heard to speak with regret, nor is it hypocritical regret, about the murder of Señora Garcia, the old Spanish woman who kept the shop around the corner. He is a good customer of her nephew, Carlos, who succeeded to her business. Nor does he trade there to atone, in a manner, for the red deed of his hands, but because the goods are cheap.

      He regrets nothing. To regret, you must find sin in your heart, while the murder of Señora Garcia meant no sin to him. It was to him a simple action, respectable, even worthy.

      For he was a Chinaman, and, although it all happened between the chocolate-brown of the Hudson and the murky, cloudy gray of the North River, the tale is of the Orient. There is about it an atmosphere of age-green bronze; of first-chop chandoo and spicy aloe-wood; of gilt, carved statues brought out of India when Confucius was young; of faded embroideries, musty with the scent of the dead centuries. An atmosphere which is very sweet, very gentle, and very unhuman.

      The Elevated roars above. The bluecoat shuffles his flat feet on the greasy asphalt below. But still the tale is of China, and the dramatic climax, in a Chinaman’s story, from a Chinaman’s slightly twisted angle, differs from that of an American.

      To Nag Hong Fah this climax came not with the murder of Señora Garcia, but with Fanny Mei Hi’s laugh as she saw him with the shimmering bauble in his hands and heard his appraisal thereof.

      She was his wife, married to him honorably and truly, with a narrow gold band and a clergyman and a bouquet of wired roses bought cheaply from an itinerant Greek vendor, and handfuls of rice thrown by facetious and drunken members of both the yellow race and the white.

      Of course, at the time of his marriage, a good many people around Pell Street whispered and gossiped. They spoke of the curling black smoke and slavery and other gorgeously, romantically wicked things. Miss Edith Rutter, the social settlement investigator, spoke of, and to, the police.

      Whereas Nag Hong Fah, who had both dignity and a sense of humor, invited them all to his house: gossipers, whisperers, Miss Edith Rutter, and Detective Bill Devoy of the Second Branch, and bade them look to their hearts’ content; and whereas they found no opium, no sliding panels, and hidden cupboards, no dread Mongol mysteries, but a neat little steam-heated flat, furnished by Grand Rapids via Fourteenth Street, German porcelain, a case of blond Milwaukee beer, a five-pound humidor of shredded Kentucky burlap tobacco, a victrola, and a fine, big Bible with brass clamp and edges and M. Doré’s illustrations.

      Call again, he said as they were trooping down the narrow stairs. Call again any time you please. Glad to have you, aren’t we, kid? chucking his wife under the chin.

      You bet yer life, you fat old yellow sweetness! agreed Fanny; and then, as a special barbed shaft leveled at Miss Rutter’s retreating back: Say! Any time yer wanta lamp my wedding certificate, it’s hangin’ between the fottygraphs of the President and the Big Boss, all framed up swell!

      He had met her first one evening in a Bowery saloon, where she was introduced to him by Mr. Brian Neill, the owner of the saloon, a gentleman from out the County Armagh, who had spattered and muddied his proverbial Irish chastity in the slime of the Bowery gutters, and who called himself her uncle.

      This latter statement had to be taken with a grain of salt. For Fanny Mei Hi was not Irish. Her hair was golden, her eyes blue. But otherwise she was Chinese. Easily nine-tenths of her. Of course she denied it. But that is neither here nor there.

      She was not a lady. Couldn’t be, don’t you see, with that mixed blood in her veins, Mr. Brian Neill acting as her uncle, and the standing pools of East Side vice about her.

      But Nag Hong Fah, who was a poet and a philosopher, besides being the proprietor of the Great Shanghai Chop Suey Palace, said that she looked like a golden-haired goddess of evil, familiar with all the seven sins. And he added, this to the soothsayer of his clan, Nag Hop Fat, that he did not mind her having seven, nor seventeen, nor seven times seventeen bundles of sin, as long as she kept them in the sacred bosom of the Nag family.

      Yes, said the soothsayer, throwing up a handful of painted ivory sticks and watching how they fell to see if the omens were favorable. Purity is a jewel to the silly young. And you are old, honorable cousin—

      Indeed, chimed in Nag Hong Fah, I am old and fat and sluggish and extremely wise. What price is there in purity higher than there is contained in the happiness and contentment of a respectable citizen when he sees men-children playing gently about his knees?

      He smiled when his younger brother, Nag Sen Yat, the opium merchant, spoke to him of a certain Yung Quai.

      Yung Quai is beautiful, said the opium merchant, and young, and of an honorable clan, and—

      And childless! And in San Francisco! And divorced from me!

      But there is her older brother, Yung Long, the head of the Yung clan. He is powerful and rich, the richest man in Pell Street! He would consider this new marriage of yours a disgrace to his face. Chiefly since the woman is a foreigner!

      She is not. Only her hair and her eyes are foreign.

      Where hair and eyes lead, the call of the blood follows, rejoined Nag Sen Yat, and he reiterated his warning about Yung Long.

      But the other shook his head.

      Do not give wings to trouble. It flies swiftly without them, he quoted. Too, the soothsayer read in the painted sticks that Fanny Mei Hi will bear me sons. One, perhaps two. Afterward, if indeed it be so that the drop of barbarian blood has clouded the clear mirror of her Chinese soul, I can always take back into my household the beautiful and honorable Yung Quai, whom I divorced and sent to California because she is childless. She will then adopt the sons which the other woman will bear me, and everything will be extremely satisfactory.

      And so he put on his best American suit, called on Fanny, and proposed to her with a great deal of dignity and elaborate phrases.

      Sure I’ll marry you, said Fanny. Sure! I’d rather be the wife of the fattest, yellowest Chink in New York than live the sorta life I’m livin’—see, Chinkie-Toodles?

      Chinkie-Toodles smiled. He looked her over approvingly. He said to himself that doubtless the painted sticks had spoken the truth, that she would bear him men-children. His own mother had been a river-girl, purchased during a drought for a handful of parched grain; and had died in the odor of sanctity, with nineteen Buddhist priests following her gaily lacquered coffin, wagging their shaven polls ceremoniously, and mumbling flattering and appropriate verses from Chin-Kong-Ching.

      Fanny, on the other hand, though wickedly and lyingly insisting on her pure white blood, knew that a Chinaman is broad-minded and free-handed, that he makes a good husband, and beats his wife rather less often than a white man of the corresponding scale of society.

      Of course, gutter-bred, she was aggressively insistent upon her rights.

      Chinkie-Toodles, she said the day before the wedding, and the gleam in her eyes gave point to the words, I’m square, see? An’ I’m goin’ to travel square. Maybe I haven’t always been a poifec’ lady, but I ain’t goin’ to bilk yer, get me? But— She looked up, and suddenly, had Nag Hong Fah known it, the arrogance, the clamorings, and the tragedy of her mixed blood were in the words that followed: I gotta have a dose of freedom. I’m an American, I’m white, say!—seeing the smile which he hid rapidly behind his fat hand—yer needn’t laugh. I am white, an’ not a painted Chinese doll. No sittin’ up an’ mopin’ for the retoin of my fat, yellow lord an’ master in a stuffy, stinky, punky five-by-four cage for me! In other woids, I resoive for my little golden-haired self the freedom of asphalt an’ electric lights, see? An’ I’ll play square, as long as you’ll play square, she added under her breath.

      Sure, he said. You are free. Why not? I am an American. Have a drink? And they sealed the bargain in a tumbler of Chinese rice whisky, cut with Bourbon, and flavored with aniseed and powdered ginger.

      The evening following the wedding, husband and wife, instead of a honeymoon trip, went on an alcoholic spree amid the newly varnished splendors of their Pell Street flat. Side by side, in spite of the biting December cold, they leaned from the open window and brayed an intoxicated pæan at the Elevated structure which pointed at the stars like a gigantic icicle stood on end, frozen, austere, desolate, for all its clank and rattle, amid the fragrant, warm reek of China which drifted from shutters and cellar-gratings.

      Nag Hong Fah, seeing Yung Long crossing the street, thought with drunken sentimentality of Yung Long’s sister whom he had divorced because she had borne him no children, and extended a boisterous invitation to come up.

      Come! Have a drink! he hiccuped.

      Yung Long stopped, looked, and refused courteously, but not before he had leveled a slow, appraising glance at the golden-haired Mei Hi, who was shouting by the side of her obese lord. Yung Long was not a bad-looking man, standing there in the flickering light of the street-lamp, the black shadows cutting the pale-yellow, silky sheen of his narrow, powerful face as clean as with a knife.

      Swell looker, that Chink! commented Fanny Mei Hi as Yung Long walked away; and her husband, the liquor warming his heart into generosity, agreed:

      Sure! Swell looker! Lots of money! Let’s have another drink!

      Arrived at the sixth tumbler, Nag Hong Fah, the poet in his soul released by alcohol, took his blushing bride upon his knee and improvised a neat Cantonese love-ditty; but when Fanny awakened the next morning with the sobering suspicion that she had tied herself for life to a drunkard, she found out that her suspicion was unfounded.

      The whisky spree had only been an appropriate celebration in honor of the man-child on whom Nag Hong Fah had set his heart; and it was because of this unborn son and the unborn son’s future that her husband rose from his tumbled couch, bland, fat, without headache or heartache, left the flat, and bargained for an hour with Yung Long, who was a wholesale grocer, with warehouses in Canton, Manila, New York, San Francisco, Seattle, and Vancouver, British Columbia.

      Not a word was said about either Yung Quai or Fanny. The talk dealt entirely with canned bamboo sprouts and preserved leeches, and pickled star-fruit, and brittle almond cakes. It was only after the price had been decided upon and duly sealed with the right phrases and palm touching palm, afterwards, though nothing in writing had passed, neither party could recede from the bargain without losing face, that Yung Long remarked, very casually:

      By the way, the terms are cash, spot cash, and he smiled.

      For he knew that the restaurant proprietor was an audacious merchant who relied on long credits and future profits, and to whom in the past he had always granted ninety days’ leeway without question or special agreement.

      Nag Hong Fah smiled in his turn; a slow, thin, enigmatic smile.

      I brought the cash with me, he replied, pulling a wad of greenbacks from his pocket, and both gentlemen looked at each other with a great deal of mutual respect.

      Forty-seven dollars and thirty-three cents saved on the first business of my married life, Nag Hong Fah said to his assembled clan that night at the Place of Sweet Desire and Heavenly Entertainment. Ah, I shall have a fine, large business to leave to the man-child which my wife shall bear me!

      And the man-child came, golden-haired, blue-eyed, yellow-skinned, and named Brian in honor of Fanny’s apocryphal uncle who owned the Bowery saloon. For the christening Nag Hong Fah sent out special invitations, pink cards lettered with virulent magenta and bordered with green forget-me-nots and purple roses; with an advertisement of the Great Shanghai Chop Suey Palace on the reverse side. He also bestowed upon his wife a precious bracelet of cloudy white jade, earrings of green jade cunningly inlaid with blue feathers, a chest of carved Tibetan soapstone, a bottle of French perfume, a pound of Mandarin blossom tea for which he paid seventeen dollars wholesale, a set of red Chinese sables, and a new Caruso record for the victrola.

      Fanny liked the last two best; chiefly the furs, which she wore through the whirling heat of an August day, as soon as she was strong enough to leave her couch, on an expedition to her native pavements. For she held fast to her proclaimed right that hers was the freedom of asphalt and electric light, not to mention the back parlor of her uncle’s saloon, with its dingy, musty walls covered with advertisements of eminent Kentucky distilleries and the indelible traces of many generations of flies, with its gangrened tables, its battered cuspidors, its commingling atmosphere of poverty and sloth, of dust and stale beer, of cheese sandwiches, wet weeds, and cold cigars.

      Getta hell outa here! she admonished a red-powdered bricklayer who came staggering across the threshold of the back parlor and was trying to encircle her waist with amatory intent. I’m a respectable married woman, see? And then to Miss Ryan, the side-kick of her former riotous spinster days, who was sitting at a corner table dipping her pretty little up-turned nose into a foaming schooner: Take my tip, Mamie, an’ marry a Chink! That’s the life, believe me!

      Mamie shrugged her shoulders.

      All right for you, Fan, I guess, she replied. But not for me. Y’see, ye’re mostly Chink yerself—

      I ain’t! I ain’t! I’m white, wottya mean callin’ me a Chink? And then, seeing signs of contrition on her friend’s face: Never mind. Chinkie-Toodles is good enough for me. He treats me white, all right, all right!

      Nor was this an overstatement of the actual facts.

      Nag Hong Fah was good to her. He was happy in the realization of his fatherhood, advertised every night by lusty cries which reverberated through the narrow, rickety Pell Street house to find an echo across the street in the liquor-store of the Chin Sor Company, where the members of his clan predicted a shining future for father and son.

      The former was prospering. The responsibilities of fatherhood had brought an added zest and tang to his keen, bartering Mongol brain. Where before he had squeezed the dollar, he was now squeezing the cent. He had many a hard tussle with the rich Yung Long over the price of tea and rice and other staples, and never did either one of them mention the name of Yung Quai, nor that of the woman who had supplanted Yung Quai in the restaurant-keeper’s affections.

      Fanny was honest. She traveled the straight and narrow, as she put it to herself. Nor ain’t it any strain on my feet, she confided to Miss Ryan. For she was happy and contented. Life, after all, had been good to her, had brought her prosperity and satisfaction at the hands of a fat Chinaman, at the end of her fantastic, twisted, unclean youth; and there were moments when, in spite of herself, she felt herself drawn into the surge of that Mongol race which had given her nine-tenths of her blood, a fact which formerly she had been in the habit of denying vigorously.

      She laughed her happiness through the spiced, warm mazes of Chinatown, her first-born cuddled to her breast, ready to be friends with everybody.

      It was thus that Yung Long would see her walking down Pell Street as he sat in the carved window-seat of his store, smoking his crimson-tassled pipe, a wandering ray of sun dancing through the window, breaking into prismatic colors, and wreathing his pale, serene face with opal vapors.

      He never failed to wave his hand in courtly greeting.

      She never failed to return the civility.

      Some swell looker, that Chink. But—Gawd!—she was square, all right, all right!

      A year later, after Nag Hong Fah, in expectation of the happy event, had acquired an option on a restaurant farther up-town, so that the second son might not be slighted in favor of Brian, who was to inherit the Great Shanghai Chop Suey Palace, Fanny sent another little cross-breed into the reek and riot of the Pell Street world. But when Nag Hong Fah came home that night, the nurse told him that the second-born was a girl, something to be entered on the debit, not the credit, side of the family ledger.

      It was then that a change came into the marital relations of Mr. and Mrs. Nag Hong Fah.

      Not that the former disliked the baby daughter, called Fanny, after the mother. Far from it. He loved her with a sort of slow, passive love, and he could be seen on an afternoon rocking the wee bundle in his stout arms and whispering to her crooning Cantonese fairy-lilts: all about the god of small children whose face is a candied plum, so that the babes like to hug and kiss him and, of course, lick his face with their little pink tongues.

      But this time there was no christening, no gorgeous magenta-lettered invitations sent to the chosen, no happy prophecies about the future.

      This time there were no precious presents of green jade and white jade heaped on the couch of the young mother.

      She noticed it. But she did not complain. She said to herself that her husband’s new enterprise was swallowing all his cash; and one night she asked him how the new restaurant was progressing.

      What new restaurant? he asked blandly.

      The one up-town, Toodles, for the baby—

      Nag Hong Fah laughed carelessly.

      Oh, I gave up that option. Didn’t lose much.

      Fanny sat up straight, clutching little Fanny to her.

      You, you gave it up? she asked. Wottya mean, gave it up?

      Then suddenly inspired by some whisper of suspicion, her voice leaping up extraordinarily strong: You mean you gave it up, because, because little Fanny is—a goil?

      He agreed with a smiling nod.

      To be sure! A girl is fit only to bear children and clean the household pots.

      He said it without any brutality, without any conscious male superiority; simply as a statement of fact. A melancholy fact, doubtless. But a fact, unchangeable, stony.

      But—but— Fanny’s gutter flow of words floundered in the eddy of her amazement, her hurt pride and vanity. I’m a woman myself, an’ I—

      Assuredly you are a woman and you have done your duty. You have borne me a son. Perhaps, if the omens be favorable you will bear me yet another. But this—this girl— He dismissed little Fanny with a wave of his pudgy, dimpled hand as a regrettable accident, and continued, soothingly: She will be taken care of. Already I have written to friends of our clan in San Francisco to arrange for a suitable disposal when the baby has reached the right age. He said it in his mellow, precise English. He had learned it at a night-school, where he had been the pride and honor of his class.

      Fanny had risen. She left her couch. With a swish-swish of knitted bed-slippers she loomed up on the ring of faint light shed by the swinging petroleum lamp in the center of the room. She approached her husband, the baby held close to her heart with her left hand, her right hand aimed at Nag Hong Fah’s solid chest like a pistol. Her deep-set, violet-blue eyes seemed to pierce through him.

      But the Chinese blood in her veins, shrewd, patient, scotched the violence of her American passion, her American sense of loudly clamoring for right and justice and fairness. She controlled herself. The accusing hand relaxed and fell gently on the man’s shoulder. She was fighting for her daughter, fighting for the drop of white blood in her veins, and it would not do to lose her temper.

      Looka here, Chinkie-Toodles, she said. You call yerself a Christian, don’t yer? A Christian an’ an American. Well, have a heart. An’ some sense! This ain’t China, Toodles. Lil Fanny ain’t goin’ to be weighed an’ sold to some rich brother Chink at so many seeds per pound. Not much! She’s gonna be eddycated. She’s gonna have her chance, see? She’s gonna be independent of the male beast an’ the sorta life wot the male beast likes to hand to a skoit. Believe me, Toodles, I know what I’m talkin’ about!

      But he shook his stubborn head. All has been settled, he replied. Most satisfactorily settled!

      He turned to go. But she rushed up to him. She clutched his sleeve.

      Yer, yer don’t mean it? Yer can’t mean it! she stammered.

      I do, fool! He made a slight, weary gesture as if brushing away the incomprehensible. You are a woman, you do not understand—

      Don’t I, though!

      She spoke through her teeth. Her words clicked and broke like dropping icicles. Swiftly her passion turned into stone, and as swiftly back again, leaping out in a great, spattering stream

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