a vulture beneath the midnight street-light. A man who would
shoot for being called a blackguard between seven o'clock in the morning
and twelve at night, often becomes one after midnight. It is frequently
said that "words break no bones," but let a young girl pass alone through
the city streets a few nights and she will probably hear words that,
drowning her in shamed blushes, will go far toward breaking her pride, if
not her bones. Men seem to be creatures of very narrow margin--they so
narrowly escape being gods, and they so much more narrowly escape being
animals. Under the sunlight, man, made in the image of God, lifts his
face heavenward and walks erect; under the street-lamps of midnight he is
stealthy, he prowls, he is a visible destruction! You think I exaggerate
the matter? Do not; I speak from experience. And, what is more, at that
time I had not yet learned what the streets of New York could produce
after midnight.

But on the night after the chair episode, Frank Murdoch heard one of the
girls say she had used the Clara Code very successfully the night before,
when two drunken men had reeled out of an alley, who would have collided
with her had she not followed the rule and kept the whole sidewalk
between them. He stood at the door as I came down-stairs, and as soon as
I reached him he asked, sharply: "Do you go home alone of nights?"

"Yes," I answered.

"Good God!" he muttered.

After a pause I looked up at him, and met his eyes shining wet and blue
through two tears. "Oh," I hastily added, "there's nothing to be afraid
of."

"I wish I could agree with you," he answered. "Tell me," he went on,
"have you ever been annoyed by anyone?"

My eyes fell, I knew I was growing red.

"Good God!" he said again, then, suddenly, he ordered: "Give me that
bag--you'll not go through these streets alone again while I am here!
Never mind the distance. I don't see why you can't take my arm."

And thus I found myself for the first time escorted by a gentleman, and
after my hot embarrassment wore off a bit, I held my head very high and
languidly allowed my skirt to trail in the dust, and said to myself:
"This is like a real grown-up--surely they can't call me 'child' much
longer now."

The star playing with us just then was a tragedian, but he was a very
little man, whose air of alertness, even of aggressiveness, had won for
him the title of "Cocky" Roberts. He wore enormously high heels, he had
thick cork soles o