l waitin'
fur an old horse to die. Ain't one o' you reporters wouldn't been glad
to do what that catamount over there done last night, and ain't one o'
ye wouldn't take pay fur it. Katie Murdock's fired? Yes,--two of us is
fired,--me and her. We'll go back whar we come from. We mayn't be so
almighty smart as some o' you city folks be, but we're a blamed sight
decenter. Up in my country dead girls is sumpin' to be sorry fur, not
sumpin' to make money out'er, and settin' a poor mother crazy is
worse'n murder. Git out o' my way thar, or I'll hurt some o' ye! Come,
Katie!"

THE BEGUILING OF PETER GRIGGS

Peter was in his room when I knocked--up two flights of stairs off
Washington Square--Eighth Street really--in one of those houses with a
past--of mahogany, open wood fires, old Madeira in silver coasters
pushed across hand-polished tables,--that kind of a past.

None of all this could be seen in its present. The marble steps outside
were worn down like the teeth of an old horse, and as yellow; the iron
railings were bent and cankered by rust; the front door was in
blisters; the halls bare, steps uncarpeted, and the spindling mahogany
balusters showed here and there substitutes of pine.

Nor did the occupants revive any of its old-time charm. The basement
held a grocery--a kindling-wood, ice and potato sort of grocery; the
parlor boasted a merchant tailor--much pressing and repairing, with now
and then a whole suit; the second floor front was given over to a
wig-maker and the second story back to a manicure. Here the tide of the
commercial and the commonplace stopped--stopped just short of the third
floor where old Peter Griggs lived.

You would understand why if you knew the man.

Just as this particular old house possessed two distinct
personalities--one of the past and the other of the present--so did the
occupant of the third floor.

Downtown in the custom house, where he was employed (he had something
to do with invoices), he was just plain Mr. Griggs--a short, crisp,
"Yes and so" little man--exact, precise and absurdly correct: never, in
all his life, had he made a mistake.

Up in these rooms on the third floor he was dear old Peter--or Pete--or
Griggsy--or whatever his many friends loved best to call him. Up here,
too, he was the merriest companion possible; giving out as much as he
absorbed, and always with his heart turned inside out. That he had been
for more than thirty years fastened to a high