heart itself
weighed ten stone; it wasn't enough that they had to find various and
innumerable contraptions for Captain Morton to peddle, but there was Tom
Van Dorn's new black silk mustache to grow, and to be oiled and curled
daily; so he had to go to the Palace Hotel barber shop at least once
every day, and passing the cigar counter, he had to pass by Violet
Mauling--pretty, empty-faced, doll-eyed Violet Mauling at the cigar
stand. And all the long night and all the long day, the genii, working
on the Harvey job, cast spells, put on charms, and did their deepest
sorcery to take off the power of the magic runes that young Tom's black
art were putting upon her; and day after day the genii felt their
highest potencies fail. So no wonder they mumbled and grumbled as they
bent over their chores. For a time, the genii had tried to work on Tom
Van Dorn's heart after he dropped Lizzie Coulter and sent her away on a
weary life pilgrimage with Jared Thurston, as the wife of an itinerant
editor; but they found nothing to work on under Tom's cigar holder--that
is, nothing in the way of a heart. There was only a kind of public
policy. So the genii made the public policy as broad and generous as
they could and let it go at that.

Tom Van Dorn and Henry Fenn rioted in their twenties. John Hollander
saved a bleeding country, pervaded the courthouse and did the housework
at home while Rhoda, his wife, who couldn't cook hard boiled eggs,
organized the French Cooking Club. Captain Ezra Morton spent his mental
energy upon the invention of a self-heating molasses spigot, which he
hoped would revolutionize the grocery business while his physical energy
was devoted to introducing a burglar proof window fastener into the
proud homes that were dotting the tall grass environs of Harvey. Amos
Adams was hearing rappings and holding-high communion with great spirits
in the vasty deep. Daniel Sands, having buried his second wife, was
making eyes at a third and spinning his financial web over the town. Dr.
and Mrs. Nesbit were marvelling at the mystery of a child's soul, a
maiden's soul, reaching out tendril after tendril as the days made
years. The Dick Bowman's were holding biennial receptions to the little
angels who came to the house in the Doctor's valise--and welcomed,
hilariously welcomed babies they were--welcomed with cigars and free
drinks at Riley's saloon by Dick, and in awed silence by Lida, his
wife--welcomed even though the parents n