Kathleen Norris - "Martie The Unconquered"

Jean de La Fontaine - "The Tales and Novels, v3: The Muleteer and Others"

C.F. McGlashan - "History of the Donner Party"

Pierre Loti - "Madame Chrysantheme, v1"

New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
Book and Publishing News from Publishers Newswire(tm)

Looking for Child to be on Cover of a New Book, 'The Model Child'
PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

FlatSigned Press Alleges Don Imus Remarks Damage Legacy of President Gerald R. Ford
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Nathan Yungerberg, an accomplished model scout and professional child photographer is launching a nation-wide casting call to find the cover model for his highly anticipated book release, 'The Model Child: A Parents Guide to the Child Modeling Industry' (ISBN: 978-0-9817018-0-6).

Books: The Ne\'er Do Well

R >> Rex Beach >> The Ne\'er Do Well



Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.





THE NE'ER-DO-WELL

By REX BEACH

Author of "THE SILVER HORDE" "THE SPOILERS" "THE IRON TRAIL" Etc.

Illustrated




TO

MY WIFE




CONTENTS

I. VICTORY

II. THE TRAIL DIVIDES

III. A GAP

IV. NEW ACQUAINTANCES

V. A REMEDY IS PROPOSED

VI. IN WHICH KIRK ANTHONY IS GREATLY SURPRISED

VII. THE REWARD OF MERIT

VIII. EL COMANDANTE TAKES A HAND

IX. SPANISH LAW

X. A CHANGE OF PLAN

XI. THE TRUTH ABOUT MRS. CORTLANDT

XII. A NIGHT AT TABOGA

XIII. CHIQUITA

XIV. THE PATH THAT LED NOWHERE

XV. ALIAS JEFFERSON LOCKE

XVI. "8838"

XVII. GARAVEL THE BANKER

XVIII. THE SIEGE OF MARIA TORRES

XIX. "LA TOSCA"

XX. AN AWAKENING

XXI. THE REST OF THE FAMILY

XXII. A CHALLENGE AND A CONFESSION

XXIII. A PLOT AND A SACRIFICE

XXIV. A BUSINESS PROPOSITION

XXV. CHECKMATE!

XXVI. THE CRASH

XXVII. A QUESTION

XXVIII. THE ANSWER

XXIX. A LAST APPEAL

XXX. DARWIN K ANTHONY




THE NE'ER-DO-WELL




I

VICTORY


It was a crisp November night. The artificial brilliance of
Broadway was rivalled by a glorious moonlit sky. The first autumn
frost was in the air, and on the side-streets long rows of
taxicabs were standing, their motors blanketed, their chauffeurs
threshing their arms to rout the cold. A few well-bundled cabbies,
perched upon old-style hansoms, were barking at the stream of
hurrying pedestrians. Against a background of lesser lights myriad
points of electric signs flashed into everchanging shapes, winking
like huge, distorted eyes; fanciful designs of liquid fire ran up
and down the walls or blazed forth in lurid colors. From the
city's canons came an incessant clanging roar, as if a great river
of brass and steel were grinding its way toward the sea.

Crowds began to issue from the theatres, and the lines of waiting
vehicles broke up, filling the streets with the whir of machinery
and the clatter of hoofs. A horde of shrill-voiced urchins pierced
the confusion, waving their papers and screaming the football
scores at the tops of their lusty lungs, while above it all rose
the hoarse tones of carriage callers, the commands of traffic
officers, and the din of street-car gongs.

In the lobby of one of the playhouses a woman paused to adjust her
wraps, and, hearing the cries of the newsboys, petulantly
exclaimed:

"I'm absolutely sick of football. That performance during the
third act was enough to disgust one."

Her escort smiled. "Oh, you take it too seriously," he said.
"Those boys don't mean anything. That was merely Youth--
irrepressible Youth, on a tear. You wouldn't spoil the fun?"

"It may have been Youth," returned his companion, "but it sounded
more like the end of the world. It was a little too much!"

A bevy of shop-girls came bustling forth from a gallery exit.

"Rah! rah! rah!" they mimicked, whereupon the cry was answered by
a hundred throats as the doors belched forth the football players
and their friends. Out they came, tumbling, pushing, jostling;
greeting scowls and smiles with grins of insolent good-humor. In
their hands were decorated walking-sticks and flags, ragged and
tattered as if from long use in a heavy gale. Dignified old
gentlemen dived among them in pursuit of top-hats; hysterical
matrons hustled daughters into carriages and slammed the doors.

"Wuxtry! Wuxtry!" shrilled the newsboys. "Full account of the big
game!"

A youth with a ridiculous little hat and heliotrope socks dashed
into the street, where, facing the crowd, he led a battle song of
his university. Policemen set their shoulders to the mob, but,
though they met with no open resistance, they might as well have
tried to dislodge a thicket of saplings. To-night football was
king.

Out through the crowd came a score of deep-chested young men
moving together as if to resist an attack, whereupon a mighty roar
went up. The cheer-leader increased his antics, and the barking
yell changed to a measured chant, to the time of which the army
marched down the street until the twenty athletes dodged in
through the revolving doors of a cafe, leaving Broadway rocking
with the tumult.

All the city was football-mad, it seemed, for no sooner had the
new-comers entered the restaurant than the diners rose to wave
napkins or to cheer. Men stepped upon chairs and craned for a
better sight of them; women raised their voices in eager
questioning. A gentleman in evening dress pointed out the leader
of the squad to his companions, explaining:

"That is Anthony--the big chap. He's Darwin K. Anthony's son.
You've heard about the Anthony bill at Albany?"

"Yes, and I saw this fellow play football four years ago. Say!
That was a game."

"He's a worthless sort of chap, isn't he?" remarked one of the
women, when the squad had disappeared up the stairs.

"Just a rich man's son, that's all. But he certainly could play
football."

"Didn't I read that he had been sent to jail recently?"

"No doubt. He was given thirty days."

"What! in PRISON?" questioned another, in a shocked voice.

"Only for speeding. It was his third offence, and his father let
him take his medicine."

"How cruel!"

"Old man Anthony doesn't care for this sort of thing. He's right,
too. All this young fellow is good for is to spend money."

Up in the banquet-hall, however, it was evident that Kirk Anthony
was more highly esteemed by his mates than by the public at large.
He was their hero, in fact, and in a way he deserved it. For three
years before his graduation he had been the heart and sinew of the
university team, and for the four years following he had coached
them, preferring the life of an athletic trainer to the career his
father had offered him. And he had done his chosen work well.

Only three weeks prior to the hard gruel of the great game the
eleven had received a blow that had left its supporters dazed and
despairing. There had been a scandal, of which the public had
heard little and the students scarcely more, resulting in the
expulsion of the five best players of the team. The crisis might
have daunted the most resourceful of men, yet Anthony had proved
equal to it. For twenty-one days he had labored like a real
general, spending his nights alone with diagrams and little
dummies on a miniature gridiron, his days in careful coaching. He
had taken a huge, ungainly Nova Scotian lad named Ringold for
centre; he had placed a square-jawed, tow-headed boy from Duluth
in the line; he had selected a high-strung, unseasoned chap, who
for two years had been eating his heart out on the side-lines, and
made him into a quarter-back.

Then he had driven them all with the cruelty of a Cossack captain;
and when at last the dusk of this November day had settled, new
football history had been made. The world had seen a strange team
snatch victory from defeat, and not one of all the thirty thousand
onlookers but knew to whom the credit belonged. It had been a
tremendous spectacle, and when the final whistle blew for the
multitude to come roaring down across the field, the cohorts had
paid homage to Kirk Anthony, the weary coach to whom they knew the
honor belonged.

Of course this fervid enthusiasm and hero-worship was all very
immature, very foolish, as the general public acknowledged after
it had taken time to cool off. Yet there was something appealing
about it, after all. At any rate, the press deemed the public
sufficiently interested in the subject to warrant giving it
considerable prominence, and the name of Darwin K. Anthony's son
was published far and wide.

Naturally, the newspapers gave the young man's story as well as a
history of the game. They told of his disagreement with his
father; of the Anthony anti-football bill which the old man in his
rage had driven through the legislature and up to the Governor
himself. Some of them even printed a rehash of the railroad man's
famous magazine attack on the modern college, in which he all but
cited his own son as an example of the havoc wrought by present-
day university methods. The elder Anthony's wealth and position
made it good copy. The yellow journals liked it immensely, and,
strangely enough, notwithstanding the positiveness with which the
newspapers spoke, the facts agreed essentially with their
statements. Darwin K. Anthony and his son had quarrelled, they
were estranged; the young man did prefer idleness to industry.
Exactly as the published narratives related, he toiled not at all,
he spun nothing but excuses, he arrayed himself in sartorial
glory, and drove a yellow racing-car beyond the speed limit.

It was all true, only incomplete. Kirk Anthony's father had even
better reasons for his disapproval of the young man's behavior
than appeared. The fact was that Kirk's associates were of a sort
to worry any observant parent, and, moreover, he had acquired a
renown in that part of New York lying immediately west of Broadway
and north of Twenty-sixth Street which, in his father's opinion,
added not at all to the lustre of the family name. In particular,
Anthony, Sr., was prejudiced against a certain Higgins, who, of
course, was his son's boon companion, aid, and abettor. This young
gentleman was a lean, horse-faced senior, whose unbroken solemnity
of manner had more than once led strangers to mistake him for a
divinity student, though closer acquaintance proved him wholly
unmoral and rattle-brained. Mr. Higgins possessed a distorted
sense of humor and a crooked outlook upon life; while, so far as
had been discovered, he owned but two ambitions: one to whip a
policeman, the other to write a musical comedy. Neither seemed
likely of realization. As for the first, he was narrow-chested and
gangling, while a brief, disastrous experience on the college
paper had furnished a sad commentary upon the second.

Not to exaggerate, Darwin K. Anthony, the father, saw in the
person of Adelbert Higgins a budding criminal of rare precocity,
and a menace to his son; while to the object of his solicitude the
aforesaid criminal was nothing more than an entertaining
companion, whose bizarre disregard of all established rules of
right and wrong matched well with his own careless temper.
Higgins, moreover, was an ardent follower of athletics, revolving
like a satellite about the football stars, and attaching himself
especially to Kirk, who was too good-natured to find fault with an
honest admirer.

It was Higgins this evening who, after the "cripples" had deserted
and the supper party had dwindled to perhaps a dozen, proposed to
make a night of it. It was always Higgins who proposed to make a
night of it, and now, as usual, his words were greeted with
enthusiasm.

Having obtained the floor, he gazed owlishly over the flushed
faces around the table and said:

"I wish to announce that, in our little journey to the underworld,
we will visit some places of rare interest and educational value.
First we will go to the House of Seven Turnings."

"No poetry, Hig!" some one cried. "What is it?"

"It is merely a rendezvous of pickpockets and thieves, accessible
only to a chosen few. I feel sure you will enjoy yourselves there,
for the bartender has the secret of a remarkable gin fizz, sweeter
than a maiden's smile, more intoxicating than a kiss."

"Piffle!"

"It is a place where the student of sociology can obtain a world
of valuable information."

"How do we get in?"

"Leave that to old Doctor Higgins," Anthony laughed. "To get out
is the difficulty."

"Oh, I guess we'll get out," said the bulky Ringold.

"After we have concluded our investigations at the House of Seven
Turnings," continued the ceremonious Higgins, "we will go to the
Palace of Ebony, where a full negro orchestra--"

"The police closed that a week ago."

"But it has reopened on a scale larger and grander than ever."

"Let's take in the Austrian Village," offered Ringold.

"Patiently! Patiently, Behemoth! We'll take 'em all in. However, I
wish to request one favor. If by any chance I should become
embroiled with a minion of the law, please, oh please, let me
finish him."

"Remember the last time," cautioned Anthony. "You've never come
home a winner."

"Enough! Away with painful memories! All in favor--"

"AYE!" yelled the diners, whereupon a stampede ensued that caused
the waiters in the main dining-room below to cease piling chairs
upon the tables and hastily weight their napkins with salt-
cellars.

But the crowd was not combative. They poured out upon the street
in the best possible humor, and even at the House of Seven
Turnings, as Higgins had dubbed the "hide-away" on Thirty-second
Street, they made no disturbance. On the contrary, it was
altogether too quiet for most of them, and they soon sought
another scene. But there were deserters en route to the Palace of
Ebony, and when in turn the joys of a full negro orchestra had
palled and a course was set for the Austrian Village, the number
of investigators had dwindled to a choice half-dozen.

These, however, were kindred spirits, veterans of many a midnight
escapade, composing a flying squadron of exactly the right
proportions for the utmost efficiency and mobility combined.

The hour was now past a respectable bedtime and the Tenderloin had
awakened. The roar of commerce had dwindled away, and the
comparative silence was broken only by the clang of an infrequent
trolley. The streets were empty of vehicles, except for a few cabs
that followed the little group persistently. As yet there was no
need of them. The crowd was made up, for the most part, of
healthy, full-blooded boys, fresh from weeks of training, strong
of body, and with stomachs like galvanized iron. They showed scant
evidence of intoxication. As for the weakest member of the party,
it had long been known that one drink made Higgins drunk, and all
further libations merely served to maintain him in status quo.
Exhaustive experiments had proved that he was able to retain
consciousness and the power of locomotion until the first streak
of dawn appeared, after which he usually became a burden. For the
present he was amply able to take care of himself, and now,
although his speech was slightly thick, his demeanor was as
didactic and severe as ever, and, save for the vagrant workings of
his mind, he might have passed for a curate. As a whole, the crowd
was in fine fettle.

The Austrian Village is a saloon, dance-hall, and all-night
restaurant, flourishing brazenly within a stone's throw of
Broadway, and it is counted one of the sights of the city. Upon
entering, one may pass through a saloon where white-aproned
waiters load trays and wrangle over checks, then into a ball-room
filled with the flotsam and jetsam of midnight Manhattan. Above
and around this room runs a white-and-gold balcony partitioned
into boxes; beneath it are many tables separated from the waxed
floor by a railing. Inside the enclosure men in street-clothes and
smartly gowned girls with enormous hats revolve nightly to the
strains of an orchestra which nearly succeeds in drowning their
voices. From the tables come laughter and snatches of song;
waiters dash hither and yon. It is all very animated and gay on
the surface, and none but the closely observant would note the
weariness beneath the women's smiles, the laughter notes that
occasionally jar, or perceive that the tailored gowns are
imitations, the ermines mainly rabbit-skins.

But the eyes of youth are not analytical, and seen through a rosy
haze the sight was inspiriting. The college men selected a table,
and, shouldering the occupants aside without ceremony, seated
themselves and pounded for a waiter.

Padden, the proprietor, came toward them, and, after greeting
Anthony and Higgins by a shake of his left hand, ducked his round
gray head in acknowledgment of an introduction to the others.

"Excuse my right," said he, displaying a swollen hand criss-
crossed with surgeon's plaster. "A fellow got noisy last night."

"D'jou hit him?" queried Higgins, gazing with interest at the
proprietor's knuckles.

"Yes. I swung for his jaw and went high. Teeth--" Mr. Padden said,
vaguely. He turned a shrewd eye upon Anthony. "I heard about the
game to-day. That was all right."

Kirk grinned boyishly. "I didn't have much to do with it; these
are the fellows."

"Don't believe him," interrupted Ringold.

"Sure! he's too modest," Higgins chimed in. "Fine fellow an' all
that, understand, but he's got two faults--he's modest and he's
lazy. He's caused a lot of uneasiness to his father and me.
Father's a fine man, too." He nodded his long, narrow head
solemnly.

"We know who did the trick for us," added Anderson, the straw-
haired half-back.

"Glad you dropped in," Mr. Padden assured them. "Anything you boys
want and can't get, let me know."

When he had gone Higgins averred: "There's a fine man--peaceful,
refined--got a lovely character, too. Let's be gentlemen while
we're in his place."

Ringold rose. "I'm going to dance, fellows," he announced, and his
companions followed him, with the exception of the cadaverous
Higgins, who maintained that dancing was a pastime for the
frivolous and weak.

When they returned to their table they found a stranger was seated
with him, who rose as Higgins made him known.

"Boys, meet my old friend, Mr. Jefferson Locke, of St. Louis. He's
all right."

The college men treated this new recruit with a hilarious
cordiality, to which he responded with the air of one quite
accustomed to such reunions.

"I was at the game this afternoon," he explained, when the
greetings were over, "and recognized you chaps when you came in.
I'm a football fan myself."

"You look as if you might have played," said Anthony, sizing up
the broad frame of the Missourian with the critical eye of a
coach.

"Yes. I used to play."

"Where?"

Mr. Locke avoided answer by calling loudly for a waiter, but when
the orders had been taken Kirk repeated:

"Where did you play, Mr. Locke?"

"Left tackle."

"What university?"

"Oh one of the Southern colleges. It was a freshwater school--you
wouldn't know the name." He changed the subject quickly by adding:

"I just got into town this morning and I'm sailing to-morrow. I
couldn't catch a boat to-day, so I'm having a little blow-out on
my own account. When I recognized you all, I just butted in. New
York is a lonesome place for a stranger. Hope you don't mind my
joining you."

"Not at all!" he was assured.

When he came to pay the waiter he displayed a roll of yellow-
backed bills that caused Anthony to caution him:

"If I were you I'd put that in my shoe. I know this place."

Locke only laughed. "There's more where this came from. However,
that's one reason I'd like to stick around with you fellows. I
have an idea I've been followed, and I don't care to be tapped on
the head. If you will let me trail along I'll foot the bills.
That's a fair proposition."

"It certainly sounds engaging," cried Higgins, joyously. "The
sight of that money awakens a feeling of loyalty in our breasts. I
speak for all when I say we will guard you like a lily as long as
your money lasts, Mr. Locke."

"As long as we last," Ringold amended.

"It's a bargain," Locke agreed. "Hereafter I foot the bills.
You're my guests for the evening, understand. If you'll agree to
keep me company until my ship sails I'll do the entertaining."

"Oh, come now," Anthony struck in. "The fellows are just fooling.
You're more than welcome to stay with us if you like, but we can't
let you put up for it."

"Why not? We'll make a night of it. I'll show you how we spend
money in St. Louis. I'm too nervous to go to bed."

Anthony protested, insisting that the other should regard himself
as the guest of the crowd; but as Locke proved obdurate the
question was allowed to drop until later, when Kirk found himself
promoted by tacit consent to the position of host for the whole
company. This was a little more than he had bargained for, but the
sense of having triumphed in a contest of good-fellowship consoled
him. Meanwhile, the stranger, despite his avowedly festive spirit,
showed a certain reserve.

When the music again struck up he declined to dance, preferring to
remain with Higgins in their inconspicuous corner.

"There's a fine fellow," the latter remarked, following his best
friend's figure with his eyes, when he and Locke were once more
alone. "Sweet nature."

"Anthony? Yes, he looks it."

"He's got just two faults, I always say: he's too modest by far
and he's lazy--won't work."

"He doesn't have to work. His old man has plenty of coin, hasn't
he?"

"Yes, and he'll keep it, too. Heartless old wretch. Mr.--What's
your name, again?"

"Locke."

"Mr. Locke." The speaker stared mournfully at his companion.
"D'you know what that unnatural parent did?"

"No."

"He let his only son and heir go to jail."

Mr. Jefferson Locke, of St. Louis, started; his wandering,
watchful eyes flew back to the speaker.

"What! Jail?"

"That's what I remarked. He allowed his own flesh and blood to
languish in a loathsome cell."

"What for? What did they get him for?" queried the other, quickly.

"Speeding."

"Oh!" Locke let himself back in his chair.

"Yes sir, he's a branded felon."

"Nonsense. That's nothing."

"But we love him just the same, criminal though he is" said
Higgins, showing a disposition to weep. "If he were not such a
strong, patient soul it might have ruined his whole life."

Mr. Locke grunted.

"S'true! You've no idea the disgrace it is to go to jail."

The Missourian stirred uneasily. "Say, it gets on my nerves to sit
still," said he. "Let's move around."

"Patiently! Patiently! Somebody's sure to start something before
long."

"Well, I don't care to get mixed up in a row."

Higgins laid a long, white hand upon the speaker's arm. "Then stay
with us, Mr.--Locke. If you incline to peace, be one of us. We're
a flock of sucking doves."

The dancers came crowding up to the table at the moment, and
Ringold suggested loudly: "I'm hungry; let's eat again."

His proposal met with eager response.

"Where shall we go?" asked Anderson.

"I just fixed it with Padden for a private room upstairs," Anthony
said. "All the cafes are closed now, and this is the best place in
town for chicken creole, anyhow."

Accordingly he led the way, and the rest filed out after him; but
as they left the ball-room a medium-sized man who had recently
entered from the street caught a glimpse of them, craned his neck
for a better view, then idled along behind.




II

THE TRAIL DIVIDES


Inspired by his recent rivalry with Mr. Jefferson Locke, Anthony
played the part of host more lavishly than even the present
occasion required. He ordered elaborately, and it was not long
before corks were popping and dishes rattling quite as if the
young men were really hungry. Mr. Locke, however, insisted that
his friends should partake of a kind of drink previously unheard
of, and with this in view had a confidential chat with the waiter,
to whom he unostentatiously handed a five-dollar retainer. No one
witnessed this unusual generosity except Higgins, who commended it
fondly; but his remarks went unheeded in the general clamor.

The meal was at its noisiest when the man whom Locke had so
generously tipped spoke to him quietly. Whatever his words, they
affected the listener strongly. Locke's face whitened, then grew
muddy and yellow, his hands trembled, his lips went dry. He half
arose from his chair, then cast a swift look about the room. His
companions were too well occupied, however, to notice this by-play
even when the waiter continued, in a low tone:

"He slipped me a ten-spot, so I thought it must be something worth
while."

"He--he's alone, you say?"

"Seems to be. What shall I do, sir?"

Locke took something from his pocket and thrust it into the
fellow's hand, while the look in his eyes changed to one of
desperation.

"Step outside and wait. Don't let him come up. I'll call you in a
minute."

Ringold was recounting his version of the first touchdown--how he
had been forced inch by inch across the goal line to the tune of
thirty thousand yelling throats and his companions were hanging
upon his words, when their new friend interrupted in such a tone
that Anthony inquired in surprise:

"What's wrong, old man? Are you sick?"

Locke shook his head. "I told you fellows I'd been followed this
evening. Remember? Well, there's a man down-stairs who has given
the waiter ten dollars to let him have his coat and apron so he
can come in here."

"What for?"

"Who is he?"

The men stared at the speaker with a sudden new interest.

"I'm not sure. I--think it's part of a plan to rob me." He let his
gaze roam from one face to another. "You see--I just came into a
big piece of coin, and I've got it with me. I'm--I'm alone in New
York, understand? They've followed me from St. Louis. Now, I want
you boys to help me dodge this--"

Kirk Anthony rose suddenly, moving as lightly upon his feet as a
dancer.

"You say he's below?"

Locke nodded. It was plain that he was quite unnerved.

Ringold rose in turn and lurched ponderously toward the door, but
Kirk stepped in front of him with a sharp word: