Queed

g Henry G. Surface, his Life and Deeds; of Fifi, the Landlady's Da

Cowles at the club, where the Colonel, a lone widower, repaired each da

a chair, "man to man, what is your o

e Colonel, and consulted his fav

point of the general public, Constant

will ever be an

they helped the ed

nce, a scientific stateliness, a c

ou for your opinion

red the Colonel, "I

nd, who ornamented with him a tiny dinner given that evening at

abilities and finer faiths were already writing his name so large upon the history of his city. About the dim-lit round of his table there were gathered but six this evening, including the host and hostess; the others, besides Sharlee Weyland and West, being Beverley Byrd and Miss Avery: the youngest of the four Byrd

said West-"it was called 'Elementary Principles of Incidence and Distr

about it," said Sharlee, "f

h boundless admirati

make the other member Secretary, for he is experienced in that work. He's at present Secretary of the Tax Reform League in New York. Did Colonel Cowl

e, how have you, as Pr

ulary? Yet it is the plain duty of both of us to read these articles: you as one of his employers,

out of any subject he touches, hasn't he? Yet manifestly the first du

om twenty-five

cription agent. In some ways, he is undoubtedly the oldest man in the world. In another way he hasn't any age at all. Spiritua

ng in regard to him was a strong sense of pity. She knew things about his life that West did not know and probably never would. For though the little Doctor of Mrs. Paynter's had probably not intended to give her a

g I ever saw-don't you think that?-and now think of his powers of concentration. All his waking time, except what he gives to the Post, goes to that awful book of his. He is ridiculous now because his theory

to glance across the flower-sweet table at the moment, he was adroi

her hospitable board, plying the twin arts of supping and talking. And as Sharlee's fellow-diners talked of Mr. Queed, it chanced that Mr. Queed's fellow-suppers were talking of Sharlee, or at any rate of her family's famous

ot of these stories was always the same, but the setting shifted about here and there, and this one had to do with a county election

ll tarred with the same pitch,' s' I. 'Everything you touch turns corrupt and rotten. Look at Henry G. Surface,' s' I. 'The

n jail in 1875," said William Klinker,

ecovered superbly. "My vision, sir, was prophetic. The stain

y G. Surface?" in

e Major, with the surprised delight of the inveterate r

Nicolovius was standing, bowing i

m, through Major Brooke's tireless kindness,

his auburn goatee stabbing the atmosphe

apping his forehead significantly, he gave his head a few solem

at the time, handsome, gifted, high-spirited, a brilliant young man who already stood high in the councils of the State. But he was also restless in disposition, arrogant, over-weeningly vain, and ambitious past all belief-"a yellow streak in him, and we didn't know it!" bellowed the Major. Bitterly chagrined by his failure to secure, from a legislature of the early seventies, the

rue. Weyland's affection never faltered. When Surface withdrew from the State with a heart full of savage rancor, Weyland went every year or two to visit him, first in Chicago and later in New York, where the exile was not slow in winning name and fortune as a daring speculator. And when Weyland died, leaving a widow and infant daughter, he gave a final proof of his trust by making Surface sole trustee of his estate, which was a large one for that time and place. Few have forgotten how the political traitor rewarded this misplaced confidence. The crash came within a few months. Surface was arrested in the company of a woman whom he referred to as his wife. The trust fund, saving a fraction, was gone, swallowed up to stay some ricketty deal. Surface was convicted of embezzlement and sentenced to ten years at hard labor, and eve

of its chief personages. Did not the sister-in-law of John Randolph Weyland sit and preside over them daily, pouring their coffee morning and night with her own hands? And did not the very girl whose fortune had be

ll the supper he wanted. In the hall he ran upon Professor Nicolovius, the impressive-looking master of Greek at Milner's Collegiate School, who, already hatted and o

down a peg or two every now and then," said he

the young man, raising his eye-brows in s

ca. You show your wisdom, at any rate, in giving as little of

es any Solomonic

y that I have read some of your editorials in the Post with-ah-pleasure and profit? I should feel flattered if

Doctor Queed, and, bowing coldly to the o

hour by hour since breakfast he had fared gloriously upon his book. But to-night his little room was cold; unendurably cold; not even the flamings of genius could overcome its frigor; and hardly half an hour had passed be

e Doctor again?)-and, stupidly breaking the point of her pencil, had had the hardihood to ask him for the loan of his knife. Mr. Queed was determined that this sort of thing should not occur again. A method for enforcing his determination, at once firm and courteous, had occ

nd dreadful blunder, poor luckless little wight! She had faithfully waited a whole half-hour, and Mr. Queed had shown no signs of coming down. Never had he waited so long as this when he meant to claim the dining-room. Mrs. Paynter's room, nominally heated by a flume from the Latrobe heater in the pa

she was saying in

leave the room, which she would gladly have done, would be too crude a thing to do, too gross a rebuke to the little Doctor's Ego. She was wrong, of course, though he

ny impending promotion to a still Higher School. She was a fond, uncomplaining little thing, who had never hurt anybody's feelings in her life, and her eyes, which were light blue, had just that look of ethereal sweetness you see in Burne-Jones's women and for just that same r

ness, the kind that comes from inside, which even the presence of the little Doctor could not take away from her. Heaven knew that Fifi harbored no grudge against Mr. Queed, and she had not forgo

which he would be least likely to need, he shoved it well forward, nearly halfway across the table, and against the volume propped up his little pastebo

LE

model of cou

le might have thought its admonition to be. On the contrary, it was only by the promptest work in getting her handkerchief into her mo

at the promulgator of it. Mr. Queed was writing, not reading, to-night. He wrote very slowly on half-size yellow pads, worth seventy-five cents a dozen, using the books only for reference. Now he tore off a sheet only partly filled with his small handwriting, and at the head of a new sheet inscribed a Ro