Barbran

Contempt was all that it brought me. "Metaphorically, of course! It's a signal of distress."

"In what distress can Barbran be?"

"In what kind of distress are most people who live next under the roof in Our Square?"

"She's doing that just to get into our atmosphere. She told me so herself. A millionaire's daughter--"

"Do millionaires' daughters wash their own handkerchiefs and paste them on windows to dry? Does any woman in or out of Our Square ever soak her own handkerchiefs in her own washbowl except when she's desperately saving pennies? Did you ever wash one single handkerchief in your rooms, Dominie?"

"Certainly not. It isn't manly. Then you think she isn't a millionairess?"

"Look at her shoes when next you see her," answered the Bonnie Lassie conclusively. "I think the poor little thing has put her every cent in the world into her senseless cellar, and she's going under."

"But, good Heavens!" I exclaimed. "Something has got to be done."

"It's going to be."

"Who's going to do it?"

"Me," returned the Bonnie Lassie, who is least grammatical when most purposeful.

"Then," said I, "the Fates may as well shut up shop and Providence take a day off; the universe has temporarily changed its management. Can I help?"

The Bonnie Lassie focused her gaze in a peculiar manner upon the exact center of my countenance. A sort of fairy grin played about her lips. "I wonder if--No," she sighed. "No. I don't think it would do, Dominie. Anyway, I've got six without you."

"Including Phil Stacey?"

"Of course," retorted the Bonnie Lassie. "It was he who came to me for help. I'm really doing this for him."

"I thought you were doing it for Barbran."

"Oh; she's just a transposed Washington Squarer," answered the tyrant of Our Square. "Though she's a dear kiddie, too, underneath the nonsense."

"Do I understand--"

"I don't see," interrupted the Bonnie Lassie sweetly, "how you could. I haven't told you. And the rest are bound to secrecy. But don't be unduly alarmed at anything queer you may see in Our Square within the next few days."

Only by virtue of that warning was I able to command the emotions aroused by an encounter with Cyrus the Gaunt some evenings later. He was hurrying across the park space in the furtive manner of one going to a shameful rendezvous, and upon my hailing him he at first essayed to sheer off. When he saw who it was he came up with a rather swaggering and nonchalant effect. I may observe here that nobody has a monopoly of nonchalance in this world.

"Good-evening, Cyrus," I said.

"Good-evening, Dominie."

"Beautiful weather we're having."

"Couldn't be finer."

"Do you think it will hold?"

"The paper says rain to-morrow."

"Why is the tip of your nose painted green?"

"Is it green?" inquired Cyrus, as if he hadn't given the matter any special consideration, but thought it quite possible.

"Emerald," said I. "It looks as if it were mortifying."

"It would be mortifying," admitted Cyrus the Gaunt, "if it weren't in a good cause."

"What cause?" I asked.

"Come out of there!" said Cyrus the Gaunt, not to me, but to a figure lurking in the shrubbery.

The Little Red Doctor emerged. I took one look at his most distinctive feature.

"You, too!" I said. "What do you mean by it?"

"Ask Cyrus," returned the Little Red Doctor glumly.

"It's a cult," said Cyrus. "The credit of the notion belongs not to me, but to my esteemed better half. A few chosen souls--"

"Here comes another of them," I conjectured, as a bowed form approached. "Who is it? MacLachan!"

The old Scot appeared to be suffering from a severe cold. His handkerchief was pressed to his face.

"Take it down, Mac," I ordered. "It's useless." He did so, and my worst suspicions were confirmed.

"He bullied me into it," declared the tailor, glowering at Cyrus the Gaunt.

"It'll do your nose good," declared Cyrus jauntily. "Give it a change. Complementary colors, you know. What ho! Our leader."

Phil Stacey appeared. He appeared serious; that is, as serious as one can appear when his central feature glows like the starboard light of an incoming steamship. Following him were Leon Coventry, huge and shy, and the lethal Boggs looking unhappy.

"Where are you all going?" I demanded.

"To the Wrightery," said Phil.

"Is it a party?"

"It's a gathering."

"Am I included?"

"If you'll--"

"Not on any account," I declared firmly. It had just occurred to me why the Bonnie Lassie had centered her gaze upon my features. "Follow your indecent noses as far as you like. I stay."

Still lost in meditation, I may have dozed on my bench, when heavy, measured footsteps aroused me. I looked up to see Terry the Cop, guardian of our peace, arbiter of differences, conservator of our morals. I peered at him with anxiety.

"Terry," I inquired, "how is your nose?"

"Keen, Dominie," said Terry. He sniffed the air. "Don't you detect the smell of illegal alcohol?"

"I can't say I do."

"It's very plain," declared the officer wriggling his nasal organ which, I was vastly relieved to observe, retained its original hue. "Wouldn't you say, Dominie, it comes from yonder cellar?"

"Barbran's cellar?

"I am informed that a circle of dangerous char-ackters with green noses gather there and drink cider containing more than two-seventy-five per cent of apple juice. I'm about to pull the place."

"For Heaven's sake, Terry; don't do that! You'll scare--"

"Whisht, Dominie!" interrupted Terry with an elaborate wink. "There'll be no surprise, except maybe to the Judge in the morning. You better drop in at the court."

Of the round-up I have no details, except that it seemed to be quietly conducted. The case was called the next day, before Magistrate Wolf Tone Hanrahan, known as the "Human Judge." Besides being human, his Honor is, as may be inferred from his name, somewhat Irish. He heard the evidence, tested the sample, announced his intention of coming around that evening for some more, and honorably discharged Barbran.

"And what about these min?" he inquired, gazing upon the dauntless six.

"Dangerous suspects, Yeronner," said Terry the Cop.

"They look mild as goat's milk to me," returned the Magistrate, "though now I get me eye on the rid-hidded wan [with a friendly wink at the Little Red Doctor] I reckonize him as a desprit charackter that'd save your life as soon as look at ye. What way are they dang'rous?"

"When apprehended," replied Terry, looking covertly about to see that the reporters were within hearing distance, "their noses were painted green."

"Is this true?" asked the Magistrate of the six.

"It is, your Honor," they replied.

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