The street Mace lived on was turrible narra. Why, if a long-horn had ’a’ been druv through it, he could ’a’ just give a wiggle of his haid and busted all the windas in the block. And her house! It was nigh as dark as the inside of a cow, and I judged they was a last-year’s cabbage a-wanderin’ ’round somewheres. Wal, never mind. Two shakes of a lamb’s tail, and I’d clumb about a hunderd steps and–

“How are y’, little gal?”

“Alive and kickin’, Alec.”

She ast me in. A kinda ole lady was over to one side, cookin’. At a table was two gents, the one young, with a complexion like the bottom-side of a watermelon; the other about fifty, with a long coat, a vest all over coffee, and no more chin’n a gopher.

“Mrs. Whipple,” says Macie, “Mister Lloyd.”“Ma’am, I’m tickled t’ death.”

“Hair Von” (somethin’-r’-other), “Mister Lloyd.” (Don’t wonder she called him “Hair.” By thunder! he had a mane two feet long!) “And Mister Jones.” (I ketched that name O. K.)

“Mister Lloyd,” says the ole lady, “will you have some breakfast?”

I felt like sayin’ they ’d likely be blamed little fer me, ’cause them two gezabas was just a-hoppin’ it in to ’em. But I only answers, “Thank y’, I just et in one of them bong-tong rest’rants that’s down in a cellar, and so, ma’am, my breadbasket’s plumb full.”

I sit down on a trunk (it had a tidy over it, but I knowed it was a trunk all right), and Macie, she sit down byside me.

“Alec,” she begun,–say! she looked mighty sweet!–“t’-night is a’ awful important night in my life. I been a-studyin’ with Hair Von” (you know), “and now I’m a-goin’ to have a recital. And what d’ you think? Seenyer” (I fergit who, this minute), “the grea-a-at impressyroa, is comin’ to hear me. And he’s goin’ to put me into grand op’ra.”“You don’t say!”

“Yas,” says Long-hair, swellin’ up. “The Seenyer is my friend, and any favour––”

I turned and looked clost at Macie. Her face was all alive, she was so happy, and her eyes was dancin’. “You’re a-goin’ t’ make you’ big stab t’-night,” I says. “Wal, I shore wish you luck.”

Then I took another look at that Perfessor–and of a suddent I begun to wonder if all the cards was on the table. ’Cause he was too oily to be genuwine. And I’d saw his stripe afore–“even up on the red and white, five to one on the blue, and ten to one on the numbers.”

“She’ll be a second Patty,” he says, puttin’ out a bread-hooker fer more feed.

“I’ll take another slice of toast,” says Melon-face, “and a’ aig and a third cup–it’s so good, Miss Sewell, I’m really ashamed, yas, I am.”

After that, I didn’t say much–just plumb petryfied watchin’ them two gents shovel. Talk about you’ grizzly in the springtime! And you bet they was no gittin’ shet of ’em till they couldn’t hole no more.

But, fin’lly, they moseyed, and me and Macie and the ole lady had a chin. It come out that Long-hair (and his friend) showed up ev’ry mornin’.

“And allus gits his breakfast,” I says.

“Wal, in Noo York, folks drop ’round that–a-way,” she answers. “It’s Bohemia.”

“Bohemia–you mean a kinda free hand-out.”

“Alec! No! Bohemians divvy with each other.”

“Seem’s t’ me Macie Sewell does most of the divvyin’.”

“You don’t understand,” she says. “People with artistic temper’ments don’t think about such–such common things.”

“No? Just the same, that artistic team of yourn was shore stuck on boiled aigs.”

That ruffled her up some. “Alec,” she says, “you mustn’t run down the Perfessor. He’s a big musician.”

“Wal,” I answers, “if hair makes a big musician, ’Pache Sam oughta lead the band.”

“And he’s been awful good to me. Why, he’s let go dozens and dozens of rich pupils to come here ev’ry day and give me my lesson.”

“Fer how much?”“What?” She got red.

“Fer how much?” I ast again.

“Five dollars,” she answers.

I snickered.

“But he charges all the others ten,” she puts in quick. “He come down in the price ’cause he was so wrapped up in my career.”

“Money lastin’?” I ast, and looked at the ole lady.

She give me the high sign.

But Macie answered cheerful. “It’s carried me good so far,” she says; “and after t’-night I can stand on my own feet.”

“Reckon you won’t mind my comin’ t’ hear you,” I says. (’Cause I’d got a’ idear what I was goin’ to do.) She said come ahaid. Then I skun out.

First off, I hunted one of them sun-bonnet keeriges. The feller that owned it was h’isted ’way up on top, and he had a face like a cured ham. I tole him who I was goin’ t’ visit, and ast him what ’d be the damage if he carted me that far. He said a two spot ’d do the trick, so I clumb in, he give his broomtail a lick, and we was off in a bunch.Wal, fer the balance of that day, you can bet I didn’t let no grass sprout under my moccasins. And when I turned up, ’twixt eight and nine o’clock at that recital, I was a-smilin’ like Teddy–and loaded fer bear!

It was at Long-Hair’s shebang. He took me into a big room where they was about a dozen ladies and gents. But I couldn’t hardly see ’em. They was plenty of gas fixin’s, only he had ’em turned ’way down, and little red parasol-jiggers over ’em. And they was some punk-sticks a-burnin’ in a corner.

If you want t’ ast me, I think I hit the funny spot of that bunch right good and hard. The women kinda giggled at each other, and the men cocked they eyes at the ceilin’ and put they hands to they mouths. But I wasn’t nigh as big a freak to them as they was t’ me!

“Say!” I says to Macie, ’way low, “where ’d you round up this passel of what-is-its?”

“Ssh!” she whispers back. “They’ll hear you! Most of ’em is big artists.”

“No!” I got turrible solemn. “Have they brought they temper’ments with ’em?”

She laughed.“Now, don’t devil me, Alec,” she says. “But honest, ain’t this Bohemian atmosphere just grand?”

“Wal,” I says, sniffin’ it, “it reminds me of a Chinee wash-house.”

That wasn’t the worst of it. The men was tankin’ up like the Ole Harry–right in front of the women! And on beer! What d’ you think! Beer!

And the ladies–say! if they was t’ wear them kind of dresses out our way (not more’n a pocket-handkerchief of cloth in the waist, that’s straight), why, they ’d git run in to the cooler shore. And, by thunder! some of ’em was smokin’! Smokin’! And they wasn’t a greaser gal amongst ’em, neither.

“What kind of a place I got in to?” I ast Macie. Gee! I felt turrible.

“Ssh! Long-hair is goin’ to play a pyano piece he made up a-a-all by hisself.”

And he done it. First, he goes soft, fingerin’ up and down, and movin’ from side t’ side like his chair was hot. Then, he took a runnin’ jump at hisself and worked harder. But they wasn’t the sign of a tune–just jiggles. Next, by jingo! it was help you’self to the gravy! He everlastin’ly lambasted them keys, and knocked the lights plumb outen that pore instrument.

Jumpin’ buffalo! I got t’ laughin’ so I kinda tipped over again a’ iron thing that was set clost to the wall, and come blamed nigh burnin’ the hand offen me.

When I come to, he was done and down, and a bleached lady, so whitewashed and painted she was plumb disguised, was settin’ afore the pyano. Then up gits a tall gal, skinny, long neck, forrid like a fish, hair that hadn’t been curried since week a-fore last.

She begun t’ sing like a dyin’ calf–eyes shut, and makin’ faces. But pretty soon, she took a new holt, and got to goin’ uphill and down, faster ’n Sam Hill; then ’round and ’round, like a dawg after its tail; then hiccupin’; then–she kinda shook herself–and let out a last whoppin’ beller.

“Macie,” I says, “do you have t’ herd with this outfit reg’lar? Why, say, all the wild Injuns ain’t out West.”

She didn’t say nothin’. Pore little gal, she was watchin’ the door. And Mister Long-hair? He was wanderin’ ’round, lookin’ powerful oneasy. (He’d ’a’ better, the scale-haid!) ’Fore long, he goes outside.

Up gits a short, stumpy feller with a fiddle. All the rest begun t’ holler and clap. Stumpy, he bowed and flopped his ears, and then he went at that little, ole fiddle of hisn like he’d snatch it bald-haided. Wal, that was bully!

And now it was Macie they wanted.

“But he ain’t here yet,” she says.

Long-hair come back just then. “I regret to say, Miss Sewell,” he begun, “that Seenyer” (the impressyroa) “cain’t run over t’-night. But he’ll be to my next little recital a month from now.”

“A month,” repeats Macie. Her face fell a mile, and she got as white as chalk-rock.

“It’s all right,” says the Perfessor, rubbin’ his hands. “Go ahaid and sing anyhow.”

So she stood up, tremblin’ a little. Long-hair sit down to the pyano, and this was it!

It was a shame. But Macie done her best. When she ended up, they hollered fer more, and Long-hair like to break hisself in two, bowin’.

She just stood there–like she’d been run to ground. The Perfessor waved his hand. “The Jew’s song from Fowst,” he calls out.

I couldn’t stand it no longer. I lent towards her. “The Mohawk Vale,” I says; “please sing The Mohawk Vale.”

The crowd giggled. The Perfessor, he started to laugh, too–but ketched my eye, and coughed.

Macie turned towards him. “A’ ole friend; I’d like to,” she says. And sit down to play fer herself.

She helt herself straight, and tried t’ stick it out. But she couldn’t. I seen her shake a little, her voice got husky,–and she bent ’way over, her face in her hands.

“Why, Miss Sewell!” they exclaims, “why, what’s the matter?”

Then, I gits up. “Excuse me,” I says, “fer puttin’ a kibosh on you’ party. But I just want to say that this Bohemia-artistic-temper’ment fandango stands adjourned. Ev’rybody please vamose–’ceptin’ the Perfessor.”

My goodness! the pow-wow! But they skedaddled just the same. Then I turned to Long-hair.

“You’ little game is over,” I begun. “You don’t flimflam this gal another minute. You don’t bum offen her fer another meal. You don’t give her no more of that Patty song-and-dance.”

Macie come at me. “Alec! that’s insultin’,” she says.

The Perfessor starts a-gabblin’.“Hole you’ hosses,” I says. “You knowed all the time that the impressyroa wasn’t goin’ to show up.”

“Miss Sewell, this is too much,” says Long-hair, clawin’ at his mane.

“They’s more a-comin’,” I says. “Macie, I was shore somethin’ was skew-gee about this mealy-mouth here, so I had a talk with that Seenyer this afternoon.”

That give Long-hair a jolt. “Impossible!” he yells; “the secretaries––”

“They was about eight, not to mention some office kids,” I says; “but when I give ’em some straight ole Oklahomaw, I went in O. K.”

Long-hair backed off, plumb kaflummuxed.

“The Seenyer said he’d heerd of this gent,” I goes on, “and wouldn’t let him learn a cow of hisn to sing. Friend? any little favour? come here? Nixey.”

I walks over to him. “Acknowledge the corn, you polecat,” I says.

He seen the jig was up. But he made his bluff.

“Miss Sewell, this coarse feller––”

Macie cut in. “It’s all so,” she says. “You’ve put me off and put me off. All my money’s gone. I’d banked on t’-night. And now–what am I goin’ to do!” She dropped on to a chair, her face in her hands again.

“My pore little gal!”

She sit up. “No, Alec,” she says, “I ain’t pore. I’ve got you, and the best paw a gal ever had, and my home–aw, the dear ole Bar Y! And, Alec, I’m goin’.”

“Goin’ where, little gal?”

She come over and stood in front of me, and put her two hands on my arm. “Alec,” she says, tears and smiles all to oncet, “I’m goin’ t’ start home to Oklahomaw.”

“Start home to Oklahomaw”–them words made me think, of a suddent, about what Billy ’d said t’ me at the train. I reached into my inside coat-pocket. “Wait, little gal,” I says, “we must read this first. It’s that other letter of Up-State’s.”

She opened it, her fingers all thumbs, she was so excited. And standin’ there byside me, with the Perfessor a-watchin’ us from a corner, she begun:

“‘Dear Alec Lloyd––’Why, it ain’t fer me, Alec.”“Go right on, honey.”

Mace peeked inside the envelope. “Why, here’s a bill!” she says. “Alec!” And she drawed it out.

“A bill?” I turned it over. “Why–why, it’s fer five hunderd dollars! Macie!”

Long-Hair got up and started our way, grinnin’.

“But you don’t git a cent of it,” I says, turnin’ on him quick.

He dodged.

“You’d better be keerful,” I says. Then, to Macie, “Honey, here’s another chanst t’ make a try. You can git a good teacher, this time–yas, that’s what I said, Perfessor, a good teacher–and you’ll be the biggest singer in Amuricaw yet.” And I helt the bill out to her.

The only answer she give was t’ run to the door and pull at one of them round thing-um-a-jigs that brings a telegraph kid. Next, she come back to a table, found a piece of paper and writ somethin’ on it.“Here, Alec,” she says, “here. Read this.”

It said: