As the train slowed for the station, and a score of other passengers began to assemble wraps and luggage, Mr. Theodore Mix sat calm and undisturbed, although inwardly he was still raging at Mirabelle for making a spectacle of him. It was fully half an hour ago that she had prodded him into activity, ignored his plea of greater experience in ways of travel, and compelled him to get the suitcases out to the platform (she didn’t trust the porter), to help her on with her cape, and to be in instant readiness for departure. For half an hour she had sat bolt upright on the edge of her seat, an umbrella in one hand and an antique satchel in the other, and her air was a public proclamation that no railroad, soulless corporation though it might be, was going to carry her one inch beyond her destination.

By a superhuman effort, Mr. Mix removed his eyes from Mirabelle’s convention badge. It 270 was a chaste decoration of three metal bars, two sets of supporting chains, and a half foot of blue silk ribbon, with white lettering, and Mirabelle continued to wear it for two reasons: she was proud of it, and Mr. Mix had made his initial attempt to be masterful, and told her twenty-four hours ago that it looked as though she belonged to the Third Ward Chowder Club. Since then, she had reproached him afresh whenever she caught him looking at it. And inasmuch as it could hardly be avoided by anyone who cast the briefest glance in her general direction, he had been in hot water from Chicago to the present moment. He couldn’t even escape to the smoking room.

When a man is telling himself that a woman has made a fool of him in public, and that every one in the neighborhood is amused to watch him, he finds it peculiarly difficult to carry on a conversation with the woman. But Mr. Mix saw that Mirabelle was about to converse, and glowering at a drummer across the aisle, he beat her to it.

“Seems to me the League had an almighty gall to wire you for that three thousand dollars, 271 Mirabelle. If it had been my money, I’d have hung on to it until I knew what they wanted it for.”

She straightened her lips. “Well, it wasn’t, was it?––So I didn’t, did I?... If I can’t have faith in my own associates, who can I have it in? And it isn’t a gift; it’s a loan. Treasurer said he needed it right off, and there wasn’t anybody else to get it from in a hurry.” She caught his eyes wandering towards her gorgeous insignia, and her own eyes snapped back at him. “And I hope at least I’m to have the privilege of doing what I choose with my own money. Don’t forget that women are people, now, just as much as men are. After the first of August, maybe I’ll––”

“Mirabelle. Sh-h!”

“No, I won’t either,” she retorted. “I don’t care to shush. After the first of August, maybe you’ll have your share, and I won’t presume to interfere with you. So don’t you interfere with me. If the League had to have money, it was for some proper purpose. And it wasn’t a gift; it was a loan. And if I couldn’t trust––”

“Oh, give it a drink!” said Mr. Mix, under his breath; and while he maintained an attitude of courteous attention, he barricaded his ears as best he could, and shut Mirabelle out of his consciousness.

Even in Chicago, he had received bulletins from the seat of war; they had merely confirmed his previous knowledge that Henry was beaten, thoroughly and irretrievably. A few more weeks, and Mirabelle would be rich. Half a million? That was the minimum. Three quarters? That was more likely. A million dollars? It wasn’t in the least improbable. And Mirabelle had told him more than once, and in plain English, that she planned to divide with him––not equally, but equitably. She had said that she would give him a third of her own inheritance. Hm ... a hundred and fifty to three hundred thousand, say. And what couldn’t he do with such a benefice? Of course, he would have to profess some slight interest in the League for awhile, but gradually he could slide out of it––and he hoped that he could engineer Mirabelle out of it. Mirabelle made herself too conspicuous. But even if Mirabelle 273 stuck to her colours, Mr. Mix needn’t hesitate to drift away––that is, after he had received his settlement. Late in August, he would make a trip to New York on business––reform business––and in the glare of the flaming-arcs, he would compensate himself for his years of penance. Mirabelle was sharp, but (he smiled reminiscently) in Chicago he had once managed to hoodwink her; and what man has done, man can do.

“It’s nothing to laugh at, Theodore!”

He came to himself with a start. “I wasn’t laughing.”

“Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes, dear. Certainly.”

“Very well. We’ll go out, then.”

“Out where?”

“Out to the vestibule, just as I said.”

“But Mirabelle! We’re more than a mile from the station!”

“We’re going out to the vestibule, Theodore. I don’t propose to get left.”

A moment ago, Mr. Mix had been arguing that the smiles and sympathy of his fellow-passengers were cheap at the price, but when he 274 rose and escorted Mirabelle down the aisle, he was telling himself that the old-fashioned principle was best––the wife’s property ought to pass under the absolute control of the husband. He was strengthened in this conviction by the fact that two fashionable young men in the corner were snickering at him.

“Home again,” said Mirabelle, with a sigh of relief. “Home again, and time to get to work. And I’m just itching for it.”

Mr. Mix said nothing: he was wondering how soon he could get to his private cachÉ, and whether he had better put in a supply of young onions in addition to cloves and coffee beans. He hadn’t yet discovered whether Mirabelle had a particularly keen scent: but he would take no chances.

“Stop staring at those girls, Theodore!”

“I may be married,” said Mr. Mix, defensively. “But I’m dashed if I’m blind.... Immodest little hussies. We’ll have to tackle that question next, Mirabelle.”

The train eased to a standstill: he helped her down to the platform. The big car was waiting for them: and as the door slammed, Mr. Mix 275 sat back luxuriously, and beamed at the chauffeur. Yes, virtue had its compensations; and as soon as he had money to his own credit, he would figuratively take Mirabelle by the scruff of the neck, and he would tell her just exactly how to behave, and he would see that she did it. But for the present––soft diplomacy.

Mirabelle clamped his arm. “Why, what’s that policeman stopping us for, right in the middle of a block!”

“Search me....” He opened the door, and he leaned out, imperially. “What’s wrong, officer? We weren’t going over twelve or thirteen––”

The policeman, who had brought out a thick book of blank summonses, and an indelible pencil, motioned him to desist. “What name?”

Mr. Mix swelled, pompously. “But, officer, I––”

“Cut it out. Name?”

“Theodore Mix. But––”

“Address?”

Mr. Mix gave it, but before he could add a postscript, Mirabelle was on active duty. “Officer, we’ve got a perfect right to know what all 276 this fol-de-rol is about. I’m the president of the Ethical Reform League.” She flirted her badge at him. “I’m Mrs. Theodore Mix––used to be Miss Starkweather. My husband is a personal friend of Mayor Rowland, and the Chief of Police. I demand to know the reason for this insult!”

The policeman tore off a page at the perforation, and handed it to Mr. Mix. “Judge Barklay’s Court, Tuesday, 10 A.M.... Why, you’re violatin’ City Ordinance 147.”

Mirabelle turned red. “Now you see here, young man, I know that ordinance backwards and forwards! I––”

“Try it sideways,” said the unabashed policeman. “Ordinance says nobody can’t engage in no diversion on the Lord’s Day. That’s today, and this here limousine’s a diversion, ain’t it?”

Mr. Mix cried out in anguish, as her grip tightened. “Ouch! It’s a damned outrage! Leggo my arm.”

“No, it isn’t! Oh, Theodore, don’t you see what it means––”

“Leggo, Mirabelle! It’s a damned outrage!”

“No, it isn’t either! Theodore, don’t you see? The Mayor’s weakened––they probably read your speech at Chicago––they aren’t waiting for the amendment! They’re enforcing the ordinance––better than we ever dreamed of! And that means that you’re going to the City Hall next autumn!” She leaned out and bowed to the gaping officer. “We beg your pardon. You did perfectly right. Thank you for doing your duty. Can we go on, now?”

The man scratched his head, perplexedly.

“What are you tryin’ to do––kid me? Sure; go ahead. Show that summons to anybody else that stops you.”

In the two miles to the hill, they were stopped seven times, and when they arrived at the house, Mirabelle was almost hysterical with triumph. Without delaying to remove her hat, she sent a telegram to the national president, and she also telephoned to a few of her League cronies, to bid them to a supper in celebration. Mr. Mix made three separate essays 278 to escape, but after the third and last trial was made to appear in its proper light as a subterfuge, he lapsed into heavy infestivity; and he spent the evening drinking weak lemonade, and trying to pretend that it belonged to the Collins family. And while his wife (still wearing her insignia) and his guests were talking in a steady stream, Mr. Mix was telling himself that if Ordinance 147 was going to prevent so innocent an occupation as riding in a car on Sunday, he was very much afraid that life in this community was going to be too rich for his blood. That is, unless he were elected to be chief of the community. And in this case, he would see that he wasn’t personally inconvenienced.

---

At half past seven in the morning, Mirabelle was already at the breakfast table, and semi-audibly rating Mr. Mix for his slothfulness, when he came in with an odd knitting of his forehead and an unsteady compression of his mouth. To add to the effect, he placed his feet with studied 279 clumsiness, and as he gave the Herald into Mirabelle’s hands, he uttered a sound which annoyed her.

“For the cat’s sake, Theodore, what are you groaning about?”

“Groan yourself,” said Mr. Mix, and put a trembling finger on the headline. As he removed the finger, it automatically ceased to tremble. Mr. Mix didn’t care two cents for what was in the Herald, but he knew that to Mirabelle it would be a tragedy, and that he was cast for the part of chief mourner.

“Well, what’s that to groan about? I’d call it a smashing victory––just as I did last night. And our being caught only shows––”

“Rave on,” said Mr. Mix lugubriously, and stood with his hands in his pockets, jingling his keys.

“Certainly! It shows they meant business. It shows we did. We’ll take our own medicine. And the amendment––” She broke off sharply; her eyes had strayed back to the smaller type. “Good grief!” said Mirabelle, faintly, and there was silence.

Mr. Mix came to look over her shoulder.

LEADING REFORMERS ARRESTED
FOR VIOLATING OWN PET LAW
Police Issue Over 2800 Summonses to Golfers, Pick-
nickers, Canoeists, Cyclists, Hikers and Motorists
including Mr. and Mrs. Theodore Mix
MAYOR PUTS OVER UNIQUE REFERENDUM
TO SEE WHAT PEOPLE REALLY WANT
Special Meeting of Council Called This Morning
Entire City Roused to Fight Blue-Law-Campaign:
Mix Amendment Doomed: Ordinance 147 Sure to be
Modified

Mirabelle collected herself. “What are you standing around gawking like that for? Find out what time that meeting is. Telephone every member of the committee. They won’t have any meeting without us, not by a long, long row of apple-trees!”

“Save your strength,” said Mr. Mix, with a spiritual yawn.

“Save my strength! Well, what about saving my five thousand dollars for––for missionary work!”

“The missionary fund,” said Mr. Mix, “seems to have fallen among cannibals. Save your energy, my dear. This isn’t reform; it’s elementary politics, and Rowland’s used the steam-roller. As a matter of fact, we’re stronger than we were before. If they’d passed my amendment, a lot of voters might have said it wouldn’t do any good to elect me Mayor; when all my best work was done beforehand. Now I’ve got a real platform to fight on. And the League’ll have a real fund, won’t it? You put up forty or fifty thousand, and we’ll stage a Waterloo.”

“And you can stand there and––oh, you coward!”

He shook his head, with new dignity. “No, you’re simply lucky Rowland didn’t think of it a year ago. If he had, and––” Mr. Mix broke off the sentence, and turned pale.

“What’s the matter, Theodore?”

Mr. Mix slumped down as though hit from behind. “Mirabelle––listen––” His voice was strained, and hoarse. “I may have to have some money today––four or five thousand––”

“I haven’t got it.”

He stared at her until she backed away in awe. “You––you haven’t got––four or five thousand––?”

Mirabelle began to whimper. “I’ve been so sure of––of August, you know––I’ve spent all Mr. Archer sent me. I––”

As he stepped forward, Mirabelle retreated. “You’ve got something of your own, though?” It wasn’t an ordinary question, it was an agonized appeal.

“Only a separate trust fund John set up for me before he died––fifty thousand dollars––I just get the interest––sixty dollars a week.”

Mr. Mix sat down hard, and his breathing was laboured. “Great––Jumping––Jehosophat!” He wet his lips, repeatedly. “Mirabelle––listen––if they modify that ordinance––so Sunday shows are legal again––those other fellows’ll want to buy back––their contracts––from Henry. There’s only a few weeks––but if Henry only raised a thousand dollars––he’d be so close to his ten thousand––” He reached for a glass of water and drank it, gulping. “Henry’ll see that––he’s got his eyes open 283 every minute.... We’ve got to cut inside of him. Prevent those fellows from buying their Sunday leases back. Get hold of the man that’s the boss of the Exhibitors’ Association. Tell him we’ll buy a second option to lease the whole string of theatres for six weeks, subject to our getting a release from Henry. As if the League wanted ’em or something. Offer a big enough rent so they’ll have to accept––so they’d get more out of us than if they opened up. Then they can’t buy back from Henry––and he’s over a thousand short. I know he is. And if you don’t do it––” His gesture was dramatic.

Mirabelle’s expression, as she wiped her eyes, was a pot-pourri of sentiments. “Humph! Can’t say I like the idea much, kind of too tricky.”

Mr. Mix played his last card. “Don’t the ends justify the means? You and I’d be philanthropists, and Henry––” He watched her quiver. “And with a fund such as we’d have, we’d begin all over again, and next time we’d win, wouldn’t we?”

“Theodore. I’ve got fifty one hundred in the bank. It has to last ’till August. If you took five thousand more––”

He snatched at the straw. “You bet I’ll take it. It’s for insurance. And you telephone to Masonic Hall and see what’s left of the three grand you wired ’em from––”

“The what?”

“The money you sent from Chicago. Get what’s left. Soon as I find out, I’ll hustle down town and get busy.”

Mirabelle wavered. “The Council’s going to––”

Mr. Mix gave her a look which was a throwback to his cave-man ancestry. “To hell with the Council!”

For an instant, her whole being rebelled, and then she saw his eyes. “A-all right,” she faltered. “I––I’ll telephone!”

Inside of five minutes, she told him that of her loan, there was nothing left at all. The money had been wanted for the two-year rental of a new hall, at 300 Chestnut Street; the owner had made a marked concession in price for advance payment.

“Never mind, then,” he rasped. “That’s cold turkey. Give me a check for every nickel you’ve got.... And I’ll want the car all day. I want a cup of coffee. And you wait right here until I get word to you what to do next.”

“Couldn’t I even––”

“You stay here! Far’s I know, I’ll have you making the rounds of the hock-shops to cash in your jewelry. But––” He relaxed slightly. “But when it’s for reform, my dear––when it’s for civilization––the League––isn’t it worth any sacrifice?”

A spark of the old fire burned in her eyes. “Humph! Good thing one of us has got something to sacrifice, if anybody asked me. But here’s your coffee.... Don’t make such a horrid noise with it, Theodore.”

---

At noon, he telephoned her two pieces of news. The Council, fairly swamped with hundreds of outraged voters, had promptly modified the existing ordinance, and rejected––unanimously––the Mix amendment. And Mr. 286 Mix, who had spent three hours in conference, and in battle, had emerged victorious.

“Thank Heaven, we’re safe!... And it only costs thirty-nine hundred. (Five of this was Mr. Mix’s self-granted commission.) I’ve bought a second option on every last house in town. And I’ll need the car all afternoon. I’ve got to run all over everywhere and close these deals.... What are you going to do?”

“Why,” she said with a rueful glance at her check-book. “I guess I’ll go down and see how soon I can get that loan back. I’m not used to––putting off tradesmen’s bills, Theodore. I wasn’t brought up to it.”

---