bothered by the churches and by the newspapers, and he was bothering me.

"One day I got hold of a drunken Pole in the lock-up and questioned him. But, as always before, it was impossible to find out where he had got the liquor. All I could get out of him was: 'Saint Columban is protecting us. Saint Columban won't let them stop us from having our drink.' And all through the Polish district there was this mysterious talk about supernatural protection. Well, my Polish education had taught me nothing about a Saint Columban, and I went to the library to look him up, and in a dictionary of church lore I found this legend about him:

'It was supper-time one day in the monastery where this good monk did his service to God, and Columban went down to the cellar of the monastery to draw a pitcher of beer. When he got there, he was dismayed to find the spigot of the barrel open and all the precious beer spilled away on the stone floor. At once Columban got down on his knees and prayed. He prayed so hard that the beer flowed back into the barrel, and he was able, after all, to draw off a pitcher of it to bring to his fellow-monks at the suppertable.'

"The story interested me, but it did n't help much. One midwinter day I started on a tour of the whole network of factory settlements on the meadow to satisfy the sheriff-and my own curiosity -about that bootlegging center.

"If you know of a place that 's any bleaker, any more desolate and abandoned, than the Harley meadows in January, I'd like to know where it is. Not that I ever want to go there," added Lubomirski, hastily, shivering with remembered chills. “I was the last man in the world who had the right to be out on such an errand, and I believe I would have been the last man in the world to enjoy it; but it was my job. It was the coldest day I remember. I cursed my luck and I wished that, so long as I was being a hypocrite anyway, I had at least had the courage to bring a flask of whisky with me to warm my insides for a nasty day's work.

"The conductors on the single-track trolley-line were rushing in from their

platforms every minute to warm their hands over the pot stoves, then banging the straps against the walls, stamping, and jerking the bell-cords till they nearly broke, but they were n't keeping warm. No one possibly could. It was the worst kind of cold day, when the dampness and the cold seem to combine to freeze every drop of human cheerfulness out of your blood, and a high wind was sweeping the meadow, tossing handfuls of old, dirty snow like grains of hail into your face. Lord! but I was sorry for the poor devils who worked in those smelting-mills on the meadow all year round!

"Well, gentlemen, I suppose there is something of a streak of superstition in me. At any rate, when I had tramped that bleak country until nightfall and got nothing for my pains but a throughand-through freezing and a bellyful of celery tonic and bad near-beer, I was ready to believe that I was being punished for a sort of sacrilege. Maybe it is right that there should be a law against drinking, and if there is, I suppose it should be enforced." He looked meditatively into the bottom of his now empty glass, and one of the club members signaled a waiter who hovered in the background. "But if there are to be such laws, let them be enforced by men who believe in them. No more for Lubomirski!

"They were strange things that happened to me that evening, and if I did not know when Alex Lubomirski is drunk and when he is not, I might wonder. You know, I am not of a very robust physique, and I did not bear up well under the strain of that all-day wildgoose chase. The bitterness of the cold increased with sundown, and then there came a gust of snow that became a blizzard in a few minutes. Suddenly, without realizing just where I was going, I found myself plowing through the snow and the darkness in the most God-forsaken street of them all, with my feet getting weak under me. Thank you!" This last in acknowledgment to the attentive waiter, who had come with a bottle. "I was disgusted with the world, with my job, and with myself, but mostly with myself. I looked around for the trolley-line, to let it go as a failure

and get out of that whole mess of bleakness. But the trolley-line became suddenly a hard thing to find. I had strayed off the main road, and there were no houses in sight, nothing but an occasional foundry building, totally dark, or a coal-yard or a row of stables. It seemed impossible to find a human being. And all the while the blizzard was getting worse, until I was fairly blinded when I stood up straight to look for a trolleypole. Of course, if I had been in normal shape, I could have used my wits and come out all right. It 's impossible to go through that group of factory settlements and get really far from a trolleyline. But do you know how, when you are out of tune with the world, you sometimes seem to revel in your own misfortune, you refuse to pull yourself together and think? I just walked on in a sort of daze until I stumbled blindly into the blaze of light from a saloon window. The blinds were down and the door was locked, but, seeing the light, I banged at the door. I remember how ironic it seemed to me that I should be going to that place of all places for shelter.

"I could hear a number of voices inside talking loudly in Polish, but I got no reply to my banging for a while. Then some one said:

"It must be Jan. Open up for Jan!' and the door was unlocked.

"But I was n't so sure of my welcome. I had no sooner poked my head through the door of the saloon than the conversation stopped dead, and the dozen or so men who were gathered around the bar looked at me as though I were a sort of curiosity. Then I saw a girl. I may have been so tired as to be seeing mirages, but to me she seemed the most beautiful girl in all the world, standing behind the bar and whispering to a man who seemed to be about the fattest and the ugliest man in the world. The fat man came up to me, and, gesturing with his bar rag, said: 'We have a private party here, mister. This place is closed.' He seemed to be waving me outside, back to the snow and the meadow winds, by one sweep of his bar rag.

"I must have looked like a school-boy pleading to be let off from a beating as I stood there, shivering, and covered with snow from head to foot, mumbling some

thing about coming in and getting out of the cold for a minute. Even the fat man, who carried himself like a ruler of the earth, with his bar rag for a scepter, hesitated about putting me out until the men all started talking at once and loudly. It seemed to be a unanimous agreement. The bar rag started waving again, with an air of finality. Then the girl spoke. A tall, black-eyed, blackhaired girl she was, a Pole through and through. If the fat man with the rag acted like a sort of king, she certainly bore herself like a princess. To judge from the look on that slender, sensitive face of hers, the highest concession she could have made to any human being would have been to say, 'You may go right on living so far as I'm concerned.' She looked first at me, then at the group of Polish men, a giant, every one of them, and said in Polish: 'Well, what are you afraid of? He does n't know what we 're talking about, and, besides, he could n't hurt a flea.' The argument stopped right there, though some of the men grumbled a bit under their breath. The fat man started mopping his bar again, and, without condescending to look at me, said: 'All right. Shut the door. It's cold.'

"I came in, stamping snow all over the place, not a bit pleased at the kind of reception I was getting. What hurt most, though, was that remark of the girl's. The fact that I had just been calling myself names did n't make any difference. I was mad. Without waiting for any further invitation, I walked to the back of the room, as far away from the crowd as I could get, and sat down at one of the rough tables. Then the warmth of the place began to soak into me, and I think I would have dropped off into a drowse in another minute if the girl had n't followed me. She stood at the table, with her arms folded, looking down at me in a calm, clear-eyed way that made me angrier and angrier all the time, and asked in English: 'Will you have something? A glass of near-beer?'

"No,' I snapped back at her before I had had a chance to think. 'I'm afraid that would be too strong for me.'

"She stood perfectly quiet, still staring at me in a mighty uncomfortable way. I could see that she was wondering whether by any chance I could have

understood her remark in Polish. But apparently she came to the conclusion that I had n't, for she shrugged her shoulders and walked off.

"I slumped back in my chair, rubbing my hands and trying to keep my eyes open, all the time seeming to feel pairs of black eyes staring at me with maddening calmness from every conceivable direction. I could sense the fact that I was about as welcome in that saloon as the meadow wind I brought in when I opened the door. The party, which was a pretty noisy one when I came in, was suddenly quiet, and once in a while I could see one of those big fellows looking at me sidewise as though he were longing to pick me up and throw me out into the snow. It was n't a very comfortable position, but I had made up my mind that I was there to stay-at least, until I should be thrown out. For one thing, I felt too exhausted to move. For another, I was getting curious. But more than anything else it was that pair of black eyes. That remark about my not being able to hurt a flea had got under my skin. And those eyes

"Just as before, it was the girl who started things. She said something to the fat man that I could n't make out, and the fat man said to the crowd in a voice that shook the chandeliers: 'What the devil is the matter with you? Come on, drink!' In a moment the place was in an uproar again. Then I looked up, and saw that the girl was returning to my table. She carried a plate that was a mighty cheerful sight to me. On it were two hot roast-beef sandwiches, generous ones, and a fat tumbler of whisky. She looked at me with just the trace of a smile on that wonderful face of hers, and said, 'Well, here's something a little stronger.' And without stopping for any reply, she slipped the plate on the table and left me. It was as though she had challenged me, Alex Lubomirski, to drink something stronger than near-beer. I did n't have to be challenged twice. I ate my sandwiches and drank the whisky, feeling myself get stronger all the while. Maybe a feeling of gratitude should have been growing in me at the same time; doubtless it should have, but things did not work that way. With every sip of that strong whisky my re

I

sentment at the scornful look and the remark about my harmlessness grew. Over at the bar the glasses were clinking by now, and a perfect uproar had started.

"How was business to-day?' one man asked.

"Ten gallons for me,' was the answer, and three or four men cheered, slapping their thighs.

"Where is Jan?' then some one inquired. There was a general racket again. Every one wanted to know where Jan was.

"I hope the old man has had a good dream to-day,' said the man who had inquired after Jan. And they were getting drunker and merrier all the while.

"Suddenly the bar rag came down with a smack. It was like the tapping of a gavel to bring a parliamentary meeting to order, and a whole lot more effective.

"That's enough!' shouted the fat man in Polish. 'It's about time we got down to business.'

"They quieted down, and there did seem to be some kind of business on foot. The girl with the black eyes had gone behind the bar again, and now she had a cloth-bound ledger spread out before her and was dipping a pen into a bottle of ink. One by one the men shuffled over to where she was standing, and mumbled some kind of report to her in Polish while she wrote. Just a scrap or two of the conversation came to me, but that was enough:

"I'm working the East Ferry district.' 'I got rid of sixteen quarts of whisky. Manckiewicz wants to buy a barrel of ale.'

"Four quarts of brandy,' one man reported.

"You 're lazy, Casimir,' the girl replied, dipping her pen into the bottle to make the entry. He started to stammer an explanation, but already she had forgotten him and was taking the accounting of the next man. Cool and businesslike in her white apron and blue dress, I tell you she was an amazing figure in that group."

Lubomirski paused, and his mournful eyes watched the flying sparks in the fireplace as though he were trying to arrange out of their fantastic shapes the face of his wonderful black-eyed girl.

Whether he succeeded or not, we could not tell, for presently he continued in his even, matter-of-fact way, without looking up:

"You know the sensation of falling down an abyss that seems to stretch for thousands of feet that you get sometimes in a dream? That was what it was like to come out of my stupor and realize that here I was, in the center of the bootlegging traffic of the whole district, with all the evidence that I had been chasing my legs off for, and a great deal more than I had suspected the existence of. That remark of the girl's came to me again, and I can tell you it felt good to be having the upper hand. Whether I would really have betrayed their hospitality or not, after eating and drinking there, I do not know, and I want you to believe that," added Lubomirski, a bit fiercely, putting himself suddenly on the defensive. "I was n't thinking of my miserable job, though that would have been a wonderful catch to make. I was n't thinking of the danger of my position there. If you want to know just what it was that had me on my mettle, all in a flurry with excitement, well, gentlemen, I 'm afraid you would n't understand. You would n't understand in a thousand years-not unless you had looked into those eyes for yourself. I left my table and walked over in cock-sure fashion to join the group. My roast-beef sandwiches and whisky had made me bold.

"Well, maybe I know something now that would harm a great many fleas,' I said to the girl, and this time I spoke in Polish.

"For just a fraction of a second I thought she was turning pale. I could swear that there was never a more surprised person in the world than she to find me speaking her language. But she turned to me with that magnificent selfassurance and answered:

"Has the whisky made you so strong that you want to fight fleas?'

"I wanted to say something clever and biting, but I was still trying to think of it when there was a great bang on the door, repeated over and over again.

"That's Jan this time, all right,' some one shouted.

"Good old Jan! Hurray for Jan!" they yelled, and one man said:

"We'll get him good and drunk tonight all right, and Jan 'll tell us all about Saint Columban.'

"The fat man came out from behind the bar to open the door, and let in a gust of snow and a little, gray old man, bent like an umbrella-handle.

"Hello, Jan! We had a good day. Have you been dreaming of your Irish saint again?' the fat man asked.

"The little old man they called Jan chuckled, rubbed his hands, and shook his head up and down half a dozen times as though it were a mechanical toy.

"So you had a good day?' he said in Polish, still rubbing his hands.

"If we have many more like it, we 'll have the county floating in whisky,' answered the fat man, and the little, goatlike head started nodding again.

"Yes, I dreamed of Saint Columban again,' Jan said. 'It was bitter cold all day, and I went down to the cellar next to the furnace to sleep on bundle of rags. And in my sleep the monk Columban came to me clearer than I ever saw him before, in his sandals and his flowing robes, with a book in his hand, and told me that this time he had a command for me. "What is it?" I said. "I'll do it. Nothing will be too much." And he looked at me, and he smiled at me sadly -so-and he said: "Jan, I will not ask you for much. For Columban's sake, I ask you to give a barrel of good ale." And he said nothing more, but he folded his hands and looked at me sadly. Then I woke up, on my bundle of rags, and he was gone.'

"Hurray! Jan 's been seeing Columban again! Did n't I tell you? Such a good day that we had!' they shouted, and crowded around the old man, clapping him on the back and pressing his hands. Even the girl, whose eyes were averted all the while he was telling the story, looked at him with a flash in her eyes, clapped her hands, and cried, 'Hurray for Jan!' I believe there is nothing in the world that I would not have done to have that hand-clap for myself.

"Well, how are you going to give Saint Columban the barrel of ale?' the fat man demanded gruffly, pulling at his thick mustache and smiling an ugly kind of smile.

""How are we going to give it to him? Pour it out on the floor. Pour it out as a libation. Spill a barrel of good ale for Columban. Was n't I a priest? Don't I know how those things are done?'

"Yes, you were a priest until you knew too well what ale was for, and they kicked you out,' said the fat man. 'Come, you old rascal, get as much of it as you can in your belly, and don't talk about spilling.'

"I guess by this time the fat man had decided that everybody present had had all the drink that was good for him. He snapped his bar rag again, brought it down with a bang, and bellowed:

"That's enough. You 're getting drunk, the whole pack of you. No more!' "There was an unearthly racket as they all began protesting and pleading at once against this ruling, but it made no impression on that mountain of flesh. He only scowled at the whole crowd of them, drew off one glass of ale for the old man, and folded his arms. Old Jan drank his ale, still muttering about Saint Columban and about the awful things that would happen if the commandment were not fulfilled. But the fat man did not yield, and to get away from the noise he walked over to where the girl and I stood talking.

"Your friends are all good disciples of Columban,' I was saying.

"One could do worse than be a disciple of Columban,' she answered.

"You 're an enthusiastic defender of liquor, but I have n't noticed you drinking any,' I teased her.

"Would that sight please you?' she answered, with just the slightest touch of irony in her voice. I began to wonder just how much she had guessed about me already.

"The sight of you pleased me very much, with or without the liquor,' I answered. And each of us kept still for a little while, trying to outguess the other. Then I grew rash-the whisky must have been very strong-and added, 'I don't wonder that Columban has protected you so well.'

"The fat man had seemed startled to find me talking in Polish, and had followed every word of the conversation with a heavy expression. Now he suddenly turned to the girl and demanded:

"Who is this man, and what is he doing here?'

"How should I know?' she replied. 'Maybe who can tell?-he is a spy for the prohibition law.'

"My expression gave me away then. I think I must have gasped to find myself discovered and in a mighty dangerous place. Just in time I saw the fat man reaching for his back pocket. I put my hand on the butt of my own revolver. Neither of us spoke. I think we must have stood there glaring at each other, not making a movement, for ten seconds. I wondered what was going to happen if he called to the crowd.

"The girl spoke again, just as coolly as before:

"Take your hand off your gun, Father. Don't you see he 's not afraid?' The fat man took his hand out of his pocket, and scowled at me as though that brushy mustache were going to sweep me off the earth. To prove that the girl was right when she said I was not afraid, I took my hand away from my gun, too. Then she spoiled it all by saying, without the slightest change in that low, even voice, 'He is very brave.'

"That remark might have been taken as a compliment or as sarcasm. I chose to take it as sarcasm. Whatever selfcontrol I might have had was gone now. I was raging mad. I wanted to choke her. "Well, maybe I 'm a prohibition agent and maybe I 'm not,' I said. 'If I am, who is going to protect you? Saint Columban?'

"She crossed herself, looked at me, and said in that same soft voice:

"Yes, Saint Columban will protect me.'

"It seemed as though she had touched off an explosion. At that moment the racket started all over again with twice the intensity of before. There was an ear-splitting shout:

"A cask of ale for Columban! A cask of ale for Columban!' The men had been helping themselves at the bar while the fat man was occupied elsewhere, and they were completely out of control now. They were waving their arms, throwing hats in the air, clinking glasses, and smashing them. The little old man was crowded and pushed and almost tossed bodily from place to place by the half