The sun was less than an hour above

the snowy range when Pete left the cabin, and the sunset glory still shone from the rugged peaks when he struck the main trail along the South Fork of the Caribou River; having missed death by a hair's breadth a score of times where jagged rock or unexpected precipice loomed suddenly in his swift rush down the mountain-side. Perhaps such a descent had never been accomplished before except by the treacherous snowslide that hurls itself from those lofty peaks and rushed down to pile up a mass of debris in the narrow canyon of the turbulent river.

PART TWO.

Meanwhile Sam had hurried away for a Christmas tree of the balsam fir, already sparkling with a thousand gems of chrystalized whiteness that gleamed and glimmered in the rarified air, as he bore it home through the swiftly coming night. In those high altitudes darkness swiftly follows the golden glow of the brief twilight. And then he and the Cripple, with what help could be given by other members of the camp, made such brilliantly colored, and strangelyfashioned ornaments as their scanty supply and unskilled fingers could devise; to please the Little Midget when she should awake from the delirium of her dreams. Of candles they had plenty, and from some unknown past the Cripple brought forth many ideas of other Christmases, until the tree promised to be a wonder of joy and lovliness to the little sufferer when she should see it.

Many times during the night the Cripple made his way from Big Pete's cabin to his own and back agan, keeping candles burning brightly so as to guide the one who was to bring that precious doll. Many times the doctor wondered if the little frame racked by pain could be saved long enough to behold with her eyes and clasp in her arms that wonderful doll-many times the worker's hands seemed palsied when the doubt should come as to Pete's finding a doll and getting back over that long and treacherous trail before it was too late-and many

63

times doubt almost unnerved the stout heart of the doctor lest he give too much or too little of the powerful drug, or lest the sufferer be too weak to rally when at last her eyes should open in consciousness, and behold the doll and the tree; and feel the bounteous love that was showered on her by those rough and horny-handed pioneers, whose hearts were as warm and true as their appearance was uncouth and unrefined.

PART THREE.

The last straggler had just found a seat on a dry goods box by the roaring fire in the store at The Forks, when the door was pushed open by Big Pete, who scarcely nodding to those who knew him, strode up to the counter and with the tone of one who knows what he wants and wants only one thing, demanded, "Show me your dolls." The storekeeper gasped in astonishment, and fell back a step at the stern look on the miner's face. But when the giant added, “And be quick about it," the scant supply was laid before him.

The storekeeper started to replace the largest and finest on the shelf with the remark, "This one I ordered special for Freighter Jim's little Sally".

When Big Pete broke in with, "Give it to me, Jim's little Sally can wait." A breathless hush fell on the air-an ominous silence as though sudden death had stalked in their midst, for without a word, Freighter Jim rose and faced Big Pete.

Fairly matched for size, for indomitable will, for grim determination to play the part of a man in whatever they undertook; a fierce struggle seemed imminent, as Jim drawled out, "If yer looking for trouble, Pete, say that again about my little Sally"; and then something in Big Pete's face told him no insult was meant, and he added, "What is it Pete? Is there trouble up at Caribou?"

"I didn't mean it, Jim. You know I think lots o' yer little Sally"; and then he told them what the doctor had said, and why he had come on his desperate errand. Quick sympathy showed in every face, and Jim insisted that he take the

doll- the only suitable one in the store; and the others offered help and comfort. Nowhere can truer hearts or kindlier spirits be found than among the pioneers on the far edge of civilization.

No one knows of the tedious miles on the return trip, of the clambering up slippery places, of the cautious climbing where a false step meant certain destruction, of the winding, zigzag trail so often lost in the darkness and regained again only by a desperate effort, of the torturing doubt lest he fail to reach camp in time to save the Little Midget.

PART FOUR.

When all was in readiness the doctor and the Cripple placed the tree in the Midget's room, right where her eyes would first rest upon it, unless-for the doctor was saying, "I dare not give her another dose, and within the hour she will wake up-in this world or the next. God grant that Pete may come soon, and then, O God, grant us the miracle of a life as good as raised from the dead!" The doctor was not a praying man, but prayer comes naturally to human lips in dire extremity. And he added, "If the sight of the Christmas tree, and the dolly that will go to sleep in your arms will only make her sleep-our little girl will come through all right."

Truly it was a wonderful Christmas tree, with its many candles, its lights and shades, its brilliant colorings of every hue the camp afforded, and all the little

trinkets and keepsakes of other Christmas times and other little boys and girls who were only a memory now.

Dimly the cold gray peaks were beginning to show in the morning light, as the doctor and the Cripple sat down to wait. Just then a step was heard on the snow, and opening the door, Big Pete staggered across the threshold holding a large China doll with real hair, and eyes that would open and shut-the finest one ever seen at The Forks. Tenderly the Cripple smoothed down its clothes, brushed back the golden hair, and placed it on the tree, looking straight at the Little Midget. A sound almost like a sob, yet with a note of rapturous delight caused them to glance quickly toward the bed, The Midget was slowly stretching out both arms with a look of wonderous joy.

With a swift motion the doctor placed the doll in her trembling hands, and she whispered, "Just like Christmas, the way I dreamed it would be." And then she added, scarcely above a whisper, "Thank you all for the beautiful tree. It looks as though Mother made it." And as the dolly's eyes closed in sleep, she gave it a loving glance, and with a sigh of perfect content, her own eyes closed in peaceful slumber.

The morning sun rising over the snowcapped peaks sent a shaft of golden light across the sleeper on the pillow, touching the scene with a radiant glory, like that of the first Christmas morn.

By F. H. Mason

Slender Eucalyptus trees,

Fav'rite of the honey bees, With bright flowers from red to white,

Shedding fragrance through the night.

ERGEANT, I've done it this time."

S Marny's utterance was strained

and jerky. He was standing in nervous and disordered fashion before the bright, but sinister, railing which marked the dividing line between crime and respectability at the central station. "Done what?" Sergeant O'Reilly's glance mingled amusement and mock gravity.

"I've killed a man." Marny's manner showed increased nervousness, while perspiration burst from his pores and stood out in large beads on his forehead.

At this particular moment the white light, which radiated from twin lamps on the sergeant's desk, dwelt with speculative interest upon the person of Jack Marny, night policeman on the Daily Sun. His collar bore one, two, greasy finger prints and the brown fedora which he held with terrible indecision, as if it had, in some subtle way, linked him to his terrifying statement, was crumpled almost beyond recognition.

O'Reilly turned for the fraction of a moment to Benton, the night bailiff, who had just stepped in from the prison.

"A whole skin-full tonight," he halfwhispered and then returned to the figure at the desk.

"Well Marny," he began judicially," there isn't much to do but lock you up. You needn't bother with details tonight. Dead men and justice must wait until the morning. You'd better frish him, Benton," the sergeant accompanied his remark with a huge wink. "Perhaps he packs a gun."

By this time Marny was swaying, ever so gently, and leaned to the railing for support. A vivid flush was commencing to spread from his temples and soon covered his entire face.

"Too late for the las' run," he muttered, turned at Benton's beckoning hand and walked away, still swaying.

It wanted an hour to midnight and O'Reilly, still at his desk, was addressing Plunkett, who labored alternate beats with Marny on the Sun.

"He looked bad tonight," the sergeant was explaining. "This time he claimed murder. Powers tells me he spent most of the night down there at the Crescent with that bum bunch from the beach. My God, Plunkett, the man's mind will snap some day just like that!" illustrating his remark with a vigorous gesture.

"He stumbled in here about ten o'clock all done up and remarked he'd killed a man. Benton put him to bed and in the morning he'll have the blues for fair." The pause was properly filled by the ticking of a clock and from below, in Kearny street, the dying traffic sounded.

"How old is Marny?" The sergeant's words seemed anxious.

Plunkett seemed to be probing his mind for an answer.

"Darned if I know," he said at length. "He's been with us so long, nobody knows, I guess. I'd hazard fifty at a guess. Sometimes I think he's older. Maybe it's the gray hair though."

The sergeant drummed abstractedly on the blotter before him.

"They never quit after they reach fifty." O'Reilly's words seemed final enough. But God! the shame of it! Most men are fathers at that age. And that man's mind, Plunkett! I've seen some mighty tough things over this desk, but I've never witnessed anything worse than the sight of that fine, brainy man, dropping down, falling to pieces bit by bit, until now-why he's a common bum."

Plunkett nodded thoughtfully, turned his mild, middle-aged eyes to the clock, then tested his pipe stem by blowing through it.

"Well," he offered, weighing his words carefully," it can't go on forever. When Marny's right he's the best bet on our staff but this newspaper game is getting past the stage where a man can do what HE is doing and get by. He tripped up tonight, terribly. Missed a whole page · full of stuff. Do you think they'll let that happen all the time? Some one of these days they'll throw Mister Marny right out on his ear and he's an old man, you know."

"You're right," the sergeant said, getting ready for a change in shifts. "They won't stand for everything. I don't suppose, either, the man's got a cent saved. Well," coming abruptly to an end, "I'll see him off to a good start in the morning. Trust me for that."

When Marny's eyes opened it was coming light. He turned his head as if intending sleep once more, then shivered miserably. In the back of his head, along the neck, the muscles ached and pulled. They were stretching, it seemed, to the snapping point. He half-raised himself, but when the room whirled around him, fell back again. Then there was the dreadful nausea of the moment, the hounding thirst and the horrible swaying of the walls around him.

It seemed as though an hour had passed.

"Lord, my nerves," he muttered hopelessly and reached for his watch.

He found that gone and raised himself again. This time he held his posture. Something was wrong. The gray, unvarnished walls, the single chair at his side and the coarse blankets that covered him. Then he knew.

Day was coming now. With the light, his thoughts came swarming swiftly, discordantly. He recalled a dimly lighted booth in the back room of a dance hall where he had spent part of the night before. An unpleasant, florid looking face flashed across his mind's eye. The waiter, of course. Then he was back into it again, the stale tobacco smoke, the

noise of the dancing and He paused, shivering again.

In the middle of these unpleasant reflections the door of the room opened and Benton entered, carrying in his arms a sadly battered hat, a clean collar, a watch and some money tied in a handkerchief.

Marny looked up with instinctive shame. Now it was all clear. He had spent the night in jail. Not the first time, he remembered, and his thoughts lashed him.

"Slept in my clothes again," he remarked with elaborate, stagy indifference. "Spilled the beans once more."

"Spilled the beans," Benton cried, exploding. "My God, Jack, when are you gonna get on to yourself. You're old enough, by a lot of years, to know better. Last night was the worst I ever saw." Marny's mind was suddenly, alertly apprehensive.

"What was it, Lary?" he groaned, rising and attempting some sort of adjustment to his wrinkled clothes. "Did anything happen? Anything bad, I mean?"

"Look here Jack Marny!" Benton was openly hostile. "You came in here last night pickled to the gills. Peddled some line of junk about killing a man. Now I don't mind telling you we're sick of it. This isn't the first time, either, but you bet it's gonna be the last. If you don't quit the stuff (mind you I know the game), some day you'll bump off with the snakes or you'll kill someone on the square. Besides, your job ain't any pension berth."

II.

That night Marny closed up his desk in the press room with a shiver. The city desk had called him on the phone.

"Come in when you've finished up." It was Kelty, the night editor, who was talking. "We want to see you. That's all I guess."

The city room was redolent with the fumes of cheap tobacco but Marny shivered in spite of all the warmth.

"Well," it was Kelty talking and Marny marked the change of inflection from his ordinary tone, "turn in your expense account tonight. You're through,

Jack, for keeps. We've kept you going this way now for a year. Last night was the limit. You missed that Markin story clean, and the Globe printed damn near a page of it. Plunkett got a little followup but there's an end to newspaper patience and friendship, as far as that goes."

It was past midnight when everything was settled up. Only a casual nod greeted Marny when he left the room and when he entered the street, below, the fog struck his face like a wet towel.

There had followed him all day, the relentless insistence of craving, together with the torture of fighting back at it. All day he had stayed away from the places with the swinging doors, the places where his friends stood, talking, sipping, and pushing the day's cares from them in the tingle of the drink. Now, he was through, it seemed. His hat still bore traces of the revels of the night before. His summer serge was leaky and he hugged himself when the fog swooped down the asphalt in Market street.

Across the way, Lotta's Fountain dripped with the mist and beyond the lights of Kearny street were shining. While he stood there, shivering, watching, his shoulders commenced to droop, ever so little at first, falling at length into a final, despairing sag.

"God, for a drink," he muttered.

III.

Out on Telegraph Hill wraiths of the sea fog lay in sleepless, spirit fashion above the clustered buildings. Up through the mist the siren's greeting came and a bell tolled somewhere, from further off, sounding almost Lethean.

Down a certain, aimless looking alley and up a flight of stairs where the gas burned by night and the collectors came by day, Mrs. O'Ryan was taking toll of the night. She was sitting there alone, cradling her head between her hands and looking up, only to mark the clock. Past twelve o'clock. Her sharpened knees outlined themselves under the folds of the dress and when she stirred it was

67

with nerves a'flutter as if she were waiting for some new dread, some fresh humiliation for her day.

In a back room of the Crescent Cafe Billy O'Ryan, aged twenty-six, became suddenly conscious of the fact that his money was gone. Further, his muddled mind took note of the truth that there was no wine on the table before him. In short, Billy's appetite had passed the limits of his purse by some odd thousands of dollars. All of which was bad. The noise of the evening's merrymaking, filaments of light smoke that took shape in the air before him and the whole vast reek and rush of dancing and drinking, none of it brought comfort to his heart. Hence, his attitude was something between that of a rhymeless poet and a street car conductor short in his accounts.

At this particular moment Jack Marny had turned his steps into Kearny street. He paused at Geary to set his watch by the Western Union time. He bought a copy of the Globe, pushed the paper into his pocket mechanically, and tried for a moment to stop the torrent of his thoughts.

They all led him one way. He rubbed his forehead with his hand. Started to move, nervously, then halted. A sudden impulse stirred him at this juncture and without more ado he swung into a brisk stride, heading for Pacific street.

When Marny turned into this thoroughfare his mind was running riot. There had been countless, willful, little whispers from the street a "murmur" at his ear. His tongue was dry and pressed against the roof of his mouth. The lights around him called and called. They hunted him like eyes. From the Crescent Cafe there came forth, on the night air, the noise of celebrating. Voices, singing in a dozen keys, mingled with the raucus strumming of a guitar. The lights danced and jiggled. The subtle whispers urged. With a desperation, born of mad resolve, Marny cast all bands that fettered from him and a moment later the doors of the place were swinging behind his form.

In the back room, where Marny was