WORLD'S END

I

The American boy's name was Lanning Budd; people called him Lanny, an agreeable name, easy to say. He had been born in Switzerland, and spent most of his life on the French Riviera; he had never crossed the ocean, but considered himself American because his mother and father were that. He had traveled a lot, and just now was in a little village in the suburbs of Dresden, his mother having left him while she went off on a yachting trip to the fiords of Norway. Lanny didn't mind, for he was used to being left in places, and knew how to get along with people from other parts of the world. He would eat their foods, pick up a smattering of their languages, and hear stories about strange ways of life.

Lanny was thirteen, and growing fast, but much dancing had kept his figure slender and graceful. His wavy brown hair was worn long, that being the fashion for boys; when it dropped into his eyes, he gave a toss of the head. His eyes also were brown, and looked out with eagerness on whatever part of Europe he was in. Just now he was sure that Hellerau was the most delightful of places, and surely this day of the Festspiel was the most delightful of days.

Upon a high plateau stood a tall white temple with smooth round pillars in front, and to it were drifting throngs of people who had journeyed from places all over the earth where art was loved and cherished; fashionable ones among them, but mostly art people, writers and critics, musicians, actors, producers — celebrities in such numbers that it was impossible to keep track of them. All Lanny's life he had heard their names, and here they were in the flesh. With two friends, a German boy slightly older than himself and an English boy older still, he wandered among the crowd in a state of eager delight.

“There he is!” one would whisper.

“Which?”

“The one with the pink flower.”

“Who is he?”

One of the older boys would explain. Perhaps it was a great blond Russian named Stanislavsky; perhaps a carelessly dressed Englishman, Granville Barker. The boys would stare, but not too openly or too long. It was a place of courtesy, and celebrities were worshiped but not disturbed. To ask for an autograph was a crudity undreamed of in the Dalcroze school.

The three were on the alert for the king of celebrities, who had promised to be present. They spied him at some distance, talking with two ladies. Others also had spied him, and were doing as the boys did, walking slowly past, inclining their ears in the hope of catching a stray pearl of wit or wisdom; then stopping a little way off, watching with half-averted gaze.

“His whiskers look like gold,” murmured Lanny.

“Whiskers?” queried Kurt, the German boy, who spoke English carefully and precisely. “I thought you say beard.”

“Whiskers are beard and mustaches both,” ventured Lanny, and then inquired: “Aren't they, Rick?”

“Whiskers stick out,” opined the English boy, and added: “His are the color of the soil of Hellerau.” It was true, for the ground was reddish yellow, and had glints of sunlight in it. “Hellerau means bright meadow,” Kurt explained.

II

The king of celebrities was then in his middle fifties, and the breeze that blew on that elevated spot tossed his whiskers, which stuck out. Tall and erect, he had eyes as gay as the bluebells on the meadow and teeth like the petals of the daisies. He wore an English tweed suit of brown with reddish threads in it, and when he threw his head back and laughed — which he did every time he made a joke — all the flowers on the bright meadow danced.

The trio stared until they thought maybe it wasn't polite any more, and then turned their eyes away. “Do you suppose he'd answer if we spoke to him?” ventured Lanny.

“Oh, no!” exclaimed Kurt, the most strictly brought up of the three.

“What would we say?” demanded Rick.

“We might think up something. You try; you're English.”

“English people don't ever speak without being introduced.”

“Think of something anyhow,” persisted Lanny. “It can't hurt to pretend.”

Rick was fifteen, and his father was a baronet who preferred to be known as a designer of stage sets. “Mr. Shaw,” he suggested, with Oxford accent and polished manner, “may I take the liberty of telling you how much I have enjoyed the reading of your prefaces?”

“That's what everybody says,” declared Lanny. “He's sick of it. You try, Kurt.”

Kurt clicked his heels and bowed; he was the son of an official in Silesia, and couldn't even imagine addressing anyone without doing that. “Mr. Shaw, we Germans count ourselves your discoverers, and it does us honor to welcome you to our soil.”

“That's better,” judged the American. “But maybe the Bürgermeister has already said it.”

“You try it then,” said Rick.

Lanny knew from his father and others that Americans said what they wanted to, and without too much ceremony. “Mr. Shaw,” he announced, “we three boys are going to dance for you in a few minutes, and we're tickled to death about it.”

“He'll know that's American, all right,” admitted Rick. “Would you dare to do it?”

“I don't know,” said Lanny. “He looks quite kind.”

The king of celebrities had started to move toward the tall white temple, and Kurt glanced quickly at his watch. “Herrgott! Three minutes to curtain!”

He bolted, with the other two at his heels. Breathless, they dashed into the robing room, where the chorus master gazed at them sternly. “It is disgraceful to be late for the Festspiel,” he declared.

But it didn't take three boys long to slip out of shirts and trousers, B.V.D.'s and sandals, and into their light dancing tunics. That they were out of breath was no matter, for there was the overture. They stole to their assigned positions on the darkened stage and squatted on the floor to wait until it was time for the rising of the curtain.

III

Orpheus, the singer, had descended into hell. He stood, his lyre in hand, confronting a host of furies with a baleful glare in their eyes. Infernal music pounded forth their protest. “Who is this mortal one now drawing near, bold to intrude on these awful abodes?”

Furies, it is well known, are dangerous; these trembled with their peculiar excitement, and could hardly be restrained. Their feet trod with eagerness to leap at the intruder, their hands reached out with longing to seize and rend him. The music crashed and rushed upward in a frenzied presto, it crashed and rushed down again, and bodies shook and swayed with the drive of it.

The spirits stood upon a slope within the entrance gates of Hell; tier upon tier of them, and in the dim blue light of infernal fires their naked arms and legs made, as it were, a mountain of motion. Their anger wove itself into patterns of menace, so that the gentle musician could hardly keep from shrinking. He touched his lyre, and soft strains floated forth; tinkling triplets like the shimmering of little waves in the moonlight. But the fiends would not hear. “No!” they thundered, with the hammer-strokes of arms and the trampling of feet. In vain the melodious pleading of the lyre! “Furies, specters, phantoms terrific, let your hearts have pity on my soul-tormenting pain.”

The musician sang his story. He had lost his beloved Eurydice, who was somewhere in these realms of grief, and he must win her release. His strains poured forth until the hardest hearts were melted.

It was a triumph of love over anger, of beauty and grace over the evil forces which beset the lives of men.

The mountain of motion burst forth into silent song. The denizens of Hell were transformed into shades of the Elysian fields, and showers of blessings fell upon them out of the music. “On these meadows all are happy-hearted; only peace and rest are known.” In the midst of the rejoicing came the shy Eurydice to meet her spouse. Rapture seized the limbs now shining in bright light; they wove patterns as intricate as the music, portraying not merely melody but complicated harmonies. Beautiful designs were brought before the eye, counterpoint was heightened through another sense. It was music made visible; and when the curtain had fallen upon the bliss of Orpheus and his bride, a storm of applause shook the auditorium. Men and women stood shouting their delight at the revelation of a new form of art.

Outside, upon the steps of the temple, they crowded about the creator of “Eurythmics.” Emile Jaques-Dalcroze was his name, a stocky, solidly built man with the sharply pointed black beard and mustache of a Frenchman and the black Windsor tie which marked the artist of those days. He had taken the musical patterns of Gluck's Orpheus and reproduced them with the bodies and bare arms and legs of children; the art lovers would go forth to tell the world that here was something not only beautiful but healing, a way to train the young in grace and happiness, in efficiency and co-ordination of body and mind.

Critics, producers, teachers, all of them were devotees of an old religion, the worship of the Muses. They believed that humanity could be saved by beauty and grace; and what better symbol than the fable of the Greek singer who descended into Hell and with voice and golden lyre tamed the furies and the fiends? Sooner or later among the children at Hellerau would appear another Orpheus to charm the senses, inspire the soul, and tame the furies of greed and hate. Wars would be banished — and not merely those among nations, but that bitter struggle of the classes which was threatening to rend Europe. In the Dalcroze school children of the well-to-do classes danced side by side with those of workers from the factory suburbs. In the temple of the Muses were no classes, nations, or races; only humanity with its dream of beauty and joy.

Such was the faith of all art lovers of the year 1913; such was the creed being taught in the tall white temple upon the bright meadow. In these fortunate modern days the spread of civilization had become automatic and irresistible. Forty-two years had passed since Europe had had a major war, and it was evident to all that love and brotherhood were stealing into the hearts of the furies, and that Orpheus was conquering with his heaven-sent voice and golden lyre.

IV

All Lanny Budd's young life he had played around with music. Wherever he was taken, there was always a piano, and he had begun picking at the keys as soon as he was old enough to climb upon a stool. He remembered snatches of everything he heard, and as soon as he got home would lose himself in the task of reproducing them. Now he had discovered a place where he could play music with arms and legs and all the rest of him; where he could stand in front of a mirror and see music with his eyes! He was so excited about it that he could hardly wait to jump into his clothes in the morning before dancing downstairs.

At Hellerau they taught you an alphabet and a grammar of movement. With your arms you kept the time; a set of movements for three-part time, another for four, and so on. With your feet and body you indicated the duration of notes. It was a kind of rhythmic gymnastics, planned to train the body in quick and exact response to mental impressions. When you had mastered the movements for the different tempi, you went on to more complex problems; you would mark three-part time with your feet and four-part time with your arms. You would learn to analyze and reproduce complicated musical structures; expressing the rhythms of a three-part canon by singing one part, acting another with the arms, and a third with the feet.

To Lanny the lovely part about this school was that nobody thought you were queer because you wanted to dance; everybody understood that music and motion went together. At home people danced, of course, but it was a formal procedure, for which you dressed especially and hired musicians who played a special kind of music, the least interesting, and everybody danced as nearly the same way as possible. If a little boy danced all over the lawn, or through the pine woods, or down on the beach — well, people might think it was “cute,” but they wouldn't join him.

Lanny was getting to an age where people would be expecting him to acquire dignity. He couldn't go on capering around, at least not unless he was going to take it up as a career and make money out of it. But here was this school, to provide him with a label and a warrant, so to speak. His mother would say: “There's Lanny, doing his Dalcroze.” Lady Eversham-Watson would put up her ivory and gold lorgnette and drawl: “Oh, chawming!” The Baroness de la Tourette would lift her hands with a dozen diamonds and emeralds on them and exclaim: “Ravissant!” “Dalcroze” was the rage.

So Lanny worked hard and learned all he could during these precious weeks while his mother was away on the yacht of the gentleman who had invented Bluebird Soap and introduced it into several million American kitchens. Lanny would steal into a room where a group of boys and girls were practicing; nobody objected if a graceful and slender lad fell in and tried the steps. If he had ideas of his own he would go off into a corner and work them out, and nobody would pay any attention, unless he was doing it unusually well. There was dancing all over the place, in bedrooms and through corridors and out on the grounds; everybody was so wrapped up in his work that there would have been no special excitement if Queen Titania and her court had appeared, marking with their fairy feet the swift measures of the Midsummer-Night's Dream overture.

V

Lanny Budd had made two special friendships that summer. Kurt Meissner came from Silesia, where his father was comptroller-general of a great estate, a responsible and honorable post. Kurt was the youngest of four sons, so he did not have to become a government official or an officer in the army; his wish to conduct and possibly to compose music was respected, and he was learning in the thorough German way all the instruments which he would have to use. He was a year older than Lanny and half a head taller; he had straw-colored hair clipped close, wore pince-nez, and was serious in disposition and formal in manners. If a lady so much as walked by he rose from his chair, and if she smiled he would click his heels and bow from the waist. What he liked about the Dalcroze system was that it ivas a system; something you could analyze and understand thoroughly. Kurt would always obey the rules, and be troubled by Lanny's free and easy American way of changing anything if he thought he could make it better.

The English boy had a complicated name, Eric Vivian Pomeroy-Nielson; but people had made it easy by changing it to Rick. He was going to be a baronet some day, and said it was deuced uncomfortable, being a sort of halfway stage between a gentleman and a member of the nobility. It was Rick's idea of manners never to take anything seriously, or rather never to admit that he did; he dressed casually, made jokes, spoke of “ridin'” and “shootin',” forgot to finish many of his sentences, and had chosen “putrid” as his favorite adjective. He had dark hair with a tendency to curl, which he explained by the remark: “I suppose a Jew left his visiting card on my family.” But with all his pose, you would make a mistake about Eric Pomeroy-Nielson if you did not realize that he was learning everything he could about his chosen profession of theater: music, dancing, poetry, acting, elocution, stage decoration, painting — even that art, which he said was his father's claim to greatness, of getting introduced to rich persons and wangling their cash for the support of “little theaters.”

Each of these boys had a contribution to make to the others. Kurt knew German music, from Bach to Mahler. Lanny knew a little of everything, from old sarabands to “Alexander's Ragtime Band,” a recent “hit” from overseas. As for Rick, he had been to some newfangled arts-and-crafts school and learned a repertoire of old English folk songs and dances. When he sang and the others danced the songs of Purcell, with so many trills and turns, and sometimes a score of notes to a syllable, it became just what the song proclaimed — “sweet Flora's holiday.”

All three of these lads had been brought up in contact with older persons and were mature beyond their years. To Americans they would have seemed like little old men. All three were the product of ripe cultures, which took art seriously, using it to replace other forms of adventure. All were planning art careers; their parents were rich enough — not so rich as to be “putrid,” but so that they could choose their own activities. All three looked forward to a future in which art would go on expanding like some miraculous flower. New “sensations” would be rumored, and crowds of eager and curious folk would rush from Paris to Munich to Vienna, from Prague to Berlin to London — just as now they had come flocking to the tall white temple on the bright meadow, to learn how children could be taught efficiency of mind and body and prepared for that society of cultivated and gracious aesthetes in which they were expecting to pass their days.

On a wide plain just below Hellerau was an exercise ground of the German army. Here almost every day large bodies of men marched and wheeled, ran and fell down and got up again. Horses galloped, guns and caissons rumbled and were swung about, unlim-bered, and pointed at an imaginary foe. The sounds of all this floated up to the tall white temple, and when the wind was right, the dust came also. But the dancers and musicians paid little attention to it. Men had marched and drilled upon the soil of Europe ever since history began; but now there had been forty-two years of peace, and only the old people remembered war. So much progress had been made in science and in international relations that few men could contemplate the possibility of wholesale bloodshed in Europe. The art lovers were not among those few.

VI

When the summer season at the school was over, Lanny went to join his mother. He had tears in his eyes when he left Hellerau; such a lovely place, the only church in which he had ever worshiped. He told himself that he would never forget it; he promised his teachers to come back, and in the end to become a teacher himself. He promised Rick to see him in England, because his mother went there every “season,” and if he tried hard he could persuade her to take him along.

As for Kurt, he was traveling with Lanny to the French Riviera; for the German lad had an aunt who lived there, and he had suggested paying her a visit of a couple of weeks before his school began. He had said nothing to her about an American boy who lived near by, for it was possible that his stiff and formal relative would not approve of such a friend. There were many stratifications among the upper classes of Europe, and these furies had never yielded to the lure of Orpheus and his lute.

Kurt was like an older brother to Lanny, taking charge of the travel arrangements and the tickets, and showing off his country to the visitor. They had to change trains at Leipzig, and had supper in a sidewalk cafe, ordering cabbage soup and finding that the vegetable had been inhabited before it was cooked. “Better a worm in the cabbage than no meat,” said Kurt, quoting the peasants of his country.

Lanny forgot his dismay when they heard a humming sound overhead and saw people looking up. There in the reddish light of the sinking sun was a giant silver fish, gliding slowly and majestically across the sky. A Zeppelin! It was an achievement dreamed of by man for thousands of years, and now at last brought to reality in an age of miracles. German ingenuity had done it, and Kurt talked about it proudly. That very year German airliners had begun speeding from one city to another, and soon they promised air traffic across all the seas. No end to the triumphs of invention, the spread of science and culture in the great capitals of Europe!

The boys settled themselves in the night express, and Lanny told his friend about “Beauty,” whom they were to meet in Paris. “Her friends all call her that,” said the boy, “and so do I. She was only nineteen when I was born.” Kurt could add nineteen and thirteen and realize that Lanny's mother was still young.

“My father lives in America,” the other continued; “but he comes to Europe several times every year. The name Budd doesn't mean much to a German, I suppose, but it's well known over there; it's somewhat like saying Krupp in Germany. Of course the munitions plants are much smaller in the States; but people say Colt, and Remington, and Winchester — and Budd.”

Lanny made haste to add: “Don't think that my parents are so very rich. Robbie — that's my father — has half a dozen brothers and sisters, and he has uncles and aunts who have their own children. My mother divorced my father years ago, and Robbie now has a wife and three children in Connecticut, where the Budd plants are. So you see there are plenty to divide up with. My father has charge of the sales of Budd's on the Continent, and I've always thought I'd be his assistant. But now I think I've changed my mind — I like 'Dal-croze' so much.”

VII

Beauty Budd did not come to the station; she seldom did things which involved boredom and strain. Lanny was such a bright boy, he knew quite well how to have his bags carried to a taxi, and what to tip, and the name of their regular hotel. His mother would be waiting in their suite, and it would be better that way, because she would be fresh and cool and lovely. It was her business to be that, for him as for all the world.

Kind nature had assigned that role to her. She had everything: hair which flowed in waves of twenty-two-carat gold; soft, delicate skin, regular white teeth, lovely features — not what is called a doll-baby face, but one full of gaiety and kindness. She was small and delicate, in short, a delight to look at, and people turned to take their share of that delight wherever she went. It had been that way ever since she was a child, and of course she couldn't help knowing about it. But it wasn't vanity, rather a warm glow that suffused her, a happiness in being able to make others happy — and a pity for women who didn't have the blessed gift which made life so easy.

Beauty took all possible care of her natural endowment; she made a philosophy of this, and would explain it if you were interested. “I've had my share of griefs. I wept, and discovered that I wept alone — and I don't happen to be of a solitary nature. I laugh, and have plenty of company.” That was the argument. Wasn't a beautiful woman as much worth taking care of as a flower or a jewel? Why not dress her elegantly, put her in a charming setting, and make her an art-work in a world of art lovers?

Her name was an art-work also. She had been born Blackless, and christened Mabel, and neither name had pleased her. Lanny's father had given her two new ones, and all her friends had agreed that they suited her. Now she even signed her checks “Beauty Budd,” and if she signed too many she did not worry, because making people happy must be worth what it cost.

Now Lanny's mother was blooming after a long sea trip among the fiords, having kept her complexion carefully veiled from the sun which refused to set. Her only worry was that she had gained several pounds and had to take them off by painful self-denial. She adored her lovely boy, and here he came hurrying into the room; they ran to each other like children, and hugged and kissed. Beauty held him off and gazed at him. “Oh, Lanny, how big you've grown!” she exclaimed; and then hugged him again.

The German boy stood waiting. Lanny introduced him, and she greeted him warmly, reading in his eyes astonishment and adoration — the thing she was used to from men, whether they were fourteen or five times that. They would stand awe-stricken, forget their manners, become her slaves forever — and that was the best thing that could happen to them. It gave them something to look up to and worship; it kept them from turning into beasts and barbarians, as they were so strongly inclined to do. Beauty had put on for this occasion a blue Chinese silk morning robe with large golden pheasants on it, very gorgeous; she had guessed what it might do to Lanny's new friend, and saw that it was doing it. She was charming to him, and if he adored her he would be nice to her son, and everybody would be that much happier.

“Tell me about Hellerau,” she said; and of course they did, or Lanny did, because the German boy was still tongue-tied. Beauty had had a piano put in the drawing room, and she ran to it. “What do you want?” she asked, and Lanny said: “Anything,” making it easy for her, because really she didn't know so very many pieces. She began to play a Chopin polonaise, and the two boys danced, and she was enraptured, and made them proud of themselves. Kurt, who had never before heard of a mother who was also a child, revised his ideas of Americans in one short morning. Such free, such easygoing, such delightful people!

The boys bathed and dressed and went downstairs for lunch. Beauty ordered fruit juice and a cucumber salad. “I begin to grow plump on nothing,” she said. “It's the tragedy of my life. I didn't dare to drink a glass of milk at a saeter.”

“What is a saeter?” asked Lanny.

“It's a pasture high up on the mountainside. We would go ashore in the launch and drive up to them; the very old farmhouses are made of logs, and have holes in the roof instead of chimneys. They have many little storehouses, the roofs covered with turf, and you see flower gardens growing on top of them. One even had a small tree.”

“I saw that once in Silesia,” said Kurt. “The roots bind the roof tighter. But the branches have to be cut away every year.”

“We had the grandest time on the yacht,” continued Beauty. “Did Lanny ever tell you about old Mr. Hackabury? He comes from the town of Reubens, Indiana, and he makes Bluebird Soap, millions of cakes every day, or every week, or whatever it is — I'm no good at figures. He carries little sample cakes in his pocket and gives them to everybody. The peasants were grateful; they are a clean people.”

The boys told her about the Orpheus festival, and Bernard Shaw and Granville Barker and Stanislavsky. “It's quite the loveliest place I've ever been to,” declared Lanny. “I think I want to become a teacher of Dalcroze.”

Beauty didn't laugh, as other mothers might have done. “Of course, dear,” she answered. “Whatever you want; but Robbie may be disappointed.” Kurt had never heard of parents being addressed by such names as Beauty and Robbie; he assumed it was an American custom, and it seemed to work well, though of course it would never do for Silesia.

They were having their pastry; and Beauty said: “You might like to stay over for an extra day. I'd like to have a chance to see more of Kurt, but I've accepted an invitation to spend a fortnight in England, and then go to Scotland for the shooting.” Lanny was disappointed, but it didn't occur to him to show it, because he was used to seeing his mother in snatches like this; he understood that she had obligations to her many friends and couldn't be expected to stay and entertain one boy, or even two.

Kurt, also, was disappointed, having thought he was going to feast his eyes on this work of art, created in far-off America and perfected in France. He made up for lost time, and was so adoring, and at the same time respectful and punctilious, that Beauty decided he was an exceptionally fine lad and was glad that dear Lanny had such good judgment in the choice of friends. Lanny had written who> Kurt's parents were, and also of the aunt in Cannes, the Frau Doktor Hofrat von und zu Nebenaltenberg. Beauty didn't know her, but felt sure that anybody with such a name must be socially acceptable.

VIII

In the afternoon they went to an exhibition of modern art. “Everybody” was talking about the Salon des Indèpendants, and therefore Beauty had to be able to say that she had seen it. She had a quick step and a quick eye, and so was able to inspect the year's work of a thousand or more artists in fifteen or twenty minutes. After that she had a dress fitting; the business of being an art-work oneself didn't leave very much time for the art-works of others. Lanny's mother, flitting through life like a butterfly over a flower bed, was so charming and so gay that few would ever note how little honey she gathered.

She left the two boys to share the display between them. The painters and sculptors of a continent had turned their imaginations loose, and the boys wandered past wall after wall covered with their efforts. Each seemed to shriek: “Look at me! I am the ne plus ultra!” Few seemed willing to paint in the old accepted way, so as actually to reproduce something. Here faces were made into planes and conic sections; eyes and noses changed positions, trees became blue, skies green, and human complexions both. It was the epoch of the “Nude Descending the Staircase”; this nude consisted of spirals, zigzags which might have been lightning flashes, a tangle of lines resembling telephone wires after a cyclone. You couldn't form the least idea why it was a “nude,” and wished you might know the artist and ask if it was a colossal spoof, or what.

There were plenty of recognizable nudes; they were shown in the morgue, on the battlefield or the operating table. There were women with great pendent paunches and breasts, men with limbs diseased or missing. You got the definite impression that the “independent” artists of the continent of Europe were a disturbed and tormented lot. Perhaps they lived in garrets and didn't get enough to eat; Lanny and Kurt, neither of whom had ever seen a garret or missed a meal, did not think of that explanation. They could only wonder why, in a world with creatures like Lanny's mother, painters should prefer ugly and repulsive subjects. There was something wrong; but the riddle couldn't be solved by the son of Beauty Budd nor yet by the son of the comptroller-general of Castle Stubendorf in Upper Silesia.

Beauty had an engagement for dinner, so the two boys went to a cinema, an art which was still in its rough-and-tumble days. The French equivalent of a custard pie was, it appeared, a bucket of paperhanger's paste; the paperhanger was mistaken for a lover by a jealous husband, and the pursuit and fighting ended with the pot of paste falling from a ladder onto the husband's head, to the hilarious delight of the husband-haters of Paris. In the orchestra pit a solitary man sat in front of a piano and a book of scores marked for different kinds of scenes — love, grief, or battle, whatever it might be. He would turn hastily to the proper page, and when the ladder was about to topple he was ready with the thunderstorm passage from the William Tell overture'. Quite different from the Salon des Inde-pendants, and also from Hellerau; but the tastes of boys are catholic, and they laughed as loudly as the least cultured bourgeois in the place.

Next morning Beauty did not get up until nearly noon, so the boys drove about; Kurt had never been to Paris before, and Lanny, quite at home, showed him the landmarks and gave him history lessons. Later came a polo-playing American by the name of Harry Murchison, a scion of the plate-glass industry; he had a fancy car, and drove them out to Versailles, where they had lunch in a sidewalk cafe, and wandered through the gardens and forests, and saw the Little Trianon, and were told by a guide about Marie Antoinette and the Princesse de Lamballe and other fair ones of the vanished past — but none of them so fair as Beauty! Both Lanny and Kurt were a bit jealous of the handsome young American who sought to monopolize the mother; but she was kind and saw to the equal distribution of her favors.

When they were back in the hotel she had them show some “Dal-croze” to her friend while she dressed. Harry was taking her to the opera, it appeared; but first they had dinner, and then drove the boys to the station and saw them on the rapide for the Céte d'Azur. Beauty always had tears in her eyes at partings, and so did Lanny, and — unexpectedly — so did Kurt. Beauty kissed him good-by; and when the two boys were settled in their compartment and the train was under way, Kurt exclaimed: “Oh, Lanny, I just love your mother!”

Lanny was pleased, of course. “So does everybody,” was his reply.

I

UN THE eastern side of a little peninsula which juts out into the Mediterranean stood the tiny village of Juan-les-Pins, looking across a bay, the Golfe Juan, with the Esterel mountains in the background. On this lovely sheltered coast was a villa, with a tract of two or three acres, which Robbie Budd had given to Lanny's mother years ago. He had put it in trust so that she could not sell or even mortgage it, thus placing her in an odd position, with financial ups and downs that made no real difference. Just now “Juan,” as it was called, was enjoying.a mild prosperity; land was being divided up into lotissements, considerable sums were being offered, and Beauty had the thrill of being worth a hundred thousand francs. In due course would come a depression, and she would be “ruined,” and sorrowful about it; then would come a terrific “boom,” then another “slump” — and Beauty believing in each one. But always she and Lanny would have a home, which was the way Robbie intended it to be.

This had been Lanny's nest ever since he could recall. In its deeply shaded pine woods he had picked the spring flowers and learned the calls of birds. On its slowly shelving sand-beach he had paddled and learned to swim. Down the shore were boats of fishermen drawn up, and nets spread out to dry, and here was the most exciting kind of life for a child; all the strange creatures of the deep flapping and struggling, displaying the hues of the rainbow to the dazzling sun, with fisherboys to tell him which would bite and sting, and which could be carried home to Leese, the jolly peasant woman who was their cook. Lanny had learned to prattle in three languages, and it was a long time before he was able to sort them out; English to his mother and father, French to many guests and occasional teachers, and Provengal to servants, peasants, and fisher-folk.

The house was built on the top of a rise, some way back from the sea. It was of pink stucco with pale blue shutters and a low roof of red tiles. It was in Spanish style, built round a lovely court with a fountain and flowers; there Lanny played when the mistral was blowing, as it sometimes did for a week on end. Along the road outside ran a high wall with a hedge of pink and white oleanders peering over it, and a wooden gate with a bell which tinkled inside the court, and on each side of the gate an aloe, having thick basal leaves and a tall spike with many flowers — “God's candelabra,” they were called.

Here was a happy place for a boy, with no enemies and few dangers. His father taught him to swim in all sorts of water, and to float as peacefully and securely as a sea turtle. He learned to row and to sail, and to come in quickly when storms gave their first warnings. He learned so much about fishing, and about the nuts which the peasants gathered in the forests and the herbs which they found in the fields, that Beauty used to say, if they ever got really poor, Lanny would feed them. He learned also to make friends, and to share in so many occupations that he would never need to be bored.

His mother, being a lady of fashion, naturally worried now and then about the plebeian tastes of her only child, and when she was there would invite the children of her rich friends as playmates. And that was all right with Lanny, the rich children were interesting too; he would take them down the shore and introduce them to the fish-erboys, and presently they would be ruining their expensive clothes learning to cast a hand net for shrimp. They would plan a walking trip into the hills, and rest at the door of some peasant cottage, and when they came back would tell how they had learned to weave baskets. Beauty would say with a laugh that Robbie's forefathers had been farmers, though of course in Connecticut they weren't the same as peasants.

II

Lanny Budd had never been to school, in the ordinary sense of the word. For one thing, his mother so often took him on journeys; and for another, he taught himself as many things as it seemed safe to put into one small head. He remembered phrases of every language he heard, and that was saying a lot on the Riviera. He was forever picking at the piano, and if he saw people dance a new dance, he had learned it before they got through. All his mother had to do was to show him his letters, and presently he was reading every book in the house that had pictures. You might be surprised to hear that Beauty Budd considered herself a lady of literary tastes; it meant that she noted the names of the books she heard people talking about, bought them, read the first few pages, and then was too busy to look at them again. Sooner or later Lanny would get hold of them, and if he didn't understand them, he would start pestering somebody with questions.

A good part of his education had come from listening. All sorts of people came to the house, and a well-bred little boy would sit quietly in a chair and not say a word. As a rule, people would forget that he was there, and have no idea that he was stowing things away in his mind: society and fashion, what people wore and what they ate, where they went and whom they met; the aristocracy of Europe and its titles; the rich people and their stocks and bonds, dividends and profits; the new cars, the new restaurants; the theaters and what they were showing, the operas and the names of the singers; the books that people were talking about; the journalists, the politicians, the heads of states — everything that was successful and therefore important.

When they were alone, the child would start in on his mother. “Beauty, what is taffeta, and what do you mean by cutting it on the bias? What are penguins and why are they like French politicians? What were the Dreyfusards, and why did the abbe get so excited when he talked about them?” It was hard on a mother who had developed to a high degree the art of taking part in conversation without bothering too much about details. With Lanny she had to get things right, because he would remember and bring them up again.

He had developed at a very early age the habit of cherishing some profound remark that he had heard one of his elders make, and getting it off in other company. Of course it would cause a sensation; and of course an active-minded child did not fail to enjoy this, and to repeat the performance. He had the advantage that he was operating behind a screen; for the elders seldom realize how shrewd children are, how attentively they listen, and how quickly they seize upon whatever is of advantage to them. The elders would say anything in a little boy's presence — and then later they would be astonished to find that he knew about such matters!

The city of Cannes lay only a few miles from his home, and the mother would betake herself there for shopping, and to have her charms attended to. Lanny, having promised never to go away with anybody, would find himself a seat on a street bench, or in a sidewalk cafe; and sooner or later there would be someone taking an interest in a bright lad with wavy brown hair, lively brown eyes, rosy cheeks, and a shirt of gray oxford cloth open at the throat.

In this way he had met, during the winter before he went to Hellerau, Colonel Sandys Ashleigh-Sandys — do not pronounce the y's — late of His Majesty's Royal Highlanders in the Indian Northwest. The colonel had white mustaches and a complexion like yellow parchment; it was trouble with his liver. He wore a linen suit, comfortably cut. A member of the exclusive “British colony,” he would have turned away from any grown person who ventured to address him without a proper introduction; but when the tables were crowded and a small boy invited him to a seat, he did not think it necessary to decline. When the boy began to chat with all the grace of a man of the world, the colonel was inwardly amused and outwardly the soul of courtesy.

Lanny chose to talk about the latest popular novel he was halfway through. The old martinet with parasites in his liver questioned him about his reading, and found that this benighted lad had never, read a novel of Scott, had never even heard of Dickens, and all he knew about the plays of Shakespeare was the incidental music of A Midsummer Night's Dream, written by a Jewish fellow. Lanny asked so many questions, and was so serious in his comments, that before they parted the colonel offered to send him a one-volume edition of the poet which he happened to be able to spare. One condition would be imposed — the lad must promise to read every word in the book.

Lanny had no idea of the size of that promise. He gave it, and also his name and address, and a couple of days later there arrived by the post an elegant tome weighing several pounds. It was the sort of work which is meant to be set upon a drawing-room table and dusted every day but never opened. Lanny kept his pledge literally, he began at the title page and spent a month reading straight through, in a state of tense excitement. He wore his mother out at mealtimes, telling her about the lovely ladies who were accused of dreadful crimes which they had not committed. Just what the crimes were supposed to be was vague in Lanny's mind, and how was his mother to answer his questions? What did a man mean when he said he knew a hawk from a handsaw, and what were maidenheads and how did you break them?

Presently there was Lanny making himself swords out of laths and helmets out of newspapers, and teaching fishermen's children to fence and nearly poke one another's eyes out! Shouting: “Zounds!” and “Avaunt, traitor!” and “Lay on, Macduff!” down on the beach! Spouting poetry all over the place, like an actor — maybe he might turn out to be that — how was any woman to know what she had brought into the world? It was evident to her that this child's imagination was going to carry him to strange places and make him do uncomfortable things.

III

Lanny and Kurt, arriving at Cannes, parted company before they left the train. The German boy was to be met by his aunt; and this widow of the Court-Counselor von und zu Nebenaltenberg was a person with old-fashioned notions who would probably disapprove of Americans on general principles. The situation turned out to be even more difficult, for the aunt knew or professed to know all about “that Budd woman,” as she called Beauty, and was shocked that her nephew had met such a person. She wouldn't say what it was — just one word: “Unschicklich!”

Kurt asked no questions. “Mrs. Budd has gone to Scotland for the shooting season,” he remarked, casually. He sat erect in the stiff chair, facing the meager, severe old lady, telling her the news about the many members of their family. He ate a sound German luncheon of rye bread with slices of Leberwurst and Schweizerkäse, followed by a small Apfelkuchen and a cup of weak tea with milk. When the two had finished this meal, the aunt laid out the proper portions of food for her solitary maid, and then opened a cedar chest which stood between the windows of the dining room, and stowed all the remaining food therein, and carefully locked the chest with one of a bunch of keys which she carried at her waist. “You can't trust these native servants with anything,” said the Frau Doktor Hofrat. Her husband had been dead for ten years, but she still wore black for him and of course carried his titles.

However, she was a woman of culture, and in due course asked about Hellerau, and Kurt told her. She was prejudiced against Jaques-Dalcroze because he had a French name and beard; but Gluck's music was echt deutsch, so the Frau Doktor Hofrat asked questions and wished that she might have seen the Festspiel. Only after Kurt had awakened her curiosity to the utmost did the budding diplomat mention that his American boy friend had a real gift, and might assist him to give a Dalcroze demonstration. He was a very well-bred and polite boy, Kurt assured his aunt; he was only thirteen, and probably knew nothing about the “Unschicklichkeit” of his mother. Furthermore, he was an artist, or going to be, and one should not judge persons of that sort by ordinary standards. Consider Wagner, for example. Concerning even Beethoven there had been rumors . . .

By such insidious devices Kurt won his aunt's permission to invite Lanny Budd for tea. A telegram was dispatched, and the Budd chauffeur drove Lanny over at the proper hour. He entered a plain, immaculate apartment, clicked his heels, bowed from the waist, and apologized for his German — which really wasn't so bad, because he had had two German tutors, each for several months. He ate only one tiny sandwich and one cooky, and declined a second cup of tea. Then while Kurt played the piano he gave demonstrations of what the Dalcroze people called “plastic counterpoint”; the elderly widow played folk songs which Lanny did not know, and he listened, and invented movements for them, and made intelligent comments while he did so. The Frau Doktor Hofrat did not tell him that she had once lost a little boy who had brown hair and eyes like his; but she invited him to come again, and gave her consent for Kurt to visit his home.

So all was well, and the youngsters were turned loose to enjoy life in their own fashion. The luncheon that Kurt had with Lanny wasn't any frugal German meal. Leese prepared a mostele, an especially good fish which the boys caught; also an omelet with fresh truffles, and then fresh figs with cream and cake; that was the way they lived at the Budds', and any peasant woman was happy to serve two handsome lads who had such good appetites and paid so many compliments to the food.

The two boys lived in bathing trunks, which sufficed for clothing in this free and easy playground of Europe. They walked out along the peninsula to the Cap d'Antibes, where you could dive off the rocks into thirty feet of water so clear that you expected to reach the bottom. They hauled a seine on the shallow beach and brought in shrimp and squid and crabs and other odd forms of life which had swarmed in these waters for ages and had been hauled out by Roman boys, Greek boys, Phoenicians, Saracens, Barbary corsairs — children of unnumbered races which had invaded this “Azure Coast” since the land had sunk and let the water in.

From his earliest days Lanny had lived in the presence of this long past. He had learned geography in the course of motor trips, and his history lessons had come from asking about old ruins. People didn't always know the answers, but there would be a guidebook in one of the pockets of the car, and you could look up Aries or Avignon or whatever it might be. Antibes, which lay on the other side of the promontory, had once been a Roman city, with baths and an arena and an aqueduct; it was fascinating to look at the remains and think about the lives of people long gone from the earth which once they had held with pride and confidence. Not long ago, there had been dug up a memorial tablet to the little “Septentrion child” who had “danced and pleased in the theater”; Lanny Budd might have been that child come back to life, and he wondered how his predecessor had lived and what had brought him to his untimely end.

The two boys of the year 1913, having no idea what their ends were to be, wandered happily over the hills and valleys which run back from this coast. There was an endless variety of scenes: swift rivers, deep gorges, broad valleys; olive groves and vineyards, forests of cork oak and eucalyptus, meadows full of flowers; crowded villages, with terraced land cultivated to the last precious inch; palaces of Carrara marble with elaborate gardens and flowering trees — so many things to look at and ask questions about! Kurt couldn't talk to the peasants, but Lanny would translate for him, and the women noted the bright blue eyes and yellow hair of the strange lad from the North, and had the same thought as Pope Gregory, who had inspected the war prisoners and remarked: “Not Angles, but angels.”

IV

High above Antibes is an ancient monastery, with a church, Notre-Dame-de-Bon-Port, from which the sailors of Antibes, barefooted and wearing white shirts, carry an image of the Virgin in a procèssion, so as to enjoy her protection from storms. From here there is a view of all the seas, the white cities of the Riviera, and distant Italian mountains capped with snow. To this place the boys brought their lunch, and Lanny pointed out the landmarks: to the west the Estèrels, mountains of blood-red porphyry, and to the east the large city of Nice, and beyond it Monaco on its rock. Directly below them, in the bay, French warships were anchored; it was their favorite resting place, and sailors swarmed in the little town.

The boys spent the afternoon on this height, talking not merely of the scenery, but of themselves and what they planned to make of their lives. So serious they were, and so conscientious! Kurt was an ethical person, and when he revealed the moral compulsions of his soul, Lanny was quite awe-stricken.

“Did you ever think how few really cultured persons there are in the world?” inquired the German boy. “There are whole races and nations with practically none, and in the rest just a handful, holding aloft the banner of good taste, among so many millions of Hottentots.”

“What are Hottentots?” asked Lanny, naively.

Kurt explained that this was a way of referring to persons without culture or ideals. The great mass of men were like that, and civilization was kept going by the labors of a devoted few. “Suppose they were to fail — what then?”

“I never thought about it,” admitted the other, worried.

“We should sink into barbarism again, into another dark age. That is why the mission of art is such a high one, to save humanity by teaching a true love of beauty and respect for culture.”

Lanny thought that was a very wonderful way to look at it, and said so. Kurt went on:

“We who understand that have to discipline ourselves as if for a priesthood. We have to make the most of our powers, living an ordered life and not wasting ourselves as so many musicians have done. I have made up my mind to be one who lives a life of reason, like Bach or Brahms. Do you know about them?”

“Not very much,” Lanny had to admit.

“Of course I don't know how much talent I may have.”

“Oh, I'm sure you have a wonderful talent, Kurt!”

“Whatever it is, I want to cherish it and put it to service. Have you thought about doing that with your life?”

“I'm afraid I never had any great thoughts like yours, Kurt. You see, my parents don't take things so seriously.”

“Surely they have taught you some ethical standards!”

“Well, they told me to enjoy the beautiful things I came upon; and of course to be polite to people, and kind, and learn what I can from them.”

“That's all right, only it's not enough. One must have a wider vision, nobler aims.”

“I see it, Kurt, and I appreciate your telling me about it.”

“Of course, one doesn't talk about such things except to a few chosen persons, who are capable of understanding one's soul.”

“I realize that,” said Lanny, humbly; “I'll try to be worthy of the trust. I'll be a sort of disciple, if I may.”

The older lad agreed to accept him on that basis. They would correspond and tell each other their deeper longings, not keeping them locked up, as one had to do in a world of shallow and thoughtless people. When the sun began to drop behind the Estèrels and the pair started down the road, they felt that they had had a sort of religious experience, such as might have come to the monks who through many centuries had paced the corridors of that monastery.

V

It was Kurt's idea that his new disciple should be invited to visit the great Castle Stubendorf during the Christmas holidays; and to this end it was desirable that he should cultivate the esteem of the Frau Doktor Hofrat, whose recommendation would decide the matter. So Lanny came several times to the apartment in Cannes, and danced “Dalcroze” for some of the friends of the severe and strait-laced German lady. Never once did anyone mention his mother or his father, or any of his American associates; but the Frau Doktor Hofrat probed his mind, and made certain that he had a genuine respect for the contributions of the Fatherland to the world's culture. At Kurt's suggestion, Lanny borrowed a volume of Schiller's poetry, and struggled diligently with it and asked the old lady's help now and then.

She also interested herself in his musical education, which had been of a deplorably irregular character. Kurt, like his aunt before him, had had a sound German training in piano technique; a veritable military drill; arms and wrists stiff, knuckles depressed, second joint elevated, ringers pulled up and sharply pushed down. But poor Lanny had got a hodge-podge of everything that friends of his mother had been moved to recommend. First had come Professor Zimmalini, protégé of the mother-in-law of Baroness de la Tourette. Having been a pupil of a pupil of Leschetizsky, the professor laid great stress upon equality of the fingers; the wrists depressed, the knuckles arched, the fingers rounded, the elbows curved even in ordinary legato. Lanny had been taught that for a whole winter; but then had come the London season, and after that Biarritz, and by the time they returned to their home, the professor had moved to Paris.

So then Lanny had a spell of the Breithaupt method, at a still higher price. He was told about forearm rotary motion, the importance of relaxation, and the avoidance of devitalization. But the excitable French professor who taught him all this suddenly fell under the spell of a stout concert singer and went off to the Argentine as her accompanist. Now Beauty had heard about a Professor Bau-meister, who had recently come to Cannes, and she had told Lanny in her offhand way to take lessons from him if he wanted to. But Lanny hadn't got around to thinking about it yet.

When the Frau Doktor Hofrat heard all this her orderly German soul was shocked. This poor child was playing the piano half a dozen ways at the same time; and the fact that he was perfectly happy whHe doing so made it even worse. She assured him that the Herr Professor Baumeister was no better than a musical anarchist, and recommended a friend who had once taught at Castle Stubendorf and would impart the official German technique. Lanny promised to put this recommendation before his mother, and thereby completed his conquest of Kurt's aunt. She took the two boys to a concert — the one extravagance she permitted herself.

When the time came for Kurt to leave, he told his disciple that the aunt had consented to write to her brother, endorsing Lanny as worthy of guesthood. The American boy was extraordinarily delighted about it, for by this time he had heard so much about the castle and the wonders of life there that it had come to seem to him a place out of Grimm's fairy tales. He would meet Kurt's family, see how Kurt lived, and become acquainted with the environment in which his friend's lofty ideals had been nurtured.

VI

Kurt went away, and Lanny settled down to reading German, practicing finger drill, and teaching fisherboys to dance Dalcroze. He was never lonely, for Leese and the housemaid Rosine loved him as if he were their own. He knew that Beauty would come in the end, and a month later she came, full of news and gaiety. Then, out of the blue, came a telegram from Robbie, saying that he was leaving Milan and would arrive the next day.

That was the way with Lanny's father, who thought no more of sailing for Europe than Beauty did of going in to Cannes, to have a fitting. He didn't bother to cable, for he might be taking a train for Constantinople or St. Petersburg, and he couldn't know how long he would be there. Post cards would come, sometimes from Newcastle, Connecticut, sometimes from London or Budapest. “See you soon,” or something like that. The next thing would be a telegram, saying that he would arrive on such and such a train.

Robbie Budd was still under forty and was the sort of father any boy would choose if he were consulted. He had played football, and still played at polo now and then, and was solid and firm to the touch. He had abundant brown hair, like his son, and when you saw him in bathing trunks you discovered that it was all over his chest and thighs, like a Teddy bear's. From him Lanny had got his merry brown eyes and rosy cheeks, also his happy disposition and willingness to take things as they came.

Robbie liked to do everything that Lanny liked, or maybe it was the other way around. He would sit at the piano and romp for hours, with even worse technique than his son's. He was no good at “classical” music, but he knew college songs, Negro songs, musical comedy songs — everything American, some of it jolly and some sentimental. In the water he did not know what it was to tire; he would stay in half the day or night, and if he thought you were tiring, he would say: “Lie on your back,” and would come under you and put his hands under your armpits, and begin to work with his feet, and it was as if a tugboat had taken hold of you. He had ordered two pairs of goggles, to be strapped around the head and fitted tight with rubber, so that he and Lanny could drop down and live among the fishes. Robbie would take one of the three-pointed spears used by the fishermen; he would stalk a big mèrou, and when he struck there would be a battle that Lanny would talk about for days.

Robbie Budd made quantities of money — he never said how much, and perhaps never knew exactly — but he left a trail of it behind him. He liked the smiling faces of those who have suddenly been made prosperous. He needed a lot of people to help him, and that was the way he persuaded them — a little bit at a time, and collecting the service quickly, before the debt was forgotten!

He expected some day to have the help of his son at this money-making; and because, for all his gaiety and his cynicism, he was a far-seeing and careful man, he had devised a system of training for this, his first and most dearly loved child. It appeared quite casual and incidental, but it had been thought out and was frequently checked for results. Robbie Budd caused his son to think of the selling of small arms and ammunition as the most romantic and thrilling of all occupations; he surrounded it with mysteries and intrigues, and impressed upon the boy the basic lesson that everything concerned with it was a matter of most solemn secrecy. Never, never, was the son of a munitions salesman to let slip one word about his father's affairs to any person, anywhere, under any circumstances! “On the whole continent of Europe there is nobody I really trust but you, Lanny” — so the father would declare.

“Don't you trust Beauty?” the boy asked, and the answer was:

“She trusts other people. The more she tries to keep a secret, the quicker it gets out. But you will never dream of saying a word to anybody about your father's business; you will understand that any one of Beauty's rich and fashionable friends may be trying to find out where your father has gone, what contracts he's interested in, what cabinet minister or army officer he has taken for a motor ride.”

“Never a hint, Robbie, believe me! I'll talk about the fishing, or the new tenor at the opera.” Lanny had learned this lesson so thoroughly that he was able to recognize at once when the Conte di Pistola or the wife of the attache of the Austrian embassy was trying to pump him. He would tell his father about it, and Robbie would laugh and say: “Oh, yes, they are working for Zaharoff.”

Lanny wouldn't have to hear any more; Zaharoff — accent on the first syllable — was the gray wolf who was gobbling up the munitions plants of Europe one by one and who considered the placing of a contract with an American as an act of high treason. Ever since he was old enough to remember, Lanny had been hearing stories of his father's duels with this most dangerous of men. The things Lanny knew about him might have upset every chancellery in Europe, if there had been any way to get them published.

When Robbie stepped off the train — he had come all the way from Bulgaria — both Beauty and Lanny were there to welcome him. He gave the latter a bear hug and the former a friendly handshake.'Hav-ing a wife in Connecticut, Robbie didn't stay at the house, but at the hotel near by. He and Lanny ran a race down to the boathouse to get into their swimming trunks, and when they were out in a boat, far enough from all prying ears, Robbie grinned and said: “Well, I landed that Bulgarian contract.”

“How did you do it?”

“I made a mistake as to the day of the week.”

“How did that help?” There were so many strange ways of landing contracts that the brightest boy in the world couldn't guess them.

“Well, I thought it was Thursday, and I bet a thousand dollars on it.”

“And you lost?”

“It was last Friday. We went to a kiosk on the corner and bought a Friday newspaper; and of course they couldn't have had that on Thursday.” The two exchanged grins.

Lanny could guess the story now; but he liked to hear it told in Robbie's way, so he asked: “You really paid the debt?”

“It was a debt of honor,” said the father gravely. “Captain Borisoff is a fine fellow, and I'm under obligations to him. He turned in a report that Budd carbines are superior to any on the market. They really are, of course.”

“Sure, I know,” said the boy. They were both of them serious about that; it was one of the fixed laws of the universe that Americans could beat Europeans at anything, once they put their minds to it. Lanny was glad; for he was an American, even though he had never set foot upon the land of the pilgrims' pride. He was glad that his father was able to outwit Zaharoff and all the other wolves and tigers of the munitions industry. Americans were the most honest people in the world, but of course if they had to, they could think up just as many smart tricks as any Levantine trader with Greek blood and a Russian moniker!

VII

It might occur to you that all this was hardly the best kind of moral training for a child; but the fact was that Lanny managed to preserve a sort of gay innocence toward it. Other boys got their thrills out of the “pulps” and the movies, but Lanny Budd got his from this wonderful father, his diplomatic and conspiratorial aides, and the generals, cabinet ministers, financial tycoons, and social high lights whom the boy met and would continue to meet so long as he was Robbie Budd's son.

The father's attitude toward these people was suave, even cordial, but behind their backs he laughed at them. They were the crème de la crème of Europe; they lived a life of many formalities and solemnities, gave themselves fancy titles, covered themselves with orders and decorations, and looked upon an American munitions salesman as a crude commercial fellow. Robbie didn't pay them enough of a tribute to resent these pretensions; he would chuckle as he told his son about the absurdities and weaknesses of this great one and that.

He would refer to the stout Countess Wyecroft as a “puller-in,” and to the elegant and monocled Marquis de Trompejeu as a pimp. “They'll all do anything if you pay them enough — and guarantee them against being caught!”

Robbie had constructed a complete suit of intellectual armor to protect himself and his business against criticism, and he made a smaller-sized suit for Lanny and taught him to wear it. “Men hate each other,” he would say. “They insist upon fighting, and there's nothing you can do about it, except learn to defend yourself. No nation would survive for a year unless it kept itself in readiness to repel attacks from greedy and jealous rivals;-and you have to keep your weapons up to date, because the other fellow's always improving his. From the beginning of time there was a duel between those who made shields and those who made swords and spears; nowadays it's war between the makers of armorplate and the makers of shells and torpedoes. This will go on as long as there's any sort of progress.”

The munitions industry was the most important part of every nation, insisted the head salesman of Budd Gunmakers Corporation; the one upon which all others depended. Most people would admit that, but they had the notion that the makers of guns and shells ought to work only for their own country, and that there was something unpatriotic in supplying other nations with such products. “But that's just people's ignorance,” said Robbie; “they don't realize that propellants” — it was the industry's way of speaking of the various kinds of powder — “deteriorate fast, and after a few years they're worthless. So you can't store up the product and feel safe; you have to keep your producing machinery in order, and how can you do it unless you give it something to do? Are you going to stay at war just to keep your munitions workers in practice?”

Back there in the state of Connecticut was an establishment which Budd's had been building for three generations. Lanny had never seen it, but many pictures had been shown him and many stories told. In the beginning was a Connecticut Yankee who first thought of the idea of making guns with interchangeable parts, exactly alike, so they could be replaced and manufactured wholesale. Lanny's great-grandfather had been one of those who took up the idea and helped the country to put down the Indians, conquer Mexico, preserve the Union, and free Cuba and the Philippines. “That's the kind of service the armament people render,” said Robbie. “They do it when it's needed, and at the time everybody's mighty glad to have it done!”

America hadn't had a really big war for half a century, and so American armaments plants were small by European standards. American wages were so much higher that the only way to compete was to turn out a better product — and to persuade the customers that you were doing so. This last was Robbie's job, and he worked hard at it, but was never satisfied; he grumbled at Europe's inability to appreciate Yankee brains. Americans labored under another handicap, in that their plants used English inches as their standard of measurement, whereas Europe employed the metric system. Robbie had persuaded his father to install machinery of the latter sort, and he now had the duty of keeping that costly machinery running. The business he did never satisfied him; the contracts were “mere chicken-feed,” he would say — but he was a well-fed and handsome chicken, all the same!

Some day Lanny would visit the Budd plant across the seas and learn its secrets. Meantime, he must get to know Europe, its different races and tribes and classes, what arms they needed, and how to get there with the right samples and grease the right palms. Said Robbie: “It's a serious matter to realize that thousands of workmen and their wives and children are dependent upon your business foresight. If Zaharoff had got the contract for the carbines from Bulgaria, it would have been British or French or Austrian workingmen who would have had the work and the wages, and not merely would workers' children in Connecticut have gone hungry, but storekeepers would have been bankrupted and farmers would have had no market for the food they grew.” So it was not for himself and his family, but for a whole townful of people that Robbie Budd practiced the tricks of salesmanship, and lost large sums of money at poker or betting that it was Thursday when he knew it was Friday!

Of course it was terrible that men went to war and killed one another; but for that you had to blame nature, not the Budd family. Robbie and his son would put on their goggles and drop down among the fishes for a while, and when they came up and sat on the rocks to rest, the man would talk about the life that went on in that strange dim world. Uncounted billions of microscopic creatures called plankton were produced in the sunshine at the surface, and tiny fish and shrimp and other creatures fed upon them. Larger fish devoured the small ones, and monsters like the sharks preyed upon these. All reproduced themselves incessantly, and this had gone on for tens of millions of years, with changes so slight that they were hardly to be noticed. Such was life, and you could no more change it than you could stop the rising and setting of the sun; you just had to understand the sun's behavior and adjust yourself to it.

This was a lesson which Robbie preached incessantly, so that to Lanny it became like the landscape and the climate, the music he heard and the food he ate. Robbie would enforce it with picturesque illustrations; he would bring up a lame fish that had had one of its fins bitten off, and he would say: “You see, he didn't keep up his armaments industry!”

Now Lanny heard more of this, and decided that he had better put off telling his father about becoming a Dalcroze dancer. And what about all those noble ideals which Kurt Meissner had revealed to him, and which had impressed him so greatly a month or so ago? What was the use of thinking about religion and self-dedication and all that, if men were shrimps and crabs, and nations were sharks and octopi? Here was a problem which men had been debating before Lanny Budd was born and which it would take him some time to settle!

I

BEAUTY stayed a couple of weeks, and so did Robbie, with the result that Lanny's life became what the newspapers call one continuous round of social gaieties. Beauty gave a tennis party, with afternoon tea, and a row of fashionable ladies decorating the sidelines. She gave a dinner party, with dancing on the loggia, and Venetian lanterns hanging, and an orchestra from Cannes. When they were not having or preparing things like these, they were motoring to the homes of friends up and down the coast, for motorboat races, or bridge, or fireworks, or whatever it might be.

Lanny had his part in these events. People who had heard about “Dalcroze” would ask for a demonstration, and he would oblige them without having to be begged. Lady Eversham-Watson put up her ivory and gold lorgnette and drawled: “Chawming!” and the Baroness de la Tourette lifted her hands with a dozen diamonds and emeralds on them and exclaimed: “Ravissant/” — all exactly as Lanny had foreseen. This attention and applause did not spoil him, because it was his plan to take up the role of teacher, and here was a beginning. He liked to please people, and everybody loved him for it; or at any rate they said they did, and Lanny took the world for the gay and delightful thing it strove so hard to appear.

It was a world of people who had money. Lanny had always taken it for granted that everybody had it. He had never known any poor people; or, to be more exact, he had never known about their poverty. The servants worked hard, but they were well paid and had plenty to eat and enjoyed working in the rich homes, knowing the rich people and gossiping about their ways. The Provencal peasants partook of nature's bounty, and were independent and free-spoken. The fishermen went to sea and caught fish; they had done that all their lives, and liked to do it, and were healthy, and drank wine and sang and danced. If now and then one was hurt, or lost his boat, a collection would be taken, and Lanny would tell Beauty about it and she would contribute.

The rich people had the function of exhibiting elegance and grace to the world, and the Céte d'Azur was a place set apart for that performance. It was the winter playground of Europe; the wealthy and fashionable came from all over the world and either built themselves homes or stayed in luxurious hotels, dressing in the latest fashions and displaying themselves on waterfront parade grounds such as the Boulevard de la Croisette in Cannes and the Promenade des Anglais in Nice. They danced and played baccarat and roulette, golf and tennis; they motored and sailed, and ate arid drank in public, and lay about on the beaches under gaily striped umbrellas. Photographers took pictures of them, and newspapers and magazines all over the world paid high prices for them, and so the exhibition of elegance had become a large-scale business.

The ladies who lent their charms to this parade were spoken of as professional beauties, and they took their profession with the same seriousness as a physician takes the healing of bodies or a priest the saving of souls. It was an exacting occupation and left its devotees little time to think about anything else; during the exhibition periods, known as “seasons,” they made it a rule to change their costumes four times a day, thus keeping the cameramen on the jump; during the “off seasons” they hardly got a chance to recuperate, because they had to spend their time planning with couturiers and marchands de modes and others to keep them at the head of the next procèssion.

It would seem as if a woman by the name of Beauty Budd had been especially cut out for such a career. And she might have had it, but for the fact that she was so poor. All she had was this home, and a thousand dollars a month which Robbie allowed her. He was strict with her; had made her promise not to incur debts, and never to gamble unless it was a business matter, with Robbie himself taking part. Of course you couldn't take that too literally; she had to play bridge, and couldn't very well insist upon paying cash for the clothes she ordered — the makers would have thought there was something wrong with her.

Thus in the view of Lanny Budd the meaning of “being poor” was that his lovely mother was outclassed in the race for attention. She would never be listed as one of the “ten best-dressed women of Paris.” Fortunately she was of a happy disposition and did not let these hardships mar her life; she learned to make a joke of them, and also a virtue. She would talk about her unwillingness to “pay the price,” a remark which some of her friends might have resented as a reflection upon themselves.

But these were matters beyond Lanny's understanding as yet. He would try to console his mother. “I'm glad you're poor. If you weren't, I wouldn't see even a little of you!”

She would hug him, and tears would come into the lovely blue eyes. “You're the best thing in the whole world, and I'm a foolish woman ever to think about anything else!”

“That's the way I'd like it!” Lanny would grin.

II

The reason why Robbie stayed so long on this trip was that he had another deal on, and Beauty was helping him. That was an aspect of their relationship which Lanny had learned about, and in which he also took part according to his abilities. Customers had to be met “socially,” something far more effective than mere business acquaintanceship. In the latter case they would be thinking only about money, but in the former they would like you; at any rate they would pretend they did, and you would try to make it real. You had to “entertain” them, and for this purpose what could be more helpful than a woman with the charms of Beauty Budd? For this well-recognized part of the selling of munitions Robbie paid generously.

The Russian Minister of War would be planning to visit Paris with his wife. Robbie had scouts who kept him posted, and he would telegraph Beauty, who would at once inquire among her friends and find someone who knew either the minister or his wife, and would invite them down for a few days to warm their old bones. Beauty would meet them and make an engagement for tea, and wire Robbie, who would come in a shiny new car and take the tired old couple motoring, and show them the Corniche road, and maybe let them have a fling in the Casino at Monte Carlo.

Robbie's agents would have provided him with a regular dossier about such guests, including their tastes and their weaknesses. Beauty would have several duchesses and countesses at the tea party, and when the minister took his seat at the gaming table, Robbie would slip him a bundle of thousand-franc notes and tell him laughingly to take a “flier” for him. The old gentleman would do so, and if he lost Robbie would tell him to forget it, and if he won he would forget it without being told. Later, when Robbie would tell him news about the marvelous new sub-machine gun which Budd's were putting on the market, the minister would be deeply interested and would make a date for Robbie to demonstrate it in St. Petersburg.

When Robbie was leaving to keep that date, he would say to Beauty: “I can't motor to St. Petersburg. I'd get stuck like Napoleon in the snow.” Yes, there was snow in Russia, impossible as it might seem in Juan-les-Pins, where everybody lay around on the beach absorbing sunshine. “That old car of yours is beginning to look shabby,” he would add. “You better take mine. But don't let anybody swindle you on the old one; you ought to get five or six thousand francs for it at least.” If Beauty protested that he was too generous, Robbie had a formula: “It goes on the expense account.”

A marvelous phenomenon, the expense account of a munitions salesman, which could be stretched to include both his business and his pleasures. It included the newspaper man who brought the tip, and the detective who prepared the dossier. It included the car, and the chauffeur, and the gambling losses. It included the tea party and, strange to say, it might even include some of the duchesses and countesses — those who were so important that it was an honor for a Russian cabinet minister to meet them, instead of for them to meet a Russian cabinet minister.

Such subtle distinctions you had to know thoroughly if you wanted to land contracts. The great ladies knew their own value and the value of the service expected. If it was to get the wife and daughter of an American millionaire presented at the Court of St. James's, that might be worth a thousand pounds; but if it was Just a matter of introducing you to a politician or a financier, that might be done for a thousand francs.

Of course there were members of the nobility who were not for sale. Some English milords were so rich they could afford to be dignified. Some of the old French families were poor as church mice, but chose to live in retirement, dress dowdily, and pray for the return of the Bourbon pretender. But the people Robbie Budd made use of belonged to the grand monde; their pleasure was to shine in public, and the ladies especially were frequently in debt and ravenous for money. Beauty made it her business to know them, and with her woman's tact she would find out what service they could render and what they would expect. Some were frank, and would name their price and be prepared to haggle over it; others took a high tone, and said they would do it to oblige dear, darling Beauty. These were the persons who got more.

Thus Lanny, opening his eyes to the world in which he was to live, came to realize that among the swarms of elegant and showy people who passed through his home there were all sorts and sizes, and each had to be treated differently. A few were friends whom his mother loved and trusted; others were there for business reasons, and might turn out to be “horrid people,” who would go off and say mean things about her behind her back. When that happened she would cry, and Lanny would want to kick those false friends the next time he met them. But that was another lesson of the grand monde which you had to learn; you never kicked anybody, but on the contrary were as effusive as ever, and the most you allowed yourself was a sly little thrust with a sharp stiletto of wit.

III

The new deal was to be with Rumania, which was about to supply part of its army with automatic pistols; this had become necessary because Bulgaria had just done the same. Several countries in southeastern Europe had fought two wars among themselves in the past three years, and no one could guess when the next one would start, or who would be fighting whom. Budd's was putting out for the European trade a new eight-cartridge 7.65 mm. automatic which it claimed was the best in the world. Of course Robbie always had to claim that, but in this case he told Lanny that he really believed it.

He had in Paris a fellow by the name of “Bub” Smith, who had been a cowboy and could shoot the head off a hatpin, and would have done it while the hat was on a lady's head if there had been any female willing to face a William Tell from Texas. Robbie had arranged for this man to come whenever needed, because army officers were generally so impressed by good marksmanship that they would attribute it to the gun. Now he was going to bring Bub to the Riviera to meet a certain Captain Bragescu, a member of the commission which was making preliminary investigations prior to the final tests in Bucharest. Robbie laughed about that phrase “preliminary investigations,” which meant that the captain wanted to look into Robbie's pocketbook before he looked into his pistol.

The captain arrived unannounced, just after Robbie and Beauty had gone off to a dinner dance. A taxi drew up in front of “Bien-venu,” the bell at the gate tinkled, and Rosine ushered into Lanny's presence a mincing and elegant figure with mustaches dyed black and twisted to sharp points, in a sky-blue military uniform fitting tightly and drawn in at the waist so that you knew he was wearing corsets. You might have found it hard to believe that an army officer would have his cheeks painted and powdered and would smell strongly of perfume, but so it was.

Lanny was embarrassed, because he had on some old fishing togs and a fisherboy named Ruggiero was waiting for him down on the beach. But he welcomed the guest courteously, and explained where his father and mother had gone, and offered to telephone them at once. “Oh, no!” said Captain Bragescu. “I would not think of interfering with their engagement.”

An idea occurred to Lanny. “I wonder if you'd be interested in seeing torch-fishing.”

“What do you get?” asked the officer. It turned out that he had done a lot of fishing at home.

So Lanny ran down to the boathouse, where there were some of Robbie's old clothes and a warm sweater — for it turns cold on the Riviera the moment the sun disappears behind the Estèrels. The captain took off his corsets, and proved to be not in the least effeminate. Down the beach they met an Italian fisherboy, a year or two older than Lanny, and strong as his work required. The Rumanian spoke good French, but had trouble with a mixture of Provencal and Ligurian, so Lanny had to help out.

While Ruggiero rowed the heavy boat out toward the Cap, the army officer told about the fishing he had seen in his boyhood, at the mouth of the Danube, for the huge sturgeon. It was a rather ghastly procedure, for they cut out the roe, containing seven million eggs, and then threw the fish back alive. This was the black caviar, the epicure's delight — but Lanny wouldn't enjoy it quite so much for a while.

The sea was smooth except for long swells, and when the torch was blazing you could see much farther into the depths than you could reach with the trident. Peering down among the rocks, you would see a langouste poking out his greenish-gray head. You would get the three-pronged spear poised above him and strike, and up he would come, snapping his heavy tail back and forth. He was pleasanter to have in the boat than an American lobster, because he had no big claws that might take off one of your fingers.

Also, there were fishes of many hues and sizes; they seemed to be dazzled by the light, and even an amateur like the captain could hit one now and then. Presently he saw a head underneath some waving branches of a sea. plant; he struck, and was all but jerked into the water. “Look out!” shouted the fisherboy, and leaped to help him. It was fortunate the officer didn't have those corsets on, for now he needed every particle of muscle and wind he had.

They brought up a huge green moray, the largest of all the eels, and the most dangerous. Ruggiero gaffed him, but cried: “Don't haul him into the boat!” He clubbed and stabbed the creature until the life was all gone out of him, for he had teeth as sharp as razor blades. He was more than six feet long, and when you saw him down in the water you thought he was clad in elegant green velvet.

He had been esteemed as a food fish ever since the days of the ancient Romans; so the pair had a fine story to tell Beauty and Robbie in the morning. Lanny's reputation as an entertainer of customers was much enhanced; for Captain Bragescu might have thought that dinner dances were got up for business reasons, but he couldn't doubt that this eager lad really admired his prowess as a fisherman.

IV

Bub Smith showed up on the morning train; a stocky fellow with a funny flat face — his nose had been broken in a fall from a horse and there had been nobody to set it, so he just let it stay as it was. But there was nothing the matter with either his eyes or his hands. “I'm feeling fine this morning,” he said; “I could shoot holes through the side of a barn.” He looked at Lanny with a twinkle in his pale blue eyes; they were old pals, and Bub had taught Lanny cowboy songs. He was introduced to the army captain, and was just about speechless at the spectacle of a man with paint and powder on his face and corsets under his sky-blue uniform.

Well, they motored back into the hills, where there was a little valley with a heavy forest of eucalyptus, and a peasant who for a few francs would let them shoot holes in his trees. The chauffeur lugged a couple of heavy boxes out of the car, one with the 7.65 mm. automatics and the other with the cartridges; Bub took a cardboard target and tacked it onto a big tree about thirty paces away. Meantime Robbie was loading the pistols. “I want to show you how quickly it can be done,” he said. Pretty soon Bub took his stand, and quick as a flash threw up his arm and fired. The shots came so fast it was just a whir, and there was the target with the central bull's eye shot clean out.

Captain Bragescu, of course, was enraptured by such a performance. Pierre, the chauffeur, ran and got the target for them. You could see parts of the circle made by each bullet, but there wasn't any hole that wasn't part of one big hole. “I'll take that back to Bucharest with me!” said the captain.

“Wait,” replied Bub; “I'll make you a few more.” So they tacked up another target, and Bub took a different gun and did it again; he was ready to do it as long as the ammunition held out.

But the officer was convinced. “C'est bon” he said. He wouldn't be too enthusiastic, for it was a matter of business, but he repeated several times: “Oui, c'est bon.”

He tried it himself, and spattered the target all over with his shots. Bub showed him how to swing up the gun, and how to keep it from jerking, and then he did better. Robbie took his turn. He knew all about shooting, of course, and apologized to the captain for being too good; it was just a matter of understanding this remarkable weapon, he said.

Then Lanny took his turn. The army weapon was too heavy for him, but he had brought along his own thirty-two. Lanny was pretty good, but nobody seemed really good after Bub Smith. When, the captain learned that Bub had been a cowboy, he exclaimed:

“Ca s'explique! I have seen them in the cinema. We need men who can ride and shoot like that in Rumania. We are troubled with mountaineers who don't like to pay taxes.”

V

They went home to lunch, and Beauty had some friends in; but you could see that Beauty herself was company enough for Bragescu. He could hardly take his eyes off this delicate creation in pink and cream and gold. She, being used to that sort of thing, was kind, but sedate and never the least bit flirtatious. Lanny always got plenty of motherly attention at such times. He was too young to understand these subtleties, but he played up to her all the same, and they made a sweet and sentimental pair.

It was the Baroness de la Tourette who was supposed to do the entertaining of the officer. Sophie Timmons had been her maiden name, and her father owned a chain of hardware factories in several towns of the Middle West. He sent his only daughter lots of money, but never enough for her husband the baron, who lived in Paris and had very expensive tastes. The baroness had one of those henna heads, and had what you might call a henna laugh; she talked fast and loud, half in French and half in English, and was considered to be the life of every party. Lanny was too young to observe that while she chattered her eyes would roam restlessly, as if her mind were not entirely on her work. She was his mother's best friend, and had a kind heart in spite of all her smartness.

The captain was taken off by Robbie to have the drawings of the Budd automatic pistol explained to him. Afterward they all went for a sail, and watched the sun sink into the Mediterranean; then they dressed and went to Cannes to dine at a fashionable resort, and later came home to play poker. Lanny was just getting into bed when he heard them come in and settle themselves at the table, and he peeked in at the door for a bit.

They made a pretty sight in front of the big open fire of crackling pine; the men in evening dress, except the Rumanian in a blue and gold dress uniform; the ladies in lovely soft dresses cut halfway down their smooth white backs. They had picked up friends at the restaurant, including Lord and Lady Eversham-Watson. She was another rich American who had married a title, but she had used better judgment; his lordship was a large, solid, and rather dull gentleman past middle age, but he admired his gay wife and liked to see her shine in company. She was a talkative little woman who managed him and made it acceptable by joking; her money came out of a Kentucky whisky known as “Petries' Peerless.”

Lanny had never been taught to play poker, but had watched it sometimes. They might still be playing when he woke up in the morning, and would go on playing most of the day; he was used to the sight of Petries' Peerless and soda bottles on the side table, and half-empty glasses, and the not very pleasant odor of stale tobacco smoke, and little ashtrays filled with stubs. He was used to hearing how “rotten” his father was as a poker player, and would smile to himself, for this was one of the secrets which he shared with Robbie, who used as much skill in losing as other people did in trying to win.

Always to the right man, of course! This time Captain Bragescu would be the lucky one. Robbie, bland and smiling, would drav cards every time, and wait until the captain gave signs of having a strong hand, then raise him, and finally quit and drop his cards without showing them. After this had happened a few times the captain would realize that it was safe for him to bet heavily, and when Robbie would propose to raise the limit, he would agree. This would go on for hours, until the lucky officer had most of the chips piled in front of him, and would think that he owned the world. At the end Robbie would say: “It's amazing how you've mastered our American game.” It was such a decent way to arrange a contract for guns that the captain could not fail to appreciate it. The guns were all right, of course, and the Rumanian army would be safe from the Bulgarians and able to capture the rebel mountaineers and collect the taxes.

VI

Robbie motored to Marseille to meet some member of his family who was coming from Egypt, and Beauty went to dance at a ball which a friend was giving in one of the white marble palaces on the heights above Nice. It would last until morning, and she would sleep there and return later. Lanny settled himself to the reading of a well-worn novel which somebody had picked up on a bookstall and left in the house.

It was a story about slum life on the outskirts of an American industrial town. The district was known as the “Cabbage Patch,” and in it lived an Irish washerwoman with a brood of children, all dreadfully poor, but so honest and good that it touched your heart. Lanny, whose heart was always being touched by one thing or another, found this the dearest and sweetest of stories. By next morning he was nearly through with it and, sitting in the warm sunshine of the court, with narcissus beds around him and a huge bougainvillaea throwing a purple mantle over the kitchen porch, he yearned to have been born in a slum, so that he might be so generous and kindhearted and hard-working and helpful to everybody around him.

There came a tinkling of the bell, and Lanny went to the front gate and was confronted by his Uncle Jesse, his mother's brother. Jesse Blackless was a painter of a sort — that is to say, he had a small income and didn't have to work. He lived in a fishing village some distance to the west, a place where “nobody ever went,” as Beauty phrased it. But it was just as well, because Jesse didn't seem to care about visitors, nor they about him; he lived alone in a cottage which he had fixed up in his own fashion. Lanny had been there once, when Uncle Jesse was sick and his sister felt it necessary to pay a duty call, taking along a basket of delicacies. That had been two or three years ago, and the boy had a vague memory of soiled dishes, a frying pan on the center table, and half a room filled with unframed paintings.

The artist was a man of forty or so, wearing a sport shirt open at the neck, a pair of linen trousers, not very well pressed, and tennis shoes dusty from his walk. He wore no hat, and his hair was gone entirely from the top, so that the brown dome was like a bronze Buddha's. He looked old for his years, and had many wrinkles around his eyes; when he smiled his mouth went a little crooked. His manner was quizzical, which made you think he was laughing at you, which wasn't quite polite. Lanny didn't know what it was, but he had got the impression that there was something wrong about his Uncle Jesse; Beauty saw him rarely, and if Robbie spoke of him, it was in a way implying disapproval. All the boy knew definitely was that Uncle Jesse had had a studio in Paris, and that Beauty had been visiting him at the time she met Robbie and fell in love.

Lanny invited him into the court and got him a chair and, as Uncle Jesse looked hot after his walk, called Rosine to bring some wine. “Mother's gone to the ball at Mrs. Dagenham Price's,” said the boy.

“She would,” was Jesse's comment.

“Robbie's gone to Marseille,” Lanny added.

“I suppose he's making lots of money.”

“I suppose so.” That was a subject Lanny did not discuss, so the conversation' lagged.

But then Lanny recalled the Salon des Indèpendants, and said he had been there. “Are they spoofing, or aren't they?” he asked.

“No doubt many of them are,” said Uncle Jesse. “Poor devils, they have to get something to eat, and what do critics or buyers know about original work?”

Lanny had picked up ideas concerning the graphic arts, as well as all the others. Many painters lived along the Céte d'Azur and reproduced its charms; a few were famous, and now and then someone would persuade Beauty that it was a cultural action to invite one to a tea party, or perhaps be taken to his studio to inspect his work. Now and then she would “fall for” something that was especially praised, and these hung as showpieces in the home. The most regarded was a blazing sunrise painted by a certain van Gogh, who had lived at Aries, which you passed when you motored to Paris; in fact he had gone crazy there and had cut off one of his ears. Also there was a pond covered with shining water lilies by Monet. These canvases were becoming so valuable that Beauty was talking about having them insured, but it cost so much that she kept putting it off.

VII

There was, of course, a limit to the amount of time that a specialist in the art of painting cared to devote to exchanging ideas with a youngster; so presently the conversation lagged again. Uncle Jesse watched the bees and the hummingbirds in the flowers, and then his eyes happened to fall upon Lanny's book, which had been laid back up on the grass. “What are you reading?” he inquired.

Lanny handed him the volume, and he smiled one of those twisted smiles. “It was a best-seller many years ago.”

“Have you read it?” inquired the boy.

“It's tripe,” replied Uncle Jesse.

Lanny had to be polite at all hazards, so after a moment he said: “It interests me because it tells about the slums, which I don't know about.”

“But wouldn't it be better,” asked the uncle, “if you went and looked at them, instead of reading sentimental nonsense about them?”

“I'd be interested,” replied the lad; “but of course there aren't any slums on the Riviera.”

Uncle Jesse wanted to laugh again, but there was such an earnest look in his nephew's eyes that he checked himself. “It happens that I'm going to pay a visit in a slum this afternoon. Would you like to come?”

The boy was much excited. It was exactly what he had been longing for, though without having formulated it. A “cabbage patch” in Cannes — imagine such a thing! And a woman who lived there for the same noble and idealistic reasons that Lanny had been dreaming about! “This woman is poor,” his uncle explained, “but she doesn't need to be. She is highly educated and could make money, but she prefers to live among the working people.”

Leese gave them some lunch, and then they walked to the tram and rode cheaply into the city. When they got off, they walked into the “old town,” picturesque and fascinating to tourists. They turned into a lane where the tall buildings came closer together at the top, and very little light got down. There are thousands of such tenements in towns all along the Mediterranean shore; built of stone, several stories high, and having been there for a hundred years or more. There will be steps in the street, and many turns, and archways, and courts with balconies above, and at the end perhaps a dead wall, or a glimpse of an old church, prompting the tourist to unsling his camera.

Of course Lanny knew that people lived in such tenements. Babies swarmed on the steps, with flies crawling over their sore eyes; chickens dodged beneath your feet, donkeys jostled you with their loads, and peddlers shouted their wares into your ears. But somehow when you were thinking about antiquities you forgot about human beings; things that are ancient and artistic are lifted into a different realm. The son of Beauty Budd might have walked through such “old towns” for years and never once had the idea of going inside for a visit. But now Uncle Jesse turned into one of the small doorways. It was dark inside, no electric light, not even gas; the steps felt as if they were made of rotten boards, and the odors seemed as old as the house. Doors were left ajar and fresh smells came out; food cooking, and clothes — “Let's hope they're in separate kettles,” said the sardonic visitor. Babies squalled, and one very nearly got caught between their legs. Yes, it was a “cabbage patch”!

VIII

The man knocked on a door, a voice called, and they went in. There appeared to be only one room; it had one window, and a woman was sitting near it. She seemed to be old, and was wrapped in a shawl; the light made a silhouette of her face, which was emaciated, and yellow in hue, as happens when the blood goes out of the skins of these swarthy Mediterranean people. Her face lighted when she saw who it was, and she greeted Jesse Blackless in French and held out to his nephew a hand in which he could feel all the bones.

The woman's name was Barbara Pugliese; pronounced Italian fashion, Pool-yay-say. They were evidently old friends, but had not met for some time. Uncle Jesse was anxious about her cough, and she said it was about the same; she was well taken care of, since many here loved her, and brought her food. She asked about Jesse's health, and then about his painting; he said that nobody paid any attention to it, but it kept him out of mischief — but perhaps that was just his way of making a joke.

They talked part of the time in Italian, of which Lanny understood only a little; perhaps they thought he didn't understand any. He gathered that they knew the same persons, and talked about what these were doing. They discussed international affairs, and the diplomats and statesmen, of whom they thought badly — but so did most people in France, the boy had observed. He knew the names of many politicians, but was hazy about parties and doctrines.

His eyes roamed over the room. It was small, the furniture scanty and plain. There was a single bed, or perhaps it was just a cot, with a couple of worn blankets on it; a chest of drawers; a table with odds and ends piled on it, mostly papers and pamphlets; a lot of books on a trunk — apparently no other place for them; a curtain covering one corner, presumably with clothes behind it. This was how you lived in a slum!

Lanny found himself watching the woman again. He had never seen so much grief in a face. To him suffering was a theme for art, so he found himself remembering Christian martyrs as painted by the Italian primitives; he kept trying to recall one of the saints of Cimabue. The woman's voice was soft and her manner gentle, and he decided that she was truly a saint; yes, she lived in this terrible place out of pity for the poor, and must be an even more wonderful person than Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch.

When they went out Lanny hoped that Uncle Jesse would tell him about her; but the painter was an unsatisfying sort of companion. All he said was: “Well, you've seen a slum.”

“Yes, Uncle Jesse,” replied the boy humbly. Presently he added: “Don't you think we ought to take her some food, or something?”

“It wouldn't do any good. She'd just give it away.”

The man appeared to be wrapped up in his own thoughts, and Lanny hesitated to disturb him. But finally he asked: “Uncle Jesse, why do there have to be poor people like those?”

The other replied at once: “Because there are rich people like us.” That was confusing to the boy, who had always been led to believe that it was the rich people who gave the poor people work; he knew of cases in which they had done it out of kindness, because they were sorry for the poor.

Lanny tried again. “Why doesn't somebody clean up places like that?”

“Because somebody is making money out of them.”

“I don't mean the landlords,” Lanny explained. “I mean the city officials.”

“Maybe they're the landlords; or else they're collecting graft.”

“In France, Uncle Jesse?” Lanny had been given to understand that that happened only in America.

The painter laughed one of his disagreeable laughs. “They don't publish it here,” he said. They were in front of the Mairie, and he waved his hand toward it. “Go dig in there, and you'll find all you want.” As they walked on, he added: “As much as in the munitions industry.”

Of course Lanny couldn't discuss that, and perhaps his uncle knew it. Perhaps Uncle Jesse had argued too much in his life, and had grown tired of it. Anyhow, they had come to the tram, where their ways parted. The boy would ride home alone, because his uncle's home lay to the west, and a long way off. Lanny thanked him and said he had enjoyed the visit, and would think over what he had seen and heard. Uncle Jesse smiled another of his twisted smiles, and said: “Don't let it worry you.”

IX

Walking from the tram in Juan, Lanny had got to the gate of his home when a car tooted behind him, and there was Robbie just arriving. They greeted each other, and Robbie said: “Where have you been?” When Lanny replied: “I went to Cannes with Uncle Jesse,” the father's manner changed in an unexpected way.

“Does that fellow come here?” he demanded. The boy answered that it was the first time in a long while. Robbie took him into, the house, and called Beauty into her room, and Lanny also, and shut the door.

It.was the first time the boy had ever seen his father really angry. Lanny was put through a regular cross-examination, and when he told about Barbara Pugliese, his father exploded in bad language, and the boy learned some of the things that Uncle Jesse had not chosen to explain to him.

The woman was a prominent leader of the “syndicalist” movement. That was a long word, and Lanny didn't know what it meant, until Robbie said that for practical purposes it was the same as anarchism. The boy had heard enough about that, for every once in a while a bomb would go off and kill some ruler or prime minister or general, and perhaps some innocent bystanders. It had happened in Russia, in Austria, Spain, Italy, even in France; it was the work of embittered and deadly conspirators, nihilists, terrorists, men and women seeking to destroy all organized government. Only last year a band of them had been robbing banks in Paris and had fought a regular battle with the police. “There are no more depraved people living!” exclaimed the father.

Lanny broke in: “Oh, surely, Robbie, she isn't like that. She's so gentle and kind, she's like a saint.”

Robbie turned upon the mother. “You see! That snake in the grass, imposing upon the credulity of a child!”

He couldn't blame Lanny, of course. He controlled his anger, and explained that these people were subtle and posed as being idealists, when in their hearts were hatred and jealousy; they poisoned the minds of the young and impressionable.

Beauty began to cry, so the father talked more quietly. “I have always left Lanny's upbringing to you, and I have no fault to find with what you've done, but this is one thing on which I have to put down my foot. The black sheep of your family — or perhaps I had better say the red sheep of your family — is certainly not going to corrupt our son.”

“But, Robbie,” sobbed the mother, “I hadn't the least idea that Jesse was going to call.”

“All right,” said Robbie. “Write him a note and tell him it's not to happen again and Lanny is to be let alone.”

But that caused more weeping. “After all, he's my brother, Robbie. And he was kind to us; he was the only one who didn't raise a row.”

“I've no quarrel with him, Beauty. All I want is for him to keep away from our son.”

Beauty wiped her eyes and her nose; she knew that she looked ugly when she wept and she hated ugliness above all things. “Listen, Robbie, try to be reasonable. Jesse hasn't been here for half a year, and the last time he came Lanny didn't even know it. It will probably be as long before he'll be moved to come again. Can't we just tell Lanny not to have anything to do with him? I'm sure this child isn't interested in him.”

“No, really, Robbie!” The boy hastened to support his mother. “If I'd had any idea that you objected, I'd have made some excuse and gone away.”

So the father was persuaded to leave it that way; the lad gave his promise that never again would he let his Uncle Jesse take him anywhere, and there would be no more slumming tours with anybody. The concern of his father, who was usually so easygoing, made an indelible impression on the boy. Robbie behaved as if his son had been exposed to leprosy or bubonic plague; he probed Lanny's mental symptoms, looking for some infected spot which might be cut out before it had time to spread. Just what had Jesse Blackless said, and what had that Pugliese woman said?

Some inner voice told Lanny not to mention the remark about graft in the munitions industry; but he quoted his uncle's explanation of why there had to be poor people — because there were rich people.

“There's a sample of their poison!” exclaimed the father, and set out to provide Lanny with the proper antidote. “The reason there are poor is because most people are shiftless and lazy and don't save their money; they spend it on drink, or they gamble it away, and so of course they suffer. Envy of the good fortune of others is one of the commonest of human failings, and agitators play upon it, they make a business of preaching discontent and inciting the poor to revolt. That is a very great social danger, which many people fail to realize.”

Robbie became a bit apologetic now for having lost his temper and scolded Lanny's mother in Lanny's presence. The reason was that it was his duty to protect a child's immature mind. Lanny, who adored his handsome and vigorous father, was grateful for this protection. It was a relief to him to be told what was true and thus be saved from confusion of mind. So in the end everything became all right again; storm clouds blew over, and tears were dried, and Beauty was beautiful as she was meant to be.

I

THERE had come to the Frau Robert Budd a formal and stately letter, almost a legal document, from the comptroller-general of Castle Stubendorf in Silesia, saying in the German language that it would give him pleasure if der junge Herr banning Budd might be permitted to visit his home during the Christmas holidays. Der junge Herr danced with delight and carried the letter around in his pocket for days; the Frau Budd replied on fashionable notepaper that, she was pleased to accept the kind invitation on behalf of her son. The hour arrived, and Lanny's smoking and his warm clothes were packed into two suitcases, and Leese prepared fried chicken and bread and butter sandwiches, just in case the dining car might run out of food. In a nice new traveling suit, and with a heavy overcoat and a French copy of Sienkiewicz's With Fire and Sword, Lanny was ready for an expedition to the North Pole.

Since Robbie had gone back to Connecticut, the mother bore the responsibility for this journey. All the way into Cannes she renewed her adjurations and Lanny his promises: he would never step from the train except at the proper stations; he would never allow anyone to persuade him to go anywhere; he would keep his money fastened with a safety pin in the inside pocket of his jacket; he would send a telegram from Vienna, and another from the station of the castle; and so on and so on. Lanny considered all this excessive, because he had just celebrated his fourteenth birthday and felt himself a man cf the world!

He brushed away his tears, and saw Beauty and the chauffeur and the familiar Cannes station disappear. The sights of the Riviera sped by: Antibes, Nice, Monaco, Monte Carlo, Menton, and then suddenly it was Italy, and the customs men coming through the train, asking politely if you had anything to declare. Then the Italian shore, and the train plunging through short smoky tunnels, and out into sight of little blue bays and fisherboats with red sails. Presently came Genoa, a mass of tall buildings piled up on a steep shore. The train went inland and wound through a long valley, and ahead were the southern Alps shining white. In the morning they were in Austria, and everywhere was snow; the houses having steeply pitched roofs weighted with heavy stones and the inns having carved and gilded signs.

A wonderful invention, these international sleeping cars; among the many forces which were binding Europe together, mingling the nations, the cultures, the languages. There were no restrictions upon travel, except the price of the ticket; you paid and received a magical document which entitled you to go to whatever places you had chosen. On the way you met all sorts of people, and chatted with them freely, and told them about your affairs, and heard about theirs. To travel far enough was to acquire an education in the business, politics, manners, morals, and tongues of Europe.

II

As his first traveling companions the fates assigned to Lanny two elderly ladies whose accent told him they were Americans. From them he learned that in the land which he considered his own there was a state as well as a city of the name of Washington; this state lay far in the northwest and provided the world with quantities of lumber and canned salmon. In the city of Seattle these two ladies had taught classes of school children for a period of thirty years, and all that time had been saving for the great adventure of their lives, which was to spend a year in Europe, seeing everything they had been reading about all their lives. They were as naive about it and as eager as if they had been pupils instead of teachers; when they learned that this polite boy had lived in Europe all his life, they put him in the teacher's seat.

At Genoa the ladies departed, and their places were taken by a Jewish gentleman with handsome dark eyes and wavy dark hair, carrying two large suitcases full of household gadgets. He spoke French and English of a sort, and he too was romantic, but in an oddly different way. The ladies from the land of lumber had been brought up where everything was crude and new, so their interest was in the old things of Europe, the strange types of architecture, the picturesque costumes of peasants. But this Jewish gentleman — his name was Robin, shortened from Rabinowich — had been brought up among old things, and found them dirty and stupid. His job was to travel all over this old Europe selling modern electrical contraptions.

“Look at me,” said Mr. Robin; and Lanny did so. “I was raised in a village near Lodz, in a hut with a dirt floor. I went to school in another such hut, and sat and scratched my legs and tried — to catch the fleas, and chanted long Hebrew texts of which I did not understand one word. I saw my old grandmother's head split open in a pogrom. But now I am a civilized man; I have a bath in the morning and put on clean clothes. I understand science, and do not have any more nonsense in my head, such as that I commit a sin if I eat meat and butter from the same dish. What I earn belongs to me, and I no longer fear that some official will rob me, or that hoodlums will beat me because my ancestors were what they call Christ-killers. So you see I am glad that things shall be new, and I do not have the least longing for any of the antiquities of this continent.”

It was a novel point of view to Lanny; he looked out of the car window and saw Europe through the eyes of a Jewish “bagman.” The nations were becoming standardized, their differences were disappearing. An office building was the same in whatever city it was erected; and so were the trams, the automobiles, the goods you bought in the shops. Said the salesman of electrical curling irons: “If you look at the people on this train, you will see that they are dressed much alike. The train itself is a standard product, and by means of it we travel from town to town selling products which are messengers of internationalism.”

Lanny told where he was going, and how Kurt Meissner said that art was the greatest of international agents. Mr. Robin agreed with that. Lanny mentioned that he had a van Gogh in the dining room of his home, and it developed that Mr. Robin lived in Holland, and knew about that strange genius who had been able to sell only one painting in his whole lifetime, though now a single work brought hundreds of dollars. Said Mr. Robin: “How I wish that I knew such a genius now alive!”

This salesman of gadgets was a curious combination of shrewdness and naivete. He would have got the better of you in a business deal, and then, if you had been his guest, he would have spent twice as much money on you. He was proud of how he had risen in the world, and happy to tell a little American boy all about it. He gave him his business card and said: “Come arid see me if you ever come to Rotterdam.” When he took up his heavy cases and departed, Lanny thought well of the Jews and wondered why he didn't know more of them.

III

From Vienna the traveler enjoyed the society of a demure and sober little Fräulein a year or two younger than himself; she was returning from her music studies in Vienna, and had eyes exactly the color of bluebells and a golden pigtail at least two inches in diameter hanging down her back. Such a treasure was not entrusted to the chances of travel alone, and Fräulein Elsa had with her a governess who wore spectacles and sat so stiff and straight and stared so resolutely before her that Lanny decided to accompany Sienkiewicz to Poland of the seventeenth century, and share the military exploits of the roistering Pan Zagloba and the long-suffering Pan Longin Podbipienta.

But it is not easy to avoid speaking to people who are shut up in a little box with you all day long. With true German frugality the pair had their lunch, and it was difficult to eat it and not offer their traveling companion so much as one or two Leibnitzkeks. Lanny said politely: “No, thank you,” but the ice was broken. The governess asked where the young gentleman was traveling to, and when he said he was to spend the holidays at Schloss Stubendorf, a transformation took place in her demeanor. “Ach, so?” cried she, and was all politeness, and a comical eagerness to find out whose guest he was to be. Lanny, too proud of himself to be a snob, hastened to say that he did not know the Graf or the Grafin, but had met the youngest son of the comptroller-general and was to be the guest of his family.

That sufficed to make pliable the backbone of Fräulein Grobich. Ja, wirklich, the Herr Heinrich Karl Meissner had a post of great responsibility, and was a man of excellent family; the Fräulein knew all about him, because the husband of the Fräulein's sister had begun his career in the office of Schloss Stubendorf. She began to tell about the place, and her conversation was peppered with Durch-lauchts and Erlauchts, Hoheits and Hochwohlgeborens. It was a great property, that of the Graf, and the young gentleman was fortunate in going there zu Weihnachten, because then the castle would be open and the great family would be visible. Fräulein Grobich was thrilled to be in the presence of one who was soon to be in the presence of the assembled Adel of Stubendorf.

She wanted to know how Lanny had met the son of the Herr Comptroller-General; when he said at Hellerau, the governess exclaimed: “Ach, Elsa, der junge Herr hat den Dalcroze-Rhytkmus studiert!” This was permission to enter into conversation with the shy little girl; the bright blue eyes were turned upon him, and the soft well-modulated voice asked questions. Of course nothing pleased him more than to talk about Hellerau; he couldn't offer a demonstration in the crowded compartment, and his German was but a feeble stammering compared with the eloquence which filled his soul.

As for the soul of Fräulein Grobich, what filled it was a sound and proper German respect for rank and position, the phenomenon which was most to impress Lanny during his visit. What you heard about in Silesia was Ordnung. Everyone had his place, and knew what it was; each looked up to those above him with a correctly proportioned amount of reverence, unmingled with any trace of envy. As the guest of an important official, Lanny would share the dignity of his host. The shy little maid and her vigilant governess gave him the first taste of this agreeable treatment, and he was sorry when he had to say his Lebewohls.

IV

There was a local train waiting on a siding. It had only two cars, and Lanny had to crowd himself into a seat with a farmer who had been to town to sell some of his cattle. He had a large red face and much beer on his breath, and was extremely sociable, telling the little foreign boy about the crops of the district and its important landmarks. When he learned that the boy had come all the way from France to visit the son of Herr Comptroller-General Meissner, he was even more impressed than the governess, and tried to crowd himself up and leave more room for “die Herrschaft” as he began to call the young stranger. From then on he waited for die Herrschaft to ask questions, so as to be sure he was not presuming.

The little train was winding up a valley; it had turned dark, and presently the farmer pointed out the lights of the castle on a distant height. There was a whole town built around it, said the farmer, and everything belonged to the Graf, who was referred to as Seine Hochgeboren. There were vast forests filled with stags and buffalo and wild boar which Seine Hochgeboren and his guests hunted. Six weeks ago Seine Majestät der Kaiser himself had visited the place, and there had been the greatest hunt that anyone in the district could remember. Now everything was covered with heavy snow and no more hunting was done; the creatures came to the feed racks, where hay “was put out for them so that they would not starve”.

Ja, gewiss, said the farmer, he knew the Herr Comptroller-General; he was the business manager of all these properties, and had several assistants, or heads of departments. He had four sons, of whom three were in the army. The farmer knew the jungen Herrn Kurt Meissner, a fine lad, he studied music, and would probably play at some of the festivals. Then Lanny was told about the noble family, the wife and the sons and daughters and brothers and sisters of Seine Hochgeboren. The farmer was a tenant of the estate, but it was so big that he did not get off until the second station beyond that of the castle. When they came to the latter, he insisted upon taking Lanny's bags and carrying them out to the platform for him; he bowed and touched his hat, and was still doing it when Kurt came running up and grabbed Lanny.

My, how happy those two lads were to see each other again; and how many handshakes and pats on the back they exchanged! Snow was falling, making a blur of the station lights. Kurt had a sleigh with a fine team of horses; he tucked Lanny in under a big fur robe and gave him a pair of mitts to put on, and away they went. They couldn't see much, but the horses knew the way, winding, to the height on which the castle stood. Lanny talked about his trip, and Kurt about the festivities which were coming; so much news they had to pour out, and so many plans for their ten days together! Friendship and youth make a delightful combination.

Lanny saw dark masses of buildings with many lights; he got out and was taken indoors and presented to a large family of large people: the father stout, but erect and military, with close-cut gray hair and mustaches trimmed in imitation of his Kaiser's; the kind and comfortable mother, having a great bosom ornamented with a rope of pearls; two sons, tall blond fellows straight as ramrods, with hair cut close like Kurt's, clicking their heels and bowing formally; a sister a year older than Kurt, slender, fair-haired, still in the pigtail stage, but ready to become a temporary mother to a visiting stranger. There were other relatives, a large company, all full of the sentimentality of Christmas and eager to share it with their guest.

Kurt had grown an inch or two since Lanny saw him. He was going to be a fine, tall fellow like his brothers; would he wear a monocle and turn himself into a walking ramrod? Probably so, because he admired them, and would serve his term in the army. His rather severe face was pale, because he had been working hard. But his love of Ordnung would always be tempered with the sweetness of music, and he would be Lanny's friend and appreciate the gay, easygoing disposition which Lanny had got from both mother and father. So, at any rate, Kurt assured him when they were up in Kurt's den which they were to share. He was kind and affectionate, but very serious, and talked grandly about his work and purposes, his devotion to art, and to friendship, something which one did not undertake lightly, but with deliberation and moral purpose.

V

Next morning Lanny looked out of the window and saw the great Schloss, five or six stories high, its roofs and turrets covered with fresh snow, gleaming like a Christmas card in the light of the newly risen sun. The picture made him think of all the fairy tales and romances of knights and princesses that he had ever read. To a boy who had spent most of his life on the Riviera, the mere presence of snow was an adventure; to put on his big overcoat and the mitts that Kurt lent him and go out and run, and see his breath in the air, and throw snowballs and get tumbled in a snowbank — that was fairyland. To go back into the house and be served Pfannkuchen and broiled venison for breakfast, and be told that it had been shot by Seine Majestät himself — could you beat that for thrills?

The Graf Stubendorf and family were expected on the morning train from Berlin, and it would be better for the guest to see the castle before they arrived. So after breakfast the boys ran up the long drive through the park, and climbed the score of steps to the gray stone building; they were admitted by bowing servants in blue uniforms, white gaiters, and white gloves. There was an entrance hall three stories high, and a reception room as big as a theater. All the front of the castle had been built in the last century, but there was an old part in the rear which was six hundred years old and had been captured and recaptured in some of those cruel wars which Lanny had been reading about on the train.

The modern part was splendid with white and gold woodwork, and walls upholstered in hand-embroidered silk, and furniture with scarlet brocade. There was a great deal of heavy carved furniture, and the general atmosphere of a museum. The old part was the most interesting to Lanny, because there were a tower and a donjon keep, an armor room, and a refectory having a huge fireplace with a black pot hanging on a hook. Lanny wondered if Pan Zagloba had ever drunk wassail in that hall. He hefted huge halberds and battle-axes, and tried to imagine what the world must have been like when men went about armored like crabs and lobsters.

They walked about the environs of the castle. It was as the farmer had said, a town, the old part medieval and crowded, the new parts well laid out. Stubendorf was a Gutsbezirk, and the Graf was a state functionary, which meant, in effect, that he had his own court of justice, police force, and jail; the feudal system combined with modern plumbing and street paving. But this didn't occur to Lanny, who was living in a lovely fairy tale.

They came back in time to witness the arrival of Seine Hochge-boren and family. The great ones drove from the station in limousines; all the servants of the castle, a hundred or two, were lined up on the steps in costumes of long ago, the men on one side, the women on the other. The uniforms of the men bore indications of their rank, while the women had white aprons and lace fichus and white cotton stockings, and wore their hair in plaits down their backs. All were drilled once a week in a system of etiquette complete to the opening of doors.

The Graf Stubendorf was known in Germany as a poet and aesthete, and also as one of the Kaiser's intimates. He was a large man, stoutish and pasty, with a soft brown beard and gracious smile. His three sons were the orthodox military men with shaven heads and mustaches twisted to sharp points; they marched up the stairs in order of seniority, making grave acknowledgment of the bows of the servants. The mother, an elegant lady dressed in the latest Paris fashion, walked behind her sons, and the daughters walked behind her. Of course that may have been an accident; or it may have been because their Kaiser had prescribed the proper concerns of women — kitchen, children, and church — listed presumably in order of importance.

VI

In the afternoon the boys put on high boots and took repeating shotguns for hunting. Kurt's father had arranged it with the Oberforstmeister, an important personage in a green uniform with silver braid; he furnished them a Jäger, who would carry a rifle for their protection. It was not permitted to shoot roebuck or large game, but there were plenty of hare and pheasants in the forest.

They drove in the sleigh, following a wood road, slowly because of the fresh drifts of snow. They passed racks where the deer came to feed; the great stags lifted their heads and kept watch, but made no move to escape. They behaved like cattle, and it didn't seem much like hunting to go out and take post on a wooden platform, with a high-powered rifle and telescopic sight, and have beaters drive such creatures in front of you. When Lanny's father went after game it was in the Canadian wilderness, where the moose were not stall-fed; or out in the Rockies, where mountain sheep ran like the devil, leaping over boulders high up among the clouds.

Kurt said that would be fun, of course, but in Germany shooting was a privilege of the land owners, and the upper classes made a ceremony of it. The Jägertold them about the recent visit of the Kaiser. Seine Majestät had a special uniform, buff in color, and a splendid bird in his hat; he took his post on a high stand, and his entourage watched him shoot buffalo as they ran by, and boars, and stags, picking out the largest with the best heads. Afterward a pile of the game was made and the Kaiser had his picture taken, standing in front of it. A rather expensive sport, because it was estimated that to raise a single stag cost several thousand marks. But Kurt explained that none of it was wasted; the carcasses were distributed among those who had a right to them, and Lanny would eat his fill three times a day.

Lanny had never seen either buffalo or wild boars, and was greatly excited by the idea. The former was not the shaggy American bison, but smooth-skinned creatures that had been domesticated in Egypt and brought to Europe by the ancient Romans; now they ran wild in the forests and were very dangerous if wounded. As for the boars, they did not molest human beings — but still, it was well to have a rifle along.

After hunting through a great stretch of forest, they came upon a clearing with a tiny farm and a cottage that might have been the home of the witch in Grimm's fairy tales. They stopped to rest, and found no witch, but a peasant mother with half a dozen little ones, the boys with bullet heads and the girls with braided hair, all staring with wide blue eyes at die Herrschaften. There was only one room and a shed in back; the beds were shelves against the walls, and a good part of the room was taken up by a large stove, polished like a patent-leather shoe. Everything in the place had been manicured by this lean and toilworn woman, with tendons in her arms showing like whipcords. She was excited by the visit, and ran to get milk for die Herrschaften, as she called them over and over; she stood while they drank it, and apologized because she had nothing better, and because her husband was not at home, and because she had only a hard bench for them to sit on, and so forth. When they left, Lanny looked back and saw a pile of children's faces in the window of the hut, and it stayed with him as one of the sights of Germany.

They returned with a large bag of game, and a still larger appetite. They had a meal to match it, with half a dozen courses of meats and fowl. When they rose from the table they all took hands and danced gaily around it, crying “Mahlzeit!” Afterward they gathered round the piano and sang sentimental songs in melting voices, also Kurt and his guest were asked to show what they had learned at Hellerau. Lanny was echt deutsch that night, and stowed in his memory two lines of poetry which his friend quoted, to the effect that when you hear singing you may lie down in peace, because evil people have no songs.

VII

“Fröhliche Weihnachten” said everybody next morning, for it was the day before Christmas. The young people took a long sleigh ride and saw the country, and in the afternoon they played music, and Lanny danced with Kurt's sister. In the evening the Christmas celebration took place, and there were presents for all the family and the servants; not under the Christmas tree, but on separate little tables, covered with linen cloths. After the tree was lighted, the presents were given out. The Herr Comptroller said a few words, and shook hands with each of his servants, and they all kissed the hand of his wife. Everything was warmhearted, everybody wished happiness to everybody else, and they sang “Stille Nachi” with tears in their eyes.

Next morning they had a preliminary breakfast, eating a long kind of bun called Dresdner Christstollen, with raisins in it and sugar on top; also eggs, and many kinds of homemade jam, and coffee with hot milk. That was supposed to carry you until half-past ten, when you had the so-called “fork-breakfast.” It appeared that ideas of diet reform which were spreading among Lanny's American friends had never been heard of in this Prussian province, and such things as Hasenpfeffer, fresh pork sausage, and several other kinds of meat could be eaten in great quantities in the morning.

Later on there was to be a celebration at the Schloss, and everybody dressed, the men in uniforms and decorations, and the ladies with their jewels, silks, and laces. They came in a happy solemn mood as to a church festival. For the tenants and employees it was the one time in the year when they might pass the portals of the great building which dominated their lives. They waited respectfully outside until the last of the dignitaries had entered and taken their places; then the crowd streamed into the great hall, the men taking off their hats before they ascended the steps, the peasant women with kerchiefs or shawls over their heads, curtsying to everybody. Those for whom there were no seats packed themselves around the walls.

Seine Hocbgeboren and family came in by a private entrance, and everybody stood and said “Fröhliche Weihnachten.” The pastor said a prayer, quite a long one, and they all stood again and sang a hymn, in such volume as to drown out the organ. The Graf gave them all Christmas greetings in a fatherly talk, full of assurances of concern for their welfare, and declaring the divine origin of “deutsche Treu und Werde.” In their happy land, so favored by God, peace and order prevailed, and every man and woman cherished the sacred flame of loyalty in his heart. In this happy Christmas season they renewed their pledges to the Kaiser and Fatherland. The applause which followed seemed to indicate that Seine Hochgeboren was completely justified in his faith.

A great fir tree out of the forest stood in a corner of the hall, and there were presents for everyone, even to the toilworn peasant woman and the half dozen little ones who had stared at Lanny out of the window of the hut. Four men in uniform called the names on the packages and handed them out; but even with this procedure it took long to distribute them all. Not a person left the hall; and Seine Hochgeboren shook hands with each man and woman. Lanny was not bored, because these were Kurt's people, and he was interested to watch their faces and their costumes.

Next day the Comptroller-General went to report to his employer upon the state of affairs. He was invited to a smoker that evening, together with his eldest son. Other neighboring land owners came, and several of the higher officials of the estate, the chief of police, the head forester, and so on. Over pipes and beer they discussed the state of the country, both local and national, and the Graf honored them by reporting upon matters of importance on which he had special sources of information. The following evening Herr Meissner told his family what had gone on at this smoker, and gave his own views of the matters discussed. Everybody in the household listened respectfully to what the stout and imposing father said, and no one ventured to question anything. The guest from a foreign land could not understand all the long words, but listened attentively, and afterward had matters explained to him by Kurt.

Seine Hochgeboren had reported that other nations, jealous of German diligence and skill, had surrounded the Fatherland with a wall — die Einkreisung, was the phrase. Either that wall would be taken down by agreement, or it would have to be broken, because the Germans were a growing people, and would not be denied their place in the sun. The Graf had spoken of a dark cloud of barbarism in the eastern sky, and by that, of course, he meant Russia. The nobility and land owners of Upper Silesia got along well with their neighbors, the nobility and land owners of the Tsar's realm, and had no quarrel with them; but they were exasperate'd by the alliance with France, which was putting up huge sums of money for the arming of Russia. For what purpose? the Graf wished to know. There could be but one answer — a contemplated attack upon Germany.

Also, Seine Hochgeboren had talked about enemies within the Fatherland; he described them as rats, gnawing and nibbling. Of course he meant the Social-Democrats, said Herr Meissner. They had no strength in Stubendorf, where the good old ways prevailed; but in all the industrial districts they never ceased their hateful agitation, and at the next elections to the Reichstag they might win an actual majority. If that happened, steps would undoubtedly have to be taken to put them down by force.

Lanny was moved to tell his friend Kurt about his visit to the “cabbage patch” of Cannes. He didn't mention that he had an uncle who was a “red sheep” — that was too terrible a family secret; he said merely that somebody had taken him to meet a woman “Red,” and he had been deceived into thinking that she was a good person. Kurt replied: “No doubt many of these agitators are sincere fanatics. Indeed, it's rather the fashion nowadays to say smart and cynical things against the government.” He added: “There's more Socialist sentiment in Silesia than perhaps Seine Hochgeboren realizes; there are many coal mines in the province, and in the open portions are large industries and a lot of discontent among the workers.”

Kurt talked in his usual lofty way about social problems. He said that art and culture would filter down from the cultivated classes and ultimately would civilize and regenerate the common people. He was especially certain that the artist must hold himself above the squabbles of politics. Solemnly he declared: “Just as knowledge is power, so is beauty; those who create it are masters of the Idea, which precedes everything in human affairs. As the idea of the chair comes before the making of the chair, so the idea of beauty, goodness, justice, has to be nourished in creative minds. In the beginning was the Word” — and so on for a great many words.

Lanny did not know that all this was German philosophy with a capital P; that a learned professor in Konigsberg had sat in his study — with his eyes fixed upon a church steeple for twenty years, spinning mental cobwebs made of such high-sounding polysyllables. Lanny did not know that twenty-three centuries previously a wealthy gentleman of Athens of the name of Plato had walked up and down under a portico doing the same thing, and that his doctrines had spread to Alexandria, and from there had reached a Jewish enthusiast by the name of John. What Lanny thought was that his friend, Kurt Meissner, had worked up all this for himself, and he was quite overcome with awe.

VIII

The ten days passed rapidly, and one morning the two boys packed their belongings, said their farewells, and were driven to the station. They rode together to the junction, renewing their pledges of everlasting loyalty. At the junction their roads parted, and Kurt, whose train came first, made sure that his guest had his ticket in a safe place, and that the station master would see him aboard his train. Lanny watched Kurt depart; and then, because a cold wind was blowing, he went into the cafe of the station and ordered a cup of hot cocoa.

While he was sipping it and thinking over adventures the memory of which would always delight him, a man came into the room, looked around, and then came to Lanny's table. There were other tables, but the man appeared to be sociable, and Lanny was glad to chat with anyone in this agreeable country. The stranger said: “Guten Morgen,” and Lanny returned the greeting, and at the same time took the man in with a swift appraisal.

The stranger was small, rather dark, and sallow; his hat, tie, and overcoat were lacking in those touches of elegance which meant a “gentleman.” He wore glasses, and his thin face had a worried look; his fingers were stained with tobacco. He ordered a glass of beer, and then remarked: “Em Fremder, nicht wahr?” When Lanny replied that he was an American, the man began to speak somewhat hesitating English. He had seen Lanny with Kurt Meissner, and said that he knew Kurt; had Lanny been staying at the Schloss?

Lanny explained where he had been staying, and they talked about the visit. Lanny enjoyed nothing more than telling about what a good time he had had, and how kind everybody had been. The man seemed to know all about affairs at the castle. Ja, ja, he knew the Herr Comptroller-General, also his sons; they had gone back to the army. No time to be lost in the army; that very morning a company of light artillery had gone into the mountains for practice, the guns mounted on sleds, the troops on skis. Lanny said he had seen them getting off the train; wonderful how fast they had slid those guns off the flatcars. The stranger said that was part of the drill and was timed to the second. The Fatherland had many enemies and must ever be on the alert.

Lanny was interested to hear this from another German. Apparently it was the first thought in the mind of everyone in the country. He told the stranger about the political discussions which had taken place, and how Graf Stubendorf had warned his officials of the dark cloud hanging over the east and of the rats within which were gnawing and nibbling. “He must mean the Social-Democrats,” said the stranger; and Lanny replied, yes, that was what Herr Meissner had explained to his family.

Lanny's father had carefully posted him as to the dangers of talking about the munitions industry; but it never occurred to the lad that there could be any reason for not discussing the patriotic sentiments of the defenders of the Fatherland. The stranger wanted to know exactly what Seine Hochgeboren had said, and where and how he had said it; so Lanny told about the smoker, and who had been present at it. Seine Hochgeboren had said that if the “rats” were to carry the Reichstag at the next elections, it might be necessary to put them down by force; the comptroller-general had agreed with this idea.

Lanny mentioned also the hunting, and what he had learned about the Kaiser's extraordinary prowess as a slaughterer of game. The stranger said that photographs of it had been published in the papers; there was one in a magazine which Lanny could buy on the newsstands. He would observe that the Kaiser kept his left arm behind him; one would always find that in any picture of him, for he had a withered arm and was very sensitive about it. Had they mentioned how he had a special knife and fork, made in one piece, so that he could eat with one hand? Lanny said, no, they hadn't told him things like that. A flicker of a smile crossed the little man's sallow face.

The stranger went on to set forth how in the castle they had prepared every day a special newspaper for the Kaiser, printed in gold. Lanny said that didn't sound as if it would be easy reading.

The other agreed; but it would never do for the All-Highest to read a common newspaper, such as any of his subjects could buy for ten pfennigs. Had they told him whether everybody in the room had to rise and click his heels when the Kaiser addressed that person?

There had come what seemed a note of sneering in the man's voice, and the boy became vaguely uneasy and changed the subject. He told how they had shot hare and pheasants in those wonderful forests; and about the farm with the cottage and the pretty children. Lanny said how much he had been impressed by the cleanness and order he had seen in that cottage, and in fact throughout the domain of the Graf, and by the evidences of loyalty and discipline. “Ach, yes!” replied the man. “You see, Napoleon never got here.”

The youngster didn't know enough history to understand that remark, so the other explained that wherever the French armies had penetrated, they had distributed the lands among the peasants, and so had broken the feudal system. If Lanny had been in France, he must know how independent and free-spoken the peasants were; none of this bowing and kowtowing to the masters, the everlasting Hoheits and Hochgeborens. Lanny said that he had noted that difference.

“Perhaps I ought to tell you,” continued the stranger, “that I am a journalist. I am indebted to you for some very useful information.”

Lanny felt something fall inside and hit the pit of his stomach. “Oh!” he cried. “Surely you're not going to quote what I've been saying!”

“Don't worry,” said the other, smiling. “I am a man of tact. I promise not to mention or indicate you in any way.”

“But I was a guest there!” exclaimed Lanny. “I haven't the right to repeat what they told me. That would be shameful!”

“By your own account many persons heard what Stubendorf said. Any one of them might have told it to me. And as to Meissner—”

“It was in his own house!” cried the boy. “Nothing could be more private.”

“He'll be saying it to many persons, and he won't have any idea how it came to my ears.”

Lanny was so bewildered and embarrassed he didn't know what to answer. Such an ending for his holiday! The other, reading his face, continued apologetically: “You must understand that we journalists have to take our information where we find it. I am one of the editors of the Arbeiterzeitung, a Social-Democratic newspaper, and I have to consider the interests of the oppressed workers whom I serve.”

Again something hit Lanny's stomach, even more heavily than before. “What interest can the workers . . .?” he began; but then speech failed him.

Said the editor: “Our people take seriously their rights as citizens; but their opponents, it appears, do not share that view. The Comptroller-General of Schloss Stubendorf announces that if the workers win at the polls, the masters will not submit to the decision, but will resort to force and counter-revolution. Don't you see how very important that news will be to our readers?”

Lanny could not find words to answer.

“You came here as a guest,” continued the other, “and you found everything lovely. There was nobody to take you behind the scenes and show you how this charming Christmas puppet show is worked. You are too young to form any idea of what it means to live in the Middle Ages; but I will give you facts which you can think about on your journey. You admire the fairy-story cottage in the forest and the pretty children — but nobody mentioned that the first of them might be the child of your host, the Herr Comptroller-General.”

“Oh, surely not!” cried Lanny, outraged.

“He scattered his seed freely when he was younger. And I'll tell you more for your own welfare. You are a charming boy, and if ever you come for another visit, do not attract the attention of the Graf Stubendorf, or under any circumstances be left alone in the room with him.”

Lanny, staring at his interlocutor, didn't know just what the man meant, but he knew it was something very bad, and the blood was climbing to his cheeks and forehead.

“I will not offend your young mind with the details. Suffice it to say that some men in the Kaiser's intimate circle have extremely evil ways of life. A few years ago there was a public scandal which forced one of the Kaiser's best friends to retire from public life. Stubendorf is an exquisite fellow, highly sentimental, and thinks he is a poet; but I tell you that neither boys nor girls are safe in this feudal principality which has seemed to you like a set of Christmas cards.”

There came a roaring outside the station, and the uniformed official came to the door. “Der Zug, junger Herr” said he, with feudal politeness. The Social-Democratic editor rose quickly and went out by another door, while the station master took Lanny's bags and put him safely into the right car.

Lanny never learned the name of that editor, and never knew what he published. For a while his happiness was poisoned by the fear of a scandal; but nothing happened, so apparently the man had kept his promise. Lanny was ashamed of his lack of discretion and resolved never to tell anyone about the incident. A bitter and hateful fellow, that editor; repeating slanders, or perhaps making them up. Lanny decided that Social-Democrats had minds warped with envy, and must be fully as dangerous as anarchists. But all the same he couldn't help wondering if the stories were true — and whether perhaps it mightn't have been better if Napoleon had got to Stubendorf!

I

LANNY came home with the idea fixed in his head that he ought to go to school; he wanted to settle down to hard study and be disciplined and conscientious like those Germans. The idea somewhat alarmed his mother, and she asked, just what did he want to learn. Lanny presented a list: he wanted to understand what Kurt called philosophy, that is, what life was, and why it was, and how the Idea always preceded the Thing; second, he wanted to understand the long German words that he had heard, such as Erscheinungsphänomenologie and Minderwertigkeitscomplexe; third, he wanted to know how to calculate trajectories and the expansive forces of propellants, so as to understand Robbie when he was talking to the artillery experts; and, finally, he wanted to learn to multiply and divide numbers.

Beauty was puzzled; she didn't know any of these things herself, and wasn't sure if there was any, school in the neighborhood where they were taught. She pointed out that if Lanny went away to boarding school, he wouldn't be on hand for the visits of his father; also he would miss a great deal of travel, which was another kind of education, wasn't it? So finally it was decided that the way to solve the problem was, first, to buy a large dictionary and a twenty-volume encyclopedia; and, second, to get a tutor who understood arithmetic.

So it came about that Mr. Ridgley Elphinstone entered into Lanny Budd's young life. Mr. Elphinstone was an Oxford student whose health had weakened, and he was living en pension in the village. Beauty was introduced to him at a bridge party, and when the hostess mentioned that the young man was poor, Beauty had the bright idea to inquire if he could teach arithmetic. He answered sadly that he had forgotten all he had ever known, but doubtless he could brush up; that was the way of all tutors, he explained, they got advance information as to what was expected, and they brushed up. Mr. Elphinstone came and made an inventory of Lanny's disordered stock of knowledge, and told Beauty that it might be difficult to make an educated man of him, but since he was going to have money, why did it matter?

After that Mr. Elphinstone came every morning, unless Lanny was otherwise engaged. He was a thin person of melancholy aspect, with dark Byronic hair and eyes, and spent his spare time composing poetry which he never showed to anyone. Apart from his code as an English gentleman, he appeared to have only one conviction, which was that nothing was certain, and anyhow it made no difference. His method of instruction was most agreeable; he would tell Lanny anything he wanted to know, and if neither of them knew it, they would look it up in the encyclopedia. Incidentally, Mr. Elphinstone fell in love with Beauty, which was as she expected; being poor but proud he never said anything, which made the most pleasant arrangement possible.

So far, Lanny's pronunciation of his own tongue had been modeled upon that of his father, who was a Connecticut Yankee. But the Oxford accent is most impressive, and the boy now lived.in daily contact with it, so presently he was being heard to declare that he “had bean,” and that he knew “we-ah” he was going, he saw “cle-ahly” what was his “gaoal.” He would say that he “re-ahlized” that his education was “diff'rent,” but that it was “mod'n,” and he wanted it to be “thurrah.” He developed aristocratic sentiments, and when he discussed politics would say: “We must not shut ahr eyes to the fact that it is necess'ry for someone to commahnd.” If one of the boys invited him to play tennis he would reply: “Ah-i will luke and see the tah-eem.” When Robbie returned he “tuke” some amused “lukes” at his son, and informed him that the sound of “oo” as in the word “loot” came from the quite unfashionable North of England.

II

Among the guests at one of the tea parties was a Russian baron of the name of Livens-Mazursky. The friend who brought him said that he was rich and important, owned a newspaper in St. Petersburg, had diplomatic contacts, and would be a valuable person to Robbie — all that sort of thing. He was of striking appearance, large, with flourishing black whiskers, pale cheeks, and lips so red that you wondered if he did not stain them. His eyes were prominent and bright, and he talked with animation in whatever language the company preferred. He spent his money freely, so everybody liked him.

Baron Livens came to the house several times and seemed to take an interest in the handsome boy. Lanny was used to that, many people did it; also he was used to the ardent temperament of the Russians and thought he would be helping the American munitions industry by making friends with a brilliant man who had once been a cavalry officer, and who seemed like a character stepping out of With Fire and Sword.

One afternoon Lanny went with his mother to Cannes, and while she did some shopping he went to a kiosk and got a magazine, and sat down to read and wait for his mother in the lobby of one of the fashionable hotels. Baron Livens happened in, and sat beside him, and asked him what he was reading, chatted about magazines, and finally told Lanny that he had some wonderful reproductions of Russian paintings in his suite upstairs. So they went up in the lift, and the baron ushered Lanny into a showy drawing room, and got the prints, and they sat down at a table together to look at pictures.

Presently one of the man's arms was about Lanny, and that was all right; but then he bent down and kissed the boy on the cheek. All boys in those days had the experience of being kissed with whiskers, and didn't like it. When the action was repeated, Lanny shrank and said: “Please don't.” But the baron held on to him, and Lanny became alarmed; he looked, and discovered a half-crazy stare in the man's eyes. A panic seized the boy and he cried: “Let me go!”

Lanny had not forgotten what the Social-Democratic editor had told him about Graf Stubendorf; he had tried to imagine what he was being warned against, and now it flashed into his mind that this must be it! He struggled and started to scream, which frightened the man, so that he let go his hold, and Lanny sprang up and rushed to the door.

It was locked; and this discovery gave Lanny the wildest fright he had ever known. He shrieked at the top of his voice: “Help! Help! Let me out!” The baron tried to quiet him, but Lanny got a big upholstered chair between them, and yelled louder; until the man said: “Be quiet, you little fool, and then I'll open the door.” “All right, open it,” panted Lanny. When it was open he made the man step away from it, and then dashed out and down the stairs without waiting for the lift.

In the lobby he took a seat, pale and shivering; for a while he thought he was going to be nauseated. Then he saw the bewhiskered baron bringing the magazine which had been left behind. Lanny jumped up and kept backing away; he wouldn't let the Russian get near him. The man was agitated too, and tried to plead; it was all a misunderstanding, he had meant no harm, he had little boys of his own whom he loved, and Lanny reminded him of them.

Such was the situation when Beauty appeared. She saw that something had happened, and the baron tried to explain; the dear little boy had misunderstood him, it was a cruel accident, most embarrassing. Lanny wouldn't speak of it, he just wanted to get out of there. “Please, Beauty, please!” he said, so they went out to the street.

“Have you been hurt?” asked the frightened mother.

But Lanny said: “No, I got away from him.” He wouldn't talk about it on the street, and then he wouldn't talk in the car, because Pierre, the chauffeur, could hear them. “Let's go home,” he said, and sat holding his mother's hand as tightly as he could.

III

By the time they reached Bienvenu, Lanny had got over some or his agitation, and was wondering whether he could have been making a mistake. But when he told his mother about it she said, no, he had been in real danger; she would like to go and shoot that Russian beast. But she wouldn't tell the youngster what it was about; a kind of fog of embarrassment settled over them, and all Lanny got out of it was anxious monitions never to let any man touch him again, never to go anywhere with any man again — it appeared that he couldn't safely have anything to do with anybody except a few of his mother's intimates.

Beauty had to talk to somebody, and called in her friend Sophie, Baroness de la Tourette. Oh, yes, said that experienced woman of the world, everybody knew about Livens; but what could you do? Have him arrested? It would make a journalist's holiday, he would fight back and blacken you with scandals. Shoot him? Yes, but the French laws were rather strict; the jury would have to be made to weep, and lawyers who can do that charge a fortune. The thing to do was to make the child understand, so that it couldn't happen again.

“But what on earth can I say to him?” exclaimed Beauty.

“Do you mean you haven't given him a straight talk?” demanded her friend.

“I just can't bring myself to it, Sophie. He is so innocent —”

“Innocent, hell!” retorted Sophie Timmons, that henna blonde with the henna laugh; the daughter of a hardware manufacturer who was a piece of hardware herself. “He plays around with these peasant children — don't you suppose they watch the animals and talk about it?. If you heard them you would pass out.”

“Oh, my God!” lamented Beauty. “I wish there was no such thing as sex in the world!”

“Well, there's plenty of it on this 'Coast of Pleasure,' and your little one will soon be ready for his share. You'd better wake, up.”

“His father is the one who ought to tell him, Sophie.”

“All right then, send a cablegram, 'Robbie come at once and tell Lanny the facts of life.'” They both laughed, but it didn't solve the problem. “Couldn't the tutor do it?” suggested the baroness finally.

“I haven't the faintest notion what his ideas are.”

“Well, at the worst I should think they'd be better than Livens',” responded the other, dryly.

The Baroness de la Tourette of course told the story all over the place, and Baron Livens-Mazursky found himself cut off from a number of calling lists; he suddenly decided to spend the rest of the winter at Gapri, a place which was not so puritanical as Cannes. Lanny's mother repeated her warnings to the boy, with such solemnity that he began to acquire the psychology of a wild deer in the forest; he looked before he ventured into any dark places, and if he saw anyone, male or female, getting close to him he moved.

IV

But even the wild deer in the forest enjoys life, and Lanny couldn't be kept from wanting to talk to people and find out about them. Soon afterward came the Adventure of the Gigolo, which was the last straw, so Beauty declared. The story of Lanny's gigolo spread among the smart crowd up and down the Riviera, and every now and then someone would ask: “Well, Lanny, how's your gigolo getting along?” He knew they were making fun, but it didn't worry him, for his mind was firmly made up that his gigolo was really a very kind man, much more so than some of the persons who tried to win money from his mother at bridge.

It was another of those occasions when Beauty was having herself made more so. This time it was a ravishing evening gown of pale blue chiffon over cloth of silver, which was being “created” by M. Claire, the couturier in Nice, at a specially moderate price because of the advertising he would get. It meant long sessions of fitting in which Beauty got a bit dizzy, and Lanny preferred to sit out under the plane trees and watch the traffic go by, the fashionable people strolling, and the bonnes with the pretty children.

He sat on a bench, and along came a gentleman of thirty or so, wearing correct afternoon attire in the morning, and a neatly trimmed little black mustache and a cane with a ball of polished agate for a handle. He had an amiable expression, and perhaps recognized a similar one on the face of the boy. Certainly he could see that the boy was fashionably attired. It was now the height of the season, and the town was full of tall slender youths from England and America, wearing sports shirts, linen trousers, and tennis shoes or sandals.

The gentleman took a seat on the bench, and after a while stole a glance at the book in Lanny's lap. “J'ai lou cela” he remarked.

Which told Lanny right away that he was a countryman, a native of Provence. These people do not pronounce the è as do the French; the name of Lanny's town was not spoken in French fashion, or in Spanish, but “Jou-an.” Lanny answered in Provencal, and the stranger's face lighted up. “Oh, you are not a foreigner?” Lanny explained that he was born in Switzerland and had lived most of his life in “Jou-an.” The stranger said that he came from the mountain village of Charaze, where his parents were peasants.

That called for explanation; for the sons of peasants do not as a rule spend their mornings strolling under the plane trees of the Avenue de la Victoire, dressed in frock coat and striped trousers trimmed with black braid. M. Pinjon — that was his name — explained that he had risen in the world by becoming a professional dancer. Lanny said that he too was a dancer of a sort, and wished to learn all he could about that agreeable art. M. Pinjon said that what counted was that one had the spirit, the inner fire. Yes, assented Lanny; so few had that fire, which was the soul of every art. Kurt had said that, and Lanny remembered it and used it to excellent effect.

So you see the acquaintance started upon the very highest plane. Lanny was moved to tell about Hellerau, and the tall white temple loomed as a place of magic to which M. Pinjon might some day make a pilgrimage. Lanny described the technique of Eurythmics; a little bit more and he would have been giving a demonstration on the sidewalk of the avenue.

V

Out of the fervor of his nature as an artist and a son of the warm South, M. Pinjon told the story of his life. He was a child of a large family, and the little plot of earth in Charaze was too small to sustain them all. So he, the youngest, had fared forth to make his fortune in the world, and for a while had not found it easy. He had lived in a wretched lodging — there was a “cabbage patch” also in Nice, and much refuse was dumped into the streets, and the smells were painful to a countryman who was used to thyme and lavender on the hillsides.

M. Pinjon had become a waiter, a menial position in a small cafe; but he had saved every sou, and bought himself this costume, patterned carefully after those he had observed in the grand monde. At home he had been a skillful dancer of the farandole, and had soon begun a study of modern dancing, no simple task, since twenty-eight forms of the tango were now being danced on the Riviera, besides such American innovations as the “turkey trot” and the “bunny hug.”

Having cultivated his ten talents, M. Pinjon had obtained an opening in one of the casinos. He was what was called, somewhat unkindly, a “gigolo.” True, there were evil men in the business, ready to take advantage of opportunities; but M. Pinjon was a serious person, a French peasant at heart, and his purpose in life was to save up a sufficiency of livres to purchase a bit of land which he had picked out near his ancestral home and there to live as his forefathers had done, cultivating the olive and the vine and saying prayers against the return of the Saracens.

Ladies came in great numbers to the casino; ladies who were lonely, mostly because they were middle-aged, and the men, whether old or young, preferred to dance with young partners. However, middle-aged ladies were reluctant to bid farewell to their youth, and to the enjoyment which we all crave. M. Pinjon spoke quite feelingly and at the same time instructively about the problem of the middle-aged lady. Why should she not dance — having nothing else to do? Since the men did not invite her, she was compelled to pay for partners, and it was in this way that M. Pinjon gained a modest living. He danced with strange ladies in a dignified and respectful way, and if they wished to be taught he helped them to improve their style.

He seemed anxious that this polite and intelligent boy should agree with him that this was a proper thing to do; and Lanny did agree with him. M. Pinjon came back to the subject of Dalcroze, and asked if there was a book about it. Lanny gave him the name of a book and he wrote it down. The boy was moved to add: “If you ever come to Juan, and will call at our home, I'll be glad to show you as much of it as I can.” The dancer wrote down Lanny's address, and said he would surely not fail; he played the piccolo flute, and would bring it and render old Provengal tunes and Lanny would dance them.

At this point came Beauty, tired and a little cross after the ordeal of “fitting.” Lanny introduced her to his new friend, and of course Beauty had to be polite, but at the same time most reserved, because she could perceive social subtleties which a boy couldn't, and this wasn't the first time that Lanny's habit of picking up strange persons had caused embarrassment. When they got into the car and were driving home, Lanny told her about his new friend, and — well, of course Beauty couldn't be angry with the child, but, oh, dear, oh, dear — she had to sink back into the cushions of the car and laugh. She thought how Sophie would laugh, and how Margy would laugh — that was Lady Eversham-Watson. And they did, of course; everybody did, except Lanny.

The worst of it was there was no way to keep the man from calling. The mother had to explain carefully to Lanny that there are certain social differences that just can't be overlooked. “You'll of course have to be polite to this poor fellow, but you mustn't ask him to call again, nor promise to go and see him dance at the casino. Above all, I won't meet him again.”

M. Pinjon rode all the way from Nice in an autobus, his first free day. He brought his piccolo, and they sat out on the terrace, and he played shrill little tunes, “Magali,” and the “Marche des Rois,” and Lanny danced them, and the son of the warm South became inspired, and played faster and more gaily, and danced while he played. Beauty, who happened to be at home, peered through the blinds of a window now and then, and watched the dapper little man with the neat black mustache capering with such agility; she had to admit that it was a touching scene — out of the childhood of the world, as it were, before social classes came into being.

Afterward Rosine brought wine and cake. M. Pinjon was treated with every courtesy — except that he did not again see the face of the loveliest of grass widows. The Provencal chansons which tell of troubadours singing in castles and carrying away princesses somehow did not fit the circumstances of the year 1914 on the Céte d'Azur.

VI

After that episode Beauty Budd decided that she could no longer leave her child in ignorance of the facts of life. She sought out her friend Sophie, who had a new suggestion. There was in Nice an Austrian-Jewish physician of the name of Bauer-Siemans, practitioner of a method known as psychoanalysis, just now sweeping Europe and America. Ladies in the highest social circles discovered that they had inferiority complexes — that was the German jawbreaker Minderwertigkeitscomplexe, called “the Minkos” for short. Ladies and gentlemen talked quite blandly about their Oedipus fixations and their anal-erotic impulses; it was horrible, but at the same time fascinating. The thing that carried ladies off their feet was the fact that for ten dollars an hour you could employ a cultured and intelligent gentleman to hear you talk about yourself. It cost many times that to give a dinner party — and then you discovered that the gentlemen wanted to talk about themselves!

“I don't know how much I believe of that stuff,” said the Baroness de la Tourette; “but at least the man knows the facts and won't mind talking about them.”

“But will he want to bother with a child, Sophie?”

“Hand him an envelope with a hundred-franc note in it, and let nature do the rest,” said the practical-minded baroness.

So Mrs. Budd telephoned and asked for an hour or two of the valuable time of Dr. Bauer-Siemans, and took Lanny with her and left him in the outer office while she told about the baron, and then the gigolo.

The psychoanalyst was a learned-looking gentleman having a high forehead topped with black wavy hair, and gold pince-nez which he took off now and then and used in making gestures. He spoke English with a not too heavy accent. “But why don't you talk to the boy yourself, Mrs. Budd?” he demanded.

More blood mounted to Beauty's already well-suffused cheeks. “I just can't, Doctor. I've tried, but I can't speak the words.”

“You are an American?” he inquired.

“I am the daughter of a Baptist minister in New England.”

“Ah, I see. Puritanism!” Dr. Bauer-Siemans said it as if it were “poliomyelitis” or “Addison's disease.”

“It seems to be ingrained,” said Beauty, lowering her lovely blue eyes.

“The purpose of psychoanalysis is to bring such repressions to the surface of consciousness, Mrs. Budd. So we get rid of them and acquire normal attitudes.”

“What I want is for you to talk to Lanny,” said the mother, hastily. “I would like you to consider it a professional matter, please.” She handed over a scented envelope, not sealed but with the flap tucked in.

The doctor smiled. “We don't usually receive payment in advance,” he said, and laid the envelope on the desk. “Leave the little fellow with me for an hour or so, and I'll tell him what he needs to know.” So Beauty got up and went out; meantime the doctor glanced into the envelope, and saw that Lanny was entitled to a full dose of the facts of life.

VII

The boy found himself seated in a chair facing the desk of this strange professional gentleman. When he heard what he was there for, the blood began to climb into his cheeks; for Lanny, too, was a little Puritan, far from the home of his forefathers.

However, it wasn't really so bad; for the Baroness de la Tourette had been right. Lanny had not failed to see the animals, and the peasant boys had talked in the crudest language. His mind was a queer jumble of truth and nonsense, most of the latter supplied by his own speculations. The peasant boys had told him that men and women behaved like that also, but Lanny hadn't been able to believe it; when the doctor asked why not, he said: “It didn't seem dignified.” The other smiled and replied: “We do many things which do not seem dignified, but we have to take nature as we find it.”

The doctor's explanations were not by means of the bees and the flowers, but with the help of a medical book full of pictures. After Lanny had got over the first shock he found this absorbingly interesting; here were the things he had been wondering about, and someone who would give him straight answers. It was impossible for Lanny to imagine such desires or behavior on his own part, but the doctor said that he would very soon be coming to that period of life. He would find the time of love one of happiness, but also of danger and strain; there arose problems of two different natures, man's and woman's, learning to adjust themselves each to the other, and they needed all the knowledge that was to be had.

All this was sensible, and something which every boy ought to have; Lanny said so, and pleased the learned-looking doctor, who gave him the full course for which the mother had paid, and even a little extra. He took up a subject which had a great effect upon the future of both mother and son. “I understand that your mother is divorced,” he remarked. “There are many problems for children of such a family.”

“I suppose so,” said Lanny innocently — for he was not aware of any problems in his own family.

“Understand, I'm not going to pry into your affairs; but if you choose to tell me things that will help me to guide you, it will be under the seal of confidence.”

“Yes, sir,” said Lanny. “Thank you very much.”

“When families break up, sooner or later one party or the other remarries, or perhaps both do; so the child becomes a stepchild, which means adjustments that are far from easy.”

“My father has remarried and has a family in Connecticut; but I have never been there.”

“Possibly your father foresees difficulties. How long have your mother and father been divorced?”

“It was before I can remember. Ten years, I guess.”

“Well, let me tell you things out of my experience. Your mother is a beautiful woman, and doubtless many men have wished to marry her. Perhaps she has refused because she doesn't want to make you unhappy. Has she ever talked to you about such matters?”

“No, sir.”

“You have seen men in the company of your mother, of course.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You haven't liked it, perhaps?”

Lanny began to be disturbed. “I–I suppose I haven't liked it if they were with her too much,” he admitted.

Dr. Bauer-Siemans smiled, and told him that a psychoanalyst talked to hundreds of men and women, and they all had patterns of behavior which one learned to recognize. “Often they are ashamed of these,” he said, “and try to deny them, and we have to drag the truth out of them — for their own good, of course, since the first step toward rational behavior is to know our own selves. You understand what I am saying?”

“I think so, Doctor.”

“Then face this question in your own heart.” The doctor had his gold pince-nez in his hand, and used them as if to pin Lanny down. “Would you be jealous if your mother were to love some man?”

“Yes, sir — I'm afraid maybe I would.”

“But ask yourself this: when the time comes that you fall in love with some woman — as you will before many years are past — will you expect your mother to be jealous of that woman?”

“Would she?” asked the boy, surprised.

“She may have a strong impulse to do it, and it will mean a moral struggle to put her son's welfare ahead of her own. My point is that you may have to face such a struggle — to put your mother's welfare ahead of yours. Do you think you could do it?”

“I suppose I could, if it was the right sort of man.”

“Of course, if your mother fell in love with a worthless man, for example a drunkard, you would urge her against it, as any of her friends would. But you must face the fact that your mother is more apt to know what sort of man can make her happy than her son is.”

“Yes, sir, I suppose so,” admitted the son.

“Understand again, I know nothing about your mother's affairs. I am just discussing ordinary human behavior. The most likely situation is that your mother has a lover and is keeping it a secret from you because she thinks it would shock you.”

The blood began a violent surge into Lanny's throat and cheeks. “Oh, no, sir! I don't think that can be!”

Aiming his gold pince-nez at Lanny's face, the other went on relentlessly. “It would be a wholly unnatural thing for a young woman like your mother to go for ten years without a love life. It wouldn't be good for her health, and still less for her happiness. It is far more likely that she has tried to find some man who can make her happy. So long as you were a little boy, it would be possible for her to keep this hidden from you. But from now on it will not be so easy. Sooner or later you may discover signs that your mother is in love with some man. When that happens, you have to know your duty, which is not to stand in her way, or to humiliate or embarrass her, but to say frankly and sensibly: 'Of course, I want you to be happy; I accept the situation, and will make myself agreeable to the man of your choice.' Will you remember that?”

“Yes, sir,” said Lanny. But his voice was rather shaky.

VIII

Beauty had been wandering around in the shops, in a state of mind as if Lanny were having his tonsils out. A great relief to find him whole and sound, not blushing or crying or doing anything to embarrass her. “Dr. Bauer-Siemans is a well-informed man,” he said with dignity. He was.going to take it like that, an affair between men; his mother need not concern herself with it any further.

“Home, Pierre,” said Beauty; and on the way they were silent.

Something was going on in Lanny's mind, a quite extraordinary procèss. There used to be a popular kind of puzzle, a picture in which a cat was hidden, a large cat filling a good part of the picture in such a way that you had a hard time to find it. But when once you had found it, it stood out so you could hardly see anything else; you couldn't imagine how you had ever looked at that picture without seeing the cat.

So now with Lanny Budd; he was looking at a picture, tracing one line and then another; until suddenly — there was a large cat grinning at him!

Farther out on the peninsula of Antibes, a mile or so from the Budd home, lived a young French painter, Marcel Detaze. He was several years younger than Beauty, a well-built, active man with a fair mustache and hair soft and fine, so that the wind blew it every way; he had grave features and dark melancholy eyes, in striking contrast with his hair. He lived in a cottage, having a peasant woman in now and then to cook him a meal and clean up. He painted the seascapes of that varied coast, loving the waves that lifted themselves in great green masses and crashed into white foam on the rocks; he painted them well, but his work wasn't known, and like so many young painters he had a problem to find room for all his canvases. Now and then he sold one, but most were stored in a shed, against the day when collectors would come bidding.

Beauty thought a great deal of Marcel's work, and had bought several specimens and hung them where her friends would see them. She watched his progress closely, and often when she came home from a walk would say: “I stopped at Marcel's; he's improving all the time.” Or she would say: “I am going over to Marcel's; some of the others are coming to tea.” There were half a dozen painters who had their studios within walking distance, and they would stop in and make comments on one another's work. It had never struck Lanny as strange that Beauty would go to meet a painter, instead of inviting him to her home to tea, as she did other men.

Many circumstances like that Lanny had never noticed, because he was a little boy, and the relationships of men and women were not prominent in his thoughts. But Dr. Bauer-Siemans had put the picture in front of him and told him to look for the cat; and there it was!

Marcel Detaze was Beauty's lover! She went over there to be with him, and she made up little tales because she wanted to keep the secret from Lanny. That was why the painter came so rarely to the house, and then only when there was other company; that was why he didn't come when Robbie was there, and why he had so little to do with Lanny — fearing perhaps to be drawn into intimacy and so betray something. Or perhaps he didn't like Lanny, because he thought that Lanny stood between Beauty and himself!

If the boy had found out this secret without warning it would have given him a painful shock. But now the learned doctor had told him how to take it — and he would have to obey. But not without a struggle! Lanny wanted his mother to himself; he had to bite his lip and resolve heroically that he would not hate that young Frenchman with the worn corduroy trousers and little blue cap. He painted the sea, but he didn't know how to swim, and like most French people on the Riviera he seemed to have the idea it would kill him to get caught out in the rain!

Well, the doctor had said that Beauty was to select her own lover, with no help from her son. So Lanny forced himself to admit that the painter was good-looking. Perhaps he had attracted Beauty because he was so different from her; he appeared as if nursing a secret sorrow. Lanny, having read a few romances, imagined the young painter in love with some lady of high degree in Paris — he had come from there — and Beauty taking pity on him and healing his broken heart. It would be like Lanny's mother to wish to heal some broken heart!

Another part of the “cat” was Beauty's relations with other men. There had been a stream of them through her life, ever since Lanny could remember. Many were rich, and some were prominent; some had come as customers of Robbie — officials, army officers, and so on — and had remained as friends. They would appear in elaborate uniforms or evening dress, and take Beauty to balls and parties; they would bring her expensive gifts which she would gently refuse to accept. They would gaze at her with adoration — this was something which Lanny had been aware of, because Beauty and her women friends made so many jokes about it.

For the first time Lanny understood a remark which he had heard his mother make; she would not “pay the price.” She might have been rich, she might have had a title and lived in a palace and sailed about in a yacht like her friends, Mr. and Mrs. Hackabury; but she preferred to be true to her painter. Lanny decided that this was a truly romantic situation. Marcel was too poor to marry her; or perhaps they thought Robbie wouldn't like it. The boy suddenly realized that it was exciting to have such a beautiful mother and to share the secrets- of her heart.

IX

The two, returning from the visit to the doctor, came to their home, and Lanny followed Beauty into her room. She sat down, and he went and knelt by her, and put his head against her and his arms around her waist. That way he couldn't see her face, nor she his, and it would be less embarrassing. “Beauty,” he whispered, “I want to tell you something.”

“Yes, dear?”

“I know about Marcel.”

He felt her give a gasp. “Lanny — how” — and then: “That doctor?” “He doesn't know — but I guessed it. I want to tell you, it's all right with me.”

There was a pause; then to his astonishment, Beauty put her face in her hands and burst into tears. She sobbed and sobbed, and only after some time managed to blurt out: “Oh, Lanny, I was so afraid! I thought you'd hate me!”

“But why should I?” asked the boy. “We are going to understand each other, always — and be happy.”

I

IT WAS February; springtime on the Riviera. The garden was carpeted with irises and anemones, and overhead the acacia trees were masses of gold. It was the height of the “season”; the boulevards blooming with gay parasols trimmed with lace and with large, floppy hats with flowers and fruits on them. On the beaches the ladies wore costumes so fragile that it seemed too bad to take them into the water, and many didn't. There was opera every night, and gambling in scores of casinos, and dancing to the music of “nigger bands” — thumping and pounding on the Céte d'Azur as if it were the Gold Coast of Africa.

There had come a postcard from Robbie in London, then another from Constantinople, and now a “wireless” from a steamship expected to dock in Marseille next day. Beauty having engagements, Pierre took Lanny in the car to meet him. It was the Route Nationale, the main highway along the shore, becoming ever more crowded with traffic, so that the authorities were talking about widening and improving it; but to get things done took a long time in a land of bureaucracy. The traveler passed scenes of great natural beauty, embellished with advertisements of brandies, cigars, and mineral waters. You wound upward into the Estèrels, where the landscape was red and the road dangerous. Then came the Maures, still rougher mountains; in the old days they had been full of bandits, but now disorder had been banished from the world, and bandits appeared only in grand opera.

Pierre Bazoche was a swarthy, good-looking fellow of peasant origin, who had entered the service of Mrs. Budd many years ago and seemed unaffected by contact with wealth; he put on his uniform and drove the car whenever that was desired, and the rest of the time he wore his smock and cut the dead wood which the mistral blew down. He spoke French with a strong accent of Provence, and pretended that he didn't know English; but Lanny saw the flicker of a smile now and then, which led him to believe that Pierre was wiser than he let on. Like all French servants — those in the country, at any rate — he had adopted the family, and expressed his opinions with a freedom which gave surprise to visitors.

Pierre Bazoche and Lanny were fast friends, and chatted all the way. The boy was curious about everything he saw, and the chauffeur was proud of his responsibility, having been cautioned many times and made many promises. He could tell the legends of the district, while Lanny dispensed historical information from the guidebook. Toulon, the great French naval base: Lanny read statistics as to the number of ships and their armament, and wondered if any of it had come from Budd's.

The journey wasn't much more than a hundred miles, but cars were not so fast in those days, nor was the highway built for speed. When they got to the Quai du Port, the ship Pharaoh wasn't in sight yet, so they went to a waterfront cafe and ate fried cuttlefish and endives, and then strolled and watched the sights of one of the great ports of the world, with ships and sailors from the seven seas. If the pair had ventured into side streets, they would have found a “cabbage patch” of vast dimensions; but such places were dangerous, and they had promised to stay on the main avenues and never under any circumstances become separated.

II

The steamer was warped up to the quay, and there was Robbie waving, looking brown and handsome in a white linen suit. Presently they were settled in the back seat of the car, both of them beaming with happiness and the boy talking fast. Robbie wouldn't discuss business until they were alone, but Lanny told about his visit to Germany, including even the Social-Democratic editor, now six weeks in the past. Robbie took that seriously, and confirmed his son's idea that Social-Democrats were fully as reprehensible as anarchists;, maybe they didn't use bombs, but they provided the soil in which bombs grew, the envy and hatred which caused unbalanced natures to resort to violence.

“I'm on another deal,” the father said. “There's a big man staying on the Riviera and I have to convince him that the Budd ground-type air-cooled machine gun is the best.” That was all he would say until next day, when he and his son went sailing. Out in the wide Golfe Juan, with little waves slapping the side of the boat, “That's my idea of privacy!” laughed the representative of Budd Gunmakers Corporation. Anchored here and there in the bay were the gray French warships, also keeping their own secrets. Lanny would keep his father's, as he had been so carefully trained to do.

There was another crisis in the affairs of Europe, Robbie reported; one of those underground wars in which diplomats wrestled with one another, making dire threats, always, of course, in polished French. It didn't mean much, in the father's opinion; the story of Europe was just one crisis after another. Three years back there had been a severe one over the Agadir question, and that had broken into the press; but now the wise and powerful ones were keeping matters to themselves, a far safer and more sensible way.

It was a game of bluffing, and one form it took was ordering the means to make good your threats; so came harvest-time for the ·munitions people. When Russia heard that Austria was equipping its army with field-guns that could shoot faster and farther, the Russians would understand that Austria was getting in position to demand that Russia should stop her arming of Serbia. So then, of course, the munitions people, who had sold field-guns to Russia and Serbia two years ago, would come hurrying to St. Petersburg and Belgrade to show what improvements they had been able to devise since that time.

It was most amusing, as Robbie told it. He knew personally most of the diplomats and statesmen and made it into a melodrama of greeds and jealousies, fears and hates. They were Robbie's oysters, which he opened and ate. Sometimes he had to buy them, and sometimes fool them, and sometimes frighten them by the perfectly real dangers of having their enemies grow too strong for them.

Robbie's talks to his son were history lessons, repeated until the lad understood them thoroughly. He told how in the last great war Germany had conquered France, and imposed a huge indemnity, and taken Alsace and Lorraine with their treasures of coal and iron ore. Now whenever French politicians wanted to gather votes, they made eloquent speeches about la revanche, and the French government had formed an alliance with Russia and loaned huge sums of money for the purchase of armaments. The secret undeclared wars now being waged were for support of the near-by smaller states. “The politicians of Rumania sell out to France and get a supply of French money and arms; so then the Germans hire a new set of Rumanian politicians, and when these get into power you hear reports that Rumania is buying Krupp guns.” So Robbie, explaining the politics of Europe in the spring of 1914.

Britain sat on her safe little island and watched the strife, throwing her influence in support of the side which seemed weaker; it being the fixed policy of the British never to let any one nation get mastery of the Continent, but to help strengthen the most promising rival of the strongest. Just now Germany had made the mistake of building a fleet, so Britain was on the side of France and had made a secret deal to render aid if France was attacked by Germany. “That has been denied in the British Parliament,” Robbie declared, “but the British diplomat's definition of a lie is an untrue statement made to a person who has a right to know the truth. Needless to say, there aren't many such persons!”

So the armaments industry was booming, and anybody who could produce guns that would shoot or shells that would explode could feel sure of a market. But an American firm was at a disadvantage, because it got practically no support from its own government. “When I go into a Balkan nation to bid against British or French, German or Austrian manufacturers, I have to beat not merely their salesmen and their bankers, but also their diplomats, who make tlireats and promises, demanding that the business shall come to their nationals. The American embassy will be good-natured but incompetent; and this injures not merely American businessmen and investors, but workingmen who suffer from unemployment and low wages because our government doesn't fight for its share of world trade.”

This situation was now worse than ever, the father explained, because a college professor had got himself elected President of the United States, an impractical schoolmaster with a swarm of pacifist bees in his bonnet. As a result of his preachments American business was discouraged, and the country was on the way to a panic and hard times. Somehow or other the businessmen would have to take control of their country, said the representative of Budd Gunmakers.

III

Robbie mentioned to his son that the deal he had made with Rumania was in danger of falling through, and that he might have to go back to Bucharest to see about it. “Is it Bragescu?” asked Lanny — for he considered the captain as his man, in a way.

“No,” replied the father. “Bragescu has played straight, at least so far as I can judge. But politicians have been pulling wires in the war department, and I've just learned that Zaharoff is behind it.”

Once more this sinister figure was brought before Lanny's imagination. Zaharoff was “Vickers,” the great munitions industry of Sheffield; and “Vickers” had the Maxim machine gun as their ace card. It wasn't as good as the Budd gun, but how could you prove it to officials who knew that their careers depended upon their remaining unconvinced? Robbie compared Zaharoff to a spider, sitting in the center of a web that reached into the capital of every country in the world; into legislatures, state and war departments, armies and navies, banks — to say nothing of all the interests that were bound up with munitions, such as chemicals, steel, coal, oil, and shipping.

Basil Zaharoff believed in the “rough stuff”; he had learned it in his youth and never seen reason to change. He had been born of Greek parents in Asia Minor, and as a youth had found his way to Constantinople, where he had been a fireman and a guide, both harmless-sounding occupations — until you learned that the former had meant starting fires for blackmail or burglary, while the latter had meant touting for every kind of vice. Zaharoff had become agent for a merchant of Athens, and in a London police court had pleaded guilty to misappropriating boxes of gum and sacks of gallnuts belonging to his employer.

Returning to Athens, he had represented a Swedish engineer named Nordenfeldt, who had invented a machine gun and a submarine. War was threatened between Greece and Turkey, and Zaharoff persuaded the Greek government that it could win the war by purchasing a submarine; then he went to Constantinople and pointed out to the Turkish government the grave peril in which they stood, with the result that they purchased two submarines. Said Robbie Budd: “Forty years' adherence to that simple technique has made him the armaments king of Europe.”

New instruments of death were invented, one after another, and the Greek would seek out the inventor and take him into partnership. Robbie laughed and pointed out that a thing had to be invented only once, but it had to be sold many times, and that was why the ex-fireman always had the advantage over his partners. The toughest nut he had to crack was a Maine Yankee of the name of Hiram Maxim, who invented a machine gun better than the Nordenfeldt; the latter gun took four men to handle it, while the Maxim gun took only one and could shoot out the bull's eye of a target just as Bub Smith did with the Budd automatic.

Many were the stories concerning that duel between New England and the Levant; Robbie had got them directly from the mouth of his fellow-Yankee, and so had learned to fight the old Greek devil with his own Greek fire. More than once the devil had got Maxim's mechanics drunk on the eve of an important demonstration; it appeared that in those days it was impossible to find a mechanic who could have any money in his pocket without getting drunk. Later on, Maxim demonstrated his gun to high officers of the Austrian army, including the Emperor Francis Joseph, and wrote the Emperor's initials on the target with bullet holes. Basil Zaharoff stood outside the fence and watched this performance, and assured the assembled newspaper men that the gun which had performed this marvel was the Nordenfeldt — and the story thus went out to the world! Zaharoff explained to the army officers that the reason for Maxim's astonishing success was that Maxim was a master mechanic, and had made this gun by hand; it could not be produced in a factory because every part had to be exact to the hundredth part of a millimeter. This news held up the sale for a long time.

The result of the duel was that Zaharoff learned respect for the Maxim gun, while Maxim learned respect for Zaharoff. They combined their resources, and the Nordenfeldt gun was shelved. Later on Maxim and Zaharoff sold out for six and a half million dollars to the British Vickers; Zaharoff was taken into the concern, and soon became its master. The combination of British mechanical skill with Levantine salesmanship proved unbeatable; but that was all going to be changed, now that the president of Budd Gunmakers Corporation had been persuaded to let his youngest son come over to Europe and show what a Connecticut Yankee could do in the court of King Basil!

IV

When the head salesman of a large business enterprise took time to explain such details to a boy, he pretended that he wanted to unbosom himself; but of course he was following out his plan of preparing the boy for his future career. Robbie Budd had for his son a dream which was no modest one; and now and then he would drop a hint of it — enough to take away the boy's breath.

Basil Zaharoff was sixty-five now, and couldn't last forever. Who was going to take his place as master of the most important of all trades? And where was the industry of the future to be situated? In Sheffield, England? In the French village of Creusot? In the German Ruhr, or at Skoda in Austria, or on the Volga, as the Russian Tsar was daring to dream? Robbie Budd had picked out a far safer location, up the Newcastle River in Connecticut. “It'll not be an extension of Budd's,” he explained; “but a new and completely modern plant. No enemy can ever get to it, and when it's in operation it will mean three things: American workingmen will supply the world, an American family will collect the money, and America will stand behind its ramparts, able to defy all the other nations put together. That's what we'll some day have to do, so why not get ready?”

Robbie went on to explain what Zaharoff was doing in France. The country's armament trust was known as Schneider-Creusot, and for years the old Greek devil had been intriguing to get control of it and share the profits of the rearming of Russia. He had bought a popular weekly paper so that he could tell the French people what he wished to have believed. He had endowed a home for retired French sailors and been awarded the rosette of the Legion of Honor. He had bought a Belgian bank, so as to become a director in Schneider's; and when his rivals had kicked him out, he had proceeded to tie up Europe in a net of intrigue in order to bring them to their knees.

First, he had gone to Turkey, and as “Vickers, Limited” had signed a contract to provide that country with warships and arsenals. This had frightened Russia, whose dream was to get Constantinople; so the old rascal had proceeded to that country, and pointed out to its officials the grave danger to them of remaining dependent upon foreign armaments. Zaharoff offered, through his British Vickers, to build a complete modern plant at Tsaritsyn on the Volga, and to lease all the Vickers patents and trade secrets to Russia. This, in turn, had frightened the French; for they could never be sure of the position of Britain in any future war, and if Russia got help from Britain, it would no longer need help from France. To make matters worse, Zaharoff had spread the story that the German Krupps were buying the Putilov arms plant in Russia. All this had broken the French nerve, and Schneider had had to give way and let Zaharoff have his share of the money which France had just loaned to Russia.

“That's why you have to watch the papers,” said the father, and showed an item he had clipped that very day. Vickers had received orders from the Russian government for thirty-two million dollars' worth of armaments. “More than one-fourth the whole French loan!” sighed Robbie — deeply grieved because his country had no part in it. America's arms plants were pitifully small, and the business they could pick up in Europe was the crumbs that fell from a rich man's table. “But you and I are going to change all that!” said the salesman to his son.

V

They let down their anchor for a while and caught some fish, and Lanny told about Mr. Elphinstone, and got teased about his new English accent. Then Robbie mentioned that he had to go to Monte Carlo the following day, having an appointment with a Turkish pasha who was interested in buying ground-type, air-cooled machine guns. Robbie had found out that France was lending money to Turkey, with which to pay Zaharoff for his warships and arsenals; so the Turkish officials had plenty of cash. “It's a queer mix-up,” Robbie said; “I'm not sure if I'll ever understand it. Even though the French are lending money to Turkey, they appear to distrust it, and don't want it armed too fast; but the Germans seem to want Turkey armed — at French expense, of course. I am dealing with Turkish officials who are secretly in German pay, or so I have reason to believe.”

Lanny said he was getting dizzy at that point.

“Yes, it's funny,” the father agreed. “The minister I talked with in Constantinople said that our guns were too cheap; they couldn't possibly be good at that price. Of course he wanted me to put the price higher, and give him a Rolls-Royce, or sell it to him secondhand for a hundred dollars. Finally I was advised to take up the matter with another minister who is disporting himself at Monte Carlo.”

“Oh, yes,” said Lanny, “I saw him at the motorboat races; he wore a large striped necktie and yellow suede shoes.” The father smiled and remarked that Oriental peoples all loved color.

Robbie told a sensational story about what had happened on board the ship. A few hours before reaching Marseille, the door of his cabin had been jimmied, and a portfolio of his papers, relating to this Turkish deal, had been stolen. Fortunately the most secret letters, which might have cost the life of that minister in Constantinople, had been sewed up in the lining of Robbie's coat — he patted the spot. But it was highly inconvenient to lose the drawings of the gun. “Of course it was Zaharoff,” the father added.

“You mean that he was on that ship?” asked Lanny.

The other laughed. “No; the old wolf did that sort of thing when he was young, and belonged to the tidiimbadschi, those firemen of Constantinople who were really gangsters. But now he's an officer in the Legion of Honor, and when he wants a burglary done he hires somebody else.”

Lanny was excited, of course. “You need a bodyguard!” he exclaimed; and then, a marvelous idea: “Oh, Robbie, why don't you take me with you to Monte?”

The father laughed. “As a bodyguard?”

“If you have something you want taken care of, they wouldn't suspect me; and I'd hang onto it, believe me!”

Lanny's fervor mounted, and he began a campaign. “Listen, Robbie, I stayed home and didn't go to school for fear I'd miss seeing you; and then you come and only stay one day, and maybe you'll be called to Bucharest as soon as you get through at Monte. But if you'll let me go with you I can see you a lot — you're not going to be with that Turk all day and night. When you are, I'll keep out of the way — I'll get things to read, or go to a movie, and I'll stay in the hotel room at night, honest I will. Please, Robbie, please, you really ought to have somebody with you, and if I'm ever to learn about the industry — you just can't imagine what it'll mean to me. . . .”

And so on, until the father said: “All right.” Lanny was so happy he stood on his head in the stern of the boat and kicked his bare legs in the air.

VI

Beauty insisted upon lending them her car, so that Pierre would go along to help take care of Lanny. They would have a Budd automatic in the car, and Pierre knew how to use it — he couldn't fail to learn in a household where boxes of cartridges lay around like chocolates in other homes. Robbie laughed and said he didn't think Za-haroff had had any murder done for some years; but anyhow, it gave a fourteen-year-old boy more thrills than all the movies produced up to February 1914.

The road from Antibes to Nice is straight and flat, and there were advertising signs and a big racetrack, many motorcars, and in those days still a few carriages. When you pass Nice you travel on one of three roads, called corniches, which means “shelves”; if you wanted scenery you chose the highest shelf, and if you wanted to get there you chose the lowest, but in either case you kept tooting your horn, for no matter how carefully you made the turns, you could never tell what lunatic might come whirling around the next one.

Monaco is a tiny province with a ruler of its own. The “Prince” of those days was interested in oceanography, and had constructed a great aquarium; but this wasn't such a novelty to Lanny, who had learned to expel the air from his lungs and sink down to where the fishes live. “Monte,” as the smart people call it, is a small town on a flat rocky height which juts out into the sea. There are terraces below it, carved out of the rock, and you can look over the water from your hotel windows; down below you hear incessant shooting, for next to playing roulette and baccarat, the favorite amusement of the visitors is killing pigeons. The tender-minded comfort themselves with the thought that somebody eats those that fall, and presumably the hawks end the troubles of those that fly away wounded.

Lanny had been here before, and there was nothing new to him in a street of fashionable shops and hotels. They went to the most expensive of the latter, and Robbie engaged a suite, and sent up his card to the Turkish dignitary, whose secretary came and requested in polished French that “M. Bood” would be so kind as to return in an hour, as the pasha was “in conference.” Robbie said, certainly, and they went out to stroll in the beautiful gardens of the Casino, which- have walks lined with palm trees and flowering shrubs. There was a little circle of flower beds, and as they came to it, Robbie said, in a low voice: “Here he comes.”

“Who?” whispered Lanny; and the answer was: “The man we talked about in the boat.”

The boy's heart gave a jump. He looked and saw a tall, gray-haired gentleman turning onto the other side of the circle. He paid no attention to them, so Lanny could take a good look.

Basil Zaharoff had been a vigorous man in his youth, but had grown heavy. He wore the garment of an Englishman on formal occasions, which is called a frock coat, cut large as if to hide his central bulk, and hanging down in back all the way to his knees; a smooth, black, and very ugly garment supposed to confer dignity upon its wearer. Added to it were striped trousers, shoes with spats, and on his head a tall cylinder of smooth black silk. The munitions king had a gray mustache and what was called an “imperial,” a tuft of hair starting from the front of his chin, and hanging down three or four inches below it. He walked with a cane, stooping slightly, which made his hooked nose the most prominent thing about him and gave the odd impression that he was smelling his way.

“Having his constitutional,” said Robbie, after Zaharoff had passed. Lanny took a rear view of the man who was worth so many millions, and had got them by having other men's papers stolen. “He comes here often,” explained the father. “He stays at the hotel with his duquesa.”

“He is married?” asked the boy, and Robbie told the strange story of this master of Europe who could not buy the one thing he most wanted.

Some twenty-five years ago, when the ex-fireman had got well under way as a salesman of munitions, he went to Spain on a deal, and met a seventeen-year-old duchess of that realm, owning almost as many names as Zaharoff now owned companies. Robbie, who liked to make fun of the pretensions of Europe, said that the only case he had ever heard of a person having more names was a runaway slave whom his great-uncle had rescued by way of the “underground railroad.” The Spanish lady was Maria del Pilar Antonia Angela Patrocino Simon de Muguiro y Berute, Duquesa de Mar-queni y Villafranca de los Caballeros. Legend had it that Zaharoff had met her on a sleeping car, by rescuing her from the cruelties of her husband on her wedding night. However that may be, it was certain that the husband had become violently insane, and was confined in a cell, and for twenty-five years Zaharoff and the lady had been living together, but couldn't marry because the Catholic Church, of which she was a devout member, does not permit divorce. It was usually possible to persuade the Church authorities to annul a marriage on some pretext, but it would have been embarrassing in this case, for the reason that the mad duke happened to be a cousin of King Alfonso.

The couple were devoted to each other, and Robbie said that might be one of the reasons for the business success of the ex-fireman; he was proof against traps which men bait for one another with women. The former peasant boy naturally felt honored to have the love of a duquesa, and she helped him to meet the right people. “Like you and Beauty!” remarked Lanny.

VII

Father and son went back to the hotel, and Robbie was invited upstairs to his pasha. Lanny had one of those little Tauchnitz novels in his pocket, and was going to sit quietly in a big armchair and read. But first, being young and full of curiosity, he stood looking about the entrance hall of this imitation palace where the millionaires of Europe came to seek their pleasures both greedy and cruel. Zaharoff came with his duquesa; Turkish pashas came with their boys; English milords, Indian maharajas, Russian grand dukes — Lanny knew, because his mother had met them. Battles were fought here, part of the underground war that Robbie talked about, for the ownership of armaments, of coal and steel and oil.

Lanny’s eyes, sweeping the lobby, saw a man in chauffeur's uniform come in at the front door, walk the length of the red plush carpet to the desk, and hand an envelope to the clerk. “M. Zaharoff,” he said, and turned and retraced his steps to the door.

Zaharoff! Lanny's eyes followed the clerk and saw him turn and put the letter into one of the many pigeonholes which covered the wall behind him. Lanny marked the spot; for even a pigeonhole is of interest when it belongs to a munitions king.

Lanny hadn't known that his mind could work so fast. Perhaps it was something that had already reasoned itself out in his subcon-sciousness. Zaharoff had stolen Robbie's papers, including the drawings of the Budd ground-type air-cooled machine gun, essential to the making of deals. Somebody ought to punish the thief and teach him a lesson; as Robbie had put it in his playful way: “Fight the old Greek devil with his own Greek fire.”

The clerk, who looked as if he had just been lifted out of a bandbox, was bored. He tapped his pencil on the polished mahogany top of the counter which separated him from the public; the midafter-noon train had come in, and no automobiles were arriving. Two bellhops, in blue uniforms with rows of gold buttons, sat on a bench around a corner of the lobby, and poked each other in the ribs and tried to shove each other off their seats; the clerk moved over to where he could see them, and at his stem taps the bellhops straightened up and stared solemnly in front of them.

Around this corner sat a young lady who attended to the telephone switchboard; she too was mentally unoccupied — there being no gossip over the wires. The clerk moved toward her and spoke, and she smiled at him. Lanny moved to where he could see them; it was what the French call le flirt, and promised to last for a few moments. Lanny noted that the clerk had passed the point where he could see the pigeonholes.

The boy did not dart or do anything to reveal the excitement that had gripped him. He moved with due casualness to the far end of the counter, raised the part which was on hinges and served as a gate, and stepped behind it, just as if he belonged there. He went to the pigeonholes, took out the Zaharoff letter, and slipped it into his pocket. A bright idea occurring to him, he took a letter from another pigeonhole and slipped it into the Zaharoff hole. The clerk would think it was his own mistake. Still quietly, Lanny retraced his steps; he strolled over to one of the large overstuffed chairs of the lobby and took a seat. Le flirt continued.

VIII

It was Lanny Budd's first venture into crime, and he learned at once a number of its penalties. First of all, the nervous strain involved; his heart was pounding like that of a young bird, and his head was in a whirl. No longer did he have the least interest in a Tauchnitz novel or any other. He was looking about him furtively, to see if anybody hiding behind a pillar of the lobby had been watching him.

Second, he discovered that stealing involves lying, and that one lie requires others. What would he say if anyone had seen him? He had thought that the letter was in the pigeonhole of his own room. A mere mistake in numbers, that was all. But why had he not asked the clerk for the letter? Well, he had seen the clerk busy talking with the young lady. What were the chances that the clerk would know the name of Budd, and realize that Budd and Zaharoff were rivals for the armaments trade of the world?

Third, the moral confusion. Lanny had always been a good little boy, and had done what his parents asked him, and so had never had any serious pangs of conscience. But now — should he have done it or not? Did one bad turn deserve another? Should you really fight the devil with fire? After all, who was going to punish Zaharoff if Lanny didn't? The police? Robbie had said that Zaharoff could do anything with the police that he chose — was he not the richest man in France and an officer of the Legion of Honor?

Lanny wished that his father would come and decide the matter for him. But the father didn't come; he had a deal to discuss, and might be gone for a long time. If Lanny got hungry, he was to go to the restaurant of the hotel and have his supper. But Lanny didn't think he'd ever be hungry again. He sat and tried to figure out, was he ashamed of himself or was he proud? It was the famed New England conscience at work, a long way from home.

He tried to imagine what might be in that letter. His fancy went off on excursions wild as the Arabian Nights. The agent who had stolen Robbie's portfolio from the ship was waiting to tell what he had found, and where it was now hidden; Robbie and Lanny would go at once to the place, and with the help of the Budd automatic would retrieve the property. The shape of the envelope suggested that the letter might be from a lady. Perhaps a woman spy — Lanny knew about them from a recent American movie.

What might the handwriting reveal? After many cautious glances Lanny took out the letter and, keeping it covered by his book, studied the inscription. Yes, undoubtedly a woman's. Lanny held the book and letter up to his nose; still less doubt now. The old rascal, living in this fashionable hotel with his duquesa, was receiving assignation notes from another woman! Lanny knew about such doings, not merely from movies, but from gossip of his mother's friends. He had heard how politicians and others were trapped and plundered by blackmailers. Robbie would let Zaharoff know that he had this incriminating document in his hands, and Robbie's property would be returned to him by a messenger who would neither ask nor answer questions.

Persons came into the hotel, and others departed; Lanny watched them all. Some took seats and chatted, and Lanny tried to hear what they were saying; from now on he was surrounded by intrigues, and any chance phrase might reveal something. Two ladies sat near him, and talked about the races, and about a skirt cut in the new fashion, with slits on the side. They were shallow creatures, heedless of the undeclared war now going on in Europe, Lanny got up and moved to another chair.

Presently came a sight which he had been expecting. Through the revolving glass doors of the entrance strode a large figure in a voluminous black frock coat, with a black silk tower on his head. The doorman in gorgeous uniform was revolving the doors for him, lest he have to make even that much effort with his hands. The bellhops leaped to attention, the clerk stood like a statue of gentility, the conversation in the lobby fell to whispers, the whole world was in suspense as the munitions king strode down the pathway of red velvet, smelling his way with his prominent hooked nose.

He stopped at the desk. Lanny was too far away to hear a word that was spoken, but he could understand the pantomime just as well. The clerk turned and took a letter from a pigeonhole and handed it to the great man with a respectful bow and murmur. The great man looked at it, then handed it back to the clerk. The clerk looked at it and registered surprise. He turned hastily and began taking other letters from pigeonholes and looking at them. Finally he turned to the great man with more bows and murmurings. The great man stalked to the lift and disappeared.

IX

Robbie came at last; and Lanny said quickly: “Something has happened. I want to tell you about it.” They went up to the room, and Lanny looked around, to be sure they were alone. “Here's a letter for Zaharoff,” he said, and held it out to his father.

The other was puzzled. “How did you get it?”

“I took it out of his box downstairs. Nobody saw me.”

Even before the father said a word, almost before he had time to comprehend the idea, Lanny knew that he shouldn't have done it; he wished he hadn't done it.

“You mean,” said Robbie, “you stole this from the hotel desk?”

“Well, Robbie, he stole your papers, and I thought this might refer to them.”

Robbie was looking at his son as if he couldn't quite grasp what he was hearing. It was most uncomfortable for Lanny, and the blood began burning in his cheeks. “Whatever put that into your head, son?”

“You did, Robbie. You said you would fight the old devil with his own Greek fire.”

“Yes, Lanny — but to steal!”

“You have had papers stolen for you — at least I got that idea, Robbie. You told me you had got some papers belonging to that Prince Vanya, or whoever it was, in Russia.”

“Yes, son; but that was different.”

A subtle point, hard for a boy to get. There were things you hired servants to do, detectives and that sort of persons, whose business it was. But you wouldn't do these things yourself; your dignity was offended by the very thought of doing them. Lanny had stepped out of his class as a gentleman.

Robbie stood staring at the piece of fashionable stationery, addressed in a lady's handwriting; and the boy's unhappiness grew. “I honestly thought I'd be helping you,” he pleaded.

The father said: “Yes, I know, of course. But you made a mistake.”

Another pause, and Robbie inquired: “Do you know if Zaharoff has come back to the hotel?” When Lanny answered that he had, the father said: “I think you must take this letter to him.”

“Take it, Robbie?”

“Tell him how you got it, and apologize.”

“But, Robbie, how awful! What excuse can I give?”

“Don't give any excuse. Tell him the facts.”

“Shall I tell him who I am?”

“That's a fact, isn't it?”

“Shall I tell him that you think he stole your papers?”

“That's a fact, too.”

Lanny saw that his father was in an implacable mood; and, rattled as the boy was, he had sense enough to know what it meant. Robbie wished to teach him a lesson, so that he wouldn't turn into a thief. “All right,” he said. “Whatever you say.”

He took the letter and started toward the door. Then, an idea occurring to him, he turned. “Suppose he beats me?”

“I don't think he'll do that,” replied the other. “You see, he's a coward.”

X

Lanny went by the stairway, not wanting anybody to see him. He knew the room number. He knocked, and to a young man who came to the door he said: “I have a letter for M. Zaharoff.”

“May I have it, please?” asked the man.

“I have to hand it to him personally.”

The secretary took him in with practiced professional eye. “Will you give me your name?”

“I would rather give it to M. Zaharoff. Just tell him, please, that I have a letter which I must put into his hands. It'll only take a moment.”

Perhaps the secretary saw about Lanny Budd those signs which are not easy to counterfeit, and which establish even a youngster as entitled to consideration. “Will you come in, please?” he said, and the lad entered a drawing room full of gilt and plush and silk embroidery and marble and ormolu — all things which fortify the self-esteem of possessors of wealth. Lanny waited, standing. He didn't feel at home and didn't expect to.

In a minute or two a door was opened, and the master of Europe came in. He had changed his ugly broadcloth coat for a smoking jacket of green flowered silk. He came about halfway and then said: “You have a message for me?” The boy was surprised by his voice, which was low and well modulated; his French was perfect.

“M. Zaharoff,” said Lanny, with all the firmness he could summon, “this is a letter of yours which I stole. I have brought it to you with my apologies.”

The old man was so surprised that he did not put out his hand for the letter. “You stole it?”

“My father told me that you caused his portfolio to be stolen, so I thought I would pay you back. But my father does not approve of that, so I am bringing the letter.”

The old spider sensed a trembling in his web. Such a trembling may be caused by something that spiders eat, or again it may be caused by something that eats spiders. The cold blue eyes narrowed. “So your father thinks that I employ thieves?”

“He says that is your practice; but he doesn't want it to be mine.”

“Did he tell you to tell me that?”

“He told me that whatever questions you asked me I was to answer with the facts.”

This, obviously, was something which might be of importance. Wariness and concentration were in every feature of Basil Zaharoff. He knew how to watch and think, and let the other person betray himself. But Lanny had said his say, and continued to hold the letter.

So finally the munitions king took it; but he did not look at it. “May I ask your name, young man?”

“My name is banning Prescott Budd.”

“Of Budd Gunmakers Corporation?”

“That is my family, sir.”

“Your father is Robert Budd, then?”

“Yes, sir.”

Another silence; Lanny had the feeling that everything that had ever been in his soul was being read and judged. He felt sure that the prominent hooked nose was smelling him. “Have a seat, please,” said the old man, at last.

Lanny seated himself on the front half of a chair, and the Greek sat near. He examined the letter, then opened it slowly. A smile relieved the concentration on his face, and he handed the document to the boy, saying: “Oblige me, please.”

Lanny thought it was his duty to read it. It said, in French:

“The Marquise des Pompailles requests the pleasure of the company of M. Zaharoff and the Duquesa de Villafranca to tea at five this afternoon to meet the Prince and Princess von Glitzenstein.”

“A little late,” said the munitions king dryly.

“I am sorry, sir,” murmured Lanny, his face burning.

“We should not have gone,” said the other. In all Lanny's imaginings, it had never occurred to him that an old Greek devil might have a sense of humor; but it was now plain that he did. His lips smiled; but oddly enough, Lanny felt that the blue eyes were not smiling; They still watched.

“Thank you, sir,” said Lanny, returning the letter.

Another silence. Finally the old gentleman remarked: “So Robert Budd thinks I have had his portfolio stolen! May I inquire where this happened?”

“On board the steamer Pharaoh, sir.”

“The thief has not yet reported to me; but as soon as he does, I promise that I will return the property unopened — just as you have done with mine. You will tell your father that?”

“Certainly, sir. Thank you.” Lanny was quite solemn about it, and only afterward did he realize that Zaharoff had been “spoofing” him.

“And you won't feel that you have to intercept any more of my invitations?”

“No, sir.”

“You are going to be an honorable and truthtelling young gentleman from now on?”

“I will try, sir,” said Lanny.

“I, too, used to have the same thought upon occasions,” said the munitions king. Was it wistfulness or was it humor in his soft voice? “However, I found that it would be necessary for me to retire from my present business — and unfortunately it is the only one I have.”

Lanny didn't know how to reply, so there was another silence.

When Zaharoff spoke again, it was in a business-like tone. “Young man, you say that your father told you to state the facts.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then tell me: does your father wish to see me?”

“Not that I know of, sir.”

“You don't think that he sent you here for that purpose?”

Lanny was taken aback. “Oh, no, sir!” he exclaimed. Then realizing the full implication of the question, he decided to fight back, “My father once told me about Bismarck — who said that the way he fooled people was by telling them the truth.”

The old man smiled again. “You are a clever lad,” said he; “but don't let Bismarck fool you with nonsense like that. Do you think your father would object to seeing me?”

“I don't know why he should, sir.”

Zaharoff had in his hand the letter from the Marquise des Pom-pailles. He went to the escritoire and sat down and did some writing on it. Then he handed this to the boy, saying: “Read it again.” Lanny saw that Zaharoff had marked out some of the words and. written others over them. He read:

“M. Basil Zaharoff requests the pleasure of the company of JVL Robert Budd and his son to tea this afternoon to discuss the problems of the armaments industry.”

XI

The duquesa did not appear for the occasion. The waiter who brought the tray poured whisky and soda for the two gentlemen, and tea for Lanny; then he retired with quick bows.

The peasant boy from Asia Minor had become a citizen of whatever country he was in; so now he was an American businessman, using American business language. He sat erect and spoke with decision. He said that while he had never met Mr. Budd, he had watched him from a distance and admired him. Zaharoff himself had been a “hustler” in his time, although the Americans had not yet taught him that word. He said that the leaders of the armaments industry ought to understand one another, because theirs was the only trade in which competitors helped instead of harming. The more armaments one nation got, the more the other nations were compelled to get. “We are all boosters for one another, Mr. Budd.”

It was flattering to be called one of the leaders of the armaments industry, but Robbie tried not to feel too exalted. He said that the future of the industry had never looked so bright to him as it did just then; they could all afford to be “bullish.” The other replied that he could say even more than that; they were going to have to learn to go into a new element, the air. Robbie agreed with this also. Basil Zaharoff forgot now and then that he was an American, and set down his glass and rubbed his hands together, slowly and thoughtfully.

He soon made it clear why he had asked for a conference. He looked at Robbie and then at Lanny, and said: “I suppose this bright little man never talks about his father's affairs?” Robbie answered that whatever mistakes the little man might make, he would never make that one.

Tactfully, and with many flatteries, the Greek trader declared that he had conceived a great admiration for the methods of New England Yankees. He wanted to do for Mr. Budd what he had done nearly forty years ago for the Maine Yankee named Maxim. He gave Mr. Budd to understand that he was prepared to make him an excellent proposition; he added that he meant those words in the most generous sense; he made a gesture of baring his heart.

Robbie answered with equal courtesy that he appreciated this honor, but was unfortunately compelled to decline it. No, it was not merely that he was under contract; it was a question of home ties and loyalties. Zaharoff interrupted him, urging him to think carefully; his offer would not merely satisfy Mr. Budd, but even surprise him. The business he was doing at present would be small indeed compared to what he could do if he would join forces with Vickers, Limited. The whole world was open to them “Mr. Zaharoff,” said the younger man, “you must understand that Budds have been making small arms for some eighty years, and it's a matter of prestige with us. I am not just a munitions salesman, but a member of a family.”

“Ah, yes,” said the old gentleman. “Ah, yes!” Had this young fellow meant to give him a sword prick? “Family dignity is an important thing. But I wonder” — he paused and closed his eyes, doing his wondering intensely — “if there might be the possibility of a combination — some stock that might be purchased . . .?”

“There is stock on the market,” replied Robbie; “but not very much, I imagine.”

“What I meant is if your family might see the advantage . . .? We have Vickers in most of the countries of Europe, and why not in the States? Do you think that members of your family might care to sell?”

Their eyes met; it was the climax of a duel. “My guess is, Mr. Zaharoff, they would rather buy Vickers than sell Budd's.”

“Ah, indeed!” replied the munitions king. Not by the flicker of an eyelash would he show surprise. “That would be a large transaction, Mr. Budd.”

It was David defying Goliath; for of course Budd's was a pygmy compared to Vickers. “We can leave it open for the moment,” said Robbie, blandly. “As it happens, my son and I have one advantage which we have not earned. I am under forty, and he is fourteen.”

Never was war more politely declared, nor a declaration of war more gracefully accepted. “Ah, yes,” said the munitions king — whose duquesa had no sons, only two daughters. “Perhaps I have made a mistake and devoted myself to the wrong industry, Mr. Budd. I should have been finding out how to prolong life, instead of how to destroy it. Perhaps thirty years from now, you may decide that you have made the same mistake.” The speaker paused for a moment, and then added: “If there is any life left then.”

A man who wishes to succeed in the world of action has to keep his mind fixed upon what he is doing; he has to like what he is doing, and not be plagued with doubts and scruples. But somewhere in the depths of the soul of every man lurk weaknesses, watching for a chance to slip past the censor who guards our conduct. Was it because this naive little boy had broken into the munitions king's life with his odd problem cf conscience? Or had the father touched some chord by his reference to age? Anyhow, the master of Europe was moved to lift a corner of the mask he wore. Said he:

“Have you noticed, Mr. Budd, the strange situation in which we find ourselves? We spend our lives manufacturing articles of commerce, and every now and then we are seized by the painful thought that these articles may be used.”

Robbie smiled. If a civilized man has to face the secrets of his soul, let him by all means do it with humor. “It appears,” he suggested, “the ideal society would be one in which men devoted their energies to producing things which they never intended to use.”

“But unfortunately, Mr. Budd, when one has perfected some' thing, the impulse to try it out is strong. I have here a torpedo” — the munitions salesman held it up before the mind's eye — “to the devising of which my great establishment has devoted twenty years. Some say that it will put the battleship out of business. Others say no. Am I to go to my grave not knowing the answer?”

Robbie felt called upon to smile again, but not to answer.

“And this new project upon which we are all working, Mr. Budd — that of dropping bombs from the air! Will that be tried? Shall we have to take our armies and navies into the skies? And ask yourself this: Suppose some nation should decide that its real enemies are the makers of munitions? Suppose that instead of dropping bombs upon battleships and fortresses, they should take to dropping them upon de luxe hotels?”

The mask was up, and Lanny knew what his father meant when he said that Zaharoff was a coward. The magnate who was supposed to hold the fate of Europe in his hands had shrunk, and had become a tormented old man whose hands trembled and who wanted to break down and beg people not to go to war — or perhaps beg God to forgive him if they did.

But when Lanny made this remark to his father afterward, the father laughed. He said: “Don't fool yourself, kid! The old hellion will fight us twice as hard for the next contract.”