Mr. Peters's eye calculated the distance between them. By taking her by surprise it might be pos- sible to spring upon her, overthrow her, and apply the throttling tactics of which he had boasted to his waiting comrades. True, it had been only a boast; never yet had be dared to lay violent bands upon her; but with the thoughts of the delicious, cool bock or Culmbacher bracing his nerves, he was near to upsetting his own theories of the treatment due by a gentleman to a lady. But, with his loafer's love for the more artistic and less strenuous way, he chose diplomacy first, the high card in the game -- the as- sumed attitude of success already attained.
"You have a dollar," he said, loftily, but signifi- cantly in the tone that goes with the lighting of a cigar - when the properties are at hand."
"I have," said Mrs. Peters, producing the bill from her bosom and crackling it, teasingly.
"I am offered a position in a -- in a tea store," said Mr. Peters. "I am to begin work to-morrow.
But it will be necessary for me to buy a pair of --"
"You are a liar," said Mrs. Peters, reinterring the note. "No tea store, nor no A B C store, nor no junk shop would have you. I rubbed the skin off both me hands washin' jumpers and overalls to make that dollar. Do you think it come out of them suds to buy the kind you put into you? Skiddoo! Get your mind off of money."
Evidently the poses of Talleyrand were not worth one hundred cents on that dollar. But diplomacy is dexterous. The artistic temperament of Mr. Peters lifted him by the straps of his congress gaiters and set him on new ground. He called up a look of des- perate melancholy to his eyes.
"Clara," he said, hollowly, "to struggle further is useless. You have always misunderstood me.
Heaven knows I have striven with all my might to keep my head above the waves of misfortune, but - "
"Cut out the rainbow of hope and that stuff about walkin' one by one through the narrow isles of Spain," said Mrs. Peters, with a sigh. "I've heard it so often. There's an ounce bottle of carbolic on the shelf behind the empty coffee can. Drink hearty."
Mr. Peters reflected. What next! The old ex- pedients had failed. The two musty musketeers were awaiting him hard by the ruined chateau -- that is to say, on a park bench with rickety cast-iron legs.
His honor was at stake. He had engaged to storm the castle single-handed and bring back the treas- ure that was to furnish them wassail and solace. And all that stood between him and the coveted dollar was his wife, once a little girl whom he could -- aha!
-- why not again? Once with soft words he could, as they say, twist her around his little finger. Why not again? Not for years had he tried it. Grim poverty and mutual hatred had killed all that. But Ragsy and Kidd were waiting for him to bring the dollar!
Mr. Peters took a surreptitiously keen look at his wife. Her formless bulk overflowed the chair. She kept her eyes fixed out the window in a strange kind of trance. Her eyes showed that she had been re- cently weeping.
"I wonder," said Mr. Peters to himself, "if there'd be anything in it."
The window was open upon its outlook of brick walls and drab, barren back yards. Except for the mildness of the air that entered it might have been midwinter yet in the city that turns such a frown- ing face to besieging spring. But spring doesn't come with the thunder of cannon. She is a sapper and a miner, and you must capitulate.
"I'll try it," said Mr. Peters to himself, making a wry face.
He went up to his wife and put his arm across her shoulders.
"Clara, darling," he said in tones that shouldn't have fooled a baby seal, "why should we have hard words? Ain't you my own tootsum wootsums?
"A black mark against you, Mr. Peters, in the sa- red ledger of Cupid. Charges of attempted graft are filed against you, and of forgery and utterance of two of Love's holiest of appellations.
But the miracle of spring was wrought. Into the back room over the back alley between the black walls had crept the Harbinger. It was ridiculous, and yet - Well, it is a rat trap, and you, madam and sir and all of us, are in it.
Red and fat and crying like Niobe or Niagara, Mrs. Peters threw her arms around her lord and dissolved upon him. Mr. Peters would have striven to extricate the dollar bill from its deposit vault, but his arms were bound to his sides.
"Do you love me, James?" asked Mrs. Peters.
"Madly," said James, "but -- "
"You are ill! " exclaimed Mrs. Peters. "Why are you so pale and tired looking?"
"I feel weak," said Mr. Peters. "I -- "
"Oh, wait; I know what it is. Wait, James. I'll be back in a minutes''
With a parting bug that revived in Mr. Peters recollections of the Terrible Turk, his wife hurried out of the room and down the stairs.
Mr. Peters hitched his thumbs under his sus- penders.
"All right," he confided to the ceiling. "I've got her going. I hadn't any idea the old girl was soft any more under the foolish rib. Well, sir; ain't I the Claude Melnotte of the lower East Side? What?
It's a 100 to 1 shot that I get the dollar. I wonder what she went out for. I guess she's gone to tell Mrs. Muldoon on the second floor, that we're recon- ciled. I'll remember this. Soft soap! And Ragsy was talking about slugging her!
Mrs. Peters came back with a bottle of sarsapa- rilla.
"I'm glad I happened to have that dollar," she said. "You're all run down, boney."
Mr. Peters had a tablespoonful of the stuff in- serted into him. Then Mrs. Peters sat on his lap and murmured:
"Call me tootsum wootsums again, James."
He sat still, held there by his materialized goddess of spring.
Spring had come.
On the bench in Union Square Mr. Ragsdale and Mr. Kidd squirmed, tongue-parched, awaiting D'Artagnan and his dollar.
"I wish I had choked her at first," said Mr. Peters to himself.
