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Data Structures and Algorithms
with JavaScript

Michael McMillan

www.it-ebooks.info
Data Structures and Algorithms with JavaScript
by Michael McMillan
Copyright © 2014 Michael McMillan. All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America.
Published by O’Reilly Media, Inc., 1005 Gravenstein Highway North, Sebastopol, CA 95472.
O’Reilly books may be purchased for educational, business, or sales promotional use. Online editions are
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no responsibility for errors or omissions, or for damages resulting from the use of the information contained
herein.

ISBN: 978-1-449-36493-9
[LSI]

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 Table of Contents

Preface. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix

1. The JavaScript Programming Environment and Model. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

The JavaScript Environment 1
JavaScript Programming Practices 2
Declaring and Intializing Variables 3
Arithmetic and Math Library Functions in JavaScript 3
Decision Constructs 4
Repetition Constructs 6
Functions 7
Variable Scope 8
Recursion 10
Objects and Object-Oriented Programming 10
Summary 12

2. Arrays. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13
JavaScript Arrays Defined 13
Using Arrays 13
Creating Arrays 14
Accessing and Writing Array Elements 15
Creating Arrays from Strings 15
Aggregate Array Operations 16
Accessor Functions 17
Searching for a Value 17
String Representations of Arrays 18
Creating New Arrays from Existing Arrays 18
Mutator Functions 19
Adding Elements to an Array 19
Removing Elements from an Array 20

iii

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 Adding and Removing Elements from the Middle of an Array 21
Putting Array Elements in Order 22
Iterator Functions 23
Non–Array-Generating Iterator Functions 23
Iterator Functions That Return a New Array 25
Two-Dimensional and Multidimensional Arrays 27
Creating Two-Dimensional Arrays 27
Processing Two-Dimensional Array Elements 28
Jagged Arrays 30
Arrays of Objects 30
Arrays in Objects 31
Exercises 33

3. Lists. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35
A List ADT 35
A List Class Implementation 36
Append: Adding an Element to a List 37
Remove: Removing an Element from a List 37
Find: Finding an Element in a List 38
Length: Determining the Number of Elements in a List 38
toString: Retrieving a List’s Elements 38
Insert: Inserting an Element into a List 39
Clear: Removing All Elements from a List 39
Contains: Determining if a Given Value Is in a List 40
Traversing a List 40
Iterating Through a List 41
A List-Based Application 42
Reading Text Files 42
Using Lists to Manage a Kiosk 43
Exercises 47

4. Stacks. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49
Stack Operations 49
A Stack Implementation 50
Using the Stack Class 53
Multiple Base Conversions 53
Palindromes 54
Demonstrating Recursion 56
Exercises 57

5. Queues. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59
Queue Operations 59

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 An Array-Based Queue Class Implementation 60
Using the Queue Class: Assigning Partners at a Square Dance 63
Sorting Data with Queues 67
Priority Queues 70
Exercises 72

6. Linked Lists. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73
Shortcomings of Arrays 73
Linked Lists Defined 74
An Object-Based Linked List Design 75
The Node Class 75
The Linked List Class 76
Inserting New Nodes 76
Removing Nodes from a Linked List 78
Doubly Linked Lists 81
Circularly Linked Lists 85
Other Linked List Functions 86
Exercises 86

7. Dictionaries. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89
The Dictionary Class 89
Auxiliary Functions for the Dictionary Class 91
Adding Sorting to the Dictionary Class 93
Exercises 94

8. Hashing. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97
An Overview of Hashing 97
A Hash Table Class 98
Choosing a Hash Function 98
A Better Hash Function 101
Hashing Integer Keys 103
Storing and Retrieving Data in a Hash Table 106
Handling Collisions 107
Separate Chaining 107
Linear Probing 109
Exercises 111

9. Sets. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113
Fundamental Set Definitions, Operations, and Properties 113
Set Definitions 113
Set Operations 114
The Set Class Implementation 114

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 More Set Operations 116
Exercises 120

10. Binary Trees and Binary Search Trees. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121

Trees Defined 121
Binary Trees and Binary Search Trees 123
Building a Binary Search Tree Implementation 124
Traversing a Binary Search Tree 126
BST Searches 129
Searching for the Minimum and Maximum Value 130
Searching for a Specific Value 131
Removing Nodes from a BST 132
Counting Occurrences 134
Exercises 137

11. Graphs and Graph Algorithms. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 139

Graph Definitions 139
Real-World Systems Modeled by Graphs 141
The Graph Class 141
Representing Vertices 141
Representing Edges 142
Building a Graph 143
Searching a Graph 145
Depth-First Search 145
Breadth-First Search 148
Finding the Shortest Path 149
Breadth-First Search Leads to Shortest Paths 149
Determining Paths 150
Topological Sorting 151
An Algorithm for Topological Sorting 152
Implementing the Topological Sorting Algorithm 152
Exercises 157

12. Sorting Algorithms. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 159

An Array Test Bed 159
Generating Random Data 161
Basic Sorting Algorithms 161
Bubble Sort 162
Selection Sort 165
Insertion Sort 167
Timing Comparisons of the Basic Sorting Algorithms 168
Advanced Sorting Algorithms 170

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 The Shellsort Algorithm 171
The Mergesort Algorithm 176
The Quicksort Algorithm 181
Exercises 186

13. Searching Algorithms. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 187

Sequential Search 187
Searching for Minimum and Maximum Values 190
Using Self-Organizing Data 193
Binary Search 196
Counting Occurrences 200
Searching Textual Data 202
Exercises 205

14. Advanced Algorithms. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 207

Dynamic Programming 207
A Dynamic Programming Example: Computing Fibonacci Numbers 208
Finding the Longest Common Substring 211
The Knapsack Problem: A Recursive Solution 214
The Knapsack Problem: A Dynamic Programming Solution 215
Greedy Algorithms 217
A First Greedy Algorithm Example: The Coin-Changing Problem 217
A Greedy Algorithm Solution to the Knapsack Problem 218
Exercises 220

Index. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 221

Table of Contents | vii

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www.it-ebooks.info
 Preface

Over the past few years, JavaScript has been used more and more as a server-side com‐
puter programming language owing to platforms such as Node.js and SpiderMonkey.
Now that JavaScript programming is moving out of the browser, programmers will find
they need to use many of the tools provided by more conventional languages, such as
C++ and Java. Among these tools are classic data structures such as linked lists, stacks,
queues, and graphs, as well as classic algorithms for sorting and searching data. This
book discusses how to implement these data structures and algorithms for server-side
JavaScript programming.
JavaScript programmers will find this book useful because it discusses how to implement
data structures and algorithms within the constraints that JavaScript places them, such
as arrays that are really objects, overly global variables, and a prototype-based object
system. JavaScript has an unfair reputation as a “bad” programming language, but this
book demonstrates how you can use JavaScript to develop efficient and effective data
structures and algorithms using the language’s “good parts.”

Why Study Data Structures and Algorithms

I am assuming that many of you reading this book do not have a formal education in
computer science. If you do, then you already know why studying data structures and
algorithms is important. If you do not have a degree in computer science or haven’t
studied these topics formally, you should read this section.
The computer scientist Nicklaus Wirth wrote a computer programming textbook titled
Algorithms + Data Structures = Programs (Prentice-Hall). That title is the essence of
computer programming. Any computer program that goes beyond the trivial “Hello,
world!” will usually require some type of structure to manage the data the program is
written to manipulate, along with one or more algorithms for translating the data from
its input form to its output form.

ix

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For many programmers who didn’t study computer science in school, the only data
structure they are familiar with is the array. Arrays are great for some problems, but for
many complex problems, they are simply not sophisticated enough. Most experienced
programmers will admit that for many programming problems, once they come up with
the proper data structure, the algorithms needed to solve the problem are easier to design
and implement.
An example of a data structure that leads to efficient algorithms is the binary search tree
(BST). A binary search tree is designed so that it is easy to find the minimum and
maximum values of a set of data, yielding an algorithm that is more efficient than the
best search algorithms available. Programmers unfamiliar with BSTs will instead prob‐
ably use a simpler data structure that ends up being less efficient.
Studying algorithms is important because there is always more than one algorithm that
can be used to solve a problem, and knowing which ones are the most efficient is im‐
portant for the productive programmer. For example, there are at least six or seven ways
to sort a list of data, but knowing that the Quicksort algorithm is more efficient than
the selection sort algorithm will lead to a much more efficient sorting process. Or that
it’s fairly easy to implement a sequential or linear search algorithm for a list of data, but
knowing that the binary sort algorithm can sometimes be twice as efficient as the se‐
quential search will lead to a better program.
The comprehensive study of data structures and algorithms teaches you not only which
data structures and which algorithms are the most efficient, but you also learn how to
decide which data structures and which algorithms are the most appropriate for the
problem at hand. There will often be trade-offs involved when writing a program, es‐
pecially in the JavaScript environment, and knowing the ins and outs of the various data
structures and algorithms covered in this book will help you make the proper decision
for any particular programming problem you are trying to solve.

What You Need for This Book

The programming environment we use in this book is the JavaScript shell based on
the SpiderMonkey JavaScript engine. Chapter 1 provides instructions on downloading
the shell for your environment. Other shells will work as well, such as the Node.js Java‐
Script shell, though you will have to make some translations for the programs in the
book to work in Node. Other than the shell, the only thing you need is a text editor for
writing your JavaScript programs.

x | Preface

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Organization of the Book
• Chapter 1 presents an overview of the JavaScript language, or at least the features
of the JavaScript language used in this book. This chapter also demonstrates through
use the programming style used throughout the other chapters.
• Chapter 2 discusses the most common data structure in computer programming:
the array, which is native to JavaScript.
• Chapter 3 introduces the first implemented data structure: the list.
• Chapter 4 covers the stack data structure. Stacks are used throughout computer
science in both compiler and operating system implementations.
• Chapter 5 discusses queue data structures. Queues are an abstraction of the lines
you stand in at a bank or the grocery store. Queues are used extensively in simulation
software where data has to be lined up before it is processed.
• Chapter 6 covers Linked lists. A linked list is a modification of the list data structure,
where each element is a separate object linked to the objects on either side of it.
Linked lists are efficient when you need to perform multiple insertions and dele‐
tions in your program.
• Chapter 7 demonstrates how to build and use dictionaries, which are data structures
that store data as key-value pairs.
• One way to implement a dictionary is to use a hash table, and Chapter 8 discusses
how to build hash tables and the hash algorithms that are used to store data in the
table.
• Chapter 9 covers the set data structure. Sets are often not covered in data structure
books, but they can be useful for storing data that is not supposed to have duplicates
in the data set.
• Binary trees and binary search trees are the subject of Chapter 10. As mentioned
earlier, binary search trees are useful for storing data that needs to be stored orig‐
inally in sorted form.
• Chapter 11 covers graphs and graph algorithms. Graphs are used to represent data
such as the nodes of a computer network or the cities on a map.
• Chapter 12 moves from data structures to algorithms and discusses various algo‐
rithms for sorting data, including both simple sorting algorithms that are easy to
implement but are not efficient for large data sets, and more complex algorithms
that are appropriate for larger data sets.
• Chapter 13 also covers algorithms, this time searching algorithms such as sequential
search and binary search.
• The last chapter of the book, Chapter 14, discusses a couple more advanced algo‐
rithms for working with data—dynamic programming and greedy algorithms.

Preface | xi

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 These algorithms are useful for solving hard problems where a more traditional
algorithm is either too slow or too hard to implement. We examine some classic
problems for both dynamic programming and greedy algorithms in the chapter.

Conventions Used in This Book

The following typographical conventions are used in this book:
Italic
Indicates new terms, URLs, email addresses, filenames, and file extensions.
Constant width
Used for program listings, as well as within paragraphs to refer to program elements
such as variable or function names, databases, data types, environment variables,
statements, and keywords.
Constant width bold
Shows commands or other text that should be typed literally by the user.
Constant width italic
Shows text that should be replaced with user-supplied values or by values deter‐
mined by context.

Using Code Examples

Supplemental material (code examples, exercises, etc.) is available for download at
https://github.com/oreillymedia/data_structures_and_algorithms_using_javascript.
This book is here to help you get your job done. In general, if example code is offered
with this book, you may use it in your programs and documentation. You do not need
to contact us for permission unless you’re reproducing a significant portion of the code.
For example, writing a program that uses several chunks of code from this book does
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ample code from this book into your product’s documentation does require permission.
We appreciate, but do not require, attribution. An attribution usually includes the title,
author, publisher, and ISBN. For example: “Data Structures and Algorithms Using Java‐
Script by Michael McMillian (O’Reilly). Copyright 2014 Michael McMillan,
978-1-449-36493-9.”
If you feel your use of code examples falls outside fair use or the permission given above,
feel free to contact us at [email protected].

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HENRYANA: SEVEN ODDS AND ENDS,
POETRY AND SHORT STORIES
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o . h e n r ya n a
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poetry and short stories

BY
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garden city new york

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

1920
 copyright, 1920, by

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all rights reserved, including that of translation

into foreign languages, including the scandinavian
 ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

For permission to republish much of the

material contained in this volume, the
publishers are indebted to Cosmopolitan,
Everybody’s Magazine, Town Topics, and
the Youth’s Companion.
 TA B L E O F C O N T E N T S

1. The Crucible
2. A Lunar Episode
3. Three Paragraphs
4. Bulger’s Friend
5. A Professional Secret
6. The Elusive Tenderloin
7. The Struggle of the Outliers
O. H E N RYA N A
 THE CRUCIBLE

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Red to your battle hilts,
Blow give for blow in the foray,
Cunningly ride in the tilts;
But when the roaring is ended
Tenderly, unbeguiled,
Turn to a woman a woman’s
Heart, and a child’s to a child.

Test of the man, if his worth be

In accord with the ultimate plan,
That he be not, to his marring,
Always and utterly man;
That he bring out of the tumult,
Fitter and undefiled,
To a woman the heart of a woman,
To children the heart of a child.

Good when the bugles are ranting

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Give to a woman a woman’s
Heart, and a child’s to a child.
 A LUNAR EPISODE

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At length one prevailed. He seized his opponent, and raising him
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“That’s three of ’em this week,” said the Man in the Moon as he lit
a cigarette and turned back into the house. “Those New York
interviewers are going to make me tired if they keep this thing up
much longer.”
 THREE PARAGRAPHS

“Copy,” yelled the small boy at the door. The sick woman lying on
the bed began to move her fingers aimlessly upon the worn
counterpane. Her eyes were bright with fever; her face, once
beautiful, was thin and pain drawn. She was dying, but neither she
nor the man who held her hand and wrote on a paper tablet knew
that the end was so near.
Three paragraphs were lacking to fill the column of humorous
matter that the foreman had sent for. The small pay it brought them
barely furnished shelter and food. Medicine was lacking but the need
for that was nearly over.
The woman’s mind was wandering; she spoke quickly and
unceasingly, and the man bit his pencil and stared at the pad of
paper, holding her slim, hot hand.
“Oh, Jack; Jack, papa says no, I cannot go with you. Not love you!
Jack, do you want to break my heart? Oh, look, look! the fields are
like heaven, so filled with flowers. Why have you no ice? I had ice
when I was at home. Can’t you give me just a little piece, my throat
is burning?”
The humourist wrote: “When a man puts a piece of ice down a
girl’s back at a picnic, does he give her the cold shoulder?”
The woman feverishly put back the loose masses of brown hair
from her burning face.
“Jack, Jack, I don’t want to die! Who is that climbing in the
window? Oh, it’s only Jack, and here is Jack holding my hand, too.
How funny! We are going to the river tonight. The quiet, broad,
dark, whispering river. Hold my hand tight. Jack, I can feel the water
coming in. It is so cold. How queer it seems to be dead, dead, and
see the trees above you.”
 The humourist wrote: “On the dead square⁠—a cemetery lot.”
“Copy, sir,” yelled the small boy again. “Forms locked in half an
hour.”
The man bit his pencil into splinters. The hand he held was
growing cooler; surely her fever must be leaving. She was singing
now, a little crooning song she might have learned at her mother’s
knee, and her fingers had ceased moving.
“They told me,” she said weakly and sadly, “that hardships and
suffering would come upon me for disobeying my parents and
marrying Jack. Oh, dear, my head aches so I can’t think. No, no, the
white dress with the lace sleeves, not that black, dreadful thing!
Sailing, sailing, sailing, where does this river go? You are not Jack,
you are too cold and stern. What is that red mark on your brow?
Come, sister, let’s make some daisy chains and then hurry home,
there is a great black cloud above us⁠—I’ll be better in the morning.
Jack, if you’ll hold my hand tight. Jack, I feel as light as a feather⁠—
I’m just floating, floating, right into the cloud and I can’t feel your
hand. Oh, I see her now, and there is the old love and tenderness in
her face. I must go to her. Jack. Mother, mother!”
The man wrote quickly:
“A woman generally likes her husband’s mother-in-law the best of
all his relatives.”
Then he sprang to the door, dashed the column of copy into the
boy’s hand, and moved swiftly to the bed.
He put his arm softly under the brown head that had suffered so
much, but it turned heavily aside.
The fever was gone. The humourist was alone.
 BULGER’ S FRIEND

It was rare sport for a certain element in the town when old Bulger
joined the Salvation Army. Bulger was the town’s odd “character,” a
shiftless, eccentric old man, and a natural foe to social conventions.
He lived on the bank of a brook that bisected the town, in a
wonderful hut of his own contriving, made of scrap lumber,
clapboards, pieces of tin, canvas and corrugated iron.
The most adventurous boys circled Bulger’s residence at a
respectful distance. He was intolerant of visitors, and repelled the
curious with belligerent and gruff inhospitality. In return, the report
was current that he was of unsound mind, something of a wizard,
and a miser with a vast amount of gold buried in or near his hut.
The old man worked at odd jobs, such as weeding gardens and
whitewashing; and he collected old bones, scrap metal and bottles
from alleys and yards.
One rainy night when the Salvation Army was holding a slenderly
attended meeting in its hall, Bulger had appeared and asked
permission to join the ranks. The sergeant in command of the post
welcomed the old man with that cheerful lack of prejudice that
distinguishes the peaceful militants of his order.
Bulger was at once assigned to the position of bass drummer, to
his evident, although grimly expressed, joy. Possibly the sergeant,
who had the success of his command at heart, perceived that it
would be no mean token of successful warfare to have the new
recruit thus prominently displayed, representing, as he did, if not a
brand from the burning, at least a well-charred and sap-dried chunk.
So every night, when the Army marched from its quarters to the
street corner where open-air services were held, Bulger stumbled
along with his bass drum behind the sergeant and the corporal, who
played “Sweet By and By” and “Only an Armor-Bearer” in unison
upon their cornets. And never before in that town was bass drum so
soundly whacked. Bulger managed to keep time with the cornets
upon his instrument, but his feet were always wo-fully unrhythmic.
He shuffled and staggered and rocked from side to side like a bear.
Truly, he was not pleasing to the sight. He was a bent, ungainly
old man, with a face screwed to one side and wrinkled like a dry
prune. The red shirt, which proclaimed his enlistment into the ranks,
was a misfit, being the outer husk of a leviathan corporal who had
died some time before. This garment hung upon Bulger in folds. His
old brown cap was always pulled down over one eye. These and his
wabbling gait gave him the appearance of some great simian,
captured and imperfectly educated in pedestrian and musical
manoeuvres.
The thoughtless boys and undeveloped men who gathered about
the street services of the Army badgered Bulger incessantly. They
called upon him to give oral testimony to his conversion, and
criticized the technique and style of his drum performance. But the
old man paid no attention whatever to their jeers. He rarely spoke to
anyone except when, on coming and going, he gruffly saluted his
comrades.
The sergeant had met many odd characters, and knew how to
study them. He allowed the recruit to have his own silent way for a
time. Every evening Bulger appeared at the hall, marched up the
street with the squad and back again. Then he would place his drum
in the comer where it belonged, and sit upon the last bench in the
rear until the hall meeting was concluded.
But one night the sergeant followed the old man outside, and laid
his hand upon his shoulder. “Comrade,” he said, “is it well with you?”
“Not yet, sergeant,” said Bulger. “I’m only tryin.’ I’m glad you come
outside. I’ve been wantin’ to ask you: Do you believe the Lord would
take a man in if he come to Him late like⁠—kind of a last resort, you
know? Say a man who’d lost everything⁠—home and property and
friends and health. Wouldn’t it look mean to wait till then and try to
come?”
 “Bless His name⁠—no!” said the sergeant. “Come ye that are heavy
laden; that’s what He says. The poorer, the more miserable, the
more unfortunate⁠—the greater His love and forgiveness.”
“Yes, I’m poor,” said Bulger. “Awful poor and miserable. You know
when I can think best, sergeant? It’s when I’m beating the drum.
Other times there’s a kind of muddled roarin’ in my head. The drum
seems to kind of soothe and calm it. There’s a thing I’m tryin’ to
study out, but I ain’t made it yet.”
“Do you pray, comrade?” asked the sergeant.
“No, I don’t,” said Bulger. “What’d be the use? I know where the
hitch is. Don’t it say somewhere for a man to give up his own family
or friends and serve the Lord?”
“If they stand in his way; not otherwise.”
“I’ve got no family,” continued the old man, “nor no friends⁠—but
one. And that one is what’s driven me to ruin.”
“Free yourself!” cried the sergeant. “He is no friend, but an enemy
who stands between you and salvation.”
“No,” answered Bulger, emphatically, “no enemy. The best friend I
ever had.”
“But you say he’s driven you to ruin!”
The old man chuckled dryly: “And keeps me in rags and livin’ on
scraps and sleepin’ like a dog in a patched-up kennel. And yet I
never had a better friend. You don’t understand, sergeant. You lose
all your friends but the best one, and then you’ll know how to hold
on to the last one.”
“Do you drink, comrade?” asked the sergeant.
“Not a drop in twenty years,” Bulger replied. The sergeant was
puzzled.
“If this friend stands between you and your soul’s peace, give him
up,” was all he could find to say.
“I can’t⁠—now,” said the old man, dropping into a fretful whine.
“But you just let me keep on beating the drum, sergeant, and maybe
I will some time. I’m a-tryin’. Sometimes I come so near thinkin’ it
out that a dozen more licks on the drum would settle it. I get mighty
nigh to the point, and then I have to quit. You’ll give me more time,
won’t you, sergeant?”
“All you want, and God bless you, comrade. Pound away until you
hit the right note.”
Afterward the sergeant would often call to Bulger: “Time,
comrade! Knocked that friend of yours out yet?” The answer was
always unsatisfactory.
One night at a street corner the sergeant prayed loudly that a
certain struggling comrade might be parted from an enemy who was
leading him astray under the guise of friendship. Bulger, in sudden
and plainly evident alarm, immediately turned his drum over to a
fellow volunteer, and shuffled rapidly away down the street. The
next night he was back again at his post, without any explanation of
his strange behaviour.
The sergeant wondered what it all meant, and took occasion to
question the old man more closely as to the influence that was
retarding the peace his soul seemed to crave. But Bulger carefully
avoided particularizing.
“It’s my own fight,” he said. “I’ve got to think it out myself.
Nobody else don’t understand.”
The winter of 1892 was a memorable one in the South. The cold
was almost unprecedented, and snow fell many inches deep where it
had rarely whitened the ground before. Much suffering resulted
among the poor, who had not anticipated the rigorous season. The
little squad of Salvationists found more distress then they could
relieve.
Charity in that town, while swift and liberal, lacked organization.
Want, in that balmy and productive climate, existed only in sporadic
cases, and these were nearly always quietly relieved by generous
neighbours. But when some sudden disastrous onslaught of the
elements⁠—storm, fire or flood⁠—occurred, the impoverished sufferers
were often too slowly aided because system was lacking, and
because charity was called upon too seldom to become a habit. At
such times the Salvation Army was very useful. Its soldiers went
down into alleys and byways to rescue those who, unused to
extreme want, had never learned to beg.
At the end of three weeks of hard freezing a level foot of snow
fell. Hunger and cold struck the improvident, and a hundred women,
children and old men were gathered into the Army’s quarters to be
warmed and fed. Each day the blue-uniformed soldiers slipped in
and out of the stores and offices of the town, gathering pennies and
dimes and quarters to buy food for the starving. And in and out of
private houses the Salvationists went with baskets of food and
clothing, while day by day the mercury still crouched among the tens
and twenties.
Alas! business, that scapegoat, was dull. The dimes and quarters
came more reluctantly from tills that jingled not when they were
opened. Yet in the big hall of the Army the stove was kept red-hot,
and upon the long table, set in the rear, could always be found at
least coffee and bread and cheese. The sergeant and the squad
fought valiantly. At last the money on hand was all gone, and the
daily collections were diminished to a variable sum, inadequate to
the needs of the dependents of the Army.
Christmas was near at hand. There were fifty children in the hall,
and many more outside, to whom that season brought no joy
beyond what was brought by the Army. None of these little
pensioners had thus far lacked necessary comforts, and they had
already begun to chatter of the tree⁠—that one bright vision in the
sober monotony of the year. Never since the Army first came had it
failed to provide a tree and gifts for the children.
The sergeant was troubled. He knew that an announcement of
“no tree” would grieve the hearts under those thin cotton dresses
and ragged jackets more than would stress of storm or scanty diet;
and yet there was not money enough to meet the daily demands for
food and fuel.
On the night of December the 20th the sergeant decided to
announce that there could be no Christmas tree: it seemed unfair to
allow the waxing anticipation of the children to reach too great a
height.
The evening was colder, and the still deep snow was made deeper
by another heavy fall swept upon the wings of a fierce and shrill-
voiced northern gale. The sergeant, with sodden boots and
reddened countenance, entered the hall at nightfall, and removed
his threadbare overcoat. Soon afterward the rest of the faithful
squad drifted in, the women heavily shawled, the men stamping
their snow-crusted feet loudly upon the steep stairs. After the
slender supper of cold meat, beans, bread, and coffee had been
finished all joined in a short service of song and prayer, according to
their daily habit.
Far back in the shadow sat Bulger. For weeks his ears had been
deprived of that aid to thought, the booming of the big bass drum.
His wrinkled face wore an expression of gloomy perplexity. The Army
had been too busy for the regular services and parades. The silent
drum, the banners, and the cornets were stored in a little room at
the top of the stairway.
Bulger came to the hall every night and ate supper with the
others. In such weather work of the kind that the old man usually
did was not to be had, and he was bidden to share the benefits
conferred upon the other unfortunates. He always left early, and it
was surmised that he passed the nights in his patchwork hut, that
structure being waterproof and weathertight beyond the promise of
its outward appearance. Of late the sergeant had had no time to
bestow upon the old man.
At seven o’clock the sergeant stood up and rapped upon the table
with a lump of coal. When the room became still he began his talk,
that rambled off into a halting discourse quite unlike his usual
positive and direct speeches. The children had gathered about their
friend in a ragged, wriggling, and wide-a-wake circle. Most of them
had seen that fresh, ruddy countenance of his emerge, at the
twelve-stroke of a night of splendour, from the whiskered mask of a
magnificent Santa Claus. They knew now that he was going to speak
of the Christmas tree.
 They tiptoed and listened, flushed with a hopeful and eager awe.
The sergeant saw it, frowned, and swallowed hard. Continuing, he
planted the sting of disappointment in each expectant little bosom,
and watched the light fade from their eyes.
There was to be no tree. Renunciation was no new thing to them;
they had been born to it. Still a few little ones in whom hope died
hard sobbed aloud, and wan, wretched mothers tried to hush and
console them. A kind of voiceless wail went among them, scarcely a
protest, rather the ghost of a lament for the childhood’s pleasures
they had never known. The sergeant sat down and figured
cheerlessly with the stump of a pencil upon the blank border of a
newspaper.
Bulger rose and shuffled out of the room without ceremony, as
was his custom. He was heard fumbling in the little room in the
hallway, and suddenly a thunderous roar broke out, filling the whole
building with its booming din. The sergeant started, and then
laughed as if his nerves welcomed the diversion.
“It’s only Comrade Bulger,” he said, “doing a little thinking in his
own quiet way.”
The norther rattled the windows and shrieked around the corners.
The sergeant heaped more coal into the stove. The increase of that
cutting wind bore the cold promise of days, perhaps weeks, of hard
times to come. The children were slowly recovering the sad
philosophy out of which the deceptive hope of one bright day had
enticed them. The women were arranging things for the night;
preparing to draw the long curtain across the width of the hall,
separating the children’s quarters and theirs from those of the men.
About eight o’clock the sergeant had seen that all was shipshape;
and was wrapping his woolen comforter around his neck, ready for
his cold journey homeward, when footsteps were heard upon the
stairway. The door opened, and Bulger came in covered with snow
like Santa Claus, and as red of face, but otherwise much unlike the
jolly Christmas saint.
 The old man shambled down the hall to where the sergeant stood,
drew a wet, earth-soiled bag from under his coat, and laid it upon
the table. “Open it,” he said, and motioned to the sergeant.
That cheery official obeyed with an indulgent smile. He seized the
bottom of the bag, turned it up, and stood, with his smile turned to
a gape of amazement, gazing at a heap of gold and silver coin that
rolled upon the table.
“Count it,” said Bulger.
The jingling of the money and wonder at its source had produced
a profound silence in the room. For a time nothing could be heard
but the howling of the wind and the chink of the coins as the
sergeant slowly laid them in little separate piles.
“Six hundred,” said the sergeant, and stopped to clear his throat,
“six hundred and twenty-three dollars and eighty-five cents!”
“Eighty,” said Bulger. “Mistake of five cents. I’ve thought it out at
last, sergeant, and I’ve give up that friend I told you about. That’s
him⁠—dollars and cents. The boys was right when they said I was a
miser. Take it, sergeant, and spend it the best way for them that
needs it, not forgettin’ a tree for the young ’uns, and⁠—”
“Hallelujah!” cried the sergeant.
“And a new bass drum,” concluded Bulger.
And then the sergeant made another speech.
 A PROFESSIONAL SECRET
the story of a maid made over

Dr. Satterfield Prince, physician to the leisure class, looked at his

watch. It indicated five minutes to twelve. At the stroke of the hour
would expire the morning term set apart for the reception of his
patients in his handsome office apartments. And then the young
woman attendant ushered in from the waiting-room the last unit of
the wealthy and fashionable gathering that had come to patronize
his skill.
Dr. Prince turned, his watch still in hand, his manner courteous,
but seeming to invite promptness and brevity in the interview. The
last patient was a middle-aged lady, richly dressed, with an amiable
and placid face. When she spoke her voice revealed the drawling,
musical slur and intonation of the South. She had come, she
leisurely explained, to bespeak the services of Dr. Prince in the case
of her daughter, who was possessed of a most mysterious affliction.
And then, femininely, she proceeded to exhaustively diagnose the
affliction, informing the physician with a calm certitude of its origin
and nature.
The diagnosis advanced by the lady⁠—Mrs. Galloway Rankin⁠—was
one so marvelously strange and singular in its conception that
Dr. Prince, accustomed as he was to the conceits and vagaries of
wealthy malingerers, was actually dumfounded. The following is the
matter of Mrs. Rankin’s statement, briefly reported:
She⁠—Mrs. Rankin⁠—was of an old Kentucky family, the Bealls.
Between the Bealls and another historic house⁠—the Rankins⁠—had
been waged for nearly a century one of the fiercest and most
sanguinary feuds within the history of the State. Each generation
had kept alive both the hate and the warfare, until at length it was
said that Nature began to take cognizance of the sentiment and
Bealls and Rankins were born upon earth as antagonistic toward
each other as cats and dogs. So, for four generations the war had
waged, and the mountains were dotted with tombstones of both
families. At last, for lack of fuel to feed upon, the feud expired with
only one direct descendant of the Bealls and one of the Rankins
remaining⁠—Evalina Beall, aged nineteen, and Galloway Rankin, aged
twenty-five. The last mortal shot in the feud was fired by Cupid. The
two survivors met, became immediately and mutually enamoured,
and a miracle transpired on Kentucky soil⁠—a Rankin wedded a Beall.
Interposed, and irrelevant to the story, was the information that
coal mines had been discovered later on the Rankin lands, and now
the Galloway Rankins were to be computed among the millionaries.
All that was long enough ago for there to be now a daughter,
twenty years of age⁠—Miss Annabel Rankin⁠—for whose relief the
services of Dr. Prince was petitioned.
Then followed, in Mrs. Rankin’s statement, a description of the
mysterious, though by her readily accounted for, affliction.
It seemed that there was a peculiar difficulty in the young lady’s
powers of locomotion. In walking, a process requiring a coordination
and unanimity of the functions⁠—Dr. Prince, said Mrs. Rankin, would
understand and admit the nonexistence of a necessity for anatomical
specification⁠—there persisted a stubborn opposition, a most contrary
and counteracting antagonism. In those successively progressive and
generally unconsciously automatic movements necessary to proper
locomotion, there was a violent lack of harmony and mutuality. To
give an instance cited by Mrs. Rankin⁠—if Miss Annabel desired to
ascend a stairway, one foot would be easily advanced to the step
above, but instead of aiding and abetting its fellow, the other would
at once proceed to start downstairs. By a strong physical and mental
effort the young lady could walk fairly well for a short distance but
suddenly the rebellious entities would become uncontrollable, and
she would be compelled to turn undesirable corners, to enter
impossible doorways, to dance, shuffle, sidestep and perform other
undignified and distressing evolutions.
 After setting forth these lamentable symptoms, Mrs. Rankin
emphatically asserted her belief that the affliction was the result of
heredity⁠—of the union between the naturally opposing and contrary
Beall and Rankin elements. She believed that the inherited spirit of
the ancient feud had taken on physical manifestations, exhibiting
them in the person of the unfortunate outcome of the union of
opposites. That in Miss Annabel Rankin was warring the imperishable
antipathy of the two families. In other words, that one of Miss
Rankin’s⁠—that is to say, that when Miss Rankin took a step it was a
Beall step, and the next one was dominated by the bequeathed
opposition of the Rankins.
Doctor Prince received the communication with his usual grave,
professional attention, and promised to call the next day at ten to
inspect the patient.
Promptly at the hour his electric runabout turned into the line of
stylish autos and hansoms that wait along the pavements before the
most expensive hostelry on American soil.
When Miss Annabel Rankin entered the reception parlour of their
choice suite of rooms Doctor Prince gave a little blink of surprise
through his brilliantly polished nose glasses. The glow of perfect
health and the contour of perfect beauty were visible in the face and
form of the young lady. But admiration gave way to sympathy when
he saw her walk. She entered at a little run, swayed, stepped off
helplessly at a sharp tangent, advanced, marked time, backed off,
recovered and sidled with a manoeuvring rush to a couch, where she
rested, with a look of serious melancholy upon her handsome face.
Dr. Prince proceeded with his interrogatories in the delicate,
reassuring gentlemanly manner that had brought him so many
patrons who placed a value upon those amenities. Miss Annabel
answered frankly and sensibly, indeed, for one of her years. The
feud theory of Mrs. Rankin was freely discussed. The daughter also
believed in it.
Soon the physician departed, promising to call again and
administer treatment. Then he buzzed down the Avenue and four
doors on an asphalted side street to the office of Dr. Grumbleton
Myers, the great specialist in locomotor ataxia and nerve ailments.
The two distinguished physicians shut themselves in a private office,
and the great Myers dragged forth a decanter of sherry and a box of
Havanas. When the consultation was over both shook their heads.
“Fact is,” summed up Myers, “we don’t know anything about
anything. I’d say treat symptoms now until something turns up; but
there are no symptoms.”
“The feud diagnosis, then?” suggested Doctor Prince, archly,
ridding his cigar of its ash.
“It’s an interesting case,” said the specialist, noncommittally.
“I say, Prince,” called Myers, as his caller was leaving. “Er⁠—
sometimes, you know, children that fight and quarrel are shut in
separate rooms. Doesn’t it seem a pity, now, that bloomers aren’t in
fashion? By separ⁠—”
“But they aren’t,” smiled Doctor Prince, “and we must be
fashionable, at any rate.”
Doctor Prince burned midnight oil⁠—or its equivalent, a patent,
electric, soft-shaded, midnight incandescent, over his case. With
such little success did his light shine that he was forced to make a
little speech to the Rankins full of scientific terms⁠—a thing he
conscientiously avoided with his patients⁠—which shows that he was
driven to expedient. At last he was reduced to suggest treatment by
hypnotism.
Being crowded further, he advised it, and appeared another day
with Professor Adami, the most reputable and non-advertising one
he could find among that school of practitioners.
Miss Annabel, gentle and melancholy, fell an easy victim⁠—or, I
should say, subject⁠—to the professor’s influence. Previously
instructed by Doctor Prince in the nature of the malady he was
about to combat, the dealer in mental drugs proceeded to offer
“suggestion” (in the language of his school) to the afflicted and
unconscious young lady, impressing her mind with the conviction
that her affliction was moonshine and her perambulatory powers
without impairment.
When the spell was removed Miss Rankin sat up, looking a little
bewildered at first, and then rose to her feet, walking straight across
the room with the grace, the sureness and the ease of a Diana, a
Leslie-Carter, or a Vassar basketball champion. Miss Annabel’s sad
face was now lit with hope and joy. Mrs. Rankin of Southern
susceptibility wept a little, delightedly, upon a minute lace
handkerchief. Miss Annabel continued to walk about firmly and
accurately, in absolute control of the machinery necessary for her so
to do. Doctor Prince quietly congratulated Professor Adami, and then
stepped forward, smilingly rubbing his nose glasses with an air. His
position enabled him to overshadow the hypnotizer who, contented
to occupy the background temporarily, was busy estimating in his
mind with how large a bill for services he would dare to embellish
the occasion when he should come to the front.
Amid repeated expressions of gratitude, the two professional
gentlemen made their adieus, a little elated at the success of the
treatment which, with one of them, had been an experiment, with
the other an exhibition.
As the door closed behind them. Miss Annabel, her usually serious
and pensive temper somewhat enlivened by the occasion, sat at the
piano and dashed into a stirring march. Outside, the two men
moving toward the elevator heard a scream of alarm from her and
hastened back. They found her on the piano-stool, with one hand
still pressing the keys. The other arm was extended rigidly to its full
length behind her, its fingers tightly clenched into a pink and pretty
little fist. Her mother was bending over her, joining in the alarm and
surprise. Miss Rankin rose from the stool, now quiet, but again
depressed and sad.
“I don’t know what did it,” she said, plaintively; “I began to play
and that arm shot back. It wouldn’t stay near the piano while the
other one was there.”
A ping-pong table stood in the room.
 “A little game, Miss Rankin,” cried Professor Adami, gayly, trying to
feel his way.
They played. With the racquet in the refractory arm, Miss Annabel
played in fine style. Her control of it was perfect. The professor laid
down his racquet.
“Ah! a button is loose on my coat,” said he. “Such is the fate of
sorrowful bachelors. A needle and thread, now. Miss Rankin?”
A little surprised, but smiling acquiescence, Annabel brought the
articles from another room.
“Now thread the needle, if you please,” said Professor Adami.
Annabel bit off two feet of the black silk. When she came to
thread the needle the secret was out. As the hand presenting the
thread approached the other holding the needle that arm was jerked
violently away. Doctor Prince was first to reduce the painful
discovery to words.
“Dear Miss and Mrs. Rankin,” he said, in his most musical
consolation-baritone, “we have been only partially successful. The
affliction, Miss Rankin, has passed from your⁠—that is, the affliction is
now in your arms.”
“Oh, dear!” sighed Annabel, “I’ve a Beall arm and a Rankin arm,
then. Well, I can use one hand at a time, anyway. People won’t
notice it as they did before. Oh, what an annoyance those feuds
were, to be sure! It seems to me they should make laws against
them.”
Doctor Prince looked inquiringly at Professor Adami. That
gentleman shook his head. “Another day,” he said. “I prefer not to
establish the condition at a lesser interval than two or three days.”
So, three days afterward they returned, and the professor
replaced Miss Rankin under control. This time there was, apparently,
perfect success. She came forth from the trance, and with full
muscular powers. She walked the floor with a sure, rhythmic step.
She played several difficult selections upon the piano, the hands and
arms moving with propriety and with allied ease. Miss Rankin
seemed at last to possess a perfectly well-ordered physical being as
well as a very grateful mental one.
A week afterward there wafted into Doctor Prince’s office a youth,
generously gilded. The hallmarks of society were deeply writ upon
him.
“I’m Ashburton,” he explained; “T. Ripley Ashburton, you know.
I’m engaged to Miss Rankin. I understand you’ve been training her
for some breaks in her gaits⁠—” T. Ripley Ashburton caught himself.
“Didn’t mean that, you know⁠—slipped out⁠—been loafing around
stables quite a lot. I say, Doctor Prince, I want you to tell me.
Candidly, you know. I’m awful spoons on Miss Rankin. We’re to be
married in the fall. You might consider me one of the family, you
know. They told me about the treatment you gave her with the⁠—
er⁠—medium fellow. That set her up wonderfully, I assure you. She
goes freely now, and handles her fore⁠—I mean you know, she’s over
all that old trouble. But there’s something else started up that’s
making the track pretty heavy; so I called, don’t you understand.”
“I had not been advised,” said Doctor Prince, “of any recurrence of
Miss Rankin’s indisposition.”
T. Ripley Ashburton produced a silver cigarette-case and
contemplated it tenderly. Receiving no encouragement, he replaced
it in his pocket with a sigh.
“Not a recurrence,” he said, thoughtfully, “but something different.
Possibly I’m the only one in a position to know. Hate to discuss it⁠—
reveal Cupid’s secrets, you know⁠—such a jolly low thing to do⁠—but
suppose the occasion justifies it.”
“If you possess any information or have observed anything,” said
Doctor Prince, judicially, “through which Miss Rankin’s condition
might be benefited, it is your duty, of course, to apply it in her
behalf. I need hardly remind you that such disclosures are held as
secrets on professional honour.”
“I believe I mentioned,” said Mr. Ashburton, his fingers still
hovering around the pocket containing his cigarette case, “that Miss
Rankin and I are ever so sweet upon each other. She’s a jolly, swell
girl, if she did come from the Kentucky mountains. Lately she’s acted
awful queerly. She’s awful affectionate one minute, and the next she
turns me down like a perfect stranger. Last night I called at the
hotel, and she met me at the door of their rooms. Nobody was in
sight, and she gave me an awful nice kiss⁠—er⁠—engaged, you know,
Doctor Prince⁠—and then she fired away and gave me an awful hard
slap in the face. ‘I hate the sight of you,’ she said; ‘how dare you
take the liberty!’ ” Mr. Ashburton drew an envelope from his pocket
and extracted from it a sheet of note paper of a delicate heliotrope
tint. “You might read this note, you know. Can’t say if it’s a medical
case, ’pon my honour, but I’m awfully queered, don’t you
understand.”
Doctor Prince read the following lines:

My dearest Ripley:
Do come around this evening⁠—there’s a dear boy⁠—and take
me out somewhere. Mamma has a headache, and says she’ll be
glad to be rid of both of us for a while. ’Twas so sweet of you to
send those pond lilies⁠—they’re just what I wanted for the east
windows. You darling boy⁠—you’re so thoughtful and good⁠—I’m
sure you’re worth all the love of

Your very own

Annabel.
P.S.⁠—On second thoughts, I will ask you not to call this
evening, as I shall be otherwise engaged. Perhaps it has never
occurred to you that there may be two opinions about the vast
pleasure you seem to think your society affords others. Clothes
and the small talk of clubhouses and racetracks hardly ever
succeed in making a man without other accessories.
Very respectfully,
Annabel Rankin.

Being deprived of the aid of his consolation cylinders, T. Ripley

Ashburton sat, gloomy, revolving things in his mind.
 “Ah!” exclaimed Doctor Prince, aloud, but addressing the
exclamation to himself; “driven from the arms to the heart!” He
perceived that the mysterious hereditary contrariety had, indeed,
taken up its lodging in that tender organ of the afflicted maiden.
The gilded youth was dismissed, with the promise that Doctor
Prince would make a professional call upon Miss Rankin. He did so
soon, in company with Professor Adami, after they had discussed the
strange course taken by this annoying heritage of the Bealls and
Rankins. This time, as the location of the disorder required that the
subject be approached with ingenuity, some diplomacy was
exercised before the young lady could be induced to submit herself
to the professor’s art. But evidently she did so, and emerged from
the trance as usual without a trace of unpleasant effect.
With much interest and some anxiety Doctor Prince passed several
days awaiting the report of Mr. Ashburton, who, indeed, of all others
would have to be depended upon to observe improvements, if any
had occurred. One morning that youth dropped in, jubilant.
“It’s all right, you know,” he declared, cheerfully. “Miss Rankin’s
herself again. She’s as sweet as cream, and the trouble’s all off.
Never a cross word or look. I’m her ducky, all right. She won’t
believe what I tell her about the way she used to treat me. Intimates
I make up the stories. But it’s all right now⁠—everything’s running on
rubber tires. Awfully obliged to you and the old boy⁠—er⁠—the
medium, you know. And I say, now, Doctor Prince, there’s a
wonderful improvement in Miss Rankin in every way. She used to be
rather stiff, don’t you understand⁠—sort of superior, in a way⁠—
bookish, and a habit of thinking things, you know. Well, she’s cured
all round⁠—she’s a topper now of any bunch in the set⁠—swell and
stylish and lively! Oh, the crowd will fall in to her lead when she
becomes Mrs. T. Ripley. Now, I say. Doctor Prince, you and the⁠—er⁠—
medium gentleman come and take supper tonight with Mrs. and
Miss Rankin and me. I’d be delighted if you would, now⁠—I would
indeed⁠—just for you to see, you know, the improvement in Miss
Rankin.”
 It transpired that Doctor Prince and Professor Adami accepted
Mr. Ashburton’s invitation. They convened at the hotel in the rooms
of the Rankins. From there they were to proceed to the restaurant
honoured by Mr. Ashburton’s patronage.
When Miss Rankin swept gracefully into the room the professional
gentlemen felt fascination and surprise conflicting in their feelings.
She was radiant, bewitching, lively to effervescence. Her mother and
Mr. Ashburton hung, enraptured, upon her looks and words. She was
most becomingly clothed in pale blue.
“Oh, bother!” she suddenly exclaimed, most vivaciously, “I don’t
like this dress, after all. You must all wait,” she commanded, with a
captivating fling of her train, “until I change.” Half an hour later she
returned, magnificent in a stunning costume of black lace.
“I’ll walk with you downstairs, Professor Adami,” she declared,
with a charming smile. Halfway down she left his side abruptly and
joined Doctor Prince. “You’ve been such a benefit to me,” she said.
“It’s such a relief to get rid of that horrid feud thing. Heavens!
Ripley, did you forget those bonbons? Oh, this horrid black dress! I
shouldn’t have worn it; it makes me think of funerals. Did you get
the scent of those lilacs then? It makes me think of the Kentucky
mountains. How I wish we were back there.”
“Aren’t you fond of New York, then?” asked Doctor Prince,
regarding her interestedly.
She started at the sound of his voice and looked up vivaciously.
“Indeed I am,” she said, earnestly. “I adore New York. Why, I
couldn’t live without theatres and dances and my daily drives here.
Oh, Ripley,” she called, over her shoulder, “don’t get that bull pup I
wanted; I’ve changed my mind. I want a Pomeranian⁠—now, don’t
forget.”
They arrived on the pavement.
“Oh, a carriage!” exclaimed Miss Rankin; “I don’t want a carriage,
I want an auto. Send it away!”
“All right,” said Ashburton, cheerily, “I thought you said a
carriage.”
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