Thomas L. Masson

“ Bill glanced at my car—a Teutonic glance that seemed to lift it fairly off its tires and put it somewhere, in the proper mental pigeonhole where it belonged. In that glance he had seen it all—differentials, ball bearings, shafts, cones, radiation—everything.
He pushed up the top of the tool box of the car he had been working on and stuffed into it the cotton waste.
"Will you leave her?" he asked.
This was hardly to my liking. To be in a strange land without my habit of locomotion; to walk basely, or patronize the trolleys, seemed to me in the nature of a cruel invalidism. ”

“ The south wind was whispering confidences to the elms; the stars were unutterably benign. Surely God was in His heaven, thought the Reverend Paul Templeton.
Then up from the darkness beneath the trees came the low, thrilling laugh of a girl. He lifted his face from his hands and stared, scarce breathing, into the night, while his ears still held every note of that low, thrilling laugh, which spoke of youth in love in the springtime.
The black bulk of the hospital behind him faded into obscurity as swiftly as a scene struck on a darkened stage. ”

“ As the days went by, Bill and I came to know each other better and better—not stridently and vociferously, but more or less silently as primitive men have learned each other, working together since the world began. ”

“ With Estevan there never had been anything to associate but work and blows. Such is life—far too little dirty water from a dirty pail; roughage for food, with, now and then, a grudging heap of cheapest grain; a galling harness; a filthy stall; work—never-ending work; a child and a carrot the only memory of a kindness!
El Paso she knew, not as you know it—its mountain vistas, its blocks of substantial homes and pleasant bungalows, but as her half-starved, rickety old frame knew it: hard-paved streets that hurt her feet ”

“ Neither, your Honour, was the big, thundering Blue Diamond. Why should it be? There existed in all this world no such thing as either evil or fear.... And so she waited, transfixed only by wonderment as the monster thing bore down on her.... I’m aware, your Honour, that in every well-appointed melodrama the hero always appears at the proper instant.... But in real life sometimes—well, we have tried cases in our courts, the purpose of which was to determine the dollar value of that for which there can be no recompense—a baby life crushed out. ”

“ There was still no sound, and he stepped inside, gun in hand.
A rusty little yacht stove, a few shelves, and a rude table were all the cookroom contained. Beyond was the bunkroom with a large double-decked bunk against one wall, and opposite it the window. Johnson went on in.
In the lower bunk lay the body of a man with a hunting knife sticking in his breast. He lay staring at the ceiling with a rather silly smile, as though he had been grinning, and death had come too quickly for it to fade. ”

“ Such an eye, to a lawyer like myself, accustomed to look for a human document in every human face, seemed the very epitome of eighty years: a carefree boyhood among contemporaries—in house furnishings, in barn and pigsty, orchard and gardens; a youth that sees already a new generation in most of these companions of his earthly pilgrimage; a middle age, forced out of the romantic sense of companionship on the road, into the persistent and finally triumphant view of using environment for ends of its own ”

“ Disturbed in their myriad sleep, the flies buzzed mightily. Estevan’s heavy slap fell on her shoulder, and in the starry darkness he hustled her out of the stall and into harness. Past dark rows of ’dobes and one-storied shops—jog—jog; jolt—jolt over rough tracks where the shrieking engines run; a smothered “’Spero” brought the Little White Mare to an obedient halt in the black shadow of a freight-car. ”

“ But Albanese girls don’t do that way till they’re married.
“I hates Albanese! I hates Italians! I hates the old country!” said Tomaso. His voice was like a knife. “They makes their girls to marry any old guy. I likes American way—a fella and a girl to love and then marry, and other peoples stay out of it.”
“I will do American way,” I said. Tomaso’s hair rubbed my cheek; I got warm and happy. Only Tomaso and me. Just us in the world.
“And I will do American way,” Tomaso said in my hair. It was dark, but I seen his face, warm like the sunshine. Before I knowed, Tomaso’s lips held mine tight. ”

“ For the smile was but a poor attempt, and the joyous expectancy I saw shining in her eyes months before at Quanah was not there now. There was a subtle air of unmistakable despair about her. Her very frailty and dependency and loyal effort to keep her smile wrung from me a quick sympathy.
I turned back to the drab routine of life sadly, and picking up my grips, saw the Pessimist standing on the sidewalk with his detestable knowing look. There behind him came the Wiseacre. It was one of those little coincidences of a drummer’s life which so often find the same parties together again. ”

“ When a story is a story, is it a combination of plot, character, and setting or is it determined by only one of these three elements? Must it end when you have ended it or must it suggest something beyond the reading? I shall not attempt to answer these questions. The definition of the short story should be relegated to the realm of “What is Humor?” “Who is the mother of the chickens?” and “How Old is Ann?” If you really wish to vary the monotony of your intellectual life and get it away from “Who Wrote Shakespeare?” or “Who killed Jack Robinson?” ”

“ He sat on a corner of a typewriter desk, swinging one leg, while he raged inwardly at the insolent city editor. Bread or no bread, he could not work himself into spasms of enthusiasm over a near society woman’s photograph for a cheap story. He was too old in the game for such child’s play.
The noisy opening of the door between the managing editor’s room and the office of the city editor roused him. He heard the managing editor’s voice.
“Got any line on that bank cashier?”
“Not yet, sir,” replied the city editor, “but every live man on the staff is out on the story.” ”

“ Topham awoke again in the dark small hours when man’s vitality is at its lowest ebb; awoke with that familiar depression, as of a chill hand gripping his heart—squeezing his very soul. It was Death, again, groping for him. Only his brain seemed clear. He tinkled, with a supreme effort, the bell at his bedside. A nurse came, her face indistinct in the dim light, and bent over him in an attitude of solicitation. ”

“ Westward moved the soldiers, like a swarm of locusts. But they left something behind, an integral part of themselves, their collective brain. About the house of Hans Schmidt sentries were posted. Mechanics, working quietly, swiftly, as if they had known long since what they must do, laid wires into his modest parlour, connected it by telephone and telegraph with Berlin, with the ever-moving forces to the west. In Hans Schmidt’s bed slept a corps commander; the whole house was given up to the staff. He himself was allowed a cot in the kitchen. ”

“ A short story must be a picture out of real life which gives the reader a definite sensation, such as he gets upon looking at a masterpiece of painting. While it must be complete in itself, the art of it lies in what it suggests to the reader beyond its own limits. ”

“ In Mike Kallaher’s kitchen—for it had suddenly become his own, after belonging for fifteen years to his wife—a poor, meek, unhappy-looking Irishwoman was obeying orders. She jumped when he yelled at her, which he did every two minutes to see her jump, begged his pardon, brought his pipe, and looked on in silence when he deliberately knocked out the ashes on the newly scrubbed floor. A man who could throw a horse out of a ditch would stop at nothing. ”

“ Living, working, dreaming together, Vroom and I became almost as one intelligence in our passionate study of the anatomy of the eye. Vroom it was who advanced the theory that a living eye-ball might be transferred from the head of one man to the head of another. It was I who suggested, and arranged for, the operation, performed by Professor Malhausen, through which Vroom’s left eye became mine and my left eye became Vroom’s. Professor Malhausen’s monograph, published shortly afterward, describes the delicate operation in detail. The ultimate effects of the operation are my own story. ”

“ Outside on Golden Street crowds surged up and down. There were miners, promoters, engineers, cooks, crooks, tin horns and wildcatters; good women, bad women, and boarding-house keepers. Adventurers all; each confident that to-morrow would bring him fortune.
The Bodega overflowed with a good-humoured crowd that stood four deep at the bar. Around the crap table was a restless throng, drawn by the dealer’s recitative, a curious chant detailing the fortunes of Big Dick from Boston, Little Joe, Miss Phoebe, and many more of the fanciful folk that indicate the fall of the dice. ”

“ The day’s work had been hard, and supper inadequate; in her dreams there came the taste of a carrot, succulent, crunchy, tender, but solid, a carrot such as the little boy used to give her—the little boy who lived on the long street of the hard pavement and the many car-tracks. That was in the days when Estevan and she had carried fruit and vegetables in the old cart, and pleasantly, had stopped before many houses, often three and four times in a block. ”

“ Covered with blood, a German officer lay down. He menaced Dupin with his empty pistol, when, realizing that everything was over for him, he threw the gun, with a wild laugh, and defiantly and haughtily looked at Dupin. The cold, blue eyes of the Teuton did not mistake Dupin’s sentiment. To the corporal’s dark, glancing eyes they returned hatred for hatred. Dupin thought that the submarine’s commander must have had the same likeness. Yes, this man would pay dearly for the cold-blooded murderer’s debt. ”

“ Nine weeks later Blackburn, tying his tie before the mirror in his cabin, felt a curious interest in seeing his two friends as had been arranged at their previous meeting. They would have received their mail from home even as he had received his, but it was with a thrill of satisfaction that he remembered he had not endangered his own or his wife’s happiness in what he considered the mad manner of his friends. ”

“ He would confront her with Vicente, Lawrence thought, but as the battlements of Ulloa Castle came in sight, the “Place of Executions” suggested another idea.
“Halt!” He formed a firing platoon and blind-folded the prisoner. Thinking of Vicente’s story of the guns, he asserted, as if he meant it, “With my own eyes, during the fighting, I saw your gun boxes taken from the arsenal. Where are they now?”
La Pava gave no answer. She folded her arms and held her head proudly.
“Ready!... Aim!...” Lawrence raised the muzzle of the sergeant’s gun; the men, following this lead, aimed high. ”

“ He sat down on the edge of the fountain, and she moved up beside him, touching him, a divine friendliness in her deep blue eyes.
“How did they tire you—child?” he asked her gently.
“They are all so artificial—and so conscious. We are taught how terrible this consciousness of self and sex is. Hellena Morris teaches us that woman is only really beautiful, really strong, when she is quite unconscious and unstudied.” ”

“ Moloney and Finnessy reached for each other.
Back in the trenches of the Irish Guards the young subaltern, peering through a loop-hole, saw dimly through the growing dusk the struggles of Moloney and Finnessy.
“Poor devils,” he muttered, “must be in agony. Didn’t know any were left alive out there.”
Even as he spoke a wiry figure beside him sprang to the top of the parapet and started toward the struggling men. ”

“ About an hour later a large, overbearing woman of the superdreadnought type steamed majestically to the desk, a small and timid-looking individual in her wake. After taking the mail that had accumulated in the box she stalked imposingly to the elevator, accompanied by the timid person, who, by his conduct, appeared to be her husband.
When the couple got to their room Mrs. George Jones sat down and scanned the family mail. As she read, the colour flooded her expansive face like a sunset, then receded, leaving her chalky white with rage. Her unfortunate spouse cowered in a corner. ”

“ Nature had made Betty very attractive, but her job had made her independent.
The lawyer was bitterly despondent. Law practice in Clayton Center was no longer lucrative. Although Allen was very dextrous in twisting three-ply bandages around the eyes of the Lady with the Scales, the Lady with the Pencil at the right of the Judge was not so blind. The citizens of Clayton Center had developed a spineless, milksop tendency to settle even their constitutional rights out of court. Besides Betty’s seven dollars a day Allen’s income looked as ill-fed as a dromedary in an elephant parade. ”

“ Von Dee’s words came back to him. What horrible fate—which legend held was worse than death—met those who passed beyond the Black Door? He knew that not one of death prisoners had dared to pass beyond it. Each had chosen death at the hands of the firing squad. ”

“ A few yards back, where the spring crossed the trail, there were tracks of a woman’s shoe-pack. It was country where one didn’t live long without the habit of noticing things. The tracks were light, mostly toes, and far apart for so small a foot. Johnson knew no woman travelled north so fast, into the wilderness, and without a pack, at that, for diversion, so he had sidestepped from the trail, silently slipped off his tump-line, and circled to the edge of the clearing, about a dozen yards from where the trail struck it. There in the shadow of the pines he searched the clearing with his eyes. ”

“ She hurried into the kitchen, wisely remembering Fred’s insistence that she must never unlock the screen door to a stranger before she discovered his design. No well-dressed youth seeking to pay his way through college by getting subscriptions for “The Woman’s Life and Fashion Bazaar” could find in his patter the countersign to win him admittance; no grizzled gypsy with shining tins to barter for old shoes knew the magic word to make the hook fly up under Delia’s cautious hand. ”

“ There was a click of a typewriter in an anteroom. Betty Lane, the court stenographer, was down early working out some notes.
Ben T. Allen went in, laid his hat debonairly on a stack of notebooks, sat on the edge of her desk, and locked his hands around his knees and smiled possessively.
“Why, good morning, Mr. Allen.” Betty looked up and nodded. “Allow me to congratulate you.”
“For what?”
“Why, haven’t you seen the supreme court’s decision in this morning’s paper? You won your case. Peter Shaw does not have to pay his annual five-dollar merchant tax.”
“Good!” exclaimed Allen. ”