The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Amateur, by Richard Harding Davis

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: The Amateur

Author: Richard Harding Davis

Release Date: May 12, 2006 [EBook #1822]
Last Updated: September 26, 2016

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AMATEUR ***




Produced by Don Lainson





THE AMATEUR


By Richard Harding Davis




I


It was February off the Banks, and so thick was the weather that, on
the upper decks, one could have driven a sleigh. Inside the smoking-room
Austin Ford, as securely sheltered from the blizzard as though he had
been sitting in front of a wood fire at his club, ordered hot gin for
himself and the ship’s doctor. The ship’s doctor had gone below on
another “hurry call” from the widow. At the first luncheon on board the
widow had sat on the right of Doctor Sparrow, with Austin Ford facing
her. But since then, except to the doctor, she had been invisible. So,
at frequent intervals, the ill health of the widow had deprived Ford of
the society of the doctor. That it deprived him, also, of the society
of the widow did not concern him. HER life had not been spent upon ocean
liners; she could not remember when state-rooms were named after the
States of the Union. She could not tell him of shipwrecks and salvage,
of smugglers and of the modern pirates who found their victims in the
smoking-room.

Ford was on his way to England to act as the London correspondent of the
New York Republic. For three years on that most sensational of the New
York dailies he had been the star man, the chief muckraker, the chief
sleuth. His interest was in crime. Not in crimes committed in passion or
inspired by drink, but in such offences against law and society as
are perpetrated with nice intelligence. The murderer, the burglar, the
strong-arm men who, in side streets, waylay respectable citizens did not
appeal to him. The man he studied, pursued, and exposed was the cashier
who evolved a new method of covering up his peculations, the dishonest
president of an insurance company, the confidence man who used no
concealed weapon other than his wit. Toward the criminals he pursued
young Ford felt no personal animosity. He harassed them as he would
have shot a hawk killing chickens. Not because he disliked the hawk,
but because the battle was unequal, and because he felt sorry for the
chickens.

Had you called Austin Ford an amateur detective he would have been
greatly annoyed. He argued that his position was similar to that of
the dramatic critic. The dramatic critic warned the public against bad
plays; Ford warned it against bad men. Having done that, he left it to
the public to determine whether the bad man should thrive or perish.

When the managing editor told him of his appointment to London, Ford had
protested that his work lay in New York; that of London and the English,
except as a tourist and sight-seer, he knew nothing.

“That’s just why we are sending you,” explained the managing editor.
“Our readers are ignorant. To make them read about London you’ve got
to tell them about themselves in London. They like to know who’s been
presented at court, about the American girls who have married dukes; and
which ones opened a bazaar, and which one opened a hat shop, and which
is getting a divorce. Don’t send us anything concerning suffragettes and
Dreadnaughts. Just send us stuff about Americans. If you take your meals
in the Carlton grill-room and drink at the Cecil you can pick up more
good stories than we can print. You will find lots of your friends over
there. Some of those girls who married dukes,” he suggested, “know you,
don’t they?”

“Not since they married dukes,” said Ford.

“Well, anyway, all your other friends will be there,” continued the
managing editor encouragingly. “Now that they have shut up the tracks
here all the con men have gone to London. They say an American can’t
take a drink at the Salisbury without his fellow-countrymen having a
fight as to which one will sell him a gold brick.”

Ford’s eyes lightened in pleasurable anticipation.

“Look them over,” urged the managing editor, “and send us a special.
Call it ‘The American Invasion.’ Don’t you see a story in it?”

“It will be the first one I send you,” said Ford. The ship’s doctor
returned from his visit below decks and sank into the leather cushion
close to Ford’s elbow. For a few moments the older man sipped doubtfully
at his gin and water, and, as though perplexed, rubbed his hand over his
bald and shining head. “I told her to talk to you,” he said fretfully.

“Her? Who?” inquired Ford. “Oh, the widow?”

“You were right about that,” said Doctor Sparrow; “she is not a widow.”

The reporter smiled complacently.

“Do you know why I thought not?” he demanded. “Because all the time she
was at luncheon she kept turning over her wedding-ring as though she was
not used to it. It was a new ring, too. I told you then she was not a
widow.”

“Do you always notice things like that?” asked the doctor.

“Not on purpose,” said the amateur detective; “I can’t help it. I see
ten things where other people see only one; just as some men run ten
times as fast as other men. We have tried it out often at the office;
put all sorts of junk under a newspaper, lifted the newspaper for five
seconds, and then each man wrote down what he had seen. Out of twenty
things I would remember seventeen. The next best guess would be about
nine. Once I saw a man lift his coat collar to hide his face. It was in
the Grand Central Station. I stopped him, and told him he was wanted.
Turned out he WAS wanted. It was Goldberg, making his getaway to
Canada.”

“It is a gift,” said the doctor.

“No, it’s a nuisance,” laughed the reporter. “I see so many things I
don’t want to see. I see that people are wearing clothes that are not
made for them. I see when women are lying to me. I can see when men are
on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and whether it is drink or debt or
morphine--”

The doctor snorted triumphantly.

“You did not see that the widow was on the verge of a breakdown!”

“No,” returned the reporter. “Is she? I’m sorry.”

“If you’re sorry,” urged the doctor eagerly, “you’ll help her. She is
going to London alone to find her husband. He has disappeared. She
thinks that he has been murdered, or that he is lying ill in some
hospital. I told her if any one could help her to find him you could. I
had to say something. She’s very ill.”

“To find her husband in London?” repeated Ford. “London is a large
town.”

“She has photographs of him and she knows where he spends his time,”
 pleaded the doctor. “He is a company promoter. It should be easy for
you.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want her to find him,” said Ford. “Then it wouldn’t be
so easy for me.”

The old doctor sighed heavily. “I know,” he murmured. “I thought of
that, too. And she is so very pretty.”

“That was another thing I noticed,” said Ford.

The doctor gave no heed.

“She must stop worrying,” he exclaimed, “or she will have a mental
collapse. I have tried sedatives, but they don’t touch her. I want to
give her courage. She is frightened. She’s left a baby boy at home, and
she’s fearful that something will happen to him, and she’s frightened
at being at sea, frightened at being alone in London; it’s pitiful.” The
old man shook his head. “Pitiful! Will you talk to her now?” he asked.

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Ford. “She doesn’t want to tell the story of her
life to strange young men.”

“But it was she suggested it,” cried the doctor. “She asked me if you
were Austin Ford, the great detective.”

Ford snorted scornfully. “She did not!” he protested. His tone was that
of a man who hopes to be contradicted.

“But she did,” insisted the doctor, “and I told her your specialty was
tracing persons. Her face lightened at once; it gave her hope. She will
listen to you. Speak very gently and kindly and confidently. Say you are
sure you can find him.”

“Where is the lady now?” asked Ford.

Doctor Sparrow scrambled eagerly to his feet. “She cannot leave her
cabin,” he answered.

The widow, as Ford and Doctor Sparrow still thought of her, was lying on
the sofa that ran the length of the state-room, parallel with the lower
berth. She was fully dressed, except that instead of her bodice she wore
a kimono that left her throat and arms bare. She had been sleeping,
and when their entrance awoke her, her blue eyes regarded them
uncomprehendingly. Ford, hidden from her by the doctor, observed that
not only was she very pretty, but that she was absurdly young, and
that the drowsy smile she turned upon the old man before she noted the
presence of Ford was as innocent as that of a baby. Her cheeks were
flushed, her eyes brilliant, her yellow curls had become loosened and
were spread upon the pillow. When she saw Ford she caught the kimono so
closely around her throat that she choked. Had the doctor not pushed her
down she would have stood.

“I thought,” she stammered, “he was an OLD man.”

The doctor, misunderstanding, hastened to reassure her. “Mr. Ford is old
in experience,” he said soothingly. “He has had remarkable success.
Why, he found a criminal once just because the man wore a collar. And
he found Walsh, the burglar, and Phillips, the forger, and a gang of
counterfeiters--”

Mrs. Ashton turned upon him, her eyes wide with wonder. “But MY
husband,” she protested, “is not a criminal!”

“My dear lady!” the doctor cried. “I did not mean that, of course not. I
meant, if Mr. Ford can find men who don’t wish to be found, how easy for
him to find a man who--” He turned helplessly to Ford. “You tell her,”
 he begged.

Ford sat down on a steamer trunk that protruded from beneath the berth,
and, turning to the widow, gave her the full benefit of his working
smile. It was confiding, helpless, appealing. It showed a trustfulness
in the person to whom it was addressed that caused that individual to
believe Ford needed protection from a wicked world.

“Doctor Sparrow tells me,” began Ford timidly, “you have lost your
husband’s address; that you will let me try to find him. If I can help
in any way I should be glad.”

The young girl regarded him, apparently, with disappointment. It was
as though Doctor Sparrow had led her to expect a man full of years
and authority, a man upon whom she could lean; not a youth whose smile
seemed to beg one not to scold him. She gave Ford three photographs,
bound together with a string.

“When Doctor Sparrow told me you could help me I got out these,” she
said.

Ford jotted down a mental note to the effect that she “got them out.”
 That is, she did not keep them where she could always look at them. That
she was not used to look at them was evident by the fact that they were
bound together.

The first photograph showed three men standing in an open place and
leaning on a railing. One of them was smiling toward the photographer.
He was a good-looking young man of about thirty years of age, well fed,
well dressed, and apparently well satisfied with the world and himself.
Ford’s own smile had disappeared. His eyes were alert and interested.

“The one with the Panama hat pulled down over his eyes is your husband?”
 he asked.

“Yes,” assented the widow. Her tone showed slight surprise.

“This was taken about a year ago?” inquired Ford. “Must have been,” he
answered himself; “they haven’t raced at the Bay since then. This was
taken in front of the club stand--probably for the Telegraph?” He lifted
his eyes inquiringly.

Rising on her elbow the young wife bent forward toward the photograph.
“Does it say that there,” she asked doubtfully. “How did you guess
that?”

In his role as chorus the ship’s doctor exclaimed with enthusiasm:
“Didn’t I tell you? He’s wonderful.”

Ford cut him off impatiently. “You never saw a rail as high as
that except around a racetrack,” he muttered. “And the badge in his
buttonhole and the angle of the stand all show--”

He interrupted himself to address the widow. “This is an owner’s badge.
What was the name of his stable?”

“I don’t know,” she answered. She regarded the young man with sudden
uneasiness. “They only owned one horse, but I believe that gave them the
privilege of--”

“I see,” exclaimed Ford. “Your husband is a bookmaker. But in London he
is a promoter of companies.”

“So my friend tells me,” said Mrs. Ashton. “She’s just got back from
London. Her husband told her that Harry, my husband, was always at the
American bar in the Cecil or at the Salisbury or the Savoy.” The girl
shook her head. “But a woman can’t go looking for a man there,” she
protested. “That’s why I thought you--”

“That’ll be all right,” Ford assured her hurriedly. “It’s a coincidence,
but it happens that my own work takes me to these hotels, and if your
husband is there I will find him.” He returned the photographs.

“Hadn’t you better keep one?” she asked.

“I won’t forget him,” said the reporter. “Besides”--he turned his eyes
toward the doctor and, as though thinking aloud, said--“he may have
grown a beard.”

There was a pause.

The eyes of the woman grew troubled. Her lips pressed together as though
in a sudden access of pain.

“And he may,” Ford continued, “have changed his name.”

As though fearful, if she spoke, the tears would fall, the girl nodded
her head stiffly.

Having learned what he wanted to know Ford applied to the wound a
soothing ointment of promises and encouragement.

“He’s as good as found,” he protested. “You will see him in a day, two
days after you land.”

The girl’s eyes opened happily. She clasped her hands together and
raised them.

“You will try?” she begged. “You will find him for me”--she corrected
herself eagerly--“for me and the baby?”

The loose sleeves of the kimono fell back to her shoulders showing the
white arms; the eyes raised to Ford were glistening with tears.

“Of course I will find him,” growled the reporter.

He freed himself from the appeal in the eyes of the young mother
and left the cabin. The doctor followed. He was bubbling over with
enthusiasm.

“That was fine!” he cried. “You said just the right thing. There will be
no collapse now.”

His satisfaction was swept away in a burst of disgust.

“The blackguard!” he protested. “To desert a wife as young as that and
as pretty as that.”

“So I have been thinking,” said the reporter. “I guess,” he added
gravely, “what is going to happen is that before I find her husband I
will have got to know him pretty well.”

Apparently, young Mrs. Ashton believed everything would come to pass
just as Ford promised it would and as he chose to order it; for the next
day, with a color not born of fever in her cheeks and courage in
her eyes, she joined Ford and the doctor at the luncheon-table. Her
attention was concentrated on the younger man. In him she saw the one
person who could bring her husband to her.

“She acts,” growled the doctor later in the smoking-room, “as though
she was afraid you were going to back out of your promise and jump
overboard.”

“Don’t think,” he protested violently, “it’s you she’s interested in.
All she sees in you is what you can do for her. Can you see that?”

“Any one as clever at seeing things as I am,” returned the reporter,
“cannot help but see that.”

Later, as Ford was walking on the upper deck, Mrs. Ashton came toward
him, beating her way against the wind. Without a trace of coquetry or
self-consciousness, and with a sigh of content, she laid her hand on his
arm.

“When I don’t see you,” she exclaimed as simply as a child, “I feel so
frightened. When I see you I know all will come right. Do you mind if I
walk with you?” she asked. “And do you mind if every now and then I ask
you to tell me again it will all come right?”

For the three days following Mrs. Ashton and Ford were constantly
together. Or, at least, Mrs. Ashton was constantly with Ford. She told
him that when she sat in her cabin the old fears returned to her, and in
these moments of panic she searched the ship for him.

The doctor protested that he was growing jealous.

“I’m not so greatly to be envied,” suggested Ford. “‘Harry’ at
meals three times a day and on deck all the rest of the day becomes
monotonous. On a closer acquaintance with Harry he seems to be a decent
sort of a young man; at least he seems to have been at one time very
much in love with her.”

“Well,” sighed the doctor sentimentally, “she is certainly very much in
love with Harry.”

Ford shook his head non-committingly. “I don’t know her story,” he said.
“Don’t want to know it.”

The ship was in the channel, on her way to Cherbourg, and running as
smoothly as a clock. From the shore friendly lights told them they were
nearing their journey’s end; that the land was on every side. Seated
on a steamer-chair next to his in the semi-darkness of the deck, Mrs.
Ashton began to talk nervously and eagerly.

“Now that we are so near,” she murmured, “I have got to tell you
something. If you did not know I would feel I had not been fair. You
might think that when you were doing so much for me I should have been
more honest.”

She drew a long breath. “It’s so hard,” she said.

“Wait,” commanded Ford. “Is it going to help me to find him?”

“No.”

“Then don’t tell me.”

His tone caused the girl to start. She leaned toward him and peered
into his face. His eyes, as he looked back to her, were kind and
comprehending.

“You mean,” said the amateur detective, “that your husband has deserted
you. That if it were not for the baby you would not try to find him. Is
that it?”

Mrs. Ashton breathed quickly and turned her face away.

“Yes,” she whispered. “That is it.”

There was a long pause. When she faced him again the fact that there was
no longer a secret between them seemed to give her courage.

“Maybe,” she said, “you can understand. Maybe you can tell me what it
means. I have thought and thought. I have gone over it and over it until
when I go back to it my head aches. I have done nothing else but think,
and I can’t make it seem better. I can’t find any excuse. I have had no
one to talk to, no one I could tell. I have thought maybe a man could
understand.” She raised her eyes appealingly.

“If you can only make it seem less cruel. Don’t you see,” she cried
miserably, “I want to believe; I want to forgive him. I want to think he
loves me. Oh! I want so to be able to love him; but how can I? I can’t!
I can’t!”

In the week in which they had been thrown together the girl
unconsciously had told Ford much about herself and her husband. What she
now told him was but an amplification of what he had guessed.

She had met Ashton a year and a half before, when she had just left
school at the convent and had returned to live with her family. Her home
was at Far Rockaway. Her father was a cashier in a bank at Long Island
City. One night, with a party of friends, she had been taken to a dance
at one of the beach hotels, and there met Ashton. At that time he was
one of a firm that was making book at the Aqueduct race-track. The girl
had met very few men and with them was shy and frightened, but with
Ashton she found herself at once at ease. That night he drove her and
her friends home in his touring-car and the next day they teased her
about her conquest. It made her very happy. After that she went to hops
at the hotel, and as the bookmaker did not dance, the two young people
sat upon the piazza. Then Ashton came to see her at her own house, but
when her father learned that the young man who had been calling upon her
was a bookmaker he told him he could not associate with his daughter.

But the girl was now deeply in love with Ashton, and apparently he with
her. He begged her to marry him. They knew that to this, partly from
prejudice and partly owing to his position in the bank, her father would
object. Accordingly they agreed that in August, when the racing moved to
Saratoga, they would run away and get married at that place. Their plan
was that Ashton would leave for Saratoga with the other racing men, and
that she would join him the next day.

They had arranged to be married by a magistrate, and Ashton had shown
her a letter from one at Saratoga who consented to perform the ceremony.
He had given her an engagement ring and two thousand dollars, which he
asked her to keep for him, lest tempted at the track he should lose it.

But she assured Ford it was not such material things as a letter, a
ring, or gift of money that had led her to trust Ashton. His fear of
losing her, his complete subjection to her wishes, his happiness in her
presence, all seemed to prove that to make her happy was his one wish,
and that he could do anything to make her unhappy appeared impossible.

They were married the morning she arrived at Saratoga; and the same day
departed for Niagara Falls and Quebec. The honeymoon lasted ten days.
They were ten days of complete happiness. No one, so the girl declared,
could have been more kind, more unselfishly considerate than her
husband. They returned to Saratoga and engaged a suite of rooms at one
of the big hotels. Ashton was not satisfied with the rooms shown him,
and leaving her upstairs returned to the office floor to ask for others.

Since that moment his wife had never seen him nor heard from him.

On the day of her marriage young Mrs. Ashton had written to her father,
asking him to give her his good wishes and pardon. He refused both. As
she had feared, he did not consider that for a bank clerk a gambler made
a desirable son-in-law; and the letters he wrote his daughter were
so bitter that in reply she informed him he had forced her to choose
between her family and her husband, and that she chose her husband.
In consequence, when she found herself deserted she felt she could not
return to her people. She remained in Saratoga. There she moved into
cheap lodgings, and in order that the two thousand dollars Ashton
had left with her might be saved for his child, she had learned to
type-write, and after four months had been able to support herself.
Within the last month a girl friend, who had known both Ashton and
herself before they were married, had written her that her husband was
living in London. For the sake of her son she had at once determined to
make an effort to seek him out.

“The son, nonsense!” exclaimed the doctor, when Ford retold the story.
“She is not crossing the ocean because she is worried about the future
of her son. She seeks her own happiness. The woman is in love with her
husband.”

Ford shook his head.

“I don’t know!” he objected. “She’s so extravagant in her praise of
Harry that it seems unreal. It sounds insincere. Then, again, when I
swear I will find him she shows a delight that you might describe as
savage, almost vindictive. As though, if I did find Harry, the first
thing she would do would be to stick a knife in him.”

“Maybe,” volunteered the doctor sadly, “she has heard there is a woman
in the case. Maybe she is the one she’s thinking of sticking the knife
into?”

“Well,” declared the reporter, “if she doesn’t stop looking savage every
time I promise to find Harry I won’t find Harry. Why should I act the
part of Fate, anyway? How do I know that Harry hasn’t got a wife in
London and several in the States? How do we know he didn’t leave his
country for his country’s good? That’s what it looks like to me. How can
we tell what confronted him the day he went down to the hotel desk to
change his rooms and, instead, got into his touring-car and beat the
speed limit to Canada. Whom did he meet in the hotel corridor? A woman
with a perfectly good marriage certificate, or a detective with a
perfectly good warrant? Or did Harry find out that his bride had a devil
of a temper of her own, and that for him marriage was a failure? The
widow is certainly a very charming young woman, but there may be two
sides to this.”

“You are a cynic, sir,” protested the doctor.

“That may be,” growled the reporter, “but I am not a private detective
agency, or a matrimonial bureau, and before I hear myself saying, ‘Bless
you, my children!’ both of these young people will have to show me why
they should not be kept asunder.”




II


On the afternoon of their arrival in London Ford convoyed Mrs. Ashton to
an old-established private hotel in Craven Street.

“Here,” he explained, “you will be within a few hundred yards of the
place in which your husband is said to spend his time. I will be living
in the same hotel. If I find him you will know it in ten minutes.”

The widow gave a little gasp, whether of excitement or of happiness Ford
could not determine.

“Whatever happens,” she begged, “will you let me hear from you
sometimes? You are the only person I know in London--and--it’s so big it
frightens me. I don’t want to be a burden,” she went on eagerly, “but if
I can feel you are within call--”

“What you need,” said Ford heartily, “is less of the doctor’s nerve
tonic and sleeping draughts, and a little innocent diversion. To-night I
am going to take you to the Savoy to supper.”

Mrs. Ashton exclaimed delightedly, and then was filled with misgivings.

“I have nothing to wear,” she protested, “and over here, in the evening,
the women dress so well. I have a dinner gown,” she exclaimed, “but it’s
black. Would that do?”

Ford assured her nothing could be better. He had a man’s vanity in
liking a woman with whom he was seen in public to be pretty and smartly
dressed, and he felt sure that in black the blond beauty of Mrs. Ashton
would appear to advantage. They arranged to meet at eleven on the
promenade leading to the Savoy supper-room, and parted with mutual
satisfaction at the prospect.


The finding of Harry Ashton was so simple that in its very simplicity it
appeared spectacular.

On leaving Mrs. Ashton, Ford engaged rooms at the Hotel Cecil. Before
visiting his rooms he made his way to the American bar. He did not go
there seeking Harry Ashton. His object was entirely self-centred. His
purpose was to drink to himself and to the lights of London. But as
though by appointment, the man he had promised to find was waiting for
him. As Ford entered the room, at a table facing the door sat Ashton.
There was no mistaking him. He wore a mustache, but it was no disguise.
He was the same good-natured, good-looking youth who, in the photograph
from under a Panama hat, had smiled upon the world. With a glad cry Ford
rushed toward him.

“Fancy meeting YOU!” he exclaimed.

Mr. Ashton’s good-natured smile did not relax. He merely shook his head.

“Afraid you have made a mistake,” he said. The reporter regarded him
blankly. His face showed his disappointment.

“Aren’t you Charles W. Garrett, of New York?” he demanded.

“Not me,” said Mr. Ashton.

“But,” Ford insisted in hurt tones, as though he were being trifled
with, “you have been told you look like him, haven’t you?”

Mr. Ashton’s good nature was unassailable.

“Sorry,” he declared, “never heard of him.”

Ford became garrulous, he could not believe two men could look so much
alike. It was a remarkable coincidence. The stranger must certainly
have a drink, the drink intended for his twin. Ashton was bored, but
accepted. He was well acquainted with the easy good-fellowship of his
countrymen. The room in which he sat was a meeting-place for them. He
considered that they were always giving each other drinks, and not only
were they always introducing themselves, but saying, “Shake hands with
my friend, Mr. So-and-So.” After five minutes they showed each other
photographs of the children. This one, though as loquacious as the
others, seemed better dressed, more “wise”; he brought to the exile the
atmosphere of his beloved Broadway, so Ashton drank to him pleasantly.

“My name is Sydney Carter,” he volunteered.

As a poker-player skims over the cards in his hand, Ford, in his mind’s
eye, ran over the value of giving or not giving his right name. He
decided that Ashton would not have heard it and that, if he gave a false
one, there was a chance that later Ashton might find out that he had
done so. Accordingly he said, “Mine is Austin Ford,” and seated himself
at Ashton’s table. Within ten minutes the man he had promised to
pluck from among the eight million inhabitants of London was smiling
sympathetically at his jests and buying a drink.

On the steamer Ford had rehearsed the story with which, should he meet
Ashton, he would introduce himself. It was one arranged to fit with his
theory that Ashton was a crook. If Ashton were a crook Ford argued
that to at once ingratiate himself in his good graces he also must be
a crook. His plan was to invite Ashton to co-operate with him in some
scheme that was openly dishonest. By so doing he hoped apparently to
place himself at Ashton’s mercy. He believed if he could persuade Ashton
he was more of a rascal than Ashton himself, and an exceedingly
stupid rascal, any distrust the bookmaker might feel toward him would
disappear. He made his advances so openly, and apparently showed his
hand so carelessly, that, from being bored, Ashton became puzzled,
then interested; and when Ford insisted he should dine with him, he
considered it so necessary to find out who the youth might be who was
forcing himself upon him that he accepted the invitation.

They adjourned to dress and an hour later, at Ford’s suggestion, they
met at the Carlton. There Ford ordered a dinner calculated to lull his
newly made friend into a mood suited to confidence, but which had on
Ashton exactly the opposite effect. Merely for the pleasure of his
company, utter strangers were not in the habit of treating him to
strawberries in February, and vintage champagne; and, in consequence, in
Ford’s hospitality he saw only cause for suspicion. If, as he had first
feared, Ford was a New York detective, it was most important he should
know that. No one better than Ashton understood that, at that moment,
his presence in New York meant, for the police, unalloyed satisfaction,
and for himself undisturbed solitude. But Ford was unlike any detective
of his acquaintance; and his acquaintance had been extensive. It
was true Ford was familiar with all the habits of Broadway and the
Tenderloin. Of places with which Ashton was intimate, and of men with
whom Ashton had formerly been well acquainted, he talked glibly. But, if
he were a detective, Ashton considered, they certainly had improved the
class.

The restaurant into which for the first time Ashton had penetrated,
and in which he felt ill at ease, was to Ford, he observed, a matter
of course. Evidently for Ford it held no terrors. He criticised the
service, patronized the head waiters, and grumbled at the food; and
when, on leaving the restaurant, an Englishman and his wife stopped at
their table to greet him, he accepted their welcome to London without
embarrassment.

Ashton, rolling his cigar between his lips, observed the incident with
increasing bewilderment.

“You’ve got some swell friends,” he growled. “I’ll bet you never met
THEM at Healey’s!”

“I meet all kinds of people in my business,” said Ford. “I once sold
that man some mining stock, and the joke of it was,” he added, smiling
knowingly, “it turned out to be good.”

Ashton decided that the psychological moment had arrived.

“What IS your business?” he asked.

“I’m a company promoter,” said Ford easily. “I thought I told you.”

“I did not tell you that I was a company promoter, too, did I?” demanded
Ashton.

“No,” answered Ford, with apparent surprise. “Are you? That’s funny.”

Ashton watched for the next move, but the subject seemed in no way to
interest Ford. Instead of following it up he began afresh.

“Have you any money lying idle?” he asked abruptly. “About a thousand
pounds.”

Ashton recognized that the mysterious stranger was about to disclose
both himself and whatever object he had in seeking him out. He cast a
quick glance about him.

“I can always find money,” he said guardedly. “What’s the proposition?”

With pretended nervousness Ford leaned forward and began the story
he had rehearsed. It was a new version of an old swindle and to every
self-respecting confidence man was well known as the “sick engineer”
 game. The plot is very simple. The sick engineer is supposed to be a
mining engineer who, as an expert, has examined a gold mine and reported
against it. For his services the company paid him partly in stock. He
falls ill and is at the point of death. While he has been ill much gold
has been found in the mine he examined, and the stock which he considers
worthless is now valuable. Of this, owing to his illness, he is
ignorant. One confidence man acts the part of the sick engineer, and the
other that of a broker who knows the engineer possesses the stock but
has no money with which to purchase it from him. For a share of the
stock he offers to tell the dupe where it and the engineer can be found.
They visit the man, apparently at the point of death, and the dupe gives
him money for his stock. Later the dupe finds the stock is worthless,
and the supposed engineer and the supposed broker divide the money he
paid for it. In telling the story Ford pretended he was the broker and
that he thought in Ashton he had found a dupe who would buy the stock
from the sick engineer.

As the story unfolded and Ashton appreciated the part Ford expected
him to play in it, his emotions were so varied that he was in danger
of apoplexy. Amusement, joy, chagrin, and indignation illuminated his
countenance. His cigar ceased to burn, and with his eyes opened wide he
regarded Ford in pitying wonder.

“Wait!” he commanded. He shook his head uncomprehendingly. “Tell me,” he
asked, “do I look as easy as that, or are you just naturally foolish?”

Ford pretended to fall into a state of great alarm.

“I don’t understand,” he stammered.

“Why, son,” exclaimed Ashton kindly, “I was taught that story in the
public schools. I invented it. I stopped using it before you cut
your teeth. Gee!” he exclaimed delightedly. “I knew I had
grown respectable-looking, but I didn’t think I was so damned
respectable-looking as that!” He began to laugh silently; so greatly was
he amused that the tears shone in his eyes and his shoulders shook.

“I’m sorry for you, son,” he protested, “but that’s the funniest thing
that’s come my way in two years. And you buying me hot-house grapes,
too, and fancy water! I wish you could see your face,” he taunted.

Ford pretended to be greatly chagrined.

“All right,” he declared roughly. “The laugh’s on me this time, but just
because I lost one trick, don’t think I don’t know my business. Now that
I’m wise to what YOU are we can work together and--”

The face of young Mr. Ashton became instantly grave. His jaws
snapped like a trap. When he spoke his tone was assured and slightly
contemptuous.

“Not with ME you can’t work!” he said.

“Don’t think because I fell down on this,” Ford began hotly.

“I’m not thinking of you at all,” said Ashton. “You’re a nice little
fellow all right, but you have sized me up wrong. I am on the ‘straight
and narrow’ that leads back to little old New York and God’s country,
and I am warranted not to run off my trolley.”

The words were in the vernacular, but the tone in which the young man
spoke rang so confidently that it brought to Ford a pleasant thrill
of satisfaction. From the first he had found in the personality of the
young man something winning and likable; a shrewd manliness and tolerant
good-humor. His eyes may have shown his sympathy, for, in sudden
confidence, Ashton leaned nearer.

“It’s like this,” he said. “Several years ago I made a bad break and,
about a year later, they got on to me and I had to cut and run. In a
month the law of limitation lets me loose and I can go back. And you can
bet I’m GOING back. I will be on the bowsprit of the first boat. I’ve
had all I want of the ‘fugitive-from-justice’ game, thank you, and I
have taken good care to keep a clean bill of health so that I won’t
have to play it again. They’ve been trying to get me for several
years--especially the Pinkertons. They have chased me all over Europe.
Chased me with all kinds of men; sometimes with women; they’ve tried
everything except blood-hounds. At first I thought YOU were a ‘Pink,’
that’s why--”

“I!” interrupted Ford, exploding derisively. “That’s GOOD! That’s one
on YOU.” He ceased laughing and regarded Ashton kindly. “How do you know
I’m not?” he asked.

For an instant the face of the bookmaker grew a shade less red and
his eyes searched those of Ford in a quick agony of suspicion. Ford
continued to smile steadily at him, and Ashton breathed with relief.

“I’ll take a chance with you,” he said, “and if you are as bad a
detective as you are a sport I needn’t worry.”

They both laughed, and, with sudden mutual liking, each raised his glass
and nodded.

“But they haven’t got me yet,” continued Ashton, “and unless they get
me in the next thirty days I’m free. So you needn’t think that I’ll help
you. It’s ‘never again’ for me. The first time, that was the fault of
the crowd I ran with; the second time, that would be MY fault. And there
ain’t going to be any second time.”

He shook his head doggedly, and with squared shoulders leaned back in
his chair.

“If it only breaks right for me,” he declared, “I’ll settle down in one
of those ‘Own-your own-homes,’ forty-five minutes from Broadway, and
never leave the wife and the baby.”

The words almost brought Ford to his feet. He had forgotten the wife and
the baby. He endeavored to explain his surprise by a sudden assumption
of incredulity.

“Fancy you married!” he exclaimed.

“Married!” protested Ashton. “I’m married to the finest little lady
that ever wore skirts, and in thirty-seven days I’ll see her again.
Thirty-seven days,” he repeated impatiently. “Gee! That’s a hell of a
long time!”

Ford studied the young man with increased interest. That he was speaking
sincerely, from the heart, there seemed no possible doubt.

Ashton frowned and his face clouded. “I’ve not been able to treat her
just right,” he volunteered. “If she wrote me, the letters might give
them a clew, and I don’t write HER because I don’t want her to know
all my troubles until they’re over. But I know,” he added, “that five
minutes’ talk will set it all right. That is, if she still feels about
me the way I feel about her.”

The man crushed his cigar in his fingers and threw the pieces on the
floor. “That’s what’s been the worst!” he exclaimed bitterly. “Not
hearing, not knowing. It’s been hell!”

His eyes as he raised them were filled with suffering, deep and genuine.

Ford rose suddenly. “Let’s go down to the Savoy for supper,” he said.

“Supper!” growled Ashton. “What’s the use of supper? Do you suppose cold
chicken and a sardine can keep me from THINKING?”

Ford placed his hand on the other’s shoulder.

“You come with me,” he said kindly. “I’m going to do you a favor. I’m
going to bring you a piece of luck. Don’t ask me any questions,” he
commanded hurriedly. “Just take my word for it.”

They had sat so late over their cigars that when they reached the
restaurant on the Embankment the supper-room was already partly
filled, and the corridors and lounge were brilliantly lit and gay with
well-dressed women. Ashton regarded the scene with gloomy eyes. Since
he had spoken of his wife he had remained silent, chewing savagely on a
fresh cigar. But Ford was grandly excited. He did not know exactly what
he intended to do. He was prepared to let events direct themselves, but
of two things he was assured: Mrs. Ashton loved her husband, and her
husband loved her. As the god in the car who was to bring them together,
he felt a delightful responsibility.

The young men left the coat-room and came down the short flight of
steps that leads to the wide lounge of the restaurant. Ford slightly in
advance, searching with his eyes for Mrs Ashton, found her seated alone
in the lounge, evidently waiting for him. At the first glance she was
hardly be recognized. Her low-cut dinner gown of black satin that clung
to her like a wet bath robe was the last word of the new fashion; and
since Ford had seen her her blond hair had been arranged by an artist.
Her appearance was smart, elegant, daring. She was easily the prettiest
and most striking-looking woman in the room, and for an instant Ford
stood gazing at her, trying to find in the self-possessed young woman
the deserted wife of the steamer. She did not see Ford. Her eyes were
following the progress down the hall of a woman, and her profile was
toward him.

The thought of the happiness he was about to bring to two young people
gave Ford the sense of a genuine triumph, and when he turned to
Ashton to point out his wife to him he was thrilling with pride and
satisfaction. His triumph received a bewildering shock. Already Ashton
had discovered the presence of Mrs. Ashton. He was standing transfixed,
lost to his surroundings, devouring her with his eyes. And then, to the
amazement of Ford, his eyes filled with fear, doubt, and anger. Swiftly,
with the movement of a man ducking a blow, he turned and sprang up the
stairs and into the coat-room. Ford, bewildered and more conscious of
his surroundings, followed him less quickly, and was in consequence only
in time to see Ashton, dragging his overcoat behind him, disappear into
the court-yard. He seized his own coat and raced in pursuit. As he ran
into the court-yard Ashton, in the Strand, was just closing the door of
a taxicab, but before the chauffeur could free it from the surrounding
traffic, Ford had dragged the door open, and leaped inside. Ashton was
huddled in the corner, panting, his face pale with alarm.

“What the devil ails you?” roared Ford. “Are you trying to shake me?
You’ve got to come back. You must speak to her.”

“Speak to her!” repeated Ashton. His voice was sunk to a whisper. The
look of alarm in his face was confused with one grim and menacing. “Did
you know she was there?” he demanded softly. “Did you take me there,
knowing--?”

“Of course I knew,” protested Ford. “She’s been looking for you--”

His voice subsided in a squeak of amazement and pain. Ashton’s left hand
had shot out and swiftly seized his throat. With the other he pressed an
automatic revolver against Ford’s shirt front.

“I know she’s been looking for me,” the man whispered thickly. “For two
years she’s been looking for me. I know all about HER! But, WHO IN HELL
ARE YOU?”

Ford, gasping and gurgling, protested loyally.

“You are wrong!” he cried. “She’s been at home waiting for you. She
thinks you have deserted her and your baby. I tell you she loves you,
you fool, she LOVES you!”

The fingers on his throat suddenly relaxed; the flaming eyes of Ashton,
glaring into his, wavered and grew wide with amazement.

“Loves me,” he whispered. “WHO loves me?”

“Your wife,” protested Ford; “the girl at the Savoy, your wife.”

Again the fingers of Ashton pressed deep around his neck.

“That is not my wife,” he whispered. His voice was unpleasantly cold and
grim. “That’s ‘Baby Belle,’ with her hair dyed, a detective lady of the
Pinkertons, hired to find me. And YOU know it. Now, who are YOU?”

To permit him to reply Ashton released his hand, but at the same moment,
in a sudden access of fear, dug the revolver deeper into the pit of
Ford’s stomach.

“Quick!” he commanded. “Never mind the girl. WHO ARE YOU?”

Ford collapsed against the cushioned corner of the cab. “And she begged
me to find you,” he roared, “because she LOVED you, because she wanted
to BELIEVE in you!” He held his arms above his head. “Go ahead and
shoot!” he cried. “You want to know who I am?” he demanded. His voice
rang with rage. “I’m an amateur. Just a natural born fool-amateur! Go on
and shoot!”

The gun in Ashton’s hand sank to his knee. Between doubt and laughter
his face was twisted in strange lines. The cab was whirling through a
narrow, unlit street leading to Covent Garden. Opening the door Ashton
called to the chauffeur, and then turned to Ford.

“You get off here!” he commanded. “Maybe you’re a ‘Pink,’ maybe you’re
a good fellow. I think you’re a good fellow, but I’m not taking any
chances. Get out!”

Ford scrambled to the street, and as the taxicab again butted itself
forward, Ashton leaned far through the window. “Good-by, son,” he
called. “Send me a picture-postal card to Paris. For I am off to
Maxim’s,” he cried, “and you can go to--”

“Not at all!” shouted the amateur detective indignantly. “I’m going back
to take supper with ‘Baby Belle’!”





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Amateur, by Richard Harding Davis

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AMATEUR ***

***** This file should be named 1822-0.txt or 1822-0.zip *****
This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
        http://www.gutenberg.org/1/8/2/1822/

Produced by Don Lainson

Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
will be renamed.

Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
permission and without paying copyright royalties.  Special rules,
set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark.  Project
Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission.  If you
do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
rules is very easy.  You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
research.  They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks.  Redistribution is
subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
redistribution.



*** START: FULL LICENSE ***

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at
http://gutenberg.org/license).


Section 1.  General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works

1.A.  By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement.  If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B.  “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark.  It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement.  There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement.  See
paragraph 1.C below.  There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.  See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C.  The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation”
 or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works.  Nearly all the individual works in the
collection are in the public domain in the United States.  If an
individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
are removed.  Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
the work.  You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D.  The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work.  Copyright laws in most countries are in
a constant state of change.  If you are outside the United States, check
the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
Gutenberg-tm work.  The Foundation makes no representations concerning
the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
States.

1.E.  Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1.  The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

1.E.2.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
or charges.  If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the
work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
1.E.9.

1.E.3.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
terms imposed by the copyright holder.  Additional terms will be linked
to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4.  Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.

1.E.5.  Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg-tm License.

1.E.6.  You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
word processing or hypertext form.  However, if you provide access to or
distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
“Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version
posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other
form.  Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7.  Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8.  You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
that

- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
     the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
     you already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  The fee is
     owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
     has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
     Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.  Royalty payments
     must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
     prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
     returns.  Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
     sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
     address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to
     the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”

- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
     you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
     does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
     License.  You must require such a user to return or
     destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
     and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
     Project Gutenberg-tm works.

- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
     money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
     electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
     of receipt of the work.

- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
     distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.

1.E.9.  If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark.  Contact the
Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1.  Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
collection.  Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
“Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
your equipment.

1.F.2.  LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees.  YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3.  YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3.  LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from.  If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
your written explanation.  The person or entity that provided you with
the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
refund.  If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund.  If the second copy
is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4.  Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’ WITH NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5.  Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
the applicable state law.  The invalidity or unenforceability of any
provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6.  INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.


Section  2.  Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm

Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers.  It exists
because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm’s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
remain freely available for generations to come.  In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org.


Section 3.  Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service.  The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541.  Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at
http://pglaf.org/fundraising.  Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
throughout numerous locations.  Its business office is located at
809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email
business@pglaf.org.  Email contact links and up to date contact
information can be found at the Foundation’s web site and official
page at http://pglaf.org

For additional contact information:
     Dr. Gregory B. Newby
     Chief Executive and Director
     gbnewby@pglaf.org


Section 4.  Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment.  Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States.  Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements.  We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance.  To
SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
particular state visit http://pglaf.org

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States.  U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
methods and addresses.  Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.
To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate


Section 5.  General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.

Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
with anyone.  For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project
Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.


Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we do not necessarily
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.


Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:

     http://www.gutenberg.org

This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.