The Best Short Stories of 1915

New York's West Thirties, a comfy, tight, cosy sort of a cellar. An Italian table d'h?te, of course, though not like the usual; it had more character and less popularity. You seldom

ghts were turned out and chairs were piled up on the tables, out of the way of the early morning mop. By ten Pigalle and his wife and several others, mostly sculptors, scene painters and

untered; some kind of a soul pounding at the walls of my soul. Every time the doorbell tinkles, whoever has this Show is setting a new scene. Or, no. The wall opens and the genie slips throu

mène, waddled over and opened the door a tiny space. Pigalle occasionally sold liquor without a license; hence his caution as to visitors. She let in

th a slightly insolent motion he dragged his chair around sidewise, turned his shoulder to me and stared across the room at a gaudy litho

things to "strangle a parrokeet." This was som

tions of melted stovepipe; mussy, baggy old gray trousers; a blue plush waistcoat; a black, but clean muffler pinned tight up under his chin with a safety pin of the brassiest; and a broad-brimmed black slouch hat, so broad of brim that he walked forever in its shadow. This hat he kept on all the time. His hands were long and clean and white-the virile, sensitive hands of a poet, I tho

, and, with a hoarse burr, called for another. This time he spoke English; but the burr was decidedly Scotch. Pigalle now looked a

yes, as if he intended to spend a considerable time with us. He called for a package of French cigarettes-cigarettes jaunes-and proceeded to color his moustache a riper

out the game. One said something; the other shrieked his answer; the first shouted back; the second in a violent bu

me boomed out with equal violence: "Ben trov

s action, for he turned suddenly to me, an

d that I

Yes. And it is true. Sufficient unto eternity is the glory of the hour, young man.

uestion about the moth. "Who must-what?" I pro

I thought to myself. But he contented himself with breathing for a few moments and that odd film dropped over his eyes. "Just because the thing is ended, and dies out of men's minds almost as soon as it is ended"-he seemed to be feeling slowly for the words-"i

an you make this cl

e. "With your patience. Let me see. I can give you a favorite example of mine, about a frien

o

of my head. Now this yarn about Andy Gordon. Remember," said he, tapping the table with his long white finger, and smiling at me in a charming manner, "sufficient un

d me with his glittering eye and I am going to listen like a three years' child. The very fellow: the "skinny hand," the "long gray beard"-and doubtless, too, the true Ancient