fully, in an offhand way, "Well! I guess that's settled." But he lingered for a moment in the parlor and his exhilaration evaporated. He remembered that he would have to tell Hat how easily he had made free of her home. Even promised to build on a room. And had agreed to let ma take her things

Those things were all about him now. He could not look at the pampas grass sticking up absurd and stiff from the blue-painted vase. The elaborate lace curtains tied back with cords of red plush, the sea shell beside the door, the plants, the ingrain carpet, musty-smelling, and patterned with great sprawling cornucopias of roses— "Oh, pshaw!" he muttered.

He turned uncertainly toward the bedroom door from which he could hear a low murmur. In the intervals the eight-day clock ticked loudly in the kitchen.

No. It was over and done with. He shrugged his shoulders vigorously and put it from him.

It was strange how people seemed to take root in a place. He should think anyone would be glad to leave this rundown, miserable spot. See how the steps were coming apart!

After all, he had to pay the bills and he was entitled to some voice in the matter.

But it was too bad that the way of life was as it was.

As he went out of the house he realized that he could take the six ten as he desired. There were arrangements to make but he could hustle them through in no time if he had to.

He smiled sardonically as he saw Jen's tense listening back.

Lord! He would be glad to get out of that hotel and back to his own home again.

ARKANSAS

BY RAYMOND WEEKS

HIS is not a story. It is not a history. It is a fact.

T

One cannot say that Arkansas belonged to Al

phonse Jaccard or that Alphonse belonged to her. They belonged to each other. In all the annals of Jackson County there is no record of a more mutual affection or of a more mysterious end. A few of the oldest inhabitants still remember their close union, their constant companionship, their disappearance in a blaze of glory.

It all began at the County Fair. The Martin hogs had won all the first prizes except one, while the Jaccard hogs had received only seconds. Tom Martin began all the trouble. As he stood looking at his blue ribboned grunters he declared:

"In the matter of pigs we can beat the world."

Now, this was wrong of Tom. We ought to be modest in victory. Alphonse Jaccard spoke up:

"Hum! anybody can raise fat hogs! As for speed and sense, your hogs ain't nowhere!"

In judging this remark of Alphonse, you should bear in mind the long line of Jaccards and their glorious record: the walls of their parlor were hung with blue ribbons. Since the death of old Mr. Jaccard four years before, the eclipse of the family had begun. Not that no ambitious Jaccards were left; there were plenty of them-five sons and four daughters, all reared in veneration of the past.

But victory avoided them. For three consecutive seasons the County Fair had left the Jaccards broken in spirit, baffled. They returned home in silence and hardly spoke all winter. They did not love one another less for their misfortunes-only, what use was there for words? Would they bring back lost glory? So you will understand Alphonse—you will understand him and sympathize with him when he said:

"Hum! anybody can raise fat hogs. As for speed and sense, your hogs ain't nowhere!"

Tom Martin answered insolently:

"I'll run my pigs against yourn this minute or at the next fair!"

And Alphonse Jaccard replied:

"Next fair, so be it! A race of yearlings!"

Thus was the gauntlet thrown down in the presence of bearded men and breathless women.

Excitement spread throughout Linwood, throughout the county. Two days later, neighbors came to the Jaccard farm to talk with Alphonse. They learned that he had gone, nor would the family say where. Tom Martin declared that Alphonse had left the country for good. But just wait, Tom! wait and watch. Fate has something in store for you! One cannot forever trample upon the unfortunate.

Now of course you Where do you suppose? County Fair he was riding Bonny, his best saddle horse, through the valleys of Arkansas!

wonder where Alphonse was. Five days after the close of the

That's speed for you !

His proud spirit was He made for the moun

The valleys did not delay him long. not looking for valleys, but pigs. tains. Nothing stopped him, neither fine cooking nor beautiful maidens nor enchanting scenery. He rode with

set features and indifferent eye. People marveled at this cold, handsome young man from the north country. His bearing, his horse and saddle and the three hounds that accompanied him, bespoke the gentleman. Perhaps he was a fugitive from justice? Yes! that must be it! Brave men admired him, soft-eyed women sighed when he had passed. The whole State of Arkansas was his for the asking. But it was not the State of Arkansas that Alphonse wanted!

Among the cone-like small mountains of Arkansas live, as you of course know, the famous wild pigs of America. These noble beasts formerly possessed the entire northern continent. They held their own against the Indians, but the Pale Faces, with their cruel and treacherous firearms, forced them slowly into the mountain fastness of Arkansas. The pigs would never have yielded in fair fight, but their generous nature hates treachery and cowardice. They retired, therefore, more through contempt than fear.

Travelers and scientists who want to study the pig under conditions approaching, though not equaling, his former splendor, are accustomed to go to Arkansas. There they see him master of a wild and beautiful domain, all of whose peaks and valleys, rivers and lakes, caverns, forests, paths, thickets and lairs are as familiar to him as your pockets are to you. In his architecture he differs notably from the degenerate brutes called pigs which have been imported from Europe. He is long, thin, wiry, made of bones, nerves and muscles. He can run so fast as to make a dog seem a turtle. Accordingly, if he runs from dogs, as he sometimes does, it is purely out of love of running. At any moment he can turn around and shake any dog into thistle down. His sense of

hearing is as remarkable as his sense of sight. His intelligence is as great as his beauty. In short, he is a pig that is a pig!

It will never be known how Alphonse managed to capture a sucking pig of this illustrious stock. That he did so and escaped alive is proof that he was a hero. He always refused to tell how he did it. We can only imagine his seizure of the tiny treasure, its squeals, his mad flight to where his horse waited, the pursuit through the mountain fastnesses of two hundred indignant and infuriated relatives of the victim, their cries and grunts and oaths and snorts and jibberings, the labored breathing of the horse fleeing from death and horror! No other man ever accomplished such a feat. The bones of many who tried it are preserved as trophies by the pigs of Arkansas.

No sow ever cared for her baby with greater tenderness than Alphonse for his little prisoner. He carried it at first in his bosom, later on a soft bed of cotton in a sack which he hung from his neck. He stopped at every cabin and house to give it warm milk, and taught it to drink from a bottle. He petted it and talked to it for hours as he rode. The little thing wept for days and called for its mama. At last, however, it began to nestle close to his body, especially at night-fall. Alphonse sang it to sleep with old French songs which he had learned from his mother.

What saved the life of the captured baby was not so much the care which it received as the affection back of that care, for Alphonse, when he had definitely escaped from his pursuers and had been able to look at and to fondle his captive, felt that it was the most intelligent and lovable little creature in the world. Accordingly, he