SISTERS OF THE GOLDEN CIRCLE

The sightseeing bus was almost ready to go. The cheerful passengers on top had taken their seats under the guidance of the polite conductor. The sidewalk was crowded with onlookers who had gathered to stare at the sightseers, proving the natural law that every creature on earth is preyed upon by some other creature.

The man with the megaphone raised his instrument of torture; the inside of the great automobile began to thump and throb like the heart of a coffee drinker. The riders on top nervously clung to their seats; the old lady from Valparaiso, Indiana, shrieked to be let off. But before a wheel turns, listen to a brief introduction through the heart-phone, which will point out to you an object of interest on life's sightseeing tour.

Swift and complete is the recognition of one white man for another in the African wilds; instant and sure is the spiritual greeting between mother and baby; unhesitatingly do master and dog communicate across the small gap between animal and man; immeasurably quick and wise are the brief messages between lovers. But all these examples show only slow and groping exchanges of sympathy and thought compared to another instance that the bus will reveal. You shall learn (if you haven't already) which two beings among all earth's living inhabitants most quickly look into each other's hearts and souls when they meet face to face.

The gong whirred, and the Glaring-at-Gotham car moved majestically on its instructive tour.

On the highest, back seat sat James Williams, from Cloverdale, Missouri, and his Bride.

Capitalize that last word, dear typographer—the word of words in the revelation of life and love. The scent of flowers, the plunder of the bee, the first trickle of spring water, the lark's overture, the twist of lemon peel in the cocktail of creation—such is the bride. Holy is the wife; revered the mother; charming is the summer girl—but the bride is the certified check among the wedding presents that the gods send when man is married to mortality.

The car glided up the Golden Way. On the deck of the great cruiser the captain stood, proclaiming the sights of the big city to his passengers. Wide-mouthed and open-eared, they heard the wonders of the metropolis thundered forth for their eyes. Confused, dizzy with excitement and small-town yearnings, they tried to match what they saw with the megaphone's announcements. In the solemn spires of spreading cathedrals they saw the home of the Vanderbilts; in the busy bulk of the Grand Central depot they viewed, wonderingly, the humble cottage of Russell Sage. Told to observe the highlands of the Hudson, they gaped, unsuspecting, at the upended mountains of a newly dug sewer. To many, the elevated railroad was the Rialto, where uniformed men sat and made chop suey of your tickets.

And to this day in the outlying districts many believe that Chuck Connors, with his hand on his heart, leads reform; and that but for the noble efforts of one Parkhurst, a district attorney, the notorious "Bishop" Potter gang would have destroyed law and order from the Bowery to the Harlem River.

But I ask you to observe Mrs. James Williams—Hattie Chalmers that was—once the belle of Cloverdale. Pale blue is the bride's color if she wishes, and she had chosen it. Willingly had the moss rosebud lent its pink to her cheeks—and as for the violet!—her eyes will do very well as they are, thank you. A useless strip of white chiffon—or perhaps it was grenadine or tulle—was tied beneath her chin, pretending to hold her bonnet in place. But you know as well as I do that it was the hatpins that did the work.

And on Mrs. James Williams's face was recorded a little library of the world's best thoughts in three volumes. Volume No. 1 contained the belief that James Williams was about the right sort of thing. Volume No. 2 was an essay on the world, declaring it to be a very excellent place. Volume No. 3 disclosed the belief that in occupying the highest seat on a sightseeing bus, they were traveling at a pace that surpasses all understanding.

James Williams, as you might guess, was about twenty-four. It will please you to know that your estimate was accurate. He was exactly twenty-three years, eleven months, and twenty-nine days old. He was well built, active, strong-jawed, good-natured, and on the rise. He was on his honeymoon.

Dear kind fairy, please cancel those orders for money and 40 H.P. touring cars and fame and a new growth of hair and the presidency of the boat club. Instead of any of them, turn back—oh, turn back and give us just a teeny-weeny bit of our honeymoon again. Just an hour, dear fairy, so we can remember how the grass and poplar trees looked, and the bow of those bonnet strings tied beneath her chin—even if it was the hatpins that did the work. Can't do it? Very well; hurry up with that touring car and the oil stock, then.

Just in front of Mrs. James Williams sat a girl in a loose tan jacket and a straw hat adorned with grapes and roses. Only in dreams and milliners' shops do we, alas! gather grapes and roses at one go. This girl gazed with large blue eyes, credulous, when the megaphone man roared his doctrine that millionaires were things we should care about. Between blasts she resorted to Epictetian philosophy in the form of pepsin chewing gum.

At this girl's right hand sat a young man about twenty-four. He was well built, active, strong-jawed, and good-natured. But if his description seems to match that of James Williams, strip it of anything Cloverdalian. This man belonged to hard streets and sharp corners. He looked keenly about him, seeming to begrudge the asphalt under the feet of those upon whom he looked down from his perch.

While the megaphone barks at a famous hotel, let me whisper through the low-toned heart-phone to sit tight; for now things are about to happen, and the great city will close over them again as over a scrap of ticker tape floating down from the den of a Broad Street bear.

The girl in the tan jacket twisted around to view the passengers on the last seat. The others she had absorbed; the one behind her was her Bluebeard's chamber.

Her eyes met those of Mrs. James Williams. Between two ticks of a watch they exchanged their life's experiences, histories, hopes, and fancies. And all, mind you, with the eye, before two men could have decided whether to draw steel or borrow a match.

The bride leaned forward. She and the girl spoke rapidly together, their tongues moving quickly like those of two serpents—a comparison not meant to go further. Two smiles and a dozen nods ended the conference.

And now in the broad, quiet avenue in front of the bus, a man in dark clothes stood with uplifted hand. From the sidewalk another hurried to join him.

The girl in the fruitful hat quickly seized her companion by the arm and whispered in his ear. That young man showed he could act quickly.

Crouching low, he slid over the edge of the car, hung for a moment, and then disappeared. Half a dozen passengers observed his feat, wonderingly, but said nothing, thinking it prudent not to be surprised at what might be the normal way of getting off in this bewildering city. The escaping passenger dodged a hansom cab and then slipped past, like a leaf on a stream between a furniture van and a florist's delivery wagon.

The girl in the tan jacket turned again and looked into the eyes of Mrs. James Williams. Then she faced forward and sat still while the bus stopped at the flash of a badge under the coat of a plainclothes man.

"What's eating you?" demanded the megaphone man, dropping his professional tone for plain English.

"Keep her at anchor for a minute," ordered the officer. "There's a man on board we want—a Philadelphia burglar called 'Pinky' McGuire. There he is on the back seat. Watch the sides, Donovan."

Donovan went to the back wheel and looked up at James Williams.

"Come down, old sport," he said, pleasantly. "We've got you. Back to Sleepytown for you. It's not a bad idea, hiding on a sightseeing bus, though. I'll remember that."

Softly through the megaphone came the conductor's advice:

"Better step off, sir, and explain. The bus must continue its tour."

James Williams was a level-headed man. With appropriate slowness he made his way through the passengers down to the steps at the front of the bus. His wife followed, but first she turned her eyes and saw the escaped tourist glide from behind the furniture van and slip behind a tree on the edge of the little park, not fifty feet away.

Once on the ground, James Williams faced his captors with a smile. He was thinking what a good story he would have to tell in Cloverdale about being mistaken for a burglar. The bus lingered, out of respect for its passengers. What could be a more interesting sight than this?

"My name is James Williams, of Cloverdale, Missouri," he said kindly, so they wouldn't be too embarrassed. "I have letters here that will show—"

"You'll come with us, please," announced the plainclothes man. "'Pinky' McGuire's description fits you like flannel shrunk in hot suds. A detective saw you on the bus up at Central Park and phoned down to have you picked up. Do your explaining at the station house."

James Williams's wife—his bride of two weeks—looked him in the face with a strange, soft radiance in her eyes and a flush on her cheeks, and said:

"Go with them quietly, 'Pinky,' and maybe it'll work in your favor."

And then, as the Glaring-at-Gotham car rolled away, she turned and blew a kiss—his wife blew a kiss—at someone high up on the seats of the bus.

"Your girl gives you good advice, McGuire," said Donovan. "Come on now."

And then madness descended upon and seized James Williams. He pushed his hat far back on his head.

"My wife seems to think I'm a burglar," he said recklessly. "I never knew her to be crazy; therefore I must be. And if I'm crazy, they can't do anything to me for killing you two fools in my madness."

Whereupon he resisted arrest so cheerfully and vigorously that more police had to be called, and then the reserves, to disperse a few thousand delighted onlookers.

At the station house, the desk sergeant asked for his name.

"McDoodle, the Pink, or Pinky the Brute, I forget which," was James Williams's answer. "But you can bet I'm a burglar; don't leave that out. And you might add that it took five of them to pluck the Pink. I'd especially like that in the records."

In an hour came Mrs. James Williams with Uncle Thomas, of Madison Avenue, in a respect-commanding motor car and proofs of her husband's innocence—just like the third act of a drama backed by an automobile manufacturing company.

After the police had sternly reprimanded James Williams for imitating a copyrighted burglar and given him as honorable a discharge as the department was capable of, Mrs. Williams rearrested him and pulled him into a corner of the station house. James Williams regarded her with one eye.

He always said that Donovan closed the other while somebody was holding his good right hand. Never before had he given her a word of reproach or blame.

"If you can explain," he began rather stiffly, "why you—"

"Dear," she interrupted, "listen. It was an hour's pain and trial for you. I did it for her—I mean the girl who spoke to me on the bus. I was so happy, Jim—so happy with you that I couldn't bear to deny that happiness to another. Jim, they were married only this morning—those two; and I wanted him to get away. While they were struggling with you, I saw him slip from behind his tree and hurry across the park. That's all of it, dear—I had to do it."

Thus does one sister of the plain gold band know another who stands in the enchanted light that shines but once, and briefly, for each one. By rice and satin bows, mere man becomes aware of weddings. But bride knows bride at the glance of an eye. And between them swiftly passes comfort and meaning in a language that men and widows know not of.