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The document provides links to various solutions manuals and test banks for programming and business textbooks, including titles on JavaScript, Object-Oriented Programming, and Macroeconomics. It contains checkpoints and code examples related to JavaScript programming, focusing on form handling and user input. Additionally, there are excerpts from unrelated literary content, showcasing dialogues and narratives.
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100% found this document useful (1 vote)
14 viewsIntroduction to JavaScript Programming with XML and PHP 1st Edition Drake Solutions Manual download
The document provides links to various solutions manuals and test banks for programming and business textbooks, including titles on JavaScript, Object-Oriented Programming, and Macroeconomics. It contains checkpoints and code examples related to JavaScript programming, focusing on form handling and user input. Additionally, there are excerpts from unrelated literary content, showcasing dialogues and narratives.
Uploaded by
blqeeskrettaCopyright
© © All Rights Reserved
Available Formats
Download as PDF, TXT or read online on Scribd
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Checkpoint Solutions
Checkpoint for Section 6.1
6.1 Yes, but not nested
6.2 submit and reset
6.3 <input type="reset" value="let me start over">
6.4 <input type="submit" value ="send it off!">
6.5 <html>
<head>
<title>Checkpoint 6.5</title>
</head>
<body>
<form name = "problems" method = "post" action =
"mailto:john.doc@nowhere.com" enctype = "text/plain">
</form>
</body>
</html>
6.6 A CGI script is a program that tells the computer what to do with form data that is sent to it. It is
stored on a web server, in a cgi-bin folder.
Checkpoint for Section 6.2
6.7 All the names are different. For a radio button group to work, each button must have the same name as
the others.
6.8 function checkIt()
{ document.getElementById("agree").checked = true }
6.9 Textboxes can only have widths configured; textarea boxes can be set to however many rows
and columns are desired.
6.10
<html><head><title>Checkpoint 6.10</title>
<script>
function firstName(name)
{
var fname = document.getElementById(name).value;
document.getElementById('f_name').innerHTML = fname;
}
function lastName(name)
{
var lname = document.getElementById(name).value;
document.getElementById('l_name').innerHTML = lname;
}
</script>
</head>
<body>
<p>Enter your first name:<br />
<input type="text" name="firstname" size = "30" maxlength = "28"
id="firstname">
<input type ="button" onclick="firstName('firstname')" value =
"ok"></button></p>
<p>Enter your last name:<br />
<input type="text" name="lastname" size = "30" maxlength = "29"
id="lastname">
<input type ="button" onclick="lastName('lastname')" value =
"ok"></button></p>
<h3>Your first name: <span id = "f_name"> </span> </h3>
<h3>Your last name: <span id = "l_name"> </span> </h3>
</body></html>
6.11
<form name="myform" method="post" enctype="text/plain" action =
"mailto:lily.field@flowers.net?Here is the requested
information&cc=henry.higgins@flowers.net">
6.12 Each control in the email is identified by its name. The user's selection is listed by the form
control's value.
Checkpoint for Section 6.3
6.13 answers will vary
6.14 add to web page <body>:
<input type ="hidden" name ="sides" id ="sides" value = "add lemon wedge
with salmon, ketchup with fries, dressing with salad " />
6.15 middle = username.substr(4,2);
6.16 var nameLength = username.length;
endChar = username.substr((nameLength – 1), 1);
6.17
<script>
function showWord(pword)
{
var username = document.getElementById(pword).value;
var nameLength = username.length;
var charOne = username.substr(0,1);
var charEnd = username.substr((nameLength - 1),1);
var middleLength = nameLength - 2;
var middle = "";
for (i = 0; i <= middleLength; i++)
middle = middle + "*";
var word = charOne + middle + charEnd;
alert(word);
}
</script>
</head>
<body>
<h3> Enter a password in the box below. </h3>
<p><input type="password" name="user_pwrd" id="passwrd" size =
""/>
<input type ="button" onclick="showWord('passwrd')" value =
"ok"></button></p>
</body>
6.18
<script>
function checkAmp(pword)
{
var checkSpecial = false;
var pword = document.getElementById(pword).value;
var nameLength = pword.length;
for (i = 1; i <= (nameLength - 1); i++)
{
if (pword.charCodeAt(i) == 38)
checkSpecial = true;
}
if (checkSpecial == false)
alert("You don't have an ampersand (&) in your password.");
else
alert("Ampersand (&) found!");
}
</script>
</head>
<body>
<h3> Enter a password in the box below. </h3>
<p><input type="password" name="user_pwrd" id="passwrd" size = ""/>
<input type ="button" onclick="checkAmp('passwrd')" value =
"ok"></button></p>
</body>
Checkpoint for Section 6.4
6.19 size
6.20 multiple
6.21 size = "1"
6.22 answers will vary
6.23 answers will vary
6.24
<select multiple = "multiple" name="cars" size = "2" id="cars">
<option>Ford</option>
<option>Chevrolet</option>
<option>Kia</option>
<option>Lexus</option>
<option>Mercedes Benz</option>
<option>Honda</option>
</select>
Another Random Scribd Document
with Unrelated Content
“Whut yo’ palaver about? Nail up de shack! You ain’ nail up no
shack. Dat no-’count Silas he nail up de shack,” shouted Sally.
The old man nodded his head and grinned.
“Yas, dasso! Dasso! Ah nail up de shack, Jedge,” he chuckled.
“Ah nail him in. Yassah, Ah done jes so.”
“Him?” shouted the justice, “you mean her?”
“Yassah, Ah nail him in,” said Noah.
“You did?” shouted the justice.
“Ah—Ah beg pawdon, Jedge,” said the old man. “Ah cawn’t heah
as—as well as Ah used to heah. Ah cawn’t hear whisperin’ tones no
moah. Ah—Ah got to beg yo’ to speak jes a leetle mite louder.”
“WHY DID YOU NAIL HIM IN THE SHACK?” shouted Justice
Murphy at the top of his voice.
“Why, ’cause he won’ pay me de rint,” said Noah, as if it was a
thing every one should have known. “Ain’ Sally been jes tol’ yo’? Ah
surmise she done confabulate about that all de whiles she talkin’. Yo’
mus’ scuse her, Jedge. Whin de womens staht talkin’, nobuddy know
whut dey talk about. Dey jes talk fo’ de exumcise. Mah secon’ wife,
which am de las’ but one befo’ Ah tuck Sally—”
“Look here!” shouted Justice Murphy. “Why did you nail him in
the shack?”
“Zack?” said the old man, doubtfully. “No, sah, he name Silas.
Dass him yondah. I arsk him fo’ de rint, an’ I beg him fo’ de rint, an’
I argyfy about dat rint twell Ah jes wohn out, an’ Ah don’ git no rint
at all. So bime-by erlong come dish yere prophet whut you heah
about, maybe. Ah ain’ tek no stock in dat prophet-man at all! No,
sah! Ah ’s a good Baptis’ an’ Ah don’ truckle to none o’ dem come-
easy, go-easy, folks like dat. Ah stay ’way from him, an’ Ah tell Sally
she stay way likewise. But dis yere Silas he get de prophet-man’s
religion bad. Yassah. He ’low he gwine to hebben las’ Tuesday whin
all de res’ ob de gang go. Ah reckon he ain’ gwine go, ’cause Ah feel
dey ain’ none ob dem gwine go, but Ah can’t be shore. Mos’
anything li’ble to happen whin times so bad like dey is. So Ah
projeck up to Silas an’ Ah say to him, ‘Ef yo’ gwine to hebben nex’
Tuesday, yo’ bettah pay me de rint befo’ yo’ go.’ Dass whut Ah say,
Jedge. An’—an’—an’ dass reason-able. ’Cause ef he gwine to hebben
Tuesday, Ah ain’ gwine hab no chance to collict dat rint come
Winsday. No, sah.”
“Then what?” shouted the justice.
“Nuffin’!” said Noah. “Nuffin’ at all. He say, ‘Scuse me, Noah, but
Ah so full ob preparations fo’ de great evint Ah ain’ got time to yearn
no money to pay de rint.’ An’ Ah say, ‘Silas, Ah want mah rint!’ So,
bime-by, whin Monday mawrnin’ come erlong, Sally she gwine away
to do a job o’ work, an’ Ah meyander ober to Silas’ shack, an’ Ah got
mah hatchit an’ mah nails, whut Ah gwine mind de fince. An’ whin
Ah come to de shack All hear de squawk ob a board in de flo’ an’ Ah
know Silas he in de shack, an’ Ah slam de do’ an’ Ah nail up de do’
an’ he carrye on scandalous, but he can’t git yout. An’ Ah don’ care
whut he say, ’cause Ah can’t heah ef he cuss or ef he palaver.
“’Cause Ah ain’ gwine hab no tinint go to hebben like dat whin he
owe me rint twell he pay de rint. So Ah reckon Ah leave him dere
twell de gwine is all gone, an’ Ah ain’ worried erbout Silas gwine
alone by hisse’f. He ain’ got de get-up to do nuffin’ alone by hisse’f.
So Ah leab him dah twell he natchully bus’ out.”
“You tried to starve him,” shouted the justice. “You threw water
down the chimney.”
“Dass jes a pre-caution, Jedge, dass jes a pre-caution,” said the
old Negro. “Ah got mah doubts erbout dat ol’ Obediah prophet-man
whut come from nowhares. Whin Ah see de smoke a-risin’ from de
chimbly, Ah speculate ef et hebben whar de prophet-man gwine tek
they-all, or ef he gwine tek dem ilsewhars, an’ Ah cogitate how
maybe Silas gwine escape in de flame ob de fiah. Dey yain’t nuffin’
like good ol’ Baptis’ water fo’ to fight debbil’s fiah, so Ah fotch a
couple o’ pail’ ob wahtah, an’ Ah po’ hit down de chimbly, an’ Ah say,
‘Yo’ ain’ gwine to hebben yit! Yo’ ain’ gwine to hebben yit!’ Yassah.
An’ he ain’!”
He chuckled with glee, but at the same moment he caught a
glimpse of Sally’s face, and his grin gave way to a look of blank
surprise. Slowly and carefully Sally was rolling up her sleeves, and
her eyes glittered menacingly. Flaherty tapped her on the shoulder.
“None iv that here!” he said sternly.
The justice looked from one to the other of the parties before
him, closed an impressive-looking law book with a bang, and stood
up, feeling for his tobacco-pipe in his hip pocket.
“Flaherty,” he said slowly, “this is not a case for this court. It
seems in the nature of a domestic misunderstanding. Under ordinary
circumstances,” he added, pressing tobacco into the pipe with his
thumb, “I should undertake to explain to all parties just what
happened and how it happened and why it happened but—” he
looked at old Noah and shook his head—“there is nothing in the
statutes of the State of Iowa compelling a justice of the peace of the
County of Riverbank, City of Riverbank and Township of Riverbank,
to shout that loud and that long. Case dismissed!”
Flaherty herded the three parties out of the room and the justice
lighted his pipe.
“Whaffo’ Ah ain’ git mah thutty dollahs?” he heard Uncle Noah
ask in the hall. “Wha’ we gwine?”
“Ah tell yo’ wha’ yo’ ain’ gwine!” he heard Sally shout. “You ain’
gwine to hebben yit! But yo’ gwine to wish yo’ was gwine ’fo’ Ah git
froo wif yo’!”
“Flaherty,” said his Honor, tilting back comfortably and blowing a
cloud of blue smoke toward the ceiling, “go out and warn that
woman to keep the peace.”
“I will,” said Flaherty, “but can ye ixpict ut iv her, Murphy?”
SIERRA MADRE
BY HENRY VAN DYKE
O MOTHER mountains! billowing far to the snow-lands,
Robed in aërial amethyst, silver, and blue,
Why do ye look so proudly down on the lowlands?
What have their gardens and groves to do with you?
Theirs is the languorous charm of the orange and myrtle,
Theirs are the fruitage and fragrance of Eden of old,—
Broad-boughed oaks in the meadows fair and fertile,
Dark-leaved orchards gleaming with globes of gold.
You, in your solitude standing, lofty and lonely,
Bear neither garden nor grove on your barren breasts;
Rough is the rock-loving growth of your cañons, and only
Storm-battered pines and fir-trees cling to your crests.
Why are ye throned so high and arrayed in splendor
Richer than all the fields at your feet can claim?
What is your right, ye rugged peaks, to the tender
Queenly promise and pride of the mother-name?
Answered the mountains, dim in the distance dreaming:
“Ours are the forests that treasure the riches of rain;
Ours are the secret springs and the rivulets streaming
Softly down through the manifold bloom of the plain.
“Vain were the toiling of men in the dust of the dry land,
Vain were the plowing and planting in waterless fields,
Save for the life-giving currents we send from the sky-land,
Save for the fruit our embrace with the storm-cloud yields.”
O mother mountains, Madre Sierra, I love you!
Rightly you reign o’er the vale that your bounty fills,—
Kissed by the sun, or with big, bright stars above you,—
I murmur your holy name and lift up mine eyes to the hills.
THE BORROWED LOVER
BY L. FRANK TOOKER
Author of “Kerrigan’s Christmas Sermon,” “Under Rocking Skies,” etc.
’T IS this way with women,” declared Kerrigan: “some of thim will
desave ye, and some will not, but ye will niver know which till
ut ’s done; for they’re all alike in the use of their eyes and
tongues, and the proof of the puddin’ ’s in the ’atun’. Mind thot,
laad.”
It was Sunday morning, and Kerrigan was leaning over the rail,
looking dreamily off across the waste of piled lumber to the spires
and roofs of the city. The sun shone brightly; the yellow flood of the
river lipped softly the barnacled piles of the wharf; the hush of the
Sabbath lay over all. Nicolao had just gone over the side of the
vessel for an all-day outing; but he turned at Kerrigan’s warning. He
waved his hand airily.
“Tha’ ’s alla right,” he replied. “Eet ees the gamble, yas—what yo’
expec’. So-long! Adios!”
“Staay where ye arre,” commanded Kerrigan, sternly. “I’m goun’
wid ye. ’Tis a guardeen ye waant, ye light-mind child of misfortune.
Wait till I change me clothes.”
Twenty minutes later they crossed the wharf and passed
cityward, something of Kerrigan’s grandfatherly air of protection
dropping away at every step.
“’Tis good to be young,” he said; “I mind I was young wance
mesilf. Where are ye goun’, laad?”
“I hava the friend,” Nicolao replied; “his name is Porfirio—
Portuguese, weeth the nice shop, nice fam’ly, nice daughter, yo’
know.”
“I do,” said Kerrigan, significantly; “ye’d niver go ilse. I’ll attind ye
for yer own safety. ’Tis on me mind.”
At the crossing they boarded a trolley, for the sun was hot and
Nicolao in haste; and going well forward, they seated themselves in
the car. As Kerrigan glanced down to return the change of his fare to
his pocket, he saw two hands meekly folded in the lap of the woman
who sat at his left. The hands held a breviary and a handkerchief. He
glanced up at the face of the holder—the fresh Irish face of a young
woman.
He sighed and looked away; he knew not why, but for an instant
it gave him a desolate feeling of homesickness. Then Nicolao began
to talk, and Kerrigan forgot the girl.
But presently she left the car, and as she rose to her feet, he saw
a handkerchief flutter to the floor. He leaned forward quickly, and,
picking it up, hurried after his neighbor; but others had risen
between them, and she had reached the street and was stepping up
to the curb when he touched her arm.
“Ye dropped it, acushla,” he said, and turning quickly, she
glanced at his outstretched hand.
“Then ’twas a miracle,” she said, “and belongs to the church, not
to me.” She held up her own hand, in which safely reposed the
breviary and the handkerchief. Kerrigan stared.
“Wid me two eyes I saw it drop as ye got up,” he declared.
“I had but one,” replied the girl. “Are your two eyes strong
enough to see that I’ve got it still? And you’ve lost your car.”
“I’ve lost more—me good name,” Kerrigan said. “I’ve stolen the
handkerchief.”
“Then you’d better pray for repentance,” she advised. “I’ll give
you a hint: the church is before you. Good-by, and thank you—for
nothing.” Laughing, she hurried away up the steps of the church.
Kerrigan hesitatingly watched her go, then walked to a side porch
and sat down.
“I’ll tak’ the hint to this extint,” he muttered, and patiently waited
through the hour of service; but as the audience streamed forth at
the close he returned to the main door and stood watching.
But suddenly he felt a touch on his arm and heard a voice say:
“I’ll be going home now.”
Startled, he looked down into the face of the girl. It was very
demure, though flushed.
“Ah, ’tis ye thot’s repinted—of yer haard heart,” he said. “Ye’ve
come back to tell me so.”
“I’ve repented of naught but my sins,” she replied, “and a hard
heart is not one of them. But I’d borrow you for a little, if you have
nothing better to do.”
“I’ll have nothing better to do all through purgatory, which will be
hiven to me if ye’re wid me,” he replied. “And there’s another
miracle.”
She laughed.
“I’d not care to keep you so long.”
“Thin I’ll get me hell first, which is wrong,” he answered sadly. “I
tho’t ye were orthodox.”
“I’m—” She pressed his arm in warning as a man passed them
rapidly, turning to look back into their faces. He was weazen, middle-
aged, with a wry face.
“That’s the reason for borrowing you,” she explained in a low
voice.
“Thot’s not a reason; ut’s an apology,” Kerrigan said tartly. “Ut’s a
monkey, not a mon.”
“He’s always hanging about,” she replied. “My father and mother
favor him; he’s got money.”
“Ut’s a curse,” Kerrigan declared solemnly.
“So the rich tell me,” said the girl with a laugh.
“I’m rich mesilf while I have ye,” he said.
“You’re only borrowed,” she warned him. “Are you a masterful
man?”
“I’m meek as Moses,” he assured her. “A child could lade me.”
“Oh, then you won’t do at all!” she cried. “I thought you were
masterful by your looks. My father and mother are meek, but set in
their ways, and I’m tired of it. Now, a man who’d knock me about
and them—”
“Ye waant me to knock thim about—yer father and mither?”
“I want them to think you would,” she corrected him. “’T would
be good for them. But of course you’d not do it; you’d only be soft-
spoken and blarneying.”
“I’m as gintle as a cow by nature,” he assured her; “but I’d sell
me birthright to plaze ye. Now tak’ me home wid ye and prove ut.”
“’T is worth trying,” she replied. “You’ll stay to dinner? I’ve taken
to you, you know.”
“I accipt both the dinner and the compliment,” he answered,
“and thank ye kindly for both.”
In the porch of their small house near the wall of the cemetery of
the city her father and mother sat waiting as they entered the gate.
“My friend, Mr.——” The girl hesitated.
“Kerrigan—Thomas Kerrigan,” that gentleman said promptly.
“My father and mother,” continued the girl. “Reilly’s their name.
The gentleman was very kind. He lost his car to return my
handkerchief.”
Her father, a weather-beaten little man, looked Kerrigan over
coolly as he nodded.
“Faith!” he said at last, “I’m thinkin’ he’s likely to lose his supper
before he returns it; he’s got it in his hand yet.”
The girl laughed.
“It was not mine, you know,” she explained.
“I don’t see the joke,” her father said irritably. “What’s all the stir,
Kate?”
“Ye’ll see ut in time,” Kerrigan replied with composure. “’T is like
this: she liked me betther nor the bit of white rag, so she took me
instid.”
“She was always greedy,” replied Reilly; “she’d take the biggest
lump iv’ry time, not countin’ the quality.” He turned to his wife. “Do
ye mind thot, Mary?”
“I don’t understand a’ the nonsince,” replied his wife, a meek
little wisp of a woman. She rose and went into the house, followed
by Kate.
Kerrigan was looking complacently about him, and now said:
“Ye have the cimetery handy, Reilly.”
“I need to,” the old man replied. “I worrk in it.”
“’T is the fine job,” declared Kerrigan. “Ye can feel all the time
how much betther off ye are than yer neighbors. I doubt not ut
makes ye consated.”
“There’s thim that are livin’ that make me feel the same,” Reilly
said significantly. He glared at Kerrigan, who nodded.
“’T is a habit and grows on ye, like drinkun’,” Kerrigan declared.
“What do ye do to cure ut?”
“I choose me own fri’nds mostly,” Reilly said tartly. “Belikes ye will
take the hint.”
“I do,” replied Kerrigan. “’T is the raison ye worrk in the cimetery,
I tak’ ut; the talk’s wan-sided. Ye’d like thot.”
Kate came out and, seeing her father glowering, sat down by
Kerrigan, carelessly placing her hand on the back of his chair.
“My father has taken to you,” she said with a coquettish glance.
“He’ll monopolize you. I’ll not see you at all. I’m fair green with the
jealousy.”
“Good Lord!” sputtered the old man, and glared at her, but she
seemed not to hear or see.
“We’ll go for a walk after dinner,” she went on—“in the cemetery.
It’s the only place I can get you away from him; for he works there
in the week, and he’d not like to spoil his holiday by seeing the
place.”
“’T will be a sore thing to part from him,” answered Kerrigan, “for
we’re like brithers alriddy, barrun’ the size of us and the looks; but
I’d not like to remind him of worrk, so we’ll go, as ye say.”
“’T is the nice, quiet place for young people,” Kate said and
laughed. “You’ll find them all about, walking arm and arm, and
sitting on the benches in the shade, hand in hand. They’ll not notice
us at all.”
“Thin we’ll not notice thim,” answered Kerrigan, with good-
natured generosity; but Reilly rose up and stormed into the house,
slamming the door.
He ate his dinner rapidly and in silence, and left the table long
before the others, and when, ready for their walk, Kate and Kerrigan
appeared in the porch, he sat there grim and silent, wearing his coat
and hat.
Kate showed her surprise.
“Why, Father, have you the chill?” she asked anxiously. “Are you
cold?”
“Wan worrd more, me girl, and I’ll fetch ye a clip on the side of
the head, old as ye are,” Reilly said savagely.
“You’d never do the like of such a queer thing,” she exclaimed
—“never. And you know me Tom would not stand for that at all.
Would you?” She looked trustingly up into Kerrigan’s face.
“’T would hurt me more nor him to tak’ a little, small mon across
me knee,” Kerrigan replied, “but ’t would be both me duty and right.
But he’s only jokun’, me dear. He’s laughun’ in his sleeve this minut’.”
Reilly eyed him with a look of ferocity.
“Tin years younger, ye lump,” he said, “and small as I am, I’d
fetch ye the mate of it over the jaw, big as ye are.”
“Hiven be thanked for the tin years, thin!” exclaimed Kerrigan,
piously.
“Yes, Heaven be thanked!” echoed Kate. “’T would be a sore
thing for a loving girl to see her old father in the hands of a strong
man. You’ll always be tender to him, won’t you?”
“Always,” promised Kerrigan—“tender, but firm.”
“Thank you,” she said softly. “I knew you would. But good-by,
Father.”
“Ye can’t go,” snapped Reilly. “Into the house wid yez!”
“What!” she cried. “And me of age, and earning me living these
five years!” She threw back her head and walked toward the gate,
with her father following after.
“Thin I’ll go wid yez, ye ungrateful girl,” Reilly declared.
“Thin take me ither arm,” said Kerrigan, with a solicitous air; but
Reilly stepped back, waving him off.
“Go on, ye lump!” he commanded.
“Aye, ye know best,” Kerrigan agreed. “’T is more like a marriage
procission yer way.”
Kate laughed.
“For shame,” she cried, “to talk of marriage so soon! I’ve known
you but four hours.”
“What’s time to the lovun’ hearrt thot knows uts own mate?”
asked Kerrigan.
“True,” she replied; “it’s nothing at all.”
“If ye’ve no respict for yer owld father, ye hussy,” Reilly hissed
close at her ear, “think shame to yersilf for the bowldniss of yez.”
“To think you’d put the black name of boldness on your own
daughter!” Kate cried, turning angrily. “I’ll not listen to you.” She
flounced up the road.
Reilly followed. He passed into the cemetery behind them and
stubbornly kept near; but as they turned into an avenue of live-oaks,
he caught sight of a slender young man who stood in a path and
watched Kate and Kerrigan go by. Reilly beckoned to him, and the
young man came hesitatingly forward.
“And how are ye the day?” Reilly said genially, and extended his
hand. In manifest surprise the young man shook hands and said:
“Well, Mr. Reilly, as the world goes. And how are you?”
“Fine, Michael,” Reilly replied, “though troubled a small bit.” He
glanced ahead at the pair, who had not looked back. The young
man’s eyes also followed them.
“Aye, it’s the world’s way,” he agreed with a somber air. “It’s up
and down with us all.”
“It is, Michael Cassidy,” replied Reilly. “But I’ve not seen ye for
the long time.”
As Michael had been forbidden to come to the house, he deemed
it politic to make no reply. His silence left Reilly at a loss, and
presently he said with a melancholy shake of the head:
“It’s God’s truth, as they say, that a mon niver knows what’s
good for him.”
Michael looked at him inquiringly.
“Are you speaking of yourself, Mr. Reilly?” he asked.
“I am,” Reilly confessed. “Here was I keepin’ a fine lad like yersilf
from me house, and who should me daughter bring into it but thot
big lump yon! Bedad! he fills the whole place!”
“Lord keep us all!” exclaimed Michael.
“’T is well said, Michael Cassidy,” replied Reilly. “’T is the bitter,
true worrd.”
“But not past mending, Mr. Reilly,” Michael said with a sly glance.
“’T is only to let me come back and send the lump flying.”
“Flyin’ is it?” exclaimed Reilly, wrathfully. “Faith! he flies like a
tree.”
“’T is your own house,” Michael replied. “You have only to say the
word go. I know how it sounds myself.”
“Have I? ’T is all ye know. I give him a couple or three hints of
the same, and he was for takin’ me over his knee—me, the father of
me own daughter. And what did she do but egg him on!”
“Aye, that’s bad.”
“It is so.”
“If you could manage to let him do it,” Michael said thoughtfully,
“and then call the police for assault, you’d have him fine. ’T would
shame Kate. ’T would be bad for him.”
“Would it?” Reilly said with scorn. “And how would it be for me in
me owld age to be taken across a mon’s knee? Tell me thot.”
Michael snickered, but quickly changed his snicker to a cough
under Reilly’s wrathful look.
“You’re right, Mr. Reilly,” he said soberly; “’t would make angels
weep.”
“I’d not distress the howly wans to thot extint,” Reilly declared.
He was silent a moment, then said with a brightening face: “If you’d
pass a scrappy worrd wid him yersilf, Michael, and take a clip or two
of his fist, belikes Kate would take pity on ye and—”
“The pity of a woman is a poor tale,” Michael replied hastily. “Has
Kate taken a liking to him?”
“A liking to him, is it!” exclaimed Reilly. “She makes me fair blush
for her bowldniss.”
“Then she’s given me up, and it’s no use at all,” Michael said with
a groan.
“Well, if she’s given ye up, ye’ve nothing to lose by me plan,”
argued Reilly. “She might take ye back.”
“And be where I was before,” objected Michael, “and that was
nowhere at all, with you against me. That’s the plain word between
friends, Mr. Reilly, and no harm meant.”
“But all that’s done and gone, as I told ye,” Reilly irritably replied.
“I’m for ye now, Michael. ’T is her pity that’s the only way to win her
now.”
“Faith! I think I’d get it,” answered Michael, dolefully; “the man’s
as broad as a house.”
“Well, if it comes to the blows bechune ye,” Reilly said, “just
grapple wid him, and I’ll give him a little small clip on the back of the
head wid me stick.” He gripped his cane hard as he added grimly:
“Bedad! I’ll put me heart in it, and that’s no lie. Now come on and
try me plan.”
But Michael still held back.
“What’s changed you all at once?” he asked. “You never liked
me.”
“That lump,” said Reilly. “He’ll marry her out of hand before their
walk’s over if ye do not stop him.”
“And if I do stop him, will I have her myself?” Michael asked.
“Ye will,” Reilly promised. “I’ve passed me worrd.”
“Then God be with us all, and here goes!” said Michael.
They quickened their pace and caught up with the pair, and Kate,
looking back, stopped.
“I thought you’d forgotten us, Father,” she said with a laugh.
“And is it Mr. Cassidy with you, the great stranger!” She introduced
him to Kerrigan as a “friend of the family,” and they walked on
together, Reilly straggling on ahead, leading the way toward his tool-
house, in a lonely part of the cemetery.
“It’s the long time since you’ve been to see us, Mr. Cassidy,” Kate
said at last.
“It is,” Michael replied. “The place is fairly overrun. It’s the queer
lot you have hanging about.”
“Overrun, do you say!” exclaimed Kate. “There’s not been a soul
there in weeks.”
Michael laughed disagreeably.
“It’s not an hour since I saw this wind-bag come out of the door,”
he replied in a loud voice. Then he put his hand to his mouth, saying
softly: “When you strike, strike quick and hard, Mr. Kerrigan. I’d like
to have it over. And look out for the old man’s stick.” Kerrigan
grinned.
Kate, on Kerrigan’s left, had not heard the aside, and she grew
pale. She leaned forward now to say sweetly:
“And how are your father and mother—Michael? Are they well?”
“They are,” Michael answered; “but a bit low in spirit. I’d take it
kindly if you’d parade the big monkey you’ve got with you before
their gate. Belikes it would hearten them up; they’re fond of a
show.”
They heard Reilly chuckle.
“Aye, Michael’s the b’y,” he muttered, and gripped his stick hard.
Kerrigan stopped short.
“We’ll go now,” he said stiffly.
“With all my heart,” retorted Michael, and turned back. But Kate
caught Kerrigan’s arm, pulling him forward.
“Would you leave a girl in the middle of a walk to go following
after a joker like Michael?” she cried. “Sure, he was always up to his
tricks. It’s some little, small joke on his father, the poor old man. I’ll
have naught to do with it.”
The two men stood glaring at each other, the grimness of
Kerrigan’s face being lighted, however, as he stood with his back to
Kate, by a sly wink.
“Is ut a joke?” he demanded.
“Would you call the lady a liar?” Michael asked hotly. “She says
it’s a joke; and if she says it’s one, it is, even if it isn’t. Are your
manners as awry as your face?”
“I niver quarrel before ladies, but we’ll take a walk soon and try
to match faces,” Kerrigan said significantly.
“You couldn’t please me more if you asked me to your wake,”
Michael airily replied.
“Oh, Father, there’s your little workhouse,” nervously called Kate.
“I left something in it when I brought you your dinner-pail Thursday.
I’ll get it now, if you have your key, though I’m thinking you’ve
forgotten it, as usual.”
“I niver forget it,” retorted Reilly; and to prove his contention, led
the way to the tool-house.
It was a stout little stone house with a strong door, and as Reilly
opened it, he stepped in, looking back at the others with a sour
smile.
“Forget it, did I?” he snapped. “Now, where did ye l’ave what ye
left?”
“I hid it on top of that shelf—a little, small box,” Kate said. “Will
you reach it down, Mr. Kerrigan? You’re as tall as the house yourself,
and ’t will not trouble you, like these small men.”
Kerrigan stepped into the room, and in a flash she closed the
door and locked it.
“Now, Michael, run, if you love me!” she exclaimed. “Do you think
I want to see you murdered before my eyes? Your courage is two
sizes too big for your body.”
But Michael did not move.
“Better be murdered than see you making love to that brute,” he
said doggedly. “I’ll see it out now.”
She caught him by the shoulders and tried to push him away.
“But it’s not making love, Michael dear,” she replied. “It was just
to stir father.” She explained in a word, with Michael’s face gradually
relaxing in a grin.
“Well, you’ve stirred him all right,” he said; “he wants you to
marry me now. We’ll do it at once before he changes his mind.”
“In a hurry like this!” she cried. “Oh, I couldn’t.”
“All right,” he replied, and seated himself on the door-step. “Then
I’ll stay and be murdered.”
For a moment Kate stood irresolute, wringing her hands.
“Oh, what shall I do!” she murmured.
“I told you—marry me now,” he replied. He went to her, and,
taking her hands, said quickly: “I’ve the license; I’ve had it for
weeks. It would be the fine thing, wouldn’t it, to have it found like
that on my dead body?”
“I think I should die of shame,” she confessed. “It would hardly
seem decent.”
“It’s the true word you say, Katie dear. You see, there’s nothing
left but to use it.”
“Sure, it would make me feel like a widow, and me not yet a
wife,” she said. “I’ll go, Michael. It’s all that’s left for us now. Hurry.”
INSIDE the barred window Kerrigan and her father saw them
hasten away. Her father chuckled.
“She fooled ye,” he said, for Kerrigan had not found the box.
“She did,” Kerrigan agreed. He seated himself on a stool and
looked about him complacently. “Ye’ve the nice little shop for wet
weather,” he went on.
“For anny weather,” Reilly replied. He had suddenly become
genial, and he began to talk of his work. “Thirty years I’ve worked
here,” he said at the close, “and I’ve put by a little against me owld
age. And now Kate will marry, and there’s wan trouble liss off me
mind. Michael’s a good b’y.”
“He is,” Kerrigan agreed with great heartiness. “Did ye hear him
blackguarrdun’ me to me face as bowld as ye plaze? Me hearrt
warrmed to the laad.”
“Aye, and he fooled ye well; they both did,” said Reilly, and
chuckled.
“They did,” answered Kerrigan. “And now I’m like a hin in a coop;
but I’m not alone.”
For a moment Reilly looked at him, and then a shadow crossed
his face.
“Ye take it aisy,” he said suspiciously.
“Ut’s me way,” replied Kerrigan. “I’m a sedenthary mon by
nature, though I’m slightly out of practice, though ut all comes back.
I’ll shmoke now.” He took his pipe from his pocket and leisurely
began to fill it.
“But ye lost the girl,” Reilly told him.
“Can I lose what I niver had or waanted?” Kerrigan asked. “I
don’t know.”
“It was not an hour since ye were all but marryin’ her before me
eyes,” snapped Reilly. “What of that?”
“I was borrowed only,” exclaimed Kerrigan.
“And what do ye mane?” demanded Reilly.
“’T was what Katie said,” answered Kerrigan. “We were standun’
before the church whin up edged a red-headed little old mon, and
says she to me, ‘May I borrow ye for a bit?’ ‘Sure,’ says I. And she
borrowed me to get rid of the mon, and now she’s borrowed anither
to get rid of you and me. Sure, she’s the bright wan.”
Reilly was staring straight ahead, piecing the broken patches of
truth together. Suddenly he looked up.
“And nayther of ye meant nothing at all by all the love-talk?”
“Nothing at all,” answered Kerrigan.
“Thin she’s a desateful hussy,” cried Reilly, angrily. “She’s made
me ate me own worrds through fear of ye. I said young Cassidy
should niver have her, and now she’s made me fair’ throw him at her,
as if he was the last mon on God’s earth! Ye can’t trust a woman at
all.”
“Sometimes ye can and sometimes ye cannot,” amended
Kerrigan, “but ye niver know which ut is till ut’s too late.”
“It’s the true worrd,” agreed Reilly. He sighed, then added not
without a touch of pardonable pride: “Well, she’s no fool, and she’s
me own daughter. There’s something in that.”
RECOLLECTIONS OF FREDERIC
REMINGTON
BY AUGUSTUS THOMAS
Author of “Arizona,” “The Witching Hour,” etc.
WITH PICTURES BY FREDERIC REMINGTON AND A PORTRAIT
F REDERIC REMINGTON had a large mind in a big body. The mind
had great natural capacity in many directions, and in one of those
directions was remarkably self-taught. The body had been
splendidly cultivated and came to be unwisely overtaxed. His young
manhood was spent in the far West, at work with the cow-boys and
near the soldiers and Indians whose picture historian he was
destined to become. The life of those men was rude and exciting.
Much that would be considered dissipation in civilized surroundings
was logical reaction to their environment—man’s answer to nature’s
challenge. Remington adopted the cow-boy habit and point of view,
and finally assimilated the cow-boy standard and philosophy. It is
necessary to consider that fact if one would accurately estimate his
character, his work, his achievement, and his untimely end. His very
intimacy with the men and the material he drew was purchased at
what others may call that cost. Future generations who profit by the
facts he recorded must not quarrel with the method of their
unconscious acquisition; and the wisest of those who loved him
would be less wise if they wished any of his steps retraced. That
education reinforced the independence of his nature, made him
indifferent to the “cards and custards” of society, and, to speak after
his own fashion, kept him “with the bark on.” He worked
unhampered by rule, example, or opinion, a veritable child of nature,
and he died untamed. Nature and second nature kept him at high
pressure. He lived, thought, spoke, and worked by a series of
explosions insulated under deep sympathy and great good humor.
Remington was primitive and partizan. Sensitive as an Indian, he
liked instinctively and enduringly, he hated intuitively and long. He
adored the memory of his father, who had been a soldier, and he
remembered him in his uniform. Besides, in the West, in Frederic’s
day, the local advent of the troopers meant sudden and inflexible
order. The military acted promptly and without debate.
Remington loved the soldiers; he loathed all politicians because
they talked.
One of Remington’s distinctions between orators and officers is
worth recording. He had been recently visiting General Chaffee and
more recently listening to Mr. Bourke Cockran and Mr. William J.
Bryan. Indian fashion, he was half acting the manner of all three and
feeling inwardly for his answer. “This is it,” he said; “Chaffee tells you
to do a thing like this; he looks out from under his eyebrows with his
head down; the orator throws his head up and looks out from under
his eyelids. The soldier menaces—the orator hypnotizes.”
Remington kept near the ground in all his thinking. The
superstructure of things, the embellishment of ideas, the
amplification of systems, had small attraction for him. He had a
passion for the roots, for the explanations, for the causes. His
speech was laconic. If his friends had known the sign language he
would generally have used it. His own vocabulary was small, vital,
and picturesque, singularly free from slang, but strongly colored with
military terms and phrases. He was a good listener and a good
laugher. Like the disappearing Carson River, an adequate joke
flowing through his system would rise again with recurrent and
unexpected irruptions of reflected sunshine. He had also the quality
of being humorous himself, and the flavor of his humor was
Western, fresh, and wholesome.
One evening he strolled, astonished and abashed, into our half-
lighted dining-room, where, unknown to him, a dinner party was in
progress. After his own dinner he had come “across lots” for a cigar
and our usual argumentative salvation of mankind. The introductions
being over, a lady purring at the great man in knickerbockers and
herculean stockings asked:
“Did you ride your bicycle, Mr. Remington?”
“Ride it? Ha-ha! Why the blankety-blanked thing wouldn’t let me
walk with it.”
From a photograph by Sarony, owned by E. W. Kemble
FREDERIC REMINGTON
Mrs. Remington had a liking and a capacity for philosophic study.
Some of the modern phases had her attention, and one of them
which she felt would be useful she pressed upon Remington’s notice.
His hospitality to the idea was more tolerant than acquisitive, and at
times he may have really doubted its potency; but if he had any
criticism it was never spoken, and perhaps never implied. One
morning during that period, however, his man Tim brought me a
brief note, which read as follows:
Dear Tommy:
I was in town last night at The Players and I got so out of tune with
the Infinite that you could notice it for two blocks.
Copyright by Mrs. Frederic Remington
“THE SCALP”
MODELED BY FREDERIC REMINGTON
The value of mere anecdotes of any man is that each reader
draws from them that side of the personality which he would have
seen and drawn from the man himself, not merely the element open
to the proper vision of the reporter; and that must be the excuse for
anecdotes. E. W. Kemble, or, as his friends know him, Ed Kemble,
introduced the writer to Remington in 1890. The two illustrators
were friends, but the most beautiful side of their friendship needed a
third friend for its precipitation. Kemble is universally amusing when
he cares to be. Few men are his equal in putting the spirit of
caricature into ordinary verbal report or comment; even his famous
drawings do not show such sure fun. Remington responded promptly
to Kemble’s comedy, however expressed. Most men who know it do
the same, but Remington went further. When Kemble had left him
after any interview, all of Kemble’s woes of which Remington had
been the repository were suddenly dwarfed in the larger horizon of
Remington’s experiences and transmuted into side-splitting jokes. In
his mind, Kemble was never “grown up”; and Kemble reciprocated.
Remington’s throes, viewed through Kemble’s prism, were just as
amusing. They took even each other’s art as playfellows take each
other’s games. There were years when much of their leisure was
passed in company; in the winter, skating and long walks over the
hills of Westchester; in the summer, swimming baths in the Sound,
bicycling, and tennis. Their understanding was mutual and
immediate. One night after the theater, on the train home from New
York, sitting together, Remington was by the car window, Kemble
next to the aisle. An obstreperous commuter was disturbing the
passengers, men and women. The busy conductor’s admonition had
been ineffective, the brakeman’s repeated expostulations useless.
The men passengers seemed cowed; the rowdy was gaining
confidence. On his third blatant parade through the car, and as he
passed Kemble’s side, Remington’s two hundred and fifty pounds of
bone and muscle reached out into the aisle, and, with the precision
of a snapping-turtle, lifted him from his feet like a naughty boy and
laid him face downward over Kemble’s interposing lap. With the spirit
of perfect team-work, as Remington held the ruffian, Kemble
spanked him, while the legs in the aisle wriggled frantically for a
foothold. The correction, prolonged and ample, was accompanied by
roars of laughter from fifty other passengers. Being done,
Remington stood the offender on his feet. The man began a
threatening tirade. Before half a sentence was uttered Remington
had him again exposed to Kemble’s rhythmic tattoo. This was
enough; and when again released the fellow rapidly left the car for
the relative seclusion of the smoker.
Mrs. Remington used to tell of her husband’s return to her one
night when they had transiently taken rooms at a New York hotel.
Remington, after escorting her back from the theater, had her
consent to a little romp at the club. It had come to be two o’clock in
the morning; Mrs. Remington had gone to bed, but was as yet only
in the border-land of sleep when she was aroused by the repeated
slamming of hallway doors. At the proper moment in the crescendo
her own door was opened, and in the frame of light stood her
husband, quickly joined by a protesting attendant.
“It’s all right,” said Remington; “this one’s my wife—good-night!”
One early morning in February, 1898, James Waterbury, the
agent of the Western Union Company at New Rochelle, telephoned
me that the Maine had been blown up and had sunk in the harbor of
Havana. Knowing the interest the report would have for Remington,
I immediately called him on the telephone and repeated the
information. His only thanks or comment was to shout “Ring off!” In
the process of doing so I could hear him calling the private
telephone number of his publishers in New York. In his mind, his
own campaign was already actively under way.
One incident of that campaign illustrates the primitive man in
Remington. He and Richard Harding Davis were engaged to go into
Cuba by the back way and send material to an evening newspaper.
The two men were to cross in the night from Key West to Cuba on a
mackerel-shaped speed boat of sheet-iron and shallow draft. Three
times the boat put out from Key West and three times turned back,
unable to stand the weather. The last time even the crew lost hope
of regaining port. Davis and Remington were lying in the scuppers
and clinging to the shallow rail to keep from being washed
overboard. The Chinaman cook between lurches was lashing
together a door and some boxes to serve as a raft. Davis suggested
to Remington the advisability of trying something of the kind for
themselves.
