A favourite dodge
          to get your story
              read by the public
        is to assert
         that it is true,
           and then add
             that Truth
                is stranger than Fiction.

    I do not know
         if the yarn
             I am anxious
                   for you to read
                is true;
        but the Spanish purser
            of the fruit steamer
                    El Carrero
            swore to me
                   by the shrine
                       of Santa Guadalupe
             that he
                had the facts
                       from the U. S. vice-consul
                     at La Paz -
                           a person
             who could not possibly
                  have been cognizant
                       of half of them.

    As for the adage
          quoted above,
           I take pleasure
               in puncturing it
             by affirming
             that I
                  read in
                       a purely fictional story the
                     other day the line:
         "'Be it so,'
              said the policeman."

    Nothing so strange
        has yet
              cropped out in Truth.

    When H. Ferguson Hedges,
           millionaire promoter,
         investor and man-about-New-York,
           turned his thoughts
               upon matters convivial,
         and word of it went
           "down the line,"
            bouncers took a precautionary turn
               at the Indian clubs,
           waiters put ironstone china
               on his favourite tables,
         cab drivers crowded
               close to the curbstone
                   in front of all-night cafés,
           and careful cashiers
               in his regular haunts
             charged up a few bottles
                   to his account
                 by way
                       of preface and introduction.

    As a money
          power a one-millionaire
        is of small account
               in a city
         where the man
             who cuts your slice
                   of beef
                 behind the free-lunch counter
                   rides to work
                       in his own automobile.

    But Hedges
          spent his money as lavishly,
           loudly and showily as
             though he
                were only
                       a clerk squandering
                     a week's wages.

    And,
           after all,
         the bartender
              takes no interest
                   in your reserve fund.

    He would
           rather look you
         up on his cash register
           than in Bradstreet.

    On the evening
         that the material allegation
               of facts begins,
           Hedges was
              bidding dull care begone
                   in the company of five
                  or six good fellows
          -- acquaintances and friends
             who had
                  gathered in his wake.

    Among them
        were two younger men
          -- Ralph Merriam,
           a broker,
         and Wade,
           his friend.

    Two deep-sea cabmen were chartered.

    At Columbus Circle
         they hove to long enough
              to revile the statue
                   of the great navigator,
           unpatriotically rebuking him for
            having voyaged
                   in search of land
                  instead of liquids.

    Midnight overtook the party marooned
           in the rear
            of a cheap café
                 far uptown.

    Hedges was arrogant,
           overriding and quarrelsome.

    He was burly and tough,
           iron-gray but vigorous,
         "good"
            for the rest
               of the night.

    There was a dispute
         -- about nothing
             that matters --
            and the five-fingered words
            were passed
          -- the words
             that represent the glove
                   cast into the lists.

    Merriam played the rôle
           of the verbal Hotspur.

    Hedges rose quickly,
           seized his chair,
         swung it once and
              smashed wildly dowp
                   at Merriam's head.

    Merriam dodged,
           drew a small revolver and
              shot Hedges in the chest.

    The leading roysterer stumbled,
           fell in a wry heap,
         and lay still.

    Wade,
           a commuter,
         had formed
             that habit of promptness.

    He juggled Merriam
           out a side door,
         walked him to the corner,
         ran him a block and
              caught a hansom.

    They rode five minutes
           and then
        got out
               on a dark corner and
              dismissed the cab.

    Across the street the lights
           of a small saloon
          betrayed its hectic hospitality.

    "Go in the back room
           of that saloon,"
          said Wade,
               "and wait.

    I'll go
          find out what's
              doing and let you know.