an't help it."
"But--but--," he protested, "the police ought to arrest him."
"They do sometimes," said the Major, "but it doesn't do any good."
They walked on, and the sounds of the shrill voice died away. "Tell
me," said Montague, in a low voice, "does that go on very often?"
"Around the corner from where I live," said the other, "it goes on
every Saturday night."
"And do the people listen?" he asked.
"Sometimes they can't keep the street clear," was the reply.
And again they walked in silence. At last Montague asked, "What does it
mean?"
The Major shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps another civil war," said he.
CHAPTER II
Allan Montague's father had died about five years before. A couple of
years later his younger brother, Oliver, had announced his intention of
seeking a career in New York. He had no profession, and no definite
plans; but his father's friends were men of influence and wealth, and
the doors were open to him. So he had turned his share of the estate
into cash and departed.
Oliver was a gay and pleasure-loving boy, with all the material of a
prodigal son in him; his brother had more than half expected to see him
come back in a year or two with empty pockets. But New York had seemed
to agree with Oliver. He never told what he was doing--what he wrote
was simply that he was managing to keep the wolf from the door. But his
letters hinted at expensive ways of life; and at Christmas time, and at
Cousin Alice's birthday, he would send home presents which made the
family stare.
Montague had always thought of himself as a country lawyer and planter.
But two months ago a fire had swept away the family mansion, and then
on top of that had come an offer for the land; and with Oliver
telegraphing several times a day in his eagerness, they had taken the
sudden resolution to settle up their affairs and move to New York.
There were Montague and his mother, and Cousin Alice, who was nineteen,
and old "Mammy Lucy," Mrs. Montague's servant. Oliver had met them at
Jersey City, radiant with happiness. He looked just as much of a boy as
ever, and just as beautiful; excepting that he was a little paler, New
York had not changed him at all. There was a man in uniform from the
hotel to take charge of their baggage, and a big red touring-car for
them; and now they were snugly settled in their apartments, with the
younger brother on duty as counsellor and guide.
Montague had come to begin life
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