CHAPTER ONE

In which the curtain rises on the Candy Wagon, and the leading characters are thrown together in a perfectly logical manner by Fate.

The Candy Wagon stood in its accustomed place on the Y.M.C.A. corner.  The season was late October, and the leaves from the old sycamores, in league with the east wind, after waging a merry war with the janitor all morning, had swept, a triumphant host, across the broad sidewalk, to lie in heaps of golden brown along the curb and beneath the wheels of the Candy Wagon.  In the intervals of trade, never brisk before noon, the Candy Man had watched the game, taking sides with the leaves.

Down the steps of the Y.M.C.A. building sauntered the Reporter.  Perceiving the Candy Wagon at the curb he paused, scrutinising it jauntily, through a monocle formed by a thumb and finger.

The wagon, freshly emblazoned in legends of red, yellow and blue which advertised the character and merits of its wares, stood with its horseless shafts turned back and upward, in something of a prayerful attitude.  The Reporter, advancing, lifted his arms in imitation, and recited:  “Confident that upon investigation you will find everything as represented, we remain Yours to command, in fresh warpaint.”  He seated himself upon the adjacent carriage block and grinned widely at the Candy Man.

In spite of a former determination to confine his intercourse with the Reporter to strictly business lines, the Candy Man could not help a responsive grin.

The representative of the press demanded chewing gum, and receiving it, proceeded to remove its threefold wrappings and allow them to slip through his fingers to the street.  “Women,” he said, with seeming irrelevance and in a tone of defiance, “used to be at the bottom of everything; now they’re on top.”

The Candy Man was quick at putting two and two together.  “I infer you are not in sympathy with the efforts of the Woman’s Club and the Outdoor League to promote order and cleanliness in our home city,” he observed, his eye on the debris so carelessly deposited upon the public thoroughfare.

“Right you are.  Your inference is absolutely correct.  The foundations of this American Commonwealth are threatened, and the Evening Record don’t stand for it.  Life’s made a burden, liberty curtailed, happiness pursued at the point of the dust-pan.  Here is the Democratic party of the State pledged to School Suffrage.  The Equal Rights Association is to meet here next month, and—­the mischief is, the pretty ones are taking it up!  The first thing you know the Girl of All Others will be saying, ‘Embrace me, embrace my cause.’  Why, my Cousin Augustus met a regular peach of a girl at the country club,—­visiting at the Gerrard Penningtons’, don’t you know, and almost the first question she asked him was did he believe in equal rights?” The Reporter paused for breath, pushing his hat back to the farthest limit and regarding the Candy Man curiously.  “It is funny,” he added, “how much you look like my Cousin Augustus.  I wonder now if he could have been twins, and one stolen by the gypsies?  You don’t chance to have been stolen in infancy?”