The next meeting of the hero and heroine was infront of a board fence near Broadway. The day had beena disappointing one. There had been no fights on thestreet， children had kept from under the wheels of thestreet cars， cripples and fat men in negligée shirts werescarce； nobody seemed to be inclined to slip on bananapeels or fall down with heart disease. Even the sport fromKokomo， Ind.， who claims to be a cousin of ex-Mayor Lowand scatters nickels from a cab window， had not put in hisappearance. There was nothing to stare at， and WilliamPry had premonitions of ennui.
But he saw a large crowd scrambling and pushingexcitedly in front of a billboard. Sprinting for it， heknocked down an old woman and a child carrying a bottleof milk， and fought his way like a demon into the mass ofspectators. Already in the inner line stood Violet Seymourwith one sleeve and two gold fillings gone， a corset steelpuncture and a sprained wrist， but happy. She was lookingat what there was to see. A man was painting upon thefence： “Eat Bricklets—They Fill Your Face.”
Violet blushed when she saw William Pry. Williamjabbed a lady in a black silk raglan in the ribs， kicked aboy in the shin， bit an old gentleman on the left ear andmanaged to crowd nearer to Violet. They stood for anhour looking at the man paint the letters. Then William’slove could be repressed no longer. He touched her on thearm.
“Come with me，” he said. “I know where there is abootblack without an Adam’s apple.”
She looked up at him shyly， yet with unmistakable lovetransfiguring her countenance.
“And you have saved it for me？” she asked， tremblingwith the first dim ecstasy of a woman beloved.
Together they hurried to the bootblack’s stand. An hourthey spent there gazing at the malformed youth.
A window-cleaner fell from the fifth story to thesidewalk beside them. As the ambulance came clanging upWilliam pressed her hand joyously. “Four ribs at least anda compound fracture，” he whispered， swiftly. “You are notsorry that you met me， are you， dearest？
“Me？” said Violet， returning the pressure. “Sure not. Icould stand all day rubbering with you.”
The climax of the romance occurred a few days later.
Perhaps the reader will remember the intense excitementinto which the city was thrown when Eliza Jane， a coloredwoman， was served with a subpoena. The Rubber Tribeencamped on the spot. With his own hands WilliamPry placed a board upon two beer kegs in the streetopposite Eliza Jane’s residence. He and Violet sat therefor three days and nights. Then it occurred to a detectiveto open the door and serve the subpoena. He sent for akinetoscope and did so.
Two souls with such congenial tastes could not longremain apart. As a policeman drove them away with hisnight stick that evening they plighted their troth. Theseeds of love had been well sown， and had grown up， hardyand vigorous， into a—let us call it a rubber plant.
The wedding of William Pry and Violet Seymour was setfor June 10. The Big Church in the Middle of the Blockwas banked high with flowers. The populous tribe ofRubberers the world over is rampant over weddings. Theyare the pessimists of the pews. They are the guyers of thegroom and the banterers of the bride. They come to laughat your marriage， and should you escape from Hymen’stower on the back of death’s pale steed they will come tothe funeral and sit in the same pew and cry over your luck.
Rubber will stretch.
The church was lighted. A grosgrain carpet lay over theasphalt to the edge of the sidewalk. Bridesmaids werepatting one another’s sashes awry and speaking of theBride’s freckles. Coachmen tied white ribbons on theirwhips and bewailed the space of time between drinks.
The minister was musing over his possible fee， essayingconjecture whether it would suffice to purchase a newbroadcloth suit for himself and a photograph of Laura JaneLibbey for his wife. Yea， Cupid was in the air.
And outside the church， oh， my brothers， surged andheaved the rank and file of the tribe of Rubberers. In twobodies they were， with the grosgrain carpet and cops withclubs between. They crowded like cattle， they fought， theypressed and surged and swayed and trampled one anotherto see a bit of a girl in a white veil acquire license to gothrough a man’s pockets while he sleeps.
But the hour for the wedding came and went， and thebride and bridegroom came not. And impatience gave wayto alarm and alarm brought about search， and they werenot found. And then two big policemen took a hand anddragged out of the furious mob of onlookers a crushedand trampled thing， with a wedding ring in its vest pocketand a shredded and hysterical woman beating her way tothe carpet’s edge， ragged， bruised and obstreperous.
William Pry and Violet Seymour， creatures of habit， hadjoined in the seething game of the spectators， unable toresist the overwhelming desire to gaze upon themselvesentering， as bride and bridegroom， the rose-deckedchurch.
Rubber will out.
