"Well, it won't take long to tell it. After the governor signed the pardon I told the warden to take Avery downstairs and get him a drink: the poor devil was all in. And then Tate came to, blubbering like the vile coward he is, and began pleading for mercy: on his knees, mind you; on his _knees!_ God! It was horrible--horrible beyond anything I ever dreamed of--to see him groveling there. I supposed, of course, the governor would turn him over to the police. I was all primed for that, and Tate expected it and bawled like a sick calf. But what he said was--what the governor said was, and he said it the way they say 'dust to dust' over a grave--'You poor fool, for such beasts as you the commonwealth has no punishment that wouldn't lighten the load you've got to carry around with you till you die!' That's all there was of it! That's exactly what he said, and can you beat it? I got a room for Tate at the club, and told one of the Japs to put him to bed." "But the governor had no right," began Ramsay eagerly; "he had no _right_----" "The king can do no wrong! And, if you fellows don't mind, the incident is dosed, and we'll never speak of it again." [Footnote 5: _From Best Laid Schemes, Copyright, 1919, 1922, by Charles Scribner's Sons. By permission of the publisher._] [Illustration: H. C. WITWER] _FOREWORD_ _I have selected "Money to Burns" as my best effort because the situations and characters in that story appealed to me more than any others I've created in some three hundred odd yarns. The "gold-digging" young lady of the chorus, the super-sophisticated bellboy with his hard-boiled philosophy, and the beautiful, cynical Goddess of the Switchboard, are all familiars of mine. Intimate with their habits, characteristics, mannerisms and vocabulary, I had only to create a central plot and push them bodily into it. After that, writing the story was merely a case of conscientious reporting--it almost wrote itself!_ _The genesis of "Money to Burns" was some envious remarks of a bellboy in discussing the sensational escapades of a certain young millionaire. The boy, bringing ice water to my room in a hotel, pointed to the glaring headlines in a newspaper that told of the gilded youth's latest adventure, and bitterly bemoaned the fate that made him a bellboy and the other a millionaire. He discoursed on what he would do were he the possessor of wealth, etc. I encouraged his conversation, with a story forming itself before my eyes. When he left the room I put his counterpart on paper, gave him wealth, added the other characters and necessary embellishments, carved out the title which I hoped would attract the reader's interest and--there you are!_