THE GOLD BRICK THE GOLD BRICK _By_ BRAND WHITLOCK _Author of_ THE THIRTEENTH DISTRICT HER INFINITE VARIETY THE HAPPY AVERAGE THE TURN OF THE BALANCE INDIANAPOLIS THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY PUBLISHERS COPYRIGHT 1910 THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY PRESS OF BRAUNWORTH & CO. BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS BROOKLYN, N. Y. CONTENTS PAGE I THE GOLD BRICK 1 II THE HAS-BEEN 35 III WHAT WILL BECOME OF ANNIE? 65 IV THE VINDICATION OF HENDERSON OF GREENE 89 V SENATE BILL 578 119 VI MACOCHEE’S FIRST CAMPAIGN FUND 139 VII A SECRET OF STATE 165 VIII THE COLONEL’S LAST CAMPAIGN 201 IX REFORM IN THE FIRST 232 X MALACHI NOLAN 262 XI THE PARDON OF THOMAS WHALEN 302 XII THAT BOY 333 The stories in this book were originally published in _The Saturday Evening Post_, _The American Magazine_ and _Ainslee’s Magazine_, and to these publications acknowledgments are due for their courtesy in giving permission for republication. THE GOLD BRICK THE GOLD BRICK Ten thousand dollars a year! Neil Kittrell left the office of the _Morning Telegraph_ in a daze. He was insensible of the raw February air, heedless of sloppy pavements; the gray day had suddenly turned gold. He could not realize it all at once; ten thousand a year--for him and Edith! His heart swelled with love of Edith; she had sacrificed so much to become the wife of a man who had tried to make an artist of himself, and of whom fate, or economic determinism, or something, had made a cartoonist. What a surprise for her! He must hurry home. In this swelling of his heart he felt a love not only of Edith but of the whole world. The people he met seemed dear to him; he felt friendly with every one, and beamed on perfect strangers with broad, cheerful smiles. He stopped to buy some flowers for Edith--daffodils, or tulips, which promised spring, and he took the daffodils, because the girl said: “I think yellow is such a spirituelle color, don’t you?” and inclined her head in a most artistic manner. But daffodils, after all, which would have been much the day before, seemed insufficient in the light of new prosperity, and Kittrell bought a large azalea, beautiful in its graceful spread of pink blooms. “Where shall I send it?” asked the girl, whose cheeks were as pink as azaleas themselves. “I think I’ll call a cab and take it to her myself,” said Kittrell. And she sighed over the romance of this rich young gentleman and the girl of the azalea, who, no doubt, was as beautiful as the young woman who was playing _Lottie, the Poor Saleslady_ at the Lyceum that very week.