The Brass Bowl

The Brass Bowl

The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Brass Bowl, by Louis Joseph
Vance Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check
the copyright laws for your country before downloading or
redistributing this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook.
This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project
Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the
header without written permission.
Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the
eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is
important information about your specific rights and restrictions in how
the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a
donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved.
**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**
**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since
1971**
*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of
Volunteers!*****
Title: The Brass Bowl
Author: Louis Joseph Vance
Release Date: August, 2005 [EBook #8741] [Yes, we are more than
one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on August 6,
2003]
Edition: 10
Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BRASS
BOWL ***

Produced by Distributed Proofreaders

THE BRASS BOWL
BY LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE
1907

I
DUST
In the dull hot dusk of a summer's day a green touring-car, swinging
out of the East Drive, pulled up smartly, trembling, at the edge of the
Fifty-ninth Street car-tracks, then more sedately, under the
dispassionate but watchful eye of a mounted member of the Traffic
Squad, lurched across the Plaza and merged itself in the press of
vehicles south-bound on the Avenue.
Its tonneau held four young men, all more or less disguised in dust,
dusters and goggles; forward, by the side of the grimy and
anxious-eyed mechanic, sat a fifth, in all visible respects the
counterpart of his companions. Beneath his mask, and by this I do not
mean his goggles, but the mask of modern manner which the worldly
wear, he was, and is, different.
He was Daniel Maitland, Esquire; for whom no further introduction
should be required, after mention of the fact that he was, and remains,
the identical gentleman of means and position in the social and
financial worlds, whose somewhat sober but sincere and whole-hearted
participation in the wildest of conceivable escapades had earned him
the affectionate regard of the younger set, together with the sobriquet of
"Mad Maitland."
His companions of the day, the four in the tonneau, were in that humor
of subdued yet vibrant excitement which is apt to attend the conclusion
of a long, hard drive over country roads. Maitland, on the other hand,
(judging him by his preoccupied pose), was already weary of, if not

bored by, the hare-brained enterprise which, initiated on the spur of an
idle moment and directly due to a thoughtless remark of his own, had
brought him a hundred miles (or so) through the heat of a broiling
afternoon, accompanied by spirits as ardent and irresponsible as his
own, in search of the dubious distraction afforded by the night side of
the city.
As, picking its way with elephantine nicety, the motor-car progressed
down the Avenue--twilight deepening, arcs upon their bronze columns
blossoming suddenly, noiselessly into spheres of opalescent
radiance--Mr. Maitland ceased to respond, ceased even to give heed, to
the running fire of chaff (largely personal) which amused his
companions. Listlessly engaged with a cigarette, he lounged upon the
green leather cushions, half closing his eyes, and heartily wished
himself free for the evening.
But he stood committed to the humor of the majority, and lacked
entirely the shadow of an excuse to desert; in addition to which he was
altogether too lazy for the exertion of manufacturing a Lie of
serviceable texture. And so abandoned himself to his fate, even though
he foresaw with weariful particularity the programme of the coming
hours.
To begin with, thirty minutes were to be devoted to a bath and dressing
in his rooms. This was something not so unpleasant to contemplate. It
was the afterwards that repelled him: the dinner at Sherry's, the
subsequent tour of roof gardens, the late supper at a club, and then,
prolonged far into the small hours, the session around some
green-covered table in a close room reeking with the fumes of good
tobacco and hot with the fever of gambling....
Abstractedly Maitland frowned, tersely summing up: "Beastly!"--in an
undertone.
At this the green car wheeled abruptly round a corner below
Thirty-fourth Street, slid half a block or more east, and came to a
palpitating halt. Maitland, looking up, recognized the entrance to his
apartments, and sighed with relief for the brief respite from boredom