MORE PAST MASTERS

Short stories in the Life+70 Public Domain

2020

Contents

1: The Glenmutchkin Railway / W. E. Aytoun

2: George / Stacy Aumonier

3: Christmas Eve at the China Dog / Edgar Wallace

4: A Present for Evans / Edgar Wallace

5: The Devil of the Marsh / Henry Brereton Marriott Watson

6: The Mystery of the Semi-Detached / Edith Nesbit

7: The Wendigo / Theodore Roosevelt

8: Spider Tong / Perley Poore Sheehan

9: Yonder's Henry! / Thorne Smith

10: The Conspirators / John Philip Sousa

11: Aylmer Vance and the Vampire / Alice and Claude Askew

12: The Specialist / Charles  ('Chic') Sale

13: The Great Pegram Mystery / Robert Barr

14: Beyond The Spectrum / Arthur Leo Zagat

15: Blind Guess / Valentine Williams

16: According to the Statute / Fred Merrick White

17: The Money Machine / David Wright O'Brien

______________________

1: How We Got Up the Glenmutchkin Railway

and how We Got out of It

W. E. Aytoun

(1813-1865)

Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine October 1845

I WAS confoundedly hard up. My patrimony, never of the largest, had been for the last year on the decrease— a herald would have emblazoned it, "ARGENT, a moneybag improper, in detriment"— and though the attenuating process was not excessively rapid, it was, nevertheless, proceeding at a steady ratio. As for the ordinary means and appliances by which men contrive to recruit their exhausted exchequers, I knew none of them. Work I abhorred with a detestation worthy of a scion of nobility; and, I believe, you could just as soon have persuaded the lineal representative of the Howards or Percys to exhibit himself in the character of a mountebank, as have got me to trust my person on the pinnacle of a three-legged stool. The rule of three is all very well for base mechanical souls; but I flatter myself I have an intellect too large to be limited to a ledger. "Augustus," said my poor mother to me, while stroking my hyacinthine tresses, one fine morning, in the very dawn and budding-time of my existence— "Augustus, my dear boy, whatever you do, never forget that you are a gentleman." The maternal maxim sunk deeply into my heart, and I never for a moment have forgotten it.

Notwithstanding this aristocratical resolution, the great practical question "How am I to live!" began to thrust itself unpleasantly before me. I am one of that unfortunate class who have neither uncles nor aunts. For me, no yellow liverless individuals, with characteristic bamboo and pigtail— emblems of half-a-million— returned to his native shores from Ceylon or remote Penang. For me, no venerable spinster hoarded in the Trongate, permitting herself few luxuries during a long-protracted life, save a lass and a lanthorn, a parrot, and the invariable baudrons of antiquity. No such luck was mine. Had all Glasgow perished by some vast epidemic, I should not have found myself one farthing the richer. There would have been no golden balsam for me in the accumulated woes of Tradestown, Shettleston, and Camlachie. The time has been when— according to Washington Irving and other veracious hisstorians— a young man had no sooner got into difficulties than a guardian angel appeared to him in a dream, with the information that at such and such a bridge, or under such and such a tree, he might find, at a slight expenditure of labour, a gallipot secured with bladder, and filled with glittering tomauns; or in the extremity of despair, the youth had only to append himself to a cord, and straightaway the other end thereof, forsaking its staple in the roof, would disclose amidst the fractured ceiling the glories of a profitable pose. These blessed days have long since gone by— at any rate, no such luck was mine. My guardian angel was either woefully ignorant of metallurgy or the stores had been surreptitiously ransacked; and as to the other expedient, I frankly confess I should have liked some better security for its result, than the precedent of the 'Heir of Lynn.'

It is a great consolation amidst all the evils of life, to know that, however bad your circumstances may be, there is always somebody else in nearly the same predicament. My chosen friend and ally, Bob M'Corkindale, was equally hard up with myself, and, if possible, more averse to exertion. Bob was essentially a speculative man— that is, in a philosophical sense. He had once got hold of a stray volume of Adam Smith, and muddled his brains for a whole week over the intricacies of the Wealth of Nations. The result was a crude farrago of notions regarding the true nature of money, the soundness of currency, and relative value of capital, with which he nightly favoured an admiring audience at 'The Crow'; for Bob was by no means— -in the literal acceptation of the word— a dry philosopher. On the contrary, he perfectly appreciated the merits of each distinct distillery; and was understood to be the compiler of a statistical work entitled, A Tour through the Alcoholic Districts of Scotland. It had very early occurred to me, who knew as much of political economy as of the bagpipes, that a gentleman so well versed in the art of accumulating national wealth, must have some remote ideas of applying his principles profitably on a smaller scale. Accordingly, I gave M'Corkindale an unlimited invitation to my lodgings; and, like a good hearty fellow as he was, he availed himself every evening of the license; for I had laid in a fourteen-gallon cask of Oban whisky, and the quality of the malt was undeniable.

These were the first glorious days of general speculation. Railroads were emerging from the hands of the greater into the fingers of the lesser capitalists. Two successful harvests had given a fearful stimulus to the national energy; and it appeared perfectly certain that all the populous towns would be united, and the rich agricultural districts intersected, by the magical bands of iron. The columns of the newspapers teemed every week with the parturition of novel schemes; and the shares were no sooner announced than they were rapidly subscribed for. But what is the use of my saying anything more about the history of last year? Every one of us remembers it perfectly well. It was a capital year on the whole, and put money into many a pocket. About that time, Bob and I commenced operations. Our available capital, or negotiable bullion, in the language of my friend, amounted to about three hundred pounds, which we set aside as a joint fund for speculation. Bob, in a series of learned discourses, had convinced me that it was not only folly, but a positive sin, to leave this sum lying in the bank at a pitiful rate of interest, and otherwise unemployed, whilst every one else in the kingdom was having a pluck at the public pigeon. Somehow or other, we were unlucky in our first attempts. Speculators are like wasps; for when they have once got hold of a ripening and peach-like project, they keep it rigidly for their own swarm, and repel the approach of interlopers. Notwithstanding all our efforts, and very ingenious ones they were, we never, in a single instance, succeeded in procuring an allocation of original shares; and though we did now and then make a hit by purchase, we more frequently bought at a premium, and parted with our scrip at a discount. At the end of six months, we were not twenty pounds richer than before.

"This will never do," said Bob, as he sat one evening in my rooms compounding his second tumbler. "I thought we were living in an enlightened age; but I find I was mistaken. That brutal spirit of monopoly is still abroad and uncurbed. The principles of free-trade are utterly forgotten, or misunderstood. Else how comes it that David Spreul received but yesterday an allocation of two hundred shares in the Westermidden junction; whilst your application and mine, for a thousand each, were overlooked? IS this a state of things to be tolerated? Why should he, with his fifty thousand pounds, receive a slapping premium, whilst our three hundred of available capital remains unrepresented? The fact is monstrous, and demands the immediate and serious interference of the legislature."

"It is a bloody shame," I said, fully alive to the manifold advantages of a premium.

"I'll tell you what, Dunshunner," rejoined M'Corkindale. "It's no use going on in this way. We haven't shown half pluck enough. These fellows consider us as snobs, because we don't take the bull by the horns. Now's the time for a bold stroke. The public are quite ready to subscribe for anything-and we'll start a railway for ourselves."

"Start a railway with three hundred pounds of capital?"

"Pshaw, man! you don't know what you're talking about— we've a great deal more capital than that. Have not I told you seventy times over, that everything a man has-his coat, his hat, the tumblers he drinks from, nay, his very corporeal existence— is absolute marketable capital? What do you call that fourteen-gallon cask, I should like to know?"

"A compound of hoops and staves, containing about a quart and a half of spirits-you have effectually accounted for the rest."

"Then it has gone to the fund of profit and loss, that's all. Never let me hear you sport those old theories again. Capital is indestructible, as I am ready to prove to you any day, in half an hour. But let us sit down seriously to business. We are rich enough to pay for the advertisements, and that is all we need care for in the mean time. The public is sure to step in, and bear us out handsomely with the rest."

"But where in the face of the habitable globe shall the railway be? England is out of the question, and I hardly know of a spot in the Lowlands that is not occupied already."

"What do you say to a Spanish scheme— the Alcantara Union? Hang me if I know whether Alcantara is in Spain or Portugal; but nobody else does, and the one is quite as good as the other. Or what would you think of the Palermo Railway, with a branch to the sulphur mines?— that would be popular in the North— or the Pyrenees Direct? They would all go to a premium."

"I must confess I should prefer a line at home."

"Well, then, why not try the Highlands? There must be lots of traffic there in the shape of sheep, grouse, and Cockney tourists, not to mention salmon and other et-ceteras. Couldn't we tip them a railway somewhere in the west?"

"There's Glenmutchkin, for instance— "

"Capital, my dear fellow! Glorious? By Jove, first-rate!" shouted Bob in an ecstasy of delight. "Theres a distillery there, you know, and a fishing-village at the foot-at least there used to be six years ago, when I was living with the exciseman. There may be some bother about the population, though. The last laird shipped every mother's son of the aboriginal Celts to America; but, after all, that's not of much consequence. I see the whole thing! Unrivalled scenery-stupendous waterfalls— herds of black cattle— spot where Prince Charles Edward met Macgrugar of Glengrugar and his clan! We could not possibly have lighted on a more promising place. Hand us over that sheet of paper, like a good fellow, and a pen. There is no time to be lost, and the sooner we get out the prospectus the better."

"But, heaven bless you, Bob, there's a great deal to be thought of first. Who are we to get for a provisional committee?"

"That's very true," said Bob, musingly. "We must treat them to some respectable names, that is, good sounding ones. I'm afraid there is little chance of our producing a Peer to begin with?"

"None whatever— unless we could invent one, and that's hardly safe— Burke's Peerage has gone through too many editions. Couldn't we try the Dormants?"

"That would be rather dangerous in the teeth of the standing orders. But what do you say to a baronet? There's Sir Polloxfen Tremens. He got himself served the other day to a Nova Scotia baronetcy, with just as much title as you or I have; and he has sported the riband, and dined out on the strength of it ever since. He'll join us at once, for he has not a sixpence to lose."

"Down with him, then," and we headed the Provisional list with the pseudo Orange-tawny.

"Now," said Bob, "it's quite indispensable, as this is a Highland line, that we should put forward a Chief or two. That has always a great effect upon the English, whose feudal notions are rather of the mistiest, and principally derived from Waverley."

"Why not write yourself down as the Laird of MCorkindale?" said I. "I daresay you would not be negatived by a counterclaim."

"That would hardly do," replied Bob, "as I intend to be Secretary. After all, what's the use of thinking about it? Here goes for an extempore Chief"; and the villain wrote down the name of Tavish M'Tavish of Invertavish.

"I say, though," said I, "we must have a real Highlander on the list. If we go on this way, it will become a Justiciary matter."

"You're devilish scrupulous, Gus," said Bob, who, if left to himself, would have stuck in the names of the heathen gods and goddesses, or borrowed his directors from the Ossianic chronicles, rather than have delayed the prospectus. "Where the mischief are we to find the men? I can think of no others likely to go the whole hog, can you?"

"I don't know a single Celt in Glasgow except old M'Closkie, the drunken porter at the corner of Jamaica Street."

"He's the very man! I suppose, after the manner of his tribe, he will do anything for a pint of whisky. But what shall we call him? Jamaica Street, I fear, will hardly do for a designation."

"Call him The M'Closkie. It will be sonorous in the ears of the Saxon!"

"Bravo!" and another Chief was added to the roll of the clans.

"Now," said Bob, "we must put you down. Recollect, an the management— that is, the allocation-will be intrusted to you. Augustus— you haven't a middle name, I think?— well, then, suppose we interpolate 'Reginald', it has a smack of the Crusades. Augustus Reginald Dunshunner, Esq. of— where, in the name of Munchausen?"

"I'm sure I don't know. I never had any land beyond the contents of a flower-pot. Stay— I rather think I have a superiority somewhere about Paisley."

"Just the thing," cried Bob. "It's heritable property, and therefore titular. What's the denomination?"

"St. Mirrens."

"Beautiful! Dunshunner of St. Mirrens, I give you joy! Had you discovered that a little sooner— and I wonder you did not think of it— we might both of us have had lots of allocations. These are not the times to conceal hereditary distinctions. But now comes the serious work. We must have one or two men of known wealth upon the list. The chaff is nothing without a decoy-bird. Now, can't you help me with a name?"

"In that case," said I, "the game is up, and the whole scheme exploded. I would as soon undertake to evoke the ghost of Croesus."

"Dunshunner," said Bob very seriously, "to be a man of information, you are possessed of marvellous few resources. I am quite ashamed of you. Now listen to me. I have thought deeply upon this subject, and am quite convinced that, with some little trouble, we may secure the co-operation of a most wealthy and influential body— one, too, that is generally supposed to have stood aloof from all speculation of the kind, and whose name would be a tower of strength in the moneyed quarters. I allude," continued Bob, reaching across for the kettle, "to the great Dissenting Interest."

"The what?" cried I, aghast.

"The great Dissenting Interest. You can't have failed to observe the row they have lately been making about Sunday travelling and education. Old Sam Sawley, the coffin-maker, is their principal spokesman here; and wherever he goes the rest will follow, like a flock of sheep bounding after a patriarchal ram. I propose, therefore, to wait upon him to-morrow, and request his co-operation in a scheme which is not only to prove profitable, but to make head against the lax principles of the present age. Leave me alone to tickle him. I consider his name, and those of one or two others belonging to the same meeting-house-fellows with bank-stock and all sorts of tin, as perfectly secure. These dissenters smell a premium from an almost incredible distance. We can fill up the rest of the committee with ciphers, and the whole thing is done."

"But the engineer— we must announce such an officer as a matter of course."

"I never thought of that," said Bob. "Couldn't we hire a fellow from one of the steamboats?"

"I fear that might get us into trouble. You know there are such things as gradients and sections to be prepared. But there's Watty Solder, the gas-fitter, who failed the other day. He's a sort of civil engineer by trade, and will jump at the proposal like a trout at the tail of a May fly."

"Agreed. Now, then, let's fix the number of shares. This is our first experiment, and I thing we ought to be moderate. No sound political economist is avaricious. Let us say twelve thousand, at twenty pounds a-piece."

"So be it."

"Well, then, that's arranged. I'll see Sawley and the rest to-morrow; settle with Solder, and then write out the prospectus. You look in upon me in the evening, and we'll revise it together. Now, by your leave, let's have in the Welsh rabbit and another tumbler to drink success and prosperity to the Glenniutchkin Railway."

I confess that, when I rose on the morrow, with a slight headache and a tongue indifferently parched, I recalled to memory, not without perturbation of conscience, and some internal qualms, the conversation of the previous evening. I felt relieved, however, after two spoonfuls of carbonate of soda, and a glance at the newspaper, wherein I perceived the announcement of no less than four other schemes equally preposterous with our own. But, after all, what right had I to assume that the Glenmutchkin project would prove an ultimate failure? I had not a scrap of statistical information that might entitle me to form such an opinion. At any rate, Parliament, by substituting the Board of Trade as an initiating body of inquiry, had created a responsible tribunal, and freed us from the chance of obloquy. I saw before me a vision of six months' steady gambling, at manifest advantage, in the shares, before a report could possibly be pronounced, or our proceedings be in any way overhauled. Of course I attended that evening punctually at my friend M'Corkindale's. Bob was in high feather; for Sawley no sooner heard of the principles upon which the railway was to be conducted, and his own nomination as a director, than he gave in his adhesion, and promised his unflinching support to the uttermost. The Prospectus ran as follows:

DIRECT GLENMUTCHKIN RAILWAY In 12,000 Shares of 20 pounds each. Deposit 1 pound per Share.

Provisional Committee SIR POLLOXFEN TREMENS, Bart. of Toddymains. TAVISH MTAVISH of Invertavish. THE M'CLOSKIE. AUGUSTUS REGINALD DUNSHUNNER, Esq., of St. Mirrens. SAMUEL SAWLEY, Esq., Merchant. MHIC-MHAC-VICH-INDUIBH. PHELIM O'FINLAN, Esq., of Castle-rook, Ireland. THE CAPTAIN of M'ALCOHOL. FACTOR for GLENTUMBLERS. JOHN JOB JOBSON, Esq., Manufacturer. EVAN M'CLAW of Glenscart and Inveryewky. JOSEPH HECKLES, Esq. HABBAKUK GRABBIE, Portioner in Ramoth-Drumclog. Engineer— WALTER SOLDER, Esq. Interim-Secretary— ROBERT M'CORKINDALE, Esq.

"The necessity of a direct line of Railway communication through the fertile and populous district known as the valley of GLENMUTCHKIN, has been long felt and universally acknowledged. Independently of the surpassing grandeur of its mountain scenery, which shall immediately be referred to, and other considerations of even greater importance, GLENMUTCHKIN is known to the capitalist as the most important BREEDING STATION in the Highlands of Scotland, and indeed as the great emporium from which the southern markets are supplied. It has been calculated by a most eminent authority, that every acre in the strath is capable of rearing twenty head of cattle; and, as has been ascertained after a careful admeasurement, that there are not less than TWO HUNDRED THOUSAND improvable acres immediately contiguous to the proposed line of Railway, it may confidently be assumed that the number of cattle to be conveyed along the line will amount to FOUR MILLIONS annually, which, at the lowest estimate, would yield a revenue larger, in proportion to the capital subscribed, than that of any Railway as yet completed within the United Kingdom. From this estimate the traffic in Sheep and Goats, with which the mountains are literally covered, has been carefully excluded, it having been found quite impossible (from its extent) to compute the actual revenue to be drawn from that most important branch. It may, however, be roughly assumed as from seventeen to nineteen per cent upon the whole, after deduction of the working expenses.

"The population of Glenmutchkin is extremely dense. Its situation on the west coast has afforded it the means of direct communication with America, of which for many years the inhabitants have actively availed themselves. Indeed, the amount of exportation of live stock from this part of the Highlands to the Western continent, has more than once attracted the attention of Parliament. The Manufacturers are large and comprehensive, and include the most famous distilleries in the world. The Minerals are most abundant, and amongst these may be reckoned quartz, porphyry, felspar, malachite, manganese, and basalt.

"At the foot of the valley, and close to the sea, lies the important village known as the CLACHAN of INVERSTARVE. It is supposed by various eminent antiquaries to have been the capital of the Picts, and, amongst the busy inroads of commercial prosperity, it still retains some interesting traces of its former grandeur. There is a large fishing station here, to which vessels from every nation resort, and the demand for foreign produce is daily and steadily increasing.

"As a sporting country Gleumutchkin is unrivalled; but it is by the tourists that its beauties will most greedily be sought. These consist of every combination which plastic nature can afford— cliffs of unusual magnitude and grandeur— waterfalls only second to the sublime cascades of Norway— woods, of which the bark is a remarkably valuable commodity. It need scarcely be added, to rouse the enthusiasm inseparable from this glorious glen, that here, in 1745, Prince Charles Edward Stuart, then in the zenith of his hopes, was joined by the brave Sir Grugar M'Grugar at the head of his devoted clan.

"The Railway will be twelve miles long, and can be completed within six months after the Act of Parliament is obtained. The gradients are easy, and the curves obtuse. There are no viaducts of any importance, and only four tunnels along the whole length of the line. The shortest of these does not exceed a mile and a half.

"In conclusion, the projectors of this Railway beg to state that they have determined, as a principle, to set their face AGAINST ALL SUNDAY TRAVELLING WHATSOEVER, and to oppose EVERY BILL which may hereafter be brought into Parliament, unless it shall contain a clause to that effect. It is also their intention to take up the cause of the poor and neglected STOKER, for whose accommodation, and social, moral, religious, and intellectual improvement, a large stock of evangelical tracts will speedily be required. Tenders of these, in quantities of not less than 12,ooo may be sent in to the Interim Secretary. Shares must be applied for within ten days from the present date."

By order of the Provisional Committee.

ROBT. M'CORKINDALE, Secretary.

"There!" said Bob, slapping down the prospectus on the table, with the jauntiness of a Cockney vouchsafing a Pint of Hermitage to his guests— "What do you think of that? If it doesn't do the business effectually, I shall submit to be caned a Dutchman. That last touch about the stoker will bring us in the subscriptions of the old ladies by the score."

"Very masterly, indeed?" said I. "But who the deuce is Mhic-Mhac-vich-Induibh?"

"A bona-fide chief, I assure you, though a little reduced: I picked him up upon the Broomielaw. His grandfather had an island somewhere to the west of the Hebrides; but it is not laid down in the maps."

"And the Captain of M'Alcohol?"

"A crack distiller."

"And the Factor for Glentumblers?"

"His principal customer. But, bless you, my dear St. Mirrens! don't bother yourself any more about the committee. They are as respectable a set— on paper at least— as you would wish to see of a summer's morning, and the beauty of it is that they will give us no manner of trouble. Now about the allocation. You and I must restrict ourselves to a couple of thousand shares a-piece. That's only a third of the whole, but it won't do to be greedy."

"But, Bob, consider! Where on earth are we to find the money to pay up the deposits?"

"Can you, the principal director of the Glemmutchkin Railway, ask me, the secretary, such a question? Don't you know that any of the banks will give us tick to the amount 'of half the deposits.' All that is settled already, and you can get your two thousand pounds whenever you please merely for the signing of a bill. Sawley must get a thousand according to stipulation— Jobson, Heckles, and Grabbie, at least five hundred a-piece, and another five hundred, I should think, will exhaust the remaining means of the committee. So that, out of our whole stock, there remain just five thousand shares to be allocated to the speculative and evangelical public. My eyes! won't there be a scramble for them!"

Next day our prospectus appeared in the newspapers. It was read, canvassed, and generally approved of. During the afternoon, I took an opportunity of looking into the Tontine, and whilst under shelter of the Glasgow Herald, my ears were solaced with such ejaculations as the following:—

"I say, Jimsy, hae ye seen this grand new prospectus for a railway tae Glenmutchkin?"

"Ay— it looks no that ill. The Hieland lairds are pitting their best fit foremost. Will ye apply for shares?"

"I think I'll tak' twa hundred. Wha's Sir Polloxfen Tremens?"

"He'll be yin o' the Ayrshire folk. He used to rin horses at the Paisley races."

("The devil he did!" thought I.)

"D'ye ken ony o' the directors, Jimsy?"

"I ken Sawley fine. Ye may depend on't, it's a gude thing if he's in't, for he's a howkin' body."

"Then it's sure to gae up. What prem. d'ye think it will bring?"

"Twa pund a share, and maybe mair."

"'0d, I'll apply for three hundred!"

"Heaven bless you, my dear countrymen!" thought I as I sallied forth to refresh myself with a basin of soup, "do but maintain this liberal and patriotic feeling-this thirst for national improvement, internal communication, and premiums— a short while longer, and I know whose fortune will be made."

On the following morning my breakfast-table was covered with shoals of letters, from fellows whom I scarcely ever had spoken to— or who, to use a franker phraseology, had scarcely ever condescended to speak to me— entreating my influence as a director to obtain them shares in the new undertaking. I never bore malice in my life, so I chalked them down, without favouritism, for a certain proportion. Whilst engaged in this charitable work, the door flew open, and M'Corkindale, looking utterly haggard with excitement, rushed in.

"You may buy an estate whenever you please, Dunshunner," cried he, "the world's gone perfectly mad! I have been to Blazes the broker, and he tells me that the whole amount of the stock has been subscribed for four times over already, and he has not yet got in the returns from Edinburgh and Liverpool!"

"Are they good names though, Bob— sure cards— none of your M'Closkies, and M'Alcohols?"

"The first names in the city, I assure you, and most of them holders for investment. I wouldn't take ten millions for their capita."

"Then the sooner we close the list the better."

"I think so too. I suspect a rival company will be out before long. Blazes says the shares are selling already conditionally on allotment, at seven-and-sixpence premium."

"The deuce they are! I say, Bob, since we have the cards in our hands, would it not be wise to favour them with a few hundred at that rate? A bird in the hand, you know, is worth two in the bush, eh?"

"I know no such maxim in political economy," replied the secretary. "Are you mad, Dunshunner? How are the shares ever to go up, if it gets wind that the directors are selling already? Our business just now, is to bull the line, not to bear it; and if you will trust me, I shall show them such an operation on the ascending scale, as the Stock Exchange has not witnessed for this long and many a day. Then, to-morrow, I shall advertise in the papers that the committee, having received applications for ten times the amount of stock, have been compelled, unwillingly, to close the lists. That will be a slap in the face to the dilatory gentlemen, and send up the shares like wildfire."

Bob was right. No sooner did the advertisement appear, than a simultaneous groan was uttered by some hundreds of disappointed speculators, who with unwonted and unnecessary caution had been anxious to see their way a little before committing themselves to our splendid enterprise. In consequence, they rushed into the market, with intense anxiety to make what terms they could at the earliest stage, and the seven-and-sixpence of premium was doubled in the course of a forenoon.

The allocation passed over very peaceably. Sawley, Heckles, Jobson, Grabbie, and the Captain of M'Alcohol, besides myself, attended, and took part in the business. We were also threatened with the presence of the M'Closkie and Vich-Induibh; but M'Corkindale, entertaining some reasonable doubts as the effect which their corporeal appearance might have upon the representatives of the dissenting interest, had taken the precaution to get them snugly housed in a tavern, where an unbounded supply of gratuitous Ferintosh deprived us of the benefit of their experience. We, how ever, allotted them twenty shares a-piece. Sir Polloxfen Tremens sent a handsome, though rather illegible letter of apology, dated from an island in Lochlomond, where he was said to be detained on particular business.

Mr. Sawley, who officiated as our chairman, was kind enough, before parting, to pass a very flattering eulogium upon the excellence and candour of all the preliminary arrangements. It would now, he said, go forth to the public that this line was not, like some others he could mention, a mere bubble, emanating from the stank of private interest, but a solid, lasting superstructure, based upon the principles of sound return for capital, and serious evangelical truth (hear, hear). The time was fast approaching, when the gravestone, with the words 'HIC OBIIT' chiselled upon it, would be placed at the head of all the other lines which rejected the grand opportunity of conveying education to the stoker. The stoker, in his (Mr. Sawley's) opinion, had a right to ask the an important question, "Am I not a man and a brother?" (Cheers). Much had been said and written lately about a work called Tracts for the Times. With the opinions contained in that publication he was not conversant, as it was conducted by persons of another community from that to which he (Mr. Sawley) had the privilege to belong. But he hoped very soon, under the auspices of the Glenmutchkin Railway Company, to see a new periodical established, under the title of Tracts for the Trains. He never for a moment would relax his efforts to knock a nail into the coffin, which, he might say, was already made, and measured, and cloth-covered for the reception of all establishments; and with these sentiments, and the conviction that the shares must rise, could it be doubted that he would remain a fast friend to the interests of this Company for ever? (much cheering).

After having delivered this address, Mr. Sawley affectionately squeezed the hands of his brother directors, leaving several of us much overcome. As, however, M'Corkindale had told me that every one of Sawley's shares had been disposed of in the market the day before, I felt less compunction at having refused to allow that excellent man an extra thousand beyond the amount he had applied for, not withstanding of his broadest hints, and even private entreaties.

"Confound the greedy hypocrite!" said Bob; "does he think we shall let him Burke the line for nothing? No-no! let him go to the brokers and buy his shares back, if he thinks they are likely to rise. I'll be bound he has made a cool five hundred out of them already."

On the day which succeeded the allocation, the following entry appeared in the Glasgow share-lists. 'Direct Glentnutchkin Railway 15s. 15s. 6d. 15s. 6d. 16s. 15s. 6d. 16s. 16s. 6d. 16s. 6d. 16s. 17s. 18s. 18s. 19s. 6d. 21s. 21s. 22s. 6d. 24s. 25s. 6d. 27S. 29S. 29s. 6d. 30s. 31S. pm.'

"They might go higher, and they ought to go higher," said Bob musingly; "but there's not much more stock to come and go upon, and these two share-sharks, Jobson and Grabbie, I know, will be in the market to-morrow. We must not let them have the whiphand of us. I think upon the whole, Dunshunner, though it's letting them go dog cheap, that we ought to sell half our shares at the present premium, whilst there is a certainty of getting it."

"Why not sell the whole? I'm sure I have no objections to part with every stiver of the scrip on such terms."

"Perhaps," said Bob, "upon general principles you might be right; but then remember that we have a vested interest in the line.

"Vested interest be hanged!"

"That's very well— at the same time it is no use to kill your salmon in a hurry. The bulls have done their work pretty wen for us, and we ought to keep something on hand for the bears; they are snuffing at it already. I could almost swear that some of those fellows who have sold to-day are working for a time-bargain."

We accordingly got rid of a couple of thousand shares, the proceeds of which not only enabled us to discharge the deposit loan, but left us a material surplus. Under these circumstances, a two-hand banquet was proposed and unanimously carried, the commencement of which I distinctly remember, but am rather dubious as to the end. So many stories have lately been circulated to the prejudice of railway directors, that I think it my duty to state that this entertainment was scrupulously defrayed by ourselves, and not carried to account, either of the preliminary survey, or the expense of the provisional committee.

Nothing effects so great a metamorphosis in the bearing of the outer man as a sudden change of fortune. The anemone of the garden differs scarcely more from its unpretending prototype of the Woods, than Robert M'Corkindale, Esq., Secretary and Projector of the Glenmutchkin Railway, differed from Bob M'Corkindale, the seedy frequenter of 'The Crow'. In the days of yore, men eyed the surtout— napless at the velvet collar, and preternaturally white at the seams— which Bob vouchsafed to wear, with looks of dim suspicion, as if some faint reminiscence, similar to that which is said to recall the memory of a former state of existence, suggested to them a notion that the garment had once been their own. Indeed, his whole appearance was then wonderfully second-hand. Now he had cast his slough. A most undeniable Taglioni, with trimmings just bordering upon frogs, gave dignity to his demeanour and two— fold amplitude to his chest. The horn eyeglass was exchanged for one of purest gold, the dingy high-lows for well-waxed Wellingtons, the Paisley fogle for the fabric of the China loom. Moreover, he walked with a swagger, and affected in common conversation a peculiar dialect which he opined to be the purest English, but which no one-except a bagman-could be reasonably expected to understand. His pockets were invariably crammed with share-lists; and he quoted, if he did not comprehend, the money article from the Times. This sort of assumption, though very ludicrous in itself, goes down wonderfully. Bob gradually became a sort of authority, and his opinions got quoted on 'Change. He was no ass, notwithstanding his peculiarities, and made good use of his opportunity.

For myself, I bore my new dignities with an air of modest meekness. A certain degree of starchness is indispensable for a railway director, if he means to go forward in his high calling and prosper; he must abandon all juvenile eccentricities, and aim at the appearance of a decided enemy to free trade in the article of Wild Oats. Accordingly, as the first step towards respectability, I eschewed coloured waistcoasts, and gave out that I was a marrying man. No man under forty, unless he is a positive idiot, will stand forth as a theoretical bachelor. It is all nonsense to say that there is anything unpleasant in being courted. Attention, whether from male or female, tickles the vanity; and although I have a reasonable, and I hope, not unwholesome regard for the gratification of my other appetites, I confess that this same vanity is by far the most poignant of the whole. I therefore surrendered myself freely to the soft allurements thrown in my way by such matronly denizens of Glasgow as were possessed of stock in the shape of marriageable daughters; and walked the more readily into their toils, because every party, though nominally for the purposes of tea, wound up with a hot supper, and something hotter still by way of assisting the digestion.

I don't know whether it was my determined conduct at the allocation, my territorial title, or a most exaggerated idea of my circumstances, that worked upon the mind of Mr. Sawley. Possibly it was a combination of the three; but sure enough few days had elapsed before I received a formal card of invitation to a tea and serious conversation. Now serious conversation is a sort of thing that I never shone in, possibly because my early studies were framed in a different direction; but as I really was unwilling to offend the respectable coffin-maker, and as I found that the Captain of M'Alcohol— a decided trump in his way— had also received a summons, I notified my acceptance.

M'Alcohol and I went together. The Captain, an enormous browny Celt, with superhuman whiskers, and a shock of the fieriest hair, had figged himself out, more majorum, in the full Highland costume. I never saw Rob Roy on the stage look half so dignified or ferocious. He glittered from head to foot, with dirk, pistol, and skean-dhu, and at least a hundredweight of cairngorms cast a prismatic glory around his person. I felt quite abashed beside him.

We were ushered into Mr. Sawley's drawing-room. Round the walls, and at considerable distances from each other, were seated about a dozen characters, male and female, all of them dressed in sable, and wearing countenances of woe. Sawley advanced, and wrung me by the hand with so piteous an expression of visage, that I could not help thinking some awful catastrophe had just befallen his family.

"You are welcome, Mr. Dunshunner— welcome to my humble tabernacle. Let me present you to Mrs. Sawley"— and a lady, who seemed to have bathed in the Yellow Sea, rose from her seat, and favoured me with a profound curtsy.

"My daughter— Miss Selina Sawley."

I felt in my brain the scorching glance of the two darkest eyes it ever was my fortune to behold, as the beauteous Selina looked up from the perusal of her handkerchief hem. It was a pity that the other features were not corresponding; for the nose was flat, and the mouth of such dimensions, that Harlequin might have jumped down it with impunity— but the eyes were splendid.

In obedience to a sign from the hostess, I sank into a chair beside Selina; and not knowing exactly what to say, hazarded some observation about the weather.

"Yes, it is indeed a suggestive season. How deeply, Mr. Dunshunner, we ought to feel the pensive progress of autumn towards a soft and premature decay! I always think, about this time of the year, that nature is falling into a consumption!"

"To be sure, ma'am," said I, rather taken aback by this style of colloquy, "the trees are looking devilishly hectic."

"Ah, you have remarked that too! Strange! it was but yesterday that I was wandering through Kelvin Grove, and as the phantom breeze brought down the withered foliage from the spray, I thought how probable it was that they might ere long rustle over young and glowing hearts deposited prematurely in the tomb!"

This, which struck me as a very passable imitation of Dickens's pathetic writings, was a poser. In default of language, I looked Miss Sawley straight in the face, and attempted a substitute for a sigh. I was rewarded with a tender glance.

"Ah!" said she, "I see you are a congenial spirit. How delightful, and yet how rare it is to meet with any one who thinks in unison with yourself! Do you ever walk in the Necropolis, Mr. Dunshunner? It is my favourite haunt of a morning. There we can wean ourselves, as it were, from life, and, beneath the melancholy yew and cypress, anticipate the setting star. How often there have I seen the procession— the funeral of some very, very little child"—

"Selina, my love," said Mrs. Sawley, "have the kindness to ring for the cookies."

I, as in duty bound, started up to save the fair enthusiast the trouble, and was not sorry to observe my seat immediately occupied by a very cadaverous gentleman, who was evidently jealous of the progress I was rapidly making. Sawley, with an air of great mystery, informed me that this was a Mr. Dalgleish of Raxmathrapple, the representative of an ancient Scottish family who claimed an important heritable office. The name, I thought, was familiar to me, but there was something in the appearance of Mr. Dalgleish which, notwithstanding the smiles of Miss Selina, rendered a rivalship in that quarter utterly out of the question.

I hate injustice, so let me do due honour in description to the Sawley banquet. The tea-urn most literally corresponded to its name. The table was decked out with divers platters, containing seed-cakes cut into rhomboids, almond biscuits, and ratafia drops. Also, on the sideboard, there were two salvers, each of which contained a congregation of glasses, filled with port and sherry. The former fluid, as I afterwards ascertained, was of the kind advertised as 'curious,' and proffered for sale at the reasonable rate of sixteen shillings per dozen. The banquet, on the whole, was rather peculiar than enticing; and, for the life of me, I could not divest myself of the idea that the selfsame viands had figured, not long before, as funeral refreshments at a dirige. No such suspicion seemed to cross the mind of M'Alcohol, who hitherto had remained uneasily surveying his nails in a corner, but at the first symptom of food started forwards, and was in the act of making a clean sweep of the china, when Sawley proposed the singular preliminary of a hymn.

The hymn was accordingly sung. I am thankful to say it was such a one as I never heard before, or expect to hear again; and unless it was composed by the Reverend Saunders Peden in an hour of paroxysm on the moors, I cannot conjecture the author. After this original symphony, tea was discussed, and after tea, to my amazement, more hot brandy-and-water that I ever remember to have seen circulated at the most convivial party. Of course this effected a radical change in the spirits and coversation of the circle. It was again my lot to be placed by the side of the fascinating Selina, whose sentimentality gradually thawed away beneath the influence of sundry sips, which she accepted with a delicate reluctance. This time Dalgleish of Raxmathrapple had not the remotest chance. M'Alcohol got furious, sang Gaelic songs, and even delivered a sermon in genuine Erse, without incurring a rebuke; whilst, for my own part, I must needs confess that I waxed unnecessarily amorous, and the last thing I recollect was the pressure of Mr. Sawley's hand at the door, as he denominated me his dear boy, and hoped I would soon come back and visit Mrs. Sawley and Selina. The recollection of these passages next morning was the surest antidote to my return.

Three weeks had elapsed, and still the Glenmutchkin Railway shares were at a premium, though rather lower than when we sold. Our engineer, Watty Solder, returned from his first survey of the line, along with an assistant who really appeared to have some remote glimmerings of the science and practice of mensuration. It seemed, from a verbal report, that the line was actually practicable; and the survey would have been completed in a very short time— "If," according to the account of Solder, "there had been ae hoos in the glen. But ever sin' the distillery stoppit— and that was twa year last Martinmas— there wasna a hole whaur a Christian could lay his head, muckle less get white sugar to his toddy, forbye the change-house at the clachan; and the auld luckie that keepit it was sair forfochten wi' the palsy, and maist in the dead-thraws. There was naebody else living within twal miles o' the line, barring a tacksman, a lamiter, and a bauldie."

We had some difficulty in preventing Mr. Solder from making this report open and patent to the public, which premature disclosure might have interfered materially with the preparation of our traffic tables, not to mention the marketable value of the shares. We therefore kept him steadily at work out of Glasgow, upon a very liberal allowance, to which, apparently, he did not object.

"Dunshunner," said M'Corkindale to me one day, "I suspect that there is something going on about our railway more than we are aware of. Have you observed that the shares are preternaturally high just now?"

"So much the better. Let's sell."

"I did this morning— both yours and mine, at two pounds ten shillings premium."

"The deuce you did! Then we're out of the whole concern."

"Not quite. If my suspicions are correct, there's a good deal more money yet to be got from the speculation. Somebody has been bulling the stock without orders; and, as they can have no information which we are not perfectly up to, depend upon it, it is done for a purpose. I suspect Sawley and his friends. They have never been quite happy since the allocation; and I caught him yesterday pumping our broker in the back shop. We'll see in a day or two. If they are beginning a bearing operation, I know how to catch them."

And, in effect, the bearing operation commenced. Next day, heavy sales were affected for delivery in three weeks; and the stock, as if waterlogged, began to sink. The same thing continued for the following two days, until the premium became nearly nominal. In the mean time, Bob and I, in conjunction with two leading capitalists whom we let into the secret, bought up steadily every share that was offered; and at the end of a fortnight we found that we had purchased rather more than double the amount of the whole original stock. Sawley and his disciples, who, as M'Corkindale suspected, were at the bottom of the whole transaction, having beared to their heart's content, now came into the market to purchase, in order to redeem their engagements. The following extracts from the weekly share-lists will show the results of their endeavours to regain their lost position:—

GLENMUTCHKIN RAIL., 1 pound paid Sat. Mon. Tues. Wed. Thurs. Frid. Sat. and Monday was the day of delivery.

I have no means of knowing in what frame of mind Mr. Sawley spent the Sunday, or whether he had recourse for mental consolation to Peden; but on Monday morning he presented himself at my door in full funeral costume, with about a quarter of a mile of crape swathed round his hat, black gloves, and a countenance infinitely more doleful than if he had been attending the internment of his beloved wife.

"Walk in, Mr. Sawley," said I cheerfully. "What a long time it is since I have had the pleasure of seeing you-too long indeed for brother directors. How are Mrs. Sawley and Miss Selina— won't you take a cup of coffee?"

"Grass, sir, grass!" said Mr. Sawley, with a sigh like the groan of a furnace-bellows. "We are all flowers of the oven-weak, erring creatures, every one of us. Ah! Mr. Dunshunner! you have been a great stranger at Lykewake Terrace!"

"Take a muffin, Mr. Sawley. Anything new in the railway world?"

"Ah, my dear sir— my good Mr. Augustus Reginald— I wanted to have some serious conversation with you on that very point. I am afraid there is something far wrong indeed in the present state of our stock."

"Why, to be sure it is high; but that, you know, is a token of the public confidence in the line. After all, the rise is nothing compared to that of several English railways; and individually, I suppose, neither of us have any reason to complain."

"I don't like it," said Sawley, watching me over the margin of his coffee-cup. "I don't like it. It savours too much of gambling for a man of my habits. Selina, who is a sensible girl, has serious qualms on the subject."

"Then why not get out of it? I have no objection to run the risk, and if you like to transact with me, I will pay you ready money for every share you have at the present market price."

Sawley writhed uneasily in his chair.

"Will you sell me five hundred, Mr. Sawley? Say the word and it is a bargain."

"A time bargain?" quavered the coffin-maker.

"No. Money down, and scrip handed over."

"I— I can't. The fact is, my dear friend, I have sold all my stock already!"

"Then permit me to ask, Mr. Sawley, what possible objection you can have to the present aspect of affairs? You do not surely suppose that we are going to issue new shares and bring down the market, simply because you have realised at a handsome premium?"

"A handsome premium! O Lord!" moaned Sawley.

"Why, what did you get for them?"

"Four, three, and two and a half."

"A very considerable profit indeed," said I; "and you ought to be abundantly thankful. We shall talk this matter over at another time, Mr. Sawley, but just now I must beg you to excuse me. I have a particular engagement this morning with my broker-rather a heavy transaction to settle— and so— "

"It's no use beating about the bush, any longer," said Mr. Sawley in an excited tone, at the same time dashing down his crape-covered castor on the floor. "Did you ever see a ruined man with a large family? Look at me, Mr. Dunshunner— I'm one, and you've done it!"

"Mr. Sawley! are you in your senses?"

"That depends on circumstances. Haven't you been buying stock lately?"

"I am glad to say I have-two thousand Glenmutchkins, I think, and this is the day of delivery."

"Well, then— can't you see how the matter stands? It was I who sold them!"

"Well!"

"Mother of Moses, sir! don't you see I'm ruined?"

"By no means— but you must not swear. I pay over the money for your scrip, and you pocket a premium. It seems to me a very simple transaction."

"But I tell you I haven't got the scrip!" cried Sawley, gnashing his teeth, whilst the cold beads of perspiration gathered largely on his brow.

"This is very unfortunate! Have you lost it?" "No!— the devil tempted me, and I oversold!"

There was a very long pause, during which I assumed an aspect of serious and dignified rebuke.

"Is it possible?" said I in a low tone, after the manner of Kean's offended fathers. "What! you, Mr. Sawley— the stoker's friend— the enemy of gambling— the father of Selina— condescend to so equivocal a transaction? You amaze me! But I never was the man to press heavily on a friend"— here Sawley brightened up— "your secret is safe with me, and it shall be your own fault if it reaches the ears of the Session. Pay me over the difference at the present market price, and I release you of your obligation."

"Then I'm in the Gazette, that's all," said Sawley doggedly, "and a wife and nine beautiful babes upon the parish! I had hoped other things from you, Mr. Dunshunner— I thought you and Selina— "

"Nonsense, man! Nobody goes into the Gazette just now— it will be time enough when the general crash comes. Out with your cheque-book, and write me an order for four-and-twenty thousand. Confound fractions! in these days one can afford to be liberal."

"I haven't got it," said Sawley. "You have no idea how bad our trade has been of late, for nobody seems to think of dying. I have not sold a gross of coffins this fortnight. But I'll ten you what— I'll give you five thousand down in cash, and ten thousand in shares— further I can't go."

"Now, Mr. Sawley," said I, "I may be blamed by worldly-minded persons for what I am going to do; but I am a man of principle, and feel deeply for the situation of your amiable wife and family. I bear no malice, though it is quite clear that you intended to make me the sufferer. Pay me fifteen thousand over the counter, and we cry quits for ever."

"Won't you take Camlachie Cemetery shares? They are sure to go up."

"No!"

"Twelve Hundred Cowcaddens' Water, with an issue of new stock next week?"

"Not if they disseminated the Ganges!"

"A thousand Ramshorn Gas— four per cent guaranteed until the act?"

"Not if they promised twenty, and melted down the sun in their retort!"

"Blawweary Iron? Best spec. going."

"No, I tell you once for all! If you don't like my offer— and it is an uncommonly liberal one-say so, and I'll expose you this afternoon upon 'Change."

"Well, then— there's a cheque. But may the—"

"Stop, sir! Any such profane expressions, and I shall insist upon the original bargain. So, then— now we're quits. I wish you a very good-morning, Mr. Sawley, and better luck next time. Pray remember me to your amiable family."

The door had hardly closed upon the discomfited coffin-maker, and I was still in the preliminary steps of an extempore pas seul, intended as the outward demonstration of exceedingly inward joy, when Bob M'Corkindale entered. I told him the result of the morning's conference.

"You have let him off too easily," said the Political Economist. "Had I been his creditor, I certainly should have sacked the shares into the bargain. There is nothing like rigid dealing between man and man."

"I am contented with moderate profits," said I; "besides, the image of Selina overcame me. How goes it with Jobson and Grabbie?"

"Jobson has paid, and Grabbie compounded. Heckles— may he die an evil death!— has repudiated, become a lame duck, and waddled; but no doubt his estate will pay a dividend."

"So, then, we are clear of the whole Glenmutchkin business, and at a handsome profit."

"A fair interest for the outlay of capital-nothing more. But I'm not quite done with the concern yet."

"How so? not another bearing operation?"

"No; that cock would hardly fight. But you forget that I am secretary of the company, and have a small account against them for services already rendered. I must do what I can to carry the bill through Parliament; and, as you have now sold your whole shares, I advise you to resign from the direction, go down straight to Glenmutchkin, and qualify yourself for a witness. We shall give you five guineas a-day, and pay all your expenses."

"Not a bad notion. But what has become of M'Closkie, and the other fellow with the jaw-breaking name?"

"Vich-Induibh? I have looked after their interests, and in duty bound, sold their shares at a large premium, and despatched them to their native hills on annuities."

"And Sir Polloxfen?"

"Died yesterday of spontaneous combustion."

As the company seemed breaking up, I thought I could not do better than take M'Corkindale's hint, and accordingly betook myself to Glenmutchkin, along with the Captain of M'Alcohol, and we quartered ourselves upon the Factor for Glentumblers. We found Watty Solder very shaky, and his assistant also lapsing into habits of painful inebriety. We saw little of them except of an evening, for we shot and fished the whole day, and made ourselves remarkably comfortable. By singular good-luck, the plans and sections were lodged in time, and the Board of Trade very handsomely reported in our favour, with a recommendation of what they were pleased to call 'the Glenmutchkin system,' and a hope that it might generally be carried out. What this system was, I never clearly understood; but, of course, none of us had any objections. This circumstance gave an additional impetus to the shares, and they once more went up. I was, however too cautious to plunge a second time into Charybdis, but M'Corkindale did, and again emerged with plunder.

When the time came for the parliamentary contest, we all emigrated to London. I still recollect, with lively satisfaction, the many pleasant days we spent in the metropolis at the company's expense. There were just a neat fifty of us, and we occupied the whole of an hotel. The discussion before the committee was long and formidable. We were opposed by four other companies who patronised lines, of which the nearest was at least a hundred miles distant from Glenmutchkin; but as they founded their opposition upon dissent from 'the Glenmutchkin system' generally, the committee allowed them to be heard. We fought for three weeks a most desperate battle, and might in the end have been victorious, had not our last antagonist, at the very close of his case, pointed out no less than seventy-three fatal errors in the parliamentary plan deposited by the unfortunate Solder. Why this was not done earlier, I never exactly understood; it may be, that our opponents, with gentlemanly consideration, were unwilling to curtail our sojourn in London— and their own. The drama was now finally closed, and after all preliminary expenses were paid, sixpence per share was returned to the holders upon surrender of their scrip. Such is an accurate history of the Origin, Rise, Progress and Fall of the Direct Glenmutchkin Railway. It contains a deep moral, if anybody has sense enough to see it; if not, I have a new project in my eye for next session, of which timely notice shall be given.

____________________________

2: George

Stacy Aumonier

THERE WAS something essentially Chinese about the appearance of George as he lay there propped up against the pillows. His large, flabby face had an expression of complete detachment. His narrowing eyes regarded me with a fatalistic repose. Observing him I felt that nothing mattered, nothing ever had mattered, and nothing ever would matter. And I was angry. Pale sunlight filtered through the curtains.

"Good Lord!" I exclaimed. "Still in bed! Do you know it's nearly twelve o'clock?"

An almost inaudible sigh greeted my explosion. George occupied the maisonnette below me. Some fool of an uncle had left him a small private income, and he lived alone, attended by an old housekeeper. He did nothing, absolutely nothing at all, not even amuse himself; and whenever I went in to see him he was invariably in bed. There was nothing wrong with his health. It was sheer laziness. But not laziness of a negative kind, mark you, but the outcome of a calm and studied policy. I knew this, and it angered me the more.

"What would happen if the whole world went on like you?" I snapped.

He sighed again, and then replied in his thin, mellow voice:—

"We should have a series of ideal states. There would be no wars, no crimes, no divorce, no competition, no greed, envy, hatred, or malice."

"Yes, and no food."

He turned slightly on one side. His accents became mildly expostulating—the philosopher fretted by an ignorant child.

"How unreasonable you are, dear boy. How unthinking! The secret of life is complete immobility. The tortoise lives four hundred years; the fox terrier wears itself out in ten. Wild beasts, fishes, savages, and stockbrokers fight and struggle and eat each other up. The only place for a cultivated man is bed. In bed he is supreme—the arbiter of his soul. His limbs and the vulgar carcass of his being constructed for purely material functioning are concealed. His head rules him. He is the autocrat of the bolster, the gallant of fine linen, the master of complete relaxation. Believe me, there are a thousand tender attitudes of repose unknown to people like you. The four corners of a feather bed are an inexhaustible field of luxurious adventure. I have spent more than half my life in bed, and even now I have not explored all the delectable crannies and comforts that it holds for me."

"No," I sneered. "And in the meantime, other people have to work to keep you there."

"That is not my fault. A well-ordered state should be a vast caravansary of dormitories. Ninety-nine per cent of these activities you laud so extravagantly are gross and unnecessary. People should be made to stay in bed till they have found out something worth doing. Who wants telephones, and cinemas, and safety razors? All that civilization has invented are vulgar luxuries and time-saving devices. And when they have saved the time they don't know what to do with it. All that is required is bread, and wine, and fine linen. I, even I, would not object to getting up for a few hours every week to help to produce these things."

He stroked the three weeks' growth on his chin, and smiled magnanimously. Then he continued:

"The world has yet to appreciate the real value of passivity. In a crude form the working classes have begun to scratch the edge of the surface. They have discovered the strike. Now, observe that the strike is the most powerful political weapon of the present day. It can accomplish nearly everything it requires, and yet it is a condition of immobility. So you see already that immobility may be more powerful that activity. But this is only the beginning. When the nations start going to bed and stopping there, then civilization will take a leap forward. You can do nothing with a man in bed—not even knock him down. My ambition is to form a league of bedfellows. So that if one day some busybody or group of busybodies says, 'We're going to war with France, or Germany, or America,' we can reply, 'Very well. Then I'm going to bed.' Then, after a time, they would have to go to bed too. And they would eventually succumb to the gentle caresses of these sheets and eiderdowns. All their evil intentions would melt away. The world should be ruled, not by Governments or Soviets, but by national doss-houses."

He yawned, and I pulled up the blind.

"What about the good activities?" I replied.

For a second I thought I had stumped him, or that he was not going to deign to reply. Then the thin rumble of his voice reached me from across the sheets:—

"What you call the good activities can all be performed in bed.. That is to say, they can be substituted by a good immobility. The activities of man are essentially predatory. He has learned nothing and forgotten nothing. He is a hunter and slayer, and nothing else at all. All his activities are diversions of this instinct. Commerce is war, capital is a sword, labor is a stomach. Progress means either filling the stomach, or chopping someone else's head off with the sword. Science is an instrument that speeds up the execution. Politics is a game of fan-tan. Colonization is straightforward daylight robbery."

"I'm not going to waste my morning with a fool," I said. "But what about art, and beauty, and charity, and love?"

"In bed," he mumbled. "All in bed. They are all of them spiritual things. Bed is the place for them. Was Keats's 'Ode to a Nightingale' any finer because he got up and wrote it down, and sent it to a fool of a publisher? Charity! Give a man a bed, and charity ceases to have any significance. You have given him a kingdom. There he may weave beauty and romance. Love! What a fool you are! Is a bed a less suitable place for love than a County Council tramcar?"

His voice died away above the coverlet. I was about to deliver a vitriolic tirade against his ridiculous theories, but I did not know where to begin, and before I had framed a suitable opening the sound of gentle snoring reached me.

I record this conversation as faithfully as I can recollect, because it will help you to share with me the sense of extreme surprise at certain events which followed, two months later. Of course, George did occasionally get up. Sometimes he went for a gentle stroll in the afternoon, and he belonged to a club down town where he would go and dine in the evening. After dinner he would watch some of the men play billiards, but he invariably returned to his bed about ten o'clock. He never played any game himself; neither did he, apparently, write or receive letters. Occasionally he read in bed, but he never looked at a newspaper or a magazine. He once said to me that if you read the newspapers you might as well play golf; and the tremulous shiver of disgust in his voice when he uttered the word 'golf' is a thing I shall never forget.

I ask you, then, to imagine my amazement when, two months later, George shaved himself, got up to breakfast, reached a City office at nine o'clock, worked all day, and returned at seven in the evening. You will no doubt have a shrewd idea of the reason, and you are right. She was the prettiest little thing you can imagine, with chestnut hair, and a solemn babyish pucker of the lips. She was as vital as he was turgid. Her name was Maisie Brand. I don't know how he met her, but Maisie, in addition to being pretty and in every way attractive, was a practical modern child. George's two hundred a year might be sufficient to keep him in bed, but it wasn't going to be enough to run a household on. Maisie had no use for this bed theory. She was a daughter of sunshine and fresh air, and frocks and theatres, and social life. If George was to win her he must get up in the morning.

On the Sunday after the dramatic change I visited him in his bedroom. He was like a broken man. He groaned when he recognized me.

"I suppose you'll stop in bed all day to-day?" I remarked jauntily.

"I've got to get up this afternoon," he growled. "I've got to take her to a concert."

"Well, how do you like work?" I asked.

"It's torture. Agony. It's awful. Fortunately, I found a fellow sufferer. He works next to me. We take it in turns to have twenty-minute naps, while the other keeps watch."

I laughed, and quoted:

"'Custom lies upon us with a weight, heavy as frost and deep almost as night.'" Then I added venomously:—

"Well, I haven't any sympathy for you. It serves you right for the way you've gone on all these years."

I thought he was asleep again, but at last his drowsy accents proclaimed:—

"What a perfect fool you are! You always follow the line of least resistance."

I laughed outright at that, and exclaimed, "Well, if ever there was a case of the pot calling the kettle black!"

There was a long interval, during which I seemed to observe a slow, cumbrous movement in the bed. Doubtless he was exploring. When he spoke again there was a faint tinge of animation in his voice:—

"You are not capable, I suppose, of realizing the danger of it all. You fool! Do you think I follow the line of least resistance in bed? Do you think I haven't often wanted to get up and do all these ridiculous things you and your kind indulge in? Can't you see what might happen? Suppose these dormant temptations were thoroughly aroused! My heavens! It's awful to contemplate. Habit, you say? Yes, I know. I know quite well the risk I am running. Am I to sacrifice all the epic romance of this life between the sheets for the sordid round of petty actions you call life? I was a fool to get up that day. I had a premonition of danger when I awoke at dawn. I said to myself, 'George, restrain yourself. Do not be deceived by the hollow sunlight. Above all things, keep clear of the park.' But, like a fool, I betrayed my sacred trust. The premonitions which come to one in bed are always right. I got up. And now— By jove! It's too late!"

Smothered sobs seemed to shake the bed.

"Well," I said, "if you feel like that about it, if you think more of your bed than of the girl, I should break it off. She won't be missing much."

He suddenly sat up and exclaimed:

"Don't you dare—"

Then he sank back on the pillow, and added dispassionately:—

"There, you see already the instinct of activity. A weak attitude. I could crush you more successfully with complete immobility. But these movements are already beginning. They shake me at every turn. Nothing is secure."

Inwardly chuckling at his discomfiture, I left him.

During the months that followed I did not have opportunities of studying George to the extent that I should have liked, as my work carried me to various parts of the country; but what opportunities I did have I found sufficiently interesting. He certainly improved in health. A slight color tinged his cheeks. He seemed less puffy and turgid. His movements were still slow, but they were more deliberate than of old. His clothes were neat and brushed. The girl was delightful. She came up and chatted with me, and we became great friends. She talked to me quite frankly about George. She laughed about his passion for bed, but declared she meant to knock all that sort of thing out of him. She was going to wake him up thoroughly. She said laughingly that she thought it was perfectly disgusting the way he had been living. I used to try to visualize George making love to her, but somehow the picture would never seem convincing. I do not think it could have been a very passionate affair. Passion was the last thing you would associate with George. I used to watch them walking down the street, the girl slim and vivid, swinging along with broad strides; George, rather flustered and disturbed, pottering along by her side; like a performing bear that is being led away from its bun. He did not appear to look at her, and when she addressed him vivaciously he bent forward his head and held his large ear close to her face. It was as though he were timid of her vitality.

At first the spectacle amused me, but after a time it produced in me another feeling.

"This girl is being thrown away on him. It's horrible. She's much too good for George." And when I was away I was constantly thinking of her, and dreading the day of the wedding, praying that something would happen to prevent it. But, to my deep concern, nothing did happen to prevent it, and they were duly married in April.

They went for a short honeymoon to Brittany, and then returned and occupied George's old maisonnette below me. The day after their return I had to face a disturbing realization. I was falling hopelessly in love with Maisie myself. I could not think of George, or take any interest in him. I was always thinking of her. Her face haunted me. Her charm and beauty, and the pathos of her position, gripped me. I made up my mind that the only thing to do was to go away. I went to Scotland, and on my return took a small flat in another part of London. I wrote to George and gave him my address, and wished him all possible luck. I said I hoped 'some day' to pay them a visit, but if at any time I could be of service would he let me know?

I cannot describe to you the anguish I experienced during the following twelve months. I saw nothing of George or Maisie at all, but the girl was ever present in my thoughts. I could not work. I lived in a state of feverish restlessness. Time and again I was on the point of breaking my resolve, but I managed to keep myself in hand.

It was in the following June that I met Maisie herself, walking down Regent Street. She looked pale and worried. Dark rings encircled her eyes. She gave a little gasp when she saw me, and clutched my hand. I tried to be formal, but she was obviously laboring under some tense emotion.

"My flat is in Baker Street," I said. "Will you come and visit me?"

She answered huskily, "Yes, I will come to-morrow afternoon. Thank you."

She slipped away in the crowd. I spent a sleepless night. What had happened? Of course, I could see it all. George had gone back to bed. Having once secured her, his efforts had gradually flagged. He had probably left his business—or been sacked—and spent the day sleeping. The poor girl was probably living a life of loneliness and utter poverty. What was I to do? All day long I paced up and down my flat. I dreaded that she might not come. It was just after four that the bell rang. I hastened to answer it myself. It was she. I led her into the sitting-room and tried to be formal and casual. I made some tea and chatted impersonally about the weather and the news of the day. She hardly answered me. Suddenly she buried her face in her hands and broke into tears. I sprang to her and patted her shoulder.

"There, there!" I said. "What is it? Tell me all about it, Maisie."

"I can't live with him. I can't live with him any longer," she sobbed.

I must acknowledge that my heart gave a violent bump, not entirely occasioned by contrition. I murmured as sympathetically as I could, but with prophetic assurance:—

"He's gone back to bed?"

"Oh, no," she managed to stammer. "It's not that. It's just the opposite."

"Just the opposite!"

"He's so restless, so exhausting. Oh, dear! Yes, please, Mr. Wargrave, give me a cup of tea, and I will tell you all about it."

For a moment I wondered whether the poor girl's mental balance had been upset. I poured her out the tea in silence. George restless! George exhausting! Whatever did she mean? She sipped the tea meditatively; then she dabbed her beautiful eyes and told me the following remarkable story.

"It was all right at first, Mr. Wargrave. We were quite happy. He was still—you know, very lazy, very sleepy. It all came about gradually. Every week, however, he seemed to get a little more active and vital. He began to sleep shorter hours and work longer. He liked to be entertained in the evening or to go to a theatre. On Sundays he would go for quite long walks. It went on like that for months. Then they raised his position in the firm. He seemed to open out. It was as though during all those years he had spent in bed he had been hoarding up remarkable stores of energy. And suddenly some demon of restlessness got possession of him. He began to work frenziedly. At first he was pleasant to me; then he became so busy he completely ignored me. At the end of six months they made him manager of a big engineering works at Waltham Green. One of the directors, a Mr. Sturge, said to me one day, 'This husband of yours is a remarkable man. He is the most forceful person we have ever employed. What has he been doing all these years? Why haven't we heard of him before?' He would get up at six in the morning, have a cold bath, and study for two hours before he went off to work. He would work all day like a fury. They say he was a perfect slave-driver in the works. Only last week he sacked a man for taking a nap five minutes over his lunch hour. He would get home about eight o'clock, have a hurried dinner, and then insist on going to the opera or playing bridge. When we got back he would read till two or three in the morning. Oh, Mr. Wargrave, he has got worse and worse. He never sleeps at all. He terrifies me. On Sunday it is just the same. He works all the morning. After lunch he motors out to North wood and plays eighteen holes before tea and eighteen after."

"What!" I exclaimed. "Golf!"

"Golf, and science, and organization are his manias. They say he's invented some wonderful labor-saving appliances on the plant, and he's planning all kinds of future activities. The business of the firm is increasing enormously. They pay him well, but he still persists in living in that maisonnette. He says he's too busy to move."

"Is he cruel to you?"

"If complete indifference and neglect is cruelty, he is most certainly cruel. Sometimes he gives me a most curious look, as though he hated me and yet he can't account for me! He allows me no intimacy of any sort. If I plead with him he doesn't answer. I believe he holds me responsible for all these dormant powers which have got loose and which he cannot now control. I do not think his work gives him any satisfaction. It is as though he were driven on by some blind force. Oh, Mr. Wargrave, I can't go on. It is killing me. I must run away and leave him."

"Maisie," I murmured, and I took her hand.

The immediate subsequent proceedings are not perhaps entirely necessary to record in relating this story, which is essentially George's story. The story of Maisie and myself could comfortably fill a stout volume, but as it concerns two quite unremarkable people, who were just human and workaday, I do not expect that you would be interested to read it. In any case, we have no intention of writing it, so do not be alarmed.

I can only tell you that during that year of her surprising married life Maisie had thought of me not a little, and this denouement rapidly brought things to a head. After this confession we used to meet every day. We went for rambles, and picnics, and to matinees; and, of course, that kind of thing cannot go on indefinitely. We both detested the idea of an intrigue. And eventually we decided that we would cut the Gordian knot and make a full confession. Maisie left him and went to live with a married sister.

That same morning I called on George. I arrived at the maisonnette just before six o'clock, as I knew that that was the most likely time to catch him. Without any preliminary ceremony I made my way into the familiar bedroom. George was in bed. I stood by the door and called out to him loudly: "George!"

Like a flash he was out of bed and standing in his pyjamas; facing me. He had changed considerably. His face was lined and old, but his eyes blazed with a fury of activity. He awed me. I stammered out my confession.

"George, I'm awfully sorry, old chap. I have a confession to make to you. It comes in the first place from Maisie. She has decided that she cannot live with you any longer. She thinks you have neglected her and treated her badly. She refuses to come back to you under any circumstances. Indeed, she—she and I— er—"

I tailed off dismally, and looked at him. For a moment I thought he was going to bear down on me. I know that if he had I should have been supine. I should have stood there and let him slaughter me. I felt completely overpowered by the force of his personality. I believe I shivered. He hovered by the edge of the bed, then he turned and looked out of the window. He stood there solemnly for nearly a minute, then he emitted a profound sigh. Without more ado he got back into bed. There was an immense upheaval of the sheets. He seemed to be burrowing down into some vast and as yet unexplored cave of comfort. He rolled and heaved, and at length became inert. I stood there, waiting for my answer. Sparrows twittered outside on the window box. I don't know how long I waited. I felt that I could not go until he had spoken.

At length his voice came. It seemed to reach me across dim centuries of memory, an old, tired, cosy, enormously contented, sleep-encrusted voice:—

"'S 'll right," said the voice. "Tell Mrs. Chase she needn't bring up my shaving water this morning."

_______________________

3: Christmas Eve at the China Dog

Edgar Wallace

The Little Green Man, George Newnes Ltd., London, 1929

INVENTORS are proverbially consecrated amongst the gods. Tam M'Tavish recalled the proverb and grinned at the reeking pot which bubbled and frothed above the burner.

It was a large iron pot, and he had first qualified for his ration by extemporizing from the tubes of an ancient bicycle a tripod from which his boiler was suspended.

The draughty little barn which housed the home-scientist was a discarded army hut of iron, and its few appointments were of a character which would not burn. Moreover the boiling mess, which from time to time he stirred with an iron rod, was non-inflammable. The smell of it poisoned the adjoining fields and penetrated to the village a mile away, but Tam, in the throes of invention, sniffed nothing.

The tap of a stick's iron ferrule against the door roused him from his rapt contemplation of the cauldron. The little man rose reluctantly, stooping to turn down the flame of the burner, opened the door and stepped out into the light.

At first he thought the caller was a complete stranger. A glimpse of the car's bonnet on the road at the end of the garden explained how the visitor had come.

"Why, Tam," said the stranger, "you're just as skinny and ugly as you always were!"

Tam's eyes narrowed.

"It's not Mr. Merrick?" he said in genuine astonishment. "Why, Mr. Merrick, sir, you have changed."

In the days of the war, Merrick had been one of the brightest and most resourceful of the fighting airmen, and Tam spoke no more than the truth when he said that his erstwhile comrade had changed. It was not a change for the better. Sudden prosperity had not agreed with Walter Merrick: it had made him unhealthily plump, and had brought tiny sacks under his eyes, and an unwholesome color to the skin which Tam remembered used to be like the skin of a girl.

"Changed, have I?" said the other carelessly. "Well, you haven't. What are you doing in there, Tam?"

"It's a wee invention of mine," said Tam solemnly. "A new dope, Mr. Merrick. 'Tis fireproof and waterproof, and I ha' no doots that I'll be making me fortune one of these days."

"You're married, aren't you!" said Merrick, as he walked towards the house, with the shirt-sleeved Tam at his elbow.

"Aye," said Tam, with that habitual caution which made him admit even such important facts as his marriage with an air of reservation, "but ma lady is awa'— in America. She's American," explained Tam, "and her folks wanted to see the wee bairn."

"So you're a grass widower— h'm, that's awkward."

Mr. Merrick looked round the cozy sitting-room into which Tam had ushered him without any evidence of approval.

"Why do you live out in this God-forsaken part of the world— I suppose it is handy for your air taxi— I saw your advertisement in The Times the other day. What is the bus like?"

"She's like all the buses you ever knew, Mr. Merrick, sir," said Tam. He was wondering why the absence of his wife should be described as "awkward." "She has the engine of a bomber and the wings of a scout. I bought bits of her from the disposal board, and I assembled them myself. You're not wanting a ride, Mr. Merrick?"

His eyes twinkled mischievously.

"A ride? Good lord, no," said Mr. Merrick. "I haven't the nerve for it now, Tam; I think I must be getting old."

"Maybe your nerves are losing their confidence in ye," said Tam quietly.

Merrick had seated himself in a chair by the window and was looking around restlessly.

"My nerves are gone, that's a fact," he admitted. "I wouldn't dare trust myself with a joy-stick now, though I don't suppose I'd be afraid to go as a passenger, especially if you were the pilot, Tam."

"Any testimonial you'd like to give to me would you kindly put into writing, Mr. Merrick! I'm making a collection of them."

There was an awkward pause. The visitor had certainly not yet revealed his business, and Tam was curious to hear.

Presently the object of his visit was exposed.

"Tam," he said suddenly, "I'm wondering how you're fixed for money. Would you like a five hundred pound job?"

"Five hundred a year or five hundred a week?" asked Tam.

"Five hundred pounds for a few days' work," said Mr. Merrick impressively.

He rose from his chair and paced up and down the room.

"I'll tell you what it is all about, Tam," he said, " and you'll understand that I am putting myself rather in your power. It's about a girl."

"Aye," said Tam quietly, "I was thinking it was, Mr. Merrick, sir."

"She's very unhappy," said Mr. Merrick, who was no story-teller, and left many gaps to be filled in by his hearer. "The fact is, Tam, she's married to a fellow who doesn't appreciate her."

"I've read of such cases," said Tam. "Ye have to get married before ye get thoroughly unappreciated."

"But I'm fond of her," said Mr. Merrick doggedly, "and she's fond of me. I'm a pretty rich man, Tam. I came into all my uncle's money after the war, and I can give her the time she wants, but I don't want to get mixed up in this business, you see."

"Do ye want her to get mixed up in it?" asked Tam dryly.

"That's different," said Mr. Merrick, with a wave of his hand. "She's going to run away from him anyway. He's as poor as a church mouse, and naturally a girl who likes life and pleasure, theatre parties, Tam, and all that sort of thing... she's just fretting her heart out."

"Puir lassie," said Tam, without any great display of sympathy. "Maybe she's never tried the ceenema pictures? They're verra interesting, Mr. Merrick."

"Don't be a fool," said the other rudely. "Pictures! What the devil does she want to go to pictures for, when she can have the time of her life? However, I don't want to discuss that matter. Would you bring her over to Paris and bring her back again at the end of a week and "— he hesitated— "well," he blurted out at last, "you're married and nobody knows your wife isn't here. Suppose any inquiries were made, would you say that she'd been staying...." he ended a little breathlessly, for he had seen the queer, hard look in Tam's eyes.

"It is all square and above-board," he added hastily. "Platonic friendship, you know, Tam. She will come with a chaperone, and all that sort of thing, and it's worth five hundred."

"Maybe it is worth five thousand," said Tam quietly, "but not to me, Mr. Merrick. I believe in making the coorse of love run smooth, but I've no experience with platonic friendship. And noo, Mr. Merrick, we'll talk aboot other things. Why, I haven't seen you since Mr. Selby's wedding. He's a graund young fellow, that friend of yours, Mr. Merrick. I mind the day he brought doon six of our late enemy."

Merrick, who had resumed his chair, shifted round uncomfortably and swallowed something.

"A guy fine man," said Tam emphatically," and a verra fine lady he married, Mr. Merrick. Wi' all that graund golden hair and eyes like blue saucers. Have ye seen him lately?"

"Oh yes," said Merrick indifferently, "I see them occasionally. She often speaks about you," he said, and Tam thought he spoke meaningly.

"Aboot me," he said in surprise. "And I did na' think she ever saw me; I was eating all the time I was there."

"She likes you, Tam," said Merrick, "and she trusts you. She only said the other day, 'I'm sure Tam would do anything for me.'"

Tam M'Tavish stepped back, his head perched on one side like an inquisitive hen, his hands thrust deeply into his breeches pocket.

"Oh aye," he said softly, "but you're not telling me, Mr. Merrick, that Mrs. Selby is the lady who is starving for the grand boulevards de Paris?"

"Yes she is," said the other doggedly. "Now are you going to help?"

Tam looked at the floor for a long time. Then he walked slowly to the door and opened it.

"Ye'11 be getting along now, Mr. Merrick," he said. "There'll be rain coming, or my corn is committing pair-jury."

"All right," said the other, his face red with anger, "if you're going to play the sneak on an old comrade, Tam, of course I'm in your power."

"I would no outrage yar sense of decency by so low doon an action," said Tam with cold sarcasm. "There's na reason to sneak against ye, Mr. Merrick; ye're no married, and if ye were I shouldna want your wife, or the chaperone within yair gates, to go zooming off to Paris wi' me. Noo, will ye get oot?" His voice trembled with suppressed fury, and Mr. Merrick did not look back as he strode down the flagged path of the garden to his waiting car.

Tam went back to his room not a little perturbed. Such problems as these came very seldom into his experience, and when, as they did at times, he caught glimpses of an ugly side of life, more ugly than the battle-fields of France and Flanders had shown him, he was nauseated.

Before he had joined the Flying Corps he had been a mechanic in a Glasgow factory, and his life had been one of singular austerity. He had hated war: his chief offense against society had been his hatred of war, and his steadfast refusal to join the army until the sheer mechanics of flying had lured him into uniform. But there were things he hated worse than war.

He had heard, and perforce been a spectator, of uncleanly things, but to him they were part of the phenomena of the circumstances in which he found himself. He was a spectator without ever having the faintest idea that he could be a participator in irregularities which neither offended nor interested him.

He was not readily shocked, but now, as he sat down and thought out the situation which had been presented to him that afternoon, he was first bewildered, then horrified. Little Selby had been a favorite of his: Tam had liked him because of his sheer incompetence. He was the worst pilot in the flight, crashed more machines on landing than any other man in the squadron, and had escaped the consequence of his blundering so often that he had earned the nickname of "the immortal Selby." He was a straight little man, with a heart as big as his head, a man without fear or malice. He had eventually been transferred to the tactical bureau of the corps, where he had made a big name for himself. Tam went to his wedding, and had admired, in his critical way, his fluffy little bride. Tam was not a fair judge of women. Whatever might be their qualities, they were foredoomed to fall short of the standard represented by the girl who bore his name, and who, at that moment, with the chubby son of his house, was visiting her relations on the other side. It didn't seem possible that a girl like Mrs. Selby... and yet Tam knew in his heart of hearts that Merrick had spoken the truth. To go to the injured husband was impossible. To warn the girl herself was beyond Tam's courage.

He went back to his little barn to find half his precious dope had boiled over on the floor, extinguishing the fire and adding to the general confusion of smells the additional pungency of escaping gas.

IT WAS a week later before Tam found time to go to London. His experiment, and a hiring which took him into Cornwall, intervened.

Selby, he discovered, was employed by a firm of city architects, but he was not in his office. He had not been there for three days. Tam inquired for his private address, and took a bus to Hampstead to call at the house, without having any definite idea in his mind as to what he would say, or what excuse he would make for his visit when he got there.

He had, too, an uncomfortable feeling that Mrs. Selby knew of his refusal to aid Merrick, and the knowledge that he was privy to her secret could not fail to be embarrassing to both.

The house, a little villa, was locked up. No answer came to his knock; the blinds were drawn; and he inquired of a neighbor. The neighbor was so woodenly discreet that Tam felt his heart sink. Then by a piece of good luck he came upon a gossiping milkman who supplied disquieting information.

Mrs. Selby had gone away; whither, nobody knew. She had left a note, because the housemaid had seen Selby read it on his return in the evening. The next morning he closed up the house, and himself disappeared.

The milkman was satisfied that the lady had run away, and that her husband had started off in pursuit of her, and that was the view that Tam took until he read the next week in the newspaper a paragraph saying that John Selby, an ex- officer of the Royal Air Force, had been charged with being drunk and disorderly in the west end of London, and had been discharged with a caution.

Tam came to London again and tried to find his old comrade. At the police court they furnished him with the address that the prisoner had given. This proved to be a furnished room in Bloomsbury, which Selby had quitted the day after his appearance at the police court.

Tam went back to his experiments with a sad heart.

It was four days before Christmas that he received a letter, and the handwriting on the envelope seemed familiar. He opened it. It was from Selby, and it was dated from Tunbridge Wells.

"Dear Tam (it ran), I hear you have been making inquiries about me and I am sorry I missed you. At present I am in a nursing home, rather run down, but I hope you will come and call upon us when I get out, which will be some time in the new year. My wife will be very glad to see you. She has been abroad for a little while, but she is now back in town."

Tam read the letter again. "She is now back in town." He frowned, and then a smile slowly dawned on his face, and he went back to the work of painting his machine, for he had discovered that non-inflammable dope for which inventors had sought, a dope that rendered even a soft wood fireproof, so that he could thrust a stick painted with the wonder into the heart of a coal fire and withdraw it hot but flameless. The sturdy little air-taxi grew green under his persevering brush, and his diminutive assistant and he worked while daylight lasted, covering fuselage and wings, rudder post, and elevators with the fire- resisting concoction.

On the Christmas Eve Tam had finished his work. It had been a raw, gray day, a southwesterly gale had blown itself out, and had been succeeded by a drizzling rain, and Tam, who, like most Scotsmen, had less of a sentimental interest in Christmas than in the New Year, retired to his snuggery to read.

Two long shelves carried his reading matter, and the literature was of a type which is very seldom found in the libraries of ordinary students. For they were those stories of daring and adventure which delight the heart of youth. Stories of superhuman cowboys, of unnaturally villainous desperadoes, and amazingly brilliant detectives, who discovered on the last page the solution which the reader had found for himself on the second. Stories of heroic young sailors, who, although of a tender age, had ordered captains from the bridge in moments of peril, and had piloted gallant barques to safe harborage amidst the applause of beautiful passengers. They were all very precious to Tam, and more convincing, more human than the tales of Phryxus or Ulysses, or the Pythian Apollo.

He filled his pipe and settled back comfortably into his chair, and only the sound of rainwater dripping from the runnels and the occasional flap-flap where the wind caught a loose board of his hangar broke the stillness. Presently the sound of the tapping board got on Tam's nerves, and he rose, slipped on his boots, and went out into the night with a hammer and a nail. He nailed down the board, opened the door of the hangar and took a look at the machine. He touched the glittering paint with his finger, and wiped his finger on his overall before he withdrew, locking the door behind him. As he drew nearer the house he was conscious of a shrill sound. It was the telephone ringing, and he hurried indoors.

"Is that Mr. M'Tavish?" said a voice.

"That's me," said Tam.

"We've a job for you tonight."

"Who is it talking?" asked Tam.

The speaker gave the name of a firm that Tam did not remember having heard before.

"It's no' a night for flyin'," said Tam discouragingly, for the cheerful fire and the open book on the table had a powerful appeal. "There's no moon and—"

"The fee is a hundred guineas each way," was the reply. "The glass has gone up and the wind is veering to the west. It is a case of life or death, Mr. M'Tavish."

Tam scratched his chin.

"Will it no' do in the morning?" he asked.

"No," was the emphatic reply. "A gentleman has been bitten by a mad dog. He must get over to Paris tonight to the Pasteur institute for an injection. You can bring him back before the early morning."

"Is there no Pasteur institute in this country?" asked Tam in surprise.

"This is a special case," said the man impatiently. "Will you take it?"

"How long will he be?" asked Tam.

"He'll be with you in an hour," was the answer.

Tam looked at his watch. It was eight o'clock.

"All right," he said. "Does he know where I live? I'll be waiting in the field."

"Flash a lamp," said the speaker. "He will come over on his motor- bicycle."

"Where are you speaking from?" asked Tam.

"From London," and then they were cut off.

Tam hung up the telephone receiver, put a fire-guard before the fire, and then went up to change. A quarter of an hour later with some difficulty he wheeled the aeroplane from its hangar and filled up his tanks. Then he dragged the machine to the end of the field he leased. A night ascent had no terrors for Tam, particularly now that the wind had fallen and the stars showed through the breaking clouds.

He had been waiting half an hour when he heard the "ticka-tick" of a motor- cycle coming along the road. Presently it stopped and he flashed his hand-lamp. A few minutes later a man came walking towards him out of the darkness. He saved Tam from committing the impertinence of flashing his lamp upon him by stopping to light a cigarette. Tam had a glimpse of a man with a close-cropped iron beard and heavy black eyebrows.

"You'll no' be able to smoke, sir," said Tam.

"Oh, shan't I?" said the other gruffly as he threw his cigarette away. "Are you ready?"

"Ah've just to swing the prop," said Tam, and was moving off.

"You'd better take this money," said the passenger, and thrust a roll of notes into Tam's hand.

"It would have done any time," said Tam politely. Nevertheless, he buttoned it away into his pocket. The stranger, he noticed, was dressed in a leather coat perfectly equipped for the journey.

"Where would you like to be landing?" said Tam. "There are two aerodromes."

"There's one to the east of the city—the old army aerodrome."

"It's no' used now," said Tam.

"It will do," said the man. "It is nearest to— to the institute."

Tam looked at him suspiciously. He was not the type of man who would be engaged in smuggling, beside which he carried no baggage whatever, and the things in which smugglers find profit have bulk. Tam knew that it was an irregularity to land passengers at any other than the official aerodromes, but he was not a stickler for the law. Tam, at heart, was a revolutionary. Regulations filled him with an insane sense of resentment, and his first temptation on being acquainted with a new rule was to break it.

"Will you be able to land here on the return journey?" asked the passenger.

"I'll land or fa'," said Tam laconically.

Ten minutes later the machine was racing through a mist of cloud, and they glimpsed the world below at intervals. Tiny spangles of light at wide intervals and parallelograms of lighted pin-points distinguished country from town.

Now they were over the sea, rolling and pitching in the uneven air which the storm had left in its trail.

Calais light stabbed up at them in vivid, narrow beams, and an air-way lighthouse sent a steady pillar of light to the sky to direct them. Soon Paris was ahead on the horizon, a blur of white and yellow lights, and Tam banked to the left and peered downward for the landing ground he had known so well during the war.

It lay in the center of a triangle, the base of which was the white arcs of a railway siding, the apex a blast furnace, the blue light of which was visible.

Tam had not landed here for eighteen months. It might have been built on for all he knew, or worse still, it might be littered with war stores, the fate of so many aerodromes.

He could see nothing in the black void to which the nose of his machine was pointing. Down, down he swept, and then peering through two eyes which were veritable slits he dropped the nose a fraction more, flattened out and landed without mishap.

"Here ye are, sir," he said. "What time will ye be thinking of returning?"

The man leapt lightly to the ground.

"If I'm not back by three o'clock I shall not be coming at all," he said, and added, "I shall have been detained in the institute for further treatment."

"Very good, sir," said Tam gravely. "The best way into the town is along by the railway. You strike the road about five hundred yards away."

The stranger did not trouble to reply. He disappeared into the darkness, and Tam remembered that he had not asked him his name. He lit his pipe and was walking round the machine when he felt something soft at his feet, and turned the flashlight on it. It was the stranger's leather coat, his gloves and the helmet he had been wearing. Apparently he had carried some sort of cloth cap in his pocket. Tam looked at the coat and smiled ruefully, for it was daubed and streaked with the fire-resisting dope which was perfect in all respects save that it refused to dry.

IT HAPPENED that that night Mr. Merrick entertained a party at the "Chien de Chine," which at the moment was the rendezvous of all that was smart and fashionable in Paris. At eleven o'clock in the evening his dinner-party might be said to have only just begun for most of the guests. For Mr. Merrick it had begun in the afternoon at the American bar at Pangianas, and eleven o'clock found him tearfully voluble on women and their fickleness. He had an interested audience. For Walter Merrick was an extraordinarily wealthy young man, and those kind of orators command a respectful hearing. "Donna e mobile" from the orchestra furnished at once the text and the excuse for the lecture, which began with a toast which he insisted upon all his guests drinking. The toast was "Absent fairies" and most of the company knew who his fairy was and the circumstances in which she had flown away.

"...mind you, I admit I was disagreeable," said Mr. Merrick a little thickly. "But when a woman whines all the time about another fellow, what is a fellow to do? I sent her packing! She bored me, she wearied me, but, girls, I adore her!"

He blinked back two drunken tears.

"She's got 'n impossible husband, the awful fool—"

He went on to talk frankly and, to the ears of any decent man or woman, unpleasantly. They would have got up and left the gilded-mirrored room, and would have drunk in God's fresh air with gratitude and relief. But the acquaintances Walter Merrick had accumulated— and he had had the pick of every revue house in Paris— only imperfectly understood him when he spoke in English, and would not have been greatly offended if they had understood all.

"What I think about women—" resumed Merrick after a pause.

He got so far when the door opened slowly. A man with an iron-gray beard stood in the doorway. The bemused host did not see him for a moment, and when he did a frown gathered on his plump face.

"Hello, who the devil are you?" he asked.

The stranger did not reply. He raised an automatic which was in his hand and fired twice, and Walter Merrick fell across the table stone dead. Before the most excitable could scream, the door closed with a crash and a key was turned.

IT WAS HALF-PAST ONE when Tam thought he heard somebody moving toward him, and pressed the key of his electric lamp.

"There you are!" said a voice. "Put out your lamp. Are you ready?"

"Aye," said Tam. "Did ye get what ye wanted?"

"Yes," said the man shortly.

They made a good get-away, but it was not till they were over Abbeville that Tam remembered that he had not mentioned the leather coat which he had stowed in the fuselage. He leant forward and tapped the man on the shoulder.

"Your coat's under your seat," he yelled, and saw the passenger nod, but he made no attempt to shelter himself from the keen southwesterly wind.

Tam reached Horsham, flying unerringly by certain land-lights which were familiar to him, and he made his landing in the dark without troubling to fire the magnesium flares under his wing tips. It was four o'clock when he said good-bye to the stranger, and heard the "ticka-tick" of his cycle growing fainter and fainter in the direction of Horsham town. Then he turned to the task of housing his machine.

"A happy Christmas to ye, son," he said grimly as he stood surveying himself in the bedroom mirror. "Ye're a grand pilot but, man, ye're a puir, mean kind of inventor," and he spent another hour ridding himself of the dope that would not dry on anything except his clothing.

It was later in the morning over a frugal breakfast that he read of the murder of Walter Merrick. The reporters had given a very graphic description of the orgy which had preceded the murder, and one had secured an almost verbatim report of Merrick's drunken homily. Tam read the account through several times. Then he folded the paper and went on eating his breakfast with great calmness. Now the story of May Selby's folly was revealed in all its ugliness, for although no names were given, Tam guessed who the woman was— the woman who had "bored" the exigent Mr. Merrick and whom he had sent "packing."

In the afternoon he got out his little two-seater and drove to Tunbridge Wells, a journey of twenty miles.

He had no difficulty in finding the nursing-home where Selby was confined, and almost immediately he was taken by the matron to the big room which the sick man occupied.

"No," said that lady in reply to his question. "Mr. Selby isn't very ill. He requires rest and quiet. He has been suffering a little from over-strain."

"Has he been here long?"

"For nearly a week," said the matron. "He has a room on the ground floor in one of the wings. He is such a light sleeper that the slightest noise awakens him. Mrs. Selby is with him now."

Tam stopped dead.

"Mrs. Selby?" he said in a panic, and then, drawing a long breath, "Verra good, ma'am if ye'll be kind enough to show me the way."

Selby was in bed, a fair-haired young man, his face was drawn and a little wasted by care, but he greeted Tam with a smile and a nod.

"I'm glad to see you, Tam," he said. "You got my letter."

"Aye, I got your letter. Good afternoon, Mistress Selby."

The girl who was sitting by the side of her husband's bed rose and held out her hand. Something had matured what had been mere prettiness into an almost ethereal beauty, thought Tam. There was no challenge in her eyes as he had expected. She met him with the assurance which wisdom gives to saint and sinner alike, and which comes from a knowledge of the worst. Her eyes were red, Tam noticed, and Selby with his quick intuition must have realized that Tam had noted this.

"My wife is rather upset by the death of an old friend of ours," he said. "You remember Merrick, Tam?"

The coolness of the question took Tam's breath away.

"Aye, I remember him," he said, after a pause.

"He was the man who was shot in Paris last night," said Selby gently, and Tam looked at him fascinated.

"You don't say," he said; then:

"Have you been to Paris lately?" asked Selby unexpectedly.

Tam was silent for a moment, then he shook his head.

"No, I've no' been to Paris for months," he replied, and his voice was as steady as Selby's.

Mrs. Selby went soon after, and Tam was left alone with the sick man.

"It's a grand room you've got, Mr. Selby, sir," he said. "A beautiful large window, and you could drop into the garden as easy as saying knife. And I don't doot that ye could keep a nice little motor-cycle in yon garage."

He nodded his head toward the open window.

"I dare say I could, Tam," said Selby quietly.

Tam rubbed his chin with an irritable gesture.

"Mr. Selby, sir," he said, "do ye remember the theatrical entertainments we used to have in France? They were fine and gay. And do ye remember how ye used to make up like an auld gentleman, so that you're best friends wouldn't know ye?"

Selby did not reply.

"I'll be awa' the noo," said Tam, and held out his hand.

The other hesitated, and then with a quick movement clasped the outstretched palm.

Tam held the hand for a moment, then turned its palm upwards. There was a faint green stain across the fingers.

"Ye'll find pumice-stone the only thing that'll take it off," said Tam, and walked slowly to the door.

With the edge of the door in his hand he turned.

"Did ye not know, Mr. Selby, sir," he said reproachfully, "that ye could no' smoke a cigarette in a bus! It was verra unprofessional, Mr. Selby, sir, verra unprofessional."

_________________________

4: A Present For Evans

Edgar Wallace

The Passing Show Christmas Number, 1924

THOUGH it was a cold, raw day, with a grey sky and a chill wind sweeping down the length of Great College Street, Mr. Evans was standing at the windiest street corner, gazing pensively at the uninviting façade of the Veterinary College, when The Miller paused in his slow walk and passed, mechanically enough, the compliments of the season.

"And the same to you," said Educated Evans with a shiver. "If anybody wants to give me a Christmas present, he can send me the money instead. Havin' stood the winner of the November Handicap (what a beauty, what a beauty!) an' gen'rally speakin' gettin' my clients one and all their winter keep, it's up to them to act honourable. But have they acted honourable? I ask you!"

Detective-Sergeant Challoner chewed his straw and said nothing. His mind was too busily occupied over the presence of slush, which is the cant name for German-printed one-pound notes. They were kicking at headquarters, and the kick had reached the C.I.D. office in Albany Street.

"A nice Christmas for me!" said Evans bitterly. The church bells a-ringin' 'Peace an' Plenty' an' me with a bob— if I get coals with it I'll starve, an' if I buy food with it I'll freeze to death— why, it's worse than the Spanish Imposition what you read about in Foxe's Book of Martyrs; it was run by the celebrated Judge Jeffries (no relation to Bob, the highly respected bookmaker) an' was finally abolished in 1723 by the Spanish Armada bein' defeated by the well-known Christopher Columbus—him that was executed for givin' lip to B—— Mary."

"Where's Cochlan?" asked The Miller, and Educated Evans drew a long breath.

"He's no client of mine. I sent him Salmon Trout— unbeatable for the Ledger, an' he never asked me if I'd got a mouth. When clients don't act honourable—"

"Somebody was telling me he'd been abroad," suggested The Miller.

"So far as I'm concerned, he's a foreigner," replied Mr. Evans with decision. "We don't talk the same language. If him and other clients had behaved like true British sportsmen I wouldn't be lookin' forward to Christmas Day same as you might be lookin' forward to haven's your appendix bein' taken out by the famous doctor at St. Pancras Infirmary."

The Miller withdrew himself from his unpleasant thoughts and surveyed Mr. Evans with interest.

Educated Evans did not look anything like the world's champion turf prophet. His trousers were frayed, his frayed overcoat had a large rent near the pocket, and this had been unskilfully stitched.

"Why are you standing outside the Veterinary College?" asked The Miller. "Expecting to see that horse you gave me for the Newbury Hurdle come out of hospital?"

"He ought to have won." Said Evans indifferently. "If Frank Wootton had been riding him he'd have come home alone. Jockeyship."

The Miller, turning to go, put his hand in his pocket and produced a green note.

"Your tips have ruined me, Evans," he said. "Camden Town is strewn with the homes you have wrecked, but Christmas is Christmas."

Mr. Evans took the bill with dignity.

"Timmyhawk at Kempton Park on Bank Holiday— help yourself," he said tersely. "He's been tried two stone better than Stuff Gown. I've had it from the boy that does him."

HE made his leisurely way back to Bayham Mews, and had not gone a hundred yards when a sharp-featured young man crossed the road and overtook him.

"What did that busy say?" asked Mr. Cochlan.

Evans favoured him with a gloomy frown.

"He said that people who owe money ought to act honourable," he said pointedly. "He said that when a man gives his clients Salmon Trout— fear nothing—"

"I know all about that," said Mr. Cochlan sourly, "but did he say anything about me?"

Educated Evans closed his eyes wearily.

"If he did, I gave him a civil answer," he said. "I'm no 'nose' to go givin' information. It's Christmas time, when everybody pays their debt. An' as good King Winklecuss says—"

"If you see him again, tell him you heard I was goin' abroad," said Mr. Cochlan earnestly. I'll settle with you, Evans— don't worry."

"I don't," said Evans.

HE was in his happiest mood when he turned into his shabby rooms in Bayham Street. In the basket he carried were three fat bloaters, a loaf of bread, half a pound of "Likebut" (which truly looks like butter but isn't) and a pound of pieces— this being the technical name for those odds and ends of beef that butchers slice in their carving. These and two pounds of floury potatoes and a quartern bottle of whisky promised well for the morrow. In addition, Mr. Evans had purchased from a bookstall a slim volume entitled The Christmas Carol by a man called Dickens— who must not be confused with the gentleman young Tom Leader used to train for.

The bloaters were lovely; the Likebut was delicious. Mr. Evans drained a steaming glass of hot toddy, and felt happy as he turned again to the exciting adventures of Scrooge....

Outside the wind was howling; rain pattered against the unwashed windows as the loud clang of a bell came down the chill mews. Educated Evans listened gravely. It was the clock of St. Pancras Church striking the midnight hour.

"A Merry Christmas!" Educated Evans raised his glass and murmured: "Happy days to everybody except Old Sam, the perishin' brain-sucker!"

Tap— tap— tap!

The stealthy knock on the door made Evans jump.

"Who's there?" he asked huskily.

Tap— tap— tap!

It was not the rain. Reluctantly, he rose and opened the door—and gasped.

On the wooden landing a slim figure stood revealed in an unearthly light. He wore a crimson jacket and a white cap— his legs were neatly breeched and booted.

"Good Gawd!" gasped Evans.

The curious thing was that the face might have been that of Fred Archer, and it might have been Carslake, or it might have been Donoghue.

"Come in, sir," said Evans trembling, and the apparition glided into the room.

"I am the ghost of Christmas to come," said the strange jocket. "What a beauty—what a beauty!"

"My very words," murmured the numb Evans. "Sit down, Mister—"

"I have come to tell you the winner of the Lincoln," said the spirit. Xnghroz will win."

"What name?" asked Evans agitatedly.

"Jzmnpl," said the apparition. (Evans could never remember the name, though it seemed familiar enough at the time). "An Vrxlgrq will win the National—farwell!"

"Here, hold hard!" squeaked Evans, but his hands caught the air.

HE was standing, dazed and trembling, in the middle of the dark room. The fire was out—the door was open, and a sombre figure was silhouetted against the lesser dark outside.

"Evans!" it hissed.

"Hullo— I've been dreaming," said Evans sleepily.

"Here— shove that in your bed— if you squeak on me I'll have your liver out of you!"

Evans grasped the bundle that was thrust into his hand.

"They're waitin' for me at the end of the mews," said Cochlan. "I'm goin' to get up on your roof and hop round into Bayham Street."

"What's this?" wailed Evans, holding out the package in his hand.

"A present from Father Christmas!" chuckled Cochlan.

"Bad money!" Evans almost howled.

"There ain't such a thing. Now hide it—if they find it here you'll be pinched."

In another second he was gone.

EVANS stood grasping the money, perspiration streaming down his forehead. Creeping to the door, he looked down the mews. There was nobody in sight. There was only one thing to be done, and that was to burn the stuff. But a fire would attract attention at this hour. All night long he paced the room in an agony of apprehension, leaping at every sound. But no detectives came.

He looked at the bundle of money. They were beautifully forged—sixty one-pound notes, and all were artistically soiled and crumpled. His respect for the law made him hesitate about burning them. Suppose they were wanted for evidence? Putting on his hat, he went down to the station, and the first person he saw was The Miller.

"Merry Christmas!" said Sergeant Challoner. "What do you want?"

Evans tried to speak, but his throat was dry.

"About Cochlan," he croaked.

"Oh, we took him last night— and if he doesn't go down for life, I'm a Dutchman."

He chuckled as if at a good joke.

"Caught him twice," he said. "He had the forged notes on him, Evans, and the joke is that he thought they were good money. My theory is that he either gave them away or planted the real money by error and kept the 'duds.'"

EVANS swallowed hard, his hand gripping the sixty perfectly good pounds that reposed in his trousers pocket.

"Well, what do you want, Evans?" asked the Miller again.

"Just come to—to wish you a Merry Christmas," said Educated Evans.

________________________

5: The Devil Of The Marsh

Henry Brereton Marriott Watson

(1863-1921)

IT WAS nigh upon dusk when I drew close to the Great Marsh, and already the white vapours were about, riding across the sunken levels like ghosts in a churchyard. Though I had set forth in a mood of wild delight, I had sobered in the lonely ride across the moor and was now uneasily alert. As my horse jerked down the grassy slopes that fell away to the jaws of the swamp I could see thin streams of mist rise slowly, hover like wraiths above the long rushes, and then, turning gradually more material, go blowing heavily away across the flat. The appearance of the place at this desolate hour, so remote from human society and so darkly significant of evil presences, struck me with a certain wonder that she should have chosen this spot for our meeting. She was a familiar of the moors, where I had invariably encountered her; but it was like her arrogant caprice to test my devotion by some such dreary assignation. The wide and horrid prospect depressed me beyond reason, but the fact of her neighbourhood drew me on, and my spirits mounted at the thought that at last she was to put me in possession of herself. Tethering my horse upon the verge of the swamp, I soon discovered the path that crossed it, and entering struck out boldly for the heart. The track could have been little used, for the reeds, which stood high above the level of my eyes upon either side, straggled everywhere across in low arches, through which I dodged, and broke my way with some inconvenience and much impatience. A full half hour I was solitary in that wilderness, and when at last a sound other than my own footsteps broke the silence the dusk had fallen.

I was moving very slowly at the time, with a mind half disposed to turn from the melancholy expedition, which it seemed to me now must surely be a cruel jest she had played upon me. While some such reluctance held me, I was suddenly arrested by a hoarse croaking which broke out upon my left, sounding somewhere from the reeds in the black mire. A little further it came again from close at hand, and when I had passed on a few more steps in wonder and perplexity, I heard it for the third time. I stopped and listened, but the marsh was as a grave, and so taking the noise for the signal of some raucous frog, I resumed my way. But in a little the croaking was repeated, and coming quickly to a stand I pushed the reeds aside and peered into the darkness. I could see nothing, but at the immediate moment of my pause I thought I detected the sound of some body trailing through the rushes. My distaste for the adventure grew with this suspicion, and had it not been for my delirious infatuation I had assuredly turned back and ridden home. The ghastly sound pursued me at intervals along the track, until at last, irritated beyond endurance by the sense of this persistent and invisible company, I broke into a sort of run. This, it seemed, the creature (whatever it was) could not achieve, for I heard no more of it, and continued my way in peace. My path at length ran out from among the reeds upon the smooth flat of which she had spoken, and here my heart quickened, and the gloom of the dreadful place lifted. The flat lay in the very centre of the marsh, and here and there in it a gaunt bush or withered tree rose like a spectre against the white mists. At the further end I fancied some kind of building loomed up; but the fog which had been gathering ever since my entrance upon the passage sailed down upon me at that moment and the prospect went out with suddenness. As I stood waiting for the clouds to pass, a voice cried to me out of its centre, and I saw her next second with bands of mist swirling about her body, come rushing to me from the darkness. She put her long arms about me, and, drawing her close, I looked into her deep eyes. Far down in them, it seemed to me, I could discern a mystic laughter dancing in the wells of light, and I had that ecstatic sense of nearness to some spirit of fire which was wont to possess me at her contact.

"At last," she said, "at last, my beloved!" I caressed her.

"Why," said I, tingling at the nerves, "why have you put this dolorous journey between us? And what mad freak is your presence in this swamp?" She uttered her silver laugh, and nestled to me again.

"I am the creature of this place," she answered. "This is my home. I have sworn you should behold me in my native sin ere you ravished me away."

"Come, then," said I; "I have seen; let there be an end of this. I know you, what you are. This marsh chokes up my heart. God forbid you should spend more of your days here. Come."

"You are in haste," she cried. "There is yet much to learn. Look, my friend," she said, "you who know me, what I am. This is my prison, and I have inherited its properties. Have you no fear?"

For answer I pulled her to me, and her warm lips drove out the horrid humours of the night; but the swift passage of a flickering mockery over her eyes struck me as a flash of lightning, and I grew chill again.

"I have the marsh in my blood," she whispered: "the marsh and the fog of it. Think ere you vow to me, for I am the cloud in a starry night."

A lithe and lovely creature, palpable of warm flesh, she lifted her magic face to mine and besought me plaintively with these words. The dews of the nightfall hung on her lashes, and seemed to plead with me for her forlorn and solitary plight.

"Behold!" I cried, "witch or devil of the marsh, you shall come with me! I have known you on the moors, a roving apparition of beauty; nothing more I know, nothing more I ask. I care not what this dismal haunt means; not what these strange and mystic eyes. You have powers and senses above me; your sphere and habits are as mysterious and incomprehensible as your beauty. But that," I said, "is mine, and the world that is mine shall be yours also."

She moved her head nearer to me with an antic gesture, and her gleaming eyes glanced up at me with a sudden flash, the similitude (great heavens!) of a hooded snake. Starting, I fell away, but at that moment she turned her face and set it fast towards the fog that came rolling in thick volumes over the flat. Noiselessly the great cloud crept down upon us, and all dazed and troubled I watched her watching it in silence. It was as if she awaited some omen of horror, and I too trembled in the fear of its coming.

Then suddenly out of the night issued the hoarse and hideous croaking I had heard upon my passage. I reached out my arm to take her hand, but in an instant the mists broke over us, and I was groping in the vacancy. Something like panic took hold of me, and, beating through the blind obscurity, I rushed over the flat, calling upon her. In a little the swirl went by, and I perceived her upon the margin of the swamp, her arm raised as in imperious command. I ran to her, but stopped, amazed and shaken by a fearful sight. Low by the dripping reeds crouched a small squat thing, in the likeness of a monstrous frog, coughing and choking in its throat. As I stared, the creature rose upon its legs and disclosed a horrid human resemblance. Its face was white and thin, with long black hair; its body gnarled and twisted as with the ague of a thousand years. Shaking, it whined in a breathless voice, pointing a skeleton finger at the woman by my side.

"Your eyes were my guide," it quavered. "Do you think that after all these years I have no knowledge of your eyes? Lo, is there aught of evil in you I am not instructed in? This is the Hell you designed for me, and now you would leave me to a greater."

The wretch paused, and panting leaned upon a bush, while she stood silent, mocking him with her eyes, and soothing my terror with her soft touch.

"Hear!" he cried, turning to me, "hear the tale of this woman that you may know her as she is. She is the Presence of the marshes. Woman or Devil I know not, but only that the accursed marsh has crept into her soul and she herself is become its Evil Spirit; she herself, that lives and grows young and beautiful by it, has its full power to blight and chill and slay. I, who was once as you are, have this knowledge. What bones lie deep in this black swamp who can say but she? She has drained of health, she has drained of mind and of soul; what is between her and her desire that she should not drain also of life? She has made me a devil in her Hell, and now she would leave me to my solitary pain, and go search for another victim. But she shall not!" he screamed through his chattering teeth; "she shall not! My Hell is also hers! She shall not!"

Her smiling untroubled eyes left his face and turned to me: she put out her arms, swaying towards me, and so fervid and so great a light glowed in her face that, as one distraught of superhuman means, I took her into my embrace. And then the madness seized me.

"Woman or devil," I said, "I will go with you! Of what account this pitiful past? Blight me even as that wretch, so be only you are with me."

She laughed, and, disengaging herself, leaned, half-clinging to me, towards the coughing creature by the mire.

"Come," I cried, catching her by the waist. "Come!" She laughed again a silver-ringing laugh. She moved with me slowly across the flat to where the track started for the portals of the marsh. She laughed and clung to me.

But at the edge of the track I was startled by a shrill, hoarse screaming; and behold, from my very feet, that loathsome creature rose up and wound his long black arms about her shrieking and crying in his pain. Stooping I pushed him from her skirts, and with one sweep of my arm drew her across the pathway; as her face passed mine her eyes were wide and smiling. Then of a sudden the still mist enveloped us once more; but ere it descended I had a glimpse of that contorted figure trembling on the margin, the white face drawn and full of desolate pain. At the sight an icy shiver ran through me. And then through the yellow gloom the shadow of her darted past me to the further side. I heard the hoarse cough, the dim noise of a struggle, a swishing sound, a thin cry, and then the sucking of the slime over something in the rushes. I leapt forward: and once again the fog thinned, and I beheld her, woman or devil, standing upon the verge, and peering with smiling eyes into the foul and sickly bog. With a sharp cry wrung from my nerveless soul, I turned and fled down the narrow way from that accursed spot; and as I ran the thickening fog closed round me, and I heard far off and lessening still the silver sound of her mocking laughter.

______________________

6: The Mystery of the Semi-Detached

Edith Nesbit

(1858-1924)

HE WAS waiting for her, he had been waiting an hour and a half in a dusty suburban lane, with a row of big elms on one side and some eligible building sites on the other-and far away to the south-west the twinkling yellow lights of the Crystal Palace. It was not quite like a country lane, for it had a pavement and lamp-posts, but it was not a bad place for a meeting all the same: and farther up, towards the cemetery, it was really quite rural, and almost pretty, especially in twilight But twilight had long deepened into the night, and still he waited. He loved her, and he was engaged to be married to her, with the complete disapproval of every reasonable person who had been consulted. And this half-clandestine meeting was tonight to take the place of the grudgingly sanctioned weekly interview-because a certain rich uncle was visiting at her house, and her mother was not the woman to acknowledge to a moneyed uncle, who might "go off" any day, a match so deeply ineligible as hers with him.

So he waited for her, and the chill of an unusually severe May evening entered into his bones.

The policeman passed him with a surly response to his "Good night". The bicyclists went by him like grey ghosts with foghorns; and it was nearly ten o'clock, and she had not come.

He shrugged his shoulders and turned towards his lodgings. His road led him by her house— desirable, commodious, semi-detached-and he walked slowly as he neared it She might, even now, be coming out But she was not There was no sign of movement about the house, no sign of life, no lights even in the windows. And her people were not early people.

He paused by the gate, wondering.

Then he noticed that the front door was open-wide open-and the street lamp shone a little way into the dark hail. There was something about all this that did not please him-that scared him a little, indeed. The house had a gloomy and deserted air. It was obviously impossible that it harboured a rich uncle. The old man must have left early. In which case-

He walked up the path of patent glazed dies, and listened. No sign of life. He passed into the hail. There was no light anywhere. Where was everybody, and why was the front door open? There was no one in the drawing room, the dining room and the study (nine feet by seven) were equally blank. Everyone was out, evidently. But the unpleasant sense that he was, perhaps, not the first casual visitor to walk through that open door impelled him to look through the house before he went away and closed it after him. So he went upstairs, and at the door of the first bedroom he came to he struck a wax match, as he had done in the sitting rooms. Even as he did so he felt that he was not alone. And he was prepared to see something but for what he saw he was not prepared. For what he saw lay on the bed, in a white loose gown-and it was his sweetheart, and its throat was cut from ear to ear. He doesn't know what happened then, nor how he got downstairs and into the street; but he got out somehow, and the policeman found him in a fit, under the lamp-post at the corner of the street He couldn't speak when they picked him up, and he passed the night in the police cells, because the policeman had seen plenty of drunken men before, but never one in a fit.

The next morning he was better, though still very white and shaky. But the tale he told the magistrate was convincing, and they sent a couple of constables with him to her house.

There was no crowd about it as he had fancied there would be, and the blinds were not down.

He held on to the door-post for support...

"She's all right, you see," said the constable, who had found him under the lamp. "I told you you was drunk, but you would know best-"

When he was alone with her he told her-not all-for that would not bear telling-but how he had come into the commodious semi-detached, and how he had found the door open and the lights out, and that he had been into that long back room facing the stairs, and had seen something-in even trying to hint at which he turned sick and broke down and had to have brandy given him.

"But, my dearest," she said, "I dare say the house was dark, for we were all at the Crystal Palace with my uncle, and no doubt the door was open, for the maids will run out if they're left. But you could not have been in that room, because I locked it when I came away, and the key was in my pocket. I dressed in a hurry and I left all my odds and ends lying about."

"I know," he said; "I saw a green scarf on a chair, and some long brown gloves, and a lot of hairpins and ribbons, and a prayerbook, and a lace handkerchief on the dressing table. Why, I even noticed the almanack on the mantelpiece-21 October. At least it couldn't be that, because this is May. And yet it was. Your almanack is at 21 October, isn't it?"

"No, of course it isn't," she said, smiling rather anxiously; "but all the other things were just as you say. You must have had a dream, or a vision, or something."

He was a very ordinary, commonplace, City young man, and he didn't believe in visions, but he never rested day or night till he got his sweetheart and her mother away from that commodious semi-detached, and settled them in a quiet distant suburb. In the course of the removal he incidentally married her, and the mother went on living with them.

His nerves must have been a good bit shaken, because he was very queer for a long time, and was always enquiring if anyone had taken the desirable semi-detached; and when an old stockbroker with a family took it, he went the length of calling on the old gentleman and imploring him by all that he held dear, not to live in that fatal house.

"Why?" said the stockbroker, not unnaturally.

And then he got so vague and confused, between trying to tell why and trying not to tell why, that the stockbroker showed him out, and thanked his God he was not such a fool as to allow a lunatic to stand in the way of his taking that really remarkably cheap and desirable semi-detached residence.

Now the curious and quite inexplicable part of this story is that when she came down to breakfast on the morning of the 22 October she found him looking like death, with the morning paper in his hand. He caught hers— he couldn't speak, and pointed to the paper. And there she read that on the night of the 21st a young lady, the stockbroker's daughter, had been found, with her throat cut from ear to ear, on the bed in the long back bedroom facing the stairs of that desirable semi-detached.

___________________

7: The Wendigo

Theodore Roosevelt

FRONTIERSMEN are not, as a rule, apt to be very superstitious. They lead lives too hard and practical, and have too little imagination in things spiritual and supernatural. I have heard but few ghost stories while living on the frontier, and these few were of a perfectly commonplace and conventional type.

But I once listened to a goblin story which rather impressed me. It was told by a grizzled, weather-beaten old mountain hunter, named Bauman, who was born and had passed all his life on the frontier. He must have believed what he said, for he could hardly repress a shudder at certain points of the tale; but he was of German ancestry, and in childhood had doubtless been saturated with all kinds of ghost and goblin lore, so that many fearsome superstitions were latent in his mind; besides, he knew well the stories told by the Indian medicine men in their winter camps, of the snow-walkers, and the spectres, and the formless evil beings that haunt the forest depths, and dog and waylay the lonely wanderer who after nightfall passes through the regions where they lurk....

When the event occurred, Bauman was still a young man, and was trapping with a partner among the mountains dividing the forks of Salmon from the head of Wisdom River. Not having had much luck he and his partner determined to go up into a particularly wild and lonely pass through which ran a small stream said to contain many Beaver. The pass had an evil reputation, because the year before a solitary hunter who had wandered into it was there slain, seemingly by a wild beast, the half-eaten remains being afterwards found by some mining prospectors who had passed his camp only the night before.

The memory of this event, however, weighed very lightly with the two trappers, who were as adventurous and hardy as others of their kind. They took their two lean mountain Ponies to the foot of the pass, where they left them in an open Beaver meadow, the rocky timberclad ground being from thence onwards impracticable for Horses. They then struck out on foot through the vast, gloomy forest, and in about four hours, reached a little open glade where they concluded to camp, as signs of game were plenty.

There was still an hour or two of daylight left; and after building brush lean-to and throwing down and opening their packs, they started up stream. The country was very dense and hard to travel through, as there was much down timber, although here and there the sombre woodland was broken by small glades of mountain grass.

At dusk, they again reached camp. The glade in which it was pitched was not many yards wide, the tall, close-set pines and firs rising round it like a wall. On one side, was a little stream, beyond which rose the steep mountain-slopes, covered with the unbroken growth of the evergreen forest.

They were surprised to find that during their short absence, something, apparently a Bear, had visited camp, and had rummaged about among their things, scattering the contents of their packs, and in sheer wantonness destroying their lean-to. The footprints of the beast were quite plain but at first they paid no particular heed to them, busying themselves with rebuilding the lean-to, laying out their beds and stores, and lighting the fire.

While Bauman was making ready supper, it being already dark, his companion began to examine the tracks more closely, and soon took a brand from the fire to follow them up, where the intruder had walked along a game trail after leaving the camp. When the brand flickered out, he returned and took another, repeating his inspection of the footprints very closely. Coming back to the fire, he stood by it a minute or two, peering out into the darkness, and suddenly remarked: "Bauman, that Bear has been walking on two legs." Bauman laughed at this, but his partner insisted that he was right; and upon again examining the tracks with a torch, they certainly did seem to be made by but two paws, or feet. However, it was too dark to make sure. After discussing whether the footprints could possibly be those of a human being, and coming to the conclusion that they could not be, the two men rolled up in their blankets, and went to sleep under the lean-to.

At midnight, Bauman was awakened by some noise, and sat up in his blankets. As he did so, his nostrils were struck by a strong, wild-beast odor, and he caught the loom of a great body in the darkness at the mouth of the lean-to. Grasping his rifle, he fired at the vague, threatening shadow, but must have missed; for immediately afterwards he heard the smashing of the underwood as the thing, whatever it was, rushed off into the impenetrable blackness of the forest and the night.

After this the two men slept but little, sitting up by the rekindled fire, but they heard nothing more. In the morning, they started out to look at the few traps they had set the previous evening, and to put out new ones. By an unspoken agreement, they kept together all day, and returned to camp towards evening.

On nearing it they saw, hardly to their astonishment, that the lean-to had been again torn down. The visitor of the preceding day had returned; and in wanton malice had tossed about their camp kit and bedding, and destroyed the shanty. The ground was marked up by its tracks; and on leaving the camp, it had gone along the soft earth by the brook, where the footprints were as plain as if on snow, and, after a careful scrutiny of the trail, it certainly did seem as if, whatever the thing was, it had walked off on but two legs.

The men, thoroughly uneasy, gathered a great heap of dead logs, and kept up a roaring fire throughout the night, one or the other sitting on guard most of the time. About midnight, the thing came down through the forest opposite, across the brook, and stayed there on the hillside for nearly an hour. They could hear the branches crackle as it moved about, and several times it uttered a harsh, grating, long-drawn moan, a peculiarly sinister sound. Yet it did not venture near the fire.

In the morning, the two trappers, after discussing the strange events of the last thirty-six hours, decided that they would shoulder their packs and leave the valley that afternoon. They were the more ready to do this because, in spite of seeing a good deal of game sign, they had caught very little fur. However, it was necessary first to go along the line of their traps and gather them, and this they started out to do.

All the morning, they kept together, picking up trap after trap, each one empty. On first leaving camp, they had the disagreeable sensation of being followed. In the dense spruce thickets, they occasionally heard a branch snap after they had passed; and now and then, there were slight rustling noises among the small pines to one side of them.

At noon, they were back within a couple of miles of camp. In the high bright sunlight, their fears seemed absurd to the two armed men, accustomed as they were, through long years of lonely wandering in the wilderness, to face every kind of danger from man, brute, or element. There were still three Beaver traps to collect from a little pond in a wide ravine nearby. Bauman volunteered to gather these, and bring them in, while his companion went ahead to camp and made ready the packs.

On reaching the pond, Bauman found three Beaver in the traps, one of which had been pulled loose and carried into a Beaver house. He took several hours in securing and preparing the Beaver, and when he started homewards he marked with some uneasiness how low the sun was getting. As he hurried towards camp, under the tall trees, the silence and desolation of the forest weighed on him. His feet made no sound on the pine needles, and the slanting sun rays, striking through among the straight trunks, made a gray twilight in which objects at a distance glimmer indistinctly. There was nothing to break the ghostly stillness which, when there is no breeze, always broods over these sombre primeval forests.

At last, he came to the edge of the little glade where the camp lay, and shouted as he approached it, but got no answer. The camp fire had gone out, though the thin blue smoke was still curling upwards. Near it lay the packs wrapped and arranged. At first, Bauman could see nobody; nor did he receive an answer to his call. Stepping forward he again shouted; and as he did so, his eye fell on the body of his friend, stretched beside the trunk of a great fallen spruce. Rushing towards it, the horrified trapper found that the body was still warm, but that the neck was broken, while there were four great fang marks in the throat.

The footprints of the unknown beast-creature, printed deep in the soil, told the whole story.

The unfortunate man, having finished his packing, had sat down on the spruce log with his face to the fire, and his back to the dense woods, to wait for his companion. While thus waiting, his monstrous assailant, which must have been lurking nearby in the woods, waiting for a chance to catch one of the adventurers unprepared, came silently up from behind, walking with long, noiseless steps, and seemingly still on two legs. Evidently unheard, it reached the man, and broke his neck by wrenching his head back with its forepaws, while it buried its teeth in his throat. It had not eaten the body, but apparently had romped and gambolled round it in uncouth, ferocious glee, occasionally rolling over and over it; and had then fled back into the soundless depths of the woods.

Bauman, utterly unnerved, and believing that the creature with which he had to deal was something either half-human or half-devil, some great goblin-beast, abandoned everything but his rifle, and struck off at speed down the pass, not halting until he reached the Beaver meadows where the hobbled Ponies were still grazing. Mounting, he rode onwards through the night, until far beyond the reach of pursuit.

_____________________

8: Spider Tong

Perley Poore Sheehan

(1877-1943)

IT WAS while he was still far back in the Gorge of the Grasping Fist passes leading from China into Tibet— that Captain Trouble first heard of the Spider Tong. The man who told him about it was a Chinese gentleman named Mr. Wang. An elderly gentleman dressed in a long coat of gray silk, with purple-black silk trousers neatly tied at the ankles over spotless white socks. Then the long— -one of the old cue, and a mandarin cap. "A tsung-ping," the captain remarked to himself— meaning a "red button." It took nerve on the part of a Chinaman nowadays to wear the regalia of the old empire, no matter where he was.

And Mr. Wang not only wore the mandarin cap with the red button on it; there was a ceremonial fan sticking from the back of his neck.

He himself, Captain Trouble, in such a presence, felt like a tramp. He was just returning from the wild Hou-Shan— "the Country Back of the Mountains," meaning this end of Tibet, where, as successor to Kubla Khan, he was establishing another capital. It had been rough going— and fighting— more or less all the way. He was dressed in nondescript riding clothes.

Except to bathe and shave, which he did every morning, hot or cold, safe or not safe, he'd hardly been out of his boots for a month.

Captain Trouble, Shadak Khan, the Fighting Fool; otherwise, Pelham Rutledge Shattuck, of the U. S. A., the rising war-lord of China and perhaps the world.

Except for the long clean sword across his knees, there was no sign of royalty about him at all. Mr. Wang kept looking at the sword— first at Shattuck, then at the sword.

Kubla's sword! Scepter of the Grand Mogul! All Asia was beginning to whisper and sing about it.

"You risk your life to save mine," said Shattuck. "Why?"

"The Spider Tong has already bereft me of family and fortune," Mr. Wang explained.

They were speaking the Mandarin dialect, rich in various compliments unnecessary to report.

"There was a Spider Tong I knew of as a boy," said Shattuck. "The members of it put up bamboo scaffolding when my father was building his warehouses at Shanghai."

Mr. Wang's face gave the hint of a smile. It was like a face carved from old ivory; and some of its tone, Shattuck guessed, had been given it by opium.

"These Spiders," said Mr. Wang, "are different. They also build. But a web. In which they catch all who are not spiders. And drain their victims to an empty husk."

The interview was taking place near the entrance of the Fur Girl Cave, a vast grotto containing, among other wonders, a boiling spring. The place, largely on account of that flow of hot water, was becoming more and more like home to Shattuck. A home that was huge; and still, remote from the filth and blood of battle; and also with secret roads in the Seven Directions— East and West, North and South, Down and Up, and Nowhere, the direction you take when you die.

Shattuck was sitting cross-legged on a pile of saddle-blankets.

From where he sat he could look out of the opening of the cave— as high and wide as a triumphal arch— to a filmy waterfall beyond the gorge, less than a quarter of a mile away. Only when he listened could he hear the murmur of the falling water. It was like the hum of a great wheel. Long before the water reached the bottom of the gorge it had turned to mist.

To the left and right of the waterfall, wherever there was footing, there were dancing sheets of green where vines and ferns were swinging in the breeze.

China, hard hit in a thousand places, was still beautiful. This after all, was his second Fatherland. He loved it.

"Now they are talking of forming the One Great Tong," said Mr. Wang. "The Tong of the Spiders, who will web the Empire back into a single fabric again. If that should come to pass, he who rules the Spider Tong may rule the world."

Shattuck, seated on his throne of saddle blankets, didn't know whether he should dismiss the old gentleman, or let him go on with his talk. He was so tired he could scarcely keep himself awake. Yet he had to be tireless. Discipline had made him nearly so. Discipline and something else.

There were times when he felt as a ship might feel, with all sails set and a favoring wind, bound for some port still beyond the horizon— a city of shining domes and minarets— a new capital in a new world— ruled by the Maitreya.

He looked at Mr. Wang and saw that the old gentleman was again looking at the sword that lay across his knees.

"No one will rule the world except with this for a scepter," Shattuck said.

"The sword of Kubla," said Mr. Wang. "Is it the real one?"

Shattuck stared. "It is." The old man was foolish.

While he was still back in the Blue Lake country— country of the Kokonor— whispers had reached Shattuck in various ways that fresh trouble was brewing in Minchow.

A wandering lama of the Red Cult, they who are magicians to a man, had cast a handful of finger-bones into the air one night at the side of the campfire, then informed him that "the Cloudy Garden," as the wide Minchow Valley was called before the Great Sorrow hit it, was again fast becoming "Feng-ti-Yu," which is to say, the Valley of Hell.

To that Captain Trouble, Khan Shadak, had replied, that most of China was a Valley of Hell and that Tibet was even worse. There'd been work to do in Tibet. There were ten thousand men up there now working to restore the ancient capital of Kubla Khan. The dream of empire was taking on reality.

But as soon as he could, he'd started back again for Minchow, leaving Juma, the old Kirghiz bandit, who was to be his Minister of War, in the new dispensation, and Champela, the half-American Tibetan mystic, who was to be Minister of Peace, when there would be peace, to see that the work went along and that the workers were fed.

Shattuck had a hundred Arghati with him.

The Arghati themselves were magicians to some extent. Their long life of seclusion in the depths of the Gobi had made them so. Dwellers in the dark, as they'd called themselves. Developing in themselves, or keeping alive at any rate, the faculties that all men had when the world began but which now most of the world had forgotten.

The world, the Arghati said, was swinging around to another dawn— another cycle; and he who carried the sword of Kubla Khan would use that sword to smooth the way for the new King of the World, the King of Peace. The Maitreya! Mi Leh Fu, as the Chinese called Him. In Tibetan Rigden-jyepo.

Shattuck brought his attention back to the fine old Chinese gentleman in front of him.

It occurred to him that the Arghati had warned him to be careful about one who would appear before him in the guise of a friend during the third phase of the moon.

But Shattuck had lost track of time. He had too much else to think about, too much to do.

When he did take note of time, it was generally in terms of split seconds— everything happening so fast.

He was thinking about that mysterious scientific magic of the Arghati. They had a way of saying that there was no future and no past. Not in the usual sense of the word. Past and Future were "part of the same landscape"— a sort of East and West of time, so to speak— and you could see in one direction as easily as you could in another.

There were not many Arghati in the world. Strange how that prophecy of theirs about the Maitreya had spread through the world. The coming Buddha!

Something like that.

And Shattuck motioned the nice old Mr. Wang to come near and make himself comfortable.

Mr. Wang, he had been informed, had been carried up into the Gorge of the Grasping Fist in an elegant sedan chair. There were a dozen bearers who spelled each other, six on and six off, because the climb was steep.

Besides the chair-porters, there had been about twenty other coolies; altogether a good deal of style for a man who claimed that he'd been ruined.

But all millionaires, Shattuck reflected, were like that— claiming that they were paupers if they had only one million left.

Mr. Wang had a light step for a man of his apparent age. Shattuck vaguely reflected that he would have been more comfortable if he'd kept a bodyguard near him. But his men were tired, after traveling all night. He'd ordered them into another part of the cave where they could sleep in peace.

"Ai-ya!" breathed Mr. Wang. "The Spider Tong. The new one. Has not my lord, Shadak Khan, heard that the world is in for a fresh deal of some sort?"

He tittered a little, and drew the ceremonial fan from the back of his neck. As Mr. Wang opened the fan, with a graceful and ceremonial movement, it seemed to Shattuck that he saw a glint of bright steel.

THE thing was impossible, and he dismissed it from his mind. He'd been mixed up in so much fighting for the past many months that he was seeing death and the threat of death every way he looked. Besides, he was tired. He felt as if he could go to sleep and sleep for a month.

Mr. Wang had remained standing. He appeared to have a doubt in his mind as to how he should act in the presence of this great one. The great one was not only a foreigner, a man with pale eyes. He was a great war lord.

There were very few in China, now, even among the educated classes, who hadn't heard that Kubla Khan was back on earth in the person of a white man.

"The Spiders," Mr. Wang murmured, apologetically, "declare that even my lord, the successor of Kubla Khan, is back of their movement."

"Hell's in their belly, and they're belching lies," said Shattuck.

"So I was certain," Mr. Wang declared. "Else why should they be taking council to have you murdered before you get back to Minchow? They have entered Minchow. They are worse than the bandit known as General Jade— Yu, the Green Shiver— he whom you killed. The Spiders say, 'Why should anyone go hungry when there is so much meat walking about?'"

"You mean— "

Mr. Wang nodded, with his ivory smile.

"Women and children," he murmured. "To each lodge of the Spider Tong a feast every night. And in these times of want, the Tong grows swiftly."

As Shattuck listened, with a growing rage and horror to the story that Mr. Wang was telling him, a number of the Arghati came ghosting into the far part of the cave.

The soft voice of one of them came to Shattuck.

"Pardon, Great One; but we have a feeling that you are running into danger."

"Be at peace," said Shattuck. "I have just been warned."

It was queer that these people should have got word of the murder plot against him. But he was accustomed to the mysteries of the Arghati by this time. He'd given them but a glance. He'd given them a gesture of dismissal.

For a time they still lingered there, lean and dark. They looked like neither Mongols nor Chinese. They might have belonged to some early Aryan tribe— the noble race, as they were called in India; forerunners of all the white people in the world.

"How'd you know where to find me?" Shattuck asked Mr. Wang.

He'd been keeping his movements secret to some extent. There were enough enemies on his trail without advertising for more. Russians, Japanese, Chinese Communists, the Nationalists also; then any number of independent bandit chiefs who knew that they were doomed unless Shadak Khan met his own doom first.

"Prince," said Mr. Wang, "I may be merely old-fashioned and a little crazy. But I went daily to the Sublime Mount and there questioned the Goddess of the Wind."

"Go on," said Shattuck. "But suppose the Spiders did the same. Then they would know that I was on my way. As no doubt they do, if they're planning to kill me."

"May the Lord of the Sky protect you."

The Arghati, Shattuck reflected, could foresee a man's fate; but not even they could prevent that fate being carried out.

Mr. Wang was kneeling now, comfortably enough, on another saddle-blanket just in front of him.

"By what sign," Shattuck asked, "are these Spiders known?"

"By the sign of the Bite," said Mr. Wang. "But many of us have taken the Bite: merely to save our lives. May I show you what it looks like, O Lord of the World?"

And the fine old Chinese gentleman drew back the overhang of one of his silk gray sleeves exposing an ivory wrist. The wrist was encircled with a bracelet of pure green jade, so tight that it must have been put there while the slender hand was smaller yet. Then, just above the bracelet, three curious red marks.

Mr. Wang leaned forward. So did Shattuck.

As Shattuck did so, it was as if he'd been struck at by a striking snake. And the snake was Mr. Wang. Then, with the sting of fangs still in his shoulder, Shattuck felt as if the snake had thrown a coil about his neck.

Nowhere! Meaning Death! That also was one of the directions of the roads leading off from the Fur Girl Cave— a tradition so old that the place had been left deserted practically since the original Kubla Khan had passed this way.

Instead of being the fine old gentleman he'd appeared to be, Mr. Wang was showing himself to be a first-class demon. He wasn't ivory any more. He was red-hot steel.

He'd aimed a blow with a razor at Shattuck's jugular. Missing that by inches, he'd slipped his arm about Shattuck's throat and was trying to sever his windpipe.

At the same moment, a clamor had filled the cavern— multiplied by ten thousand echoes. Shattuck thought of the hundred faithful who were his only escort when he'd reached this place. He'd led them— and himself— into an ambush. Were they also being murdered?

EVEN as Shattuck struggled, with that sense of a nearness of death upon him, his fighting mind was telling him pretty clearly what had happened.

The Red Sect lama who'd thrown the finger-bones for him across the divide in Tibet was a part of the plot, putting into his mind the thought that he was needed back in Minchow. The plotters would have guessed that he would leave the bulk of his growing army at Kokonor, there where he planned to make his headquarters for the conquest of Tibet.

Minchow was to have been another center. From Minchow as a capital, he'd bring this wild province of Kansu into line. He'd organize the untamed brigands into the best soldiers in the world, make their country— with its piled-up mountains and fertile valleys— into another Switzerland.

With Kansu and Tibet back of him, he'd be ready to overrun Mongolia and free Manchuria....

All this while he was fighting— fighting to free his sword arm, fighting to keep that razor from his throat, fighting for air.

At the same time, his ears were bringing him evidence of what was happening elsewhere. The corridor into the inner cave, where the Arghati had established their quarters, must have been blocked. Above and below the main entrance to the cave, through which he had looked just now, there had been sentinels posted.

They must have been ambushed immediately following the arrival of their chief. Mr. Wang was their chief. His arrival in state, his old-fashioned manner, had been a blind. Room in the cave to have concealed a thousand— or ten thousand— -men.

Now at their bloody work of slaughter.

The Arghati had warned him. They would be dying now on his account.

Whether they were or not, their strength came thrilling into him. Up from the sword in his hand there came a shock of mysterious electricity at high tension. He had freed himself.

Bleeding! He knew the feel. There was still a riot of noise and echoes about him as if the cave were filled with thunders trying to escape.

"You die anyway," shrilled a voice. "The bite of the Spider is poisoned."

And there stood the enemy who'd passed himself off as the fine old Mr. Wang. The mandarin cap and the cue of long hair were gone— the polished head looked like a skull. Gone also the gray silk coat, revealing a sinewy torso and wiry slim arms.

On the breast of the fellow Shattuck saw a repetition of those red marks he'd seen on the wrist— magnified now, and recognizable; a skull and bones, tattooed in red.

"Tzuren!"

The word meant "poison-doctor."

"One of the greatest," came the sneering reply. "Head of the Spider Tong!"

And the Spider Chief made a sliding jump to one side, swift as a shadow, when Shattuck lunged. Swift as a hunting spider. He'd bitten— as he himself would have said; he had only to wait for the poison to take effect.

Shattuck's knees went limp. With an obvious effort to right himself he went into a reeling fall. This time the Spider Chief was taken off his guard. The sword of Kubla flashed and the poison knife went spinning, taking a hand along.

At the loss of his hand, the Poison Chief went into a sort of delirium— cursing, dancing, staring.

Shattuck felt no slightest touch of pity.

"Ai-ya!" he shrilled softly, in imitation of one of the cries the tzuren had uttered.

And with his left hand he snatched at the amputated wrist and gave it a twist that brought the poison doctor to the floor of the cave. It was a twist of pa-shih, the old Chinese system from which the Japanese took their jiu-jitsu.

The man was on his back and Shattuck was ready to flay his breast of that poison brand.

"Quick," said Shattuck. "Death— or stop the action of your men!"

"I lack the breath," said the poison doctor.

"Then tell me the word!"

And it was like that that Shattuck came into knowledge of the password and various other gems of wisdom concerning the Spider Tong.

SHATTUCK had shouted "Dzuk!"— a camel-word, really used by camel-drivers when they want their beasts to lie down. A hiss and a click that carried as no other word might have carried; and he was conscious that it had been heard and understood.

He'd dragged his victim next to the stream that flowed away from the hot spring. The water was hot, all right; but it wasn't boiling. And there were salts in it worth a fortune to a man with an open wound and in danger of bleeding to death.

He threw the Spider Chief face down and knelt on him. He laved his own wound. The shock of that hot and salt-impregnated water was like a fresh stab— only worse as it struck his open ground. Sometimes— often— pain was good.

He jerked the bleeding wrist of the Spider Man forward and thrust it into the healing stream.

He listened. There was less noise. From his own shirt he ripped a linen strip and made a tourniquet for his enemy's severed wrist.

Killing an enemy in a fight was one thing; leaving him to bleed to death was another.

But the act of mercy was one of those that cause some men to forswear good actions for the rest of their lives. As he turned from his task of tightening the makeshift bandage, he discovered that his precious sword was gone— the sword of Kubla Khan— the hope of Asia— the hope of the world!

But if someone had been bold enough, and deft enough, to steal the weapon from his side during the minute or so that his back was turned, laving his own wound and that of the Spider Chief, why hadn't the thief killed him with it?

He'd been unarmed. He'd been kneeling as if predestined to execution.

He guessed the answer— all this in the racing time of thought. The man who'd taken the sword had believed that he and the Spider Chief had struck up an understanding. The man hadn't dared kill them both, nor yet kill one without the other.

There'd been that cry to cease action. Yet here the thief had seen the head of the Spider Tong, the enemy, and the sword of Kubla Khan.

He had taken the sword and fled.

For a reeling second, while the nightmare truth of this flared in his brain, Shattuck longed for death. Then in a frenzy of action, he was his fighting self again. He'd scrambled toward the pile of blankets where he'd eased himself of his belt and holster when preparing to rest.

Before he could cover a tenth of the distance, he saw a dozen strangers lurch into the cave through the arched entrance. Blind instinct was all that could have made him stoop and seize the thing that lay on the floor of the cave at his feet— a dead hand still gripping the razor-edged knife with his own blood on the blade.

"Dzuk! Dzuk!" he howled at them. "Kneel, you camel spawn!"

And as he howled this at them he rushed at them with that ghastly weapon raised.

They were bandits of the sort now swarming over China, especially in wild Kansu— two or three of them almost naked, here and there a uniform, a general flutter of rags, all sorts, but all of them armed with rifles, even a bayonet or two in place. And all of them quick of eye, as with animals long used to hunt or starve.

There was a clatter and a falling back as they saw what must have appeared a devil bearing down on them with a dead man's hand as a weapon, and that hand armed.

"Dzuk!" Shattuck howled. "I'm your new chief! I'm the Dragon Spider!"

There was one who doubted this— a thick-set man, pock-marked and military. He uttered something incoherent. He lifted his rifle with its fixed bayonet and made a lunge. As he did so, Shattuck flung hand and knife into his face.

The man let out a stifled yelp and tilted back.

On the instant, Shattuck was on him and had his rifle. With a sideswipe he knocked the fellow the rest of the way.

But that show of resistance on the part of their leader had been enough, brief and weak as it had been, to set the others in action. There was a shot that went wild.

Shattuck stabbed the man who fired, and the bayonet held. There was no time now for parley. A moment more and he would have been surrounded, unarmed. He was almost surrounded as it was, but his fighting eye had shown him a possible hole— a recruit just to the side of him, still so goggle-eyed at what he had seen— was seeing still— that he'd forgotten what his gun was for.

Shattuck jumped sideways, as he had seen the Spider Chief leap; and brought the recruit a jolt with his shoulder.

They went down together; but of the two of them Shattuck alone knowing what it was all about.

Before either the recruit he'd bowled over or anyone else divined his purpose, he'd scrambled to the pile of blankets and thrown himself behind it.

Safe harbor, this was. In another fraction of time he'd jerked out his gun.

THIS part of the battle was over. In quick succession, Shattuck fired three shots. The pock-marked man had come up with a screaming curse— practically from the moment he'd touched the floor, events had been racing so fast. He was the first to drop. There'd come an echo of the screaming curse from the far side of the cave, and there was the Spider Chief frothing forward telling his men to kill this foreign devil— this yang-kwei-tzu, with trimmings about the foreign devil's mother. He was the next to drop. Then a third, who made the mistake of taking too much time to aim his rifle.

"Chiu ming!"

And that was a cry from the recruit Shattuck had bowled over, asking Shattuck to save his life, It was no more than the chirp of a sparrow in the blood and thunder of this hole in the hills, but Shattuck heard it.

"So be it!" he called.

It looked like more war as a dozen more bandits came stampeding into the cave from the outer trail. But they were on the run and brought panic with them.

Shattuck caught the message they were trying to tell even before their comrades did. The Arghati were coming.

Coming they were, in fact, from two directions— from the outer trail and from the back of the cave.

That cry Shattuck had let out a while ago— -the one he'd bled from the Spider Chief— had done its work, after all. It had checked the rush of the Spiders, given a chance the Arghati needed to get away by an inner passage and come to Shattuck's relief from another direction.

Shattuck took his chance. He clambered from cover, with his automatic ready for action.

"Down guns and up hands!" he said.

There was a herding backward, and Shattuck followed up. But guns began to drop and hands went up. There were three dead men on the floor, each with a bullet through the center of his forehead.

That wasn't a detail to escape these hunter-eyed bandits either. Brave as starving tigers in their way. But superstitious.

The Arghati came in. They looked like an army, although a dozen of them had been killed or wounded in their first attempt to rush the corridor that separated them from Shattuck— Shadak Khan to them, the Trouble Khan, heir of Kubla.

Shattuck singled put the recruit who'd asked for quarter.

"What's your name?" he asked, while the Arghati troops were rounding the bandits up against the wall.

"They call me," the boy answered, "'the One-Eyed Cat.'"

One eye was missing. But he had a "do" name also. Some fond mother had suggested it probably in a past that now must have seemed remote. The name was Meisun, the only possible, translation of which was Sweet Gentleness.

"Meisun," Shattuck asked, "are you a Spider?"

There was fright in the boy's eye as he showed the marks of the "bite" on his arm.

Shattuck clapped him lightly on the shoulder. "You belong to me," he said, and he had the melancholy comfort of seeing the fright fade from Meisun's single eye.

IT was what the people of Kansu called the Season of Greater Heat, about the middle of July. But the night was cool enough as Shattuck and the boy, Meisun, found their way down the dark gorge to a cove where the bandits had herded their ponies.

Luck was with them. An attempt had been made to stampede the herd— what was left after the bulk of the Spiders had made their getaway. Four ponies were left in the dark. Shattuck and Meisun were mounted and each with a pony to spare for the long gallop across the plain to Minchow.

Shattuck knew why the Spiders had left. It wasn't because they'd been routed. It was because they'd got what they'd come for. His own life also would have been acceptable to them. Perhaps they would have liked to use him at one of their "feasts." He might have furnished them amusement, at any rate, as he squirmed under torture.

But the real object of their ambush had been the sword of Kubla Khan.

Shattuck tried to master his melancholy, his despair. He was bereft. Something had been taken from his life— the purpose of his life— all his dreams. Life had stopped. Not stopped but had gone blind and crazy, like a rudderless ship in a gale.

He must regain the treasure else he die.

The Big Dipper was low in the sky— the "Bushel" it was called, here in China: the Tou. The North Star was a goddess: Tou Mu.

Good enough to pray to, anyway— that star he'd looked at as a kid, here in China, over there in the United States. Tou Mou was on their left. They were headed East, the Blue Dragon direction.

It was very late. The plain was dark.

Shattuck had given orders. To Paspa, his Arghati captain, he had explained what he intended to do. And Paspa, at least, had made no objection. There was a grain of hope in that.

Meisun, the One-Eyed Cat, was going to be useful. The gallop, the night, and perhaps some animal or juvenile intuition for Shattuck's friendliness, was helping the boy to talk.

Wang was the real name of the Spider Chief— Wang Chung, as one might almost say Mr. Faithful King. But in the Dragon Tong, of course he'd always been known as the Number One Dragon Spider.

The Wangs lived in a large house in the Tung Ma Lou, otherwise East Horse Street. And Meisun knew the house well and could get Shadak Khan into it— if they weren't shot before they could pass the city gates— because Meisun had a sister who was a "forked-head" working in the place.

"What's that, 'a forked-head'?" Shattuck asked.

It was, Meisun explained, another word for a servant girl, because servant girls wore their hair in two cues instead of one.

The thing that interested Shattuck most was that the Spider Chief had left an heir, a youth named Kien-chang, who would be the nominal head of the Spider Tong, now that his father was dead, until a new Dragon, or chief, should be elected.

Shattuck hadn't changed his clothes nor made any attempt to disguise himself. This was a desperate adventure on which he was engaged. He was staking his life on it. If he failed, he might as well die anyway.

And he cast another look at the goddess Tou Mu as she began to fade from sight in the early dawn.

Early dawn, and already such market people of the Cloudy Valley as hadn't been frightened to death by bandits or otherwise killed, were making their fatalistic way to Minchow to sell what they had to sell.

Shattuck bought a melon and split it with Meisun.

In the dawn light, he led the way, still mounted, and Meisun following close with the two lead ponies, under the high walls of the ancient city and into the crowded slime of the main gateway. Here a couple of tax-collectors were for stopping them. But Shattuck gave them a glare and whispered a Spider word that turned them polite and almost white.

The same thing happened when they came to the large black gateway of the big house in East Horse Street. When a sleepy major-domo finally opened.

Shattuck, followed by the now thoroughly frightened Meisun, slanged the fellow and pushed on in.

"I would see the master of the house," said Shattuck.

"He is not here," the steward answered.

"Are you sure you know to whom I refer?" Shattuck asked.

"My lord Wang Chung."

"Wrong," said Shattuck. "The old man is flying now with the Yellow Stork. I would see your new master, Kienchang."

THE big house was coming visibly to life as Shattuck followed the steward through court after court. Servants everywhere, men and women, and all of them, even the women, looking as if they'd be quick to murder if they got the signal.

But this was no ordinary Foreign Devil. Devil, maybe. He had killed a bandit king. Was he bent on another killing now? Shadak Khan. Captain Trouble. King Trouble. They knew him. But evidently in league with the Spiders.

The word had gone round. Shadak Khan had sent in a word by the steward that had caused a reply to be sent back at once that the visitor be admitted.

Kienchang was the young master's name. It was also a word that meant "luxuriant." Shattuck recalled this as he surveyed the man he'd come to see.

Kienchang hadn't left his couch. He was dressed in white silk. There was a bright red kerchief about his head, also silk; and the front of this was drawn into a turban effect by an emerald the size of a pigeon's egg.

Shattuck walked straight toward him.

Kienchang quailed and made a movement to protest, to express a sense of outrage. Shattuck stopped him, speaking softly.

"Keep quiet. Don't move. Life may still be sweet for you."

They were about of an age, Shattuck surmised. There were two ways of looking at this thing called luck, it flashed upon him. To be born lucky— rich and handsome, for example— might not be so good.

"Send the steward away," Shattuck ordered. "Tell him to see that my man and horses are fed."

There was a heartbreaking mirth in that. Shadak Khan, he who was to be the fighting lord of the new dispensation, reduced to a one-eyed boy and four stolen Mongol ponies.

In any case he had the whip-hand over the master of this palace— all gilt and lacquer, mirrors and carved blackwood.

"What if I refuse," Kienchang proposed without much spirit.

Shattuck's eyes danced.

"Then," he said, "I'll be forced to kill you as I have just killed your father."

Kienchang paled.

"You killed my father?"

"Because he almost killed me first. Because he came to me disguised and struck me unawares. You see this surgical dressing about my neck. Yet I would have spared him. Even while I was taking care of him, one of his men— one of your men now— since you are the Dragon— stole my sword."

Kienchang gave a start.

"Hold on," said Shattuck. "I see that you are happy, that this was something that you counted on. Are you your father's only son?"

"Yes!"

"Then, that accounts for it. The sword was meant for you. And I am justified in what I intend to do."

"What do you intend to do?"

"Kill you at the setting of the sun unless the sword is in my hand."

There was a long pause. Then Kienchang found breath and courage to ask: "And in the meantime?"

"I hold you hostage."

"Where?"

"Here in your own house. In this room."

"Where do you get the authority for this?"

"I carry it with me," Shattuck said, putting the flat of his hand on his holster.

"I'll have to send out word," said Kienchang.

"As many as you wish," said Shattuck. "I'm in as great a hurry to leave you as you are to have me go."

He knew when he said this— he could read it through the shallow transparency of Kienchang's face that the heir of Wang would use this means to have him killed. It merely made him smile— -gave him a feeling of exaltation. There is an exaltation in daring, when heart and soul are in charge, that thrills like music.

KIENCHANG, with a hand that shook, struck Ka gong that hung near the head of his couch with a metal hammer. The steward appeared.

Kienchang ordered three things: Breakfast, writing materials, and his opium.

Shattuck let him do the ordering. But his ears and eyes were alert. So far there was nothing wrong. He studied the room. From now on he would see that Kienchang would be between himself and any possible sniper. That wouldn't be so hard. The couch was set in a deep niche. He himself would lie down and rest, in a little while, with the heir of Wang in front of him.

Not much after dawn, and the day was going to be long. He'd have to watch himself as well as this prisoner of his. The earlier fatigue that had plagued him in the Cave of the Fur Girl had left him. All his nerves were taut, as if he would never sleep again.

The steward returned with a wide tray. On the tray were tea and rice, fruit and sweetmeats, seeded cakes and pao-tzu— steamed tarts, these were filled with chopped meat and vegetables.

Manifestly, there was no famine in the house of Wang.

But Shattuck would neither drink nor eat. He'd had his half a melon. That would have to do him until the sun went down, if the vigil had to last that long.

His last day on earth, perhaps. There were better men whose death-hour was striking now. Around the world, the souls of the known and the unknown would be going up like morning mist. Then it would be the turn of Shadak— -

Before he could complete the thought, there was a muffled explosion, a shattering of glass, and a bullet whined sharply as it passed his ear. He'd been fired at through a mirror.

There were many Chinese mirrors arranged like that, arranged for the convenience of an unseen watcher.

Before the whine of the bullet was silent, it seemed, Shattuck had shot out a hand and drawn Kienchang toward him, a hand on his collar. Kienchang must have thought that this was death, for he let out a sharp high cry, then, with an unexpected savagery had flung himself at Shattuck and was fighting.

Kienchang wasn't fighting like a man. He was fighting like a wildcat, clawing, trying to bite. His dark eyes seemed to have taken a greenish tinge.

Shattuck gasped with disgust. Would he have to kill this fool, too, as he'd killed the elder Wang? For now, with a ferocity and cunning generally attributed only to the insane, Kienchang was clawing at the bandages about Shattuck's neckband shoulders.

Another shot banged through— very wild this time. It wasn't likely that the marksman, whoever he was, would take a chance of wounding the new master of the house.

But neither was Shattuck willing to take a chance. He tilted an arm under Kienchang's chin and nearly broke his neck.

Now Kienchang was trying to speak. But when he did speak, it was a squeaking command to the hidden marksman to fire!— fire!

A bullet came in from another direction. Another mirror had been shattered. Then another!

Still the marksmen were wild. But this couldn't go on very long. If they killed the son of Wang it would be as bad for Shattuck as if he himself stopped the bullet.

Shattuck could have wept. He could have cursed. If he could only fight!— fight for what he wanted!— like a man!— against men, whatever the odds!— if he could only have the great sword again in his hand!— the sword of Kubla Khan!

He was panting to control the human wildcat in his arms— this Spider Man. Even as he did so, his thought shot out and upward to the North Star goddess.

He brought his prisoner over with him onto the couch where Kienchang had been lying at the moment of his arrival. Kienchang was fighting still.

A satin coverlet was scuffled aside, and there, before his eyes, Shattuck saw the sword of Kubla. His sword! The world-saver!

EVEN so, the discovery was almost the end of him. He was dazed, stricken. He let out a shout. In an instant he had released his hold on the squirming, cursing, punishing heir of Wang and seized this heirloom of the great Kubla instead. He was thrilled through by a pang of gratitude that was almost an ache, an ache to drive his soul from his body, give it wings.

But freed, Kienchang had seized the teapot and hurled it at him. Shattuck didn't know until later that he'd been scalded on the hand.

Having hurled the teapot, Kienchang, screaming orders all but incoherent, made a dash to leave the room. For a moment, Shattuck stood exposed to fire from all directions. From all directions, it seemed, came the fire. At point— blank range, it must have been.

Yet the hurry and the confusion must have gone to the heads of the marksman. That, or fear.

Suddenly Shattuck had jerked his gun and fired— twice, right and left. In each direction he'd seen a gust of smoke.

He caught Kienchang still fumbling at the door, and kicked him aside.

"You're lucky," said Shattuck. "I'm not wasting a bullet on you— yet!"

There was a sling on the sword, like that on a polo mallet, and he slipped this over his arm. His arm would be cut off, as he'd amputated Wang, before he lost that sword again. Or arm and sword would go together.

He seized Kienchang and made him lead the way, holding him, meantime, by his white silk collar.

From an inner court a little serving maid ran out. There was an expression in her face. She had two pigtails instead of one. "Fork Head!" The boy Meisun's sister.

She ignored her master. She made a signal to Shattuck. He followed her. She led him through mean ways of the big house, and, finally, through a small heavily timbered door, that opened on a public alley.

Meisun was there with the four ponies, excitement shining in his single eye.

"Meisun," said Shattuck, "suppose you stay here. I'm headed for stormy weather."

"Duke," said Meisun, "you said that I was your man."

"You are," Shattuck decided. "Can you handle an automatic?"

"Yes."

"Then take it," said Shattuck, "and get away with the ponies through the gate. If they try to stop you, abandon two of the ponies. If they try to stop you after that, shoot. But not unless you have to. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Then meet me outside the wall where the big gingko tree leans over. Know where?"

"Yes."

"There's a mob assembling. They're looking for me, not you. Good luck. So long."

They exchanged a swift handshake. Meisun was on his way, taking his four ponies along.

All this time he'd been holding the son of Wang by the collar. Suddenly Kienchang slipped out of his upper garment and started to run. He ran like a hare. As he ran he screeched, and Shattuck heard him calling on the members of the Spider Tong. This was the new leader of the Spider Tong. His word was law.

"Kill! Kill!" he shouted. "Kill! Kill!"

Shattuck wouldn't have followed him, but there was no other way to go. He'd have to move quickly, else he was trapped.

Other voices were taking up the cry. The excitement at the Wang house had already assembled a mob in front of the house. Around an angle of the compound men began to appear, some with knives, some, with clubs.

There was a responsive shout. There were words of the Spider Tong that reached Shattuck as he ran. He appeared to be running to certain death.

But now he had the sword in his hand. The crowd fell back. But a club came hurtling through the air, then a stone.

Kienchang, stripped to the waist and screaming his call for murder, turned, shouting for his men to kill. On his breast Shattuck saw the red skull and bones that had been on the breast of the elder Wang.

Someone passed Kienchang a heavy chopping knife. He whirled this up to throw it at Shattuck's breast. It was a movement never completed.

SHATTUCK had lashed in with a backhanded stroke, and Kienchang's head rocked as if jumped from its body. The body remained there curved, but upright for what seemed like a long moment, a fountain of blood, before it collapsed.

At sight of the blood, the mob surged and rocked like a single being, drunk on its own excitement.

With a swift movement, Shattuck stooped and picked up the head by the hair, and hurled it into the thick of the mob. "There'll be no more Spider Tong," he roared.

He saw his chance, where a cart was placed against the interior of-the wall. He wasn't far now from the leaning gingko that he'd counted on to escalade the wall. This was better. He leaped to the cart. In a moment he had vaulted to the top of the wall.

The mob roared and surged closer— such a surf of sound as no man can ever hear and forget.

A broken old wall, with crevices and loose rocks sagging at a treacherous pitch, where he had to watch his footing every step he took.

But it looked like death now in one way or other.

The mob was bolder, growing larger with every passing second. Rocks and clubs were coming over in a steady, deadly flight.

Shattuck was struck. Once or twice he staggered. At each blow that struck him, the gale of mob-voices went an octave higher.

Meisun hadn't appeared. Would he ever appear?

Others had divined his purpose and were now running ahead and fighting for a chance to scale the wall by means of the gingko tree.

There wasn't much chance now even should he drop to the plain outside. The mob would follow him.

He stopped for a moment or so and threw rocks that he loosened from the wall. This helped a little.

There were two shots fired at him in quick succession. But this didn't suit the crowd so well. Who would try to spoil the sport by killing the quarry outright.

Now, all at once, as if the mob had a single brain as it had but a single voice, a dozen ladders were being raised against the wall. And the more courageous members of the mob, or the better armed, ex-soldiers among them— or soldiers of the tong, with bayonets on their rifles— were pushing up to stop him, maim him.

Swiftly as this occurred, there had come to Shattuck another thrill that was the joy of life. After all, he'd always been a Fighting Fool. Another Fighting Fool had told him so, another day of battle, in far Afghanistan. He charged the nearest enemy swinging his sword.

He fought with perfect nerve, perfect precision.

He was bleeding, bruised. But he had the sword of the great Kubla in his hand.

Just as he was beginning to be conscious that he was at the end of his powers, that at any moment now, some chance blow mighty send him into oblivion and allow the sword of Kubla to fall once more into unholy hands, he heard a shout behind him, and there was that One Eyed Cat, Meisun, with the four ponies below. Not only that, but Meisun had the automatic in his hand, and in his side of the wall the field was clear.

Shattuck spat at the crowd, and his voice rose even above that terrific surf of a mob bent on murder. "I'll see you again," he said. "I'll be coming back." He put a hand to the coping and dropped to the freedom of the plain. He was headed for the Gorge of the Grasping Fist, for the Fur Girl Cave, where there was work to do.

______________

9: Yonder's Henry!

Thorne Smith

Esquire, February 1934

HIS question so upset me I put down my drink untasted.

Albert was like that. Upsetting. Years ago I had gone to school with Albert. He had been upsetting then—a sort of experimental liar indefatigable in his efforts to plumb the depths of human credulity. Fifteen years in the discard that had been. Now fate had returned Albert—Albert Green—to my side. In a little bar in a little town in the large state of Texas we had been celebrating all morning. I now wonder why. In his charmingly casual manner Albert had just inquired if I cared to go fox hunting. He had added modestly that he lived in this state of Texas together with a population composed almost entirely of foxes. The first part of this statement might just possibly be true. I'm inclined to believe it is. He seemed to be living in Texas. It would take a big, strong state like Texas to stand for Albert. He would have upset any normal state just as he upset me. At the moment he was more interested in upsetting a lot of foxes.

I asked him a frank question. "Albert," I asked him, "do I bear on my face the stamp of a man consumed with a secret passion for foxes?"

"Don't have to be passionate about foxes, just to hunt 'em," he replied. "In fact, you can hate foxes."

I stopped to consider exactly where I stood about foxes. It surprised me to discover that I had no strong feelings either for or against foxes. Years ago I had heard something about a fox mentioned in connection with a bunch of grapes. Since that time, however, foxes had gone their way and I had gone mine. Our paths never crossed. I saw no reason why they should.

"We'll waive that part of it," I said with befitting dignity. "What do you know about fox-hunting anyway?"

Albert indulged in a tragic laugh. "Every possible thing," he asserted. "Own the finest pack of hounds in Texas. You'd think they were on tracks the way they follow foxes. Wonderful dogs. And Henry! What a hound. Man! Man! Ho, I know all about foxes. Recognize one at a glance."

"To recognize a fox is one thing," I told him, "but to chase him over the landscape is an elk of another burrow."

"Come on down to my place and I'll show you," urged Albert. "We'll do more than just hunt foxes. Henry'll juggle some for you. It's his way."

Precocious dogs, like precocious children had always been one of my pet aversions, but the picture of a noble hound juggling a number of foxes fired my imagination. I accepted Albert's invitation, which goes to prove that one should never talk with Albert in a barroom.

On further consideration I am inclined to believe one should never talk with Albert at all.

AFTER SLEEPING through numerous miles of Texas scenery while Albert sat alone with his God and his automobile, I found myself gazing miserably into the grim but good looking face of Mrs. Albert across the sparkling reaches of her luncheon table.

"The trouble with you boys," she said, "is that you don't drink enough."

Suiting her action to her words she replenished our glasses with what she was pleased to call real Texas mule, adding that it was something like hair of the dog that had so brutally and recently mutilated us.

"My dear," remarked Albert, accepting the drink, but ignoring the remark that went with it. "I've decided to hold the fox hunt tomorrow—you know, the regular weekly fox hunt."

"Yes," I added. "He wants to show me Henry in action. I can see him now at the head of your splendid pack of hounds."

Mrs. Albert considered the suggestion. She poured out a drink for herself and tossed it off with professional detachment.

"Can you?" she asked in level tones. "You must have a remarkable imagination. Most northerners would not even believe it."

"My wife is a little touchy about Henry," Albert hastened to explain. "I brag so much about him. Might as well hold the hunt tomorrow at the usual time."

"Oh certainly," replied Mrs. Albert. "Why not?" As she rose from the table she added, "Did I hear a door slam?"

"That's difficult to say," said Albert.

"Correct. It's almost impossible to tell whether a door has slammed or not after it's once slammed." Mrs. Albert continued thoughtfully. "It leaves no tracks behind."

"Not like Henry," I said to Albert. "He must fairly scoop up the earth when he once gets started."

I though I saw Albert flinch. "Of course," he agreed quite seriously. "Fairly excavates it, that dog."

"Come, Albert," said his wife. "We must see about that door...and make some arrangements for tomorrow."

"May I stroll out and take a look at the pack?" I inquired.

"I'd hardly advise it," observed Albert. "Not just before the hunt."

"No, don't do that," put in his wife. "Henry does much better after he's been lonely a spell."

Later that afternoon I inadvertently overheard Mrs. Albert at the telephone.

"Certainly," she was saying. "Bring your guests right along. We have an alcoholic with us who doesn't know the first thing about fox-hunting. Doubt if he knows one end of a horse from the other." She must have suspected my presence for she went on in an altered voice, "Oh, yes, he's quite charming, this guest of ours. You must meet him. And tell the others not to dress formally, you know. Cut out the red coats for a change. He hasn't an outfit with him. Neither have your guests, I reckon." When she had hung up she turned to me.

"Did you hear?" she asked.

"No I replied gallantly. "A door slammed. But I gathered I won't be alone in my misery."

"No," said Mrs. Albert. "There will be several other novices."

That night Albert, weak from the lack of liquor, came in to my room and deposited a bundle of clothing on a chair.

"For tomorrow," he explained, eyeing the garments with disfavor. "The hunt, you know."

"Oh, I don't care what I look like," I assured the dispirited man. "What I'm interested in is what Henry looks like. Does he usually juggle the foxes before or after the hunt?"

"It makes no difference to Henry," said Albert brightening. "Whenever he gets a fox. Some call it brutal."

"Nonsense," I replied heartily.

Albert went away.

WHEN I looked out of my window the next morning I received a decided shock. For a moment I feared that Albert had gotten himself in some trouble. His ancestral home seemed to have become entirely surrounded either by bandits or deputies. I was not sure which. Anyway, they were rough looking men, most of them carrying shot guns and rifles while others were swinging large, ugly looking clubs. There were many women also. They had the rough and ready appearance of experienced camp followers.

"The hunt breakfast," Albert murmured over my shoulder. I gave a slight start. He had made his appearance so quietly. "The regular hunt breakfast," he repeated.

"Why, there's hardly a red coat on the lot," I complained. "Albert, I feel cheated."

"Seldom wear red coats except on formal occasions," said Albert. "Thought you knew that."

"What does it matter?" I said philosophically. "We're chiefly interested in foxes, after all."

"So we are," replied Albert simply. "What's the sense in a lot of red coats, anyway? I don't think the dogs like 'em or the foxes either."

"Don't see why they should," I told him. "But I will ask you this. Do you use clubs and rifles and machine guns on your damn Texas foxes?"

"Not machine guns," said Albert gently. "We use the others for hand to hand fighting. Texas foxes are often violent. They don't seem to understand."

"Neither do I, quite," I admitted. "Why don't you bomb the foxes and save yourself a lot of trouble?"

"That wouldn't be sporting," said Albert blandly. "and anyway, we like it. Then again, there's Henry to consider. He must have his foxes."

"That's so, too," I replied. "I guess that great beast would die unless he had his foxes."

"Those clubs and guns are brought along just in case," he informed me.

"In case of what?" I asked.

"Of wild turkeys," he answered with out cracking a smile.

When I had finished dressing I was nearly as funny looking as Albert, but not quite. However, I was funny looking enough. I was exactly as funny looking as an oversized pair of plus fours, a checked flannel shirt, high boots and a campaign hat could make me. Albert was a little funnier because he was wearing a pair of white duck trousers encased in knee-length leggins. His nautical appearance was somewhat nullified by the presence of a large floppy straw hat on the back of his head. A corduroy hunting jacket alone suggested the general nature of Albert's intentions. There was a colored shirt also which I find it pleasanter not to write about.

"The foxes are going to have the laugh of their lives today," I remarked when I had acclimated myself to Albert. "They'll be too weak to run."

"Come," said Albert with dignity. "The hunt breakfast is on. There is drink."

"Let's abandon this incessant fox hunting," I suggested, "and make millions on the stage. We wouldn't have to do much, Albert. One look would drive 'em frantic."

"Later, perhaps," replied Albert a little moodily. "We have to go through with this fox hunt first. Come on."

I was introduced to a series of majors, doctors and judges. All men over thirty seemed automatically to come into a title. Whether they were merely hunt breakfast titles or not I never learned. There was one rotund colonel, authentic in every detail, an upon him was bestowed all the honor and glory due to his colorful record of violent and abrupt endings. He was the Colonel. Fat was this gentleman, fat, pompous and over-blooded, but a life-loving soul withal. In his youth he had been the life of all the local lynching parties, and now, in his declining years, he had acquired the reputation of an implacable hunter. He was wearing a Prince Albert coat and highly polished boots which lent the only touch of distinction to this nondescript gathering.

After being properly introduced to the ladies, all of whom seemed to be guarding some shameful secret the full significance of which they failed to grasp themselves, I was placed by the side of my hostess, and urged to drink. She subjected me to one swift scrutiny, then quickly dropped her eyes.

"Pardon me," she said in a strained voice. "I think I heard a door slam." The next moment she rose hastily and walked unsteadily toward the house. With pained eyes I followed her retreating figure.

Down the line a lady showing no end of well turned southern legs as she sat on the grass was speaking in an excited voice and waiving a cocktail glass in the air.

"What a lark," she proclaimed. "John's never so much as seen a fox and he can't stand the sight of horses. They give him a violent rash, do horses."

I turned and regarded my host inquiringly, "Is he one of the initiates like myself at this ceremony?" I asked.

"Yes," he answered. "There are several others—lots of new faces, in fact. You won't be alone. Drink up."

A man on my right leaned confidently over and made helpless, little motions with his hands.

"Pardon me," he said incredulously, "but do I understand we are actually going fox hunting?"

I told him that that was about the size of it.

"Fancy that," he observed musingly. "Of all things, fox hunting. Wonder where Mr. Green caught the beast. Haven't seen a fox in years. I'll ask him."

To my great delight he leaned over and made some more motions at Albert.

"Mr. Green," he whispered piercingly. "Where in the world did you get this fox?"

"What fox?" exclaimed Albert in a startled voice, looking quickly about as if he feared a fox was creeping up behind him.

"You know," said the man mysteriously. "This fox we're supposed to hunt."

"Certainly," I put in. "The fox Henry's going to juggle with several others."

"Who's Henry?" asked the man innocently.

"Why don't you know Henry?" I replied with some amazement. "He's the greatest foxer in the state of Texas, that dog."

"Strange," muttered the man. "Don't know him—but I'm a stranger to these parts."

"We raised many of our foxes in England," Albert explained.

"And ruin them in Texas," said the stranger.

Albert's answer was cut short by a sudden shout winging across the lawn from the direction of the outhouses. I looked up and saw a negro, running with great concentration; coming in our direction. He was leaning so far over in his efforts to separate himself from some still unrevealed peril that he gave the impression of a six-day bicycle racer. then something happened which I am sure must have come upon everybody as a complete surprise to put it mildly. Before our astonished eyes the negro was borne down and blotted out beneath an onrushing avalanche of dogs. The air was disturbed by eager yelpings and churned by innumerable jauntily waiving tails. In another moment the hunt breakfast had been reduced to a shambles. One imperishable vision of our colonel staunchly defending a chunk of fried chicken was vouchsafed me. Then he, too, disappeared, emulating the negro, as the dogs danced giddily over his recombent form. After that my impressions became somewhat clouded. I remember a large dog neatly removing a sandwich from my fingers and breathing appreciatively in my face. Sandwiches seemed to be moving through the air like things of life. The once spotless table cloth was leaping weirdly under the stress of greedily searching muzzles. Figures of men and women as they rolled and struggled on the grass were caught in the most undignified, not to say comprimising positions. The element of surprise was all in favor of the raiders. The famous hunt breakfast was theirs without a struggle. I remember hearing quite distinctly Mrs. albert as if lost to decency, ironically cheering the pack on to still greater endeavors. From their utterdisregard of all those little niceties of deportment that give life its subtle fragrance I decided that it had been many a long day since those dogs had enjoyed a square meal.

Then above the din and the barking, the cries of the insulted and injured and—I regret to say—the shocking blasphemy of out colonel, my host, Albert, who should have been master of this hunt, lifted up his voice in command.

"Grab sticks!" he shouted. "Grab anything and beat them off!"

Then began a grim struggle, man facing defiant beast, for the honor and supremacy of the human race. We fought those dogs bitterly and oftentimes unfairly. For example, I saw one gentleman deliberately enticing one of the enemy to accept a peace offering of chicken—a delicious bit it looked—and then when the poor animal had been betrayed by its oen greed this man, this southern gentleman, squared off and kicked the dog quite severely in the rump. Foot by foot the dogs yeilded and were driven backin the direction whence they came. One inspired sportsman accelerated their departure by firing off a shotgun. This horrid noise entirely demoralized the dogs, all of whom must have been born gun shy. With yelps of nervous alarm they sheathed their once valiant tails and deployed in the direction of the barn.

Mrs. Albert was sitting calmly on the grass. Her husband was rushing from one guest to another, assuring everyone that everything was all right, and begging them not to let this slight interruption mar the pleasure of the hunt.

"Pleasure?" one forthright gentleman—obviously a novice—demanded indignantly. "How did you get that way? You mean the horror of the hunt."

"What's the matter with you?" Mrs. Albert asked defensively before I had opened my lips. "There's nothing unusual about this hunt breakfast. Only last week the dogs broke loose and one of the fresh things had the nerve to snatch a cocktail right out of my hand. Think of that."

I did. I looked steadily at Mrs. Albert's innocently turned up face and thought of that as well as other things. This made me think of Albert, the last person in the world I wanted to think about at that moment.

I WAS BEING introduced by Albert to the mount upon which I was to pursue foxes for the reminder of the day.

"This is Molly," he said with Jeffersonian simplicity. "Your horse."

It had to be my horse because most certainly no one else would have taken Molly as a gift. As I studied this disillusioned featuresof this venerable wreck I feared that she was going to take advantage of her sex and weep on my shoulder. Nevertheless, I mounted to her back and awited with closed eyes the inevitable crash. Molly braced herself, quivered along her keel, but managed to remain erect.

The lawn now became the scene of fresh activity. The colonel, still dazed, with the help of three strong men was being elevated to the top of his horse, an operation in which neither the colonel nor the horse seemed to be the least bit interested. Presently the sweating huntsmen were safely if not securely installed in their saddles while the women stood about and made unhelpful but irritating suggestions, as women always do and always will when men are striving to maintain their dignity in the face of overwheling odds.

Once more the pack appeared. Its mood had now shifted from one of famished activity to satiated greed. Leisurely the hounds ambled across the lawn and slipped past us with many a futive backward glance, as if expecting a sudden kick. Their respective rumps were guiltily shrunken. Once safely out of reach they broke into a run and speedily absorbed themselves into the landscape, severalsecretly amused negroes pretending to pursue them.

"Are you all ready?" cried Albert, holding up his hand. "If you are, let's go."

"Just a minute now," came the querulous voice of the stranger. "Go where, Mr. Green? I've gotten me up on the top of this dumb beast like you said but damned if I enjoy the prospect of jouncing all over the countryside on it without any idea where I'm going or when I'm coming back."

In the face of this reasonable question the hunting party fell into a depressed silence. Obviously many of its members were asking themselves the same thing. Albert rushed gamely into the breach.

"We go wherever the fox goes," he explained.

"What fox?" demanded the man.

"I don't know what fox," said Albert. "Just any fox—the fox we're after."

"What's this fox gone and done, Albert" another unknown inquired mildly.

"He hasn't done anything," said my host.

"Then why are we after him?" continued the voice.

"Well, you can't very well have a fox hunt without some sort of fox, can you?" asked Albert bitterly. "It's all very simple. We just sit on our horses and go where the fox goes."

"If you think it's so simple sitting on this animated file,"someone indignantly observed, "I'd like you to change places with me and let him chafe you for awhile. I'm tow-thirds ruined already and we haven't even started yet."

"Let's hope this old fox goes to bed, then we can all do likewise," the weary stranger offered hopefully.

As the company straggled through the gate, a sudden cry of warning brought us to a stop. It seems that our colonel with the aid of a low-hanging limb had somehow managed to unhorse himself. Turning quickly, I caught a momentary glimpse of that stout gentleman decending earthward with terrific speed where he landed in a sitting position and remained as if atrophied. Horses and riders alike gazed down at him with concentrated attention as if wondering why their colonel had taken it into his head to act in such a peculiar manner.

"What's the meaning of all this?" asked Albert pushing his horse through the circle. The colonel regarded him balefully.

What the hell do you think it means?" he demaned in a high, thin voice. "That I'm playing mud pies?" Young man, it means foul play. I was struck from behind."

"Well," said Albert at last, "we can't very well leave him sitting there like that all day. Get him back on his horse and we'll make a fresh start."

The colonel accepted a drink and once more allowed himself to be heaved into the saddle, where he sat in stunned silence.

"I say, Mr. Green," a third stranger to Albert cried out, "What are we supposed to do with this fox once we catch him?"

"Which is very doubtful," the first one added.

Albert laughed with false heartiness. "Have your little joke," he called back.

"It's no joke," said the other earnestly. "Swear to God I wouldn't know how to act with a real live fox."

"Cut off his brush," grated Albert.

"His what?" came the startled rejoiner in a shocked voice. "Oh, Mr. Green."

"You know as well as I do," replied Albert.

"Oh," exclaimed the other. "You don't like to talk about it. I think I know know." Albert flushed furiously.

"Say, Mr. Green," asked a rider rather plaintively. "Why are you so mean to foxes, anyway? You must certainly hate 'em to do a thing to'em—you know - like you said."

At this moment I reminded Albert that unless we looked for the dogs we might lose them forever, not that I greatly cared. A startled expression added to the unhappiness of his features. He held up a hand and listened.

"Now where do you rekon those dogs could have gotten themselves to?" he asked at last.

"Let's make it a dog hunt instead of a fox hunt," a bright young man suggested.

Albert wineed, then suddenly his face cleared. From far down the road came an awful sound. I had begun to doubt the existance of Henry, but now I changed my mind.

"Yonder's Henry!" exclaimed the delighted Albert with as much pride as if he were emitting all those terrible sounds himself." "Hear him!"

We did. Henry had a shocking voice.

"Glad I'm not a fox," someone piously observed. "I'm scared even to hunt with that dog lose."

"Henry's giving tounge," exclaimed Albert.

"Giving!" exclaimed the accurate rider. "Henry's doing heaps more than that. He's fairly tossing tongue away—lavishing tongue on the countryside."

When finally we found the dogs they were in various reposeful attitudes while they idly watched one of their members trying to get at a negro clinging to the topmost limb. This dog was beyond description. Canine obscenities gushed from its throat. Its fangs were bared and foam flecked its lips. Henry, without a doubt. Upon seeing Albert, the negro in the tree let out a yell.

"Fo' Gawd's sake, Mr. Albert, take dat dawk away or I'sa gone nigger."

Albert looked up at the negro, then transferred his attention to the frantic beast. "Josh," he said at last, "that dog isn't Henry. Where do you suppose he came from?"

"I don't care who the hell he is," one of our little group complained, "if he doesn't stop making those awful noises I'll climb one of those trees myself.

"No, suh," responded Josh. "Dat dog sho ain't no Henry. Dat dog's Fanny. Mr. Albert, Fanny's by the way of being a bloodhound. We sort of invited her over last night just to fancy up the pack a bit."

"A charming piece of garnishing, Fanny," remarked a gentleman on my left.

"Well, Josh," said Albert wearily, "I reckon you'd better get Fanny home or she'll be treeing every damn nigger in the countryside and then we'l never get any foxes.

"Foxes," I quietly inquired.

"Certainly," shot back Albert. "I said foxes. Henry must be looking for some now." The subject was changed by a sudden groan from our colonel.

"Gentlemen," he announced, "I can stand it no longer. I fear I'm bleeding to death." "Where?" demanded Albert, turning to cope with this new disaster.

The colonel seemed reluctant to take us into his confidence concerning the exact location of his mortal wound.

"I must have sat on my flask," he replied after some hesitation. "When I fell, you know. I've been sitting on the pieces ever since."

"My God," breathed Albert. "What next? Help the colonel down, some of you, and I'll see what I can do about it."

Our colonel asked Albert, now assuming the role of glass picker, retired among the bushes with old fashioned southern modesty. Presently Albert reappeared.

"I am happy to announce," he said, "that the colonel's injuries were more demeaning to a gentleman of his high spirit than serious to his person. He has decided to continue with us. Let us hope and pray that this will be the last interruption. We must now find Henry, leader of the pack."

An ironical cheer greeted this fine speech. The colonel was placed delicately on his horse. The negro attendants beat the dogs into a reluctant state of activity. Once more the hunt was in motion. For an hour or more we cantered along the roads pleasantly enough, stopping occasionally to let the pack catch up with us. The dogs were friendly, courteous and even playful. They seemed to nourish no grudge against us, but it was plain to see that no one had taken the trouble to tell them what it was all about. To the pack it was an outing—a casually informal affair.

"Just wait till they catch up with Henry," Albert kept assuring us. "then just watch 'em go."

We did. From somewhere far down the road the ravings of a mad dog were bourne to us. Albert's face became radiant.

"Yonder's Henry!" he shouted. "Hear him!"

The dogs, exerting their last ounce of energy, broke into a run and sped down the road. Fresh hope returned to our hearts as we thundered after. Perhaps there might be something to this fox-hunting business after all. The pack was now in full cry. We rounded a curve and saw the dogs streaming across an open field in the direction of some woods. A large and elated rabbit was cutting insulting capers in their faces. Albert's own face looked a trifle dismayed.

"Shucks," he said, "that fool rabbit just crossed the fox's trail, but he won't put Henry off. Follow on."

Follow on we did, and in short time crashed into the woods. Then consternation reigned. Close to my ear a shotgun suddenly exploded. It exploded very close to my ear.

"Moonshiners!" someone shouted, and the effect was electrifying.

From behind the most innocent looking trees bearded faces appeared. In a methodical manner the owners of these faces began to discharge lead into the ranks of the disorganized hunt. In an instant, dogs, horses and men were fighting democratically together for mere survival. There was a great thrashing of branches and a complicated entangling of man and beast. The moonshiners seemingly had an inexhaustable supply of ammunition and a passionate desire to use it. I now saw the reasonalbeness of our clubs and guns, although our party used neither.

Personally, I sustained no loss other than Molly and a large quantity of breath. From the safety of a slight elevation I observed the component parts of the hunt break from the woods and dash across the field. Men who had known each other for years passed without the slightest recognition, so occupied were they with their own thoughts. the field was dotted with horses, dogs and men, some of the men in their impatience even pushing horses out of their way. I felt that I was look at an old English hunting print suddenly thrown into reverse. Some of those dogs, I dare say, are still running.

The last to withdraw from the woods were our colonel, Albert and my Molly. The colonel was leaning on Albert's arm. Molly appeared to be trying to hold his other hand. I was joined by this little group and with Albert's help put our colonel on to Molly. He sat well forward and practiced soul stirring groans. Foxes would have little to fear from our colonel for many days to come. Very little was said. There was hardly anything either fit or safe to be said unless we talked about the weather. Albert steadily refused to meet my eyes.

After an interminable walk we at last approached the smooth green lawn of my host's home. Several members of the hunt were grouped round the rumpled tablecloth. They were looking down sadly on a large inert body. Mrs. Albert was saying things. We listened.

"Would you believe it?" she was saying. "Ever since you all got out of sight he's been sleeping there just like a lamb. Must have eaten too much hunt breakfast. Isn't he sweet?"

We, too, gazed down at the slumbering figure. The expression in Albert's eyes was too terrible for man to behold. I felt inclined to withdraw quietly to leave him alone with his sorrow. The figure, as if feeling our eyes upon it, feebly attempted to raise its head. Slumber overcame it. A gnawed chicken bone slipped from its mouth as it drifted off to sleep. A tail moved with propitiatory intentions. A gentle sigh fell upon the evening air.

The our colonel lifted up his voice.

"Yonder's Henry!" he howled, and then there was a touch of maddness in his eyes. "Hear him!" He paused, squared his shoulders, then confronted Albert.

The rest is silence...

________________

10: The Conspirators

John Philip Sousa

(1854-1932)

ARRIVING opposite the Franklin house, Tom Foley took position in a near-by alley, where he could keep close watch on the front gate. After hours of nervous waiting, little Lillian Franklin came out, and Tom's heart gave a jump. She was alone, and began to roll a hoop, which her friend Sandy had given her that morning. Down the street she tripped, all smiles and happiness.

Tom watched her until she had turned a corner, then he rushed up the alley to intercept her. When he emerged into the street, he saw her resting on a rustic bench, and hastened to join her. As he came up, he was greeted with:

"Why, Tom, I thought you went fishing with Gil, and papa, and Sandy, and the rest."

"No, Lily. I felt so bad 'bout my dad being arrested yest'day I couldn't git up no courage to go," answered the boy with simulated contrition. What d'yer say? let's s'prise Gil, and go down to the landin' an' meet him when he comes in from fishin'," suggested Foley, knowing the intense love she had for her brother.

"That'll be lovely, won't it? And Gil will be so glad if I come."

Lillian whipped the hoop rapidly, and Tom kept pace with her.

"Gil will be surprised, sure enough, when he sees me coming, won't he?"

"Yes, he'll be s'prised, you bet!" said the boy, taking a firmer hold of her hand.

The night was fast approaching and Foley was leading the child through unfrequented alleys and streets.

"But maybe Gil won't come back this way, and it's getting awful dark."

"Oh, he'll come back this way, all right."

They were now on the shore of the river, dark and desolate in its winter dress. The restless splash of the water sent icy sprays over the child, and, clinging still closer to her treacherous companion, she stopped him for a second and begged him to return.

"Don't be afear'd, nuthin's goin' ter happen to yer," he said, jerking her savagely, and almost breaking into a run at the same time.

"Oh, Tom, please let's go back," supplicated the child.

They were now at the old wharf. He gave a low whistle, and, without waiting for an answer, pulled the helpless child through the entrance. Then, groping his way over the slimy stones and through the oozing mud, he dragged the affrighted little one after him, to the mouth of the cave, and called:

"Dad, I'm here."

"Come right in," answered a voice.

"I've got her, an' I got her easy as dirt," said the son, pushing the terrified child into the cave, and then roughly into the arms of his father.

"Don't yell, yer brat!" said the older, clasping his hand over mouth, and drawing her brutally toward him. "Shut up, or I'll kill yer."

Foley now called Hildey, who was, asleep in the corner, and said, "Cul, we've got to git out er this place jest as quick as possible. It's too near the city, an' if we're tracked here we'll stand no more chance than a snowball on Beelzebub's gridiron."

"What's yer lay, Dennis?" questioned Hildey.

"Move up the river," was the reply. "I knows jest the place where we wouldn't be found in a thousand years."

"When d'yer want to start?" asked Tom.

In ten minutes the abductors, with the stolen child, were slowly winding their way along the deserted beach.

It was now very dark. No stars were shining, and it had become bitterly cold. Suddenly voices were heard, and the abductors stopped to listen. They were in a ravine near the magazine landing, not more than fifty feet from the spot where the Lillian was launched. Foley, Tom, and Hildey crouched low, and drew the little girl closer.

The steady dip of oars was heard up stream, and the voices grew plainer. Out of the mingled sounds was heard.

"I agrees with Sandy, he's the dirtiest coward as ever went unhung."

Lillian started, for she recognized the voice of the Jedge, who with Colonel Franklin, Sandy, Dink, Leander and Gilbert, were returning from a sail up the river

Foley became frightened, and bending over, hissed into the child's ear:

"Remember what I tol' yer: if yer utter a sound, I'll kill yer."

The sailing party meantime had reached the landing and stepped ashore. Sandy and the other three boys lowered the sail, rolled and carried it into the boat-house. The whole party then, marching three abreast, with steady step, went up the graveled walk of the old magazine road, singing in unison:

"Hep— Hep—

Shoot that ni**er if he don't keep step.

Hep— Hep—

Shoot that ni**er if he don't keep step."

While its cadence was continued by Colonel Franklin and the Jedge, the four boys, in marching rhythm, sang out cheerily into the crisp cold night:

"When other lips and other hearts.

Their tales of love shall tell.

In accents whose excess imparts

The power they feel so well.

There may, perhaps, in such a scene.

Some recollection be.

Of days that have as happy been.

And you'll remember me."

The three scoundrels listened, as the voices rose and fell on the air. The child, with the fear of death before her, and in the clutches of her horrible captor, gave one convulsive sob and sank swooning at his feet.

Foley picked her up and, walking quickly, placed her in the very boat her father and friends had left but a moment before. He wrapped her in a ragged coat, loosened the hasp of the door on the boat-house, and took out the oars.

Quickly the captors pushed the craft into deep water, and with muffled stroke moved through the inky waves, a somber specter sneaking along the banks of the sleeping marches.

When they neared the upper bridge, Foley ran the boat ashore and abandoned it. Picking up the exhausted and benumbed child, he led his two companions along the causeway and over the road leading to the bridge.

The wind came out of the north, howling through the leafless boughs of the mighty monarchs of the forest. The last flickering light of the town was left far behind, and darkness, like a great shroud, enveloped river, valley and woods.

In due time Colonel Franklin and his party reached home, hungry after their fine sail on the river, and all in high spirits.

"Jedge, you and the boys sit right down, and we'll have supper in a jiffy."

The guests thoroughly enjoyed the evening meal. The repast was about concluded when Edith, who had just returned from the parsonage, came in, and called cheerily:

"Hurry up, Lily, it's time to go to the festival. They're going to light up thet tree at half-past eight, and it's nearly that now."

"Why, chil', Lily ain't here. She's wif yo' folks," exclaimed Delia.

"With us? She hasn't been with us at all," responded Edith.

"It's likely she's at one of the neighbors," ventured the Colonel.

"I'll fin' her, Muster Franklin, an' I'se gwine to scol' her good an' hard fo' worryin' her ol' mammy. At this she put a shawl over her head and shoulderst and started in search of the absent one

"Suppose I go too," suggested Gilbert, rising.

"I don't think that's necessary," interposed the Colonel.

"It'll only take me a minute," assured the son, as he began to put on his overcoat.

"Go if you like then," consented the Colonel.

"An' if yer don't mind, Miss Deed," volunteered Sandy, "I'll go up to church with yer, an' then come back an' fetch Lily and Gil."

"That's a good idea," answered Edith, "bring her right over to the church, and I'll be waiting for you there."

"I guess I'll go up to my house an' look. Mebbe Lily is playin' with Zorah, an' if she is, I'll come right back an' tell yer," put in Dink.

Edith, Delia and the three boys departed, leaving the Colonel and the Jedge alone, smoking their pipes and discussing the sensational events of the week, in which Dennis Foley was the central figure.

The conversation was stopped by the appearance of Delia and Gilbert, who declared that not one of the neighbors had seen Lillian that afternoon.

"It seems almost incredible that she could be lost," said the father, "she must be somewhere about here. Perhaps she went to the church, and fell asleep in one of the pews."

The searching party set out once more, this time accompanied by the Colonel himself, and by the Jedge. At the church they heard from Sandy and Dink that no trace of the child had been found, so the father requested the minister to inquire of the congregation if the missing one had been seen anywhere. There was no response from those present, and the family and friends began to show grave concern.

Another effort at finding her was immediately made. The police sergeant was notified, and he sent out a general alarm.

All night long, and all the next day the hunt was continued. Wells were explored, basements, cellars and out-of-the-way places were ransacked, lumber yards and coal yards were gone through most carefully. In fact, not a foot of the town was left unsearched, but all to no avail, and the once happy home of the Franklins was steeped in sorrow and despair.

The morning after Lillian's disappearance, Mrs. Foley inquired of the boys in the neighborhood if they had seen anything of her son Tom, who, she declared, had been gone since the previous morning.

From Sandy she learned that Tom had taken dinner at Gilbert's the day before, but that when the party had started for the river he had dropped out, claiming he was too down-hearted to join in the pleasure.

"That's the way he acted at home," said the widow, "and it seemed to me it was almost unnacheral for him to talk against his father, as he did. However, I'm not bothered about him, for he comes and goes just as he pleases, and when he gets good and ready he'll turn up, like a bad penny. I've stopped worryin' about him years an' years ago."

"If I see Tom," volunteered the boy, "I'll tell him yer want him,"— and he hurried away.

The next morning Sandy left home earlier than usual, and on his own account began a search for Lillian. A new theory had taken possession of him, and he started at once for the river. At the magazine gate he chatted with the sentry about the mysterious disappearance, and passed on. When he reached the shore half a mile beyond, he was surprised to find that the padlock on the door of the shed had been pried off, and that his boat was missing.

Opening the door he saw that his oars and blankets were gone, and he began to feel that his theory might lead him to important discoveries. For fully five minutes he stood motionless, and gazed into the river, buried deep in his own thoughts. Then he soliloquized: "I wonder if Lily's been stolen? S'pose, while we've been searchin' fer her high an' low, Foley an' the galoot what whacked me jest took the little girl an' carried her off in my boat? That 'ere story 'bout Dennis Foley buyin' a ticket for Philadelphy struck me as fishy when I fust heerd it, an' now I don't believe it a t'all. They couldn't git through the magazine gate 'thout the guards seein' them, an' whoever took my boat either came up the shore or down the shore. 'Tain't likely they came from up shore, 'cause they could 'a' found a hundred boats 'tween here an' the upper bridge."

Turning around, Sandy started down the beach toward the cemetery. He was studying carefully the ground beyond the point of high tide, and in a few moments reached the ravine where, two nights before, the three abductors had stopped, upon hearing Colonel Franklin and his sailing party approach.

"Well, I'll be durned," he exclaimed, for in the sand before his very eyes was the impress of four pairs of shoes. Two were evidently those of men, one small enough to be that of a boy, and one so tiny as to convince him it was that of a child.

"This is the way they come," he con— tinued, "and there wuz three of 'em in the gang besides the little one, an' I'm sure er that."

He followed the footprints until he reached the old wharf. Peering through the rotten timbers, he said:

"That's a rum ol' hole. I don't believe Satan hisself would go in there, but I'm goin', an' see what I kin see."

Sandy had no difficulty in entering the cave, which he found strewn with whisky bottles, pieces of bread and newly-picked bones, evidence enough that some one had been there but a short time before. Penetrating deeper in his search, he made a find of the utmost importance. Lying at one side, and near a bed of rags, was an envelop addressed to Dennis Foley, and, on a peg which had been driven into the wall, was hanging an old hat, which he had often seen on Hildey's head.

Elated at the results of his quest, he began to retrace his steps, and in eager haste he left the cave. Picking his way along the slimy stones under the wharf, he soon neared the outlet and there was startled by the most significant of all his discoveries. Right before him lay the identical hoop which he had given the lost child only Christmas Day, and which bore the inscription, "From Sandy Coggles to Lillian Franklin."

Every suspicion now was confirmed, and he was sure he knew the culprits. Taking the hoop, he returned to his boat— house with all possible speed, and leaping into his skiff, paddled up the river, his eyes scanning the marsh lines on either bank of the channel. Arriving at the bridge, he learned by inquiry from the tender stationed there that he had not seen the Lillian coming up stream within the past three days.

"But," explained the bridge-tender, "I'm only on from six to six during daylight, and of course if anything comes through at night I wouldn't know about it. I'm pretty sure, though, there's been nothing up this way for a month of Sundays, 'cept Buck Wesley, who creeped up 'bout two hours ago, following a gang of ducks that uses right over there above Mayhew's Meadows. And the way Buck's been shooting for the last hour, he must be having a time and no mistake."

"Well, so long," called Sandy. "I guess I'll go up the river a little further and have a look." And once more he took up his paddles. As he came abreast of the Meadows he saw Buck Wesley coming out of the creek in his gunning skiff.

"Is that you, Sandy?" shouted the gunner.

"That's me," was the boy's answer.

"Come over here, I want to talk to you," requested Buck.

When Sandy got alongside the hunter's boat, he asked:

"Well, Buck, what's the trouble?"

"No trouble, Sandy, but when I come up the river this mornin'— I ain't been up for three weeks, it's been such pore weather for ducks— I seen a bunch of widgeon go down right over here, an' as I skims up by the collard patch t'other side of the bridge, I noticed a boat lyin' in the mud, and when I gits near to her, I knows by the cut of her jib that she's yer Lillian."

"My Lillian? Wher'd yer say yer seen her?" asked Sandy excitedly.

"Why, by the collard patch, not fifty yards from the Causeway. She looked like she'd drifted on the marsh. I calc'lated when I got through shootin' that I'd pick her up an' take her down to yer landin'. The oars wuz in, an' I guess she must 'a' strayed from the shore, through somebody fergettin' to tie her up."

"I'm much 'bliged, Buck," thanked Sandy, "but yer needn't bother. I'll bring her down, an' the next galoot that takes her an' lets her git away from him, is goin' to hear from me."

Sandy retraced the course he had come, and after turning on the other side of the bridge, had no trouble in finding his boat. She was lying on a sand-bar, but he soon succeeded in floating her and bringing her ashore.

Safely securing the skiff and the boat, he began another search along the beach, and almost immediately was rewarded by finding a knot of blue ribbon, such as he had often seen Lillian wear in her hair. Farther along, he discovered tracks in the sand. These he followed, Indian fashion, up the embankment, lost trace of them for a moment on the hardened surface of the carriage way, but speedily picked them up again in the soft soil that ran downward on the other side.

Then, it was easy to pursue them along a pathway that led to a graveled beach where a dozen or more skiffs had been drawn up and tied to stakes for the winter. From here on, all further traces were obliterated.

Thoroughly familiar with all the river craft belonging there, even to the individual ownership, Sandy noticed at once that one of the boats was missing, and that its painter had only recently been cut.

"Why, it's Willie Bagner's boat they've got," he said to himself as he recognized which boat was missing, "an' I'll bet my life the scalawags are hidin' somewhere up the river."

Hurrying back, he rowed to the landing and started in haste for his home, with a plan of rescue fully developed in his mind. He sought out Leander, Dink and Gilbert, and asked them to call at his house without delay.

While Sandy's investigation had convinced him that Lillian was stolen, Colonel Franklin had been made to realize the same terrible fact in another and more brutal way. When he reached his office on the same afternoon, he found on his desk a letter that read as follows:

dere sur— if U meen bizness i can put U on to whar your dorter is but its goin to kost U sum muney if U evr want to see her agin theres a big gang got her hid where U woodnt find hur in a 100 yerze but if U will plank down 10000 dolers sheze yourze if U dont you'll nevr see hur no moar if sheze wurth thet much to U U can git her by not blabin to nobudy that yer got this leter an plankin down the rino taint no use fer U to try an git the police on our trax fer one uv the gang is alwayz with the kid an we have sworn to kill her if enny of us is jugged if U meen bizness an will leeve a noat under the big stone in front of the ded tree by oyster shell landin up the river we will git it an rite U where to meet us to bring the muney and git the child member we dont stand fer no trechery an if U squeel we ll no it and we ll take it out on the kid mums the word if yer want ter see the kid again c o d and fare deelin is our moto a word to the wize is sufishent

yourze trooley a frend

The Colonel was completely unnerved by the horrible knowledge that his little daughter was in the hands of desperate criminals. Without delay he wrote a note offering to pay the money demanded, agreeing to deliver it at any spot they might name, and vowing to share his secret with no one.

Sealing the missive, he placed it carefully in his pocket, and drove out along the river turnpike to a point about a quarter of a mile from the place designated by the anonymous writer. Tying his horse to a tree, he walked through the woods, and hid the note under the stone mentioned in the letter. It was after nightfall when he reached home, where he was met with the heartrending and oft-repeated question.

"Have you heard anything from Lily?"

Fearing to betray himself, even to his family, and thus perhaps endanger the life of his child, he was compelled to answer, "No, not a thing." With a heavy heart, he passed into his study. Supper was announced shortly after— ward, and as the family gathered about the table, the father noticed that his son was not present.

"Where is Gilbert?" he inquired nervously.

"Sandy was here and asked Gilbert to come over and spend the night with him," answered Mrs. Franklin. "I hadn't the heart to refuse him, for I don't believe any one has worked harder to find our lost darling than Sandy, and he seems to be the only one that can give Gilbert any consolation."

"I think it's better that the boys stop searching," said the father. "They might get themselves into trouble; it's too dangerous."

"I don't believe you could stop those boys from hunting for Lillian, if they had to go into the very jaws of death," interposed the grandmother.

"Oh, well," spoke the father; "they must not wear themselves out, and to— morrow, I will tell Gilbert and Sandy to leave the investigation to the police."

"They'll never do it," objected the grandmother, "they love Lillian too much. You mark my words."

At this very moment, Sandy, Leander, Gilbert and Dink were together, in Sandy's little garret room. Sandy closed the door carefully, locked it, and called his companions about him in the middle of the room.

"Boys," he whispered, "afore I sez anythin', I wants yer to gimme yer word, honor bright, an' cross yer heart three times, that yer won't spout a syllable of what I tells yer to a soul."

All were agreed, and the boy began:

"Now, it's this 'ere way. My boat wuz stolen an' left, right below the upper bridge, an' I foun' footprints an' this 'ere piece of ribbon, which Gil knows b'longed to his sister, for she wore it round her hair. Willie Bagner's skiff's bin stolen, an' I believe the party that took it hez got little Lily, because I foun' the hoop I give her, an' this envellup in the same place, an' it seems to me the galoot whose name's on it is hid somewhere up the river, an' I'm goin' after him if I has to go alone."

"But you won't go alone, while I'm alive," insisted Leander, intensely excited.

"An' I'm goin', too, even if I never come back," added Dink, taking it for granted that he was needed.

"And you must take me," said Gilbert imploringly.

The four boys grasped one another's hands, and Sandy declared in a solemn tone:

"We'll stick together to the bitter end."

"What's your plan?" asked Leander, with great interest.

"Without breathin' a word to a soul, to-night about nine o'clock we wants to leave the boat-house, you an' Dink in one skiff, an' me an' Gil in t'other, an' sneak up the river, an' try so nobody won't see us. When we gits to the upper bridge, paddle in as close to the Causeway on the right, as we kin, huggin' the marsh all the way. Jest before we git to Beaver Dam, there's a deep gut that runs 'longside of it fer a hundred yards or more. Foller me in there, Leander, an' stay hid till I sez move. Don't speak a word, from the time we push off till I sez so. Beaver Dam is the lonesomest creek in the world, an' mebbe Gil's little sister is kept in one of them ol' shacks what muskrat hunters live in, in the spring an' summer. If them galoots is in there, they're mighty apt ter come out late at night, when they don't expec' nobody's roun'. Of course, nacherelly they have some plan about gettin' paid fer little Lily, an' they ain't a-goin' to stay in hidin' without tryin' to find out the lay er the land, an' jest how hot the police is on their trail. My idee is to go an' lay in ambush fer 'em all night. If they don't come out, we'll explore in the mornin', an' if we don't find 'em hidin' roun' Beaver Dam, then we'll lay low all day, an' push up the river to-morrow night. But somehow, I think that's the place they would pick out to hide in. 'Tain't one person out er a million that would know how to git through Beaver Dam without gittin' lost, an' I'm a recollectin' I took Tom Foley through there onct an' that's why I'm goin' there to-night. I knows it so well, I could go through with my eyes shet.

"Each of us wants his pistol loaded fer keeps, a knife, an' about three yards er rope he can tie round his waist. Let's have a bite o' supper right here in my house, an' then we'll start fer the river, but each feller goin' alone, an' in a different way. Now, remember, no talkin' to nobody, an' let's all say honor bright, an' cross our hearts three times ag'in."

Sandy was the first to arrive at the boat-house. Securing the paddles, he put them into the skiffs and watched for his companions. He had not long to wait. Gilbert came in a few moments, then Leander, and shortly afterward, Dink. Not a word was spoken. Sandy motioned Gilbert to sit in the center seat of the Dolly, while he took his accustomed place at the stern. Noiselessly they pushed into the stream, followed by Leander and Dink.

The tide was going out, and had, perhaps, two hours to ebb. The boys hugged the channel bank on the right, passed under the bridge unnoticed, and kept on their silent and anxious way, mile after mile. Finally, Sandy steered into a creek and glided softly against the mud bank, holding his skiff firmly by driving a paddle into the soft soil. Leander and Dink followed suit. That they might be screened from any one coming out of Beaver Dam, which was separated by a narrow strip of marsh-land, they lay flat on the bottom of their boats.

The night was not especially dark, for the moon was looking through a mist of hazy clouds. It was bitingly cold, and though the boys became numb from the many minutes of inactivity, not one of them moved. For fully an hour they had remained motionless, when faintly over the water was heard the splash, splash, splash, of paddles, far away.

The searching party were all alert in an instant, and with raised heads, peered cautiously over the top of the marsh line in the direction of the sounds. Hardly a minute had passed, when out of the shadows that hid the entrance to Beaver Dam, there came slowly a skiff into the clear water. It approached to within fifteen feet of the hidden boys, when they recognized a voice, distinctly saying:

"I hope that guy Franklin's ben up to the landin' an' left the note where I tol' him to, an' don't try no shenanigan."

"He ain't goin' to try no flapdoodles with us," was the quick answer.

"Well, if he knows when he's well off," the first voice resumed, "he'll come round with the rhino mighty quick, an' give us no more trouble."

"I kin see us livin' like gent'men, a'ready."

"Gent'men born an'— " the other began, but the last of his sentence was lost as the boat turned up the river, and the cadence of the paddles died in the distance.

Sandy waited until the rascals had disappeared around the bend, then shoving his skiff quickly alongside Leander's, he whispered into the latter's ear:

"Me an' Gil is goin' in to Beaver Dam. Yer knows them two fellers, an' so do I. One of 'em is the feller what whacked me, an' the t'other is that bum Hildey. If they gits here afore I come back, you an' Dink'll have to do somethin' desp'ret."

"All right," said Leander, clutching his pistol, "you can trust me."

Sandy rounded the point that divided the two creeks, and in a short time had paddled past the trees and vines that hung over and partly covered the entrance to Beaver Dam. The boat was managed with consummate skill, now left, now right, through the sinuous waterway, and the two boys had gone fully half a mile, when, without warning, they were rudely jolted as the skiff grated harshly on a bar. Ordinarily, such an incident would have been without effect upon them, but now their nerves were so highly strung, that the noise of the boat rubbing against the gravel seemed as loud as the report of a cannon.

Using all possible force, Sandy and Gilbert succeeded in shoving their craft back into the water. Then they pressed forward into the shadow of an embankment on the left, and not a moment too soon did they reach Gover, for the door of a hut was thrown open, and the voice of Tom Foley was heard, asking:

"Is that you, dad?"

An instant later Foley was seen standing in the dim light of the doorway, shading his eyes and peering into the darkness.

"I say, dad, is that you?" came again. "I'll be doggoned if I didn't think I heerd somebody comin'. I guess 'tain't nuthin',"— looking anxiously to the right and left. "I cert'nly does git scared out er my boots aroun' here, though, when I'm left alone. I'm goin' to wake up the brat an' make her keep me comp'ny,"— -and the door closed with a bang.

He had hardly gone inside when the piteous cry of a child was heard, "Please don't beat me, Tom."

"I ain't beatin' yer; go ahead, dance fer me."

Sandy and Gilbert were fairly crazed, and in their anger rushed up toward the hut.

Again came the cry, "Please don't hit me, Tom."

"Dance, I say,"— and the sharp swish of a whip was heard.

It took but a second for Sandy to bound into the room. Surprised and terrified, Foley made a dart for the door, but was met by Gilbert, who, pistol in hand, held him stock still. In desperation Foley reached for a club and ran back of the frightened child in the hope that she might serve as guard against his assailant. Like a flash, Sandy followed, and knocked the cowardly brute senseless with the barrel of his pistol.

Gilbert ran to his sister, and, taking her up, showered loving kisses upon her. With her arms clasped about his neck and her head nestling on his shoulder, she cried:

"Oh, Gil, I'm so glad you've come. I've been waiting all this time for you. I knew Sandy would come, because he ain't afraid of robbers, or anybody else, even if he had his hands tied behind him. I've been praying for you every minute, and here you are." Again Gilbert pressed his sister to his heart, and kissed her.

Young Foley was still lying unconscious, as the result of the blow he had received, and Sandy was clutching him tightly by the throat.

"Take yer sister, little codger," said Sandy, "wrap her up, git in the skiff, an' I'll be with yer as soon as I tie this chuckle-headed idiot fast and tight."

Gilbert left the hut with Lillian, while the other boy remained long enough to loosen the rope around his waist, and bind the young ruffian securely. Then he placed him in a corner of the room. Locking the door behind him, Sandy joined Gilbert in the skiff, and together they paddled furiously out of the creek into the river.

The moon was up in all her splendor, and objects on the water were plainly visible for some distance. Lillian was seated in the bow, facing the two boys at the paddles. Leander and Dink fell in the wake of Sandy's skiff, about ten yards in the rear.

As the party reached the middle of the channel, a skiff came into view from the bend, a short way above, and steered directly toward them. With a cry, Lillian stood up:

"Oh, Gil, here come those two bad men that took me away."

The boys turned, and they, too, recognized Dennis Foley and Hildey as the occupants of the approaching boat.

"Lie flat, little one," whispered Sandy, "an' don't move till I tells yer."

The child obeyed, but already Foley and his partner had espied her, and it was evident they were using all their efforts to catch up. Leander now called:

"It's the same gang, Sandy, that came out of the creek. What shall we do?"

"Paddle fer all ye're worth," was shouted back.

"Hold up, or we'll shoot," yelled Dennis Foley.

With that a pistol-shot was heard coming from the direction of the pursuers, but the bullet went wide of its mark, and the boys sped on.

"Don't waste yer load unless yer haveto," cautioned Sandy, "'cause yer won't have time to put in 'nother, an' I don't want er draw their fire, fer fear they might hit Lily."

The race had become one of life and death. The boys strained to the utmost their strong young muscles, and, with paddles bent almost double, drove their little craft like the wind before them. Down past Turtle Creek they flew; Licking Banks were soon left behind, and shortly, they were alongside the Sycamores. Dink looked back over his shoulder, and whispered:

"We ain't gained on 'em a bit, an' they seem to be goin' strong."

When the Meadows were reached, Dink said again:

"They're comin' like everythin'."

"Don't weaken," urged Leander; "as long as we're between them and Sandy's skiff, they'll have to kill us before they can get to Lillian."

The moon was casting its light on the waters like a great silvery path, and the splashing of the paddles was the only sound that awakened the echoes. Again came the sharp report of a pistol, and Dink dodged, as if by instinct. He wheeled in his seat and shot point-blank at Foley, but the ball imbedded itself in the side of the skiff behind and did no further damage.

"That's tit for tat," said Dink, "but it wuz a mighty close call fer me. When the bullet whizzed past my ear I thought I was plugged, sure."

There were now not more than fifteen yards between the boys and their pursuers. Turning about, Leander saw Hildey raise his pistol and take careful aim at him. Quick as thought, the boy fired first, and Hildey uttered a sharp cry of pain, as his right arm fell helpless, and his pistol dropped into the water.

"Curse the luck!" muttered Foley. "Don't give up, pard; we'll ketch 'em afore they git much further."

Though Hildey's right arm was useless, he plied the paddle with his left, and the men continued to gain. As the boys passed through under the bridge, Leander's boat was abreast of Sandy, who whispered:

"I'll take the swash on the right that goes through the big marsh and comes out at the Devil's Elbow. You hug the channel bank, an' mebbe we'll fool 'em."

Sandy knew that, after the river left the bridge, it went almost southerly for half a mile, then made an abrupt turn at right angles, pursued its way westward for another quarter of a mile, and then met the swash channel, which cut diagonally through the big marsh. At this junction of the two streams a whirlpool called the Devil's Elbow had been formed, a treacherous spot for small craft, and requiring rare skill to pass in safety.

When Sandy told Leander to take the main channel, it was with a desperate hope that Foley and Hildey would be in doubt, for the moment, which skiff to follow as they came out under the bridge. Within himself, he reasoned that this hesitation, on their part, would consume sufficient time to permit the boys to gain a lead and reach in safety the landing, two miles below.

"The chances are jest even-Stephen," he said to Gilbert, "though it separates us from Leander, till we reach the Devil's Elbow."

But alas! Sandy's reasoning failed him for once this time.

As Foley and Hildey came through under the bridge, the former cried:

"Steer to the right channel an' foller that boat; that's the one the kid's in."

"They're after us, darn 'em," said Sandy, "but we're gittin' ahead bully. Keep it up, Gil, an' we'll come out all right, see if we don't."

Dripping with perspiration, and with hands burned and blistered, Sandy and Gilbert were forging ahead and gaining on their pursuers, straining every nerve to increase their lead. As they rounded a bend in the channel, Hildey shouted:

"There's yer chance to plug 'em, pard. Shoot!"

Foley obeyed, and the boys' skiff, which was a metallic one, was bored through by the pistol ball. The water poured through the hole, and Sandy shouted to Gilbert:

"Drop yer paddle; take yer hat an' put it over the leak, tight as yer kin; bale with the other hand, or we'll sink in a minit. Lily, sit up, so yer won't get wet; but don't show yer head," and with a courage born of despair, Sandy renewed his efforts.

Foley was gaining rapidly, and it seemed that only a miracle could prevent the boy's capture before they reached the Devil's Elbow.

Three minutes passed with only the sound of the lightning-like dip of the paddles. Another short bend in the channel, and a hundred yards ahead was the confluence of the two currents, which were ever at war.

"Keep on bailing, Gil," cried Sandy, "an' when we git past the Elbow, if they're too close to us, I'm goin' to use my pistol on 'em, but I don't want ter shoot till I can make the shot tell fer all it's worth. Steady, Lily; hold tight, Gil; don't move, I'll git yer through without swampin', 'cause I knows every current in the Elbow."

Through the mad swirl of waters the boy held his boat, and steered her into the quiet tide beyond.

Leander and Dink were just turning the bend of the main channel an eighth of a mile away, and the skiff containing Foley and Hildey had reached the outer current of the eddy.

"Now you've got 'em," yelled Hildey, as Sandy's skiff veered to the left, not twenty yards from the other.

"Not if I knows it," cried Sandy as he shot square at Foley, the ball going through the sleeve of his coat, but leaving him unharmed.

"Curse yer fer a fool!" came from Foley, dropping his paddle and standing up in the skiff, which now had nothing to guide it but Hildey's exhausted arm. The skiff was rocking violently. Foley attempted to balance himself as he raised his pistol to shoot. In a flash the frail craft was caught in the conflicting currents, it careened and capsized, and the two men were battling for life in the whirlpool.

Sandy was so intent on escape that he had gone some distance down stream before realizing he was no longer pursued. Suddenly an agonizing cry was borne on the midnight air:

"Help! Help! I'm drownin'!"

The boy rested on his paddle, and scanned the river in the direction of the voice.

"Don't let's let 'em drown like rats in a hole," said Sandy, and he started his boat back toward the bend.

"Gil, gimme yer pistol. They may be tryin' to play some trick on us, an' if they are, we'll be ready for 'em."

The precaution was unnecessary, for when they came near, they saw the upturned skiff circling around in the eddy, its paddles bobbing with the waves, and the hats of Foley and Hildey slowly drifting toward the bank.

Leander and Dink, meanwhile, had come up, and with the other two boys remained for fully half an hour waiting for some sign of the two robbers, but in vain; for far beneath the surface of the water in the maddening current, the ill-spent lives of Foley and Hildey were ended. They were dead in the cruel embrace of the Devil's Elbow.

__________________

11: Aylmer Vance and the Vampire

Alice and Claude Askew

(Both d. 1917)

AYLMER VANCE had rooms in Dover Street, Piccadilly, and now that I had decided to follow in his footsteps and to accept him as my instructor in matters psychic, I found it convenient to lodge in the same house. Aylmer and I quickly became close friends, and he showed me how to develop that faculty of clairvoyance which I had possessed without being aware of it. And I may say at once that this particular faculty of mine proved of service on several important occasions.

At the same time I made myself useful to Vance in other ways, not the least of which was that of acting as recorder of his many strange adventures. For himself, he never cared much about publicity, and it was some time before I could persuade him, in the interests of science, to allow me to give any detailed account of his experiences to the world.

The incidents which I will now narrate occurred very soon after we had taken up our residence together, and while I was still, so to speak, a novice.

It was about ten o'clock in the morning that a visitor was announced. He sent up a card which bore upon it the name of Paul Davenant.

The name was familiar to me, and I wondered if this could be the same Mr Davenant who was so well known for his polo playing and for his success as an amateur rider, especially over the hurdles? He was a young man of wealth and position, and I recollected that he had married, about a year ago, a girl who was reckoned the greatest beauty of the season. All the illustrated papers had given their portraits at the time, and I remember thinking what a remarkably handsome couple they made.

Mr Davenant was ushered in, and at first I was uncertain as to whether this could be the individual whom I had in mind, so wan and pale and ill did he appear. A finely-built, upstanding man at the time of his marriage, he had now acquired a languid droop of the shoulders and a shuffling gait, while his face, especially about the lips, was bloodless to an alarming degree.

And yet it was the same man, for behind all this I could recognize the shadow of the good looks that had once distinguished Paul Davenant.

He took the chair which Aylmer offered him— after the usual preliminary civilities had been exchanged— and then glanced doubtfully in my direction. 'I wish to consult you privately, Mr Vance,' he said. 'The matter is of considerable importance to myself, and, if I may say so, of a somewhat delicate nature.'

Of course I rose immediately to withdraw from the room, but Vance laid his hand upon my arm.

'If the matter is connected with research in my particular line, Mr Davenant,' he said, 'if there is any investigation you wish me to take up on your behalf, I shall be glad if you will include Mr Dexter in your confidence. Mr Dexter assists me in my work. But, of course— .'

'Oh, no,' interrupted the other, 'if that is the case, pray let Mr Dexter remain. I think,' he added, glancing at me with a friendly smile, 'that you are an Oxford man, are you not, Mr Dexter? It was before my time, but I have heard of your name in connection with the river. You rowed at Henley, unless I am very much mistaken.'

I admitted the fact, with a pleasurable sensation of pride. I was very keen upon rowing in those days, and a man's prowess at school and college always remain dear to his heart..After this we quickly became on friendly terms, and Paul Davenant proceeded to take Aylmer and myself into his confidence.

He began by calling attention to his personal appearance. 'You would hardly recognize me for the same man! was a year ago,' he said. 'I've been losing flesh steadily for the last six months. I came up from Scotland about a week ago, to consult a London doctor. I've seen two— in fact, they've held a sort of consultation over me— but the result, I may say, is far from satisfactory.

They don't seem to know what is really the matter with me.'

'Anaemia— heart' suggested Vance. He was scrutinizing his visitor keenly, and yet without any particular appearance of doing so. 'I believe it not infrequently happens that you athletes overdo yourselves— put too much strain upon the heart— '

'My heart is quite sound,' responded Davenant. 'Physically it is in perfect condition. The trouble seems to be that it hasn't enough blood to pump into my veins. The doctors wanted to know if I had met with an accident involving a great loss of blood— but I haven't. I've had no accident at all, and as for anaemia, well, I don't seem to show the ordinary symptoms of it. The inexplicable thing is that I've lost blood without knowing it, and apparently this has been going on for some time, for I ye been getting steadily worse. It was almost imperceptible at first— not a sudden collapse, you understand, but a gradual failure of health.'

'I wonder,' remarked Vance slowly, 'what induced you to consult me? For you know, of course, the direction in which I pursue my investigations. May I ask if you have reason to consider that your state of health is due to some cause which we may describe as super-physical?'

A slight colour came to Davenant's white cheeks.

'There are curious circumstances,' he said in a low and earnest tone of voice. 'I've been turning them over in my mind, trying to see light through them. I daresay it's all the sheerest folly— and I must tell you that I'm not in the least a superstitious sort of man. I don't mean to say that I'm absolutely incredulous, but I've never given thought to such things— I've led too active a life. But, as I have said, there are curious circumstances about my case, and that is why I decided upon consulting you.'

'Will you tell me everything without reserve?' said Vance. I could see that he was interested.

He was sitting up in his chair, his feet supported on a stool, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands— a favourite attitude of his. 'Have you,' he suggested, slowly, 'any mark upon your body, anything that you might associate, however remotely, with your present weakness and ill-health?'

'It's a curious thing that you should ask me that question,' returned Davenant, 'because I have got a curious mark, a sort of scar, that I can't account for. But I showed it to the doctors, and they assured me that it could have nothing whatever to do with my condition. In any case, if it had, it was something altogether outside their experience. I think they imagined it to be nothing more than a birthmark, a sort of mole, for they asked me if I'd had it all my life. But that I can swear I haven't. I only noticed it for the first time about six months ago, when my health began to fail. But you can see for yourself.'

He loosened his collar and bared his throat. Vance rose and made a careful scrutiny of the suspicious mark. It was situated a very little to the left of the central line, just above the clavicle, and, as Vance pointed out, directly over the big vessels of the throat. My friend called to me so that I might examine it, too. Whatever the opinion of the doctors may have been, Aylmer was obviously deeply interested..And yet there was very little to show. The skin was quite intact, and there was no sign of inflammation. There were two red marks, about an inch apart, each of which was inclined to be crescent in shape. They were more visible than they might otherwise have been owing to the peculiar whiteness of Davenant's skin.

'It can't be anything of importance,' said Davenant, with a slightly uneasy laugh. 'I'm inclined to think the marks are dying away.'

'Have you ever noticed them more inflamed than they are at present?' inquired Vance. 'If so, was it at any special time?'

Davenant reflected. 'Yes,' he replied slowly, 'there have been times, usually, I think perhaps invariably, when I wake up in the morning, that I've noticed them larger and more angry looking. And I've felt a slight sensation of pain— a tingling— oh, very slight, and I've never worried about it. Only now you suggest it to my mind, I believe that those same mornings I have felt particularly tired and done up— a sensation of lassitude absolutely unusual to me. And once, Mr Vance, I remember quite distinctly that there was a stain of blood close to the mark. I didn't think anything of it at the time, and just wiped it away.'

'I see.' Aylmer Vance resumed his seat and invited his visitor to do the same. 'And now,' he resumed, 'you said, Mr Davenant, that there are certain peculiar circumstances you wish to acquaint me with. Will you do so?'

And so Davenant readjusted his collar and proceeded to tell his story. I will tell it as far as I can, without any reference to the occasional interruptions of Vance and myself.

Paul Davenant, as I have said, was a man of wealth and position, and so, in every sense of the word, he was a suitable husband for Miss Jessica MacThane, the young lady who eventually became his wife. Before coming to the incidents attending his loss of health, he had a great deal to recount about Miss MacThane and her family history.

She was of Scottish descent, and although she had certain characteristic features of her race, she was not really Scotch in appearance. Hers was the beauty of the far South rather than that of the Highlands from which she had her origin. Names are not always suited to their owners, and Miss MacThane's was peculiarly inappropriate. She had, in fact, been christened Jessica in a sort of pathetic effort to counteract her obvious departure from normal type. There was a reason for this which we were soon to learn.

Miss MacThane was especially remarkable for her wonderful red hair, hair such as one hardly ever sees outside of Italy— not the Celtic red— and it was so long that it reached to her feet, and it had an extraordinary gloss upon it so that it seemed almost to have individual life of its own.

Then she had just the complexion that one would expect with such hair, the purest ivory white, and not in the least marred by freckles, as is so often the case with red-haired girls. Her beauty was derived from an ancestress who had been brought to Scotland from some foreign shore— no one knew exactly whence.

Davenant fell in love with her almost at once and he had every reason to believe, in spite of her many admirers, that his love was returned. At this time he knew very little about her personal history. He was aware only that she was very wealthy in her own right, an orphan, and the last representative of a race that had once been famous in the annals of history— or rather infamous, for the MacThanes had distinguished themselves more by cruelty and lust of blood than by deeds of chivalry. A clan of turbulent robbers in the past, they had helped to add many a blood-stained page to the history of their country.

Jessica had lived with her father, who owned a house in London, until his death when she was about fifteen years of age. Her mother had died in Scotland when Jessica was still a tiny child..Mr MacThane had been so affected by his wife's death that, with his little daughter, he had abandoned his Scotch estate altogether— or so it was believed— leaving it to the management of a bailiff— though, indeed, there was but little work for the bailiff to do, since there were practically no tenants left. Blackwick Castle had borne for many years a most unenviable reputation.

After the death of her father, Miss MacThane had gone to live with a certain Mrs Meredith, who was a connection of her mother's— on her father's side she had not a single relation left.

Jessica was absolutely the last of a clan once so extensive that intermarriage had been a tradition of the family, but for which the last two hundred years had been gradually dwindling to extinction.

Mrs Meredith took Jessica into Society— which would never have been her privilege had Mr MacThane lived, for he was a moody, self-absorbed man, and prematurely old— one who seemed worn down by the weight of a great grief.

Well, I have said that Paul Davenant quickly fell in love with Jessica, and it was not long before he proposed for her hand. To his great surprise, for he had good reason to believe that she cared for him, he met with a refusal; nor would she give any explanation, though she burst into a flood of pitiful tears.

Bewildered and bitterly disappointed, he consulted Mrs Meredith, with whom he happened to be on friendly terms, and from her he learnt that Jessica had already had several proposals, all from quite desirable men, but that one after another had been rejected.

Paul consoled himself with the reflection that perhaps Jessica did not love them, whereas he was quite sure that she cared for himself. Under these circumstances he determined to try again.

He did so, and with better result. Jessica admitted her love, but at the same time she repeated that she would not marry him. Love and marriage were not for her. Then, to his utter amazement, she declared that she had been born under a curse— a curse which, sooner or later was bound to show itself in her, and which, moreover, must react cruelly, perhaps fatally, upon anyone with whom she linked her life. How could she allow a man she loved to take such a risk? Above all, since the evil was hereditary, there was one point upon which she had quite made up her mind: no child should ever call her mother— she must be the last of her race indeed.

Of course, Davenant was amazed and inclined to think that Jessica had got some absurd idea into her head which a little reasoning on his part would dispel. There was only one other possible explanation. Was it lunacy she was afraid of? But Jessica shook her head, She did not know of any lunacy in her family. The ill was deeper, more subtle than that. And then she told him all that she knew.

The curse— she made us of that word for want of a better— was attached to the ancient race from which she had her origin. Her father had suffered from it, and his father and grandfather before him. All three had taken to themselves young wives who had died mysteriously, of some wasting disease, within a few years. Had they observed the ancient family tradition of intermarriage this might possibly not have happened, but in their case, since the family was so near extinction, this had not been possible.

For the curse— or whatever it was— did not kill those who bore the name of MacThane. It only rendered them a danger to others. It was as if they absorbed from the blood-soaked walls of their fatal castle a deadly taint which reacted terribly upon those with whom they were brought into contact, especially their nearest and dearest.

'Do you know what my father said we have it in us to become?' said Jessica with a shudder.

'He used the word vampires. Paul, think of it— vampires— preying upon the life blood of others.'.And then, when Davenant was inclined to laugh, she checked him. 'No,' she cried out, 'it is not impossible. Think. We are a decadent race. From the earliest times our history has been marked by bloodshed and cruelty. The walls of Blackwick Castle are impregnated with evil— every stone could tell its tale, of violence, pain, lust, and murder. What can one expect of those who have spent their lifetime between its walls?'

'But you have not done so,' exclaimed Paul. 'You have been spared that, Jessica. You were taken away after your mother died, and you have no recollection of Blackwick Castle, none at all. And you need never set foot in it again.'

'I'm afraid the evil is in my blood,' she replied sadly, 'although I am unconscious of it now.

And as for not returning to Blackwick— I'm not sure I can help myself. At least, that is what my father warned me of. He said there is something there, some compelling force, that will call me to it in spite of myself. But, oh, I don't know— I don't know, and that is what makes it so difficult. If I could only believe that all this is nothing but an idle superstition, I might be happy again, for I have it in me to enjoy life, and I'm young, very young, but my father told me these things when he was on his death-bed.' She added the last words in a low, awe-stricken tone.

Paul pressed her to tell him all that she knew, and eventually she revealed another fragment of family history which seemed to have some bearing upon the case. It dealt with her own astonishing likeness to that ancestress of a couple of hundred years ago, whose existence seemed to have presaged the gradual downfall of the clan of the MacThanes.

A certain Robert MacThane, departing from the traditions of his family, which demanded that he should not marry outside his clan, brought home a wife from foreign shores, a woman of wonderful beauty, who was possessed of glowing masses of red hair and a complexion of ivory whiteness— such as had more or less distinguished since then every female of the race born in the direct line.

It was not long before this woman came to be regarded in the neighbourhood as a witch. Queer stories were circulated abroad as to her doings, and the reputation of Blackwick Castle became worse than ever before.

And then one day she disappeared. Robert MacThane had been absent upon some business for twenty-four hours, and it was upon his return that he found her gone. The neighbourhood was searched, but without avail, and then Robert, who was a violent man and who had adored his foreign wife, called together certain of his tenants whom he suspected, rightly or wrongly, of foul play, and had them murdered in cold blood. Murder was easy in those days, yet such an outcry was raised that Robert had to take to flight, leaving his two children in the care of their nurse, and for a long while Blackwick Castle was without a master.

But its evil reputation persisted. It was said that Zaida, the witch, though dead, still made her presence felt. Many children of the tenantry and young people of the neighbourhood sickened and died— possibly of quite natural causes; but this did not prevent a mantle of terror settling upon the countryside, for it was said that Zaida had been seen— a pale woman clad in white—

flitting about the cottages at night, and where she passed sickness and death were sure to supervene.

And from that time the fortune of the family gradually declined. Heir succeeded heir, but no sooner was he installed at Blackwick Castle than his nature, whatever it may previously have been, seemed to undergo a change. It was as if he absorbed into himself all the weight of evil that had stained his family name— as if he did, indeed, become a vampire, bringing blight upon any not directly connected with his own house..And so, by degrees, Blackwick was deserted of its tenantry. The land around it was left uncultivated— the farms stood empty. This had persisted to the present day, for the superstitious peasantry still told their tales of the mysterious white woman who hovered about the neighbourhood, and whose appearance betokened death— and possibly worse than death.

And yet it seemed that the last representatives of the MacThanes could not desert their ancestral home. Riches they had, sufficient to live happily upon elsewhere, but, drawn by some power they could not contend against, they had preferred to spend their lives in the solitude of the now half-ruined castle, shunned by their neighbours, feared and execrated by the few tenants that still clung to their soil.

So it had been with Jessica's grandfather and great-grandfather. Each of them had married a young wife, and in each case their love story had been all too brief. The vampire spirit was still abroad, expressing itself— or so it seemed— through the living representatives of bygone generations of evil, and young blood had been demanded as the sacrifice.

And to them had succeeded Jessica's father. He had not profited by their example, but had followed directly in their footsteps. And the same fate had befallen the wife whom he passionately adored. She had died of pernicious anaemia— so the doctors said— but he had regarded himself as her murderer.

But, unlike his predecessors, he had torn himself away from Blackwick— and this for the sake of his child. Unknown to her, however, he had returned year after year, for there were times when the passionate longing for the gloomy, mysterious halls and corridors of the old castle, for the wild stretches of moorland, and the dark pinewoods, would come upon him too strongly to be resisted. And so he knew that for his daughter, as for himself, there was no escape, and he warned her, when the relief of death was at last granted to him, of what her fate must be.

This was the tale that Jessica told the man who wished to make her his wife, and he made light of it, as such a man would, regarding it all as foolish superstition, the delusion of a mind overwrought. And at last— perhaps it was not very difficult, for she loved him with all her heart and soul— he succeeded in inducing Jessica to think as he did, to banish morbid ideas, as he called them from her brain, and to consent to marry him at an early date.

'I'll take any risk you like,' he declared. 'I'll even go and live at Blackwick if you should desire it. To think of you, my lovely Jessica, a vampire! Why, I never heard such nonsense in my life.'

'Father said I'm very like Zaida, the witch,' she protested, but he silenced her with a kiss.

And so they were married and spent their honeymoon abroad, and in the autumn Paul accepted an invitation to a house party in Scotland for the grouse shooting, a sport to which he was absolutely devoted, and Jessica agreed with him that there was no reason why he should forgo his pleasure.

Perhaps it was an unwise thing to do, to venture to Scotland, but by this time the young couple, more deeply in love with each other than ever, had got quite over their fears. Jessica was redolent with health and spirits, and more than once she declared that if they should be anywhere in the neighbourhood of Blackwick she would like to see the old castle out of curiosity, and just to show how absolutely she had got over the foolish terrors that used to assail her.

This seemed to Paul to be quite a wise plan, and so one day, since they were actually staying at no great distance, they motored over to Blackwick, and finding the bailiff, got him to show them over the castle.

It was a great castellated pile, grey with age, and in places falling into ruin. It stood on a steep hillside, with the rock of which it seemed to form part, and on one side of it there was a precipitous drop to a mountain stream a hundred feet below. The robber MacThanes of the old days could not have desired a better stronghold.

At the back, climbing up the mountainside were dark pinewoods, from which, here and there, rugged crags protruded, and these were fantastically shaped, some like gigantic and misshapen human forms, which stood up as if they mounted guard over the castle and the narrow gorge, by which alone it could be approached.

This gorge was always full of weird, uncanny sounds. It might have been a storehouse for the wind, which, even on calm days, rushed up and down as if seeking an escape, and it moaned among the pines and whistled in the crags and shouted derisive laughter as it was tossed from side to side of the rocky heights. It was like the plaint of lost souls— that is the expression Davenant made use of— the plaint of lost souls.

The road, little more than a track now, passed through this gorge, and then, after skirting a small but deep lake, which hardly knew the light of the sun so shut in was it by overhanging trees, climbed the hill to the castle.

And the castle! Davenant used but a few words to describe it, yet somehow I could see the gloomy edifice in my mind's eye, and something of the lurking horror that it contained communicated itself to my brain. Perhaps my clairvoyant sense assisted me, for when he spoke of them I seemed already acquainted with the great stone halls, the long corridors, gloomy and cold even on the brightest and warmest of days, the dark, oak-panelled rooms, and the broad central staircase up which one of the early MacThanes had once led a dozen men on horseback in pursuit of a stag which had taken refuge within the precincts of the castle. There was the keep, too, its walls so thick that the ravages of time had made no impression upon them, and beneath the keep were dungeons which could tell terrible tales of ancient wrong and lingering pain.

Well, Mr and Mrs Davenant visited as much as the bailiff could show them of this ill-omened edifice, and Paul, for his part, thought pleasantly of his own Derbyshire home, the fine Georgian mansion, replete with every modern comfort, where he proposed to settle with his wife. And so he received something of a shock when, as they drove away, she slipped her hand into his and whispered:

'Paul, you promised, didn't you, that you would refuse me nothing?'

She had been strangely silent till she spoke those words. Paul, slightly apprehensive, assured her that she only had to ask— but the speech did not come from his heart, for he guessed vaguely what she desired.

She wanted to go and live at the castle— oh, only for a little while, for she was sure she would soon tire of it. But the bailiff had told her that there were papers, documents, which she ought to examine, since the property was now hers— and, besides, she was interested in this home of her ancestors, and wanted to explore it more thoroughly. Oh, no, she wasn't in the least influenced by the old superstition— that wasn't the attraction— she had quite got over those silly ideas. Paul had cured her, and since he himself was so convinced that they were without foundation he ought not to mind granting her her whim.

This was a plausible argument, not easy to controvert. In the end Paul yielded, though it was not without a struggle. He suggested amendments. Let him at least have the place done up for her— that would take time; or let them postpone their visit till next year— in the summer— not move in just as the winter was upon them.

But Jessica did not want to delay longer than she could help, and she hated the idea of redecoration. Why, it would spoil the illusion of the old place, and, besides, it would be a waste of money since she only wished to remain there for a week or two. The Derbyshire house was not quite ready yet; they must allow time for the paper to dry on the walls.

And so, a week later, when their stay with their friends was concluded, they went to Blackwick, the bailiff having engaged a few raw servants and generally made things as comfortable for them as possible. Paul was worried and apprehensive, but he could not admit this to his wife after having so loudly proclaimed his theories on the subject of superstition.

They had been married three months at this time— nine had passed since then, and they had never left Blackwick for more than a few hours— till now Paul had come to London— alone.

'Over and over again,' he declared, 'my wife has begged me to go. With tears in her eyes, almost upon her knees, she has entreated me to leave her, but I have steadily refused unless she will accompany me. But that is the trouble, Mr Vance, she cannot; there is something, some mysterious horror, that holds her there as surely as if she were bound with fetters. It holds her more strongly even than it held her father— we found out that he used to spend six months at least of every year at Blackwick— months when he pretended that he was travelling abroad. You see the spell— or whatever the accursed thing may be— never really relaxed its grip of him.'

'Did you never attempt to take your wife away?' asked Vance.

'Yes, several times; but it was hopeless. She would become so ill as soon as we were beyond the limit of the estate that I invariably had to take her back. Once we got as far as Dorekirk— that is the nearest town, you know— and I thought I should be successful if only I could get through the night. But she escaped me; she climbed out of a window— she meant to go back on foot, at night, all those long miles. Then I have had doctors down; but it is I who wanted the doctors, not she. They have ordered me away, but I have refused to obey them till now.'

'Is your wife changed at all— physically?' interrupted Vance.

Davenant reflected. 'Changed,' he said, 'yes, but so subtly that I hardly know how to describe it. She is more beautiful than ever— and yet it isn't the same beauty, if you can understand me. I have spoken of her white complexion, well, one is more than ever conscious of it now, because her lips have become so red— they are almost like a splash of blood upon her face. And the upper one has a peculiar curve that I don't think it had before, and when she laughs she doesn't smile—

Do you know what I mean? Then her hair— it has lost its wonderful gloss. Of course, I know she is fretting about me; but that is so peculiar, too, for at times, as I have told you, she will implore me to go and leave her, and then perhaps only a few minutes later, she will wreathe her arms round my neck and say she cannot live without me. And I feel that there is a struggle going on within her, that she is only yielding slowly to the horrible influence— whatever it is— that she is herself when she begs me to go, but when she entreats me to stay— and it is then that her fascination is most intense— oh, I can't help remembering what she told me before we were married, and that word'— he lowered his voice-'the word "vampire"— '

He passed his hand over his brow that was wet with perspiration. 'But that's absurd, ridiculous,' he muttered; 'these fantastic beliefs have been exploded years ago. We live in the twentieth century.'

A pause ensued, then Vance said quietly, 'Mr Davenant, since you have taken me into your confidence, since you have found doctors of no avail, will you let me try to help you? I think I may be of some use— if it is not already too late. Should you agree, Mr Dexter and I will accompany you, as you have suggested, to Blackwick Castle as early as possible— by tonight's mail North. Under ordinary circumstances I should tell you as you value your life, not to return— '. Davenant shook his head. 'That is advice which I should never take,' he declared. 'I had already decided, under any circumstances, to travel North tonight. I am glad that you both will accompany me.'

And so it was decided. We settled to meet at the station, and presently Paul Davenant took his departure. Any other details that remained to be told he would put us in possession of during the course of the journey.

'A curious and most interesting case,' remarked Vance when we were alone. 'What do you make of it, Dexter?'

'I suppose,' I replied cautiously, 'that there is such a thing as vampirism even in these days of advanced civilization? I can understand the evil influence that a very old person may have upon a young one if they happen to be in constant intercourse— the worn-out tissue sapping healthy vitality for their own support. And there are certain people— I could think of several myself— who seem to depress one and undermine one's energies, quite unconsciously, of course, but one feels somehow that vitality has passed from oneself to them. And in this case, when the force is centuries old, expressing itself, in some mysterious way, through Davenant's wife, is it not feasible to believe that he may be physically affected by it, even though the whole thing is sheerly mental?'

'You think, then,' demanded Vance, 'that it is sheerly mental? Tell me, if that is so, how do you account for the marks on Davenant's throat?'

This was a question to which I found no reply, and though I pressed him for his views, Vance would not commit himself further just then.

Of our long journey to Scotland I need say nothing. We did not reach Blackwick Castle till late in the afternoon of the following day. The place was just as I had conceived it— as I have already described it. And a sense of gloom settled upon me as our car jolted us over the rough road that led through the Gorge of the Winds— a gloom that deepened when we penetrated into the vast cold hall of the castle.

Mrs Davenant, who had been informed by telegram of our arrival, received us cordially. She knew nothing of our actual mission, regarding us merely as friends of her husband's. She was most solicitous on his behalf, but there was something strained about her tone, and it made me feel vaguely uneasy. The impression that I got was that the woman was impelled to everything that she said or did by some force outside herself— but, of course, this was a conclusion that the circumstances I was aware of might easily have conduced to. In every other aspect she was charming, and she had an extraordinary fascination of appearance and manner that made me readily understand the force of a remark made by Davenant during our journey.

'I want to live for Jessica's sake. Get her away from Blackwick, Vance, and I feel that all will be well. I'd go through hell to have her restored to me— as she was.'

And now that I had seen Mrs Davenant I realized what he meant by those last words. Her fascination was stronger than ever, but it was not a natural fascination— not that of a normal woman, such as she had been. It was the fascination of a Circe, of a witch, of an enchantress— and as such was irresistible.

We had a strong proof of the evil within her soon after our arrival. It was a test that Vance had quietly prepared. Davenant had mentioned that no flowers grew at Blackwick, and Vance declared that we must take some with us as a present for the lady of the house. He purchased a bouquet of pure white roses at the little town where we left the train, for the motorcar has been sent to meet us..Soon after our arrival he presented these to Mrs Davenant. She took them it seemed to me nervously, and hardly had her hand touched them before they fell to pieces, in a shower of crumpled petals, to the floor.

'We must act at once,' said Vance to me when we were descending to dinner that night. 'There must be no delay.'

'What are you afraid of?' I whispered.

'Davenant has been absent a week,' he replied grimly. 'He is stronger than when he went away, but not strong enough to survive the loss of more blood. He must be protected. There is danger tonight.'

'You mean from his wife?' I shuddered at the ghastliness of the suggestion.

'That is what time will show.' Vance turned to me and added a few words with intense earnestness. 'Mrs Davenant, Dexter, is at present hovering between two conditions. The evil thing has not yet completely mastered her— you remember what Davenant said, how she would beg him to go away and the next moment entreat him to stay? She has made a struggle, but she is gradually succumbing, and this last week, spent here alone, has strengthened the evil. And that is what I have got to fight, Dexter— it is to be a contest of will, a contest that will go on silently till one or the other obtains the mastery. If you watch, you may see. Should a change show itself in Mrs Davenant you will know that I have won.'

Thus I knew the direction in which my friend proposed to act. It was to be a war of his will against the mysterious power that had laid its curse upon the house of MacThane. Mrs Davenant must be released from the fatal charm that held her.

And I, knowing what was going on, was able to watch and understand. I realized that the silent contest had begun even while we ate dinner. Mrs Davenant ate practically nothing and seemed ill at ease; she fidgeted in her chair, talked a great deal, and laughed— it was the laugh without a smile, as Davenant had described it. And as soon as she was able to she withdrew.

Later, as we sat in the drawing-room, I could feel the clash of wills. The air in the room felt electric and heavy, charged with tremendous but invisible forces. And outside, round the castle, the wind whistled and shrieked and moaned— it was as if all the dead and gone MacThanes, a grim army, had collected to fight the battle of their race.

And all this while we four in the drawing-room were sitting and talking the ordinary commonplaces of after— dinner conversation! That was the extraordinary part of it— Paul Davenant suspected nothing, and I, who knew, had to play my part. But I hardly took my eyes from Jessica's face. When would the change come, or was it, indeed, too late!

At last Davenant rose and remarked that he was tired and would go to bed. There was no need for Jessica to hurry. We would sleep that night in his dressing-room and did not want to be disturbed.

And it was at that moment, as his lips met hers in a goodnight kiss, as she wreathed her enchantress arms about him, careless of our presence, her eyes gleaming hungrily, that the change came.

It came with a fierce and threatening shriek of wind, and a rattling of the casement, as if the horde of ghosts without was about to break in upon us. A long, quivering sigh escaped from Jessica's lips, her arms fell from her husband's shoulders, and she drew back, swaying a little from side to side.

'Paul,' she cried, and somehow the whole timbre of her voice was changed, 'what a wretch I've been to bring you back to Blackwick, ill as you are! But we'll go away, dear; yes, I'll go, too. Oh, will you take me away— take me away tomorrow?' She spoke with an intense earnestness— unconscious all the time of what had been happening to her. Long shudders were convulsing her frame. 'I don't know why I've wanted to stay here,' she kept repeating. 'I hate the place, really— it's evil— evil.'

Having heard these words I exulted, for surely Vance's success was assured. But I was to learn that the danger was not yet past.

Husband and wife separated, each going to their own room. I noticed the grateful, if mystified glance that Davenant threw at Vance, vaguely aware, as he must have been, that my friend was somehow responsible for what had happened. It was settled that plans for departure were to be discussed on the morrow.

'I have succeeded,' Vance said hurriedly, when we were alone, 'but the change may be a transitory. I must keep watch tonight. Go you to bed, Dexter, there is nothing that you can do.'

I obeyed— though I would sooner have kept watch, too— watch against a danger of which I had no understanding. I went to my room, a gloomy and sparsely furnished apartment, but I knew that it was quite impossible for me to think of sleeping. And so, dressed as I was, I went and sat by the open window, for now the wind that had raged round the castle had died down to a low moaning in the pinetrees— a whimpering of time-worn agony.

And it was as I sat thus that I became aware of a white figure that stole out from the castle by a door that I could not see, and, with hands clasped, ran swiftly across the terrace to the wood. I had but a momentary glance, but I felt convinced that the figure was that of Jessica Davenant.

And instinctively I knew that some great danger was imminent. It was, I think, the suggestion of despair conveyed by those clasped hands. At any rate, I did not hesitate. My window was some height from the ground, but the wall below was ivy-clad and afforded good foothold. The descent was quite easy. I achieved it, and was just in time to take up the pursuit in the right direction, which was into the thickness of the wood that clung to the slope of the hill.

I shall never forget that wild chase. There was just sufficient room to enable me to follow the rough path, which, luckily, since I had now lost sight of my quarry, was the only possible way that she could have taken; there were no intersecting tracks, and the wood was too thick on either side to permit of deviation.

And the wood seemed full of dreadful sounds— moaning and wailing and hideous laughter.

The wind, of course, and the screaming of night birds— once I felt the fluttering of wings in close proximity to my face. But I could not rid myself of the thought that I, in my turn, was being pursued, that the forces of hell were combined against me.

The path came to an abrupt end on the border of the sombre lake that I have already mentioned. And now I realized that I was indeed only just in time, for before me, plunging knee deep in the water, I recognized the white-clad figure of the woman I had been pursuing. Hearing my footsteps, she turned her head, and then threw up her arms and screamed. Her red hair fell in heavy masses about her shoulders, and her face, as I saw it in that moment, was hardly human for the agony of remorse that it depicted.

'Go!' she screamed. 'For God's sake let me die!'

But I was by her side almost as she spoke. She struggled with me— sought vainly to tear herself from my clasp— implored me, with panting breath, to let her drown.

'It's the only way to save him!' she gasped. 'Don't you understand that I am a thing accursed? For it is I— I— who have sapped his life blood! I know it now, the truth has been revealed to me tonight! I am a vampire, without hope in this world or the next, so for his sake— for the sake of his unborn child— let me die— let me die!'.Was ever so terrible an appeal made? Yet I— what could I do? Gently I overcame her resistance and drew her back to shore. By the time I reached it she was lying a dead weight upon my arm. I laid her down upon a mossy bank, and, kneeling by her side, gazed intently into her face.

And then I knew that I had done well. For the face I looked upon was not that of Jessica the vampire, as I had seen it that afternoon, it was the face of Jessica, the woman whom Paul Davenant had loved.

And later Aylmer Vance had his tale to tell.

'I waited', he said, 'until I knew that Davenant was asleep, and then I stole into his room to watch by his bedside. And presently she came, as I guessed she would, the vampire, the accursed thing that has preyed upon the souls of her kin, making them like to herself when they too have passed into Shadowland, and gathering sustenance for her horrid task from the blood of those who are alien to her race. Paul's body and Jessica's soul— it is for one and the other, Dexter, that we have fought.'

'You mean,' I hesitated, 'Zaida the witch?'

'Even so,' he agreed. 'Hers is the evil spirit that has fallen like a blight upon the house of MacThane. But now I think she may be exorcized for ever.'

'Tell me.'

'She came to Paul Davenant last night, as she must have done before, in the guise of his wife.

You know that Jessica bears a strong resemblance to her ancestress. He opened his arms, but she was foiled of her prey, for I had taken my precautions; I had placed That upon Davenant's breast while he slept which robbed the vampire of her power of ill. She sped wailing from the room— a shadow— she who a minute before had looked at him with Jessica's eyes and spoken to him with Jessica's voice. Her red lips were Jessica's lips, and they were close to his when his eyes were opened and he saw her as she was— a hideous phantom of the corruption of the ages. And so the spell was removed, and she fled away to the place whence she had come— '

He paused. 'And now?' I inquired.

'Blackwick Castle must be razed to the ground,' he replied. 'That is the only way. Every stone of it, every brick, must be ground to powder and burnt with fire, for therein is the cause of all the evil. Davenant has consented.'

'And Mrs Davenant?'

'I think,' Vance answered cautiously, 'that all may be well with her. The curse will be removed with the destruction of the castle. She has not— thanks to you— perished under its influence. She was less guilty than she imagined— herself preyed upon rather than preying. But can't you understand her remorse when she realized, as she was bound to realize, the part she had played? And the knowledge of the child to come— its fatal inheritance— '

'I understand.' I muttered with a shudder. And then, under my breath, I whispered, 'Thank God!'

______________________

12: The Specialist

Charles  ('Chic') Sale

(1885-1936)

LEM PUTT—that wasn't his real name— really lived. He was just as sincere in his work as a great painter whose heart is in his canvas; and in this little sketch I have simply tried to bring to you recollections of a man I once knew, who was so rich in odd and likeable traits of character as to make a most lasting impression on my memory.

C.S.

YOU'VE HEERD a lot of pratin' and prattlin' about this bein' the age of specialization. I'm a carpenter by trade. At one time I could of built a house, barn, church or chicken coop. But I seen the need of a specialist in my line, so I studied her. I got her; she's mine. Gentlemen, you are face to face with the champion privy builder of Sangamon County.

Luke Harkins was my first customer. He heerd about me specializin' and decided to take a chance. I built fer him just the average eight family three holer. With that job my reputation was made, and since then I have devoted all my time and thought to that special line. Of course, when business is slack, I do do a little paper-hangin' on the side. But my heart is just in privy buildin'. And when I finish a job, I ain't through. I give all my customers six months' privy service free gratis. I explained this to Luke, and one day he calls me up and sez: 'Lem, I wish you'd come out here; I'm havin' privy trouble'.

So I gits in the car and drives out to Luke's place, and hid behind them Baldwins, where I could get a good view of the situation.

It was right in the middle of hayin' time, and them hired hands was goin' in there and stayin' anywheres from forty minutes to an hour. Think of that!

I sez: 'Luke, you sure have got privy trouble'. So I takes out my kit of tools and goes in to examine the structure.

First I looks at the catalogue hangin' there, thinkin' it might be that; but it wasn't even from a reckonized house. Then I looks at the seats proper, and I see what the trouble was. I had made them holes too durn comfortable. So I gets out a scroll saw and cuts 'em square with hard edges. Then I go back and takes up my position as before—me here, the Baldwins here, and the privy there. And I watched them hired hands goin' in and out for nearly two hours; and not one of them was stayin' more than four minutes.

'Luke,' I sez, 'I've solved her.' That's what comes of bein' a specialist, gentlemen.

'Twarn't long after I built that twin job for the school house, and then after that the biggest plant up to date—a eight holer. Elmer Ridgway was down and looked it over. And he come to me one day and sez: 'Lem, I seen that eight hole job you done down there at the Corners, and it sure is a dandy; and figgerin' as how I'm goin' to build on the old Robinson property, I thought I'd ask you to kind of estimate on a job for me'.

'You come to the right man, Elmer,' I sez. 'I'll be out as soon as I get the roof on the two-seater I'm puttin' up for the Sheriff.'

Couple of days later I drives out to Elmer's place, gettin' there about dinner time. I knocks a couple of times on the door and I see they got a lot of folks to dinner, so not wishin' to disturb 'em, I just sneaks around to the side door and yells, 'Hey, Elmer, here I am; where do you want that privy put?'

Elmer comes out and we get to talkin' about a good location. He was all fer puttin' her right alongside a jagged path runnin' by a big Northern Spy.

'I wouldn't do it, Elmer,' I sez; 'and I'll tell you why. In the first place, her bein' near a tree is bad. There ain't no sound in nature so disconcertin' as the sound of apples droppin' on th' roof. Then another thing, there's a crooked path runnin' by that tree and the soil there ain't adapted to absorbin' moisture. Durin' the rainy season she's likely to be slippery. Take your grandpappy—goin' out there is about the only recreation he gets. He'll go out some rainy night with his nighties flappin' around his legs, and like as not when you come out in the mornin' you'll find him prone in the mud, or maybe skidded off one of them curves and wound up in the corn crib. No, sir,' I sez, 'put her in a straight line with the house and if it's all the same to you have her go past the woodpile. I'll tell you why.

'Take a woman, fer instance—out she goes. On the way back she'll gather five sticks of wood, and the average woman will make four or five trips a day. There's twenty sticks in the wood box without any trouble. On the other hand, take a timid woman, if she sees any men folks around, she's too bashful to go direct out, so she'll go to the wood-pile, pick up the wood, go back to the house and watch her chance. The average timid woman—especially a new hired girl—I've knowed to make as many as ten trips to the wood-pile before she goes in, regardless. On a good day you'll have your wood box filled by noon, and right there is a savin' of time.

'Now, about the diggin' of her. You can't be too careful about that,' I sez; 'dig her deep and dig her wide. It's a mighty sight better to have a little privy over a big hole than a big privy over a little hole. Another thing; when you dig her deep you've got 'er dug; and you ain't got that disconcertin' thought stealin' over you that sooner or later you'll have to dig again.

'And when it comes to construction,' I sez, 'I can give you joists or beams. Joists make a good job. Beams cost a bit more, but they're worth it. Beams, you might say, will last forever. 'Course, I could give you joists, but take your Aunt Emmy, she ain't gettin' a mite lighter. Some day she might be out there when them joists give way and there she'd be—catched. Another thing you've got to figger on, Elmer,' I sez, 'is that Odd Fellows picnic in the fall. Them boys is goin' to get in there in fours and sixes, singin' and drinkin', and the like, and I want to tell you there's nothin' breaks up an Odd Fellows picnic quicker than a diggin' party. Beams, I say, every time, and rest secure.

'And about her roof,' I sez. 'I can give you a lean-to type or a pitch roof. Pitch roofs cost a little more, but some of our best people has lean-tos. If it was fer myself, I'd have a lean-to, and I'll tell you why.

'A lean-to has two less corners fer the wasps to build their nests in; and on a hot August afternoon there ain't nothin' so disconcertin' as a lot of wasps buzzin' 'round while you're settin' there doin' a little readin', figgerin', or thinkin'. Another thing,' I sez, 'a lean-to gives you a high door. Take that son of yours, shootin' up like a weed; don't any of him seem to be turnin' under. If he was tryin' to get under a pitch roof door he'd crack his head every time. Take a lean-to, Elmer; they ain't stylish, but they're practical.

'Now, about her furnishin's. I can give you a nail or hook for the catalogue, and besides, a box for cobs. You take your pa, for instance; he's of the old school and naturally he'd prefer the box; so put 'em both in, Elmer. Won't cost you a bit more for the box and keeps peace in the family. You can't teach an old dog new tricks,' I sez.

'And as long as we're on furnishin's, I'll tell you about a technical point that was put to me the other day. The question was this: "What is the life, or how long will the average mail order catalogue last, in just the plain, ordinary eight family three holer?" It stumped me for a spell; but this bein' a reasonable question I checked up, and found that by placin' the catalogue in there, say in January—when you get your new one—you should be into the harness section by June; but, of course, that ain't through apple time, and not countin' on too many city visitors, either.

'An' another thing—they've been puttin' so many of those stiff-coloured sheets in the catalogue here lately that it makes it hard to figger. Somethin' really ought to be done about this, and I've thought about takin' it up with Mr. Sears Roebuck hisself.

'As to the latch fer her, I can give you a spool and string, or a hook and eye. The cost of a spool and string is practically nothin', but they ain't positive in action. If somebody comes out and starts rattlin' the door, either the spool or the string is apt to give way, and there you are. But, with a hook and eye she's yours, you might say, for the whole afternoon, if you're so minded. Put on the hook and eye of the best quality 'cause there ain't nothin' that'll rack a man's nerves more than to be sittin' there ponderin', without a good, strong, substantial latch on the door.' And he agreed with me.

'Now,' I sez, 'what about windows; some want 'em, some don't. They ain't so popular as they used to be. If it was me, Elmer, I'd say no windows; and I'll tell you why. Take, fer instance, somebody comin' out—maybe they're just in a hurry or maybe they waited too long. If the door don't open right away and you won't answer 'em, nine times out of ten they'll go 'round and 'round and look in the window, and you don't get the privacy you ought to.

'Now, about ventilators, or the designs I cut in the doors. I can give you stars, diamonds, or crescents—there ain't much choice—all give good service. A lot of people like stars, because they throw a ragged shadder. Others like crescents 'cause they're graceful and simple. Last year we was cuttin' a lot of stars; but this year people are kinda quietin' down and runnin' more to crescents. I do cut twinin' hearts now and then for young married couples; and bunches of grapes for the newly rich. These last two designs come under the head of novelties and I don't very often suggest 'em, because it takes time and runs into money.

"I wouldn't take any snap judgment on her ventilators, Elmer,' I sez, 'because they've got a lot to do with the beauty of the structure. And don't over-do it, like Doc Turner did. He wanted stars and crescents both, against my better judgment, and now he's sorry. But it's too late; 'cause when I cut 'em, they're cut.' And, gentlemen, you can get mighty tired, sittin' day after day lookin' at a ventilator that ain't to your likin'.

I never use knotty timber. All clean white pine— and I'll tell you why: You take a knot hole; if it doesn't fall out it will get pushed out; and if it comes in the door, nine times out of ten it will be too high to sit there and look out, and just the right height for some snooper to sneak around, peak in— and there you are— catched.

'Now,' I sez, 'how do you want that door to swing? Openin' in or out?' He said he didn't know. So I sez it should open in. This is the way it works out: 'Place yourself in there. The door openin' in, say about forty-five degree. This gives you air and lets the sun beat in. Now, if you hear anybody comin', you can give it a quick shove with your foot and there you are. But if she swings out, where are you? You can't run the risk of havin' her open for air or sun, because if anyone comes, you can't get up off that seat, reach way around and grab 'er without gettin' caught, now can you?' He could see I was right.

So I built his door like all my doors, swingin' in, and, of course, facing east, to get the full benefit of th' sun. And I tell you, gentlemen, there ain't nothin' more restful than to get out there in the mornin', comfortably seated, with th' door about three-fourths open. The old sun, beatin' in on you, sort of relaxes a body—makes you feel m-i-g-h-t-y, m-i-g-h-t-y r-e-s-t-f-u-l.

'Now,' I sez, 'about the paintin' of her. What color do you want 'er, Elmer?' He said red. 'Elmer,' I sez, 'I can paint her red, and red makes a beautiful job; or I can paint her a bright green, or any one of a half-dozen other colors, and they're all mighty pretty; but it ain't practical to use a single solid colour, and I'll tell you why. She's too durn hard to see at night. You need contrast—just like they use on them railroad crossin' bars—so you can see 'em in the dark.

'If I was you, I'd paint her a bright red, with white trimmin's—just like your barn. Then she'll match up nice in the daytime, and you can spot 'er easy at night, when you ain't got much time to go scoutin' around.

'There's a lot of fine points to puttin' up a first-class privy that the average man don't think about. It's no job for an amachoor, take my word on it. There's a whole lot more to it than you can see by just takin' a few squints at your nabor's. Why, one of the worst tragedies around heer in years was because old man Clark's boys thought they knowed somethin' about this kind of work, and they didn't.

'Old man Clark—if he's a day he's ninety-seven—lives over there across the holler with his boys. Asked me to come over and estimate on their job. My price was too high; so they decided to do it themselves. And that's where the trouble begun.

'I was doin' a little paper hangin' at the time for that widder that lives down past the old creamery. As I'd drive by I could see the boys a-workin'. Of course, I didn't want to butt in, so used to just holler at 'em on the way by and say, naborly like: "Hey, boys, see you're doin' a little buildin'." You see, I didn't want to act like I was buttin' in on their work; but I knowed all the time they was goin' to have trouble with that privy. And they did. From all outside appearance it was a regulation job, but not being experienced along this line, they didn't anchor her.

'You see, I put a 4 by 4 that runs from the top right straight on down five foot into the ground. That's why you never see any of my jobs upset Hallowe'en night. They might pull 'em out, but they'll never upset 'em.

'Here's what happened: They didn't anchor theirs, and they painted it solid red—two bad mistakes.

'Hallowe'en night came along, darker than pitch. Old man Clark was out in there. Some of them devilish nabor boys was out for no good, and they upset 'er with the old man in it.

'Of course, the old man got to callin' and his boys heard the noise. One of 'em sez: "What's the racket? Somebody must be at the chickens." So they took the lantern, started out to the chicken shed. They didn't find anything wrong there, and they started back to the house. Then they heerd the dog bark, and one of his boys sez: "Sounds like that barkin' is over towards the privy." It bein' painted red, they couldn't see she was upset, so they started over there.

'In the meantime the old man had gotten so confused that he started to crawl out through the hole, yellin' for help all the time. The boys reckonized his voice and come runnin', but just as they got there he lost his holt and fell. After that they just called—didn't go near him. So you see what a tragedy that was; and they tell me he has been practically ostercized from society ever since.'

Well, time passed, and I finally got Elmer's job done; and, gentlemen, everybody says that, next to my eight holer, it's the finest piece of construction work in the county.

Sometimes, when I get to feelin' blue and thinkin' I hitched my wagon to the wrong star, and maybe I should have took up chiropracty or veternary, I just pack the little woman and the kids in the back of my car and start out, aimin' to fetch up at Elmer's place along about dusk.

When we gets to the top of the hill overlookin' his place, we stops. I slips the gear in mutual, and we jest sit there lookin' at that beautiful sight. There sits that privy on that knoll near the woodpile, painted red and white, mornin' glories growin' up over her and Mr. Sun bathin' her in a burst of yeller color as he drops back of them hills. You can hear the dog barkin' in the distance, bringin' the cows up fer milkin', and the slow squeak of Elmer's windmill pumpin' away day after day the same as me.

As I look at that beautiful picture of my work, I'm proud. I heaves a sigh of satisfaction, my eyes fill up and I sez to myself, 'Folks are right when they say that next to my eight holer that's the finest piece of construction work I ever done. I know I done right in Specializin'; I'm sittin' on top of the world; and I hope that boy of mine who is growin' up like a weed keeps up the good work when I'm gone.'

With one last look as we pulls away, I slips my arm around the Missus and I sez: 'Nora, Elmer don't have to worry, he's a boy that's got hisself a privy, a m-i-g-h-t-y, m-i-g-h-t-y, p-r-e-t-t-y p-r-i-v-y.'

________________

13: The Great Pegram Mystery

Robert Barr

"The Idler Magazine" May 1892

One of the earliest Sherlock Holmes parodies

I DROPPED in on my friend, Sherlaw Kombs, to hear what he had to say about the Pegram mystery, as it had come to be called in the newspapers. I found him playing the violin with a look of sweet peace and serenity on his face, which I never noticed on the countenances of those within hearing distance. I knew this expression of seraphic calm indicated that Kombs had been deeply annoyed about something. Such, indeed, proved to be the case, for one of the morning papers had contained an article eulogizing the alertness and general competence of Scotland Yard. So great was Sherlaw Kombs's contempt for Scotland Yard that he never would visit Scotland during his vacations, nor would he ever admit that a Scotchman was fit for anything but export.

He generously put away his violin, for he had a sincere liking for me, and greeted me with his usual kindness.

"I have come," I began, plunging at once into the matter on my mind, "to hear what you think of the great Pegram mystery."

"I haven't heard of it," he said quietly, just as if all London were not talking of that very thing. Kombs was curiously ignorant on some subjects, and abnormally learned on others. I found, for instance, that political discussion with him was impossible, because he did not know who Salisbury and Gladstone were. This made his friendship a great boon. "The Pegram mystery has baffled even Gregory, of Scotland

Yard."

"I can well believe it," said my friend, calmly. "Perpetual motion, or squaring the circle, would baffle Gregory. He's an infant, is

Gregory."

This was one of the things I always liked about Kombs. was no professional jealousy in him, such as characterizes so many

other men.

He filled his pipe, threw himself into his deep-seated arm-chair, placed his feet on the mantel, and clasped his hands behind his

head.

"Tell me about it," he said simply.

"Old Barrie Kipson," I began, "was a stock-broker in the City. He lived in Pegram, and it was his custom to — "

"CoME IN!" shouted Kombs, without changing his position, but with a suddenness that startled me. I had heard no knock.

"Excuse me," said my friend, laughing, "my invitation to enter was a trifle premature. I was really so interested in your recital that I spoke before I thought, which a detective should never do. The fact is, a man will be here in a moment who will tell me all about diis crime, and so you will be spared further effort in that line."

"Ah, you have an appointment. In that case I will not intrude," I said, rising.

"Sit down; I have no appointment. I did not know until I spoke that he was coming."

I gazed at him in amazement. Accustomed as I was to his extraordinary talents, the man was a perpetual surprise to me. He continued to smoke quietly, but evidently enjoyed my consternation.

"I see you are surprised. It is really too simple to talk about, but, from my position opposite die mirror, I can see die reflection of objects in the street. A man stopped, looked at one of my cards, and then glanced across die street. I recognized my card, because, as you know, they are all in scarlet. If, as you say, London is talking of this mystery, it naturally follows diat he will talk of it, and the chances are he wished to consult with me upon it. Anyone can see that, besides there is always— Come in!"

There was a rap at the door diis time.

A stranger entered. Sherlaw Kombs did not change his lounging attitude.

"I wish to see Mr. Sherlaw Kombs, the detective," said the stranger, coming within the range of the smoker's vision.

"This is Mr. Kombs," I remarked at last, as my friend smoked quietly, and seemed half-asleep.

"Allow me to introduce myself," continued the stranger, fumbling for a card.

"There is no need. You are a journalist," said Kombs.

"Ah," said the stranger, somewhat taken aback, "you know me, then."

"Never saw or heard of you in my life before."

"Then how in the world —

"Nothing simpler. You write for an evening paper. You have written an article condemning the book of a friend. He will feel bad

about it, and you will condole with him. He will never know who stabbed him unless I tell him."

"The devil!" cried the journalist, sinking into a chair and mopping his brow, while his face became livid.

"Yes," drawled Kombs, "it is a devil of a shame that such things are done. But what would you, as we say in France."

When the journalist had recovered his second wind he pulled himself together somewhat. "Would you object to telling me how you know these particulars about a man you say you have never seen?"

"I rarely talk about these things," said Kombs with great composure. "But as the cultivation of the habit of observation may help you in your profession, and thus in a remote degree benefit me by making your paper less deadly dull, I will tell you. Your first and second fingers are smeared with ink, which shows that you write a great deal. This smeared class embraces two subclasses, clerks or accountants, and journalists. Clerks have to be neat in their work, The ink smear is slight in their case. Your fingers are badly and carelessly smeared; therefore, you are a journalist. You have an evening paper in your pocket. Anyone might have any evening paper, but yours is a Special Edition, which will not be on the street? for half an hour yet. You must have obtained it before you left the office, and to do this you must be on the staff. A book notice is marked with a blue pencil. A journalist always despises every article in hi; own paper not written by himself; therefore, you wrote the artick you have marked, and doubtless are about to send it to the author oi the book referred to. Your paper makes a speciality of abusing al books not written by some member of its own staff. That the authoi is a friend of yours, I merely surmised. It is all a trivial example oi ordinary observation."

"Really, Mr. Kombs, you are the most wonderful man on earth You are the equal of Gregory, by Jove, you are."

A frown marred the brow of my friend as he placed his pipe or the sideboard and drew his self-cocking. six-shooter.

"Do you mean to insult me, sir?"

"I do not— I— I assure you. You are fit to take charge of Scotland Yard to-morrow — I am in earnest, indeed I am, sir."

"Then heaven help you," cried Kombs, slowly raising his right arm.

I sprang between them.

"Don't shoot!" I cried. "You will spoil the carpet. Besides, Sherlaw, don't you see the man means well. He actually thinks it is a compliment!"

"Perhaps you are right," remarked the detective, flinging his revolver carelessly beside his pipe, much to the relief of the third party. Then, turning to the journalist, he said, with his customary bland courtesy —

"You wanted to see me, I think you said. What can I do for you, Mr. Wilber Scribbings?"

The journalist started.

"How do you know my name?" he gasped.

Kombs waved his hand impatiently.

"Look inside your hat if you doubt your own name."

I then noticed for the first time that the name was plainly to be seen inside the top-hat Scribbings held upside down in his hands.

"You have heard, of course, of the Pegram mystery—"

"Tush," cried the detective; "do not, I beg of you, call it a mystery. There is no such thing. Life would become more tolerable if there ever was a mystery. Nothing is original. Everything has been done before. What about the Pegram affair?"

"The Pegram — ah— case has baffled everyone. The Evening Blade wishes you to investigate, so that it may publish the result. It will pay you well. Will you accept the commission?"

"Possibly. Tell me about the case."

"I thought everybody knew the particulars. Mr. Barrie Kipson lived at Pegram. He carried a first-class season ticket between the terminus and that station. It was his custom to leave for Pegram on the 5.30 train each evening. Some weeks ago, Mr. Kipson was brought down by the influenza. On his first visit to the City after his recovery, he drew something like ^300 in notes, and left the office at his usual hour to catch the 5.30. He was never seen again alive, as far as the public have been able to learn. He was found at Brewster in a first-class compartment on the Scotch Express, which does not stop between London and Brewster. There was a bullet in his head,and his money was gone, pointing plainly to murder and robbery."

"And where is the mystery, might I ask?"

"There are several unexplainable things about the case. First, how came he on the Scotch Express, which leaves at six, and does not stop at Pegram? Second, the ticket examiners at the terminus would have turned him out if he showed his season ticket; and all the tickets sold for the Scotch Express on the 21 st are accounted for. Third, how could the murderer have escaped ? Fourth, the passengers in two compartments on each side of the one where the body was found heard no scuffle and no shot fired."

"Are you sure the Scotch Express on the 2ist did not stop between London and Brewster?"

"Now that you mention the fact, it did. It was stopped by signal just outside of Pegram. There was a few moments' pause, when the line was reported clear, and it went on again. This frequently happens, as there is a branch line beyond Pegram."

Mr. Sherlaw Kombs pondered for a few moments, smoking his pipe silently.

"I presume you wish the solution in time for to-morrow's paper?"

"Bless my soul, no. The editor thought if you evolved a theory in a month you would do well."

"My dear sir, I do not deal with theories, but with facts. If you can make it convenient to call here to-morrow at 8 A.M. I will give you the full particulars early enough for the first edition. There is no sense in taking up much time over so simple an affair as the Pegram case. Good afternoon, sir."

Mr. Scribbings was too much astonished to return the greeting. He left in a speechless condition, and I saw him go up the street with his hat still in his hand.

Sherlaw Kombs relapsed into his old lounging attitude, with his hands clasped behind his head. The smoke came from his lips in quick puffs at first, then at longer intervals. I saw he was coming to a conclusion, so I said nothing.

Finally he spoke in his most dreamy manner. "I do not wish to seem to be rushing things at all, Whatson, but I am going out to-night on the Scotch Express. Would you care to accompany me?"

"Bless me!" I cried, glancing at the clock. "You haven't time, it is after five now."

"Ample time, Whatson — ample," he murmured, without changing his position. "I give myself a minute and a half to change slippers and dressing-gown for boots and coat, three seconds for hat, twenty-five seconds to the street, forty-two seconds waiting for a hansom, and then seven minutes at the terminus before the express starts. I shall be glad of your company."

I was only too happy to have the privilege of going with him. It was most interesting to watch the workings of so inscrutable a mind. As we drove under the lofty iron roof of the terminus I noticed a look of annoyance pass over his face.

"We are fifteen seconds ahead of our time," he remarked, looking at the big clock. "I dislike having a miscalculation of that sort occur."

The great Scotch Express stood ready for its long journey. The detective tapped one of the guards on the shoulder.

"You have heard of the so-called Pegram mystery, I presume?"

"Certainly, sir. It happened on this very train, sir."

"Really? Is the same carriage still on the train?"

"Well, yes, sir, it is," replied the guard, lowering his voice, "but of course, sir, we have to keep very quiet about it. People wouldn't travel in it, else, sir."

"Doubtless. Do you happen to know if anybody occupies the compartment in which the body was found?"

"A lady and gentleman, sir; I put 'em in myself, sir."

"Would you further oblige me," said the detective, deftly slipping half a sovereign into the hand of the guard, "by going to the window and informing them in an offhand casual sort of way that the tragedy took place in that compartment?"

"Certainly, sir."

We followed the guard, and the moment he had imparted his news there was a suppressed scream in the carriage. Instantly a lady came out, followed by a florid-faced gentleman, who scowled at the guard. We entered the now empty compartment, and Kombs said:

"We would like to be alone here until we reach Brewster."

"I'll see to that, sir," answered the guard, locking the door.

When the official moved away, I asked my friend what he expected to find in the carriage that would cast any light on the case.

"Nothing," was his brief reply.

"Then why do you come?"

"Merely to corroborate the conclusions I have already arrived at."

"And might I ask what those conclusions are?"

"Certainly," replied the detective, with a touch of lassitude in his voice. "I beg to call your attention, first, to the fact that this train stands between two platforms, and can be entered from either side. Any man familiar with the station for years would be aware of that fact. This shows how Mr. Kipson entered the train just before it started."

"But the door on this side is locked," I objected, trying it.

"Of course. But every season ticket holder carries a key. This accounts for the guard not seeing him, and for the absence of a ticket. Now let me give you some information about the influenza. The patient's temperature rises several degrees above normal, and he has a fever. When the malady has run its course, the temperature falls to three quarters of a degree below normal. These facts are unknown to you, I imagine, because you are a doctor."

I admitted such was the case.

"Well, the consequence of this fall in temperature is that the convalescent's mind turns towards thoughts of suicide. Then is the time he should be watched by his friends. Then was the time Mr. Barrie Kipson's friends did not watch him. You remember the 2ist, of course. No? It was a most depressing day. Fog all around and mud under foot. Very good. He resolves on suicide. He wishes to be unidentified, if possible, but forgets his season ticket. My experience is that a man about to commit a crime always forgets something."

"But how do you account for the disappearance ot the money.-'

"The money has nothing to do with the matter. If he was a deep man, and knew the stupidness of Scotland Yard, he probably sent the notes to an enemy. If not, they may have been given to a friend. Nothing is more calculated to prepare the mind for self-destruction than the prospect of a night ride on the Scotch Express, and the view from the windows of the train as it passes through the northern part of London is particularly conducive to thoughts of annihilation." "What became of the weapon?"

"That is just the point on which I wish to satisfy myself. Excuse me for a moment." Mr. Sherlaw Kombs drew down the window on the right-hand side, and examined the top of the casing minutely with a magnifying glass. Presently he heaved a sigh of relief, and drew up the sash.

"Just as I expected," he remarked, speaking more to himself than to me. "There is a slight dent on the top of the window frame. It is of such a nature as to be made only by the trigger of a pistol falling from the nerveless hand of a suicide. He intended to throw the weapon far out of the window, but had not the strength. It might have fallen into the carriage. As a matter of fact, it bounced away from the line and lies among the grass about ten feet six inches from the outside rail. The only question that now remains is where the deed was committed, and the exact present position of the pistol reckoned in miles from London, but that, fortunately, is too simple even to need explanation."

"Great heavens, Sherlaw!" I cried. "How can you call that simple? It seems to me impossible to compute."

We were now flying over northern London, and the great detective leaned back with every sign of ennui, closing his eyes. At last he spoke wearily:

"It is really too elementary, Whatson, but I am always willing to oblige a friend. I shall be relieved, however, when you are able to work out the A B C of detection for yourself, although I shall never object to helping you with the words of more than three syllables. Having made up his mind to commit suicide, Kipson naturally intended to do it before he reached Brewster, because tickets are again examined at that point. When the train began to stop at the signal near Pegram, he came to the false conclusion that it was stopping at Brewster. The fact that the shot was not heard is accounted for by the screech of the air-brake, added to the noise of the train. Probably the whistle was also sounding at the same moment. The train being a fast express would stop as near the signal as possible. The air-brake will stop a train in twice its own length. Call it three times in this case. Very well. At three times the length of this train from the signal-post towards London, deducting half the length of the train, as this carriage is in the middle, you will find the pistol."

"Wonderful!" I exclaimed.

"Commonplace," he murmured.

At this moment the whistle sounded shrilly, and we felt the grind of the air-brakes.

"The Pegram signal again," cried Kombs, with something almost like enthusiasm. "This is indeed luck. We will get out here, Whatson, and test the matter."

As the train stopped, we got out on the right-hand side of the line. The engine stood panting impatiently under the red light, which changed to green as I looked at it. As the train moved on with increasing speed, the detective counted the carriages, and noted down the number. It was now dark, with the thin crescent of the moon hanging in the western sky throwing a weird half-light on the shining metals. The rear lamps of the train disappeared around a curve, and the signal stood at baleful red again. The black magic of the lonesome night in that strange place impressed me, but the detective was a most practical man. He placed his back against the signal-post, and paced up the line with even strides, counting his steps. I walked along the permanent way beside him silently. At last he stopped, and took a tape-line from his pocket. He ran it out until the ten feet six inches were unrolled, scanning the figures in the wan light of the new moon. Giving me the end, he placed his knuckles on the metals, motioning me to proceed down the embankment. I stretched out the line, and then sank my hand in the damp grass to mark the spot.

"Good God!" I cried, aghast. "What is this?"

"It is the pistol," said Kombs quietly.

It was!

Journalistic London will not soon forget the sensation that was caused by the record of the investigations of Sherlaw Kombs, as printed at length in the next day's Evening Blade. Would that my story ended here. Alas! Kombs contemptuously turned over the pistol to Scotland Yard. The meddlesome officials, actuated, as I always hold, by jealousy, found the name of the seller upon it. They investigated. The seller testified that it had never been in the possession of Mr. Kipson, as far as he knew. It was sold to a man whose description tallied with that of a criminal long watched by the police. He was arrested, and turned Queen's evidence in the hope of hanging his pal.

It seemed that Mr. Kipson, who was a gloomy, taciturn man, and usually came home in a compartment by himself, thus escaping observation, had been murdered in the lane leading to his house. After robbing him, the miscreants turned their thoughts towards the disposal of the body— a subject that always occupies a first-class criminal mind after the deed is done. They agreed to place it on the line, and have it mangled by the Scotch Express, then nearly due. Before they got the body half-way up the embankment the express came along and stopped. The guard got out and walked along the other side to speak with the engineer. The thought of putting the body into an empty first-class carriage instantly occurred to the murderers. They opened the door with the deceased's key. It is supposed that the pistol dropped when they were hoisting the body in the carriage.

The Queen's evidence dodge didn't work, and Scotland Yard ignobly insulted my friend Sherlaw Kombs by sending him a pass to see the villains hanged.

_____________________

14: Beyond The Spectrum

Arthur Leo Zagat

(1895-1949)

Astounding Stories, August 1934

"TANASOTA! Tanasota! All out for Tanasota!" The welcome cry of the brake-man signaled the end of my trip. The "all" meant me, I noted; no one else escaped from the sooty discomfort of the decrepit accommodation local.

The old depot platform of the little Florida town was deserted. Strangely so, for the well-kept shops, the trim streets radiating from the station park would seem to indicate that this was a bustling, modern, ultra-American settlement. A tan and blue signboard caught my eye:

WELCOME TO TANASOTA

POPULATION 5,000

HELP US GROW

TANASOTA CHAMBER OF COMMERCE

Henry Maury, President

but the blazing sun had park and streets to itself; no line of autos banked the high curbs of the gleaming sidewalks, not even a dog moved.

Far up the main street of the town a cloud of dust appeared, darting toward me. It solidified into an automobile approaching at breakneck speed. In moments it was skidding to a stop at the platform—and Tom Denton was jumping from it.

I was thunderstruck at the change two weeks had made in him. His face was gray and lined, his smile of greeting palpably forced. And the laughing humor of his eyes had given place to—was it grief, fear, that peered at me from those burnt-out orbs?

"Ed, old man! Thank God you've come!" The hand that seized mine was trembling. "Quick! Hop in and we'll get away from here!"

There was an urgency, a driving haste in his voice that choked back my questions. Before I quite realized what was happening, he had me in his car, was hunched over the wheel, was hurling the machine furiously in the direction from which he had just come.

"What the hell is going on here?" I shouted against the wind that whipped the sounds away from me.

"Wait! Can't talk now. Got to go like the devil, or—" The rest was lost in the noise of our passage.

The town whizzed by in a blur and we were out in the open. I caught glimpses of tall palms lining the road, of green lawns and white-sanded driveways curving up to vine-clad houses. I had a feeling there was something wrong about those houses. I strained through the tears evoked by the rush of air and realized that, hot as the day was, every door was tight shut, every window closed and blinded by shades. Nor was there anyone to be seen on road or lawn.

Definitely a pall of fear lay heavy over the neighborhood. What was its cause, I wondered. One thing was certain. I had been right in my interpretation of the queer telegram that had plucked me from my quiet lab at Kings University in New York and had brought me post-haste to this beleagured southern town.

I knew it by heart, that message; had reread it a hundred times on the dragging journey:

TANASOTA FLA

PROF EDGAR THOMASSON PHYSICS DEPT

KINGS UNIVERSITY NEW YORK

DO NOT NEED YOU STOP NO TROUBLE STOP ON NO ACCOUNT TAKE SIX FORTY ONE FROM NEW YORK TO-DAY—

NOTNED MOT

I must have looked a goggle-eyed ass as I stared stupidly at the yellow slip. It hadn't made sense. Going to Florida had been as far from my mind as going to the moon. And I knew no one with that queer name.

Then a thought struck me. Tanasota! Wasn't that where the Dentons had gone two weeks before? The odd signature leaped out at me. Notned Mot. Tom Denton, of course, written backward. Then— suddenly it was clear as crystal— the message too was to be read backward, its meaning reversed! With growing excitement I translated the cryptic words: "Need you. Trouble. Be sure to take the six forty-one from New York to-day."

I HAD just time to make that train. It wasn't till I had sunk panting into my seat in the Pullman that I had time to wonder what it was all about. The Dentons were my best friends: tall, broad-shouldered Tom with his laughing eyes and endearing smile, and Mary, whose shimmering brown hair came to the middle of her husband's barrel chest. Tom and I had been room-mates at Kings, and although he had gone into geology and I into pure physics, nothing had ever broken our comradeship. And Mary—well, it wasn't my fault that her name wasn't Mary Thomasson.

Tom had done some rather good work at his specialty, the finding of subterranean water in hitherto dry locations, but hadn't made much money. So we had had a big celebration when the offer came from Tanasota. A typical boosters' town, with a super-active chamber of commerce, we gathered. They had concocted a scheme for making the region a tourists' paradise: hotel, casino, swimming pool, tennis courts, links, and all the rest of it.

All contracts had been let and work was about to start when the artesian wells suddenly failed. Catastrophe, ruin, stared them in the face. In this emergency they had heard of Denton. The generous proposition they made included the rent-free use of a bungalow, and the couple had departed, jubilant.

WE rounded a curve and I saw a low white house, a flutter of white skirts at the just-opening door. Brakes screeched, the car skidded through dust, slewed half around. There was a crash, and the machine lurched sickeningly. The hood sank to the right and didn't rise. I was surprised to find I was still in my seat—uninjured.

Tom paid no attention to the wheel that had smashed against a roadside boulder. With a laconic, "Come on. Quick!" he seized my bag and ran up the path.

"All right, Mary?"

"Safe, dear. And you?"

"Not a sign of them."

A sigh of relief trembled on her lips. Tom picked up a stout iron bar and set it across the locked door in sockets that had been provided for it. Mary turned to me.

"Ed! I knew you would understand and come." Her face was lined with worry and sleeplessness. And in her eyes was the same haunting fear that had startled me in Tom's. I kissed her, and her lips were icy-cold under mine.

"Are you two going to have mercy on a fellow and tell him what this is all about?"

Tom's mouth twisted in a pathetic attempt at his familiar smile. "All hell's broke loose, Ed. Literally, I think. But sit down; it's a long story."

THE cozy living room showed Mary's genius for home-making. But, although the mid-day sun was blazing outside, the chamber was illuminated only by shaded electric bulbs. The two large windows were tightly closed, dark blinds were pulled down to the very sill, and a network of steel wire mesh had been nailed over all.

The place was a fortress!

"You know what brought me down here," Tom began. "After my first inspection, I was puzzled, still am. From surface indications there should be no difficulty in finding water in this region. The wells that failed run from seven hundred to a thousand feet deep. I decided to extend one lying about a quarter mile south of here, one about nine hundred feet.

"I had my drill set up. At the bottom of the hole we found a stratum of hard Archaeozoic Gneiss, the earliest formed of all rocks, certainly no younger than eighty millions of years. Ordinarily I should have given up all hope of finding water in that spot as soon as I discovered this formation. But it was my theory that some minor earthquake had opened a rift through which the underground stream had dropped to a lower level. So I continued drilling.

"We hadn't gone down fifty feet when the lower section of the drill dropped down into nothingness! I had what was left of the drill raised, and since it was growing dark, stopped operations for the day, leaving old Tim Rooney to watch over the material.

"In the morning I went out bright and early. I expected to find Tim asleep—there wasn't any real need for leaving him out there, but I was put out to discover that he was nowhere in sight.

"The next minute I forgot all about the old codger's dereliction. For, Ed, that hole, which the night before had been only four inches in diameter—had widened to a span of three feet! Not only right at the top—just as far down as I could see— and the focusing searchlight I flashed down there sent its beam for at least four hundred feet! There isn't a boring machine on earth that could do a job like that in the twelve hours since I had left the spot! It was downright impossible!

"My first thought was to get hold of Rooney and find out what had happened. I sent a youngster chasing to his home.

"My messenger returned. Tim's wife hadn't seen him since he had left to take up his vigil the night before. I cast about. I found his tracks, where he had walked about for a while. Then—one spot—they vanished. But there was a long furrow in the loam, as if a heavy body had been dragged along the ground. And that furrow led straight to the opening—ended there.

"No. Old Tim's wife hadn't seen him. Nor has anybody else since! He was the first."

He whispered the last sentence. Then a wave of emotion seemed to overwhelm him, to make it impossible for him to go on. He looked off into the distance, dumb misery on his face. His wife put out her hand and stroked his.

"It isn't your fault, Tom; it isn't your fault, no matter what they say."

Apparently he did not hear. Again he was whispering, to himself, not to us. "He was the first—but not the last. And the end is not yet."

In the silence that followed I became aware of a sound—it seemed to be at the window. Very faint it was—a sucking, sliding noise as if someone were drawing a wet rubber sponge across the pane. I thought I imagined it, till I saw the others staring at the window. Mary's hand was at her breast. From somewhere Tom had produced a squat, ugly revolver.

Then the sound stopped. Without explanation, Tom plunged back into his story.

"I tried not to believe the evidence of the furrow I had found. I organized searching parties, sent them out in all directions. But toward evening I was convinced at last that old Tim was gone.

"Of course, he might have fallen down the hole by accident. But something told me this was not so. I telegraphed for a windlass that would enable me to go down the shaft. It would arrive the next morning. Meantime I decided I would watch the opening during the night. I couldn't rest. I must do something to solve the mystery.

"Jim Phelps, a splendid young chap who had been acting as my assistant, insisted on sharing my vigil. There was no moon, that night, and the sky was overcast. We built a little fire for light. The flip of a coin decided that the first watch was to be Jim's. I stretched out on the ground.

"I had thought I would be unable to sleep, but the strain of the day and the warm balmy air had their effect. How long I slept I do not know. But I was snapped awake by a shriek. In the dim light of the dying fire, I saw Jim at the very edge of the shaft, his whole body contorted in a terrific struggle against—nothing. There was nothing there—I swear it—but the boy was fighting, lashing out. His heels, planted deep, were being dragged through the ground against the utmost efforts of his tensed body!

"I had almost reached him when he suddenly collapsed. He rose a foot in the air—and disappeared down that infernal hole. My grasping hand just touched his hair as he descended.

"At my feet lay the searchlight. I snatched it up and pressed the button.

I saw him, twenty-five feet below. He wasn't falling; he was drifting down, as if something were carrying him! I watched his limp body descending, vivid in the bright light. I could pick out every line of his white face, every striation in the smooth side of the vertical tunnel. There was nothing there, yet something was carrying him down.

"God knows I'm no coward, but I turned and ran from that accursed spot, ran with the horrible fear of the Unknown tearing at my brain; ran until, after countless years of running, I saw the door of this cottage."

Mary broke in:

"I was awakened by a choked cry outside, and the thud of something falling against the door. It took me an hour to revive him. And then, when he gasped out what he had seen, I thought with a chill at my heart that he had gone stark, raving crazy."

"The chief of police and the village president were quite sure of it the next morning," Tom resumed. "In fact, they were convinced that I myself had thrown both men down the hole in a maniacal seizure. They were leading me out to take me to the county hospital, when something occurred that changed their minds.

"There are no other dwellings between this house and that—that place. There we were—I was just stepping into the chief's car. Mary, in tears, was pleading with him not to take me. Suddenly someone pointed. A wild figure was coming down the road, reeling from the fence on one side to the rails on the other, tossing its arms in the air. It stumbled and fell, but kept on crawling toward us.

"I was the first to run up the road, the others close behind. It was Jim! I called to him, and he lifted his face to me. Where the eyes should have been were two empty holes—two deep, red pits—staring out at me from the mask of white dust! He lifted that awful face to me, and laughed.

"Out of poor Jim's babblings and gibberings we could strain not one morsel of information as to what lay at the bottom of that infernal bore. But when the doctor examined those scarred eye sockets, he turned to us with sheer unbelief.

"'I can't understand this, gentlemen,' he said. 'There is every evidence here that a marvelous piece of surgery has been performed. Not only the eyeballs themselves have been excised; but the optic nerves, in their entirety, and all the complex system of muscles that enable the eyes to do their work properly. There are only one or two surgeons in the world who could perform such an operation!'

"Do you realize what that meant, the astounding implication of Dr. Wells' finding? This thing that came from below, this invisible thing, had intelligence, knowledge, skill, equal to our own. Think of it!

"There was no longer any question of my sanity. The town authorities, in the persons of the president and the police chief, were now convinced that a blacker menace confronted them than the mere presence of a homicidal maniac. They held a whispered consultation in the corner of the hospital reception room where we had received Dr. Wells' report. Then they called me over.

"President Maury did the talking. 'Listen, doc,' he began. 'We've got to keep this thing damn quiet, or—'

"'Quiet!' I exploded. 'Hell, man, what we've got to do is telegraph the governor for the State police, and the university for the best men they've got on paleontology and physics, and get busy trying to find out just what there is down there, and how to fight it!'

"'Yeah, and have the papers get hold of it. Nothing doing! By the time it was all over, Tanasota would be ruined forever as a resort. People would never forget it.'

"I was astounded. 'How on earth can you be thinking of money when there may be thousands of those invisible things, whatever they are, ready to pour out and carry off everybody around here?'

"'Might as well be killed by them as starve to death. There ain't nobody for fifteen miles around who ain't stuck all they've got, includin' what they could raise by mortgages on their houses and land, into this development. The contracts are all signed. If we stop now, all Tanasota township will be ruined. Nope, Tanasota's got to handle this itself; and, by jingo, Tanasota kin do it!'

"WE set to work at once. Steel rails were crisscrossed over the opening, and a six-foot-high mound of re-enforced concrete erected on this armored base. By evening the concrete had set. Thomas was almost cheerful.

"It was dark when I got home? Janey Ruxton, a sweet kid just home from Miami University, was here, chattering away to Mary. We played three-handed bridge till a little after nine. Then Janey left. She wouldn't let me take her home; it was just a bit up the road and nothing could possibly happen to her. Shortly after Mary thought she heard a scream, but I laughed at her. It was just the screech-owl that had startled our city ears several times before.

"The next morning the phone rang at about ten. It was Mrs. Ruxton. When was Janey coming home?

"The receiver shook in my hand. 'Why, Mrs. Ruxton, didn't she get home last night?'

"'No! She said when she went out that she might possibly sleep there. Mrs. Denton thought you might be detained at your work till late. Don't tell me she isn't there!'

"I mumbled something about having come in late and having just waked up. I'd ask Mary and call her back. I had to think. Could it be that—Just as I hung up, Mary called to me that Thomas and Maury were coming up the path.

"'They seem excited! I wonder what's happened?' she said.

"There was something ludicrous in the way they trotted their pendulous paunches up the path. But the stricken look on Thomas' face held no humor. He called to me almost before I had the door open.

"'Doc, doc, have you seen anything of Jimmy?'

"Jimmy was his sixteen-year-old son.

"'No, I haven't—why do you ask?'

"'Got to find him, got to find him!'

"That's all I could get out of the father. But the village president explained. Young Jimmy had gone out before dawn; he was to join some of the other boys fishing. A half hour before, one of his chums, having returned, had phoned to inquire why he had not met the crowd.

"The same thought was in all our minds, I think. 'Wait here,' I snapped, 'I've got a hunch.' Before there could be a reply, I was down the path and in my car.

"I shot the machine out into the field and straight up to the solid cairn we had made the day before. I almost crashed into the stone. For—it hit me in the face like a physical blow—straight through the top of that huge boulder of concrete and steel a circular cavity-yawned—three feet across! When I could tear my staring eyes away from that black hole I saw, at the foot of the mound, the crumpled and broken fragments of a fishing rod!

"I couldn't have been away long, for when I got back here Thomas and Maury were just starting to follow me. I gasped out my discovery—careless how I hurt these men whose obstinacy I blamed.

"'It's your own damn fault,' I blazed, alternately hot with anger and chilled with horror. 'If it hadn't been for your being stubborn, this wouldn't have happened! Now will you let me call for help?'

"Thomas held himself erect by one shaking hand on the lintel. His white face turned in piteous appeal toward Maury. But, though his eyes bulged with horror from a face that was green and gray by turns, the other could not be moved from the stand he had taken. He thundered an emphatic 'No' to my demand, and Thomas' silent entreaty.

"I stormed and raved, and Mary added her pleading, but Maury was obdurate. From somewhere the stricken father summoned strength enough to second his superior's fiat.

"'Whatever you say, Hen,' he mumbled brokenly. 'Whatever you say, I'll stick to. You know best.'

"In answer to my threat to take matters in my own hands, Maury laid down the edict flatly:

"'No telephone from you goes out of the local exchange, nor no letter nor telegram that I don't O.K. And you'd better not try to leave the township, 'cause you won't get far.'

"I gave up. But Mary broke in. 'Tom,' she said, 'Edgar Thomasson was to leave to-day for his visit to us. We'd better telegraph him not to come, or Mr. Maury will think we tricked him.' She was writing as she talked. 'Here, will this do?' I wondered what she was driving at, but played along.

"She handed what she had written to the president. He spelled out the message. 'Looks all right,' he said at last; 'but what's this here name signed at the bottom?'

"'Only Tom's name spelled backward. The boys have always signed their letters to one another that way. They won't tell me why; some secret society hocus pocus, I suppose.'

"Maury could understand that. The vast expanse of his vest was the background for a half-dozen varied fraternal emblems. 'O.K. You kin send it. Here, I'll take it in to the depot myself.' He stuffed the paper into a pocket. 'I'll get John home now, and then get busy on the phone tellin' everybody to look out. Meantime, doc, see what you kin figger out. Don't worry about expense; I'll see that you get all the money and help you need.'

"They went out, Thomas walking like a man in a dream.

"That's about all. They haven't done a damn thing since except get an armored car somewhere and patrol the roads with it. Lot of good that does! And they've got all the houses for miles around locked up like this one. There the stubborn fools sit in the dark, while those things prowl around, groping, groping, at the doors and windows. Sooner or later they will find a way to break through our defenses. And then—"

TOM buried his face in his hands. "It's my fault," I heard him mutter; "it's my fault."

I wanted to argue with him about it, but somehow I couldn't say anything. For long minutes there was silence, flat, imponderable. Finally he looked up with a twisted smile.

"I'm all right now. Sorry I'm putting on such a baby act, but it's got me, Ed. You've heard the story now; what do you think of it?"

"I don't know what to think of it, Tom. One thing, though, I've been wondering about. I take it that there's been no further attempt at confining these mysterious visitants. How is it then that they have not reached other communities?"

Denton shrugged. "They do not seem to wander far from the shaft. Perhaps something in conditions on the surface reacts on them unfavorably and limits the time they can stay above ground. Their tracks do not appear further than a mile away."

"Their tracks? Then they leave a definite impression on the ground?"

He rose. "Come; I'll show you."

I followed him to the nearer window. He listened tensely, ear close against the mesh. Mary went to the other window and listened too. Again I remarked the ravages the horror through which she was living had made on her winsome face.

"Hear anything, dear?" Tom called.

"Nothing, Tom; I guess it's safe." But the girl remained crouched taut against the mesh.

"Look here, Ed." Tom poked a long paper cutter through the screen and pushed aside an edge of the blind. His gun was in his other hand. I bent over and peered through the opening.

I could see just a small patch of bare, soft soil. But all over that patch was the spoor of the monster—six thin lines radiating from a small round depression—footprints the like of which the upper world had never seen. Twelve inches from end to end, and four across. Somehow those molded markings in the ground made the horror real to me, more real than all Tom's vivid tale.

Then that occurred that bristled the hairs at the nape of my neck with ancestral fear, that drove the blood from my face, but held my staring eyes riveted to the little strip of loam. One by one new tracks appeared, forming whole in the matrix of that soil.

Something was walking across the front of the house—something that I could not see!

My throat was dry—so dry that I could not cry out. That weirdly-forming progression of telltale marks passed beyond the range of vision, but another set of prints began to form. Another set that marched straight toward me!

Suddenly an eye was looking into mine through the glass—a blue eye that did not wink! An eye, and nothing more! Tom must have seen it too, for the black shade dropped between me and the eye. Then, right there in front of me, I heard again that sucking, sliding noise. From left to right across the pane it moved, and the blood froze in my veins.

A crash of smashing glass!

The black shade before me bellied inward, flattened against the wire mesh and was held there by the force of something that crushed against it.

"Shoot, Tom, shoot! It's coming in!"

That cry seemed to tear from out my very vitals. At top and side the screen was tearing away from the stout nails that held it! Tom's gun roared—I felt the scorch of its flame on my arm as I thrust at the screen, fighting to hold back the thing that was pushing in, the thing whose power made nothing of my puny strength. Again the gun roared. I felt the invader flinch. White rents appeared in the shade, rents through which the unobstructed sun leered in. A form was outlined against the bulging cloth—Tom fired again!

I felt the thing falter and fall away.

I fell back, wilting from the terrible exertion. Suddenly the room was flooded with light—sunlight! As I whirled about, a scream ripped through me. Mary's scream!

The other window was stripped bare of shade and screen. In the center of the room, struggling against—blankness—was my chum's wife. Her hair had fallen about her shoulders, her eyes were staring from a terror-distorted face, her mouth was open to scream again. Her little fists were flailing at the vacancy before her, her legs, lifted from the ground, were driving against the nothingness that held her, the unseen thing that was carrying her inexorably toward the gaping window!

We dove together to her aid—Mary's form shielded her captor from Tom's gun. I reached her. Something twisted around my waist and lifted me from my feet. My hands tore at the cold, hard, invisible thing that writhed but held me fast. I thought I saw brown eyes gleaming in midair. Then I was hurtling across the room, to thud crushingly against the wall. Tom, caught in the invisible grip, fought for a second, then he too was sliding helpless along the floor. With a last moaning scream, Mary soared through the shattered window and disappeared.

BRUISED, dazed, horror-filled, I dragged myself up, reeled across toward the jagged opening. Tom was before me. He scrambled through, reckless of the broken glass, the tearing wire, and I after him.

Already a hundred feet away, floating, apparently unsupported, some three feet above a flat field, I saw Mary. She had fainted, mercifully. She rose over a fence, flew southward up the road. I realized that I was running, giving everything that was in me to a burst of speed greater than I believed myself capable of. Tom was ahead of me. His gun was still in his hand, but there was nothing at which to shoot save the figure of his wife.

We leaped the fence, were dashing up the road. I cast one despairing glance back at the car—if only that wheel were not smashed we might have a chance. As it was, though, I ran on after Tom's speeding figure—reckless of the agony that burned my lungs. Despair flooded me. The thing we pursued sped faster than our uttermost efforts could drive us.

Little spurts of dust showed in the road, the only evidence that the unconscious girl was not being borne away from us by some wind that we could not feel. They ceased, but the tall grass in a field at the left swayed and was trampled down under the weight of an invisible runner. Ahead I could see a rounded gray hump, knew it for the futile barrier that had been erected against the incredible menace from below. Dimly I was aware of a clatter from somewhere ahead on the highway, the barking exhaust of a gasoline motor. But I was rushing through the field now, my straining eyes fixed on Tom's running form, and on Mary ahead.

She rose to the mound—dipped within. Tom reached it in a final spurt. I was only moments behind him. He beat furiously with his hand and his gun against the hard rock. As I seized and dragged him away his hand was a torn and bleeding lump. "They've got her, they've got her!" His voice was a high-pitched shrill monotone. "Oh, damn them, damn them! Let me go!"

He was fighting against me—I couldn't hold him against his maniacal strength. He broke away and was scrambling up the stone.

"I'm going down for her!"

"Wait, you fool!" I had hold of his kicking foot. "Wait! I'll go with you—wait just a moment." Somebody was beside me, an arm reached past me, a hand clamped around Tom's ankle. Together we pulled him back.

Four men were crowded around us, their canvas belts heavy with holstered revolvers and studded with cartridges. Behind them bulked the gray-painted, awkward shape of an armored car.

Tom was quieter now, but he still muttered in a nerve-racking monotone: "I've got to go down and save her eyes; I've got to go down and save her eyes."

"Tom!" I shouted as if he were deaf. "Tom, stop that damn muttering and listen to me!"

But he looked at me wildly and mumbled: "I've got to go down and save her eyes."

Time for heroic measures. I gritted my teeth and slapped him stingingly on the cheek. He rubbed the red mark my hand had left, and sanity came back to him.

"Oh, Ed," he said brokenly, and the agony in his tones wrung me. "They've got her down there! I must go down to save her. Please don't hold me back!"

"Of course we're going down." I fought to keep the hysteria out of my own voice. "But jumping down a thousand-foot hole and getting smeared all over the bottom isn't going to do Mary any good. Now, is it?"

"No, Ed, you're right. I—I don't know what I was thinking of. But when I saw her go down there and remembered the empty sockets in Jim Phelps' face and the way he laughed—"

One of the men from the armored car was speaking.

"Gee, doc, it sure is tough! We saw her swinging along the road and you guys after her. But we couldn't do nothing—if we'd let loose with the machine gun we'd have cut her to pieces."

"Maybe—maybe it would have been better if you had. But it's all right, boys. I know you would have helped her if you could. I told Chief Thomas this patrol of yours was no earthly good."

DURING this interchange my mind was racing. What were these monsters, these invisible things of horror? Were they elementals, imponderable phantasms, myths come true?

No! Unseeable they were, but material. Their tread left prints in the mud; grass bent beneath their passage. That had been a very real bulk against which I had struggled at the window. Tom's bullets plunging into it had killed it.

They were not invulnerable.

I twisted to the haggard-faced, quivering Tom, grabbed his arm and dug my fingers into it in my excitement.

"Listen! We've got to get ropes, a searchlight, guns!"

He stared at me wide-eyed, then snapped: "Come on!"

We piled pell-mell into the steel-clad truck, shot all out along the road, our siren rising and falling in howls of warning to a non-existent traffic. Not ten minutes after we were back at the hive-shaped stone.

Were we too late? Even as I snapped my instructions to the hard-faced men of the patrol, the question burned through my mind. In seconds the end of the windlass rope—luckily the reel still stood at the head of the shaft—had been fastened about me in a rude harness. Tom too was looped into the cable, four feet further along. About our waists hung borrowed cartridge belts, each with two holstered automatics.

"Those are explosive bullets," the patrol leader volunteered. "Get one o' them in you and they'll be picking up the pieces for a week."

From my belt swung also a large mirror I had snatched up somewhere, to which I had attached a long cord. In my hand was a powerful flashlight that also could be hooked into my belt at need.

Trailing the long rope, we mounted the concrete. A dizzy look down the long bore. A farewell glance at the sunlit scene, the familiar world I might never see again. No prepossessing sight was this bare field, with its rank, lush grass. Yet at that moment it was very beautiful. Weasel thoughts of fear came flooding in. Almost I turned back, but I saw Tom watching me, saw the look in his eyes. I stepped over the edge and felt the rope harness constrict about me as it took my weight.

"Lower away!" I called.

DOWN, down we went. Light faded and Stygian darkness wrapped round us. I seemed to have passed beyond the boundaries of time and space, seemed doomed to swing forever in this darkness, this otherwhere. Down.

From above came an urgent whisper. "The light, Ed; the light!" I remembered the torch in my hand, pressed the contact. For an instant the sudden glare dazzled me. Then I saw, not six feet below, the bottom of the long shaft. "Hold it, Tom!" I felt the rope vibrate to the double tug of his signal. The wall stopped moving upward.

Just under my feet there was an opening in the side of the vertical tunnel, dark, foreboding. Otherwise my light revealed nothing as it glinted back from wet rock. I unfastened the mirror and lowered it by its cord till the bottom edge rested on the stone floor. It had twisted as it dropped so that it faced the blank wall of the bore. I raised it a bit, twirled the cord in my fingers. Slowly the silvered glass swung around. When it faced the opening, a quick dip of my hand stopped it so. I paid out a little more cord—now it was just right, its surface canted at a forty-five degree angle to the plane of the ground.

The shining rectangle caught the vertical beam from the torch, flashed it out through the arched gap. Mirrored in the glass I saw a long, low gallery, sliced through age-old rock, a gallery that widened and heightened as it swept away from the shaft. The ancient stone was rotted and crumbling, and still wet from the flood that, draining away, had left the well bone-dry. I could make out dark patches that must be openings to caves or other corridors. Nothing moved in the dim subterranean passage, nothing that I could see. But I could hear faint scutterings, a low murmuring that should not have been in that vacant pit.

The mirror leaped inward, as if something had grasped it! The cord was jerked from my grasp. The next instant there was something snakelike about my ankle, something that tugged downward—something horribly cold. I grabbed for a gun from my belt, fired down past my feet. In the confined space the roar of the discharge nearly deafened, but there was a muffled explosion below, and the invisible thing around my ankle fell away.

"Down! Down!" I shouted. In a moment my feet skidded on some slimy substance, gripped the ground. I could not see it, but I knew I was standing on the fragments of the thing my explosive bullet had spattered into destruction. First blood to us!

I hooked the torch into my belt, had the other gun in my hand. Just in time! An unseen tentacle coiled around my shoulders. I fired blindly, and it was gone. Tom's two weapons were roaring at my side, spitting lead into vacancy, into emptiness that yet was filled with a vast whisper of alien sound, menacing, horrible. My ears told me there was a ravening horde out there, a throng of strange things gathered to repel our invasion of their immemorial domain. But my eyes saw only blank walls and untenanted space.

We backed against the rock behind us and poured the contents of our weapons into the invisible host. I glimpsed Tom's face—his glittering, half-mad eyes, his lip curled in a snarl. From ahead came a rushing tumult, a hurricane sound as of a torrent flooding up to overwhelm us. My guns were hot in my grasp, my arms weary with firing. But the herd came on. I could hear them, closer, closer. I could see the debris on the labyrinth floor flatten under the masses of unseen feet—the front of that pressed-down space nearer and nearer—fifteen feet—ten feet away. A moment more and we should be overwhelmed, crushed under their thousands. The fire from my guns ebbed—they were empty—no time to reload. Tom's last shot blazed out—and the mad rush halted!

I saw the stigmata of the things' presence retreat.

As we reloaded feverishly, not knowing how soon again the things would sweep to the attack, a voice came out of the black silence beyond my torchbeam! A human voice!

"Help! Help! Oh, help!"

A woman's voice! Mary's voice! Echoing.

"Help!"

A great shout from Tom. "Coming! Where are you?"

More faintly. "Here, Tom, here." Somewhere far ahead.

There was a sob in Tom's voice and an exultation as he cried: "She's alive, Ed, she's alive!" A giant fury surged through me, and I roared in response:

"She's alive! Give 'em hell!"

We started out, step by step, into the nothingness that was filled from wall to wall with the monsters we fought. We did not need to see them—we blazed straight ahead and knew we could not miss. The thunder of our firing was continuous now as, wordlessly, we gained a certain rhythm so that one fired as the other loaded, loaded as the other fired.

Slowly we forged forward, fighting in a red madness. Beneath our feet we felt the slippery life-fluid of the things we destroyed. Their shattered bodies tripped us, writhing tentacles whipped around us and were torn away as we pressed forward, always forward. And ever the rustle and the murmur of that obscene throng fell back before us, and ever as on one side or other we reached an opening in the wall we paused a moment to listen, and ever Mary's voice came from ahead.

"Here. Here we are. Hurry! Hurry!" That weak voice, guiding.

"Tom, Ed. Come quickly!"

We dared not hurry lest we slip and fall into that shambles underfoot. We dared not hurry lest the dragging rope behind us catch in some projection and tangle us helpless while the things rushed back and swamped us beneath their teeming numbers. Our guns roared and thundered, roared and thundered as we harried them before us. An insane, nightmare battle there in earth's bowels, a thousand feet beneath sunshine and green grass!

A nightmare fight, but even nightmares have an end. We came abreast of a portal in the wall, and in the pause Mary's voice came loud and clear.

"Here! In here! Ed, Tom. Here!"

It choked.

"Hold them, Tom!" I swung round, threw my light into the cave. Three human forms outstretched on platforms of bare rock. Two quiet—limply recumbent. One struggling, fighting against something unseen that held her down. Mary!

Something glittered in the gleam of my torch. A scalpel! Descending toward her face, her eyes! My gun butt jumped in my hand—the scalpel clattered to the ground. Mary's arching body slumped, relaxed, quivered and was still.

"Hold them, Tom!" The rolling crash of his guns told me he was holding them. I plunged in, got to her stony couch. Her face was death-white, her eyelids closed. I bent to her—fearing. Before I could find, grasp her pulse, she stirred, and a long breath whispered from her ashen lips. Her lids quivered. What would I see when they opened? I never knew eternity could be compressed into a half second!

They were open! Her brave eyes looked square into mine!

Oh, thank God! Thank God!

"Ed—I knew you'd come!" Then a sudden fear flared in the eyes I had thought we were too late to save. "Tom! I heard his voice. Is he—"

"Safe. Right outside, fighting like mad. Come; we've got to get out of here." She struggled to rise. I looked at the other two, fearfully quiet. How manage all three? One of us must be free to hold back the things.

Brave girl! She saw, understood.

"Take the others. I'm sure they're still alive. Give me your guns and the light."

I swung them to my shoulders and we started back. How we got to the foot of the shaft I can't remember. Guns blasting behind me, writhing horror underfoot. At the last it was a mad rush as a shouted something from Tom warned of some new danger. I had to tug only once at the rope; those waiting above must have been tensed to the breaking point. The burdens on my shoulders bumped crazily against the sides of the bore.

I rolled down the concrete mound. From a great distance I heard voices, cheering.

Then—oblivion.

THERE isnt much more to tell. Visitors who flocked to Tanasota's famous resort wonder why that field on its outskirts is sunk so far beneath the surrounding terrain, but no one will tell them. A half ton of TNT did that, dropped down the shaft to hell and exploded there.

We found the body of the thing Tom had killed at the bungalow. In my laboratory at Kings I made certain tests, confirming the theory I had formed concerning the nature of the monsters.

The secret of their invisibility lay in their epidermis, corresponding to our skin. This refracted all the light between ultra-violet and infra-red, the spectrum by which we humans see; carried it clear around them so that to our eyes they appeared perfectly transparent. I have done the same thing with a set of refracting prisms.

My assistant, Jim Thorne, was puzzled. "How then do they see? If light passes around them, none reaches their brains."

I smiled. "They are, of course, absolutely blind to our light. But remember sunlight never reaches them in their underground home. It is ultra-violet light, and other vibrations beyond our spectrum, emitted by radio-active substances in the rotting rock that pervade that region. Utterly black to us, they see by it as perfectly as we do by the light of the sun."

Thorne got it. "Then that is why they cut out Phelps' eyes, and the others?"

"Right! They were blind, or almost so, in our world, which they sensed was a so much better abode than their own. They wanted human eyes to see things here above. It must have been poor Jim's optics that glared at me through the window, his eyes in the head of one of the monsters."

WHENCE came those strange beings of an inner world? Perhaps they had their genesis in the very dawn of time, when old earth was still a molten ball and life itself existent only in resistant spores. Perhaps some of these spores, these life seeds, were enclosed in the vast bubbles that formed, and burst, and formed again, or were caught in some huge folding of more solid rock, and so were imprisoned within earth's crust. Then, through the slow aeons, these primal cells may have evolved in their own far different way as their luckier brother seeds that were our far ancestors evolved on the surface. Perhaps—

God grant that never again will they find a way to the light.

_______________

15: Blind Guess

Valentine Williams

Maclean's, Toronto, 15 December 1932

YOUNG Timmie Herron, I decided, was asking for a thick ear. Ever since Sara Carshill's arrival that afternoon he had scarcely had a word for any of us, least of all for Antonia, his wife. He was whispering to Sara now and making her giggle, as she sat crouched on a low stool before the flaming hearth, her tawny head against his knee.

Timmie would explain that Sara was his guest, that it was his duty to make her feel at home at Herron Place. But that was no excuse for the way he was cutting up, as I could see Antonia was also thinking. Perched on the arm of Jack's chair, she affected to be smiling over an argument that was in full cry between Virginia and Isobel Sprote, on the one hand, and Mark Bendall and the three Air Force youngsters, brother officers of Timmie— I knew them only as Bill, Kenneth and Geoffrey— on the other. But I was aware that Antonia was watching her husband and Sara through her long lashes. Her proud and lovely face gave me no clue, but I had known her fiery temper since her childhood, and I asked myself how much of this sort of thing she was willing to put up with. There was Roger Carshill, too, sodden hulk though he was, I wondered what he thought of his wife's carryings-on.

Around eleven o'clock, after the Christmas tree in the Long Gallery and some osculatory rough-and-tumble under the mistletoe, we had trooped off to Jack's study to drink punch. We put out the lights and piled in 'round the elm logs blazing in the huge Tudor fireplace of old rosy brick. It was young Isobel Sprote who started Jack off on the legend of Tiffany's Walk.

Tiffany's Walk is the distinctive feature of Herron Place. It is a covered arcade, dating back to the late seventeenth century, which, in the shape of an E with the central bar missing, makes three sides of a parallelogram at the back of the house, to which it is joined through two small lobbies situated in the north and south wings respectively. With its low, deep-eaved roof carried on massive cross-beams, it affords adequate protection against almost all varieties of English weather, notwithstanding the fact that it is open, through a succession of wide bays, to the air. Within, it is lined with majolica tiles representing, with pleasing naiveté, birds and beasts, fishes and flowers, and floored with old red brick.

"I bet you've got a ghost in this topping old house of yours, haven't you, Major Jack?" Isobel piped up. "Major Jack" was what they all called him.

"Indeed we have," Jack retorted with proprietorial pride. "And, what's more, it's a lady and supposed to be a relative of mine."

There was an immediate clamor of "Tell us about her!" Antonia said lackadaisically: "Oh, Jack, you're not going to make us listen to that old story again?"

"Shut up, Antonia," Virginia cried indignantly. "Just because you live here... Go on, Major Jack," she encouraged our host. "Make our flesh creep."

"You all know Tiffany's Walk," Jack began. "It's called after Theophania Herron, an ancestress of mine; Tiffany is an old diminutive of Theophania. She was born in the reign of Charles the Second as an only child, and the legend runs that from birth her face was covered with fine, silky hair, like a spaniel's..."

An eruption of "Ughs" and little feminine squeaks ran round the circle.

"So that she never appeared in public," Jack's quiet voice overtoned the hubbub, "without a thick black veil. When her parents died and she became mistress of this house and estate, she grew more and more sensitive of her horrible disfigurement. To avoid the necessity of showing herself in public, she got a Bologna architect named Bonaventura to build her this arcade. Here it was her habit to promenade the greater part of the day. Then the catastrophe happened. A new steward was engaged; a handsome, strapping fellow, with an eye to the main chance. At any rate, he made up to Aunt Tiffany—"

"Aha!" Knowingly. This from Geoffrey, who had his arm about Virginia.

"You can imagine," Jack pursued, "the tumult in that maiden breast. She had reconciled herself to the prospect of lifelong spinsterhood, believing that, even with the Herron Place rent roll, no one would want to marry a dog-faced lady of uncertain age. And here was the dashing steward, kissing her hands and bringing her posies and pestering her to lift her veil and let him see her face, vowing that his love was proof against anything. Well, she let him have his way at last. But when he looked upon that terrible face, his heart failed him and he fled away and was never heard of again."

"And what happened to poor Tiffany?" Sara Carshill enquired in her caressing voice.

"She became more of a recluse than ever, spending the whole of the day and often half the night in the arcade, the scene of her broken romance. One morning, when the servants went to look for her, they found her, in the long black cloak and veil she always wore, hanging from a beam..."

"O-ooh!" A shudder rippled through the audience. "And ever since that day"— our host's voice was deliberately dramatic now— "they say that poor Tiffany walks the arcade by night, sighing and wailing and wringing her hands. And if she encounters any human in her path, she parts her veil and reveals her face and, so the story goes, the sight is so bloodcurdling that any one who looks upon it drops dead on the spot."

"Have you ever seen her...?" Isobel broke off, her cheeks aflame, "Oh, I'm sorry. Major Jack..."

He laughed good-humoredly. "My dear child, I'm spook-proof. No ghost is going to waste her time on me, especially when her trick is mainly visual. But all my family firmly believe in Aunt Tiffany. My great-aunt Ada had a grisly tale about a Swiss valet, whom my great-grandfather brought back with him from the grand tour, being found dead early one morning in Tiffany's Walk with his features convulsed with horror."

"B-rr," ejaculated Roger Carshill. suddenly waking up— he had drunk a lot of champagne at dinner, "you give a feller the creeps, major."

"Pretty grim," said Kenneth.

"What a rag if one met her!" murmured Isobel ecstatically.

"Good for you, Isobel," Bill cried joyously. "You and I'll go out some night with a dog biscuit and see what happens." He snapped his fingers and began to prance about, yelling, "Here. Tiff! Tiff, Tiff, Tiff! Good dog! Come and kiss the steward!" They all started ragging, and the party broke up in a turmoil.

It was Jack's habit to stroll for a while in Tiffany's Walk before turning in. That night I accompanied him.

"Tell me about this Mrs. Carshill that Timmie's so stuck on," he said suddenly.

As a novelist who has his office under his hat and can drift about the world at will, I had known Sara Carshill for several years. She was the Honorable Mrs. Banksley when I first ran into her at Biarritz. Then Banksley let her divorce him as the easiest method of getting on with his polo undisturbed, and soon after I encountered her at the Villa Igeia at Palermo with a somewhat moth-eaten Italian duke in tow. Carshill was new to me. All I knew about him was that he had some hazy connection with the turf and a virtually unassuageable thirst.

I gave Jack these facts baldly. "She's an attractive baggage, a man-eater. She'll grab Timmie if she gets half a chance."

Jack grunted. "Running her rather hard, isn't he? I mean, there's an inflection in his voice when he speaks to her... Or am I wrong?"

"I wish you were, for Antonia's sake. She hasn't said anything yet. But she was watching them tonight. If I know anything about it, she's blowing up for one grand old row."

My host sighed. "Poor Antonia! They're tremendously fond of one another really. After all, they've only been married two years. But they're going through a difficult period— separate rooms, and so forth. I wish she'd have a baby, Ned. This old place is something to hang on to in these changing times. Timmie will have it after me and his son after him, if only the young ruffian and Antonia would buck up and do their duty by the family..." He broke off. "You know, I can't help feeling that I've met Mrs. Carshill before. And that she recognizes me."

"My dear old boy," I protested, "I don't see how you can possibly tell that..."

"That crooning voice of hers, her laugh, is it? Anyhow, there's something about her personality that's familiar. I can't explain what I mean exactly, but blind people are receptive toward such influences..."

WHEN Jack Herron, after twenty-two years of soldiering, walked into a German machine-gun barrage on the St. Quentin Canal, he retired to the ancestral seat in Wiltshire and, with characteristic pluck, proceeded to make the best of a desperately bad job. For a man of forty to lose his sight is bad enough; in the case of a fellow like Jack— well off, handsome, a keen soldier and good all round sportsman— it might well have proved a tragedy.

But Jack would not have it so. I had not seen him since the Hindenburg Line, for I was out of England when my young friend Antonia married Jack's nephew, until I came across him at a regimental dinner in London. His eyes were not disfigured, and he camouflaged his disability and bore himself with so much confidence that, but for a certain halting deliberation in his movements, you would scarcely have guessed that he was stone blind. He was not in the least sensitive about his affliction. On the contrary, he was eager to talk about the new existence he had built for himself.

"No dog and string for me, Ned," he laughed. "I may still be a bit at sea in town, but come down to Herron Place and I'll show you some gadgets that'll knock you cold."

It did my heart good to behold old Jack strolling up through the gardens to welcome me as though he had never lost his sight. Of course, he had lived at Herron Place all his life and knew every stick and stone on the property; and fourteen years of darkness had quickened his remaining senses. But, apart from this, he was out to help himself. The whole estate was a mass of "gadgets," as he called them, to help him find his way around without mishap, from life lines in the gardens and a row of posts, kept freshly creosoted, to warn his sense of smell that he was approaching the lake, to bosses on drawers and cupboards in his apartments to enable him to locate his things.

He would not let his old batman. Sims, now installed as butler-valet, do a hand's turn for him beyond his ordinary duties. He gloried in his independence, shaving himself, even tying his own tie. He had learned to read Braille and use a typewriter. He fished. He spoke of taking up shooting again, assisted by Sims and a range-finding system of his own invention. He was even trying to devise a safe means of driving his car.

His only crotchet was a dislike of strange presences about him. Visitors to the house had to be brought to him immediately so that he might thereafter identify them by their voice or footstep— he was extraordinarily sharp about this. Walking with him in the arcade the afternoon I arrived, I drew his attention to the fact that a row of bricks in the flooring were loose—they had clanked under our feet as we strolled along.

Jack chuckled.

"Just another gadget, old son. I often sit out in Tiffany's Walk, and I like to know who's approaching. I've come to be pretty good at spotting people by their tread, and those loose bricks help me— my detector, I call 'em. You've no idea of the variations in sound. I don't make many mistakes..."

Although maids waited on guests in the bedrooms, no servant, with the exception of Sims, ever appeared on the ground floor at Herron Place after seven a.m. Jack's rooms were on this level, looking out upon Tiffany's Walk and communicating with it by a side door leading into the south wing lobby. Under the above arrangement, he could wander about the ground floor and out into the arcade as he liked without fear of encountering an unfamiliar presence in the shape of a new maid.

THE back part of Herron Place was the oldest. The south wing, Tudor, incorporated the original dwelling house with a turret in rear, built under Elizabeth; and this turret had later been pierced, as to its lower part, to give access to Tiffany's Walk. The bachelors of the party were in this wing, sharing a bathroom; myself in the upper room of the turret. Mark Bendall next door. Bill and Geoffrey doubling up across the way, and Kenneth at the end of the passage. A corkscrew stair descended from our corridor to the little lobby in the base of the turret leading into the arcade. Off this lobby was a minute bedroom to which Timmie had moved, after surrendering his own, next to Antonia's in the north wing, to Virginia and Isobel so that they could share Antonia's bathroom. Timmie now used Jack's across the lobby. In the north wing also, at the head of a small flight communicating with the north entrance to Tiffany's Walk, the Carshills were lodged in separate rooms with a bath between.

Christmas was two days gone, and I was sitting up late over a set of proofs which I had overlooked until a frantic wire from my publisher at dinnertime reminded me of my neglect. It was two o'clock in the morning. The rowdy gang in the Long Gallery had long since broken up and the house was plunged in silence. The night was so mild that I sat, wrapped in my old camel's-hair dressing gown, at the open window. When I raised my eyes I could see Tiffany's Walk spread out in a dark rectangle below.

I was absorbed in my task when my ear caught a faint sound outside. I glanced out. The night was moonless, but the tiled walls of the gallery reflected the faint light in the sky. Under its broad roof the arcade ran its length in obscurity and emptiness. Jack's excellent ghost story seeped into my mind and, although I am completely incredulous about the supernatural, I remained gazing out, thinking about poor Miss Tiffany and her unhappy fate. And so it happened that my glance was directed at the farther end of the arcade, where it was joined to the north wing, when I saw a flutter of white and heard a muffled scream.

There was nothing spectral about the sound. It was a girl, Antonia, or one of the Sprotes, I concluded, who had cried out in terror. In two seconds I was down the winding stair. Cutting across the garden to save time, I dashed into the north wing lobby.

Light fell dimly from the corridor above and I recognized Isobel. Her teeth were chattering with fear.

"Ned," she panted, "I've seen her— Tiffany's ghost. Oh. gosh. I've had such a fright!" She clutched me. Her hands were cold.

"My dear Isobel," I soothed her, "what on earth are you talking about? You've been walking in your sleep." Then I perceived that she was in her nightdress. I may be old-fashioned, but really, what girls consider clothing nowadays!

I slipped my dressing gown about her shoulders; at least my pyjamas were not diaphanous.

"Virginia was cold and went to sleep in my kimono," she explained, still trembling, "and I didn't want to wake her up. Bill bet me I wouldn't go into Tiffany's Walk at night. I was to leave my hanky there as a proof..." She broke off, her eyes round with terror. "Ned. you've got to believe me! I saw her, as plainly as I see you."

"Saw whom?"

"Poor Tiffany."

"Oh, rot, Isobel. You've been dreaming."

"I haven't. I tell you. Just as I came out of the lobby I saw her all in black, just as Jack described. She was walking away from me when she suddenly stopped. I thought she was going to turn and show me that terrible face and—and I screamed. Then you came...."

There was a step on the stairs. Antonia, her flaxen hair flowing down her shoulders, looking as slim and ghostly as a young birch in her white kimono, stood behind us.

"Ned," she vociferated, "what on earth are you doing here? And Isobel?"

"Isobel's been having nightmares," I explained. "She thinks she's seen the ghost—"

"But I did, Antonia, I did," the girl broke in. "I saw her with my own eyes, all in black, walking down the arcade..." At that moment I heard a door close softly in the corridor above, and I recollected that the Carshills were sleeping in that wing. I wondered whether Antonia had heard it, too. I looked at her, but her expression was unrevealing.

"Never mind about that now, Isobel, but come to bed." she said gently and put her arm about the girl. "Sorry you were disturbed, Ned."

Bewildered and rather chilly, I returned to my chamber. As I crossed the lobby something was glittering on the flags. It was a bronze hairpin. I realized that it lay outside Timmie's door.

COMING from breakfast next morning. I bumped into Sara in the hall. As the Americans say, she looked like a million dollars. Her complexion, like her sports suit, was obviously from Paris. From the button of her dinky little beret to the soles of her natty snakeskin brogues, she was a finished work of art. She was going to play eighteen holes before lunch with Timmie, she informed me, as though I, in common with everybody else in the house, didn't know that this was the daily routine.

"Yours, I think, Sara?" said I. and handed her a bronze hairpin.

"Thanks, Ned." Unsuspectingly her deft fingers tucked it in her clustering Titian hair. She was a fascinating hussy, and I sighed to myself as I thought of Antonia. Sara had reached the stage in a woman's life at which she has nothing to learn from men and a great deal to teach— a formidable rival for any young wife. She was probably in the late thirties, I figured, but she still possessed the art of grading down her apparent age to suit her company. In that houseful of young people she was as young as any and all the boys fairly swarmed about her. But clearly she had marked down Timmie as her unlawful prey. I remembered that one day he would inherit Herron Place and all Jack's money. Knowing Sara, my heart misgave me.

A car honked and Timmie called from the drive. Sara ran out to him. I turned to find myself gazing into Roger Carshill's yellowish eyes. I recalled the fuddled and rather quarrelsome state in which I had left him on the previous evening. He cast a rancid look after the departing car.

"What's this I hear about you and the Sprote kid seeing ghosts last night?" he rumbled.

I laughed. "Isobel obviously ate something that disagreed with her and walked in her sleep..."

"A woman in black, eh?" he grunted. His lizard eyes rested unpleasantly on my face. I walked away.

Going up to dress that evening, I found that Isobel had not returned my dressing gown. So I went across to the north wing, where in the corridor I met Antonia, who fetched it. Then, "Come into my room for a minute," she begged. "I want to talk to you."

"Ned," she said abruptly but very earnestly, "I'm going to lose Timmie and I don't know what to do about it. No, you don't have to sympathize with me. Timmie and I haven't been hitting it off, but I love him and he loves me. Only he's weak and easily led. That Carshill woman means to steal him and the terrible thing is that I can't see how I'm to prevent it."

I murmured something about temporary infatuations.

"Oh, Ned," she burst out impatiently. "I'm not a fool. Timmie's room is just off the arcade. Don't you realize it was she who was in Tiffany's Walk last night? Of course, she scuttled back to her room through the other lobby and the front of the house. I heard her door shut as I was talking to you."

I thought of that bronze hairpin but said nothing.

"The only reason she didn't go to Timmie last night was because Isobel scared her off," Antonia went on tensely. "I can see her game. She means to compromise Timmie so that Roger will have to divorce her and she can marry Timmie. Did you know that that husband of hers made a disgusting scene with Timmie about her after you left us last night?" The young face flamed suddenly. "But she's not going to get away with it, if I have to kill her first!" Her voice was harsh with passion. "I have a pistol and I shan't be afraid to use it."

A pallid woman in shiny black looked in at the door. It was Sara's French maid. She had a small jar in her hand.

"I bring madame back the cream she lend madame," she said impassively.

"All right. Jeannette, stick it down anywhere," Antonia told her.

"That woman heard you," I said reprovingly when the maid had gone. "How can you say such crazy things?"

Antonia's shrug was stubborn.

"Why not talk to Timmie?" I suggested.

"Do you think I have no pride?"

"Jack, then?"

Her expression softened.

"Poor darling, he has his own cross to bear." She gave me her hand. "Thanks, Ned. I wanted to tell some one. But I must work this out for myself."

After dinner that evening, I had a word with Jack. I told him everything I knew, excepting only Antonia's foolish threat which I did not take seriously.

Jack was very calm about it.

"Thanks for letting me know, Ned," he said. "But leave this to me, do you mind? I'll handle it myself."

He must have spoken to Timmie. The next afternoon he sent for me. I found him with a rug over his knees in his accustomed scat at the south end of the arcade.

"The young fool wants Antonia to divorce him so that he can marry Mrs. Carshill," he grumbled.

"He ought to be horse-whipped," I declared. "What does Antonia say?"

"I haven't spoken to her. But Timmie has. He says she refuses. And she's right."

"Look here. Jack, do you want me to have a word with Sara?"

He shook his head. "No. I'm the one to do that. But it'll be in my own time."

In the Long Gallery, that evening after dinner, I noticed that Jack made Sara sit beside him and they had a long chat.

IT was not my business to interfere between husband and wife. But I resolved to be on the watch, and if I caught Sara again at her nocturnal prowlings, to tackle her and read the Riot Act. The night after Isobel's adventure there was much whispering and giggling in Tiffany's Walk, and I gathered that the gang was out ghost hunting. But Tiffany did not walk that night, if only for the reason that I detected Sara's mellow laugh among the muffled noises echoing along the arcade.

Two nights went by without any spectral manifestation. Sitting up was no hardship for me. I usually write at night anyway. On the third night the household had retired a good two hours and it was getting on for three, when, casting one of my periodic glances toward the north wing whence I knew the "ghost" must emerge, I descried a figure standing motionless at the entrance to the lobby.

In a flash I was on my feet and down the stairs. The figure had not budged. Preferring to challenge her under cover of the house where we should not be overlooked, I made across the garden, keeping well in the shadow of the house. The night was dark as only a midwinter night in the country can be, with a touch of frost in the air. As I neared the far end of the gallery a shadow seemed to detach itself from the gloom of the lobby and went flitting past the first bay of the arcade. I realized then that I had missed her. If I wished to confront her I should have to head her off.

I pointed half right and darted swiftly over the flower beds, following with my eye that dark form slipping from bay to bay. Then, looking toward the turret entrance whence I had emerged, I was brought up short, my blood freezing in my veins.

What happened thereafter was the affair of split seconds. From where I was halted, panting, I had a clear view of the turret entrance. A shape lurked there, a shrouded, amorphous shadow. As I gazed it moved forward, its hands, clasped beneath its robes, rising and falling in a gesture of tragic despair.

At that instant I heard a clanking sound in the arcade and knew that Sara had passed over Jack's "detector"— that row of loose bricks. They lay a little more than halfway along the walk, nearer the south than the north end, and I realized that as soon as the second figure I had seen had turned the corner of the gallery, she would meet it face to face. Scarcely had the thought come to me than I heard a dreadful, blood-curdling shriek. Its echo was swallowed up in the ear-splitting crash of a shot.

I was aware of an orange flash that had split the darkness, of a stealthy footfall within the arcade. But I paid no heed to these. I sprang forward, vaulted the nearest bay into the gallery and recoiled in horror.

A dark mass lay on the ground. It was Sara. A dark kimono covered up her black nightgown and she wore black slippers. It did not take me a moment to discover that she was past help— the doctor told us afterward that she was struck through the heart and killed instantaneously.

A LIGHT footstep, and Antonia in her white robe gazed down on me where I knelt.

"Ned." she gasped, "what is it? There was a shot..." Then she saw what lay beside me. She had an electric torch in her hand and she flashed the beam on the dead woman.

"She's dead." I said.

"Dead?" Her eyes wide with fear. "Oh, Ned!"

"What did you do with that gun, Antonia?"

She stared at me in tearful dismay.

"Ned, you don't think..." She seized my arm and shook it. "Ned, I never even saw her go out. I left my door ajar, meaning to follow her if I heard her leave her room. But I fell asleep. It was the shot that wakened me. Ned, you've got to believe that..."

Two pyjamaed figures broke from the south wing. Timmie and Sims. Timmie raised a haggard face to me from beside Sara's dead body.

"Who killed her?" he demanded with a sob in his voice.

I took him aside.

"She's dead, Timmie, and we can't do anything about it. We shall have to send for the police and they'll ask questions. You've got to pull yourself together and stand by Antonia."

"Antonia?"— blankly.

"Don't you realize that she'll be the first the police will suspect?"

"Good lord!" His glance sought his wife, but she had disappeared.

"Find her," I told him curtly. "And don't leave her. And listen—let me have that gun of hers..."

"Ned," he cried, horror-stricken, "you're not suggesting—"

"Never mind what I'm suggesting. Get that gun away from her and bring it to me."

He went off. Jack was at my elbow, telling Sims to ring up the county police.

"Just a minute, Jack," I interposed, but he shook me off.

"I heard what you said to Timmie," he remarked gruffly. "Nevertheless, the police must be notified. Is Roger Carshill anywhere about?"

"He went to bed tight as usual," I rejoined. "I was just about to wake him. But he'll keep. Jack, I've got to talk to you before the police arrive."

He let me take him a little way along the arcade and tell him what I had seen.

"So you were out prowling, too, were you?" he remarked, mildly curious. "Policemen are material beings. Ned. I shouldn't start telling them ghost stories if I were you."

I glanced at him sharply, but his sightless orbs robbed his face of all expression.

"But, old man." I cried, "you don't understand. It's Antonia I'm thinking of. She threatened to shoot Sara Carshill, and, what's more, Sara's French maid heard her."

He frowned. "I didn't know this. Even so—" He broke off. "Go and wake Carshill now and bring him to me. I must wait here for the doctor."

"Is there nothing we can do to shield Antonia?" I persisted.

"We shall clear Antonia, never fear," he said.

He spoke with so much assurance that I gazed at him, a dread suspicion clutching at my heart. His apartments were but a step from the arcade; he might well have conceived a plan of dressing up to frighten Sara out of her little dodge to confront Roger and Antonia with the accomplished fact. Had Jack fired the shot? Impossible. How could he, a blind man, have recognized her, seen to aim? Even when I remembered his detector and his boast that he could identify any footsteps once heard, I could not believe that old Jack could have murdered a woman in cold blood. But a small voice whispered that a man who has stepped out of the sunlight into everlasting darkness may well have his moral values confused, and I was afraid.

ONE glance at Superintendent Smith of the Medford police and I decided that Jack's advice was good. Therefore I told this heavy, plethoric person that, writing late, I was disturbed by a noise in Tiffany's Walk and, going down to investigate, was accidentally an eyewitness of the fatality. With regard to the direction from which the shot came, I was unable, in all honesty, to help him: but I apprehended from the drift of his questions that the bullet had struck Sara from behind, passing through the lung and lodging in the heart. The suggestion was that she had been shot down from a distance of about twenty-five yards by some one who entered the arcade behind her. This cleared Jack; but it made things look blacker than ever for Antonia.

It was the evidence of Roger Carshill and Jeannette between them that first turned the superintendent's mind toward Antonia. Carshill had seemed dazed when I awoke him with the news of the shooting, and had remained in the same confused state when confronted with his wife's dead body. But the arrival of the police roused him from his stupor and in hysterical tones he blurted out, in my presence, the whole story of his wife's love affair with Timmie. Of the two, he appeared to be more incensed against Sara, calling her by a biblical epithet and declaring that for months she had been looking for the chance to be rid of him.

Colonel Masser, the chief constable, arrived toward dawn. He was personally acquainted with Jack as a prominent resident of the county. When Carshill's statements were communicated to him, he at once sent for Antonia. The examination took place in the Long Gallery. She threw me a pathetic, hunted glance as she passed me at the door. Poor child. I pitied her from my heart. The next I heard they were searching her room—for the gun, of course, and then Jeannette was fetched.

Soon after, Timmie, white to the lips, came out. Jeannette had told her story. The gun that had killed Sara had not been found— and Antonia's pistol was unaccountably missing. It was a small one which Timmie had given her when they were motoring in France. Antonia was quite frank about it, Timmie said. She had come across it in a drawer a few days before and might have left it out; at any rate, it had disappeared. Bracketed with Jeannette's account of the threat she had overheard, this sounded like the flimsiest lie.

I was brought in and asked to corroborate the maid's story. The first person I saw was Jack seated at the table with Colonel Masser and the superintendent. Antonia, pale but composed, faced them in a chair, and Carshill, who kept mopping his face with his handkerchief, lounged on a settle. Jeannette, with lips tightly compressed and red eyes, was standing.

It was no good lying about it. I made light of Antonia's remark, saying it was merely an outburst of childish temper. But I saw by the expression on Masser's hard face that his mind was made up. After questioning me closely for particulars of Antonia's appearance after I had reached Sara's dead body, he turned to Jack.

"I'm sorry, major," he said, "but I shall have to ask Mrs. Herron to accompany us back to Medford."

Timmie bounded forward.

"You're not going to arrest her, surely?" he faltered.

"She will be detained on suspicion pending enquiries," was the dry rejoinder as the chief constable stood up.

Jack's arm went out groping and detained him.

"One moment, colonel. There's yet another eyewitness to be examined."

"Oh, and who might that be?" Masser demanded.

"Myself."

The chief constable cleared his throat and cocked an eye at the superintendent.

"An eyewitness, major?" he said in a puzzled tone.

"If you'll defer action with regard to Mrs. Herron for a very few minutes," Jack offered delicately, "and will come down with me to the arcade, I'll show you what I mean." He rose to his feet. "Ned, arc you there? Give me your arm. And Carshill. I heard your voice just now. Be a good fellow and lead me on the either side. All these strange people confuse me. Are you there, Antonia? You come, too."

We entered Tiffany's Walk from the north wing, and traversed its whole length as far as the bench in front of the south lobby which was our host's favored retreat. Guided by Carshill and me. Jack sat down.

"Last night," he said, "as often happens, I could not sleep. So I came out here and sat down on this bench which, as everybody in the house knows, is my particular pitch. In this way, I happened to ne here in the arcade when Mrs. Carshill was shot."

I HEARD Masser catch his breath sharply.

"Of course. I'm not an eyewitness in the accepted sense," Jack proceeded, "but when a fellow can't see, his ears must serve him for eyes. And now for a little experiment to explain my meaning. Let anybody who is staying in the house go to the far end of the arcade and approach me and I'll guarantee to tell you, by the footstep, who it is."

With a supercilious smile, the superintendent consulted the chief constable's face. But it was evident that Masser was impressed. Silently he signed to Carshill. But the latter shook his head sullenly. With an enquiring glance at Masser, Antonia proposed herself. But the chief constable's head-shake negatived the suggestion and he signed to me.

I began to see old Jack's game. He had dressed up to frighten Sara, and as he advanced along the gallery had heard the footstep of her murderer approaching from the other end and recognized it. But who could it be? Timmie? As the result of some bitter and dramatic lovers' quarrel? I noticed that he had not volunteered to take part in the experiment.

Taut with suspense, I threaded the garden to the north wing and went in under the arcade. I walked briskly along it, striking with my heels, and when I reached Jack's detector you may be sure I made it ring.

"It's Ned," Jack cried when I was but a few yards from him.

But apparently Masser was not entirely satisfied. I saw him draw Carshill out of earshot and argue with him strenuously, with the result that, though obviously unwilling, the latter slouched off across the garden toward the other end of the covered way.

"Once more, major, if you please," the chief constable commanded curtly.

Carshill's footsteps approached. My eye sought out Jack. He was leaning forward in his chair, his head canted forward and sideways, listening intently. Tense and erect, Antonia stood beside him, her hand resting protectively on his.

The sloppy footfalls came nearer. Clank clank, went the detector. Jack's face was stony. But as Carshill rounded the angle of the gallery and halted sheepishly within a few paces of our little group, the man on the bench shot out an accusing finger and cried harshly, "Carshill!" Then, moving his head from side to side, he said querulously, "Colonel, where are you?"

"Beside you, major," said Masser.

"Take him," Jack rasped. "He's your man!"

There was an angry growl from Carshill. He recoiled a pace, casting suspicious glances about him.

"What's this nonsense?" he snarled. "The fellow's off his chump."

"Last night as I sat here," Jack declaimed in a swift, triumphant voice, "I heard some one coming along the arcade. I knew it was a woman, by the lightness of her tread, and that she was hurrying. Standing up and going forward, I discovered from her footstep that it was Sara Carshill. I suppose my unexpected appearance scared her, for she screamed. At the same instant my ear picked up another tread, heavier and stealthy, approaching along the gallery. As it drew nearer, I identified it as her husband's. Then I heard the shot..."

"It's a lie," roared Carshill. "I was asleep when it happened. Ask him." He pointed at me.

"If you'll search his room, colonel," Jack went on evenly, "I've no doubt you'll find the gun— the one he took from Mrs. Herron's dressing table..." He broke off and called out in alarm: "What's happening? Antonia, where are you?"

A savage scuffle had broken out between Carshill and Timmie. While Jack was speaking, Carshill had suddenly sprung backward, brandishing a pistol. Without hesitation Timmie leaped at his throat, bearing him to the ground. With a crash that awoke a thousand echoes under the vaulted roof, the pistol went off. But the superintendent had hurled his 200 pounds into the mêlée, and Carshill, sullen and enraged but unhurt, was overpowered.

Superintendent Smith held out his hand to Colonel Masser. The pistol looked very small in that immense palm.

"Here you are, colonel. With two cartridges missing from the magazine."

"Why, it's my pistol!" Antonia shrilled.

"And the gun that killed Mrs. Carshill," Jack put in.

"The bullet will settle that question," the chief constable observed.

Carshill slumped in a chair, was babbling out a lachrymose confession. Jeannette had told him of Antonia's threat; he had seen the gun in Antonia's room and abstracted it as a measure of precaution. He hadn't meant to kill his wife. He was drunk; he had only fired to frighten her. Twice before, she had left him for other men. But he was younger then, not old and broke, as he was now. He blubbered in resonant self-pity.

They took him away on the first stage of his progress toward the five years penal servitude he got at the assizes on the manslaughter charge.

THE house party broke up incontinently.

Jack was in Medford with the police all day. But that evening we dined alone together before the fire in his study.

"Jack," said I, raising my glass, "I look toward you. You're a marvel."

He laughed. "That rat," he pronounced deliberately, "always gave me a bad feel."

"There's one thing I don't understand," I put in. "You told the police you identified Carshill by his footstep when he followed Sara into the arcade. But when he shot at her he couldn't have been within twenty yards of your detector, as you call it. How did you spot him, then?"

Jack chuckled. "Pure bluff, old boy."

"Bluff? Then that experiment in the gallery—"

"Fake. Not with you. I'd know your elephantine tramp anywhere, and you sounded those bricks like a good 'un. But with Carshill. You see, he'd always steered clear of me and I wouldn't have known his footstep from the Queen of Rumania's—"

"Then how did you work it?"

"Antonia. She Morsed his name on the back of my hand. Yours, too, only with you it wasn't necessary. Antonia and I have been practising for ages. It saves all kinds of explanations in public. I got the idea from Edison and his wife. Though Edison was deaf—"

"That's all right for the experiment. But how did you know it was Carshill who followed Sara into the gallery?"

"I didn't. It was a blind guess." He chortled. "You see, Sara and I were old acquaintances, though her name was Stella Young when I knew her in Egypt. She never dreamed that I, blind as I am, could possibly have known her again. But I'm pretty sure she recognized me. The way she kept her boy away from me proves that—"

"Then you'd met Carshill before, too?"

"Rather. The pair of them were playing the badger game— blackmail, you know— in Cairo, 'way back in '15. The Provost Marshal ran them out, and I was the A.P.M. that put them on their ship at Port Said..." He raised his head sharply. "Who's that outside in the arcade?"

I stepped to the window.

"Two young idiots making a fresh start." I said.

As I turned back to the table I saw, hanging behind the door, a black domino, relic of some old masquerade, and with it, a black silk handkerchief large enough to serve at a pinch as a veil. I glanced accusingly at Jack; but he had settled himself back in his chair, his clear-cut face illuminated by the look of inward peace that comes to a man whose day's work is done.

___________________

16: According to the Statute

Fred Merrick White

(1859-1935)

The Windsor Magazine, Aug 1914

COLONEL EREBURT swore by the graves of his ancestors that he would take the case to the Court of Appeal. The family solicitor, however, thought not. He confessed quite frankly that the gipsies had made out an exceedingly strong case for "scot and lot," so far as the common rights were concerned, and, indeed, he was strongly of opinion that his client would do well to leave matters as they were. He quoted the Statute of Mortmain and other obscure yet learned authorities, and Ereburt raged as he listened.

"But, my dear fellow," he protested, "this means that those poaching rascals have the right to range up and down by some of the finest salmon pools in the river. There won't be a fish left. I suppose you will tell me next that the verdict carries the right to fish. Anything might happen now."

"I shouldn't be at all surprised," the lawyer said coolly. "Be reasonable, Ereburt. You know perfectly well that if any of your tenants here, or a commoner, for the matter of that, likes to defy you, you can't prevent him from angling in the Swirl. Of course, we stand on that old deed which tradition says was granted you by some settler-adventurer two hundred years ago, but where is the charter? I have looked for it in vain. It is all more or less what you call 'swank,' and that's why I don't want you to push those gipsies too far, and you will have to make the best of it."

"Where the dickens did they get that money from?" Ereburt muttered. "Fancy three caravan loads of poachers and clothes-peg makers briefing a leading K.C. and two juniors! Why, it must have cost them a hundred pounds at least!"

"Yes, it is going to cost you six times the money," the lawyer said drily. "You are taking rather a parochial view of it. These people are real gipsies, as you know. They are a mysterious race, in touch with their fellow-Zingari all over the world, and some of them are exceedingly well-educated. You are proud of your old house and your ancient family, but the Ereburts are mere mushrooms by comparison with these Stanleys and the rest. Now, you take my advice—admit your defeat and take it like a sportsman. And remember that it might have been a great deal worse."

As a matter of fact, there was nothing else to be done. Ereburt turned his back on his lawyer's office, fuming and disappointed. It was a clear March day, with a little wind ruffling the surface of the river, and there was just the possible chance that a fish might be killed, though the water was low and rather fine. There had not been much in the way of sport lately; indeed, the run of spring fish had been small. In vain had Ereburt, in connection with his trusty keeper, Peter Locke, tried one gaudy lure after another, but the fish refused to rise, and they had perforce to come empty away.

At any rate, the gipsies had cleared out for the present. Apparently they had not waited to enjoy their triumph, for two of the caravans had gone, and a third was ready for the road. This meant that they would be seen no more till late in the autumn, and the reflection cheered Ereburt as he made his way towards the river. Dusk was beginning to fall now, but it would be possible to fish for another hour, and therefore there was no time to be lost. It was one of the traditions of the house that at this very pool a dead-and-gone Ereburt had killed twelve fish in one day with a lure of his own, the secret of which was unhappily lost. Ereburt and Peter had tried times without number to reduplicate that fatal fly, but always without success. Something was missing, some hackle or fur, the little airy trifle, and yet how much it was! Ereburt was thinking about this now as he began to put his rod together.

Then he stopped and stiffened with anger and amazement. Through the bare branches of the trees he could see a figure standing there in the stream on the very edge of the sacred pool. Moreover, it was the figure of a woman. She was tall and slim and young; a great rope of raven hair hung over her shoulders. Her legs were bare to the knees, and the rod that she wielded, beyond all question, was in the hands of a past-mistress of the craft. Angry as he was, Ereburt was bound to admit that. He could see the line thrown straight and far, cutting the water as with a razor edge. He could see the fly dropped within a fraction of an inch. He could see, too, the quick turn of the wrist and the play of the point as this amazing creature bent to her work. The sight fairly fascinated Ereburt, and he stood watching it for some little time. Then from the far side of the stream there came a roar like that of an angry bull, and Peter Locke appeared, literally foaming at the mouth.

In his righteous anger, Peter seemed to forget that he was addressing a woman, and just for the moment Ereburt blushed for him. And then something happened with a swiftness and agility that fairly made the onlooker gasp. For the lady with the rod had drawn herself up; her dark eyes flashed indignantly as she made a cast, not along the pool, but straight across the stream into Peter's red, angry face. The barbed hook caught him fairly in the cartilage of the nose, and almost before Ereburt realised what had happened, Peter, protesting and raving, was dragged across the stream as helpless as one of his own salmon. It had been a magnificent throw, viciously intentional, perhaps, but all the more deadly effective for that.

The line relaxed for the fraction of a second, then it was cleverly looped over the branch of a tree, and behold Peter Locke standing on tiptoe, with a fly in his nose and the taut line holding him absolutely helpless. There was no smile on the girl's dark face, no suggestion of amusement in her eyes as she approached her victim.

"You dare to speak to me like that," she said. "Here you stay till you apologise. Do you think that the running waters and all they contain belong to that arrogant master of yours?"

It was time for Ereburt to take a hand.

"You will pardon me," he said. "And, really, you must know that you are poaching. I am afraid my servant was a little bit hasty in the language he used, but he has his orders."

"Orders!" the girl echoed. "What are they? I do not know the word. You are Mr. Ereburt, I believe? Will you take this knife and release your servant? You think this was an accident, perhaps, but I could do it again and again."

Ereburt muttered incoherently to the effect that he was quite sure of it. There was something about the slim, dark beauty that appealed to him. For the moment he was busily engaged in looking after the discomfited Peter. With a little more than the touch of her firm hands, she released the hook and contemptuously announced that there was very little the matter. From her fly-book she produced a sovereign, which she tossed to her fallen foe.

"You had better go," she said. "There is no reason for you to stay any longer. Yet stop just a moment. In the gorse yonder, at the foot of those alders, you will find a fish. It is a clean-run thirty-pounder which I caught an hour ago. Take it up to the house and give it to Mr. Ereburt with my compliments."

Peter shuffled off, all broken up and wondering what had happened to a world which hitherto he had regarded as well-ordered. Ereburt turned to his companion with a grim smile.

"I am sure I am vastly obliged to you," he said. "I ought to be very much annoyed, and all that sort of thing, but I'm not. I am so lost in admiration of your skill as an angler that I can think of nothing else. Do you know that I have been fishing this pool for a fortnight and never had a rise? There are plenty of fish here, too. Now, what wonderful lure have you been using?"

With just the suggestion of a smile on her lips, the girl handed her big gaudy fly to Ereburt. It was a fairly familiar pattern of the "Butcher" family, but with a subtle difference. The hackles were longer and of a peculiar shade of red tipped with orange.

"This is quite new to me," Ereburt said. "It ought not to be a very difficult task—"

"To make a copy of it, you think? If you will come with me as far as my caravan, I shall be happy to give you the requisite materials. You see, I have the sporting blood in my veins. I am a Stanley, as they call us here, and ever since the Flood we have wandered about the world, living on the land and all that it breeds. And there are many things known to us which the rest of the world has forgotten. You think we wander from place to place aimlessly, but no. The migrating instinct is still in us, and wherever we go, our food awaits us. And you have traditions, too. There is one concerning a certain salmon lure, the art of making which you have lost. It was given to your people by an ancestor of mine over two hundred years ago, and many a time have you sought for it since. But you need not seek any longer, for you have it in your hand now."

Ereburt stammered something incoherent. He was feeling just a little dazed, just a little as if he had slipped back out of the twentieth century on to the fringe of the Dark Ages. It was not a lithe, breathing, palpitating gipsy beauty that he was talking to, but a witch in the guise of a lovely girl. And every word that she said was absolutely true. A couple of centuries ago a wandering Ereburt had come back from some foreign part, bringing a dusky bride with him and a frown on his face whenever the curious displayed a natural inclination to hear something of the pedigree of the new mistress of the house. There had been one or two swarthy visitors, but not for long, for the dark-eyed beauty seemed to fade like a bird in a cage, and died within three years of her marriage. And all that remained of her in the annals of the house to mark her memory was the salmon fly, which had been subsequently lost and was now almost miraculously restored. All these things were rapidly passing through Ereburt's mind as he dwelt on the dark beauty of his companion.

"I feel almost afraid of you," he said. "I wonder if you would mind being a little more explicit? Of course, it is most awfully good of you to give me that fly, and to offer to show me the correct way to make it up. There is nothing that I wanted more. I suppose you know that you are heaping coals of fire upon my head, so to speak? That business—"

"We bear no malice," the girl said. "We are only sorry that you should force us to defend our rights. Ah, we could have gone a great deal further had we liked. We could have asked you to prove that the fishing here is your property."

"You think that would be impossible, perhaps?"

"I am absolutely certain of it," the girl said calmly. "It is over two hundred years ago before the fish came here at all, and a Stanley came and settled down by this very spot and started to make baskets from the osiers along the river's bank. And none interfered with him, because it was not worth while. And so, little by little, the land on both banks belonged to the Stanley I speak of. He did not stay for very many years, because the wandering blood was in his veins, and the call came for him presently. But he had remained quite long enough to give the free right of fishing in this river of yours to anyone he chose. The salmon had come by this time, and a certain ancestor of yours saw that it was good. He gave to Rupert Stanley, the father of one Carmencita Ereburt, one hundred guineas for all his rights and easements, and there was a deed drawn up."

"Upon which I base my claim," Ereburt said eagerly.

"Ah, but can you find it? Without it your claim is worthless. I ask you if you could look me in the face and tell me that you could put your hand upon the deed at this moment? And you are a gentleman who would not tell me a lie. And now, if you will come with me as far as my caravan, I will carry out my promise."

With the same dazed feeling, Ereburt strode along by his companion. They came presently to a dainty little house on wheels, a motor caravan, the door of which was open. Ereburt caught a glimpse of gold-and-white fittings, a picture or two, and rows upon rows of books, diamond editions of the classics bound in green leather. It was only for a moment, then the gipsy was by his side again with a mass of silk and feathers in her hand.

"I think you will be able to manage with these," she said.

"I should do much better with a lesson," Ereburt said audaciously, "Now, I wonder if you will be offended at a suggestion that I have to make? Would you care to come up to the house this evening and dine with my sister and myself?"

Ereburt put the question with more diffidence than appeared on the surface. There was just a suspicion of healthy red on his cheeks, and in his heart the fear of a curt refusal. But he had judged this beautiful girl correctly, for she accepted the situation without the slightest demur. There was something about her that hinted at a mind above the usual conventions.

"I shall be most pleased," she said. "To tell you the truth, I am curious to see the inside of that beautiful house of yours. No, there is no reason to send any conveyance for me. I want nothing but a pair of goloshes and a wrap. At half-past seven, I suppose?"

She turned away without waiting for a reply, and disappeared within the caravan.

Ereburt wondered if she was alone there, and, as a matter of fact, she was. But there was no fear in the heart of a woman who called herself Carmena and answered to no other name.

There was just the chance, perhaps, that Miss Diana Ereburt might resent this unconventional invitation; but, after all, she was no more than a daughter of Eve, and before Ereburt had finished his strange story, Diana was just as anxious to welcome this amazing guest as he was himself.

She came presently, quiet, unassuming, and absolutely self-possessed, into the great hall where Ereburt and his guests generally sat during the half-hour preceding dinner. There was no stiffness or formality here, and no suggestion of coldness in the great wood fire and the shaded lamps casting pools of light on china and silver and the damascened armour of dead-and-gone Ereburts. On the brown-panelled wall were portraits of bygone heads and chatelaines of the family, and Diana Ereburt fairly gasped as her guest came forward, looking, in a black silk dress and lace ruffles, strangely like one of those pictures—as if it had stepped down from its frame. With her hands half outstretched, she paused.

"Oh, look!" she cried. "Can't you see the likeness, Lionel? Carmencita, wife of Nicholas Ereburt— he who married the gipsy. The likeness is something marvellous."

Carmena stood there with a faint suggestion of a smile upon her lips and no air of embarrassment about her. It was as if she had come prepared for this effect, as if she had looked forward to a dramatic situation. She might have been standing there at a fancy dress ball, waiting for the judge's approval of her costume. Ereburt glanced from the slim figure, all glowing white behind the diaphanous suggestion of her clinging garments, to the portrait of a woman hanging on the wall opposite the fireplace. It certainly was a marvellous likeness, he thought, the living facing the dead, the living that might have sat for the painted features smiling down upon her. Carmena took it all for granted.

"It is not so very strange," she said. "The women of my family have always been much the same. You see, we are like the Jews; it is only once in a generation or so that we marry out of our own people. And, when we do, the result is always a tragedy."

"Won't you sit down?" Diana contrived to say. "I am exceedingly glad to meet you. You won't mind the conventional remark? And so you are actually a descendant of the Hungarian lady whom Nicholas Ereburt married two centuries ago? But why do you say she was unhappy? It is true that she died very young, but according to the family archives Nicholas Ereburt was a devoted husband, and Dame Carmencita was very fond of him."

Carmena lay back in her chair and swept a calm, approving glance over all the warm luxury and refinement around her.

"So she would had she been an ordinary woman," she said. "Even I envy you a home like this. But it is not in our blood to settle down and be happy anywhere. When the sap rises and Nature turns over in her sleep, there comes the irresistible call which we all have to follow. Some follow on foot, and others in a motor caravan, as I do. But we cannot resist it any more than a migrating bird can turn its back on the west wind. And that was the trouble with your ancestor, Carmencita. She had her duty to her husband, and the obeying of it killed her. Oh, you think you know something about the story. To a limited extent, perhaps, you do. But it is woven into our traditions, and one of our songsters made it the theme of a noble poem. Do you know that I have never been in this house before, but I believe I could find my way to the bedroom in which Carmencita died? You think that she was the daughter of a common poacher who made baskets for a living. Well, it does not in the least matter. It was she who brought, as part of her dowry, the right to kill salmon in the river. And that right will be challenged before long."

"Is that in the nature of a threat?" Ereburt asked.

"Oh, no," Carmena went on. "I wonder how many of the people's privileges have been filched by you country gentry from time to time, and how many of them could be restored to the people if they would only consult the despised Zingari? Why, your people here have allowed you to steal that beautiful common from them bit by bit, and it would have gone for ever had we not fought and beaten you."

"There is a good deal in what you say." Ereburt admitted. "But I am afraid the predatory instinct is as strong within us as it ever was. But the fishing rights are another and a different matter altogether."

"Yes, because you have documentary evidence, and the thing you call the law is supreme. But the point is, can you put your hand upon that document when you need it?"

Diana Ereburt smiled as she saw the frown upon her brother's face. She knew well enough how slender was the tenure on which the claim to the salmon rights were based. And the Ereburt estate was famous for its stretch of river and the lordly fish that died there year by year. It only needed something like the truth to be known, and every poacher within twenty miles could snap his fingers at Peter Locke and defy him.

"But the document is actually in existence," Ereburt said eagerly. "I don't mind admitting to you that I cannot find it— indeed, it is nowhere to be found. I never saw it, nor my father before me. But, all the same, it is bound to be somewhere in the house."

A gong droned somewhere in the distance, an ancient white-haired butler drew back the heavy curtains from the dining-room door, and, with a solemnity worthy of the occasion, proclaimed the fact that dinner was served. Ereburt rose and offered his arm to his guest; her long slim fingers rested gently as a snowflake on his coat-sleeve. He watched her presently with a curiosity which was slightly impertinent. And yet she did nothing wrong, nothing outside the narrow track of convention, except, perhaps, that she was just a little puzzled by the array of glasses and the gleaming silver and cutlery before her. Still, she was perfectly at home; she accepted the ministering attentions of the white-haired butler and his assistants as if to the manner born. She enjoyed her dinner, with the healthy appetite of a clean, beautiful animal, but she partook only of the simplest and plainest dishes, and it was water only with which the old retainer filled her glass. She turned her back with a smile presently at the suggestion of a cigarette. She preferred to eat a little fruit instead. And she talked well of many things. She had travelled far and wide; she spoke of books and their authors as one speaks of intimate friends. But she never spoke of men or cities, of the great commercial hives where money is made, but always of the open road and the fields and the forests and the birds and beasts thereof. Ereburt flattered himself that he was something of a naturalist, but he had learnt more in the last hour than he had done for years. He touched lightly upon what science had done of late in regard to the habits of the trout and the lordly salmon, only to find that these secrets had been common knowledge to the Zingari for generations. Quite reluctantly he rose at length and held open the door for his guest. For once in a way, he discarded his after-dinner cigar for a cigarette, and then followed with the eagerness of a schoolboy to the drawing-room.

"Just listen to this, Lionel," Diana cried. "Miss Carmena is perfectly certain that she knows where the missing deed is to be found. She says that it is in the house."

"I am exceedingly glad to hear it," Ereburt said. "Is second sight amongst your many extraordinary gifts. Miss Carmena?"

"It is not that at all," Carmena said. "Did not I tell you how my people always cling together? You must have imagined that, because the woman called Dame Carmencita married outside her station, she ceased to take all interest in the clan. You may be surprised to know that she wrote regularly to her relations. Ah, those letters would make an interesting volume! I have read them again and again, and I know them by heart. Some day, perhaps, our head medicine-man— but that is not what we call him— may give his permission for them to be published. And it is because you have been kind and courteous to me that I tell you these things. Yesterday I should have laughed at the idea of doing anything of the kind. Now, I know that the paper we are speaking of was highly valued by Nicholas Ereburt, because his wife says so in her letters. He allowed her to keep it amongst other things, and after her death it could not be found. The truth is, that it never has been found. Now, let me see if I can help you in this grave matter. Please correct me if I make any mistakes. You have a wing which you call the Bishop's. At one time it formed part of a monastery. It was in this wing that Carmencita had her own suite of rooms. Am I correct in saying that leading out of the chief bedroom is a priests' hiding-hole? Ah, I see by your faces that I am not far wrong. The hiding-hole is lined with panels, and on one of the panels is the coat-of-arms of the bishop who founded the monastery. If you will touch a spring in the centre of that coat-of-arms, the panel will fly back, and you will find a small cupboard, where Carmencita had a fancy for hiding a few of her most intimate treasures. Am I right?"

"Absolutely," Ereburt cried. "This is exceedingly interesting. Miss Carmena, positively you are an angel unawares!"

"I never felt so excited," Diana cried.

"On the contrary, I am not excited in the least," Ereburt said, "because I know we are going to find the missing deed."

And it was exactly as he had anticipated. Here was the priests' hiding-place and the deep carving on the wall. The spring was just a little rusty, but it gave presently, disclosing a shallow cupboard containing a few articles of simple jewellery, together with a mass of faded letters and a crabbed old parchment inscribed with quaint characters, which proved to be nothing else but the missing deed. With a smile in her, dark, inscrutable eyes, Carmena placed it in Ereburt's hands.

"Permit me," she said, "and allow me to congratulate you. At the same time, I feel that I am in conspiracy to deprive the common people of their rights. I suppose I do this because I am more or less connected with the family of Ereburt. But that is the way that civilisation corrupts the children of the field and the heatherside. So long as I am here, I am aristocrat like yourself; but directly I find the sky and the stars above me, I am the rebellious radical that I was born to be. Yet I am glad that I came, because this is an evening to remember. And now, as it is getting late, permit me to thank you for your kindness and let me say good-bye."

"You are not going altogether?" Ereburt protested. "You will come and see us again?"

Carmena shook her head almost sorrowfully as she slipped into her over-shoes and drew the cloak about her head.

"Some day, perhaps," she said— "a year, a decade, perhaps a century, and, again, perhaps never. I am the creature of circumstance, an animal wandering in the wild just as instinct moves me. It does not follow, because I am beyond the reach of poverty, that I can defy the instincts of my class and be happy. I might have stayed a little longer, but the wind has gone round to the west, and I have already told you what that means to us. No, you are not to come with me one yard of the way. Do you think I fear the darkness? I love it. I have slept out under the stars many a time, and shall again. Ah, you will never civilise me!"

She smiled as she held out her hand to each of them in turn, then the door closed behind her, and she was alone in the darkness. Some day, perhaps— but who can say?

__________________

17: The Money Machine

David Wright O'Brien

(as by "Clee Garson")

Amazing Stories, March 1943

IN Kansas City we'd cleaned up to the tune of ten thousand bucks before that hospitable metropolis became too hot to hold us. In St. Louis we stopped over long enough to net a nice profit of three thousand more. Milwaukee was good for another three thousand, and when we breezed into Chicago, Mindy and I had sixteen grand in the kitty.

Believe me, brother, you don't count that kind of moola on your toes!

Little old Chicago had been selected as the last stop on our tour, and after working the mines in said Windy City, we'd planned to head south to burn some of that dough under the nice Miami sun.

We'd holed up in the Marquis Hotel, a small flea nest just north of Chicago's loop, and had no sooner unpacked our underwear than Mindy began harping on a theme I'd had a hunch he'd get.

"Why don't we follow the ducks south right now, Bert?" he demanded. "We got more dough than any two guys can use for one pleasant season."

"Listen," I told him. "When we started this tour we agreed that we'd follow it through as planned no matter how badly or how well we did, didn't we?"

"Yeah, but—" Mindy began.

"Okay, then," I told him. "We follow it through. This is the last stop for us, see? We work this town for what it's worth and maybe we'll end up another five or ten grand to the good. This is no time to get lazy."

"We've worked hard," Mindy whined in his nasal voice. "We owe ourselves a vacation."

"We'll get it," I promised, "as soon as we work our traps here in Chicago."

Mindy sighed, and I knew I'd won.

"Well, let's make it as fast as we can," he said.

"We're gonna do just that," I promised him. "As a matter of fact I'm going out to beat the brush for a lamb this very afternoon."

I had better explain that "lamb" is a business term peculiar to our trade. In cruder language it means "sucker." Members of the trade Mindy and I belong to are called, in polite society, confidence men. This is no doubt due to the fact that we make our cakes and ale by taking lambs into our confidence. Or, in brief, taking lambs.

Mindy sighed and rang room service for a quart of booze. When he put back the phone, he threw himself on the bed and lighted a cigarette.

"What tools we gonna use this time?" he asked.

A "tool," in case you have no experience in our line, is nothing more than the type, or kind, of shears you use to fleece the lamb. Tools run all the way from the old badger game— which is a very crude tool at best— to the slicker kinds such as the missing heir gag or trick real estate turnovers.

"I have been thinking about that, Mindy," I told my partner. "We have been working like dogs, yes, like dogs, with some of the slicker tools. Slick tool work takes a lot of buildup and a great deal of time. I feel the same way you do about heading south but quick. So, I figure that this time we'll use Old Reliable."

Mindy raised up on one elbow, looking at me with considerable surprise.

"Not the money machine?" he demanded.

"The money machine," I agreed matter-of-factly.

"In Chicago?" Mindy demanded even more unbelievingly. "In a tough smart burg like this?"

"The bigger the burg," I reminded him, "the dumber the lambs."

MINDY still looked doubtful. He sucked on his cigarette for a minute, staring at the ceiling.

"I don't like it," he said at last.

"You leave it to me," I said. "I'll find the lamb."

"It will have to be a lamb with its brains knocked out," Mindy said dubiously.

"Lambs are born without brains," I reminded him.

Mindy shook his head doubtfully.

"Maybe so," he admitted. "But the money machine needs a pretty simple lamb for the slaughter."

I picked up my hat and coat.

"That's what I'm gonna look for," I told him. "Beginning right now."

"Where you gonna look?" Mindy asked.

"All over," I answered. "Like I always do."

"What about the machine?" Mindy wondered.

"Nick Faroni should have one," I said. "I'm gonna drop by his place on Grand Avenue and ask."

NICK FARONI'S little shop on Grand Avenue, while operating under the front of an antique shop, was, of course, nothing more than a joint serving as a supply store to confidence operators and muggs.

Faroni had been in business at various stands around Chicago for over a dozen years. He carried a line of everything from bogus cash to loaded dice, trick roulette wheels, fraudulent legal documents and gold edged stock which, of course, wasn't worth a nickel He also had a few money machines.

After leaving the hotel, I went straight to Nick's place to look over his line.

It was a little store in an old building, and crowded with antique furniture and similar junk. Upstairs, however, in a big loft room, Nick kept his business supplies.

Nick was little and round with a completely bald dome and a scraggly black moustache.

Over a drink in the back of his store we talked shop and he was glad to hear Mindy and I were doing so well.

"In times like these," Mindy observed, "it is unusual to make so many dollars." He sighed and took another drink. "Here in town, business in your line and all others has been very bad. Only in the gambling line has there been any activity of any sort."

I said that was too bad, and that maybe Mindy and I were lucky and he agreed that maybe we were. Then we got around to the purpose of my call.

"I remember you had a line of money machines at one time," I told him.

Nick nodded. "They moved very slowly. I never really cleared a profit on them machines, and I have still got three or four upstairs gathering dust."

"That's fine," I told him. "I want one."

He looked surprised, even more than Mindy had.

"Are you kidding?" he demanded. "A smart operator like you should want a money machine?"

"I'm not kidding. That's the tool we're gonna use here in Chi."

"This town ain't Hayseed, Nebraska," Nick reminded me.

"I know that," I said. "It is a big town with a big heart and I am going to search for a big sucker."

Nick shrugged. "It's your business, Bert. I can't tell you anything about how to run it. You seem to be doing well enough. But— in Chicago, such a simple gag—" He shrugged again.

"Show me the machines," I told him. Nick shrugged once more. "Okay," he said. "They're fine machines, as money machines go. They even look like they'd work."

NICK wasn't lying. His money machines really did look like they'd work. They were about as big as a comptometer and the insides were filled with complicated machine work that looked scientific as hell as long as you didn't know the mechanism wasn't supposed to work.

You'd insert a ten dollar bill into the slot at the front—after previously planting two more ten spots inside—, turn the crank on the side, and presto—three bills, thirty bucks, would pop out!

The whole thing was designed to give the impression of making three bills out of one, of course.

Nick worked the machine for me a couple times, took it apart, showed me how to salt the extra bills inside, and then told me the price.

"Four hundred bucks!" I exploded. "That's robbery!"

Nick shrugged. "At the rate you and Mindy are now coining it, this machine can make you at least several grand. Why holler?"

I could have kicked myself for having let on that we were in the chips. But the mistake was made, and that was that. I knew Nick never budged from a price once set.

"But you said you've had these things lying around catching dust for a long time," I protested feebly. "After all, I'm doing you a favor, taking one of 'em off your hands."

"So they been taking up space I could of used for other stuff," Nick said, unbudging. "I gotta regain something of what I lost on 'em. My price is four hundred bucks. Take it or leave it."

"Okay," I said. "You robber." I got out my wallet and Nick wet his lips and smiled.

"You want I should deliver it?" he asked.

"I'll take it along," I told him.

The thing was heavy to carry, and when I got outside Nick's I couldn't find a cab. I was at least four blocks from a streetcar and there weren't any Elevateds within two miles.

I cursed fluently as I set out for the nearest car line with the damned thing clutched in my arms. And two blocks later, when I tripped on the curbing and dropped the machine, my profanity was hotter than a welder's torch.

Picking it up, I knew right away that the damned thing had been dented badly by the drop. Peeling away part of the wrapping to have a look-see confirmed as much.

The front end was caved in, but bad.

Four hundred bucks caved in! I could have bawled. But instead, I continued to curse. Curse and glare at the machine and realize that Nick would charge me the same amount for another.

It was while I stood there giving myself, the machine, and Nick verbal hell, that I saw the little shop across the street. A little shop that looked, at first glance, like a combination shoe repair and pawnshop, but which had an exceptionally timely sign painted on its dirty window.

"THINGS FIXED," said the sign.

"Anything Repaired," it said right below that.

"Col. Amos Marsh, Prop.", read the bottom legend.

The things scattered in sloppy display in the window, roller skates, electric irons, glued vases, etc., were what gave it the first sight appearance of a pawnshop.

I looked at the badly mashed machine in my mitts, then at the shop. Providence, perhaps, had stepped in to save me four hundred bucks. I crossed the street to the dingy shop, half a flight down into a basement store, and peered in through the dirty window.

AN old man, wearing a leather apron, a white walrus moustache and white goatee, sat behind a counter inside, puttering with what seemed to be somebody's broken violin.

I went around to the door and pushed it open. A bell jangled as I stepped inside, and the old man looked up querulously from his work.

I was standing there looking down from the top of the steps leading into the basement shop, machine clutched in my arms, feeling suddenly a little bit foolish.

"You fix things?" I asked.

The old man looked to the window where his sign was painted, then back to me, a little testily, it seemed.

"Suh, that is what the sign on this stoah proclaims," he snapped. "You have something, suh, that you wish repaired?"

I suddenly realized how the "Colonel" fitted in before his handle. The deep south, for a fact.

"You're Colonel Amos Marsh?" I asked.

"A careful perusal of the window, suh," said the goateed old colonel waspishly, "should also make that apparent."

I went down the steps and over to the counter. I put down the package.

"I'd like to have you take a look at this machine," I told him. "I'd like to find out if you think you can repair it."

The old colonel put aside the violin, brushed off his leather apron, and got up and came over to the counter. On his feet and so close, he didn't seem either old or feeble any more. He was taller than I'd figured and his wide shoulders were straight, his back militarily stiff. Tough old codger.

Silently, he began to unwrap the machine. Silently, I watched him. He stared at it frowningly for a minute or so after it was unwrapped. Then he looked up at me.

"May I ask, suh, just what sort of a gadget this is?"

I hesitated, then decided that no explanation was better than a phony one.

"I'm very sorry," I said stiffly. "I can't possibly tell you. It's a secret."

"Then, suh," he asked, "how can you expect me to repair it?"

I pointed to the badly dented front.

"That's the only part that needs repairs. All I want to know is whether or not you can straighten it out."

The colonel squinted at the damage, grunting a few times as he moved his nose around it.

"I think, suh, that it shouldn't be too difficult," he said, looking up. "A little heat, hammering it out, a touch of paint, and it should be like new."

I felt very much relieved. "Fine. That's swell. How much'll you charge and how long will the job take?"

Again the colonel gave the machine an appraising squint.

"I think I can have it ready by this time tomorrow, suh," he declared. "And the charge, suh, will depend on the time and materials I find necessary to apply to its repair."

I got suspicious.

"Give me a rough idea of how much that will be," I demanded.

"Perhaps five dollars, suh, or perhaps ten. I can't tell as it is now."

IT sounded like highway robbery.

Ten bucks to hammer out the dented front of the machine, nothing more.

"Look," I said. "It isn't a watch. It won't take any delicate fixing. Don't you think that's a little high?"

The colonel shoved the machine across the counter to me disdainfully.

"I will have you know, suh, that you can take this elsewhere if you do not agree as to the, ah, fairness of my price. My work, suh, is expert. Nothing less than expert. I pride myself on restoring objects to their original state."

There seemed to be genuine indignation, sincerely ruffled pride in the old guy's voice. And after all, I didn't know what someone else would charge, if I could get someone else to fix it. I shoved the machine back across the counter.

"Okay, okay," I said. "Only please try to keep down the cost, will you?"

The old guy was looking at the machine now as if he might not work on it for any amount of dough. He glared belligerently at me.

"Do you question my integrity, suh?"

"No," I said quickly. "No. Not a bit. It's just that I, ah, can't afford to spend too much on the thing."

This seemed to pacify him a little. He looked back at the machine.

"Very well, suh. I will have this ready for you tomorrow at this time."

I decided it would be just as smart to leave on a happy note. After all, it might keep down the price. I grinned engagingly, looking around the shop.

"You certainly seem to have a varied bunch of stuff in here for repairs," I commented. "Must be an interesting business."

This seemed to warm the old guy up a little, for he smiled proudly.

"I have not done badly, suh, in this business," he said. "When you consider, suh, that I was born to the aristocratic and leisure class of the Old South, suh, never destined— so to speak— for trade or work of any sort, this," and he waved his hand to indicate the dingy little basement shop, "is no small accomplishment."

"Not bad," I admitted, wondering if the old guy was putting on just a trifle too much dog about aristocratic background in the Old South. I wondered how much of his colonel-routine was genuine, how much was bunk.

"I was always handy, suh," the colonel went on reminiscently. "Even when I was a wee tot on mah old pappy's plantation. But I nevah suspected, suh, that I would one day be forced to earn my livelihood with that talent."

I looked curiously around the shop. "This racket pay off well?" I asked.

The old colonel blinked puzzledly.

"I don't understand you, suh. Racket? To what do you refer, suh?"

"Just a term of speech," I corrected myself quickly. "I mean this business of yours. Do you find it, ah, profitable?"

The colonel went back into his freeze. I guess he figured the question a little personal. Which, of course, it was.

"My remuneration from this shop, suh, is sufficient for the needs and ambitions of an old man," he said coldly. "I am able to live with a certain dignity, while at the same time saving for, ah, certain future plans."

NATURALLY, my interest picked up. I smiled apologetically.

"I'm sorry for having been so snooping, old timer," I said. "But it did seem odd to see a man of your undoubted dignity and, ah, aristocracy, hard at work at a humble, though honest, trade. You were speaking of plans and ambitions. Do you mind a friendly stranger such as myself asking what they might be?"

This seemed to thaw the old boy out for good. He beamed hospitably, warmly.

"Well, suh. You look like a friendly man, an honest man," he said. "Fact is, you make me think of a Taggert. You a Taggert, suh?"

"Taggert?" I blinked.

"A Georgia Taggert, suh. I knew the Georgia Taggerts well in my time. Their plantation was next to my pappy's."

"Oh," I said. "Oh, yeah. I see. No. I'm afraid that I'm not related to the Georgia Taggerts. That is, as far as I know. But about those plans you mentioned."

"Oh," that brought the old boy back. "Oh, of course. That's right. My plans, suh." He lowered his voice suddenly and looked around the shop like a conspirator. "I plan to return to the Old South, suh. To the land of my birth and allegiance. That, suh, is my ambition. I am going to return in the manner in which I was raised there— as a gentleman of leisure and culture and wealth."

I took another look around the dingy shop.

"You are?" I asked doubtfully.

"I am, suh," the colonel said positively. "As soon as I have saved the rest of the necessary capital." He sighed with the conclusion of his last words and looked suddenly less positive.

I nodded. "I see what you mean. You've been saving for that return all along, eh? And you need to save more before you can return. Is that right?"

The colonel sighed again. A very tired sigh.

"That is right, suh," he nodded.

I tried to make the question sound casual.

"Think it will be much longer before you have enough saved?"

The question worked perfectly. It fished out all I wanted to know.

"I am afraid, suh, at the present rate of my savings, that it will take considerably longer for me to arrive at the figure I need. You see, suh, considering my age, and the probable number of years left to me, I estimated that I should need thirty or thirty-five thousand dollars to live out the rest of my life in the Old South under the circumstances of my youth. To date, I have been only able to save six thousand dollars to that end."

MY eyebrows went up a notch and my palms got moist. Six grand! Again I looked around the dingy shop. Not a bad nest egg for an old guy in a business like this. I was beginning to have ideas.

"It would be certainly wonderful if you could, ah, stumble on an investment that would bring you all the money you needed for your ambition," I said casually.

The old colonel's eyes lit up like a beacon at the end of a blackout. Then the light flickered off again and he looked wearily despondent.

"But where could one find such an investment, suh?" he asked, purely conversationally.

I shrugged, casually, of course, and smiled.

"Sometimes," I said, "investments like that come up. You never can tell when." I turned and started up the steps to the door. At the landing before the door I turned around again. "I'll be in for the machine tomorrow at this time, Colonel Marsh," I said. "Do a good job, won't you?"

The old guy smiled vaguely and nodded. I could see that he was deep in thought over his plans and ambitions, so I practically tiptoed out the door.

MINDY was lounging in the lobby of our hotel when I got back. I grabbed him by the sleeve and steered him upstairs to our room, pronto. When I'd closed the door behind us and removed my coat, I walked over to the whisky and soda and poured out a couple of drinks. I handed one to Mindy, who was still blinking puzzledly and muttering.

"Pal," I said raising my glass. "This drink is to our success in a new one!"

Mindy almost lost his front teeth with surprise.

"What?" he squealed. "You gotta lamb set for shearing awready?"

I took a deep gulp from my glass and grinned.

"Brother," I asked, "how does six thousand bucks sound to you?"

"How do I look to you?" Mindy countered. "Crazy? Of course six grand sounds swell. But what's the pitch? Who's the lamb? What'll be the tools?"

"One question at a time," I told him smugly.

Mindy opened his mouth, then his eyes narrowed. He looked at my coat on the bed, at my hands, around the room, then back to me.

"Where's the money machine?" he asked. "Ain't we gonna use one this time?" There was relief in his voice.

I shook my head. "The money machine is already in possession of the lamb we're gonna shear. Only, he doesn't know that it's a money machine. That is, I haven't told him what kind of a machine it is. He's supposed to repair it. The front of it, anyway."

Mindy held up both hands.

"Wait a minute!" he implored. "Start from the beginning, why doncha?"

I grinned, poured myself another drink, and started from the beginning. Started from the point, at any rate, where I walked out of Nick Faroni's with the money machine. The rest of it I related step by step, word for word, everything about the old colonel and his shop and the busted front of the machine, and, finally, about the nest egg the old guy put away, and how the old guy could be a set up as a lamb.

"He doesn't know it yet," I concluded, "but the money machine is gonna be his investment, Mindy. We're gonna show him, with the machine, how he can put in a ten dollar bill and pull out three instead of one. And then we're gonna sell him the whole damn thing for six thousand dollars."

Mindy had listened, enraptured.

"Six thousand bucks," he murmured ecstatically when I'd finished, "plus sixteen thousand makes twenty-two thousand iron men. Boy, oh boy— Florida, hang on tight!"

I was on my feet, walking excitedly back and forth. I was getting a brainstorm that pointed to a definite improvement on the old money machine sales psychology. An improvement that fitted in nicely with the character type the colonel represented.

"Look," I said to Mindy. "This is an angle that just hit me, see. We'll go back for the machine tomorrow. The colonel will have the front end nicely repaired, no doubt. Then, instead of slamming right into our sales spiel, we'll try out the machine in front of him, see?"

Mindy blinked. "Of course." he said. "Of course we try it out in front of him. We try it out and show him how he can make three bills outta one. Then he goes fer it, but we are loath to let 'em have it at first. We go through the usual act until he's near crazy to own it and then—"

I cut Mindy off.

"Not at all," I said. "We don't show him how it can make thirty bucks outta ten. We just try out the machine, see? We try it out— since it's had a bad fall— to make sure it's still working. We put a ten dollar bill into it and, what do you know, it doesn't work!"

Mindy looked at me like I was crazy.

"You outta your mind?" he squealed.

I smiled tolerantly, going on like I hadn't heard him.

"You and I," I continued, "then go crazy as loons. We stuff that ten into it at least a dozen times, growing more and more frantic, see? And the damned machine still doesn't make three outta one!"

MINDY was shaking his head from side to side and moaning softly.

"Stop it, stop it," he begged. "I hate to see a sharp mind like yours going to pieces this way!"

I still ignored my partner's interruption.

"Don't you picture the old colonel?" I went on. "Can't you see him bugging his eyes out trying to figure what we're carrying on so about? Can't you see him asking himself what're we shoving ten dollar bills into the machine for?"

Mindy started to answer this. But I didn't give him time, I continued.

"So finally the colonel can't stand it any longer, see? He breaks in almost begging to know what's going on, see? I start to tell him, and you shout at me to shut up. You scream at me and ask if I want to give the whole thing away, see? I say what the hell difference does it make now. The machine won't work anymore. It won't make money for us anymore. Somehow the damned fall has broken it on us so we're sunk, see? That's what I say. Then I start to tell the colonel again, and by now he has half the story anyway, see? He's wise to the fact that it's a machine that makes money. And he's also dead sure, from the way we've been moaning our brains out while stuffing bills into it, that it must have worked for us before, see?"

"Go on," Mindy moaned, shuddering, "if you have to."

"Now here's the pitch, see," I continued. "I spill a story to the colonel on how you were given the machine by a dying inventor. I tell him how it worked for us plenty of times, even though we didn't know the inventor's secret of what made it work, see. I tell him that now, since it's broken, we're sunk, that we haven't a chance in the world to ever get it to work again. Then you break back in. You start moaning about how this had to happen when we needed four thousand dollars more than life itself. You mumble something about the lack of the four grand meaning utter ruin to your uncle in Canada, or something sad, see."

"Why four grand?" Mindy perked up to ask. "Why not six?"

"I'll get to that later," I said. "Four grand will sound far less suspicious than six grand, which is all he's got to his name, see? I got a scheme to get the other two grand the next day."

Mindy shook his head dubiously. "I'm beginning to see, but even so—"

I cut him off, rounding out my plan, "All this time, then," I went on, "I am wrapping up the machine sadly and getting ready to take it out of the shop. You keep moaning about the four grand and how awful it was that the machine had to break down at such a crucial moment. Then's when the old colonel breaks back in, see?"

"Why?" Mindy interrupted. "Why does he suddenly break in on our troubles?"

"Because, you dunderhead," I explained patiently, "the old colonel is a fixer. That's his business. He fixes things, see? He is more proud than Lucifer of the way he fixes things, see? He seems to think that there's nothing he can't fix. So, naturally, he'll figure that he'll be able to fix this machine. Knowing what kind of a machine it is, he'll figure that he'll net a pretty profit for fixing it for us."

"Good gosh!" Mindy broke in, shocked. "You ain't gonna let him try?"

I shook my head. "Of course not. Not while we're there, at any rate. We'll shake our heads sadly and thank him, but tell him, no. We can't let him fix it, because we know he isn't clever enough to fix it. That will get him riled, see? It'll work on his pride and his anxiety to have a fling at a job that'll pay off big dough to him. He'll knock himself out trying to get us to let him fix it. We'll still say no, that we think no one could fix it but the inventor, and he's dead, see?"

"It is all very complicated," said Mindy doubtfully.

"It is slick tool work, chum," I told him. "Because then you spring the Big Idea. You break in excitedly, shooting off your face about how badly you need that four thousand bucks inside of the next four hours, and how you'd be darned if it wouldn't be worth it to you to get rid of the machine then and there for four thousand bucks."

Mindy brightened a little. "Then do we sell him the machine for four grand?" he asked.

I shook my head. "Not right away. I break in then, and say you are crazy to sell a machine like that for such a piddling sum, and that I won't have anything to do with it, see?"

"No," Mindy said sadly. "I don't see at all."

"Look," I explained patiently. "By saying I won't have anything to do with the sale, even though the old colonel hasn't actually offered to buy the machine, I make him feel like he might have just been gypped out of the chance of a lifetime, get it? Then he begins to want to buy it!"

"Why?" Mindy asked.

"Because he's now more convinced than ever that he can fix the machine and make himself a mint, don't you see?" I told him. "We've been playing our parts so fast and furious up to now that it'll never occur to the old colonel even to doubt in the slightest that the machine once made money!" I paused. "The only thing on his mind now will be the fact that he has a chance to buy it and repair it, due to the fact that you and I need four thousand bucks in a hurry, see?"

"Yeah," said Mindy. But he still didn't sound quite convinced.

"So, like I said," I resumed, "I put my foot down and say we'd be nuts to sell it for four grand. Then you get mad at me and ask what good all the money in the world would be if we can't raise four grand in the next four hours to stave off ruin, see?"

"Uhhuh," said Mindy, frowning.

"Then I go into my biggest act," I went on. "I go almost mad with grief at. being in such a tough spot. I beat my head and tear my hair and finally break down and admit that you're right. I admit that we've no other course than to sell the machine, and bemoan the fact that our days of great fortune are forever over."

"And then do we let the old guy buy the machine?" Mindy asked pleadingly.

I smiled and nodded. "That's right. Then we let him buy. But not before I tell him how Fate must have decided that it be this way, and tossed us on his mercy for the four grand. I remind him that if he can't fix the machine, he's out four grand. But I tell him that if he can, he's in a mint, with a chance to go back to his Old South like he wants, and to go back as a millionaire. I tell him maybe Fate has given him this one chance to make enough money quickly before he dies, and remind him that the six grand he's saved so far is still a lot of years away from the dough he really needs, see?" "Do you have to end up with that spiel?" Mindy implored.

I nodded. "It's a clincher. It's perfect psychology. It sounds so darned honest. He'll break his neck getting to the bank for the dough, then."

MINDY sat there in silence, staring at me with a mixture of awe and doubt.

"You sure you got this old guy figured right?" he asked.

"Positive," I said.

"I hate to bring this up now," Mindy said, "but you've planned all this on the fact that the machine doesn't make bills when we try it. Isn't it supposed to?"

"Sure it's supposed to, you dope," I said, "if it's salted with a couple of bills inside. But it isn't, and it won't be. So it won't make dough, get it?"

Mindy nodded. "Yeah, that's right. But you said you'd get the extra two grand out of him, too. How you figure on doing that?"

"Easy," I grinned. "As soon as I go to the bank with the old guy, you take a small part from the inside of the machine and pocket it, see. I figure we'll leave you alone in the shop to guard the machine when we go to the bank. That'll give you the chance."

"And then what?" Mindy demanded.

"And then, after we give the old guy twenty-four hours to tinker with the machine so it'll make money, we come back to his shop with the little nut or bolt you've removed the day before, see?"

"No," said Mindy. "I don't see at all."

"It's simple," I said. "Of course the old duffer won't have been able to get the machine started making money. He'll be pretty frantic by then. So we show him the little loose nut or bolt or whatever it'll be. We'll say we found it on the floor when we got back to the hotel. We'll say that obviously it's the missing part that accounted for the machine's not running, see?"

Mindy chortled with glee. "And then we offer to sell it to him for two grand, eh?"

I grinned. "Right. It's the missing part, and without it he won't be able to make the machine run. I get him to go to the bank for his other two grand—which'll be what we'll charge him for the missing part, see— and while he and I are gone, you'll salt the machine with the phony bills. When we come back, we put the bolt where it belonged, take his dough, show him how to crank the machine— which'll be salted with bills— and it'll make money, just like we told him!"

Mindy was doubly gleeful. "And we'll have tickets for a fast plane to Florida inside of the next hour. We'll leave him in his shop with the machine and clear out— but fast, right?"

I nodded confidently. "Right."

Mindy went over to fill himself another drink. He did so, turned and raised his glass, grinning.

"Here's to the shearing, tomorrow."

I raised my own.

"Six thousand bucks worth," I said.

Naturally, we both felt considerably fine. So we turned our attention to the bottle, the old conscience killer....

THE day of the shearing broke bright and clear. Or at least the part of it that we saw when we rose around noon as a result of our bout. Mindy, as always before a big deal, was jittery.

My hands were none too steady, myself. But a quick, cold shower and a big breakfast settled both stomach and fingers, and one o'clock found us ready to hop a cab for the old colonel's shop.

There was a slight delay in our departure while I made Mindy go back upstairs and change the violently checkered suit he always tries to wear to our confidence deals.

He reappeared again, dourly and still jittery, some ten minutes later and we piled into a cab.

"Why must you always try to dress like the Hollywood version of a toiler at your trade?" I demanded.

Mindy was glum. "Awright, aw-right," he muttered. "It gives me confidence, that zoot."

"You might as well wear a neon sign saying Con Man in big red letters," I told him.

As we got closer to the neighborhood where old Colonel Amos Marsh had his shop, Mindy's emotional state grew even more sour.

"Don't look like no district where you'll find six grand growing on trees to me," he grumbled.

I was getting enough of that noise.

"Shut up!" I told him. He glowered, and with a minimum of muttering, shuts up.

Ten minutes later we pulled into the street where the old colonel's shop was located.

After we'd paid the driver and the cab left, Mindy stood moodily on the sidewalk, staring at the dingy shop window which said that we were outside the establishment of Colonel Amos Marsh, who fixed things.

I peered in through the dirty window, but I couldn't see the old colonel inside.

"He's probably in the back," I said.

We entered the basement shop, and the opening of the door caused the bell to tinkle.

As we started down the steps, old Colonel Marsh came out of the back. I was in front, and he saw me first, and smiled.

"Ahh, how are you, suh?" he smiled over his white goatee. He wore his leather apron, as before, and he wiped his hands on it.

"Splendid," I said cheerfully. "How are you today? The machine repaired?"

The colonel nodded, beaming with pride.

"I am fine, suh. Yes. The machine is repaired. And an excellent job I did, suh, if I do say so myself."

"Good," I told him, walking over to the counter. "I'm glad to hear it." Mindy was right at my heels, so I turned, waving a hand at him. "Colonel Marsh," I said, "I'd like you to meet my close friend, Mr. Charles Oakly. You'll be interested to know that he owns half interest in the machine you've repaired for me."

"Pleased," grunted Mindy.

"Glad to make your acquaintance, suh," said the colonel affably. "I think you will also be pleased by the work I did on your machine. It looks quite like new, suh."

"That's nice," said Mindy.

"Well, let's see it," I suggested.

The colonel nodded, turned away and went to the back of his shop. I turned and gave Mindy the wink. He nodded doubtfully, still jittery.

IN a minute the old guy came back with the money machine in his mitts. He carried it tenderly, and with pride. It was shining so brightly that I knew he'd given it a polish after repairing it; and I had to admit that the job he'd done on the caved-in front was a honey. You'd never have known the machine once had so much as a pin dent in it, now.

The colonel placed the machine on the counter.

"There you are, suhs," he said beamingly. "I hope you approve of my repair job."

I shook my head marvelingly.

"Excellent isn't the word for that work, Colonel," I said. "It is super-magnificent mending!"

The colonel's chest swelled proudly.

"Thank you, suh. Thank you very much."

I held up my hand. "Don't tell me what you're going to charge, Colonel. I know you said it'd be somewhere between five and ten bucks, but such a price— in view of the job you've done— would be robbery. I'll pay you fifteen."

The old guy's eyes almost popped out of his head. He flushed with elation.

"That is very generous of you, suh. Very generous, indeed."

"Wait!" It was Mindy who broke in suddenly. He stepped up to the counter and looked at the machine.

The colonel frowned troubledly, evidently fearing that he was about to lose that extra five I'd tacked onto his charge.

Mindy put those doubts briefly to an end.

"I don't mean anything about the fifteen," he assured the colonel. "It's a swell job, and worth that. I'm thinking of something my friend hasn't thought of yet." Mindy turned to me. "Since the damn thing dropped," he asked worriedly, "hadn't we oughtta see if it's still awright?"

I frowned, taking my cue.

"I never thought of that," I said. "But, hell, I don't think it fell hard enough to hurt the operation of the machine. It'll work, don't worry. You'll see when we get to the apartment—"

Mindy cut in again.

"I can't wait that long. I got an awful feeling that mebbe dropping it ruint the works inside."

I laughed uneasily, taking a snide glance at the colonel, who was taking in all this a bit bewilderedly.

"Don't be silly," I said. "Of course, it still runs."

Mindy made his voice hoarsely worried.

"I wanta see, now," he demanded, persistently.

I looked at the colonel. Then I looked back at Mindy.

"Not in public!" I protested.

The colonel, catching the idea, flushed and pretended not to be listening. He walked over to the end of the counter and began fiddling with something.

Mindy lowered his voice to a hiss.

"He won't be able to figure it out. We can just try it once, now!" he insisted.

The colonel still pretended to be engrossed at the end of the counter. But it was obvious that the old duck was taking in every word we said, and sneaking side glances at us.

"All right," I agreed reluctantly. "Just try it once, if it'll ease your mind."

"Got a ten dollar bill?" Mindy asked.

I brought out my wallet and gave him a bill. Then, with a sharp glance at the colonel, I draped myself over the counter just enough to cover Mindy's actions with the machine.

Mindy put the ten dollar bill into the thing, muttering worriedly as he did so. Then he turned the crank. Of course, since the thing wasn't salted, nothing happened. The ten dollar bill just came out the other end.

Mindy let out a yell of horror.

"Migawd! What did I tell you!"

"No," I bleated. "No. Something's wrong. It can't be broken! Try it again. For God's sake, try the damned thing again!"

Mindy repeated the action feverishly. From the corner of my eye I could see the colonel edging to a position where he could get a glimpse of what was going on. Our fish was getting curious as hell.

We went roaring into our act, then, Mindy holding up his end of it perfectly. His jittery state was over, now that he was "playing" before an audience. At least half a dozen times more we shoved that ten dollar bill into the machine, cranked the handle, and watched it come out again unaccompanied by the two other tens which would have emerged had it been salted beforehand.

The colonel had tossed all pretense of minding his own business to the winds. He had now moved back behind the counter where we stuffed the money frantically into the machine, staring at the routine with popeyed bewilderment.

And then, in the middle of our feigned hysteria, I pretended to notice the colonel's observation for the first time. I whirled toward him, grabbing Mindy's arm as I did so.

"We've been watched!" I gasped.

Mindy sucked in his breath and stared. Both of us stared at the colonel and the old man was crimsoning in embarrassment.

The colonel tugged at his droopy moustache, touched his goatee apologetically, and turned his eyes toward the ceiling.

"He knows what we've been doing!" Mindy hissed sharply.

I looked back at the machine, resuming my frenzied tone of anguish.

"What difference does it make now?" I groaned. "The damned thing won't work any longer, anyway."

Then Mindy went into the toughest part of his act. Sheer despair. The four thousand dollars-and-how-are-we-ever-going-to-get-it act. The colonel was gaping at us again, his curiosity almost unbearable. Just to keep it in his mind, we stuffed the ten dollar bill into the machine, turned the crank, watched it come out alone, and shrieked bitterly a few times more.

And then, of course, the colonel couldn't stand it any longer. No one could have. He asked us what it was all about, particularly what we thought we were doing when we put the money into the machine and cranked it out again.

In feigned despair, I began to tell the old guy. Mindy broke in hoarsely to tell me to shut up. He demanded to know if I wanted to give our secret away to every stranger we met. I told him what was the difference now, and so forth. I pointed out that the machine was useless, wouldn't make money for us any longer— all because of the fall it had had.

Then I started in telling the colonel the answer to his questions, even though he's got a pretty good idea of what it's all about just from the exchange of words I had with Mindy.

It was easy, then, to go into the dying inventor tale, and how Mindy and I had been given the machine by this inventor we'd befriended as he was dying. The rest of the yarn, as I'd planned it, went off smoothly. And what was more important, the colonel seemed to be eating it up.

THEN Mindy came in every so often with a moan about the four thousand dollars we had to have, and how were we ever gonna get the money now.

I began wrapping up the machine most sadly, as Mindy moaned on and I threw in a wail here and there. The most crucial point in our plan was coming up, and my palms were getting moist. Still, the old colonel seemed pretty well in hand.

Sure enough, in breaks the old guy just as I had planned.

"Pardon me, suhs," he said eagerly. "Perhaps, if you were to let me have a chance to fix that machine for you, I might be able to do—"

We both exchanged glances that were sadly, wryly humorous. No, our glances said, no, you couldn't fix it in a million years. You don't have half enough skill and brains for that. Then we said as much vocally to the old guy. I caught the indignant flash in his eyes the minute we refused to let him try.

"The only one in the world who could fix this machine is the inventor," I told the old guy with sad kindliness. "And, unfortunately, the inventor is dead. No, I'm sorry, Colonel. You'd never have a chance fixing it."

The old guy began to bristle. His pride had been wounded, and now nothing on earth would ever convince him that he couldn't repair that machine if he only had a chance. Too, you can see a little bit of that sad human element known as greed working inside the old guy. He's pretty well convinced by now that the machine— when working— actually makes money, and he's thinking already in terms of what it would be worth to us if he could repair it.

He began to perspire from his sudden anxiety to have a go at that machine. To perspire, and to plead.

I was firmly but politely sales-proof. No. We couldn't let him try it. He might make it further off form than its original self. No. He just wouldn't be able to do it. Thanks, just the same.

By then I had the machine half wrapped and was looking around for a piece of string, when Mindy came back in with explosive force. He opened his barrage with a moan about the four grand we needed so desperately in such a short time. He announced that if we didn't get the four grand in a few hours we might just as well jump in the river with the machine around our necks. And then he wound up dramatically:

"For four thousand bucks I'd sell the machine in a minute!"

"You're out of your mind!" I yelled. "This machine is worth a million billion bucks if we can get it working again! I won't have a thing to do with selling it!"

"How badly do we need that four thousand bucks?" Mindy yelled angrily.

I looked suddenly white, and scared. I looked as if the lack of that four grand would mean at least the electric chair. I gulped, and looked at the machine with tears in my eyes.

"But, if we could only get it repaired, it'd be worth—" I began.

Mindy cut me off. "Maybe it would," he said. "But no one knows how to repair it. Least of all ourselves!" He took a deep breath. "And if we don't get that four thousand in a couple of hours—" He let the sentence trail off ominously.

IT was then that the colonel cleared his throat and made his first bid.

"Being from the Old South, suhs," he said, "I am a gambling man at heart. I have confidence that I can repair that machine. Such confidence that I would be willing to offer most of my small savings for its purchase. Four thousand dollars, suhs."

I looked at the old guy a minute. He was so excited he was shaking. I could see what was running through his mind. If he repaired the machine he could make back his investment in an hour and clean up enough dough in the next ten to live for the rest of his life in his Old South like a multi-billionaire.

I shook my head sadly.

"No, Colonel. I couldn't let you risk your capital that way. From what you told me yesterday, your entire ambition rests on that money and the fact that it will some day be enough to permit you to return to the Old South." I shook my head again. "No, as much as we need that money, sir, I couldn't allow you to risk your ambitions on the chance of repairing our machine."

"It's a fair gamble," Mindy broke in. "We need the money, and if he repairs the machine, he'll be able to live like Royalty for the rest of his life in the Southland. If he's only got about four grand at this time in his life, it's a cinch he won't pile up enough in this store here to get back South as a gentleman of leisure before he kicks off."

Old Colonel Marsh broke back in, his eyes pleading and watery and fixed on me.

"That, suh, is precisely the situation," he said. "I have saved for many years to get what I have now, but it is not sufficient to fulfill my plans for retirement in the Old South. I will need more, much more, than I could ever hope to get by saving. This, suh, would be a gambling opportunity in which I could bank my skill in repairing the machine against my savings. I would, I am, quite willing to take the risk!"

If any lamb ever begged to be fleeced, it was old Colonel Marsh.

I looked at Mindy, then at the colonel, then at the machine. I sighed heavily and let my shoulders sag in surrender.

"Very well," I said. "Its' a deal. We need the money too badly to argue any longer. I hope you have luck with the machine, Colonel. In what bank do you keep your money?"

IT was one of the easiest fleecings I'd ever made. I went to the bank with the old guy and waited outside in the cab while he drew out four thousand bucks in cash. Mindy, in the meantime, was back in the old guy's shop "watching" the machine. Removing the part we'd sell for another two grand to the lamb the following day, of course.

When we got back to the old guy's shop, Mindy gave me the wink which signalled that he'd copped a bolt or nut, and we might as well scram. I had the old guy's dough in my pocket, and we only took long enough to fill out a bill of sale giving him possession of the machine. Then we beat it.

Mindy was crazy wild with joy all the way back to our hotel in the cab. He took back all the nasty doubts he'd had about me, and counted the money over and over at least a dozen times.

"Four grand," he kept repeating, "plus sixteen grand we awready got, that makes twenty thousand bucks— plus two thousant more tomorrow. Yow!"

I took the four grand out of his hands and stuffed it back into my pocket.

"Tonight we celebrate," I promised. "And tomorrow morning you make reservations on the noon plane out of this town, then we'll call on old Colonel Marsh and sell him a bolt for two thousand bucks."

"Marvelous!" Mindy sighed ecstatically.

We celebrated, of course, that evening. Nothing was too good. Sky was the limit, and we did the town right. It was really worth it, considering the dough we'd cleaned in one afternoon's work. And, too, it helped get the kind of pitiful picture of the old colonel and his life savings out of our minds. ...

COLD gray morning came, as cold gray mornings always come to two people with hangovers. It was pretty bad. My head was double the size of a beacon, and just as full of flashes. Mindy wasn't any better. But it was nine o'clock, and we had a hell of a lot to do if we wanted to pick up our extra two grand and ride out of town on the wind by noon.

While Mindy packed our luggage, I called the airport and made two Miami reservations for noon. In the meantime our breakfast, consisting of two bromos apiece, was sent up by the management. We dressed, then set out for the little shop on Grand Avenue where our lamb was waiting his final fleecing.

In the cab on the way, even Mindy had compunctions, we were both that low with hangovers.

"Seems kinda greedy, but what the hell!" he observed.

"You mean about taking his last two grand?" I asked.

Mindy nodded. "Yeah, that's right. But we're crazy if we don't."

"Yeah," I agreed. "Crazy-crazy."

Neither of us said any more about our consciences after that, and finally the cab pulled up in front of old Colonel Marsh's fix-it shop.

When we entered, the bell jangled as always, bringing the old guy out from the back. He looked up at us, startled, then pleased.

"Well, suhs!" he smiled. "How are you, suhs?"

I was a little bit surprised at his cheerfulness. But then, maybe he was still puttering with the machine, fully convinced that it would take a little time to fix.

"How are you coming on the money machine?" I asked.

"Excellently, suh," he replied. "Just excellently, if I do say so."

I nudged Mindy to bring out the bolt, then said: "We've got something here that fits on the machine, Colonel. Something that must have fallen loose in our apartment. It is undoubtedly the reason it failed to work. We brought it here today, frankly, to sell to you. But," I put in quickly, "to sell only if it makes the machine work."

The colonel wiped his hands on his leather apron and smiled a little bewilderedly.

"You say that you found an extra part which was undoubtedly responsible— by its absence— for the failure of the machine?"

"I think so, Colonel," I said amiably. "And we're going to sell it to you darned reasonably, if it proves to be the missing item in the operation of the machine."

A puzzled look came into the colonel's eyes and he tugged abstractedly at his goatee.

"But, suh, that is most strange. You see, I have already repaired the machine. It is working splendidly, suh."

"Sure," I said. "But this part will—"

And then I realized what he'd said!

"Say that again!" I choked hoarsely.

"I have repaired the machine, suh," the old colonel said proudly. "Just as I thought I could. It is working perfectly, suh, and I have been making money for the last two hours." He smiled, half-bowed. "I am deeply grateful to you both, and if you will excuse me, suhs, I will return to the machine."

Mindy broke in then.

"Listen," he said sharply. "You're crazy. That machine wouldn't ma—"

I cut him off with an elbow jab in the ribs.

"Sure," I said a little hoarsely. "Sure we'll excuse you, Colonel. You don't mind if we drop back some time when you, ah, aren't so busy?"

Old Colonel Marsh smiled amiably. "Of course not, suhs. Mah latch string is always at your disposal. Good-day."

I took Mindy by the elbow and got him out of there. The old colonel went back into the rear of his shop. On the sidewalk a few stores down, I stopped for breath.

"What's this all about?" Mindy demanded indignantly.

I took out a handkerchief and mopped my brow.

"I don't know," I admitted. "But it isn't going according to schedule. That's why I wanted to get out, quick, in order to figure this thing out."

"Don't tell me the old guy is making dough!" Mindy snorted scornfully.

"No. Of course, he isn't," I agreed. "That's ridiculous. But something is in the wind. That old devil is up to some scheme of some sort; otherwise, why would he lie to us like that?"

"I dunno," Mindy said. "Why?"

I saw a cab and whistled it over to the curb. We climbed inside, and I gave the driver our hotel address.

"I don't know why, either. But there's something funny going on, and we're not leaving this town until we figure it out. I'm canceling those Miami reservations until we figure old Colonel Marsh's game."

EXACTLY eight hours later in our hotel room, I stamped back and forth through the smoke and cigarette butts and whiskey glasses, still trying to figure it out.

Mindy was stretched out on the bed, eyes half closed, listening dully to my self-arguments, and occasionally putting in a weary word.

"If he was still the sucker," I ranted hoarsely, "he would have bitten on our extra-gadget gag."

"Right," Mindy intoned tiredly.

"But he didn't bite. Instead, he thanked us very kindly and said he already had the machine working. A sucker wouldn't say that," I continued.

"Why not?" Mindy wondered.

"Because," I went on hoarsely, "a sucker wouldn't try some snide and clever turnabout on us. A sucker would holler copper so loud it would break all the windows on Grand Avenue. But the old guy didn't holler copper and he didn't bite on our offer of an extra gadget for the machine. He didn't do anything according to Hoyle. All of which means that something awfully funny is going on."

"Well," said Mindy wearily, "mebbe he did make the machine work, like he said. Why don't we forget the extra two grand and head for Miami, huh?"

I poured myself another drink.

"No," I said. "I got a feeling in my bones that says we're in the middle of something, and I won't budge out of this town until I find out what that something is."

"Well, relax a minute or so, anyway," Mindy moaned. "That panthering up and down is driving me nuts. Have another drink." He sat up and grabbed the scotch and the soda-siphon. I downed my drink, handed the glass to Mindy for a refill, and sat down wearily.

"He said it works," I muttered disgustedly, "when any ass knows it couldn't work. What in the hell is he up to?" I was referring, of course, to our old chum, Colonel Marsh.

We had four more drinks while I did some vocal jujitsu with myself all over the room. But the more I knocked myself out trying to figure the angles the old guy was playing, the more my head rang.

Three drinks and an hour later, Mindy's nerves got the best of him.

"Dammit," he yelped, "there's no sense driving ourselves crazy around this room here. Why'n't we got back to the old guy's shop and ask to see the damned machine. Then we can ask him what he's trying to pull. That's the only way we'll ever get an answer!"

I was willing to agree to anything, then.

"Okay," I muttered. "Let's catch another drink, then get started."

We caught four more drinks, then left for the old guy's....

FOR some reason— maybe the liquor, maybe caution— I told the cab driver to drop us off a block away from the old guy's shop. Mindy and I weaved the rest of the way down the street on foot. Out in front of the colonel's fix-it emporium, we stopped.

There were no lights on in front of the store, and the door was locked. But light glimmered from the back.

"He's working overtime," I hissed to Mindy. "But on what?"

We stood there weaving a little, trying to sort our opinions, and then I got a bright idea.

"The back of his shop faces an alley," I said. "Let's go around to the alley and see if we can peek in."

We weaved our way down the block until we found the alley entrance. Then we stumbled on past ash-cans, followed a turn, and one minute later were tiptoeing up to a lighted basement window which could belong to none but the colonel's shop.

Mindy was the first to gape in through the window.

"He's down there, awright," Mindy hissed.

"Shhhh!" I hissed back, elbowing him aside and taking a look myself.

Mindy was right. Old Colonel Marsh was down there, all right. Down there, moving around in a workshop equipped with a big wooden table on which was our money machine.

In the corner of the room were two huge, old-fashioned steamer trunks of the sort that spelled Rhett Butler, Mint Juleps, and the Mississippi River. The sort of trunks Grant might have had carried into town when he took Richmond. One of them was open. Open just enough to reveal that it was stuffed, literally stuffed, with wad after wad of paper currency!

I almost had a heart attack.

Mindy had moved up behind my shoulder. And now he saw it, too. He almost choked to death.

"Migawd!" he gurgled, "look at all that moola!"

My hands were shaking so much I could scarcely control them.

"What're the denominations of them bills?" Mindy gasped. "There must be a million bucks there!"

"I don't know," I managed to croak. "Can't tell from here. One thing's certain, though. That's dough, folding money, paper joy, jammed in that trunk!"

And then the colonel walked back in front of the table and machine and turned the crank on the side of the machine. Three bills spilled out and he calmly stuffed these in his pocket. He turned the crank again, after inserting one of the bills in the front. Three more popped out, and he put these in his pocket.

Mindy had a grip on my arm that would have crushed a girder.

"The damn thing is making moola!" he gurgled.

I could only nod, my eyes still on the old colonel.

"Are them twenty, ten, fifty, or hundred dollar bills he's making?" Mindy croaked.

I shook my head. "Still can't tell from here. But, chum, that's dough. There's no doubt about that!"

The colonel had stopped putting bills into the machine and running out three in return. He walked over to the open trunk stuffed with paper money and slammed it shut. Then he locked it, put the key in his pocket, and went over to the other trunk. He opened it to look inside an instant.

The second trunk was also crammed with money!

Now Colonel Marsh closed the second trunk and locked it, going back to the machine. He stood there, looking at it fondly, proudly, until he turned suddenly to face the door that led to the front of his shop.

I SAW what made him turn. The entrance of a big buy in tattered overalls. Then a pantomime took place. The colonel pointed to the trunks and the man in overalls nodded, grabbing the first trunk and dragging it out into the front of the shop.

I turned to Mindy.

"Get out in front and watch on the sly," I hissed. "See what happens. I'll watch this end."

Mindy nodded and left.

The colonel waited patiently until the guy in overalls came back and dragged the second trunk out into the front of the shop. Then the colonel went over to the money machine, patted it fondly, and took off his leather apron. In another minute he was slipping into a coat, and in another minute after that, he snapped off the light.

I almost lost my mind. It was impossible to see whether or not the old colonel had picked up the machine after he snapped off the light and walked out front.

It seemed like an hour before Mindy came dashing back into the alley and fell over an ash-can. As I picked him up, he told me. The old colonel and the guy in overalls had put the trunks on a horse-drawn wagon. Then the colonel had climbed up beside the guy and the two clattered off down the street, the trunks bouncing around in the back of the wagon.

"Was the colonel carrying the money machine when he left the shop?" I demanded hysterically.

"No." Mindy shook his head. "I'm positive he wasn't. Neither was the freight hauler."

I grabbed Mindy hard by the arm. "Chum, come on! We're going to break in through that alley window before the colonel comes back!"

We weren't subtle. Burglary wasn't our regular line. We just kicked in that basement window, picked out the glass splinters remaining, and climbed into the back of Colonel Marsh's shop.

Three minutes later, machine in our arms, we were running like hell down the alley. Ten minutes after that, we had cut six blocks across town and climbed into a taxicab with our precious burden.

Maybe it was the liquor, maybe it was the elation, maybe it was the excitement, maybe it was all three. At any rate, Mindy and I were hilariously ecstatic as we rolled along in the cab with the machine on the seat between us.

"A million dollars!" Mindy yowled.

"A hundred million!" I corrected him.

"Two hundred billion million," I was corrected in turn.

The cab driver glared back at us.

"Maybe you two financiers would like to give me the address yuz wanta go to," he suggested.

"To our castle!" I shouted gaily, giving him our flea nest's address.

"No!" Mindy declared. "We gotta have a drink. A nice big drink before we get around to the labor of making a million bucks inna few hours or so!"

That sounded all right. In fact, it sounded swell. We gave the cabby the address of an ultra swank bar. Four hours later, or at three ayem precisely, we left said drinkery singing hilariously, machine still in our arms. In the interim, Mindy had passed out ten dollar bills as tips to every employee in the joint. But what the hell, we could afford such piddling gestures.

SOMEHOW we managed to get back to our hotel room without falling down any elevator shafts, Mindy gave the bellhop fifty bucks and sent him out for some champagne.

Tenderly, we placed the money machine on the dresser. It was a little hard to see, inasmuch as it was sometimes two machines, sometimes three, and occasionally just fuzzy. But I went to our trunk, got out every last bit of our twenty grand bankroll from the false bottom which served as our hiding place for moola.

We waited until the bellhop came back with the giggle water before starting out on our first million. We had a couple of drinks in toast to success, a couple more in toast of the toast, and then took our mighty cash bankroll and started to prove it was puny in comparison to what it was soon going to be.

Mindy was as drunk as I was—which was terribly drunk—but he had sense enough to lock and bolt the door before we started. And then the first bill—we couldn't see the denomination, thanks to the blur that covered all objects we looked at—was shoved into the front of the machine and the crank turned.

Three bills popped out, and Mindy and I whooped like madmen, had another drink, and shoved another note from our bankroll into the machine. Three more bills popped out.

It was wonderful. It was like nothing Midas ever dreamed of. An hour passed and we were knee deep in paper currency. Another hour passed and we'd completely filled one closet. Another hour trickled by and we must have cranked out a thousand or more bills. Inside of another hour, we'd used up all the bills in our twenty-thousand bankroll and were shoving the ones made by the machine back in. They made three each. It was endless.

I don't know who passed out first. It doesn't really matter much. I was the first guy to come out of the fog at eleven o'clock the following morning. I opened my eyes to find myself on the floor on my back, staring up at the dresser on which the money machine still stood.

I was lying in a welter of paper currency. The entire room was a windstorm of paper currency!

Mindy, snoring on the bed, was almost completely covered with paper currency!

The room stank with alcohol and cigarette smoke and paper currency.

Groggily, I climbed to my feet. My heart was pounding so fast I thought it would pound right on up and out of my throat. Riches! Untold wealth! Money that—

And then my vision came into focus. My vision came into focus and I saw one of the pieces of paper currency clearly for the first time.

It was paper currency, sure, but not paper currency of the sort I was used to. It was paper currency of the sort issued during the Civil War by the Confederate States of America!

I crumpled it into a ball, threw it away, picked up another, and saw it was also Confederate moola. Then I picked up another and still another bill. They were all the same. Confederate dough!

I looked around for a quiet corner in which to get deathly sick. Looked around, while realizing that twenty thousand bucks in good present-day U.S. money had been turned into this Confederate currency by two drunken boobs named Bert and Mindy!

And then I remembered the colonel. And I thought of the Old South. My language was strictly vile.

I looked in my wallet. There was a dollar bill there, present-day U.S., which had evidently escaped notice last night. Automatically, I inserted it in the front of the money machine and cranked the handle.

Three bills popped out. Three Confederate bills.

The colonel had fixed the machine. Fixed it to make money, too. Only the money was his kind of money. Confederate stuff. I thought of the stuff in the old colonel's ancient trunks. It had undoubtedly been the same kind of Rebel riches.

Then I looked at Mindy, snoring under about fifty thousand dollars' worth of Confederate money. I looked at him and decided to let him wake up and find all this out himself, the hard way, like I had....

THERE really isn't any postscript to this. Mindy and I still have the damned machine. And it still makes money, Confederate style. We've wasted another small fortune on it, trying to make it pay off in on-the-level currency. Of course, the damned thing won't.

We went back to the shop where the old Southern colonel fixed things. We looked all over the neighborhood, that is. But we couldn't find the shop, or the colonel. Or anyone who knew about either shop or colonel.

At the bank, where the colonel had gone to get the four grand to buy the machine, they didn't know of anyone by that name, or of that description.

But I think I know where the colonel is now. He's in the South. The Old South that he spoke of so tenderly. Living like a king on some vast plantation, spending his Confederate fortune right and left in a manner befitting his style and station.

Huh? You don't get it? Why, I mean Old South. Just like he said it, O-L-D!

But Mindy and I have got one consolation, one hope of squaring the score with that affable old stinker. Wait'll he tries to spend that machine-made moola when Grant takes Richmond!

__________________

Table of Contents

1: The Glenmutchkin Railway / W. E. Aytoun

2: George / Stacy Aumonier

3: Christmas Eve at the China Dog / Edgar Wallace

4: A Present for Evans / Edgar Wallace

5: The Devil of the Marsh /

6: The Mystery of the Semi-Detached / Edith Nesbit

7: The Wendigo / Theodore Roosevelt

8: Spider Tong / Perley Poore Sheehan

9: Yonder's Henry! / Thorne Smith

10: The Conspirators / John Philip Sousa

11: Aylmer Vance and the Vampire / Alice and Claude Askew

12: The Specialist / Charles  ('Chic') Sale

13: The Great Pegram Mystery / Robert Barr

14: Beyond The Spectrum / Arthur Leo Zagat

15: Blind Guess / Valentine Williams

16: According to the Statute / Fred Merrick White

17: The Money Machine / David Wright O'Brien