PAST MASTERS

THIRTY-THREE

June 2021

Part 2

Produced by Terry Walker

("Pulpmeister")

Contents

1: The Raven Mocker / Hugh Pendexter

2: Intermere / William Alexander Taylor

3: Sinners' Paradise / Raoul Whitfield

4: The Detective for the Defense / C. Langton Clarke

5: A Ledge of Safety / Wolcott LeClear Beard

6: Towards Morning / F A M Webster

7: The Blue Dimension / Francis Flagg

8: The Heads of Apex / Francis Flagg

9: Kingbird / Hugh Pendexter

10: Homeward Bound / Captain Dingle

11: Deferred / Captain Dingle

12: The Small House on Steven's Heath / Meade & Halifax

13: The Great Dial of the Gold-Finders / Charles J. Mansford

Cumulative Index of Nos 31-33

________________

1: The Raven Mocker

Hugh Pendexter

1875-1940

Adventure 3 Sep 1918

DOWN the Great War Trail that threaded all the country east of the Mississippi together in peace and war sped Yanegwa, "Big Bear," returning from the home of the Iroquois to the Upper Towns of the Cherokee Nation on the Tennessee. The Upper Towns had expected an embassy of old and experienced warriors to undertake the mission in this Autumn of 1738. But in the great council held at Echota, the capital and peace town, the priests spent a day in studying the great talismanic crystal and reported it was always the figure of the young warrior that floated to the top. So he "went to the water" to purify himself by bathing. For ten days he drank the peace medicine and then got eagle feathers.

Having completed these preliminaries, the belt was put around him and his talk tied up in a bundle, and he set forth with instructions to proceed, if need be, to the ancient home of the Mohawks in the far North, near the place where the sky vault was constantly rising and falling to crush those who presumed to venture beyond the horizon's rim.

It had not been necessary for him to visit the Mohawk country, however, as representatives of that tribe were gathered at the Great Council Fire of the Five Nations at Onondaga, the League's seat of government. It was the proudest moment of his life when he addressed that illustrious assemblage, Mohawk, Onondaga, Seneca, Oneida and Cayuga. No warrior's triumph could equal his thrill of joy as he produced the bag his talk was in and opened it.

When he made the symbolic fire of dry elm, the light of which should be a beacon to all tribes, he felt close kinship with the gods. When he stripped the white hickory bark, that the fire might be moved on it from place to place and illumine all dark corners of the league, the approbation of the silent warriors stole over him like incense. With impressive dignity he presented the wampum, showing one dish and one spoon, signifying all tribes should eat together in amity. With great eloquence he proclaimed his people's desire to bury the hatchet so deep no warrior of either nation could ever dig it up again.

In concluding he had said:

"Blood has been spilled and must be wiped up clean. Bones have been scattered and must be collected and buried and covered with white bark. Come fearlessly to the Eldest Brother of the Nation (Echota) and you will always find the white benches in place and the great white peace pipe with its seven stems leaning against them. The white wampum now hangs between the Iroquois and my people. The talk I have given I leave with you to give to other tribes, who shall come to learn what means the fire I have lighted."

And he received peace belts in return and set out for home, conscious he had done well and stood high in the esteem of the fierce Northern tribes, kinsmen and ancient enemies of the Cherokee.

His exaltation abided with him till he crossed the Potomac. Now that he was nearing home and bringing momentous news to the elders each eager stride should have added to his climax of joy. But as he pressed on through the blazing glory of Autumnal woods he was dismayed to find a vague unrest disturbing his mind. The War Trail, which his eloquence and bearing had turned into a Path of Peace, began to oppress him. The red blush of the maples suggested blood. He sought to diagnose this morbid fancy, and instantly imagination began working and hinting at an unknowable yet impending evil.

Such a mental attitude was preposterous, reason told him— unless it be the malignant work of a wizard or witch. That it might be the natural reaction from a too long sustained pitch of thought never entered his calculations. White men as well as red believed in witches and demons. The very fact such notions could enter his head at such a time was proof positive some malicious agency was working against him. But wizards and ghosts usually work through a human medium, and there came a day when he completely surrendered to the strange obsession and left the trail and doubled far back to satisfy himself the Iroquois had not broken the faith by sending warriors after him.

Ordinarily such a fear would be absurd, for the talk given and received at Onondaga was sacred. He was as safe among the Five Nations as in his own home. But evil spirits work through unsuspected channels, and the instinct to guard against a stealthy menace was overwhelming. A second incredible situation developed when he discovered he was confused as to his exact whereabouts.

Such a ridiculous predicament could only result from the work of the Little People, who live in hollow trees and caves and whose malice is confined to befuddling tried warriors. He found the trail at sunset and camped for the night, still undecided as to which particular demon the Little Folks were allied with. As he brooded over the enigma, a star left its position and streamed away to the horizon, showing it was no star at all, but a Fire-Panther. What it boded he could not imagine.

Early next morning he was afoot, the calm of the never-ending forest pressing upon him like the walls of a tent. The occasional chatter of a tree-squirrel only accented the silence. Once a chipmunk ran up to him and he saluted it gravely and accepted it as a sign of good luck. For the Chipmunk was friendly to man. He was clawed by a bear in a council of the animals because he had dared to speak a good word for men, and his stripes are a constant reminder of that loyalty.

Far above the forest crown sounded the faint dugalu dugalu dugalu of the white- breasted geese migrating south: Big Bear envied them for their ease and swiftness of flight and the wide spaces through they traveled with never a fear of an ambush.

As he followed his trail of yesterday he marveled at the careless marks his moccasins had left. Now he was moving like a shadow and often examined the priming of his gun. The lofty sentiments expressed at Onondaga seemed to be far back in the past. He had his bag of peace talk and white wampum, but they were powerless to oust the suspicion that some evil was stalking him. Once a wolf startled him by crossing the trail. He raised his gun and all but fired before recognizing the gray streak. He was very glad his eyes had not completely tricked him, for wolves are the watch-dogs of Kanati, the Lucky Hunter, and it spoils a gun to shoot at one.

Midday found his superstitious mind taking a new twist; he was loath to advance, although he had not reached the point where he had quit the trail to double back. The consciousness of danger no longer emanated from the rear, and, seemingly, there was no logic in his tarrying. He recognized this, but decided some sort of an ambush awaited him down the trail. If he waited a bit the ambush would be lifted.

So again he camped with only half a day's journey completed, and that night Wahuhu, the screech owl, began talking, and with feminine persistency shouted the same message over and over without giving him an opportunity to ask any questions. Other night-birds, through whom the ghosts talk, joined in and derided him, but he could discover no clue. A priest would have learned the truth from them.

On resuming his journey in the morning he took a new tack with his mind. He firmly told himself—

"I will think of nothing but my Sister, Little Feather, who dances like the sunbeams and sings like the red bird."

And so long as he crowded his mind with thoughts of Little Feather and her winsome sweetness he was at peace. But concentration has its limits, and he found himself declaring he was not afraid of any enemy he could see. Nor did he fear death. It was the inexplicable that disturbed him and weakened his blood. He wondered if by chance he had eaten the flesh of a timid animal while among the Iroquois. He knew he would be what he ate. He had seen warriors become slow and clumsy because they partook of waka, the cow.

ALL these meditations were abruptly terminated as through an opening in the forest the sun cast a vertical spear of light into the trail, and caused his gaze to become fierce and objective. The dazzling light brought out in strong relief the signs of a trail entering the war path from the west. The marks were fresh and it was following the trail he had made two days back. By doubling toward the north he had unwittingly placed the tracker before him. He quickened his pace to maintain his advantage.

Doubtless it was a Shawnee, that tribe being implacable in their hate since the Cherokee drove them north of the Ohio and wrested the Kentucky country from them. This evidence of a tangible foe turned Big Bear into a man-hunter.

Here was the explanation of his unwillingness to advance a full day's journey yesterday. The Fire-Panther was this stealthy assassin. With his mind satisfied on these points he shifted his gun to his left hand and drew his ax. He preferred the ax, although it came from the store-room of Bridge, the trader, who had debauched many young braves of the nation with his strong rum. Only one fear now remained; that the newcomer would discover where he left the trail and understand his quarry- was behind, not before, him. But the next bend in the ancient path brought him in sight of the tracker. He glided noiselessly forward, ' his ax upraised, and sharply yelled— "Ku! (Now!)"

With a snarl the figure straightened and wheeled, and Big Bear was nonplussed to recognize a Cherokee from the Lower Towns, who had taken to living at the white man's fort near the Cherokee settlement on Big Pigeon River.

"The Whistler!" exclaimed Big Bear, his arm falling to his side. "Did you think you were following a Shawnee?"

The Whistler came toward him, saying— "It is Yanegwa, returned from the Great Council Fire of the Iroquois."

Big Bear smiled amiably. The Whistler was very welcome, for his presence proved the Fire-Panther was a liar and that Wahuhu had nothing but old woman's talk to tell. Some evil spirit had sought to trap him and had failed. Yet he could not resist jibing—

"The Whistler has lived with the whites so long and drank so much of their strong water his eyes have grown dim, or he would have known a Shawnee would not leave a trail a cow could follow."

The Whistler drew back his lips in a little snarl, his eyes glowing. He knew his kinsmen viewed him with contempt because of his continued association with the whites. But English rum was fiery and had bought many a better man than he. As he drew very close Big Bear caught the taint of his breath and stepped back. The delinquent's presence seemed to poison the cool, clean woods.

"I knew I was following Yanegwa's trail," said the Whistler, advancing. Big Bear laughed.

"Were my people troubled about me? Did they send the brave Whistler to find me? Why was he bending over my tracks as though following a war trail?"

"He followed Yanegwa to kill him!" hissed the Whistler, striking with his knife.

Although taken completely off his guard Big Bear's instinct of self-preservation asserted itself automatically. The ax he was replacing in his belt was jerked upward a few inches and the knife glanced from the flat side of the head.

Instantly the two clinched, clutching each other's right wrists. Much rum and soft living, however, had made the Whistler flabby, and as they fell to the ground Big Bear secured the advantage. Even then he would have spared his assailant, thinking him bereft of his senses; but as he loosened his grip the knife leaped upward. At the cost of a slashed wrist Big Bear caught it and violently forced it downward.

Coughing hideously, and done for, the Whistler relaxed. In sorrow and disgust Big Bear stared at the crumpled figure. Far overhead came an eery sound, the note of a raven "diving," and not at all resembling the raven's usual cry. Both Indians recognized it as the voice of Kalanu Ahyeliski, the Raven Mocker, that terrible wizard or witch that hovers over the sick and dying to rob them of life. It usually flies through the heavens in fiery shape and all other witches and demons scatter at its approach; jealous yet afraid of it. It was no Fire-Panther that Big Bear had seen, but the Raven Mocker hurrying to be in at a death.

"Kalanu Ahyeliski!" gasped the Whistler, staring wildly up into the forest tops. "Keep it away!"

"I have no medicine," shivered Big Bear.

"Stay with me, or the Mocker will eat my heart. If you stay it may keep away. If you bury me quick it can not get me."

"I have no medicine," repeated Big Bear, fighting mightily to overcome his impulse to flee.

"You come from a great peace talk; that may be medicine. You have floated in the magic crystal; that must be medicine."

"I can not help you," shuddered Big Bear. For he knew the Raven Mocker, being invisible, even then might be standing at his side. He expected to behold the Whistler's body leap into the air as the demon seized it.

"Stay!" panted The Whistler. "Bridge sent me—to kill you. Little—"

The death-rattle cut him short.

Dazed by the horror of it all Big Bear could only remember that the Raven Mocker could not violate a grave. He frantically scooped out a hollow in the forest mold and covered up the dead man. Then he ran as though pursued by a legion of demons. Not till far into the night did his mind clear and permit him to think connectedly. The Whistler's dying words had lodged fast in his brain and now de- manded attention. He reviewed them and found them incredible. Why should Bridge, autocrat though he was, seek the life of a bearer of belts, a man he had scarcely seen? Yet how could a man in his death throes and while the Raven Mocker crouched at his side speak with a forked tongue?

IT WAS early evening when Big Bear halted at the Big Pigeon and gazed long at the Great Smoky range. One peak in particular had his reverence, Kuwahi, "the mulberry place." There, White Bear, chief of all the bears, lived near the enchanted lake of Atagahi, where wounded bears went to bathe and be cured of their hurts. The Cherokee knew that beyond their physical structure there was little difference between animals and men. In fact, the bear was part human as shown by his habit of standing erect. In the old days they had worked and lived together. Like the Indians the animals had their tribes and elected chiefs. They had their town houses, where they held councils. They shared with man the same destiny in the Twilight Land of Usunhiyi.

On the lower slopes a ribbon of red was crawling upward, writhing like a gigantic snake, where the women and children were burning the dead leaves to get the nuts underneath. Big Bear had been homesick for such sights ever since traveling to the North country. No water could ever taste like the water from the Big Pigeon, no nights so mellow and starry as those over the Great Smoky. And yet the mumbled words of a would-be assassin had poisoned Big Bear's home-coming.

The sinister problem was ever worrying him. He had nothing Bridge could want. The trader was a friend of officers at the fort and gambled and drank with them and loaned them money. He had nothing in common with the Cherokee Nation, his relations being confined to exchanging poor guns and strong rum for dressed deer-skins and other articles of barter.

Big Bear had seen him many times, a heavily-built man showing the effects of gross living. But he did not believe Bridge knew him by sight. The trader seldom visited the Cherokee towns these days, having reached a plane of affluence. He had a plantation and trading-house near the fort and transacted his business there. Much of his time was spent in carousing with the officers. No; it could not be as The Whistler had said. The Whistler had lost his reason from fear of the Raven Mocker. He had spoken crazy words.

Determined to accept this conclusion Big Bear resumed his journey, eager to be welcomed by Little Feather. As he ran up the river path he discerned a tall figure approaching at a swift pace. Anywhere between the Ohio and Savannah he would have recognized that loping gait; and he joyously called out:

"The Path-Killer! I come, Yanegwa."

The Path-Killer fairly skimmed over the trail to embrace him, but Big Bear's heart grew cold with a premonition of disaster as his sworn friend gripped him by the shoulders and spoke never a word of welcome.

"What is it?" whispered Big Bear, pushing his friend back and seeking to read his face through the gloom.

"I prayed the mighty Adawehi would tell you. I can not. Ask me of those you love and I will answer. But it takes the life out of me," choked The Path-Killer.

"Little Feather?" muttered Big Bear, the fingers of death squeezing his heart.

The Path-Killer took his arm and swung him about and pointed to the west, where a faint touch of pink was left behind by the sun.

"She is there," he whispered.

"She has gone to Usunhiyi," moaned Big Bear. "To Usunhiyi—' Where- It- Is-Ever- Growing-Dark'—The Twilight Land."

"When did she die?"

"Seven nights ago. Little Feather! Little Feather!" And with a groan of anguish the Path-Killer stretched out his arms to the spirit land, where go the dead.

"She was well when I went away. What sickness came to our people?"

The Path-Killer became a warrior, burning for vengeance, as he harshly replied: "She fell or jumped off the high ledge near the fort while escaping from Bridge, the trader. He stole her and took her to his house but she escaped. He and his men gave chase."

"Bridge— sent me— to kill you. Little—"

Big Bear now understood The Whistler's dying words. He held up his ax and kissed the blade and in a calm voice asked—

"Who were with Bridge?"

"Two officers and two of his workmen. I have killed the workmen. The others are hard to get at."

"May the Raven Mocker be near when they die, which must be very soon," prayed Big Bear over the ax.

"I have stalked them close, but they either stay at the fort or shut themselves up at the plantation," sighed the Path-Killer. "They know something is on their trail. They dare not go about. The council would send a force against them but I made the chiefs wait till you could come."

"It is not work for any but Yanegwa, her brother, and the man whose wife she was to be. There shall never be white wampum between me and the white settlers."

THE trader always had considered Indians as inferior animals; to be exploited for gain, or exterminated if they got in the way. That they experienced the gamut of human emotions never entered his head. Little Feather, an uncommonly attractive Indian girl, had appealed to his brutal fancy the moment his bloodshot gaze beheld her. She had repulsed his brusque advances. But possession had simply meant the taking; so he called in two of his officer cronies to participate in the lark, and gave orders to his henchmen. That the wench should spoil his sport by escaping and falling or jumping to her death was a fault he should always hold against the whole Cherokee Nation. He declared as much over his glass as he sat with his friends and discussed the tragedy.

The finding of one of his employees dead the day following the girl's death turned him into a fiend and he swore in horrible oaths the punishment he would mete out. The discovery of the second dead body ten hours later suggested that some one had started a system of accumulative revenge and weakened his ferocity. He was not accustomed to meet those who struck back. He drank much raw rum in brooding over the second death and had worked himself into a mental state bordering on a panic when his two friends rode over from the fort to take action on the double killing. They were for calling out the soldiers and raiding the town. But Bridge dissented.

"That would start another war and stop my profits," he moodily grunted. "Keep quiet. I'll see some of the headmen and fix it up. It'll cost a pretty bale of cloth, but better that than to stir up the whole nation."

"Perhaps they've let enough blood to square it," hopefully suggested Finsin, a rat-eyed heir of a wealthy planter.

"Two dead men ought to be enough for any Injun woman on the continent," growled Bursen, whose impudence and daring supplied the place of a rich father. "Curse them for a devilish breed! If the Government would pay a decent price for their hair we'd clean them up inside a year. Massachusetts has been paying a hundred pounds for a scalp. Godfrey! What pickings! Put that price on down here, Bridge, and I'll have pounds to your shillings and pay what I owe you to boot."

Bridge studied his glass morosely as he said: "Wish it could be settled without a fuss. Got to have Injuns to make profits. You'd better quarter a score of your soldiers over here. My men are getting silly— some of them got Injun women who fill them up with their ghost yarns."

"I'll detail some men for outpost duty here," readily agreed Bursen. Then raising his glass he mockingly cried, "Speaking of ghosts, here's to the hussy that was fool enough to prefer the river to your caresses."

"Don't!" shouted the trader. "That is; I'm unstrung."

"I should say you are," jeered Finsin, eying him in surprise. "What's a dead Injun?"

Bridge rose and examined the fastenings of the heavily-barred shutters. He was conscious of his companions' curious scrutiny as he returned to the table and fell into his chair.

"I'm shut up here alone except when you chaps call," he muttered. "Gits on my nerves— that and the rum. Can't help hearing the Injun women's talk—creepy."

"As to what?" urged Bursen, winking at his companion. Bridge started to pour out a drink, paused and spilled the liquor on the table and raised a hand for attention. It was a weird night sound.

"Owl," mumbled Finsin. "Think it was a war-whoop?"

"The wench come back to haunt you," maliciously suggested Bursen.

"Neither ghosts nor war-whoops can make my hand shake like that," hoarsely assured Bridge, holding up his heavy hand and studying the twitching fingers. "What'n do you suppose causes that? I ain't drunk. Ever hear them Injun yarns about the Raven Mocker?"

Bursen laughed loudly and demanded— "Who hasn't?"

He affected to speak in huge disgust, yet his glance traveled toward the window. "They have a pleasant trick of eating the heart of the dying. Medicine-men coil the great invisible serpent 'round the house to keep them out. Even that isn't a sure remedy."

"Get two serpents," advised Finsin with a maudlin grin.

"Some things about their medicine we whites don't understand," grunted Bridge.

"Some things about their Raven Mocker their priests don't understand," added Bursen. "In coiling the serpent the priest must leave an opening between the head and tail where you can go in and out. Otherwise the medicine isn't any good. And there's nothing to stop the Raven Mocker from entering through the gap. I've listened to that rot ever since I came to the Colonies."

"I'm in no mood to talk about it," mumbled Bridge. "Let's have the cards."

"I thank you, but no," refused Bursen, rising and bowing with exaggerated politeness. "Your amiable mood, worthy friend, would give you able luck. And I can't afford to lose any more just at present. Wish they'd offer a decent scalp bounty so us poor devils could get in funds. I'm for the fort. Coming, Finsin?"

Finsin looked longingly at the bottle. Bridge urged him to stay all night, but, not relishing to return alone in the morning, he muttered an oath and staggered to his feet. Bridge hurriedly gulped down a lrink and swore he would accompany them and look for a game at the fort, but a recurrence of the night-cry suddenly dampened his enthusiasm and he gruffly bade them good night from the table.

After they had gone he felt uneasy and even imagined something was watching him through the oak shutters. He knew such spying was impossible but the notion persisted till he rang for his superintendent to keep him company. The superintendent eagerly assailed the bottle, content to sit in silence while his master brooded over the stubbornness of the Indian character.

"Why the devil don't you say something?" he finally roared. "Where's The Whistler?"

"Dead," was the laconic reply.

"Dead?" faintly screamed Bridge, bouncing to his feet.

"Lor', sir! I didn't 'low you'd be interested. He's only a Injun," meekly replied the superintendent. "Found dead on the Big War Trail. Been buried but some wild things had dug him out."

Bridge sank limply into his chair and endeavored to make his voice sound natural as he said—

"Prob'ly a Shawnee raiding band caught him."

The superintendent shook his head emphatically, saying: "He had his hair. No Shawnee would 'a' left that. Seems to have been killed by his own knife, jest like he done for hisself. Mebbe he did."

"He didn't bury himself," whispered Bridge, wiping the water from his forehead. "What do the Cherokee think?"

The superintendent shifted uneasily; then retorted.

"They's a crazy lot. Wouldn't send a party out to scout around— seem to think the witches done it. Killed him and buried him so the Raven Mocker couldn't git him. They believe all the witches and devils are scared of the Raven Mocker and hate it so they'll bury a man jest out of spite. Now I 'low—"

"Shut up that cursed babbling!" cried Bridge, thumping the table. "Has Yanegwa got back yet?"

"Not yet, sir. He's overdue, too. The Path-Killer went to meet him. Path-Killer was sweet— er— hum."

"Go on!"

"Well, he was sweet on Yanegwa's sister." This very apologetically.

"Huh!" exclaimed Bridge, his eyes' glistening. Leaning over the table he hissed, "Fifty pounds for the Path-Killer's head. But it must be done quickly."

"Money's good as earned if he ever shows up," eagerly assured the superintendent, "I'll look for him in the morning. Hark! Some one's coming."

And he rose and stepped to the window and threw open the shutter before Bridge could stop him.

Several of the servants were huddled in front of the house holding pine-knot torches. Down the trail beyond the cleared ground a voice was softly chanting. The night, the dancing shadows cast by the torches, the fear in his own mind, caused the trader to shiver as though cold. Yet he could not summon the will power to order the shutter closed. He had to stand there and glare out into the darkness and witness what was to happen. The chanting was scarcely audible, no words being distinguishable. Low and monotonous it kept on, drawing nearer and nearer. Then two vague shapes broke through the darkness and into the rim of the torch zone and came ambling up the driveway.

With a shrill laugh of relief the superintendent informed them:

"The officers, sir, merry from drink. I could tell their hosses anywhere. They've come back to make a night of it. They've stopped singing."

The horses made for the lights and the familiar doorway. The men below began exclaiming in horror and amazement as the torches revealed dead men lurching across the withers of their mounts. As they lifted them to the ground and straightened them out under the window, Bridge gave a low cry of abject terror. The superintendent feebly cried:

"Dead and not scalped— waistcoats cut to ribbons! Oh, Lor'! No witches was 'round to bury 'em in time!"

A DELEGATI0N of chiefs from the Cherokee town visited the fort and petitioned that a band of soldiers be sent with their young men after the marauding Shawnee to punish them for slaying The Whistler and the two officers. The commander assented and dispatched a body of scouts to cooperate with the warriors. But Bridge was confident no Shawnee would be overtaken on the Great War Trail.

So he remained closely guarded in his house, fear and rum his hourly companions. His superintendent obtained a small number of soldiers to reinforce the plantation guards, and these made merry in the cook-house or boisterously patrolled the grounds at night. The trader sat at the table, sometimes dozing off, more often awake and clutching the bottle and a pistol, and quaking at every sound. The days passed and nothing happened. Inquiries made through the Indian women frequenting the plantation elicited no news of Yanegwa or the Path-Killer. Their tribesmen believed both had been killed, said the women.

The superintendent accepted this theory. The two had been slain by the same warrior, or band, that killed The Whistler and the officers. The Shawnee had hoped to escape suspicion by refraining from scalping their victims. Probably there were but very few in the Shawnee band, and they hoped to hide in the cane and hills and pick off a victim now and then. Two Mohawk braves once remained hidden near one of the Lower Towns for a space of four moons and stealthily killed till the nation believed it to be the work of witches.

Satisfied the Path-Killer was dead, the superintendent quietly murdered an Indian, represented it was Little Feather's lover, and collected his fifty pounds. Never had the trader paid out money so willingly. He was convinced Big Bear was dead, and the passing of the Path-Killer to the Twilight Land rolled a mighty load from his heart. With brutal jocosity he remarked, after paying over the blood-price—

"The three of them can talk things over."

"No doubt but what Big Bear's dead," murmured the superintendent.

The trader's eyes took alarm, and he said— "If he ain't I'll give a hundred pounds for his head."

"I'll fetch in the heads of the whole nation at that rate," cried the superintendent.

HIDDEN in a small cave near some falls on the Big Pigeon, where the voice of the Thunderers spoke to them day and night in wise council, Big Bear and his friend essayed to devise a plan whereby they could come upon the trader when he was alone.

Night after night they reconnoitered the house seeking an entrance. To avoid the drunken soldiers was child's play, but to gain admission to the trader's living-quarters without a great display of force seemed to be impossible.

There were times when they could have slain at a distance, providing their medicine was strong. These opportunities came each day when the trader stepped to the front door and whistled for his favorite horse. The intelligent animal was allowed to run free, his master's signal always bringing him to the house on the gallop. It was the one trait in the trader's brutal make-up that savored of humanism; he loved the horse.

These were the only occasions when he showed himself, and never then except as he was surrounded by his men and the soldiers. A long shot might bring him down, but such an anonymous killing would not satisfy the Cherokee. Both had sworn on Big Bear's ax that the trader should know his slayer and the cause of his death.

"It is talked in the village that he is killing himself with fear," said the Path-Killer.

"Fear is good but he must not die alone," replied Big Bear. "I would not have him die by his own hand. Little Feather's death was clean. His must be bloody."

"When he leaves the house we will follow and catch him unguarded," consoled the Path-Killer. "But he never leaves his house. Each day I fear to hear he has killed himself, or died quietly in bed."

"He must leave some day. He will grow weary of being alone and will start for the fort. He will whistle to his horse and mount it and dart away with his men behind him. Some day he will come to the door, dressed for the trail. We must always be ready to follow."

"My brother speaks medicine words," softly exulted Big Bear. "He will watch the house tonight alone while I find the horse and make friends with him."

"Adawehi helps us!" cried the Path-Killer, his gaze lighting with inspiration. "May your medicine be mighty enough to call the horse to us when his master would ride him to the fort!"

Big Bear shook his head, saying: "The priests might do it. The old people could do it, but not Yanegwa. He who can drive the Raven Mocker away could do it, but Yanegwa is only a warrior."

"Yanegwa's medicine is strong enough to drive the trader from his house," the Path-Killer insisted. "One of the corn women told me last night he is afraid of the Mocker. He does not believe it was a Shawnee who killed the officers. He believes it was a Mocker. All his men know his fears."

"He hired The Whistler to kill me," murmured Big Bear, his eyes blank as he groped for the big idea. "It was The Whistler who taught him to call his horse by whistling. He fears the Raven Mocker. Ku! I know it now. Our medicine shall drive him into the open. I, Yanegwa, who carried the bundle of peace talk to the Five Nations, say it!"

STRANGE talk was whispered about the plantation, much of which seeped into the master's apartment and set him to shivering. It was said many Raven Mockers were hovering 'round the place. Their cries could be heard each night. Some life must soon go out to attract such numbers of the wizards. Lesser witches and devils, in the shape of black clouds, had been seen retreating over the Great Smoky Mountains, frightened from their mediocre mischief by the Mockers.

"Such —— rot," mumbled Bridge, after pumping his superintendent about the cook-house gossip. "Keep them women off the plantation. What's the matter with you? You look silly 'round the gills."

"It's their ghost yarns, sir. It's all I've heard for a week."

"The Path-Killer's spirit after you, eh?" And the trader grinned wolfishly in thinking he had a companion in fear. "What do those women say about the priests keeping the Raven Mockers away? Not that there's anything in it. Yet we don't understand just what the priests can do."

"They coil a big serpent about a house, but have to leave an opening between the head and tail—"

"Shut up! Bursen was talking that guff—the night he was done for. Curse this country and its silly tales! Get things ready for me to go to the fort."

"Hoke can run things while we're gone," eagerly suggested the superintendent, who believed a trip to the fort might ease his thoughts of the Indian he had murdered.

"While we're gone?" scoffed the trader. "Who the devil are you, anyway? Drinking out the same bottle don't make us equals, my man. You'll stick here."

After the superintendent sullenly took his departure the trader outlined his plans. He would hire a new superintendent, and then go North and keep clear of the witch-ridden country. He regretted he had not gone to the fort before. Cautiously unfastening the shutters he peered out at the west and whispered:

"Usunhiyi. Where- It- Is -Always- Growing-Dark— I didn't send the little fool there. Besides, we were all drunk."

That night employees, soldiers and hangers-on heard a Raven Mocker over the house; not one voice, but many. There was no sleep in the help's quarters; there was no sleep in the master's apartment. The weird cries circled the plantation, now sounding in the depths of the forest, now calling from the tilled fields and out- houses. And toward morning it rang with ear-splitting violence close to the shuttered window and brought the trader to his feet, the dew of death on his flabby face. Sunrise found him fully dressed but helpless from liquor.

He came to his senses late in the afternoon and remembered the experiences of the night. He could not pass through such another night. Shaking and trembling he dragged himself from bed and rang for the superintendent.

"I'm leaving for the fort as soon as I can get my papers in order. Have the soldiers ready and six of my best woodsmen."

"Shall the men catch your hoss?"

"They'd have a fine run for it. I'll call the horse when I'm ready. Git out!"

The Twilight Land had reluctantly surrendered its last bit of gold and the steel-blue of the mountains had changed to sullen gray before the trader finished arranging his papers. Bursen's I.O.U.'s went into the flames as worthless, but Finsin's were saved on the chance his father might pay. Stars gleamed and the dusk was stalking up from the river when the trader descended to the hall and made sure his guard was ready and waiting. As he opened the outer door a nerve-racking cry came from the direction of the Cherokee town. The men heard it without their usual ribald jest.

The trader raised a silver whistle and blew a signal. The Mocker called again, this time much nearer. In a panic lest the evil voice get between him and the fort Bridge whistled a second time and prolonged the call.- A crackling of under-bush and the whinny of his horse answered, and his fear that some harm had befallen the animal subsided. Now the horse was cantering across a field. Once mounted, with the trail open before him, Bridge vowed he would defy the devil himself to overtake him. He snatched up the bridle and saddle from the horse block and called impatiently to the horse. The animal whinnied and prancCd about, but seemed reluctant to approach.

"Stand back with those torches! You frighten him," Bridge yelled to the soldiers who held lighted pine-knots.

The guard drew off to one side. The horse sprang forward like a bolt. What next happened was never described the same by any two of the onlookers. When the steed raced up to the block Bridge caught him about the neck and lifted the bridle. Then he gave a startled yell and seemed to vault across the animal's withers. Back to the woods galloped the horse.

Some of the men swore they heard the trader cry out the name of Yanegwa. Others were equally positive he shouted the name of Little Feather, who had died to escape him. Only on one point did they agree: that his horse carried him to the edge of the wood and that, inasmuch as his heart was torn out before they could gain his side, a Raven Mocker must have got him.

__________________

This longish short story (20,000 words) was published as a slim volume in 1901, when the author, an Ohio statesman and historian, was 63, and can be interpreted as his view of an ideal society. I have been unable to find a date of death, but if he were still alive in 1950 he would have been 113 years old, which is unlikely.

2: Intermere

William Alexander Taylor

1837-?

Century Publishing, 1901

This Is The Strange And Remarkable Story, In Substance, And Largely In Detail, As Narrated By Giles Henry Anderton, Journalist And American Tourist

Chapter I

The Tourist Lost in Mid-Ocean is Mysteriously Introduced Into Intermere, and Meets The First Citizen And Other Chief Officials

THE Mistletoe, staunch, trim and buoyant, steamed across the equator under the glare of a midday sun from a fleckless sky, and began to ascend toward the antarctic circle.

Three days later we came in sight of a great bank of fog or mist, which stood like a gray wall of stone across the entire horizon, plunged into it and the sun disappeared— disappeared forever to all except one of the gay and careless crew and passengers.

For days, as was shown by the ship's chronometers, we steamed slowly on our course, surrounded by an inky midnight, instinct with an oppressive and fearsome calm. As we approached the fortieth parallel of south latitude a remarkable change set in. The deathly calm was suddenly broken by the rush of mighty and boisterous winds, sweeping now from one point of the compass, and then suddenly veering to another, churning up the waters and spinning the Mistletoe round and round like a top.

In the midst of the terror and confusion, heightened by the unheeded commands of the officers, a glittering sheeny bolt, like a coruscating column of steel, dropped straight from the zenith, striking the gyrating Mistletoe amidships.

There was a deafening report, the air was filled with serpentine lines of flame, followed simultaneously by the dull explosion of the boilers, the hissing of escaping steam, the groaning of cordage and machinery, the lurching of the vessel as the water poured in apparently from a score of openings, a shuddering vibration of all its parts, and then, amid cries and prayers and imprecations, the wrecked vessel shot like a plummet to the bottom.

I felt myself being dragged down to the immeasurable watery depths, confused with roaring sounds and oppressed with terrors indescribable and horrible. The descent seemed miles and miles. Then I felt myself slowly rising toward the surface, followed by legions of submarine monsters of grotesque shapes and terrifying aspects.

With accelerated motion I approached the surface and, shooting like a cork above the now calm sea, fortunately fell upon a piece of floating wreckage. Looking upward as I lay upon it, I saw the blue sky and the brilliant stars far overhead. The fierce winds and inky darkness and blackness of the night were disappearing beyond the northeastern horizon.

I tried to concentrate my scattered thoughts and piece out the awful catastrophe that had befallen the ship and my companions, but the effort was too great a strain and I ceased to think— perhaps I ceased to exist.

I SEEMED to be passing through a vague twilight of sentient existence. Thought was rudimentary with me, if, indeed, there were any thoughts. They were mere sensations, perhaps, or impressions imperfectly shaped, but I remember them now as being so delightful, that I prayed, in a feeble way, that I might never be awakened from them. And then gradually the senses of sight, hearing, and full physical and mental existence returned to me.

At length I was able to determine that I lay on something like a hammock on the deck of a smoothly gliding vessel. Turning my head first to the right and then to the left, I imagined that I was indeed in Paradise, only the reality before me was so infinitely more beautiful than the most vivid poetic descriptions I had ever read of the longed for heaven of endless peace and happiness. But this could not be the Paradise of the disembodied souls, for I realized I was there in all my physical personal being.

I was sailing through a smooth, shimmering sea, thickly studded with matchlessly beautiful islands. They lay in charming profusion and picturesque irregularity of contour on the right and the left, each a distinct type of beauty and perfection. I could make out houses and gardens and farms and people on each of them.

Looking to the right I saw what appeared to be a mainland with majestic and softly modulated mountains and broad valleys, running from the distance down to the sands of the seashore. Above the mountains shone the unobscured sun, but not the burning orb I had known of old in the lower latitudes. It kissed me with a tenderness that was entrancing, filling my weakened frame with new life.

The breezes toyed with my tangled and unkempt locks, fanned my brow and whispered such things to me as did the zephyrs when I stood upon the threshold of guileless boyhood.

Finally I was able to frame a consecutive thought, in the interrogative form, and it was this:

"Where am I? Is this the Heaven my mother taught me to seek?"

I had as yet seen no one aboard the ship, or whatever it was, although I had heard the hum of what seemed to be conversation from some point beyond the line of vision. Again I silently repeated my mental question.

As if in response to my unuttered query, a being, or a man, of striking and pleasing appearance came to my side and laying his hand softly on my forehead, addressed me in a tongue at once familiar but wholly unknown, as paradoxical as that may sound.

I remained silent and he again addressed me.

I did not feel disconcerted or awed by his appearance and said: "I speak French and German imperfectly; English with some fluency."

His rejoinder was in English: "You speak English, but are not an Englishman except by partial descent. You are an American. Not a native of the eastern portion of the continent, but from west of the range of mountains which separate the Atlantic seaboard from the great central valley of the continent. You are from the tributary Ohio valley, and are, therefore, better fitted to comprehend what you will be permitted to see and hear, than the average habitant of the eastern seashore, especially of its great cities."

You can possibly imagine, in a faint way, my unbounded surprise to be thus addressed by one who was more than a stranger to me.

"You asked yourself two questions. I will answer the first: You are in Intermere."

"And where is Intermere?"

"It lies at your feet and expands on every hand about you. Let that suffice.

"No, this is not the Heaven to which your mother taught you to aspire. It is a part of your own planet, inhabited by beings sprung from the same parent stock as yourself, but differing from all other nations and peoples; a people who are many steps nearer to the higher and better life, and is, by comparison, the Paradise or Eden that masks the gateway of the true Heaven, in a sphere beyond in the great Universe."

He motioned to some one, and two persons appeared with refreshments.

"Partake," he said, "and renew your exhausted physical and mental powers."

The proffered refreshments and cordials seemed to be the acme of the gustatorial dreams of my former life: the suggestion of other things, yet unlike them. After I had partaken, a new life thrilled every nerve and fibre of my physical being and pulsated through every mental faculty.

I arose from my recumbent position and was conducted forward upon the softly carpeted deck and presented to a score of others who received me with every token of marked respect, unkempt and bedraggled as I was. They were men of unusual physique, a composite of the highest types of the human race I had ever seen or read of. Each possessed a distinctive mien and personality, as individuals, yet presenting a harmonious whole, taken collectively.

Xamas, as I afterward learned to know him, when I saw him presiding as First Citizen over this wonderful people, said to his fellows:

"This is Giles Henry Anderton, a citizen of the interior of the great Republic of North America. I have fathomed him and know that he is worthy our respect and considerate treatment. He has dreamed longingly of the things whereof we know, and which he has never even recognized as a possibility. It will be our mission to show him the grand possibilities of human life before we restore him to his kindred and friends.

"Not understanding that Nature had lain all treasures worth possessing in lavish profusion at his feet in his own land, and guided by merely commercial instincts, he sought for paltry gold in distant lands and seas, and, escaping the vortex of death, has been placed in our hands for some great purpose. He will be addressed in the English tongue until it is determined whether he is to be admitted to ours."

This was spoken in a language absolutely unknown to me, and not a word of which I was capable of framing, and yet I understood it as fully as though spoken in English. So great was my amazement that he should know my nativity, my name, my hopes, my ambitions and my purposes, I could scarcely reply to the salutations extended to me.

"Do not be surprised," said Xamas, reading my inmost thoughts, "at what I say, nor need you ask how I became possessed of your history. All that will be made plain to you hereafter."

Turning to one who stood near, he said: "Conduct Mr. Anderton to my apartments and see that he has proper 'tendance and is supplied with suitable clothing."

With that I was conducted below to a charming suite of apartments lying amidships, bathed, was massaged and shaven by an attendant, as lofty of mien as Xamas himself, and furnished with clothing suitable to the company with which I was to mingle, not more unlike the workmanship of my American tailor than his would be unlike the handiwork of his French, English or German fellow-craftsmen, and yet so unlike all of them as to fit perfectly into the ensemble of the habiliments of my new friends.

The ship, or Merocar, as I subsequently learned was its general designation, was a marvellous affair, unlike any water craft I had ever seen. Its length was fully one hundred and fifty feet, and its greatest breadth thirty, gently sloping both to stem and stern, where it rounded in perfect curves. The upper, or proper deck, extended over all. The lower deck was a succession of suites and apartments, richly but artistically furnished, opening from either side into a wide and roomy aisle. All the work was so light, both the woods, and the metals, that it seemed fragile and unsafe, but its great strength was shown by the fact that none of its parts yielded to the weight or pressure upon it.

There was not a mast, a spar nor a sail on board. The light and richly wrought hammocks swung on lithe and polished frames, apparently intended to sustain the weight of fifty pounds, yet capable of sustaining five or ten times as much. They were unprotected by awnings. Sunlight rather than shade was apparently the desideratum.

In some unaccountable way the long and lithe Merocar was propelled at any desired rate of speed, and was turned, as on a pivot, at the will of the man who acted as captain, pilot and engineer. There was no steam, no furnace belching black volumes of smoke, no whirr of machinery, no strain or creaking as the craft shot, sometimes swiftly, sometimes slowly, through the rippling water. Even motion was not perceptible to the physical senses.

The captain-pilot-engineer did not tug at a wheel in his railed-in apartment, elevated a few feet above the center of the upper deck. He placed his hand upon the table before him and it shot forward with incredible speed; he touched another point and it stood still, without jar or vibration. A movement of the hand, and the prow of the Merocar swept gracefully from north to east in less than its length, to pass between two beautiful islets or round some sharp promontory. Hundreds of other Merocars, differing in size and form, were visible.

How they were propelled was so incomprehensible to me that I attributed it to supernatural agencies. I learned that it was a simpler process than the utilization of oars, or sails, or steam, which the progenitors of these mariners had abandoned before the days of Tyre and Sidon and Memphis and Thebes.

Rejoining the company, I endeavored to carry on a conversation with them, but I fear I made little headway, so deeply was I absorbed in the wonderful panorama that lay before me.

Raising my eyes from the shimmering, island-studded and beauty-bestrewn sea to the blue above, I uttered an ejaculation of surprise at what I beheld. There I saw "the airy navies" of which Tennyson had written under the spell of an inspiration which must have been wafted from this unknown land, but marred by the hostile environments of his own.

Every quarter of the heavens disclosed graceful barques sailing hither and thither, passing and repassing each other, gathering in groups, filled with people, many of them holding mute communications with my companions, as though friend were talking with friend, without utterance, sign or gesture.

"I am beyond the confines of earth," I said to Xamas. "This is a higher and spiritual sphere, and I am not Giles Henry Anderton, but his disembodied spirit."

"You are at fault. You are within the mundane sphere, but with a people infinitely in advance of yours— a people who, by evolutionary processes, have unlocked a large proportion of the secrets of Nature and the Universe, and turned them to ennobling ends, not to selfish purposes. These facts will come to you in time, and you will be convinced.

"See," he continued, "the city is slowly coming into view across the horizon."

My glance followed to the point indicated, and I saw a city of ineffable magnificence, softly rising from the bosom of the deep, as though obedient to the wand of a master magician.

Soon I could see that it swept around the broad semicircle of the bay, many miles in extent and artistically perfect in contour, the land rising gently from the strand into a grand and massive elevation, cut into great squares and circles, and crowned with noble buildings, great and small, in a style of architecture which embraced all the beauties and none of the blemishes of European and American creations. It was the full and perfect flower of the crude buds of other lands.

For a time my companions remained silent as I contemplated the entrancing scene and drank in its beauties. Then Xamas interrupted me:

"Yesterday the allied armies of the Western Nations entered the capital of China, and are now bivouacked in the Forbidden City, from which the Empress, Emperor and Court have fled."

I shook my head incredulously:

"When I sailed from New York six months ago there was no thought of war between any of the Western Nations and the Chinese Empire. Russia may have invaded one of its provinces by way of reprisal. That is a possibility."

"Great events focus and transpire within six months. What I tell you is true. The hostile standards of England, Russia, Germany, France, Japan, and your own Republic, which has departed from its wise traditions, flout the Yellow Dragon in the precincts of his own citadel and temple. Is not this true, Maros?" turning to one who looked the prophet and seer.

"Aye, indeed, and the best loved of this man's kindred fell in the assault. He will know if I am permitted to name him."

"Shall he be permitted?"

"Freely."

"Albert Marshall, a sergeant of Marines, your playmate and foster brother, the next beloved of your mother, the son of her deceased sister; your mother reared him as her own son, and she knows, as yet, nothing of the disaster which has befallen you nor the loss of her foster son. He was of your own age, and like you tall, athletic and vigorous, with fair hair and complexion and blue eyes, the very counterpart of yourself— a man fit for a higher destiny than butchery."

"O Albert! O unhappy, stricken mother!" I cried in agony.

"Revered sir, I believe your words. They are absolutely convincing. Tell me how you came into possession of this strange information."

"In time; but be patient. Lament not for the dead; sorrow not for the living. We must presently debark. Come to my garden tomorrow. It lies within the shadow of the Temple of Thought, Memory and Hope. My home is unpretentious, but you will be welcome. There is need that you should come. Tomorrow your mother will be apprised of the death of your kinsman; almost simultaneously will come rumors of your shipwreck. She must be assured of your safety within twenty-four hours, if you hope to meet her again."

"But how can I com—"

"Peace, patience; sufficient unto tomorrow is the labor and issue thereof."

The Merocar gently ran into its slip, and we debarked, Xamas carrying me to his home in a vehicle of strange design and mysterious power of propulsion.

Chapter II

Xamas, The First Citizen, Explains The Polity and Principles Governing The Commonwealth and Promoting The Interests of all The People of Intermere

I SHALL so far anticipate as to say that the city in which I found myself was known as the Greater City, in contradistinction of the Lesser City, lying at the opposite end of the inland sea or mere.

This body of water extends in an oval shape or form north and south, its length being approximately four hundred miles, and its greatest width at the latitudinal center two hundred miles, gradually narrowing toward the opposite extremes, where it gently expands into rounded bays, forming the extended water fronts of both cities.

The Greater City was clearly the original seat of the present civilization, from which it extended southward along both shores until it met at the southern apex and became the Lesser City. I was able, however, to distinguish but little, if any, difference between the two.

The twelve hundred miles of shore line is studded with farms, gardens, towns, villages, hamlets, private residences and public edifices, extending over highland and plain, as far as I was permitted to see, toward the outer boundaries, the location and character of which I can not even conjecture.

Many rivers, limpid and sparkling, coming through level and spreading valleys, and from almost every point, contribute their waters to the mere.

The current of the mere is phenomenal— not violent, but distinctively marked. Twice within every twenty-four hours it sweeps entirely around the oval, affecting one-half of the mere as it moves. With the early hours of the morning and evening it sweeps from north to south throughout the eastern, and with noon and midnight through the western half of the sea.

This current may be described as anti- or trans-tidal; that is, the general water level falls or is lowered on the side where the current runs, and rises correspondingly in the opposite half.

The effect is this: From 6 a. m. to 12 noon and from 6 p. m. to midnight, throughout the eastern half, the tide runs in from those rivers falling in from the east, and correspondingly rises and moves inland in those falling in from the west, and then the current flows north on the western side from 12 noon to 6 p. m. and from midnight to 6 a. m., so that for half the time the rivers on either side ebb or flow into the sea, and for the other twelve hours rise and flow to the interior, east or west as the case may be.

The effect of this is singular indeed, or it was to me. The rivers appear to run inland from the sea a part of the time, and then run from the landward into the sea for twelve hours, or an equal period, while the sea itself appears to be a subdivided river forever flowing in an elongated circle along the opposite shores.

The description of the Egyptian high priest, carefully guarded by his successors for nine thousand years, then revealed to Solon, and by Solon narrated to Plato, and by Plato transmitted to the modern world, must have had its basis here. Is not this the Atlantis which enthralled the Egyptian sage, philosopher and priest more than ten cycles ago?

To the Egyptian the ever-flowing rivers returned to their common source through valleys and landscapes of ravishing beauty, renewing themselves forever. They laved the feet of cities, irrigated the endless succession of farms, gardens and residential demesnes, and mirrored the mountains, clothed with perpetual verdure and crowned with the stately monuments of genius, wisdom, art, civilization, learning and human progress, a century of centuries agone.

I HAVE SPOKEN of the singular vehicle in which, with Xamas, I left the pier and ascended the gentle slope into the city. It might be likened, faintly however, to the best types of our automobiles. But the comparison would be much like that between the ox-cart and the landau.

It more resembled a double-seated chair set upon several small elastic wheels, scarcely visible beneath the rich trappings which dropped almost to the smooth street, as scrupulously clean as a ballroom floor.

Xamas pushed a tiny lever, almost hidden in the rich upholstery of the arm-rest, and it moved swiftly and noiselessly forward without jar or oscillation. A delicate and a deftly concealed spring guided it along the graceful curves of the streets, or sent it at a right angle when the streets crossed at tangents.

An adjustment lowered the speed to a strolling pace; another movement gave a high speed, while the reversal of the lever brought us to a standstill that I might silently admire some stately architectural pile or revel in the contemplation of some lovely private home.

As we journeyed Xamas said: "Ask with all frankness such questions as you desire. Wisdom is the child of patience, so be neither impatient, if the answer is not immediate, or if it is at first incomprehensible. It will be some time before your understanding can grasp all that you see or all that you hear.

"Your people undertake the impossible feat of putting a gallon of grain into a pint vase. Result: The vase is crushed and broken and the grain is spilled and lost. The human mind is the vase; Knowledge is the grain, from which Wisdom will germinate. The vase expands by a process too subtle for your comprehension. To crowd it beyond its capacity with the idea of expanding its receptiveness is a dangerous and fatal folly. That is why mental dwarfs multiply and mental giants diminish in proportion to the increase of your people. Two things are uppermost in your mind:

"First, you believe you are in a supernatural sphere and surrounded by a supernatural people. In this you are absolutely at fault. Accept this assurance without reservation. You will tarry with us long enough to fully comprehend that fact. You will see nothing during your stay that can not be accounted for on natural and scientific grounds.

"Second, you are consumed with curiosity to know how I propel this Medocar and make it obey my every wish, so to speak. The full explanation of that I shall delegate to another, who will acquaint you with our mechanisms and the principle that moves them.

"When you have patiently and intelligently listened to him you will know that we have achieved what your wisest and deepest and least appreciated thinkers have but vaguely dreamed of and hoped for during long and intermittent periods. But here we are at my residence. Let us enter and I will introduce you to my family and friends."

The Medocar halted with the last word in front of a two-storied, many-gabled house with broad verandas, situated in the center of spacious grounds, beautified with trees and shrubs and flowers and bubbling fountains.

Ushering me into a spacious reception hall, he presented me to his wife and children— grown-up sons and daughters— and then to a number of men and women who had called to greet him, some on social affairs and some on matters of public business, concluding with: "Mr. Anderton is a castaway from the other side of the world, who is entitled to our sympathy and care."

If my newly made acquaintances were curious as to my being, personality and history, they had masterful control of their feelings. In all things they treated me with the most refined courtesy and gentle consideration. They did not embarrass me with expressions of pity or consolatory suggestions.

They addressed me in my own language, made me feel that I was welcome to their society. Each extended an invitation to me to visit them at their homes, some of them in distant provinces, and these invitations were gratefully accepted. There could be no mistaking the deep sincerity they implied.

After an hour's pleasant conversation on many and varied subjects with my host and his guests, Xamas led me to a suite of apartments intended for my use, and said:

"Attendants will provide you with refreshments and ascertain your every want. Rest and fully recuperate. Later in the day I shall explain to you the polity of our Commonwealth, in which I perceive you are deeply interested."

What a remarkable man! He seemed to read my inmost thoughts.

AS THE sun was hanging like a softly beaming lamp above a cone-like mountain beyond the western line of the Greater City, Xamas and I were alone upon an open veranda, overgrown with clambering vines of many kinds in full bloom, radiant with exquisite colors and shades. He abruptly said to me:

"This Commonwealth is a pure democracy. Titles and offices confer no merely meretricious distinctions. They temporarily impose additional responsibilities, duties and burdens; the chief distinction of the citizen is conferred by labor, for labor is honorable and praiseworthy above all things else. The second is justice. When and where all men labor and all men are just, there can be no wrong, no sin, no evil. Where there is labor and not justice, the strong enjoy, the weak suffer and endure, opulence flourishes for the few, pain and poverty afflict the many. Where there is neither labor nor justice, where might makes right, barbarism in its worst form curses the land.

"The ascent from the third condition to the first is a highway leading through the second, where labor is oppressed and justice is a stranger, until at last justice and labor join hands and produce a happy and a great people. I touch only on the three cardinal points. The process of ascent is slow and purely evolutionary— an evolution that constantly conforms itself to ever-changing environments.

"Your own so-called Declaration of Independence, which so many of your people do not care to comprehend, was drawn from the keystone of our own national arch— Human Equality, the climax of human civilization and happiness.

"Thousands of years before the feet of the more modern Europeans trode the soil of your continent we had reached this point, and discovered that we had but reached the initial period of our usefulness and higher destiny.

"It required centuries to expel first the animal instincts, and then the barbarian nature from our race, not by savage repression and ruthless aggression and slaughter, but by the study and application of the laws of Nature and the Universe, which at last ultimated in the principle and entity of Brotherhood and the equality of all men— not equality of stature, mental equipment or material endowment, but the equality of common rights and common opportunities. Labor and Justice maintain and preserve this equality and Brotherhood.

"Thousands of years before Magna Charta we had founded our Commonwealth on the great principles of human equality and the right of life, liberty and the pursuit of rational happiness, and my ancestors, comprehending the profound laws of Nature unknown to yours, wafted to them these precious seed, trusting that they would fall on genial and generous soil, and the inspiration thus transmitted through the agency of our progenitors was inscribed by yours upon rescript of your national autonomy.

"Its growth, once so promising, has become painful and pitiable. The upas of human greed and selfishness withers it, and the prophecy of bloom and fruitage is unfulfilled. The animal instinct and the barbarous appetite which reaches after the gaud and tinsel of excessive wealth and accumulation, the two aggressive forms of selfishness combined in one, hold civilization and human progress in check, and may in your case, as in a thousand others, lead back to the fen and morass of primal barbarism.

"No, this is not the Paradise of Socialism, as you call it," said he, interpreting the thread of my thought. "That is but an idle dream, the recrudescence of primal, undeveloped and undesirable conditions, which occasionally flashes through irresolute minds, unfitted to solve the great problem of human existence and happiness.

"This is the land of absolute individuality as well as absolute equality. Every man who reaches maturity becomes the individual owner of property in one or more of its forms, the foundation being the soil for residence or productive purposes, or both, at his option. All lands are subject to individual ownership, within clearly defined limits, the public domain being held in reserve to meet new demands of increasing population. It is the common property of all until it passes into individual ownership, to be used for agricultural or other purposes, under fixed rules, a specific proportion of the product, or its equivalent, being turned into the common treasury, to prosecute public improvements and for other public purposes.

"This stands in lieu of taxation in other countries, and it is only on rare occasions that it is necessary to supplement it with a direct tax on the people, except as to the municipal and provincial taxes for local purposes, in which case each man of mature age, or twenty-five years, pays the one hundredth part of his earnings monthly into the treasury, the sum thus paid being evenly divided between the treasuries of the province and municipal division. When a surplus equal to the previous year's expenditures accumulates this tax is remitted for the ensuing year.

"A man may own a home and a separate farm or garden, or business or manufacturing site; nor may he engage in more than one business or employment, except the public service, at the same time. He may change from one line of business to another, but may not buy or sell real estate for mere speculation. He may not acquire property other than his earnings until he reaches maturity, and designs to marry and become the head of a family. If his intent fail, or remains unfulfilled for three years, the home thus acquired becomes public property, and may be sold to another who assumes the marital relation, and the proceeds divided equally between the municipal treasury or bank and the former owner.

"Residences may be exchanged, as may farms, gardens, business sites and factories, including the line of business or manufacturing, but neither may be alienated by the owner, except with the approval of the Custodian of the Municipality upon a satisfactory showing of the reasons therefor.

"All persons of both sexes must take up an occupation at the age of twenty, and continue therein, or in some other occupation, until sixty years of age, unless incapacitated, and deposit in the municipal bank or treasury at least one-twentieth of their monthly earnings. At sixty they may retire from active life, and their accumulations are subject to their wants and demands under salutary rules. The residue, along with their other personal property, is distributed pro rata among their direct descendants, and if there be none, in is turned into the general treasury of the Commonwealth.

"Women are entitled to their earnings, but may not own real estate, the policy being that men shall be the home-makers and women the home-keepers. The wife is entitled to the prevailing wage from her husband for attending to his household affairs, in addition to the other provisions for household matters and economies which he must make.

"Under our system there is neither opulence nor poverty in the land. Great wealth has no existence with us, and therefore has no allurements. Charity is not a gaunt pack-horse, overloaded with offerings which come after the eleventh hour. The equality of opportunity closes every inlet to the wolves of Hunger and Poverty which ravage other lands amid the riotous revelry of the unjustly opulent. We have had, at intervals, persons who rebelled, through recurrent heredity perhaps, against our admirable system, and to them we administer lex dernier— they are transported to some other land, by methods known only to ourselves, there to mingle with a new people, with but a faint conception of their nativity. They constitute those mysterious beings found in all other countries, whose origin is forever hidden, and as a rule they are excellent and strangely wise citizens, for they are permitted to carry with them much of the knowledge, with some of the wisdom, of their ancestry."

I shall abbreviate much that Xamas gave in great detail. From him I learned that every male is entitled to participate in all public affairs, including the right of franchise. All are eligible to office. The Commonwealth is composed of twenty-four provinces, each province being composed of twelve municipal divisions.

The elective officers are, in their order: 1. First Citizen of the Commonwealth. 2. Chief Citizen of the Province. 3. Custodian of the Municipality.

The First Citizen is the executive head of the Commonwealth, serves but a single year, and is not eligible to re-election. The Chief Citizens, or executives of the provinces, constitute his Board of Counselors to determine all matters affecting the public welfare and to select the various Curators of the divisional interests of the entire Commonwealth. They meet to perform these duties twice each year, alternating between the Greater and Lesser Cities.

The Chief Citizens are the executive heads of the Provinces, the Custodians of the Municipalities constituting their respective Boards of Counsellors. They, too, meet twice each year to consider and determine matters of provincial interest, and to decide all questions of difference which may come up from the Municipalities. Their tenure of office is two years, and they are not eligible to re-election.

The Custodians are the sole heads of the Municipalities, and decide all questions arising therein, and appeal lies from their decisions to the Provincial Board of Counsellors, who determine the question finally. They hold the office three years, and may not be re-elected. The above officials appoint all the necessary clerical and other assistants necessary to carry out the duties imposed on them.

None of the elective officers receive salaries, but are allowed out of their respective treasuries 20 media per day for all necessary expenses.

The media is equivalent to 20 cents American currency, and is the unit of exchange. It is divided into four equal parts, the coin being designated quatro, while a third coin, equivalent to 5 media, is denominated cinque, so that the three coins are quatro, silver; media, gold; and cinque, gold and platinum in equal parts, of nearly equal size and weight, representing five, twenty, and one hundred cents of our currency, and nearly the size of an American quarter-dollar.

Twenty media is the wage of the master artisan, and 15 media the wage of all other males. Females receive a wage of from 8 to 15 media. The master artisan's wage is the compensation of all official assistants in whatever capacity, as well as the expense allowance of the actual officials.

In addition to the above officials of the Commonwealth there are: Curator of Revenues; Curator of Works and Polity; Curator of Learning and Progress; Curator of Scientific Research and Application, and Curator of Useful Mechanical Devices. Their duties are suggested by their titles. They receive the expense allowance, no salaries, are chosen for terms of seven years, ineligible to a second term, by the First Citizen and his Counsellors, and appoint their own subordinates and assistants.

There is a Curator of Revenue appointed by the Chief Citizen of each Province to care for the provincial, and by the Municipal Custodian to care for the Municipal revenues.

The marriageable age of men is from 25 to 30, and women from 20 to 25. The offspring of the marriage relation varies from two to six, seldom less than two, or more than six, the average being four, hence population increases slowly, while the great majority live from 80 to 100 years, retaining both physical and mental faculties to the last.

"There is no mercenary incentive to hold office," said Xamas, "and it is absolutely open to all, and men leave it, not with regret, but with the consciousness of having performed a necessary duty and service. Three months hence I will leave the chief office of the State, and resume my occupation as mechanical engineer under one with whom I have been for a score or more of years. He is now my Secretary, but that is nothing unusual. It is a leading part of our history.

"But it is time for rest. You have an important engagement with Maros, our Curator of Scientific Research and Application, tomorrow morning, and he exacts promptitude."

Chapter III

Maros Places Anderton In Communication With His Mother, and Dissipates His Superstitious Ideas And Otherwise Enlightens Him as to The Possibilities of Science

I CALLED ON MAROS, the Curator of Scientific Research and Application, as per appointment, and found him surrounded with everything calculated to contribute to the enjoyments of earthly existence. His residence differed in many respects from that of Xamas. All its appointments and environments were in the most exquisite taste. But this may be said, once for all, of every private residence and public edifice in Intermere. The taste of architects and occupants differed, but all were on lines of beauty, comfort and convenience.

There is no luxury in Intermere, as we use the term. Luxury is a merely comparative term in the rest of the world, distinguishing those who have much from those who have little or nothing. Here every rational taste is gratified in all particulars. The people have clearly discovered the hidden springs of Nature's kindly intentions toward man, and utilize them at individual and collective will.

"You are prompt," said Maros, seating me in his study. "Let us proceed with the matter in which you are interested."

He placed before me a perfectly drawn map of a section of the United States, embracing the place of my nativity, and asked me to point out the exact vicinity of my mother's home. I found it readily.

"The point you now occupy is the lineal opposite. Turn to the point, or direction, you have designated, and direct your concentrated thought there. If a responsive impression comes to you, communicate its purport to me."

I sat in silent thought a few moments, Maros closely regarding me.

"I am impressed that my mother is prostrated with grief; that she has just learned of the death of my kinsman; that rumors of the loss of the Mistletoe have reached her, being first cabled from Singapore to New York, and from thence transmitted to the press, and that she is impressed with the belief that I, too, am dead. I fear that she will not survive the double shock."

"Frame such a thought as you would wish impressed upon your mother's consciousness and faith, and tell me what follows."

This is the thought I framed: "Mother, I am alive and well in an unknown land, surrounded by kind friends, and will ere long return to you."

Later to Maros: "I am convinced. My mother has partially recovered from the shock. My death would have been the fatal blow. She smiles with pious resignation, through the tempest of her grief, and extends her arms as if to embrace me. This, however, is wholly an impression; I do not see or hear her, but we seem to stand face to face, and both realize it."

"Give yourself no further concern, nor seek further communication with her until you meet her in person. She knows you are alive and will return to her. Nothing she will hear will change that belief."

"Tell me by what divine or celestial power I am thus enabled to project my thoughts across unknown seas and continents, and receive responsive thoughts. Only supernatural agencies could accomplish this."

"You have what you call the telephone?"

"Yes."

"You communicate alike with friends and strangers hundreds of miles distant in an ordinary tone of voice?"

"Yes."

"Is that supernatural?"

"No; it is the result of scientific achievement and natural phenomena."

"Would one, coming out of the depths of absolute ignorance of scientific achievement, as you call it, regard it as a supernatural agency?"

"He undoubtedly would."

"What would you think of his conclusion?"

"That it was the result of superstition."

"And yet you who have just stepped out of the dawn into the full day; you who have transmitted uttered thoughts to remote distances through a coarse steel or copper wire and received other uttered thoughts in return, regard with superstitious awe, as supernatural, what you have just experienced. Wherein do you differ from the untutored barbarian?"

I sat in silence.

"The telephone wire is to the thread of sentient thought which may span the universe itself, what the horseback mail-rider is to your modern methods of communication— what the earliest dawn is to the full day."

Maros explained at full length how he became possessed of the knowledge of my identity, family connections and my misfortunes, summing up:

"When you were found in the remote and outer ocean and brought within the precincts of Intermere, you were physically unconscious, but still possessing partially dormant mental faculties; that is, you continued to think feebly and intermittently. We traced your two intermittent lines of thought to your mother in America, and to, or rather toward, your kinsman at some unknown point. Tracing again to your parent we learned that Marshall had accompanied the American expedition to China from Manila. Following this clew, we ascertained that he had been killed, and that that fact would reach his home in due course, as well as the fact that information of the loss of your ship would reach America almost simultaneously. What your mother now regards as premonitions of impending evil or misfortunes were communications with her consciousness, far more refined and perfect than the subsequent cable communications, but quite as natural, and in no sense supernatural."

"This is indeed amazing!" I exclaimed.

He further said that this was an individual case and purely the result of my condition. "We do not seek, as a rule, knowledge of individualities in the outside world, but confine our inquiries to matters of general moment. We know of the steps of progress, retrogression, of savagery and butchery and wrong and oppression which dominate an embryotic civilization. Amuse yourself for a time with the pictures and tapestries, and I will give you a record of the outer world's important matters of yesterday."

He opened a cabinet, and assumed the mien of expectant inquiry and meditation. Soon his hands began to move with rhythmic rapidity over the curiously inlaid center of the flat surface of the open cabinet. At the end of ten or fifteen minutes his manipulations ceased, a compartment above noiselessly opened, and eight beautifully printed pages, four by six inches, bound in the form of a booklet, fell upon the table.

It was printed in characters more graceful than our own Roman letters, from which they might have been evolved, or the Roman Alphabet might have deteriorated from what appeared before me. The English language was not used, and yet I could readily read and comprehend the lines. The pages before me comprised a compendium of yesterday's doings of the entire world, and included a note of my own case.

They told of all the military operations in China, in the Philippines, in South Africa, in the far East and in the remote West; of labor troubles in the mining districts of America; the strike of the textile operatives on our Atlantic border; the unrest of the Finns and Slavs; of plots and counterplots, and political assassination and revolution, attempted or accomplished, and the full catalogue of such happenings, with now and then a flash of loftier civilization.

"What you read is being reproduced in every divisional municipality of the Commonwealth, with such a number of instantaneous duplications as may be required for the perusal and study of all who desire to compare tinseled and ornamented barbarism with true civilization.

"Selfishness, oppression, slaughter, pride, conquest, greed, vanity, self-adulation and base passions make up ninety-nine one-hundredths of this record. What a commentary on such humanity! To it love, brotherhood and mutual helpfulness are too trivial for serious consideration.

"The nations and their rulers, differing somewhat as to degree, stand for organized and dominant wrong, based primarily on selfishness— the exact reverse of the conditions that should exist."

"This," said I, still contemplating the pages, "compares with our newspapers."

"As two objects may compare with each other as to bulk or form, but in no other respect. This is to promote wisdom. The newspaper to feed vicious or depraved appetite, as well as to convey useful information. This is the cold, colorless, passionless record of facts and information, from which knowledge and wisdom may be deduced to some extent. Your newspaper is the opposite, taken in its entirety. It consists of the inextricable mingling together of the good and the bad, of the useful and the useless, and the elevating and the degrading, the latter always in the ascendant.

"It foments discord instead of promoting profitable discussion, which is the bridle-path leading into the highway of wisdom. It is built upon the cornerstone of selfishness, the other name of commercialism, and is thoroughly imbued with the spirit of greed.

"It caters to the public demand regardless of the spirit or the depravity behind it. 'Quatro! Quatro! Quatro!' is the burden of its cry, and for quatro it is willing to lead the world forward or backward, as the case may be. It has been growing in stature and retrograding in usefulness for fifty years throughout the world, in all save increasing facilities, and avidity for pandering to the worst and most uncivilized propensities of mankind, and it will probably continue to grow worse for a century to come.

"Fifty years ago it was blindly controversial, but there was enough of reason in its discussions to give hope for the future. Now it is a mere mental and moral refuse car, and its so-called religious form is devoted only to a more refined class of refuse, if that expression is allowable.

"As a whole, it represents classes and not the whole community; prejudices, and not principles; it advocates selfish, not general interests; it panders to petty jealousies; it indulges in tittle-tattle in mere wantonness, and has no aim save the grossly materialistic."

I winced under his fierce arraignment and invective, for I am a newspaper man myself.

"I know that I have touched you in a sensitive spot, but I speak of the newspaper in a general sense. There are worthy exceptions, despite all the untoward environments; but, unfortunately, their influence is limited. Your masses read and re-read accounts of how two beings beat each other out of human semblance on a wager, and pass, unread and unnoticed, the best thoughts of your greatest scientists and profoundest thinkers. It is not the canaille who do this alone, but your statesmen and rulers, men of large affairs and men of the learned professions."

I turned the conversation, saying:

"It is incomprehensible to me how you produced this record of events in so short a time and without apparent mechanical or physical effort."

"Doubtless, but not more incomprehensible to you than your linotype machines and perfecting press would have been to Gutenberg. And your discoveries and inventions would be no more incomprehensible to him than would his types and crude multiplying press be to the papyrus writers, scriveners and hieroglyphants of the earlier world.

"The transition from the work of the papyrians to the achievements of the Intermereans is the result of that evolution known as scientific research into Nature's beneficence, in which mechanical invention is a mere incident, and its application to a high, unselfish and noble purpose, instead of selfish, base and ignoble ends.

"We had outstripped your present ideals ages before the Chinese began block printing, or Gutenberg fashioned his types and press. Both these, as well as your own advanced mechanism, as well as your every other great achievement in science and research, were the result of the thought-seed sown or diffused from this land, but which fell on absolutely barren soil, or only grew in puny or defective forms, far short of ripening or maturity.

"Your Franklin comprehended the supreme and all-pervading power and genius of the Universe, the knowledge of and the power to utilize which makes man godlike, but the dense ignorance and gross materialism of his day prevented him from enlightening his people.

"Your Morse conceived and executed the scheme of telegraphic signals cycles after we had discarded it.

"Your nameless and unknown discoverers, whose weak but apprehending genius was utilized by Bell, gave you the telephone ages after it had been supplanted here by our more nearly perfect system of intelligent communication with the entire terrestrial world, and we are now exploring, with it, the adjacent systems of the Universe with promising results.

"Your Edison and other electrical discoverers are more than a cycle behind us, and have as yet but touched the outer surface of the great secret. To them and to others the current of the Universe is a constant menace and a danger. To us it as gentle and as harmless as the flowers that bloom by the wayside, and responds to our every wish and use with absolute tractability.

"The fault of the rest of the world is that all great discoveries, all the unlockings of Nature's treasure-house, are turned to selfish ends, to the aggrandizement of the few, and the detriment, if not the oppression, of the many; hence civil commotions, wars, tyrannies, the insolence of opulence, and the failure to carry forward the process of civilization and the elevation of the race by the unselfish application of attained wisdom. The barbarian spirit of Self is dominant.

"You were about to ask if you might carry this record home. No. You will be permitted to inspect it and others similar during your sojourn, and carry their remembrance with you, and thus be enabled to compare them with your own current records of contemporaneous dates; but that is all.

"The Western nations have opened their own gates and invited eventual destruction by this apparently temporary invasion of the East. This war, if it may be so called, will be of short duration, followed by the oppression inseparable from selfish greed, commercialism and the love of conquest and arbitrary power which compels the unwilling obedience of peoples.

"But the 400,000,000 Chinese and affiliated races, are more insidiously dangerous than you know. They will cultivate the seed now being sown, and prepare the dragon's harvest of blood. In the remoter provinces they will soon breed soldiers and captains, who will eclipse the bloody and destructive achievements of Genghis Khan and Tamerlane, profiting by your present superior knowledge of mechanism and the arts of war, which they will appropriate and assimilate, and turn to terrible final account.

"The commercial greed of the West will be the enemy of the Western peoples themselves. It will fit and arm the aroused avengers for their world-wide invasion and conflict. Selfish capitalists will do this in spite of all inhibitions, under the plea of creating prosperous conditions and extending commerce, and their people and their posterity will perish by the enginery which selfish commercial greed placed in the hands of their enemies."

Maros presented me to another official, and politely dismissed me to visit the places of interest in the city. Upon my return to America I compared the contemporaneous history of the world with the daily records I had been permitted to inspect, the remembrance of which I vividly retained, and found every fact therein to be absolutely correct.

Chapter IV

A Trip by Air And Land and Water Through The Provinces, Cities, Hamlets and Gardens, With Matchless Beauty and Enjoyment On Every Hand

WHAT A WONDERFUL land is Intermere, and what a wonderful people live and enjoy life in it to the full!

Twenty days of visiting ten of the interior provinces, bordering on the mere, was more like a dream of happiness, sight-seeing and indescribable enjoyment to me than a reality. For reasons not explained to me I was not carried into the fourteen remaining provinces, which evidently lay in all directions toward the exterior borders of the land. I rather suspect that this was because it might have enabled me to form some definite idea of the geographical location of Intermere.

What I saw and experienced I still retain as a beautiful and ineffaceable memory, but it is a picture I can not wholly reproduce or describe in anything like complete details. I can at best only give the impressions I still retain.

The delightful journey was under the direction of Karmas, the Custodian of Works and Polity, accompanied by other chief officers, and the officials of the provinces, the title and character of which had already been given me by Xamas.

They have three modes of travel: by Medocar, by Aerocar, and by Merocar. By the first you travel on land; by the second through the air; by the third on the water. While these vehicles of transportation are divided into three general classes as designated, they comprise thousands of beautiful and curious designs, upon which individual names are bestowed, as we bestow names upon our horses and our ships.

them seems absolutely perfect. There is no physical sense of motion in either, as we realize it.

They glide over the broad, smooth and perfectly kept roadways, through the depths of the ether, or along the waters, with the same imperceptible motion, and can be put to a rate of speed that makes our limited railway trains seem like lumbering farm wagons. All resistance of the elements seems absolutely overcome.

The power of propulsion was wholly incomprehensible at first, and later I was only able to learn as to its principle, and left wholly to conjecture as to its application.

Roadways, or, perhaps more properly, boulevards, interlace the whole country. They are the perfection of road-building— smooth, even-crowned, and free from dust, water or other offensive substance. The surface is like a newly asphalted street, but hard and impervious, with no depressions, cracks or flaws. The engineering could hardly be improved on. Accepting the statements made to me that the most of these highways have been in use for centuries, with few if any repairs, they may be looked on as not only permanent but indestructible.

The purpose of each of them is self-evident. Every rod of it is for use and to meet some requirement that presents itself. They are bordered, wherever they extend, with beautiful homes, monuments and temples, commemorative of some great achievement in civilization and progress.

The residential grounds, farms and gardens are marvels of exquisite taste without an exception, so far as I was able to note, modeled after countless designs, which give the earth's surface a versatility of beauty that is enchanting.

There are farms and gardens everywhere except in a limited number of the compact squares of cities, small and perfectly kept, and productive in a sense and to a degree absolutely incredible to the dwellers of any other land.

As to these roadways: They are of the uniform width of two hundred feet wherever you find them, whether skirting sea, lake or river, penetrating valleys or clambering around and around the ascent of the mountains from base to apex, where some monument or temple, or both, are perched, overlooking hundreds of square miles.

As already stated, they are everywhere as smooth and kept as clean as a tiled floor, with a sense or quality of elasticity, and seemingly indestructible. I would have regarded them as natural phenomena had I not seen a mountain being terraced and a roadway being graded and finished without any of the paraphernalia of our own methods of engineering and construction.

Earth and rock seemed to melt and become mobile under the influence of some unseen power, and gangs of men, following with levelers of light machinery, modulated the grades and contours of the crumbled rock and soil. Others followed these, compounding, expanding and laying down a plastic and rapidly hardening envelope, thus finishing the surface like the roads over which we were gliding, some of which, I was told, had been in use for many centuries without the slightest change of condition.

I expressed a doubt as to their longevity.

Karmas smiled and said:

"You judge by experience. In your cities you import material from some distant country or island, and by mechanical manipulation and chemical combination and processes fit it to be laid down as a pavement. When finished it looks almost as smooth and beautiful as yonder landway being newly constructed to accommodate the expanding population of the district. But the resemblance ends here.

"Your chemists and engineers and constructors have only the crudest ideas of landway or terraneous works. The asphalt is a suggestion, but the builder's compound turns it in the direction of deterioration. Instead of going forward, they go backward. They know little of the character of the materials they seek to utilize, and nothing of the true principles of chemical combination.

"Our material is at hand, as it is at hand everywhere, containing the elements which need only to be properly combined and assimilated to become practically indestructible.

"You take a clay, and by machinery, crude perhaps, reduce it to dust, then moisten it back into pliable clay, fashion it, subject it to an intense but unrefined heat, and you have what will retain its form and consistence for centuries, and resist the elemental attacks longer even than granite. This is but the dawn of possibilities. The semi-barbarous, thousands of years ago, went further and made them flexible as well as durable. Their discoveries were long ago forgotten.

"Your people never go beyond the point of discovery. They stop short of the possibilities. They lose these possibilities in material and commercial utilization. Ego stands between the discoverer and the world, and progress ends.

"While the rest of the world has thus, again and again, stood still on the threshold, or moved backward or forward intermittently, for obvious and selfish reasons, we have steadily moved forward in scientific discovery and research, and the application of great principles.

"The example is before you. Without any of your crude and cumbersome machinery, the mountain is being terraced and fitted for the abode of man, the elemental constituents are being disintegrated, properly disposed, rearranged and the surface recombined in a new form and proportion by natural laws, and remote generations will find yonder landway as our workmen will leave it. They could level the mountain as readily as they terrace it, distributing it over the adjacent plain, leaving it a level and fertile glebe, instead of a towering height of rock and sand overspread with soil.

"All that you see or will see is the result of knowledge and wisdom turned to noble and unselfish ends for the common betterment and elevation of the race.

"Your progenitors learned to dig the hard and soft ores from the earth and produce iron, then took a step forward and converted it into steel, of greater strength and durability, capable of light forms and high polish, and there you have stopped at the very beginning. You are incapable of saving your own handiwork from disintegration. The elements corrode your finest steel products, and they flake away to the original conditions of the crude ore, losing a large proportion of their original virtues and constituents. We have, on the contrary, gone forward to the ultimate.

"You have denuded your lands of forests to use as a cumbersome material for building, and furniture and other purposes, the wood, which decays and is soon destroyed. You have, without understanding the process, macerated and reduced woods to a pulp and fashioned it into paper, which in several forms you utilize, but you have stopped at the beginning of the journey.

"We have carried it forward, and a large proportion of the material used in the construction of our houses and furniture and bridges and cars are the product of our forests in a new and better and more enduring form— light and capable of the most graceful fashioning. This is used in combination with the metals in all departments of our economies."

I had already noticed the fact that but little of the woodwork was in the natural form, and that while it was incredulously light, it was incredibly strong. The same was true of the wrought metals, all of which differed from our own forms.

In my examinations of the bridges across streams, both large and small, I noted the fact that they were constructed in about equal parts of wood, or a substance I took therefor, and metal, differing greatly from the metals we use, yet not wholly unlike them. Both materials were of tubular construction, appearing almost fragile in their lightness, but strong and firm, and showing none of the ravages of time and the elements.

So far as I was able to judge no paints were used, but everything was perfectly polished. The bridges were light, airy constructions, swung from lofty and graceful piers, a span of a thousand feet appearing to be as firm and strong as one of fifty.

I also noticed that in their construction of cars, furniture, houses, and the like, the woods and metals were indiscriminately used, more for beauty and ornamentation, perhaps, than for strengthening purposes or utility. Lightness and gracefulness were in evidence everywhere. There were panels and inlays of wood in its natural state, highly wrought and polished, as hard and impervious as the metals.

"You seem to be able to make everything indestructible," I said to Karmas.

"It is your privilege to draw your own conclusions," was his reply.

The people I met and mingled with, both men and women, were superb specimens of the human race, full of life, full of hope, full of high ambitions, and capable of infinite enjoyments.

GAMES, SPORTS and social amenities were the order of their daily life, albeit every one of them engaged in some laborious or business occupation during a part of each day. I learned that under their system of economy less than four hours out of the twenty-four were necessary for the comfort, sustenance and requirements of each adult, so that labor did not degenerate into slavery. Every fifth day was a holiday, during which no labor was performed, except such as was necessary for the enjoyments of the day.

Manufacturing and business of different kinds were diffused in proportion to the population. There were no great factories or business houses, but innumerable small ones. No manufacturer employed more than ten persons, usually but five, and two or three employes were sufficient for the business houses.

The remarkable discoveries and inventions of the land revolutionized all our ideas of manual labor and mechanics. Heavy and bulky machinery is entirely unknown.

There were no smoking furnaces, no clangor of machinery. The factory was as neat and practically as noiseless as the private home. Useful and necessary devices and machinery were turned out as quietly as a housewife disposes of her routine labors. Science had apparently solved the rough and knotty problem of labor and production.

Nowhere did I see a furnace; in fact, fire was visible nowhere; and yet I could see its offices performed everywhere. I asked Karmas to explain the phenomena.

"That," he replied, "will be explained to you by Remo, Custodian of Useful Mechanical Devices. That is his official sphere."

Another incredible phenomenon presented itself during the journey. We passed through one province early in that journey, and my attention was called to the fact that the farmers were sowing their cereals, which, by the way, greatly resemble our own, but in a much higher state of cultivation and infinitely more nutritious.

Ten days later we repassed the same spot, and they were harvesting the ripened grain.

"In my country," I said to Karmas, "from eight to ten months, dependent upon the season, elapses between the sowing and the harvesting of wheat. Here the period is reduced to from eight to ten days. I can not understand the discrepancy."

"But it is an absolute mystery to you?"

"It is."

"And yet your own people have approached the twilight of its solution. By selection of seeds and combination of soils, and other perfectly natural processes, they have been able to change the nature of vegetation and produce new vegetable being. The period for the growth and maturing of nearly all your grains and vegetables has been perceptibly shortened, and entirely new forms produced, within the past century, and largely within the period of your own lifetime.

"Your floriculturists and horticulturists have carried the evolution the furthest, and yet they do not even faintly comprehend the real principle which produces results. We understand and intelligently apply it. Hence with us but ten days elapse between seedtime and harvest, and shorter periods in the production of our common vegetables.

"We are able to produce flowers of all shapes and colors at will, and with the absolute certainty of the operation of fixed and immutable laws, while your florists, groping in the dark, occasionally stumble on a result, knowing nothing of the law that produces it, and give their fellows a nine-days' wonder.

"Yesterday you asked me why all the farms were so diminutive— 'merely a ten-acre field,' as you expressed it. The explanation is before you. Each of these small farms is capable of producing food for one thousand persons with their constantly duplicated crops. There is room for a million such farms in the Commonwealth, without impinging upon the residential demesnes or cities.

"There is no need to put these farms to the full test of their productiveness. The twentieth part suffices. We have a population of 50,000,000, increasing at the rate of scarcely one per cent each year, and two-thirds of the Commonwealth is public domain, for the benefit of the countless generations yet unborn. Each year and each day brings their immediate needs, and they are met with plenteous fullness."

KARMAs later gave me a fuller idea of the general polity of the Commonwealth.

All men become voters at 25, if they are married, and participate in the choice of officers. All are eligible to office. On the day fixed for the election of public officials the voter calls up the office of the Municipal Custodian and registers his choice in the ballot-receiver, which automatically records, and at the end of the balloting announces the result. If for provincial officers, it is instantaneously transmitted to the capital of the province, and if for Commonwealth officers to the Greater City. In your land this would open the door to fraud, but in Intermere there is neither fraud nor chicane.

There are no armies, no warships, no police, no peace or distress officers, and no courts and no lawyers. Sometimes citizens may differ, as they differ in other lands, as to their respective rights or obligations. In such case they repair to the Municipal Custodian and state the respective sides of their case. The Custodian decides at once, and that ends forever the controversy, unless one or the other appeals to the Chief Citizen of the Province and his Counselors, who consider the original statements submitted to the Custodian and render the final judgment. It is seldom an appeal is taken, and seldom that an original decision is revised.

The educational period continues from birth to 20 years of age, in what may be called a common school, held in the temples, which all enter at the age of ten.

The spheres of the two sexes are clearly marked, and both live within them, that of the female being regarded as the highest and most sacred. The men make the homes and the women care for and beautify them, and receive the homage universally accorded them.

Neither sex looks upon necessary labor as a drudgery or in any manner degrading. They all receive a like education, and the superior mental equipment invariably asserts itself in some appropriate direction.

Almost invariably the children of the household marry in the order of their birth, being absolutely free to choose their mates. There are no marriages for convenience and no second marriages. All are the result of affection and natural affinity.

The last child to marry inherits the homestead at the death of the father. The surviving mother becomes the Preferred Guest of her child during the remainder of her life, and is treated as such. If the father survives, he retains his position as head of the household. The personal estate of a deceased parent is divided equally among the children.

"In short," said Karmas, "We aim to dispose the burdens and distribute the enjoyments of life equally and justly among all.

"Tomorrow we will be accompanied by Alpaz, the Curator of Learning and Progress, who will answer the other questions in your mind."

Chapter V

The Philosophy Of Life, And The Faculty Of Its Enjoyment As Personified In The Persons And Vocations Of The Entertainers

THE ENVIRONMENTS of life have much to do with its philosophy. This thought impressed itself forcibly on me in Intermere.

The environments of its people contribute much, if not most, to their philosophy, or the faculty of life's enjoyments.

They are pleasantly housed, handsomely habilitated, physically and intellectually employed, sans the driving spur of necessity or greed, with profound and earnest aspirations beyond their present stage of existence. This is not confined to the few, but animates and elevates all.

Learning, in a loftier sense than we understand the term; art, music and all the senses of physical and mental enjoyment, and the promotion of all of them, are pitched in a high and harmonious key.

Personal adornment and physical beauty in both sexes have no tinge of vanity, and awake no envy in others. Intermerean dress and its adjuncts are as closely looked after as their wonderful mechanism and its mysterious soul or motor-spirit, which enables them to travel with celerity and safety by land or air or sea, or that subtler principle by which men and women, separated by distance, talk to each other by thought instead of speech, and would render the clumsy deception of our own diplomats and other hypocrites an impossibility.

The clothing of the Intermereans, wrought from native materials not wholly unlike, except an to quality, those utilized by other peoples, is of a texture and finish beyond the conception of the outer world, and of such colors and combinations of tints as to breathe, as it were, both art and aptitude.

The garments of both sexes more nearly resemble those in Europe and America than any others, and yet they are very unlike in striking points. Speaking of this similitude, I may say that the polity and institutions, and mental and physical characteristics of the people who live under them, more nearly resemble those of America than of any other nation or people.

But at that, how wide and deep and apparently impassable is the gulf that separates them. Ours is but the faint promise; theirs the fulfillment of the completed prophecy.

Did we start on the journey? Have we halted just beyond the first milestone? Will the journey be resumed? Will our remoter generations reach the Ultima Thule? What splendid hope or what illimitable despair and misery depend upon the Sphinx's answer to these questions!

While Intermere is not sown with diamonds and pearls and precious stones and metals, they were to be seen in profusion everywhere, not as matters of garish display, but of artistic taste. I doubt not that the Intermereans, through their successful study of Nature, possess the Philosopher's Stone, capable of combining and transmuting every substance into the riches for which men die and women sacrifice more than life, and nations crush nations, and peoples destroy peoples, gathering the Dead Sea fruits that turn to bitter ashes on their lips.

These people place no more commercial value upon these than they do upon the tints of the rainbow, or the purple haze that hangs like a halo above the mountain tops. To them they are but artistic types of beauty that add to life's true enjoyments.

In mingling socially with the men and women— they do not speak of them as ladies and gentlemen— of Intermere, I was struck with their ease and delicate frankness of entertainment. They were very human indeed in every way. There was no affectation in speech or manner. They were good listeners as well as good talkers, fond of art and the lofty literature in which they were naturally at home; anxious to learn something about the outside world from their visitor, and yet not inquisitive, never asking an embarrassing question.

Their literary and social entertainments, many of which I attended, while altogether new and strange to me, were none the less thoroughly enjoyable. Their social games were unique— to me— and in all respects I was struck with their great superiority, and forcibly impressed with the belief that their lives were indeed worth living.

Their conceptions of art were of the highest and most exalted character. Their tastes were not only refined but sublimated, and I felt abashed at my own inability to follow them rapidly, or fully comprehend them on the moment.

The women were splendid types of physical beauty as well as mental endowment; the men were trained athletes, and the devotees of physical as well as mental culture, and I watched with keen zest their prowess in the athletic games everywhere indulged in. I did not see a physical, mental or moral derelict in the land. All were robust and perfectly formed.

There were no classes. Laborers and officials met on an equal footing. There were no telltale differences in dress to indicate sets, circles, position or titles among the men. The same was true of the women. Mental superiority or maturity was discernible to me and recognized on every hand, not to be envied or decried, but to serve as the guide to other feet.

And all this was easily reconcilable to me. All were coequal laborers. All were coequal sharers of the common benefits of their governmental system, and they all had a common incentive— to ennoble and dignify the race by ennobling and dignifying themselves individually, but contributing alike to the common stock of blessings.

Never before did I fully realize the meaning of the Divine Master when He said: "Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them." Before me and around me was the literal fulfillment of the injunction in the form of the model government for mankind, founded upon the highest attribute of Divinity.

But there was neither cant nor affected solemnity in the never-ending performance of this duty. It had become absolutely and essentially a part of their nature, and was at once the cornerstone and the Temple of their Religion; but their ideas of Religion were widely different from ours. They never expounded, but lived it.

Delightful people accompanied us if we traveled in Aerocars; delightful people met us with Medocars when we came to terra firma, and accompanied us through the bewildering lanes and mazes of beauty by land; and delightful people met us with fairy-like Merocars when we sought to thread the enchanting islands of the strange pulsating, moving sea.

Thus day by day I was carried from province to province, from city to city, from valley to valley and from mountain to mountain; relays of entertainers met us at every stopping-point to take the places of those who had accompanied us thither. Nothing could have seemed more unreal; nothing could have been more exquisitely enjoyable.

Now we wound through gardens smiling with beauty and redolent with balm and fragrance; anon we were in orchards plucking the ripened fruit; then in the harvest fields of the husbandman, and next in shops, factory or store; I wondering at all I saw, and my conductors kindly wondering at me, no doubt, but of that they gave no significance or sign.

Almost literally speaking there is no night in Intermere. With the twilight myriads of lights flash out everywhere along the streets, highways, lanes, and from residences, temples and monuments, more luminous than our electric lamps, diffusing a mellow and pleasing light everywhere. But one sees no wires, as with us, to feed the lamps of many sizes and shades of light, each one of which, so far as we can see and realize, is independent of all others and everything.

Merry parties make moonlight and starlight trips by Aerocar. I enjoyed one of them, and there are no words adequate to the description of what I saw and enjoyed. With the moon and stars above and the millions of lights below, with music, song and laughter ringing through the ethereal depths, I was in a new world, and one beyond ordinary human conceptions, much less description. The Aerocars themselves were studded with countless lights of all the colors and shades, and shone like trailing meteors at every angle of inclination, singly here, grouped there, and in processions beyond.

It may be said in this connection that while the Intermereans eat the flesh of both domestic and wild animals and fowls, resembling in general features our own, and fish, they subsist chiefly on a vegetable diet, especially between the age of infancy and twenty years, and after sixty.

One of the mysteries confronting me was that of cookery. They used no fire, nor any of our ordinary cooking utensils, and yet they served hot meals and drinks, prepared in what may be called, for lack of a better name, chafing dishes and urns, and yet there was no sense of heat or fire, except when in close contact with the utensils.

In a chafing dish they broiled or roasted or baked; in an adjoining urn they brewed a delightful hot drink resembling coffee, while in another near by they made the most delicious ices.

The housewife maintained neither dining-room nor kitchen. Meals were prepared and served wherever most convenient, on veranda or in the house proper. The table was spread in beautiful style with exquisite furnishment, and presided over by the housewife. A woman assistant, or more than one, according to the requirements of the occasion, had charge of a suitable sideboard, where the entire meal was prepared, and from which it was served to the company as desired. There were no odors from the cooking, and nothing to suggest the kitchen or scullery.

This is so unlike our methods that its appropriateness can not be realized short of the actual experience. The culinary utensils are rather ornamental than otherwise, and the preparation of the dishes occupies an incredibly short period of time.

On our various journeys by land and sea and air, I found that a full stock of provisions was carried, along with the culinary paraphernalia, and were served regularly and with as much care and taste as in any residence. Ices and confections were made as readily in mid-air as on land or sea, by some mysterious and never-failing process.

One day as we rested in a charming suburb of the Lesser City, Alpaz, the Curator of Learning and Progress, appeared in a splendidly appointed Aerocar, accompanied by his entire family and attended by a fleet of Aerocars carrying his assistants, provincial officials and men and women, who made up his entourage. It proved to be a most delightful company.

After sailing overhead for hundreds of miles we descended to an island, along the beach of which lay a complement of Merocars, to accommodate the entire party, as well as some of the insular citizens who begged to accompany us.

Then ensued a voyage the memory of which still lingers with me. Such dreamlike beauty I never expect to see this side the gates of eternity. It changed with every moment, and never palled nor paled. Through this maze of land and water and bewildering enchantment we journeyed, listening to conversation and music, till finally touching the mainland, we found the Chief Citizen of the Province, and his attendants and officials, with Medocars, in which the entire party was carried to his capital, which crowned a grand elevation some two hundred miles inland.

Here we were entertained in magnificent simplicity for a day, and here Alpaz discoursed to me on the many matters in which I was interested, and which fell within the sphere of his Curatorship. I cannot recount them all, but shall endeavor to bring out the main points.

"You would learn something of our educational system?" he said, as though I had plied him with a question.

"It is quite simple. It involves no complexities. We follow only the path of nature. From birth to the age of ten the infant is in the exclusive control and tutorship of the mother. She alone is entirely capable of moulding the infantile mind, and setting its feet aright in the pathway of manhood and womanhood.

"In your land, as in others, all too often she delegates this great duty to alien and unfit hands, and reaps the bitter harvest of sorrow in the afternoon of motherhood.

"At the age of ten, when the mother has fitted the mind for stronger impressions, the child enters the broader field of learning. Our temples, which you meet everywhere, are our schoolhouses, our altars of Learning and Knowledge, the cherubim of Wisdom.

"These temples are the abode of Knowledge and Wisdom, handed down in the records of the ages, showing each successive step taken and to what it led. Here they are taught by the older men and women, who having retired from the activities of life, with a competence assured them, matured in thought, filled with knowledge and possessed of wisdom, perform their final labor, a labor of love for the younger generation.

"At the age of fifteen every boy and every girl develops the line of effort to which they incline in the respective spheres of the sexes, and thereafter, to the age of twenty for females and twenty-five for males, they are instructed along these lines by their tutors, in the meantime devoting a part of their time to some useful occupation. The result is men and women in every way fitted to fulfill their destiny.

"No; we have no clergy, no ministers as you term them, to teach either the old or the young in what you name religion. We have no churches. Reverence for the Supreme Principle of the Universe is instilled into every mind, from infancy up, and all our people live these teachings. They do not listen to them one day in seven and neglect to follow all or the majority of them for six.

"We know nothing, except as lamentable facts, of the various so-called religious divisions which convulse the rest of the world— Confucianism, Hindooism, Mohammedanism, Buddhism, Taoism, Shintoism, Judaism, Polytheism and Christianity, and the many warring or antagonistic sects into which they divided and subdivided.

"We know only loving reverence for the Supreme Principle of the Universe, filial love and piety, and justice to all creatures. This is the soul and essence of your religion, Christianity, and the basic principle of all others. We prefer the last analysis to the inchoate mass of contending creeds, that have drenched the earth with blood for time out of mind, and filled it with doubt and misery; and even now, in the twilight of your Nineteenth Century, and in the name of the Child of Nazareth, promulgates Christianization and evangelization at the cannon's mouth and with the sword and torch, of peoples whose only offense is that they believe that their God requires thus and so at their hands as a prerequisite to their entrance into His heavenly kingdom.

"By gentler and educatory teachings, untainted by the corroding canker of selfishness, they might be turned in the right direction and their generations be led into the light, provided that your educational system moved on a loftier plane than theirs; but blood and violence, and all the carnal lusts that follow like jackals in their wake, can only eventuate in driving them into lower depths.

"The spiritual instructors of the outer world, past and present, are and have been, in the main, sincere and earnest, but with a limited idea of the spiritualism they essay to teach. Powerful prelacies have grown up in all the religious divisions, ambitious of temporal power, and untold evils have resulted, not from the system of religion, but from the love of power and authority, non-spiritual in its nature, and as a result the spirit or principle of religion has suffered undeserved obloquy.

"To us the ideal God of your religious people is strangely contradictory and irreconcilable. He is portrayed not as a spiritual being, but as a common mortal in many of the essentials. Their conception of Deity is that He rules as a king in heaven, before whom the redeemed and the saints forever prostrate themselves in adoration or sing praises by voice, and adulate Him with harp and lute and other musical instruments, confessing hourly their unworthiness to come into His presence.

"This is an earthly, barbarous conception of the Supreme Power of the Universe. It was probably of Chinese or Oriental origin in the days of supreme despotism, when every subject must prostrate himself in the dust in the presence of majesty.

"This idea was transmitted to Christendom in the West when royalty proclaimed itself the symbol of Godhood and religion. The subject was taught that the monarch was the direct representative of God, and his court was modeled after the court of the King of kings, where homage and adoration and humiliation were the endless order of all future life.

"We have an entirely different conception of the Supreme Principle, and do not regard it in the light of a ruler or king, in the mortal sense, but the embodiment of justice and love, that neither exacts nor receives adoration of those who pass to the world beyond, the returning children of the great and enduring Principle which exists everywhere, strengthened and broadened by a previous state or states of existence, wherein they were clothed about with mortal and perishable habiliments.

"We look forward to the passage from this world to a better one beyond with joyous expectation, and with no sense of terror or apprehension, and there come us no pangs of dissolution. We have sought diligently to live up to the law of love in this life, and have the fullest assurance that our efforts will meet the approval of the Supreme Principle, whose beneficences invite and permit us to enter the broader fields and more perfect worlds of a higher existence.

"Death, or the exchange of worlds, has neither terrors for those who go, nor the stings of affliction for those who tarry. It is but the inevitable and necessary parting of friends and relatives for a little period, and we know that the shores of reunion lie just beyond the filmy veil of the future.

"The end or change is never hastened nor retarded by the violation of Nature's sacred laws. There are but few partings or deaths in the earlier periods of life. They go with joyful alacrity, as to a feast, at four or five score, and their memory, works and examples cheer and sustain those who remain.

"No; we have no physicians. If, perchance, some law of Nature is violated and mortal ailment ensues, it needs no specialist to discover that fact, or recommend the proper method of rectifying it. That is a part of the education of all. Literally, we neither know nor care to know what physic is. We live simply and in accordance with Nature's laws, and disease, such as prevails in your land and others, is unknown in this, and has been for ages. Science and scientific discovery, as we utilize and employ them, have freed us from disease and made death but the exchange of lives. We know more than we care to tell of the life beyond."

He ceased abruptly after saying:

"Tomorrow you will be the guest of Remo, the Curator of Useful Mechanical Devices. You may learn much from him."

Chapter VI

The Secret of Intermere Partially Revealed to Anderton, And When He Least Expects it He Is Restored To His Home And Kindred, Much To His Regret

THE SECRET of Intermere— its great mechanical secret— was revealed to me, but, alas! only in part. It was as if the sun be pointed out to a child who is told that it shines and is a prime factor in the growth of all forms of life, animal and vegetable.

The child realizes that the orb of day shines, but remains wholly in the dark as to the processes of its rays; why it inspires animals and vegetation with life and growth, and produces the prismatic colors of the rainbow.

So with me. I know the fountain-head or cause that gave momentum to all the mechanism of the land, shortened the period between germination and maturity in vegetation, banished fire while retaining warmth, turned the night into a season of beauty equaling the full day, kept every street and highway free from debris, prevented foul emanations, with their contaminations, and did countless other things which our own scientists demonstrate are desirable and necessary, but still unattainable. But of the details, of the why and the wherefore, of the effects and the processes by which so many different results emanated from the same apparent cause, I learned nothing.

One morning, after a season of delicious, invigorating slumber, as I walked in the spacious grounds of my host, the Chief Citizen of the Province— grounds sweeter and fairer than the fabled Gardens of Gulistan— I saw a fleet of Aerocars approaching, led by one of the most magnificent, and by far the largest, that I had yet seen. It could not have been less than one hundred feet in length and twenty in breadth at the midway point, and yet it seemed to float as lightly as a feather in the aerial depths.

When almost directly overhead the fleet halted, and remained stationary, as though firmly anchored to some immovable substance, and then the leading craft slowly sank to the earth at my feet, as lightly as you have seen a bird alight.

It was the Aerocar of Remo, containing a score of people. I had not hitherto met Remo, the Curator of Useful Mechanical Devices. However, he needed no introduction to me or I to him. The recognition was mutual.

He came forward and greeted me cordially, and later presented me to his fellow voyagers, and said:

"I know you are anxious to learn something of the motive principle of our mechanisms. That I shall impart to you, at least partially. Our journey will begin to suit your convenience. We will breakfast en route."

I hastened to say my adieux to the Chief Citizen, Alpaz, and the members of the household, and then entered the Aerocar, taking a seat near Remo. At a signal to the pilot, the craft rose as lightly and majestically as it had descended.

I looked about me at the passengers, hampers of provisions, culinary utensils and table equipment, and estimated that the Aerocar was carrying not less than four thousand pounds of dead weight.

"You are wondering how so much bulk and weight ascend without apparent cause."

I assented to the proposition.

"When you are at home and see an inflated balloon ascend, carrying a man weighing one hundred and fifty pounds, with seventy-five pounds of sand ballast, you can understand how it ascends?"

"Readily."

"By mechanical contrivance of immense comparative bulk, aided by chemical product, the power of gravitation is sufficiently overcome or neutralized that a disproportionately small amount of weight is carried into the upper air. We ascend for the same general reason, the resultant of a greater, a different and a fixed principle.

"Our pilot, by means of the mechanical and other power at his command, neutralized the attraction of gravitation, and without the aid of any other appliance arose, carrying a weight of more than four thousand of your pounds avoirdupois. It has ascended in a direct or perpendicular line, despite the breeze, which would otherwise have carried us at a western angle. I will have the pilot produce an equilibrium, stopping all movement."

A signal was given the pilot, and, after a slight manipulation, it stood still.

"Now we will descend, first perpendicularly and then at an angle of forty-five degrees."

One signal and one manipulation, and the Aerocar described the first motion. A second signal and manipulation, and it described the other.

"Now we will ascend, first by the reverse angle and then by the perpendicular."

Again the signals and again the manipulations, and again the exact movements through space.

"If your flying machine and airship builders could do that, what would your people think?"

"That the world had been revolutionized."

"But the world will not be thus revolutionized until science is freed of gross materialism and human aspiration becomes something higher than selfish greed, commercialism, war, conquest, opulence, and the despotisms they engender. You must expel all the gods with whom you most closely commune, before you may commune with the true God or Supreme Principle of the Universe."

In the meantime the Curator's Aerocar had rejoined its consorts, and we floated away to the northeast, where a great semicircle of mountains were dimly outlined, and then descended upon a city looking like a pearl in a semicircular valley, bisected by a broad river, spanned with bridges at short intervals as far as the vision reached.

With my watch I had timed the voyage. It had lasted two hours and thirty minutes.

"How far have we traveled?" I inquired of Remo.

"One thousand of your miles."

"That is four hundred miles to the hour; six and two-thirds miles each minute."

"The speed might easily have been doubled."

My amazement was unbounded, but I did not doubt Remo's statement then. Later, I recognized it as an easy possibility.

Remo detained me until the rest of the company had left the Aerocar, and then said abruptly: "You would learn the secret of the motive principle that moves our mechanical devices and performs other offices which seem to you miraculous. It is this: It is the electric current which we take direct from the atmosphere at will— electricity, which is the life-giving, life-preserving and life-promoting principle, the superior and fountain of all law affecting the material Universe and intervening space. To command that is to command everything.

"This is the capital of my Curatorship. Here all my predecessors have served the Commonwealth; hither all my successors will come. Here every mechanical device is tested, approved or rejected, and from hence their production is directed, as a public right, in every municipal division of the Commonwealth.

"Nearly every monument you have seen, as you have doubtless noticed, is dedicated to some Chosen Son of Wisdom, and some of them date back tens of centuries. Whoever makes a great discovery, such as taking the electric current direct, or dividing its capabilities into useful and necessary directions, or perfects some great mechanism, securing the full beneficence of the current, brings it here and dedicates it to the Commonwealth and its sons and daughters. Its benefits are common to all.

"His reward is that he is elected by universal acclaim as the Chosen Son of Wisdom, a monument commemorative of his achievement is erected at once, and he is installed in a home furnished out of the public revenues, receives a stipend of fifty or five cinque media daily, and is the honored guest on all public and private occasions.

"I shall show you many of our devices; some of them will be self-explanatory, some will, to a degree, be explained, others left to your conjecture, and for obvious reasons."

With this he led me through a large number of what we would look upon as diminutive manufacturing establishments. In the first one visited he exhibited to me two crystalline elongated globes, the size of an egg each, connected by a small tube or cylinder of the same material two or three inches in length.

The globes were filled with a whitish substance, or granulation, the upper intensely white, the lower somewhat shaded. The upper one was fitted with a movable disk, and could be opened by touching a lever. A cluster of rather coarse wires, apparently an amalgam of several metals, rose above the granulated contents. A double coil of wires, of a different material or combination, running in opposite directions, filled the connecting cylinder, while a cluster of almost imperceptibly fine wires, of still a different material or combination, projected from the bottom of the lower globe.

These globes resembled glass, and were, to all appearances, extremely fragile. Remo dashed it upon the hard floor, as though he would destroy it. It rebounded, and he caught it as an urchin would catch a rebounding ball.

"I did this," he said, "to show you that these appliances are not amenable to accident. This is the accumulator or receiver of the current."

He touched the lever and opened a small aperture directly over the cluster of wires in the upper globe.

"Hold your hand below the lower portion," he said.

I complied, and instantly my hand was moved away with such resistless force that I was turned completely around and sent across the room. Remo smiled at my undisguised consternation, and said:

"You will not be harmed. What you experienced was the flow of the electric current, but it has not harmed you. It is physically harmless. You would call this a twenty-horse-power motor in your country, although it looks like a toy. Take it and handle it as I direct. You may handle it with perfect safety. Place it horizontally near that fly-wheel and push the lever."

He pointed to a fly-wheel scarcely a foot in diameter, with seven radiating flanges set slightly at an angle. I did, and opened the aperture. In less time than it takes to tell it the wheel was revolving at a rate of speed so high that it seemed like a solid motionless and polished mirror.

"Close the aperture, go to the side in which direction it is revolving, and again open it to the current."

I did so, and instantly the wheel was motionless.

He pointed to a huge block of granite, which rested on a metal framework a dozen inches above the floor, and said: "Banish all nervousness, invert the accumulator, and hold it under the center of the block, which weighs five of your tons."

I did so, and it slowly rose toward the ceiling.

"Close the aperture slowly, and finally close it entirely."

This I did, and it settled back to its original place.

"There," said Remo, "you have the direct current and its direct application to machinery and inert bodies. You know enough about mechanics to understand what that means. The ascent and flight and movements and descent of the Aerocar; the running of the Medocar and the sailing of the Merocar, are not such a profound mystery to you as they were yesterday."

He conducted me into another factory and exhibited a number of accumulators, each filled with apparently the same granulated substance, but of different colors and admixture of colors. Remo opened the apertures of a long line of them upon a wire rack, and they flashed into brilliant lamps of every hue and color and shade— a light that was as steady as that of the stars. He closed them one by one, showing the absolute independence of each.

"Our lamps, with which we beautify the night, are no longer a mystery to you— that is, not an absolute mystery."

In another factory he exhibited more accumulators with varicolored materials in the globes. He opened one and directed its power toward an ingot of metal. It melted like wax. Turning its force upon a fragment of rock, it was transformed into the ordinary dust of our roadways. With another he turned a vessel of water into a solid block of ice.

"Our topographical construction, our culinary economy and the absence of fire are now plainer than they were."

"But how do you achieve all these different results with apparently the same means?"

"The first device shown you is the primary; the others are subsequent discoveries. By the primary medium we were able to produce or secure the electric current in the form of dynamic power, eminently tractable and harmless with ordinary prudence. New combinations of the medium gave us all the other results, at intervals, subsequent to the original discovery. And the field is not exhausted."

Remo explained that the crystalline substance in the upper globe of the accumulator induced or gathered the electric current, giving it controllable direction as well as defined volume, while that in the lower determined its significance or divisional use.

In the minuter accumulators, for the lamps only, did the current present itself in the form of light, spark or flame. All the colors, from pure white to deep purple, with their prismatic variations, were the direct result of their differing chemical combinations in the lower globe, each of the silk-like wires throwing off countless rays of unvarying intensity and steadiness, but gave off no electric phenomena or effects.

The heat accumulators gave moderate or intense heat, according to the chemical combinations through which the primary current passed, but there was neither glow nor light-flash. So, too, the cold accumulators gave off varying degrees of cold, for the same reason.

In none of them was there either the electric shock or its effects, and all were tractable and free from danger in what we may term the electrical sense. The dynamic force of the primary and the intense heat or cold of the divisional currents, common prudence avoids. Still it would be easily possible, by chemical combination, to produce a current destructive of life and capable of annihilating nations, without hope or possibility of escape.

"Your own scientists know," said Remo, "that with the direct current all that you have seen, and infinitely more, is but the result of a simple process, capable of infinite multiplication."

"But what are the constituents of the medium in the accumulator, and what are the formulas of the various combinations?"

"If you knew that you would know as much as we."

This was the nearest a jest I had heard in Intermere, but I knew from the character of Remo's speech that the rest of the secret would remain hidden from me.

As we sat at his table later he said:

"You have been nearer to our secret than any one else in the outer world, and we shall see whether the seeds will grow into the tree of Knowledge and produce the fruits of Wisdom. Neither your people nor any other people could be trusted with this secret in their present moral condition. A few learned men dependent upon the rulers in one nation, knowing it, could and would plot the destruction and exploitation of all others. The sacrifice of human life and the accumulation of human woe and misery would be appalling.

"If your leaders, with the suddenly awakened hunger for conquest and dominion, could literally command the thunderbolts and control the elements as against the rest of the world, they would sack Christendom in the name of Liberty, Humanity and the Babe of Bethlehem, but in the spirit of Mammon, Greed and selfish love of power and riches.

"You will make some progress in discoveries along scientific and mechanical lines, but no real good to the race can result until these discoveries are turned to a nobler purpose than that of seizing commercial supremacy, subjugating alien and unwilling peoples, slaughtering those who resist, exploiting those who lay down their arms, gathering wealth regardless of justice and the rights of mankind and building up an artificial race in the form of a ruling class, who base their right to exclusive privileges on wealth and the perversion of every principle of justice and the Christianity they profess.

"You have been wondering why, with our great knowledge and achievements, we do not go forth and dominate the world. What would it profit us? Could we find anything that would contribute to our enjoyments, our hopes, our aspirations? No.

"Even we are not proof against the paralyzing touch of deterioration. We pay more heed to the world's history than do the nations and peoples who made that history, during the centuries. History is but the lighthouse which warns against the reefs and rocks where countless argosies have been lost. The mariners who sail the ships of state dash recklessly upon the rocks of destruction, despite the friendly warnings of the dead and engulfed who have gone before."

Turning to lighter themes, Remo spoke of the various economies of the Commonwealth, and explained how the obstacles which confront our civilization are overcome. Garbage and all debris, for instance, are disposed of by instantaneous reduction to original conditions, and then a recombination and distribution upon the grounds, farms and gardens. The sewage question, the standing menace of all dense and even sparse populations, is solved by the same process of purification and recombination. This work is constantly performed under the eye of the municipal authorities, and under fixed rules and service. Thus the absolute cleanliness which prevailed everywhere was readily explained.

In answer to my query why Intermere had so long escaped discovery from navigators, he said, interrogatively:

"Would it not be possible, with our superior knowledge and wisdom, to put their reckoning at fault whenever they came within a fixed sphere of proximity?"

To my question as to the equability of the seasons, the absence of storms, and the regularity of the descent of moisture in the form of gentle rains, he said:

"Do not imagine that our scientific knowledge stops with the mere discovery of the direct electric current or our mechanical devices."

Nothing further could I elicit from him or any other Intermerean on these or kindred subjects. The Book of Knowledge had been opened and apparently closed.

After two days' stay in Remo's capital the Aerocars took up a goodly entourage, and we moved softly and swiftly to the Greater City.

There Xamas and all his officials awaited us, along with every Intermerean of both sexes I had met in my journeys, as well as every Municipal Custodian of the realm, and in addition the Chief Citizens of the fourteen Provinces I had not visited.

A reception fete was given me in the chief temple of the city, hoary with age and instinct with wisdom. There were songs and music by the young and happy, and apropos discourses by the older. I essayed the role of orator, thanked my entertainers for their many courtesies and the happy hours they had conferred upon a wanderer in a strange land. The afternoon and evening were a season of unalloyed happiness.

As I dropped into slumber in the house of Xamas I soliloquized: "This kindness and these honors seem significant. Perhaps the Intermereans intend to adopt me into all their knowledge and wisdom. Perhaps—"

I FELT THAT I was tossing on the swell of the ocean. Then there was a sensation of physical pain, as if from long exposure to the elements.

So keen was this sensation that I awoke fully, started up and looked around me. It was a grayish dawn, purpling in lines near the horizon. Towering above me I saw the outlines of a great ship, lying at anchor and lazily nodding as the swells swept into the harbor.

I found myself in one of the individual Merocars, intended for a single passenger, but the compartments containing the accumulatory motors had been removed and the marks of removal deftly concealed.

It was one of the most finished Merocars of its class with the exception of the motor, constructed entirely of prepared wood, resembling a piece of wicker work, but impervious to the sea, and floated like a cork or a feather.

I was trying to determine where I was and how I came to be in my present situation. Then came to me this in the Language of Silence:

"You have been safely delivered to those who will restore you to your land and home. Discretion is always commendable."

I knew whence this thought came, and soon the increasing light showed me that I was in the harbor of Singapore, lashed with a silken cord to the forechains of an East Indian merchantman.

To my infinite regret I found that I was clad in the same clothes I wore when the Mistletoe went to the bottom. The same trinkets and a few coins and the other accessories were still in the pockets.

But the handsome and natty garments of Intermere were gone. I was back in the world just as I left it, how long ago I could not tell, for the memories of Intermere seemed to cover a decade at least, and I estimated that those who lived to one hundred enjoyed a thousand years of life.

The lookout on the ship finally discovered me, and shortly after I and my curious boat were lifted to the deck and became the center of a gaping crowd.

As I could not account for myself reasonably, I became merely evasive and did not account for myself at all, and left the crew and passengers equally divided as to whether I was a lunatic of a cunning knave.

Among those on board was one whose presence suggested Intermere. I listened and observed, and learned that he was the Secretary of a native Rajah on board the ship. He inspected me with curious disappointment. The Merocar he seemed to worship both with eyes and soul.

"Sell it to him, for you need money."

That was Maros; I could not be mistaken.

The Secretary motioned me to a distant part of the deck and said abruptly:

"I will give you five thousand rupees for the— for the—"

"Merocar."

He started as though shocked by a bolt of lightning.

"I dare not talk— I cannot remember— but I dare not talk. Will you sell it me for five thousand rupees, Sahib? It is all I have, but I will give it freely."

"It is yours."

He went below and soon returned with the amount in bills of exchange upon the bank at Hong Kong.

He carried his purchase to his stateroom, amid the laughter of passengers and sailors, who did not conceal their merriment that any man would pay such a price for a wicker basket, and my cunning and hypnotic knavery were thoroughly established.

I remained a few days in Singapore, converting my bills partly into cash and partly into exchange on London and New York.

Sailing later to Hong Kong, I there fell in with an American military officer whom I knew, and who gave me the full particulars of Albert Marshall's death. With him I made arrangements for the shipment of my cousin's remains to his old home, via San Francisco.

Two days later I sailed for London, and within six weeks reached New York, and the home of my childhood. I shall not describe the meeting with my mother, nor speak of what was said in relation to the strange and brief communications which passed between us months before.

Chapter VII

Le Envoi.

What I Was Able To Communicate Touching My Experiences. And Yet the Picture Drawn is Faint, Hazy And Far Away. Compared With the Beautiful Reality, it is "As Moonlight Unto Sunlight, as Water Unto Wine."

G. H. A.

Glenford, 1901.

_____________________

3: Sinners' Paradise

Raoul Whitfield

1896-1945

Droll Stories May 1925

HOBART SICKLER grinned broadly at his wife. But Helene Sickler did not manage her usual smile in return. It was a bit beyond her this morning.

"Scotch," Hobey stated in a placid voice, "is a bad drink for women of your type, Pinky."

Pinky was Hobart's pet name for his wife. She possessed such cute little toes, and there had been a time, two years ago, when he had delighted in sitting on the edge of her bed and playing with them. Pinky had come, somehow, out of this habit.

"My type?" Helene's voice was a trifle weary. "Why my type in particular?"

Hobey chuckled. He was rather inclined towards a definite stoutness, and it seemed to Helene that in the last year he had dropped back into his old ways—before marriage ways.

"You're too temperamental," he stated lazily. "It affects you too much."

Helene remained silent. Her head was splitting, and she felt completely exhausted. And then, in spite of these facts, she remembered that tonight Jimmy Weare was giving a party at the Romany Inn. She smiled.

"Run along to your business, Hobey," she returned sarcastically. "You are late as it is— and with the weather bad it will take you an hour to get in."

Her husband smiled. "Shall I return tonight," he asked casually, "so that I may write a few cheques for you, dear?"

But Helene was not up to his jocular mood, and she missed completely the heavy undertone of his words. Hobart Sickler was near the edge—and his wife did not notice it.

He rose leisurely from his chair at the table in the breakfast-room. Thirty-five, a trifle flabby, too good-natured, Hobart was not a particularly imposing human. But he was not as stupid as his wife imagined. For a year now he had been observing Pinky in the process of breaking loose, and had not interfered. But now—

"Leave me the closed car," she was saying in her morning-weary tone. "Delatante's coming over later. He's found an old farmhouse somewhere on the Island— and he wants to show me some antiques."

Hobey frowned. "Antiques?" he said slowly. "Are they so rare in these parts?"

His implication was obvious, but Helene disregarded it with a sigh. Delatante dabbled in art, painted a bit— it was even rumoured that one of his oils had been exhibited in Boston. He was tall, dark and handsome— and quite consistently broke.

But that never seemed to matter. He travelled with the exclusive, lively element of Long Island. He borrowed a limousine here or there; somehow he always managed to get everywhere. Better still, Delatante was interesting.

Hobey gestured impatiently with his hands. He moved slowly towards the threshold of the sun-parlour. But suddenly he stopped, faced his wife.

"Pinky," he said slowly and quietly, "you've got to cut it out. I'm getting pretty tired of this business. I was talking with Sam yesterday, and he feels the same way about Tiny. It's got to stop."

Pinky was staring at her husband in utter amazement. Was it possible that Hobey meant what he was saying?

Tiny Fenwick was her best friend, her best woman friend, at least. And Hobey had been talking to her husband, Sam. That was simply disgusting!

"Why, Hobey," she managed to say, her eyes upon his, "you're talking foolishly. What do you expect me to do all day while you're in the city? Sit and read the latest philosophical books, have no social life whatever?"

Her husband grunted. "Sit and read the latest scandals among your friends, you mean," he returned. "As for 'social life'— I guess you have plenty of it."

"I do," she admitted, "because I won't allow myself to grow old."

"Meaning that I am allowing myself to grow old?" Hobey asked.

Helene's eyes narrowed. "Exactly," she replied.

Her husband muttered something under his breath that she did not catch. There was a grim smile on his face.

"All right!" he said decisively. "If I'm growing old it's worry about you that's causing it. I've a business to attend to, and plenty to think about. I don't object to your playing around with women— and there are some decent men around here, too. But I'm getting pretty sick of this fast, noisy nightclub crowd that you and Tiny are running with. Sam's getting sick of it, too. You can go a bit too far, you know— and it's our money that you're spending."

"Hobart!" Pinky got to her feet, her eyes flashing. She was rather stunning in her dark, Oriental way, and anger gave her a hot, quick beauty that her husband was not accustomed to seeing.

"It's true," he went on. "Night after night. Parties here, parties there. The same old thing. Delatante and that Italian, Grutti, George Standing, Louis Fenway. Rotters— all of them!"

"They are not rotters!" she protested hotly. "You know they are not!"

"I know nothing of the sort!" Her husband had raised his voice. Pinky was surprised to see such an exhibition of his temper; her husband was usually a very calm man. But he continued to talk now, his words booming out into the room:

"But I do know that this business must come to an end. I want you to stay away from Romany Inn, from that section of the Island. It's getting to be a joke— for those who aren't mixed up in it. Do you know what the columnists are calling that section?"

Pinky shook her head. She was terribly angry, and her eyes showed the fact.

"'Sinners' Paradise'," her husband informed her "That's what they call it."

Pinky threw back her dark-crowned head and commenced to laugh. Her laughter was silvery, and considered by many quite beautiful, but it was evident that her husband would have disagreed at this moment. Finally she stopped. There were tears of mirth in her eyes. She stared at her husband.

"'Sinners' Paradise'," she repeated, still chuckling. "Oh, Hobey— that's too good!"

"It is," he agreed, in a hard tone, "but not the way you mean it. It's too good, too airy a title to give that bunch of night clubs. 'Fools' Paradise' would have been better. But that's aside from the point. I warn you, Pinky— you must keep clear of cafésociety. If you do not—"

He broke off abruptly, dropping his hands at the sides of his immaculate grey business suit.

Pinky drew herself straight. Her husband was threatening her! Actually threatening!

"If I don't keep away— what then?" Her voice was sharp, pregnant with anger.

Hobart Sickler shrugged his shoulders.

"Then I'm through with you," he said, and walked out through the sun-parlour. Five minutes later, Pinky thoroughly astounded, heard a machine move away from the elaborate drive.

In the back seat was her husband, already reading the morning paper and— worst of all— he had taken the limousine!

"IT'S RIDICULOUS, absurd! Just because some of the newspaper columnists term that little neck of land in the Sound 'Sinners' Paradise', because some 'blurb' writer has to earn his salary— Hobey tells me I must drop out of things." Pinky curled kittenishly on her divan, glared at Tiny Fenwick.

"Don't get so angry at me, Pinky," Tiny retorted. "Haven't I just been through the same thing? I tell you, sure as the dickens, your Hobey and my Sam have gotten together and decided to make us safe for democracy— or something like that. It's utterly silly!"

Tiny Fenwick was small and blonde. Her husband was a rather big fellow, and Pinky had always thought them thoroughly unsuited. But she liked Tiny, and they were almost always together. Pinky had cultivated Delatante, while Tiny had shown a strong liking for Louis Fenway.

They were not in love with Delatante and Fenway— but Sam and Hobey were businessmen. Business was a bore, particularly when it tired husbands so that they did not care to run about at night. What were the gay lights of Romany Inn, the Halfway House, Scarabin's, to tired husbands? They were certainly not a lure. Hobey and Sam detested them.

And they both had plenty of money. Of course, Pinky and Tiny spent considerable of their incomes, but neither believed that it was necessary for her husband to devote so much time and so much serious thought to business.

"The thing is," Tiny continued, stretching herself beside Pinky on the divan, "what are we going to do about it? I know Sam will be furious, wild—if I go to Jimmy Weare's party at Romany Inn tonight. And Lou's coming for me at nine. Sam's off for Chicago. But it's a masquerade— and how will anyone know?"

"Know what?" Pinky reached for cigarettes, and they both lighted up.

"Know that I'm there," Tiny replied. "You are supposed to be going with Delatante. Are you?"

Pinky hesitated. "I don't know," she said slowly. "Hobey was awfully angry when he left— and he's a good sport in a way. But he's lots older, of course, and he doesn't like running around. I wouldn't want to break with him."

"Bah!" Tiny blew a cloud of smoke above her yellow hair. "He'll never know you've gone, if you do as I'm going to do."

Pinky's dark eyes were upon Tiny's. She saw that her friend had made up her mind that she was going to Jimmy's party.

"What are you going to do, Tiny?" she asked.

"I'm going!" her friend replied. "In spite of the fact that Sam said he was sick of my running around, and would move his office to Chicago and leave me here— if I went tonight."

She chuckled. "But Sam's never going to know that I went," she stated, winking. "And after this party I'm going to be a good little girl for a while. Stay home and work crossword puzzles. Read whoever's in style—"

"How are you going to do it?" Pinky interrupted. She had heard Tiny tell of reforming plans before.

"Going to reverse the procedure," Tiny stated triumphantly. "I said a minute ago that Lou was coming for me. He's not, actually— I'm going for him."

"Going for him?" Pinky echoed.

"Just that," Tiny returned, chuckling again. I'm going to drive over for him in the roadster, picking him up at Charlie Carlyle's place. My maid hasn't seen my costume, and I'll dress alone. It's a simple one, thank the Lord!"

Pinky smiled. "It sounds great," she agreed. "I'm going as a pirate— or I was going as a pirate. Ninette hasn't seen the costume because it hasn't arrived yet from the city."

"Fine!" Tiny chuckled. "You can work it the same way, Pinky. Can't you pretend you're sick, and sneak away from that husband of yours?"

Helene Sickler frowned. Suddenly she jumped from the divan.

"Oh, Tiny!" she exclaimed. "I forgot. Hobey has a banquet at the club. I remember now— he told me yesterday that he'd be out for dinner. He's going to change at the club!"

"Exquisite!" Tiny breathed. "Perfectly marvellous, dear! We'll run away together. You get Delatante to go over to Charlie's place. I'll stop here, noiselessly, for you at about eight-thirty. Get Ninette away. Your butler won't say a word. That's the beauty of them. And in your pirate costume no one can be sure, positive, of your identity. Delatante and Lou will be the only ones who actually know."

"Yes, but—" Pinky broke off abruptly.

"But what?" Tiny demanded. She tapped the ashes from her cigarette with a graceful motion of her little hands.

"When we unmask," Pinky said slowly. "Everyone will know us then."

"Don't be silly," Tiny returned. "You don't think I want to lose my happy home, either, do you? Sam's all right. But nothing doing on the unmasking, Pinky. The answer is simple— we don't unmask!"

Tiny laughed in her silvery voice. "Jimmy says the party will be fast and furious and he wants to make it a real party. Things have been a bit slow, he thinks. No one unmasks until two o'clock— and we shove off at a quarter of the fatal hour. How's that?"

Pinky smiled. "Sounds cheerful enough," she agreed, "and I'm all for it. I'd like to fool Hobey, he made me pretty mad this morning. But I—"

"Another 'but'!" Tiny interrupted, in an impatient tone. "What now?"

"Hobey's not in Chicago, you know," Helene responded. "And the chances are that he'd return from New York before two. I'd be caught getting in, of course. He always kisses me goodnight."

"Good Lord! Does he do that?" Tiny grimaced. "He's worse than Sam, then." She shook her adorable head. "These old-fashioned men!"

They both laughed. But Tiny was serious again. For several moments there was silence.

"I have it!" Sam's wife suddenly declared. "What could be sweeter? You are lonely—so you phone your Hobey at the office, and tell him that you are going over to my place. You suggest that he stay in at the club for the night—you're feeling miserable and think you'll stay with me."

"But won't he be suspicious?" Pinky questioned.

"Of course he will," Tiny replied. "But what of it? He'll call up the house, most likely, and if it's before I've left I'll say that you're lying down, resting—that you're going to stay all night with me. If he calls up after—well I have Koti to say that we're both retired children, and that he would hate to disturb us. He's really my boy, you know, although Sam doesn't know that. I'll say I've given Koti enough dough."

Pinky was smiling. "It's a chance we're taking," she said slowly, "but I do want one big party before I settle down. And I have an idea that Jimmy Weare's will be lively."

"Lively? That's not the word," Tiny contradicted. "Terrific—that's more like it. Then you'll go, Pinky?"

Helene Sickler nodded her head. "I'll go," she said quietly.

"Wonderful!" Tiny did a rumba in front of the divan. "We'll have a perfectly marvellous time. Call up your husband now—see how he takes it. Remember, my place for the night. You're sick and lonely. But don't let him rush back to you."

"Rush back?" Pinky laughed. "Do they do that these days outside of the movies? He was rushing away the last I saw of him. But I'll call him."

They walked into the reception hall, and Helene picked up the telephone. While she was calling the number, Tiny was executing a continuation of her dance. But she broke off suddenly.

"Don't talk too light-heartedly, Pinky," she warned Helene. "Remember, you're sick."

Pinky nodded. She heard Hobart's heavy voice over the wire.

"This is Pinky," she said, in a weary tone. "I feel terrible, dear—and I'm going over to Tiny's. I'm so lonely."

She heard him grunt something unintelligible, and continued. "I think I'll stay with her tonight, Hobey. You might stay in at the club. Your banquet won't be over till late—and I expect to climb into bed with Tiny very early."

"All right," he replied, with astonishing brevity. "If you'd cut out the parties, you might feel better. I'll stay in. See you tomorrow night."

"All right, dear," she replied. "Bye, bye."

"Bye," he muttered gruffly, and hung up. She guessed that her husband was still furious over the morning scene.

Tiny was still dancing her jig as Pinky hung up. Her face was framed in one gorgeous smile. She caught Pinky by the arm, and they both danced a few quiet steps.

"All set!" Tiny stated happily. "What's that name the newspapers have given our party neck-of-woods?"

"'Sinners' Paradise'," Pinky returned, laughing. Now that the way was clear, she felt vastly pleased.

"'Sinners' Paradise'," Tiny mimicked. "I do hope there's lots of little sinners at Romany Inn tonight!"

"Me too," Pinky agreed. "It may be our last chance to sin with the rest of the bunch!"

DELATANTE HELPED Helene back into Tiny's closed car. They had just arrived at Charlie's place, and had picked up Lou Fenway and Del. Charlie was shoving off later, and they did not see him.

Everything had gone splendidly. Koti had definite instructions. Pinky had driven her machine over to Tiny's at seven, taking a small bag containing her costume. She would spend the night with Tiny, of course.

Both Pinky and Tiny were already masked. Their fur coats hid the costumes beneath. Delatante was attired as a devil. Lou as a slender and quite ferocious cannibal.

He jerked the machine into action, with Tiny sitting close beside him. Delatante produced a flask from his overcoat pocket, and at the same time a sinister object flashed to the car's floor-rug.

"Del!" Pinky saw that it was a revolver, but Delatante quickly stuck it back in his pocket and resumed the process of unscrewing the top.

"No use taking any chances," he whispered to Pinky. "There's been quite a few hold-ups around here lately, and I usually carry it with me."

Helene nodded. After all, there was no harm in Del's having a gun. Neither Tiny nor she was wearing any jewels, but there had been several motor hold-ups in the vicinity of the neck of land on which were scattered many road houses.

"What's Tiny supposed to be?" Del questioned, steadying himself as he poured the liquor into the unscrewed cup-cover. "I know you're a pirate bold; she told me."

"Bold is right," Pinky returned. "And remember, Del— you must never breathe a word of this to anybody."

"Not a word, Pinky," Delatante replied. He looked quite handsome in his diabolical make-up. "Again what is Tiny supposed to be?"

"A nymph," Pinky returned, smiling. "And a summer, warm-weather nymph, at that."

"Not so much in the way of costume, eh?" Del grinned, and handed her the cup-top of the flask. "Just a starter. Pinky. Jimmy's the one who is supposed to have the real stuff."

Pinky swallowed the contents, made a face and laughed. And then she made another face.

"As bad as that?" Del questioned. He poured out another drink for Tiny, who was pretending to howl for it.

"Worse," replied Pinky, but she shook her head. "No, I guess it's not bad," she told him. "I'm not a drinker, you know— and I can't get used to it."

"You don't want to get used to it," Delatante stated seriously, as he handed the cup to Tiny. "When you get used to it there's not so much fun. I'm used to it, and I don't get half the kick I got in the old days."

There was a general laugh. Tiny drank, made no comment, and Del poured out a brinker for the driver. Lou was in great humour.

He drank with practice and ease, and then half turned his head towards Pinky.

"Say," he demanded, "didn't I meet you in St Louis?"

There was a groan at this, but ancient as Pinky knew the thing was going to be, she went through with her part.

"Not I," she replied seriously. "I've never been in St Louis."

"That's right," Lou shot back. "Neither have I. It must have been two other—" A chorus of groans drowned his anticipated ending.

"That's as old as Jimmy says his liquor is guaranteed to be," Del remarked, getting down the last drink of the first round.

"Listen," Tiny stated slowly. "This is going to be Pinky's and my last party for a while. We don't want it to drag, but you two must stay sober. We've got to leave before the unmasking. Remember!"

"Can't we get under the weather a bit— and then sober up in time?" Lou pleaded in such a serious, grieved voice that Tiny relented.

"It's all right— if you sober up in time," she stated. "You're taking a chance, too. If our husbands learn about our being at the Romany, they'll probably start after both of you. So it's up to you to protect yourselves."

"We leave at quarter of two— and, we leave sober!" Delatante spoke convincingly. "I'm not anxious to be shot at by angry husbands."

Pinky laughed. The machine was streaking over the Long Island road, but it rode smoothly. Del commenced to pour the second round.

A cluster of lights flashed behind, as Pinky lifted her voice in song.

"Scarabin's," Lou shouted. "We're on the Neck now. Fifteen minutes and we'll be at the Romany."

"For I'm a pirate bo...ld, so bo...ld!" Pinky was feeling fine, her red lips parted. The mask over the upper portion of her face made her more alluring than ever. The others joined in the chorus. They sped on, bound for Romany Inn, and Jimmy Weare's party. Both Tiny and Pinky had forgotten their husbands. Why not? It was to be their farewell party.

A YELLOW SPOTLIGHT streaked down upon the long, narrow dance floor of the Romany Inn. The dance floor was crowded; costumes were striking, gorgeous in colour and line. The spotlight became purple. Music from the Southern orchestra flared out from the raised platform at one end. Dancers swayed to it, bent with it, jerked with it.

Pinky, held tightly in the arms of Delatante, was enjoying herself hugely. Del was a magnificent dancer, and the music was wonderful. She felt herself gripped by the spirit of the carnival, the spirit of jazz music— and adventure.

" 'Lo, Jimmy!" Del called out, as a short, stocky figure danced close to them. There was no possibility of Jimmy Weare disguising himself. His friends were many, and in spite of his depressing, gloom-costume of the much-caricatured curfew maker, he was hailed from all sides. His mask was no mask for Jimmy.

He waved back. "Who is she?" he howled in his deep voice, making no attempt to disguise it.

Del shook his head, and Pinky smiled. She did not travel, had not travelled, in spite of what her husband thought, so much with Jimmy Weare's set. They could not penetrate her disguise. She was slim and of medium height, and there were many other women of similar build on the dance floor.

And yet she was having all the fun she could desire. Twisting her head, she caught a glimpse of Tiny, dancing with Lou. Tiny was having a great old time, and her costume was one of the sensations of the party.

"Feel lively enough?" Del spoke a bit thickly, but he was able to dance in his excellent manner.

"I feel like what I'm made up to be— a pirate," Pinky returned.

"You've already stolen my heart— and made my conscience walk the plank," Del returned, laughing.

"Oh, Del— not that!" Pinky rolled her eyes roguishly.

Delatante groaned. "Not that," he muttered. "Don't look at me that way, Pinky. I feel as though I want to rip that mask from your face and kiss you on those laughing lips of yours."

"Don't!" she warned. "That would give the whole thing away."

"I know." He grinned at her. "I was simply telling you how I felt. By the way, you've the next dance with Haverstraw. He fell in love with your costume and persuaded me into giving you up for a whole dance."

The music crashed into a dynamic finale. It was the third encore of the piece, and the dancers walked slowly from the floor.

"Haverstraw?" Pinky repeated the name. "Isn't he the man who has just figured in the papers in the Denton shooting?"

"The same and only gentleman," Del replied suavely. "He's nice, though, and you are only dancing with him, you know."

Pinky laughed. "Oh, I don't mind that," she stated. "He'll be interesting. I don't often have the chance of dancing with a murderer."

Del looked startled. Even his mask failed to hide the expression in his eyes, the thin line of his lips.

"Not necessarily a murderer, Pinky," he returned. "That's a bit harsh— pretty heavy. He had some reasons for shooting Denton— and he didn't shoot to kill, you see."

Pinky laughed again. "I'll be careful, Del," she returned. "I won't accuse the dear fellow of being such a person."

"That's it," her companion replied, as they neared the table at which Tiny and Louis Fenway were already seated. "Keep away from the subject, and you'll have a good time. Haverstraw's a good enough fellow, and he's clever, too."

"Greetings, demon and pirate-maid! Join us in the gulping festivities— or don't either of you care to indulge?"

Lou smiled at them as they dropped into their chairs. A babble of voices filled the long room; it seemed hardly less silent now than when the orchestra was playing.

Clowns and athletes, porters and columbines, strikingly costumed males and females strode about the tables, crossed the dance floor. Laughter was the chief voice of the party, and some of it was becoming quite unrestrained now.

Suddenly the lights were dimmed. The long room was plunged into absolute darkness. Giggles, a few oaths of surprise and a good deal of laughter rose from those seated about the table.

A brilliantly yellow spotlight shone down upon the centre of the dance floor. A saxophone wailed. Into the spotlight rushed a feminine figure. Pinky suppressed a gasp of surprise. There were "Ohs!" and "Ahs!" from the tables.

The figure was clad only in a thin veil of scarlet material. She was very beautiful, and she commenced a dance that was thoroughly charming. The spotlight followed her; it was the only splash of colour in the room.

The music was working itself up into a whirl of passion. It raged, sent notes into the comparative silence in a perfect fury of sound. But the dancer kept pace with it. She was whirling now in the centre of the polished floor. Her hair was golden and long. It swirled out behind her, and then, as she reversed, covered her face.

But she was kept whirling— and the orchestra kept raging. Del leaned towards Pinky. Their table was almost in a corner at the far end of the room. She felt herself jerked towards him; her lips were being pressed against his before she realized what was happening.

The lights flashed on; there was a burst of applause. She twisted herself away from Delatante amid the laughter of the few who had witnessed what little the lights had shown.

She was furious, so furious that she could not speak. Del was grinning sheepishly. She raised her fingers to her mask. It had slipped down a little but had not, fortunately, exposed her face.

Finally she spoke. Tiny was slapping Lou on the back as if the whole thing was a tremendous joke.

"Don't you dare to do that again, Del!" she warned. "If you do— I'll walk right out of here, do you understand?"

Her sharp tone of voice sobered him. "I'm sorry, Pinky," he said, in a low tone. "It was the music and the lights being out. It won't happen again, dear."

"Don't call me 'dear'!" she commanded. She was very angry. If Hobey should ever hear of the thing— if it should ever become known that she was the pirate-maid whom several persons had seen being kissed by a well-garbed devil— well, there would be plenty of explaining to do.

Tiny shoved a drink towards her. "Come on, Pinky," she shrilled. "Don't go dead on the party. Remember, this is our farewell—"

"Not so loud," Pinky ordered. "And don't call me Pinky if you have to yell. There are probably enough people here now who suspect who we are. We don't want them to know it."

"That's right," Del agreed. "Let's tone down a bit. I'm not dancing the next one— I'll go out and have a smoke. We've got an hour yet—it's only a quarter of one."

"My next dance is with Ulysses," Tiny announced, laughing. "At least he's wearing a lot of armour."

Lou chuckled. "You'll be all bruises tomorrow," he grinned. "I have an idea that Ulysses doesn't even know he's away from Troy or Ithaca— or wherever he used to hang out."

The music flared into being again, as a tall man, attired in the patched costume of a tramp, touched Pinky on the shoulder.

"Hello, Stella," he said, rather eagerly. "Knew you the first time. My dance, eh?"

Pinky shook her head, amid the laughter of her three companions. "I'm not Stella," she said slowly, disguising her voice by speaking in a drawl. "And the next dance is taken."

The new arrival grinned down at her from beneath a red mask. "You win," he replied, in a light tone. "Stella never said that little at one time in her life. Sorry, she was supposed to be Peter Pan."

Tiny was screaming with laughter.

"She's not Peter Pan," she informed the tramp. "She's a pirate bold."

The tramp stared at Pinky and then joined in their laughter. "My mistake," he apologised, as he moved away. "I left my glasses on the library table."

Tiny vanished with a careless "Adios!" Her Ulysses was soberer than Lou had evidently given him credit for being.

Del had risen and was introducing Pinky to a finely attired gentleman of the French aristocracy. His powdered wig was slightly slanted on his rather large head, but it detracted little from the dignity of his whole appearance.

"A pirate bold— oh, Duke!" Del laughed, and Haverstraw led her out into the swirl of the dance floor.

"The evening is a merry one," she stated. She found herself anxious to hear what sort of a voice the murderer of Richard Denton possessed. He had only bowed when introduced.

"The morning gives promise of being gay," he corrected, in a rich, baritone drawl.

"It is morning," she agreed. "And time all good little pirates were in bed."

He swung her to the left quickly, in order to avoid collision with a college professor who was trying something too intricate in the way of dance steps with a Pandora who had evidently not lost many things besides hope.

"And time good little wives should be in bed, too," he supplemented.

Pinky felt a quick twist of fear strike within her. Did he recognise her? But how could he? She had never met him before. She decided that he was simply trying to be clever.

"And good little husbands?" she questioned archly. "Shouldn't they be in bed, too?"

He laughed pleasantly. It was difficult to think of him as a man who had shot down Denton. But probably, she thought, it was as Del had said. He was not, inherently, a murderer.

"Husbands," he said quietly, "should be allowed certain privileges their wives can't enjoy."

"That seems to be the general opinion— of the husbands," Pinky returned, smiling. "But the wives do not always agree."

"So I notice," Haverstraw returned, and the tone of his voice sent a little shiver through Helene Sickler.

There was a conversational silence for several minutes. The floor was fearfully crowded, and there was an atmosphere of freedom in the place. Haverstraw danced fairly well, but without particular fervour.

"And your husband?" he suddenly said. "Where is he tonight?"

Pinky held herself in control. "It's hard to say," she commented. "There are five clowns here— and three of them look very much like my clown."

Haverstraw laughed. "Nice," he commented, "but you should give him credit. It's likely he knew there would be many in clown costume— and simply made it more difficult for you to keep track of him."

"He's not that wise," Pinky returned.

"Don't you believe it," her partner stated. "All husbands are wise— some of them so much so that they make their wives think they are stupid."

Pinky felt another queer little stab of fear inside of her. Haverstraw was talking in riddles but they were vaguely annoying— and she wondered just why.

"You should know," she shot back, quite obviously.

She felt Haverstraw tighten his grip upon her. The music was playing softly, and with the perfect beat of the super-jazz orchestra.

"I do know," he replied grimly. "And it cost me something to find out."

"In money?" she persisted.

He laughed. "A wise little pirate was she," he said, in a quoting manner. "I see my table is unoccupied. Would you care to sit and drink this out— and listen to a story in which I feel you are interested?"

Pinky was about to decline, but she was interested in the Denton case, and she felt that Haverstraw would tell her something about it. And, too, she was a trifle tired. A drink would help.

"I'd love to!" she replied recklessly.

He smiled, and led her from the floor. His table was at the opposite end of the room from the one at which Pinky had been seated. And there was champagne. Jimmy Weare was a good friend of Haverstraw's, she remembered. He had testified for him at the trial.

They seated themselves, and Haverstraw pulled his chair close to Pinky's. The champagne was excellent, fairly seemed to sparkle her into a more vivid awareness of the gaiety of her surroundings. The place was a flare of colour, noise, excitement.

Haverstraw took her hand. "Pretty," he commented. "Shall I start at the beginning?"

"Do!" Pinky urged, making a slight effort to pull her hand away. But she did want to hear his story— so she let him hold her hand. He commenced to talk, his face close to hers. She was beginning to feel just a bit dizzy.

BALLOONS were floating down from the balcony that surrounded the room. They were blue and gold and red. Pinky blinked at them. Haverstraw was still talking in a monotonous drone. But he had not told her what she had wanted to know, had come to hear. He was, perhaps, a little beyond that.

She felt a desire to get back to their own table, to Tiny and Del and Lou. And she was also commencing to feel a swift regret. She and Tiny should never have come to this party.

The crowd was too lively, too fast— in the first place. In the second place, it was very likely that their husbands would be incapable of understanding. Hobey, she thought, would be rather doubtful, even if she told the truth— told him that it was a farewell party, and that Tiny had urged her to go.

She could not distinguish Haverstraw's words, but was suddenly aware that both of his arms were around her. Somehow, she got to her feet. Balloons were drifting everywhere; she brushed one away from her face.

"What's the matter?" she heard Haverstraw saying. "Thought you wanted—"

She turned away from him. They were dancing, and she was bumped several times as she walked, with a fair degree of steadiness, towards the opposite end of the room.

Suddenly, just as she had reached the end of the polished floor, she felt herself jerked about by Haverstraw.

"What's the rush?" he said casually. "I'm not through telling—"

"Let me go!" she ordered. "I'm going away from this place. "I'm sick of it— sick of all the noise and the people. Let me go!"

He laughed shortly. She could hear him more clearly now; they were farther away from the orchestra.

"It took you quite a while to get sick of it," he reminded. "And quite a bit of my champagne, my dear."

She tried to get away from him, but he held her tightly. "One more dance," he begged, "and then you can go. Be a bold, brave pirate."

Pinky was aware of the fact that he was mocking her, but that did not matter. She twisted violently, but he held her. They were attracting attention. She saw Delatante coming towards her.

A swift panic gripped her. Del had a gun; he had probably brought it with him. And Haverstraw was quick-tempered— and a murderer!

"Please let me go," she begged. "I don't feel like dancing."

"That's all right," Haverstraw commenced. "Let me see who you are? Kind of like you, bold pirate."

He made a motion as though to lift her mask, but she evaded him... She caught a glimpse of the red cloth of Del's Satanic costume.

"Make him let me go, Del," she begged. "He's had too much to drink— doesn't know what he's doing."

There was a sharp crack; she felt her wrist free of Haverstraw's grip. Turning around, she saw Haverstraw stretched on the floor. Delatante was standing over him, his fists clenched.

She started to run towards the table and Tiny, but the staccato crackle of a revolver jerked her about. She caught the gleam of a gun in Haverstraw's right hand, and saw Delatante sway above him.

Haverstraw had fired from the floor! The place was in a wild turmoil. There were screams, hoarse cries. Men rushed towards the prostrate Haverstraw and the swaying Delatarite, obscuring Pinky's vision.

She started once more towards the table. Stumbling, her eyes wide, she reached Tiny's side. Lou was not present.

"They've killed Del!" she sobbed hysterically. But curiously enough she was not thinking as much about Del as she was about the publicity— and Hobey's ultimate discovery of the fact that she had lied to him, and had come to the place.

"They? Who?" Tiny was holding her by the shoulders. "I heard the shot— what happened, Pinky?"

Helene sobbed the story incoherently. "We've got to get away," she urged. "They'll take care of Del— there's nothing we can do. Lou can get a taxi outside. They always wait there— a few of them. Oh, Tiny— I wish we'd never come. I wish we—"

She broke off abruptly. Tiny was dragging her away from the table, towards the retiring room. She got a glimpse of the crowd, still gathered about Del, she supposed. The costumes seemed an incongruous blending of colour now, an irony.

She wondered if Delatante had been killed. Haverstraw was a good shot. That had been brought up at the trial. The chances were that—

"Where is Lou?" Tiny was demanding, interrupting her train of thought. "I haven't seen him since you left with Haverstraw and I with Ulysses."

"I don't know," Pinky returned. "But we can't wait, Tiny— we must get away from here. What if Del talks? Tells who we are?"

"He won't," Tiny returned. "He'll be too careful of himself. Brace up, Pinky. We'll be home in half hour."

Pinky stared into the mirror. The maid brought her coat, helped her into it. She felt years older than when she had come in. There was a faint buzzing in her ears. She could not distinguish Tiny's voice from the maid's but she could hear their words, as though from a distance.

"Come on," she urged, as Tiny jammed on her hat. "Hurry, Tiny—we must get away."

"But I must put this hat on," Tiny remonstrated, "and my eyes are none too clear."

Pinky jerked her away from the mirror. Her own eyes seemed staring at things through a thin blur.

"We should never have come," she muttered, as they moved out of the room, their costumes hidden beneath the long coats. "If Del or Lou talk—"

"They won't," Tiny replied. "I tell you, they're too careful of themselves."

"But Del may be dying," Pinky returned, "and he'd tell the police— or somebody."

She shivered as they went out through a side door towards the parking place. The night was chilly.

A form loomed up in front of them. Tiny cried out.

"Lou! We were looking for you. You've got to get us away. Del's been—"

He nodded his head and led the way towards Tiny's car. Through a blur, Pinky saw that he had his overcoat on, and his hat. And, evidently, he knew that Del had been shot. His mask was still on, and his blacking for the cannibalistic makeup.

"We'll both ride in the back seat," Tiny exclaimed, helping Pinky in before her. Pinky sank down in the soft cushions. She felt as though she were about to faint. And Del was lying back on the polished floor.

A vision of Haverstraw— with the gun in his hand— flared before her eyes. She shuddered, and Tiny held her tightly with both arms.

"Why don't we start?" she asked Lou.

He did not reply, but Tiny soothed her. "He jumped off the running-board as he was getting in," she said. "I suppose he forgot something."

Pinky was sobbing as though her heart would break. Again and again she reproached herself and Tiny for having come. "Del may be dead!" she repeated over and over.

"He may be," Tiny agreed, "but it isn't likely. The chances are that Haverstraw had been drinking too much to be able to aim very straight."

A figure lurched up to the car, and jerked open the door. It was garbed as a tramp, but looked somewhat the worse for wear.

"That Stella in there?" the man demanded. "She's got on a Peter Pan costume, and you dropped this."

He offered Tiny Pinky's small turban, which she had dropped on the way out.

"Been looking mos' everywhere for Stella," he went on, blinking nervously from behind his mask.

"You keep right on looking," Tiny advised. "This is part of our pirate costume. Your Stella's probably inside."

"Inside?" The tramp shook his head. "Never find her in there. Too much excitement. Fellow just got killed."

"Killed?" Pinky jerked herself upright, staring at the tramp.

"Killed dead!" the fellow repeated solemnly.

"You run along," Tiny advised. "This isn't Peter Pan, and I haven't the slightest idea where she is."

The tramp bowed, muttered something that sounded like an apology, and closed the machine door, walking towards the inn.

"Killed!" Pinky repeated. "Oh, why doesn't Lou come? Can't you drive, Tiny? I want to get away from here."

Tiny patted her hands. "I wouldn't want to try driving," she replied. "Although I feel pretty good. But we can't run off without Lou very well, and that fellow probably didn't know what he was talking about."

"He said he was killed," Pinky groaned.

"He said he was 'killed dead'," Tiny corrected, "and that means that he didn't know what he was saying."

More figures moved beside the car, the front-seat door was opened. Lou climbed in, squeezed himself behind the wheel.

Pinky straightened in her seat; her body became rigid. Delatante had climbed in after him. She saw that he was handling his left arm with care. He did not speak.

The machine moved slowly from the parking place; the lights of Romany Inn faded behind them.

Pinky leaned forward. "Del," she questioned, "are you hurt? Did he shoot you?"

He shook his head, but did not turn in the seat. Tiny soothed her, turning the collar of her coat up about her neck.

"There," she cheered. "I told you that fool couldn't shoot straight. He had been drinking too much, Pinky. And besides, you can't kill Del— he's too tough."

"But they'll talk," Pinky returned, recovering somewhat from her astonishment. "They'll find out, in some way, who I am. I know they will."

She was silent for several minutes as the machine sped along the smooth road.

"I think I'll go to Hobey, Tiny— and tell him the whole truth," she said suddenly. "He may believe me— and I'm sick and disgusted at the thought of what we've done."

"He may believe, is correct," Tiny returned. "And then again— he may not."

There was another silence. Both men sat motionless in the front seat. It was evident that they were too disgusted with events to speak.

"I don't care," Pinky finally said, with determination. "I'm going to tell my husband. He may not believe— but he's going to know the truth. I'm through!"

"Pinky!" Tiny was staring at her. "You mustn't. I'd like to tell mine, too—but we can't. Don't you see?"

"I don't see— and I'm going to tell!" Pinky was sitting straight. She felt better, having made the decision. "I lied— and I'm sorry."

The machine slowly jerked to a stop. Del moved his head around, lifted his hands to his mask. Pinky screamed. It was not Del—it was Hobey, her own husband!

Tiny was speechless. The driver faced her, his mask down. Sam Fenwick!

Hobey chuckled. "Well," he demanded. "Glad to see your husbands? We got you out of a nasty mess, didn't we?"

Both women were unable to speak. Pinky felt as though her throat were paralysed. Tiny was still staring at Sam, who was grinning.

"You don't know as much about valets as you think you do," Sam stated impassively. "He gave me the details and I called Hobey, who sort of figured Pinky was up to something. A phone from Chicago prevented my leaving— meeting postponed."

"But how—" Pinky, staring at her husband, was able only to manage the two words. But he seemed to understand.

"We mixed in— after we got hold of your escorts, who were outside, bragging about their achievements. They were easily convinced that it would be wise to lend us their masks and clothes. Mine's a rather tight fit, but you didn't notice it, Pinky." Hobey grinned. "Sam had to borrow some blacking.

"Haverstraw never hit me. The bullet landed in the ceiling. And that crowd never did find out who I was. Had some trouble getting out, but here we are. Nice party, eh?"

"Oh, Hobey," Pinky sobbed. "I never want to go on another. I'll stay—"

"You're darned right you will!" Hobey grinned. "Right by the radio and fireside. If we hadn't heard you— both you and Tiny— tell us how you stood, well, things might have been different. But this time we'll let you off easily, eh, Sam?"

"Guess we'll have to," Sam replied. "They had enough tonight to last for a while."

"Forever!" Pinky and Tiny chorused.

"Let's shift," Hobey suggested. He changed seats with Tiny. The machine started. But Sam drove slowly— and with one hand. A cluster of lights went slowly behind.

"The end of the Neck," Hobey whispered to his wife. "Will you be good now?"

Pinky sighed. "The end of 'Sinners' Paradise'," she said in a low voice. "You just bet I will, Hobey!"

______________

4: The Detective for the Defense

C. Langton Clarke

1857-1936

Adventure, Oct 1911

Little is known about Charles Langton Clarke, who published a small number of stories before WW1. He was photographed by Charles Lutwige Dodson (better known as Lewis Carroll) in 1864, and the photograph survives.

ANSON VOKES, the waxen mask of his face fixed in its customary impassivity, sat in a heavy leather chair in the smoking-room of Croftwith Hall, his muscular hands interlaced upon his knee, and listened unmoved to the stout, keen-eyed bristly-mustached man who sat opposite. I, leaning my elbow on the polished mahogany, sat on the other side of the table and lent an attentive ear.

Two years before the time of which I speak Anson Vokes, one of the best, if not the best man in Scotland Yard, had thrown up his position and an excellent chance of speedy promotion, and had gone in for private practise. His remarkable powers, his intense application to any case he under took, and his consequent success had already won for him some celebrity.

For several years before he resigned from the force I had counted him among my dearest friends, and had been his companion in some of his most important cases, notably that of the Mystery of the Gold headed Cane which I have elsewhere recorded.

Under a sphinx-like impassiveness of countenance and a cool deliberate manner, he concealed a warm heart and generous impulses, and I had come to conceive not only a high admiration for the detective, but a warm affection for the man. Silent almost to a fault, there was one topic alone on which he showed any enthusiasm, and that was the sport of fly-fishing, for which he had a positive mania.

Slightly below the middle height, with a beautifully proportioned figure, the embodiment of strength in a small compass, and with his coal-black hair, waxen complexion, and a pair of brilliant eyes half curtained by drooping lids, he was a man who would attract attention in any circle.

It was in response to an urgent telegram from General Warbury, master of Croft with Hall, that Vokes had come down, at almost an hour’s notice, and, as had been his invariable custom for some time, had invited me to accompany him. Thus it came about that we two sat in General Warbury’s luxuriously appointed smoking-room, waiting for him to unfold the reason for his hurried call on the services of my friend.

“I have sent for you, Mr. Vokes,” said General Warbury, “because I have heard much at different times of your success in unraveling crime, and I wish to enlist your sympathies— perhaps that is the wrong word, I should have said professional skill— on behalf of a man at present under a very heavy cloud, but who, I am positively convinced, is innocent of the crime with which he is charged. I need hardly say that I refer to what is known as the ‘Variole murder.’ The press from one end of the country to the other has been full of it for the past two days.”

“I presumed that it was in connection with this case you had sent for me, General,” replied Vokes. “I have read some of the press accounts, but I have been very busy on an important case which I have just brought to a conclusion, and I have had little time for anything else. I know the main facts— that Mr. Almaric Variole was found dead in bis own woods with a bullet-hole in his forehead; that he has been on bad terms with his nephew, who was with him shortly before the crime, and that the latter has been arrested. I may add that I know some more of the broader details of the case, but it would be as well, I think, if you were to give me a short history of the crime. I will ask many questions on points which may be obscure, if you will permit me, during the narration.”

“To make a long story as short as possible, then,” said the General, “old Almaric Variole lived at Variole Manor about a mile and a half from my gates. He was of distinguished appearance and exceptionally polished manner, but the most unpopular man in the county. He was not quarrel some; seldom, if ever, said disagreeable things about his neighbors, and was neither close nor slippery in money-matters. He subscribed to the hunt and, perfunctorily, to several local charities.

“The only man with whom he was admittedly at open feud was our parson, one of the finest fellows who ever stood in a pulpit. Variole not only professed, but actually felt, the greatest scorn and loathing for all forms of religion, and all belief in a hereafter. The parson is a peppery little fellow and he positively hated Variole and, what in a moment of exasperation he once described to me as, his “logic.”

“IT WAS not his atheism, though, which made the old man so cordially disliked. There was something in definably repellent about him. He seemed to be without the softer emotions. Never, to my knowledge, did he do a really kind act, and his attitude to his fellows, while in variably courteous, had a little too much condescension in it to please people. I and Dr. Marpole of Wroxmouth, a small town a few miles from here, were the only two men with whom he affected the slightest intimacy, if that is not too strong a word.

“Geoffrey Variole, his nephew and heir— for the old man never married— was brought up under his uncle’s eye, and from the boy’s childhood there was no love lost between them. About a year ago Geoffrey fell in love with a penniless but very charming girl, the daughter of a retired clergyman, and, in spite of his uncle’s threats and protests, married her.

“I believe there was a tremendous scene when the young man broke, the news, and Geoffrey, who is a high-spirited fellow, left the house after making a foolish remark that his uncle should bitterly rue the insults against his wife. Geoffrey, who had in herited a small fortune from his mother, took a small place about a mile from the Manor, and from the time he left his uncle’s house in a rage until the day previous to the murder, the two men never exchanged a word, although they met occasionally in public.

“Apart from the tragedy, Almaric was a doomed man. It appears that he was suffering from a heart-complaint, and two weeks before he was killed he called in Marpole after a spasm of unusual violence. Marpole told him candidly that he had barely a month to live, that he might die at any moment and that science could hold out no hope for him. The old man went up to London and consulted a famous specialist who confirmed Marpole’s diagnosis and death-sentence. I only knew of this yesterday from Marpole himself, as Variole had enjoined the strictest secrecy. How ever, that has no particular bearing on the case except that it brought uncle and nephew together again.

“The morning before the murder Variole walked over to Geoffrey’s house. The poor young wife was away on a visit to London, and Geoffrey himself was not at home. Variole waited for some time, but, as his nephew did not come, left, saying that he would return in the evening. He did so and was closeted with Geoffrey for about an hour. There is no question about what transpired, for Geoffrey admits that his uncle offered the olive branch, promised forgiveness for past offenses, and suggested a meeting next day to clear up all differences.

“Geoffrey gladly consented, and at two o’clock the following afternoon met his uncle by appointment on the western terrace. The meeting was witnessed by several persons, and all declare that it was evidently a cordial one. The old man, according to Geoffrey, suggested a stroll, and the two walked up to what is known as ‘The Grove,’ a plantation about half a mile west of the house.

“A footpath from the village runs through the wood, which is a sort of island surrounded by marshy ground. A girl, whose duties took her daily to the manor, saw the two men standing in a large open ing about the center of the plantation and some little distance from the path. Just as she passed she saw Geoffrey break out in anger and shake his fist in the old man’s face; while the latter appeared to be trying to soothe him. That was the last seen of the old man alive.

“Three hours later one of the maid servants on her way to the village saw the body of a man lying in the grove, and gave the alarm. It proved to be that of Almaric Variole. There was a bullet-hole in the center of the forehead, which was blackened with powder and scorched, showing that the pistol had been held almost against the head. In his hand was a short hunting-knife, the edge of which had been ground to a razor-like keenness. It was evident that he had drawn the weapon in offense or defense but had not had time to use it.

“And now comes the most damning evidence against poor Geoffrey. A hundred and fifty feet away, in the mud of the marsh, was found the pistol with which the crime had been committed, evidently thrown there by the murderer in his flight. It was a heavy army revolver, and engraved on the silver plate on the butt were Geoffrey’s own initials.

“GEOFFREY was at once arrested. He protested his innocence, saying that he and his uncle had stood for some time conversing most amicably, when suddenly, and without any pre monition, the old man uttered a most unforgivable insult against the young wife. He admits that he spoke fiercely in reply and in his anger shook his fist at the other, but denies that he used the slightest violence. His uncle apologized most profusely and the young man allowed himself to be placated. They talked for about ten minutes longer, when Variole walked over to the pathway, looked up and down it and, returning, said, ‘Now that there is no chance of eavesdropping I am going to talk plainly.’ He broke out in a violent tirade against Mrs. Variole, and Geoffrey, fearing that he might be tempted to strike the old man, turned on his heel, walked along the path in the opposite direction from that by which they had come, and went straight home.

“This was about three o’clock, according to Geoffrey, and the story of the girl confirms this, as she distinctly remembers hearing the church clock strike a few minutes after she saw the two men. A laborer, ditching in a near-by field, heard a shot about this time, but can not specify the exact hour.

“That is practically the whole story. As the inquest will be resumed to-morrow night, and considering the evidence, there is no doubt as to what the verdict will be. Know ing Geoffrey as I do, I am convinced that he is innocent of the crime, but I can not but admit that it looks very black against him.”

“Thank you,” said Vokes when the recital was concluded; “you have stated the case very clearly. There are two points which are strongly in Mr. Variole’s favor. In the first place, men in this country do not go about armed. It is clear, therefore, that whoever killed the old man went to the ‘Grove’ prepared to do so. Mr. Variole was aware that a witness had seen his burst of anger and, had he gone to the rendezvous with murderous intent, common sense would have told him that it would be wiser to postpone it. In the second place, there was no occasion to throw away the weapon, which would surely be identified. The finding of the pistol near the scene of the crime looks very much like a blind to fasten the murder on the owner of the weapon. What has young Mr. Variole to say regarding the revolver?”

“That is one of the perplexing points in the problem,” replied the General. “The pistol formed a rather inconspicuous item among a large number of trophies in Geoffrey’s study. He has not the slightest idea when it was removed, or who could have done so. None of his servants can throw any light on the subject, and all deny having touched it; moreover, none of them noticed its absence.”

“And the hunting-knife?” queried Vokes.

“It had been in Almaric Variole’s possession for many years. Why he should have taken it with him, unless he himself contemplated murder, is another mystery. He had more than one pistol in the house which would have been a better protection if he anticipated any possible violence from his nephew. It is an extraordinary case, Mr. Vokes. Now that you have heard the details, what do you think of it?”

“It is an interesting one,” replied Vokes. “There are some very remarkable points about it, but it is too early to form an opinion. I should like first to visit the spot where the body was found. May I ask you to procure me an intelligent guide who was present before the body was removed?”

“I think I can fill that post myself,” said the General. “I was on the ground early. The dogcart is ready, and the groom who will drive us is the man who discovered the pistol. I think if he had known what trouble it would bring on a man who is generally beloved he would have stamped it into the marsh!”

“One question more,” said Vokes, as the General gave orders for the dogcart to be brought around. “Does the uncle’s death increase the nephew’s income? ”

“Not by a copper!” replied the other. “When the quarrel occurred the old man changed his will, leaving all his money and the estate, which is not entailed, to a distant relative. Only the night before the murder he added a codicil, but Geoffrey’s name was not mentioned. The codicil left several comparatively small sums to a few persons, myself included. As I told you before, I was one of the very few persons with whom he was on terms approaching intimacy. The chief legatee in the codicil was his valet, who has been with him for a good many years.”

“Ah!” said Vokes. “And was this servant aware of the condition of his master’s health, and of the bequest? ”

“Of the first, no,” replied the General; “of the legacy, yes. He is perfectly candid about it. He says that after the codicil had been signed and witnessed by two of the other servants, in his presence, Variole said to him, ‘I suppose you wonder, Masten, why I did not get you to witness this. Don’t you know that a legatee can’t be a witness without putting himself out of court? I have put you down for five hundred pounds as a reward for faithful service.’

“Masten thanked him, and then he says he plucked up courage and mentioned Geoffrey. ‘I hope, sir, you’ll not forget the young master,’ he said.

“Variole glared at him for a minute, and then he smiled. ‘Yes,Masten,’ he said, ‘I am going to leave him something to remember me by. We are going to be friends again.’ That was all that was said on the subject, but if the old man really had any intention of changing his will in Geoffrey’s favor, the tragedy next day put it out of his power.”

“I should much like to see this man, Masten,” said Vokes. “Would it be possible to have him meet us on the ground? It might save time.”

“Assuredly,” replied the General. “I will send a note over to the Manor, but if you have any suspicions of Masten I assure you they are unfounded. A more faithful fellow never breathed.”

“I suspect no one— at present, General Warbury,” returned Vokes quietly.

ii

THE rattle of wheels on the drive cut short any further conversation. General Warbury hastily penned a note which he handed to a servant, bidding him take it to the Manor. In a few minutes we were bowling along in a tall cart behind a powerful bay.

At a stile, leading to a footpath which crossed a field and disappeared in a dark plantation, the General pulled up, and the groom sprang to the horse’s head.

“There is the ‘Grove,’ ” said the General, pointing with his whip. “We will get out here. Tie the horse to the fence, William, and come with us,” he added.

A couple of hundred yards brought us to the wood, a gloomy looking covert indeed. For some distance on either side of the raised causeway the ground was swampy, with bare, sticky mud and little pools here and there, but as we proceeded up a gentle rise it hardened and the path became simply a beaten track.

“There, gentlemen,” said General Warbury, coming to a halt and pointing through an opening in the trees, “there is the scene of the tragedy, and it was from this point that the girl witnessed the quarrel between uncle and nephew.”

Some twenty yards away was a fairsized clearing, and to this the General led the way.

“Here,” he said, “is where the two men were standing when they were last seen to gether, and here—” he advanced a few paces and pointed to the foot of a small dead oak tree, “is where the body was found. It lay on its back, the feet almost touching the tree. You can see where the head rested, for there is still blood on those leaves.”

Vokes swept one lightning glance over the ground and the tree and for several seconds his gaze remained riveted a few yards beyond it. Then he turned to the General, who had been regarding him wistfully.

“I should now like to see the place where the pistol was found,” he said curtly.

“This way,” said the General, and he took us on a line almost parallel to the path by which we had come. In a minute we were picking our way through the viscid mud of the swamp.

“This is the place,” said our conductor, stooping over a kind of protective cage formed of twigs, the ends of which had been thrust into the mud.

Looking through the interstices, we could see the rough outline of a large revolver, which had been embedded there. It must have been thrown away with considerable force, for it had ploughed its way for over a foot before coming to rest.

Vokes stood with his head slightly bent, but I could see his eyes glancing in every direction. He turned to the groom.

“You are the man who found the pistol?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the groom. “It was about an hour after they discovered the body. I was coming along the path when my eye caught something shining. I went out to see what it was and found the pistol. If I’d ha’ known—”

“You are sure this is the place?” interrupted Vokes sharply.

“Certain sure, sir,” replied William. “I put them twigs over it myself to save it till the police could see it.”

“An excellent precaution,” commented the detective. “Then you can swear that that is not the place?”

He pointed to a spot in the marsh some twenty feet away, and, following the direction of his finger, we saw another distinct impression in the mud.

General Warbury was the first to reach it.

“Good heavens!” he cried, “here is the mark of another revolver! The assassin must have had two and thrown them both away. But what has becomeof the second?”

“It looks to me,” I ventured, offering an opinion for the first time, “as if the murderer, repenting of his folly in throwing away a pistol which might lead to his identification, may have come back and recovered it and substituted one which would throw suspicion on Geoffrey Variole.”

“That is a possible solution,” assented the General. “What do you think of it, Mr. Vokes?”

But Vokes was busy examining the mark of the pistol, and the question was apparently unheard.

“BY THE way, General,” I continued, “this man Masten; you say that he is above suspicion, and yet— is there not a possibility that he may have been the assassin? Of course he may be able to account for every moment of his time that afternoon, but he is the only man, so far as we know, who was aware that he would directly benefit by his master’s death. Then again he did not know that Mr. Variole’s days were numbered. Of course I merely suggest this as a possibility.”

General Warbury shook his head. “There has been no suspicion directed against Masten,” he said doggedly.

“Possibly,” I hazarded, “that is because rural police are a little likely to jump at apparently obvious conclusions. They are so sure that the nephew committed the crime that they have not thought it worth while to investigate in other directions. Has he given any account of his actions that after noon? Then again, take the possession of Geoffrey’s pistol. The feud between uncle and nephew would hardly be likely to ex tend to their servants. Why couldn’t Masten have gone to Geoffrey’s house and gotten it? ”

The General shrugged his shoulders.

“It may be as you say,” he replied,” but I confess I am skeptical. However, Masten should be here soon in reply to my note and no doubt will answer any questions Mr. Vokes may ask him.”

Whether the detective had heard our conversation it was impossible to tell from his impassive countenance.

“I think I have seen all that is necessary here, General,” he said, “and I think we may dismiss this man. He has told us all he knows.”

William glanced at his master and, receiving a nod of dismissal, wended his way back to the dogcart with a mutinous lock at the detective.

“And now,” continued Vokes, “with your permission I should like to make an other inspection of the place where the body lay. Also a brief search,” he added.

“You expect to find something?” queried the General.

“Yes,” replied Vokes. “There is something missing.”

Without another word he turned from the mystified General and led the way back to the glade.

We had barely reached it when the figure of a man entered it from the opposite side.

“Here is Masten!” said the General. “Ask him any questions you like, but I fancy he will be able to answer them satisfactorily.”

The newcomer was slightly above the middle height, spare of figure and sallow of complexion, with a hatchet-shaped face from which looked eyes so pale as to give the impression that the pupils were lacking.

He advanced to meet us, but, at the sight of Vokes, stopped suddenly and it seemed to me that his face took on an additional shade of pallor. There was a noticeable tightening of the lips and a sharp indrawing of the breath. If there was recognition on the part of the valet, there was none apparently on the part of the detective, for he barely glanced at him.

“This,” said General Warbury,addressing Vokes, “is William Masten, a very faithful and attached retainer of old Mr. Variole. You saved his life once, didn’t you, Masten? ”

“Yes, sir,” replied Masten respectfully. He appeared to have somewhat regained his composure.

“Plunged after him when he fell into the Combe pool while fishing,” continued the General, “and pulled him out. You were nearly drowned yourself, were you not?”

“Yes, sir,” said the valet again. “He was a good master to me was Mr. Variole.”

The General looked at me with a sort of triumph.

“And you were a good servant to him,” he said. “How long were you in his service?”

“Seven years, sir,” replied Masten. “I entered it the year Mr. Geoffrey came home from college.”

“Exactly,” said the General. “This, Masten, is Mr. Vokes, a very eminent detective. We do not believe that Mr.Geoffrey had any hand in his uncle’s death, and he is trying to clear up the mystery. He would like to ask you a few questions. I have told him I am sure you have nothing to conceal.”

AGAIN that look of discomposure, not to say alarm, on the servant’s face as he turned to Vokes.

“I am ready to answer any questions,” he said.

“I have very few to ask,” returned Vokes, crisply. “I understand that your master kept several revolvers in the house?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Masten; “three— a small target-pistol, an American Colt, which a friend gave him some years ago, and a British army revolver.”

“Of the same pattern as the one which was found here?”

“I think so, sir. I never did know much about firearms, but I—”

“Your memory is not failing, is it?” in terrupted Vokes, and the other gazed at him in a sort of helpless fascination. “You remember where they were kept?”

“Yes, sir,” faltered the valet. “They are all in a drawer in the library.”

“Then go,” said Vokes, authoritatively, “and bring the army pistol here and half a dozen cartridges, if you can find any.”

After a moment’s hesitation, and another frightened look at Vokes, Masten turned away without a word and disappeared in the direction from which he had come. The General stared hard at my friend with a perplexed brow.

“I suppose you have some definite purpose in view,” he said, “but I’ll be hanged if I can guess what it is.”

Vokes contented himself with a slight inclination of the head.

“But, Vokes,” I said, “that man looked as if he knew you. If ever I saw fear on a man’s countenance, I saw it on his!”

“Possibly,” replied Vokes coolly. “Ten years ago I arrested him for burglary and attempted murder. There was no moral doubt of his guilt, but we could not bring it home to him, although there were several previous convictions against him. William McGregor is his real name. ‘Moonlight Billy,’ he was known as. He was acquitted and I heard a year later that he had become converted, broken loose from his old associations and was living ‘on the square.’ After that I lost sight of him altogether. He has changed a good deal. In those days he wore a heavy beard and mustache, but I spotted him the moment I set eyes on him.”

The countenance of General Warbury was a study in emotions.

“Good heavens!” he cried. “Do you mean to say that the man Variole placed so much confidence in is an old burglar, and that he once tried to murder some one?”

“He fired at a man who interrupted him at work, and ‘winged’ him,” said Vokes unconcernedly. “His professed lack of knowledge of firearms was rather entertaining under the circumstances.”

“Why did you let him go?” exploded the General. “We shall never see him again.” Vokes looked at his watch.

“How long will it take him to reach the Manor?” he asked.

“About ten minutes.”

“Then, allowing him five minutes to get the pistol, he should be back in twenty-five minutes. If I were a betting man, General, I would venture a considerable wager that we see him here within the half-hour. In the meantime there is something which I wish to find, and with your permission, while we are waiting, I will make a search.”

iii

AND a very thorough search it was. The General and I, after offering our services, which were declined, seated ourselves at the foot of a tree and watched the detective “beating” the ground.

Starting from the small tree where the body had lain, he moved into the wood on a line at an angle of about forty-five degrees with that formed by the tree and the spot in the marsh where the pistol was found.

He walked slowly, closely scanning the ground on either side of him and the branches overhead. Having reached the edge of the swamp he paused a few moments, glancing over its surface, and then returned along a line a few yards to the south, with the same care and deliberation.

“What the ―― is he looking for?” said the General, rather testily. “Is he doing it for effect?”

“I have known Anson Vokes for some ears,” I replied, “and I never yet knew him to pose. Depend upon it, he has some object in view. See! He is picking up something!”

Vokes had turned slightly from his course and, stooping, raised some object from the ground. He glanced at it for a second and then, thrusting it into his pocket, came straight to where we sat.

“Well?” queried the General. “Have you found what you were looking for?” Vokes inclined his head in the affirmative.

“Is it what you expected to find?”

“Assuredly,” replied Vokes. “It is the one thing missing, which I spoke of just now.”

“Is there any objection to your friend and me seeing this missing link? ” demanded the General with a touch of hauteur.

“Not the slightest,” was the reply. Vokes drew from his pocket the object he had picked up and laid it in the General’s outstretched hand.

It consisted of two cords, each about eighteen inches long and about half the thickness of a man’s little finger, fastened together with a reef-knot.

The General stared at it in a mystified fashion.

“ Do you mean to say,” he asked incredulously, “that this is what you were looking for, and that you expected to find it? ”

“I certainly expected to do so,” replied Vokes, “unless some person had picked it up and, not knowing its importance, had carried it away, which was rather unlikely.”

“And now that you have found it,” said General Warbury, “would you mind telling me what bearing it has on the case? Two bits of string tied together do not convey a very important clue to my mind.”

“If you will have patience, sir, until Masten returns,” said Vokes, “I think I can make it clear.”

“Does that mean you know who committed the crime?”

“Certainly!”

“ It was not Geoffrey? ”

Vokes shook his head. “Young Mr. Variole had nothing to do with it,” he said.

The General heaved a great sigh of relief.

“Thank God for that!” he said. “I am almost as fond of that boy as if he wxre my own. And now Mr. Vokes, one question: Is it your intention to arrest Masten on his return?”

“I have no power to arrest him, General. I am not here in an official capacity.”

"Because,” continued the General, “if yoi^ will allow me to say so, it seems a very unwise move to send him for a loaded pistol which he would be pretty sure to use—that is, if he returns at all, which I very much doubt.”

A twig snapped in the wood a short distance away, and Vokes drew out his watch.

“Two minutes under the half hour,” he said. “General, I should have won my wager. If I am not mistaken, this is Masten now.”

The words had hardlyleft his lips when the valet appeared in the glade and, spying us, advanced. In either hand he held a revolver.

I glanced at the General in some apprehen sion , and I could see that he was startled. "I told you so,” he muttered under his breath.

Vokes alone was quite unconcerned.

“You have exceeded your instructions,” he said quietly. “I asked for only one.”

“I thought it best to bring both,” said Masten. There was a decided hardening of his tone and a certain defiance in his eye as he faced the detective. “I suppose you have told them all, Mr. Vokes? ”

“I have thought it best, McGregor—or Masten, if you prefer,”— for the other shrank back— “to inform General Warbury of one incident in your former career. You lack self-control and your alarm on seeing me was too evident to escape observation. I also informed the General that I had heard you had abandoned your former ways and so far as I knew had lived an honest life.”

“And so I have!” cried the valet with sudden vehemence. “If you think I had  anything to do with this dirty business you are wrong, smart as you think yourself, Mr. Detective Vokes, the bloodhound! A hundred times I could have robbed him, aye, and murdered him too, in the past seven years, if I had had a mind, and do you think there was no temptation to a man of my bringing up? A thief since I could walk and a burglar after I did my first bit! But I swore I’d walk straight and I did. The old man was square with me, though every one hated him, and I played square with him. Now, you,” — he flung the pistols at Vokes’s feet— “if you want to arrest me, go ahead!”

THE General and I stared at the man, whose mean personality was transfigured by his emotion, and then we looked at each other.

“If that’s acting, by Gad,” the General said in my ear, “the fellow ought to be on the boards!”

Vokes, who had appeared quite unmoved by the valet’s burst of eloquence, stooped, picked up the pistols, and handed them to me.

“I am not going to arrest you, Masten,” he said, “for two very good reasons. One is that I have not the power, and the other because there is absolutely nothing to connect you with the crime.”

Again the General and I exchanged glances of bewilderment. “Sparring for time,” he whispered.

The valet caught his breath and his hand went to his heart.

“Thank you, sir,” he said. “It’s not because I am afraid you could get anything against me, though I might be hard-put to it to prove where I was that afternoon, but—” he paused, “it would have meant the raking up of old sins and exposure and maybe would have started me on the old road again.”

“I told General Warbury something of your past,” continued Vokes, in the same even tones, “because I considered it necessary, but there is no reason that it should go any farther. The General will, I am sure, respect your desire to continue in honest ways.”

“Show me that you had nothing to do with this infernal business,” said the General, “and no one shall know of it from me.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Masten, again the deferential servant. “I swear to you that I had nothing to do with it.”

“Your oath is all very well,” replied the General, “but we shall require something a little more conclusive. Mr. Vokes, you said just now that you knew the murderer. Masten was the only person against whom your suspicions seemed to point, and now you acquit him. Honestly, I dislike mysteries.”

“There need be no further mystery,” r plied Vokes. “I think I can make matters clear by a little exhibition which will not take many minutes. May I trouble you for those pieces of cord?”

The General produced them without a word, and Vokes, with deft fingers, unfastened the knot and retied it, leaving the loose ends considerably shorter than before.

“And now the pistol,” he said, holding out his hand to me. “The army revolver. Is it loaded Masten? Yes, I see it is. Now kindly follow me.”

He led the way to the dead tree which stood in the center of the glade, and we stood around and watched him with the expression of a crowd about a street-acrobat.

About five feet from the ground the tree forked, and into this crutch Vokes forced the revolver, the butt pointing to the swamp. About ten feet away stood a strong, stiff sapling, and as Vokes laid his powerful hand on it and bent it down, I perceived for the first time that the top had been broken off about twelve feet from the ground, leaving a long prong. The top of this sapling Vokes brought around so that it almost touched the butt of the pistol. Then, gaging the distance with his eye and holding the broken end with one hand, he removed the weapon and handed it to me. Next, bringing the prong a little closer to the tree, he passed the lengthened cord around the two and knotted it firmly.

With a horror creeping on me, I looked at the General, whose eyes were almost start ing from his ruddy countenance.

“Oh, the villain!’’ I heard him mutter.

With a slight blow on the cord, which twanged like a harp-string, Vokes cocked and replaced the revolver in the crotch. The prong of the sapling projected about half an inch in front of the trigger.

“Now, gentlemen,” said Vokes, and impassive as he always was, I could detect a note of triumph in his voice, “ I think it will be clear to you who was responsible for the death of Mr. Almaric Variole!”

“The villain!” muttered the General again.

Vokes drew a knife from his pocket and ran his finger along the blade.

“This is not quite as sharp as that hunting-knife,” he said, “but I think it will an swer the purpose. Masten,” he added, handing it to the valet, who had stood look ing on with a face almost as expressionless as that of Vokes himself, “stand beside that cord and when I give the word draw the knife sharply across it. Are you ready— Now!”

With a quick movement of the wrist Masten complied. There was a sharp report and as the bullet went whistling among the trees the revolver, caught by the back ward spring of the sapling, was sent hurtling in the direction of the swamp. The severed cord leaped like a snake among the bushes, and all was as it stood before.

“Gentlemen,” said Vokes, “if we follow the direction taken by that pistol, I think we shall find yet another impression in the mud.”

iv

THE General was the first to speak. “What an infernal scoundrel!” he cried. “I see it all now. How he must have hated the boy to contrive such a diabolical plot! His suicide I can understand, for life under such circumstances must have been almost insupportable, but that he should try to hang his own nephew for murder is almost incredible. But for you, Mr. Vokes, there is little doubt that he would have succeeded. How the deuce did you unravel such a skein? ”

“It was a very unusual case,” replied Vokes. “Unlike anything I had ever handled before, but the solution was not so difficult as you imagine. In the first place, as I mentioned to you when you told me the story, it was very unlikely that Geoffrey Variole would have run the risk of almost certain detection, when he could have attained his end, an apparently objectless murder, by the way, by waiting. Nor would he be likely to throw away the weapon so near the scene of the crime, when it could be so easily identified.

“Had the pistol been found close to the body, there would have been little question that it was a case of suicide, particularly in view of the fact that the man had but a few weeks, at the most, to live, and probably in great suffering. The fact, however, that the weapon was found a considerable distance away seemed to put this theory out of the question. It was not until I visited the spot that I was able to dispose of this difficulty.

“The first thing I noticed was that the bark on the inside of that fork in the oak tree had been very recently abraded. Then that sapling caught my eye and I noticed also that the break in the top was not many days old. Also that, if it were bent around, that prong would about reach the tree. At once I saw a possible solution of the mystery. When we went to the swamp I may say that I fully expected to find a second if not several more impressions of a pistol, as, if my surmise were correct, it was highly probable that the man who contrived the plot would make sure, by experiment, that his crude machinery would work. My only fear was that some footmark might have obliterated it. Fortunately it escaped.

“The discovery of that second impression, which my friend here so ingeniously accounted for, confirmed my theory, and when I told you that I expected to find the one missing link I was not exaggerating. The open hunting-knife, ground to a razor edge, fitted in perfectly with my theory. It had evidently been used to sever the cord, rope or thong which held the sapling in place, and the cord when cut would naturally be jerked away, but, being lighter than the pistol, to a less distance. Do I make myself clear?”

“It’s as clear as noonday!” said the General. “All he had to do after setting his hideous contrivance was to place his forehead against the muzzle and make one sweep with his knife! I warrant the villain’s hand was steady enough. Then ten seconds later there would be nothing but his own body, a couple of little trees, standing as they stood before, the pistol a hundred and fifty feet away, and— all the evidence prepared to send Geoffrey to the gallows! No doubt that scene when Geoffrey threatened the old man was specially prepared for the benefit of the one witness. That girl was in the habit of following the path from the village every day about the same hour, and Variole was, no doubt, aware of the fact and counted on it. But how did he get hold of Geoffrey’s revolver?”

“The fact that he did was one of the points which from the first strengthened my theory,” replied Vokes. “You will remember that he paid a visit to his nephew’s house the morning before the tragedy, and, not finding him in, waited for some time. There was nothing to prevent his taking the pistol then. Possibly he went for that very purpose. Everything points to the most carefully and deliberately prepared scheme. His very remark to Masten here, the night before the murder: ‘I am going to leave him something to remember me by,’ shows how determined was his purpose.”

“Thank God, it has been foiled!” cried the General heartily. “They say one should speak nothing but good about the dead, but if ever―” He threw his hands up with a sort of despairing gesture. “Come,” he said, “let us carry the good news to Geoffrey.”

OF THE subsequent events there is little need to speak. That night we slept at Croftwith Hall and Vokes, to a late hour, went over, with manifest delight, the huge stock of fishing flies which the General had accumulated, and discours ing learnedly on his favorite hobby with our host, who was almost as great an enthusiast as my friend. At the inquest the following night, Vokes appeared, greatly to the discomfiture of the local police, and his evidence, briefly given, resulted in the only verdict possible under the circumstance.

There is a mile of well-preserved trout stream, which runs through the lands of Croftwith Hall, and next week, if all goes well, Vokes and I are going to enjoy the hospitality of General Warbury and Geoffrey Variole.

__________________

5: A Ledge of Safety

Wolcott LeClear Beard

1867-1937

Adventure October 1911

JOHN CALTROP, C.E., stretched his slight, wiry limbs as he sprawled on the broad window-seat, leaning against the heavy bars through which he had been looking out over the plaza of a little Andean capital.

“Tell the Secretary of State to go jump on himself,” he said indifferently.

“He wouldn’ do it, son,” smiled old Mr. Grey in his soft Texan drawl, “not if yo’ tol’ him to fo’ a thousan’ yeahs. He’s jus’ that awbstinate.”

A tall young man, whose figure gave promise of future portliness, stopped short in his nervous pacing of the room.

“But— hang it all, don’t you both see?” he cried. “Modesto Angel Borja is—”

“Which means, Modest Angel Borgia,” chuckled Jack Caltrop. “Isn’t that the peachy combination of names, though?”

“Hang the name!” cried the tall young man.

“By all means!” assented Jack heartily.

“And hang the man at the same time. It may come to that, yet.”

“Don’t, please, make more of an ass of ourself than you can help, Caltrop,” egged D. Webster Stowell, counselor and attorney-at-law— this being the tall young man’s name and title. “Borja is acting well within his legal rights. He’s not only Secretary of State of the so-called republic, but also chairman of this Government in vestigating committee. Having called you both as witnesses, he expects you to come, and without any more words.”

“That man Borja has an awful lot to lea’n,” observed old Mr. Grey, shaking his head pensively as he leaned back in his chair and rolled another cigarette.

“But listen— do listen for a moment!” implored poor Stowell. “Here we are, with a general election just coming on. Of course Henning, and all that opposition crowd back of him, don’t want us to get the concession we’re after. Then we’d be a power, here in the country, and they don’t want rivals. Also, the country is trembling on the verge of a civil war. Peralta, who wants to succeed himself as president, fears it may break out any minute. And he has reason to fear, for Prado—”

“Vivan Prado, Echeverria y libertad!” yelled a shrill voice outside.

“Vivan!" shouted fifty other voices, in chorus.

“Them’s my sentiments!” cried Jack, turning to the window again. “Vivan!"

Five or six rifles cracked, throwing sharp echoes from the old stone houses. With a vicious whine, something flew in between the window bars and, striking a crystal chandelier, brought a shower of broken prisms on Stowell’s head and shoulders before burying itself in the opposite wall. Impatiently the young lawyer shook off the fragments of glass, but paid no other attention to the shot, thus earning a nod of ap proval from old Mr. Grey as he rose and sauntered to the window.

The sound of the shots had hushed the shouts, for the moment, and a confused murmur of voices, which previously had arisen from the little park and the streets surrounding it. Many men gathered there, for the most part standing in sullen groups, talking together, all of them apart from the police who, with army rifles in their hands, were stationed in pairs at short intervals.

One policeman, however, stood alone. He wore the chevrons of a corporal, and it was he who had fired at the house, for he still held his smoking rifle at “ready” and was peering at the window to see the effect of his shot.

Then, from one of the many other houses that overlooked the plaza, another rifle cracked. The corporal of police fell limply, his piece crashing to the pavement.

“It’s a horse to a hen that Tommy Westlock fired that shot!” cried Jack.

“I don’ know who Tawmmy Westlock is, but I’m suah glad he did fiah it,” remarked old Mr. Grey.

“Why, in heaven’s name?” asked Stowell in amazement.

“Why, because othahwise I’d have had to do it myself,” responded Mr. Grey, mildly surprised at the simplicity of the question. “That man heard Jack yell, an’ he knew who it was. He’d have made trouble, likely, if he’d been allowed to go scot-free. It isn’t wise, Jack, to hollah fo’ the opposition like that, while Peralta still holds the reins. But what was it you were sayin’ when the interruption came?”

“This. Peralta is determined to remain in power, and probably he’ll succeed. He’s a soldier. Prado isn’t, and neither is Echeverria. The only leader of military ability that the Pradists have is old General Torrenegro, and he’s done nothing, so far as any one can tell. He can’t; he’s too closely watched, and would be arrested instantly if he should try to leave Santa Maria.”

“Doubtless,” agreed old Mr. Grey. “Still, Danny, I don’ jus’ see how—”

“I was just going to show how this applies to us,” the young lawyer went on. “ As Peralta will doubtless remain in power, it’s to him we’ll have to look for our concession. As soon as this uneasiness has passed and he’s safe on the job once more, his need for the Henning ‘push’ and their support will be over. He’d sell his soul for money, if he could find a purchaser. So then all we’ll have to do is to ‘slip’ something over to him and get our concession without any more fuss or worry.”

“Won’t do, Danny,” replied the old man, shaking his head. “Peralta wouldn’ stay bought as long as it would take him to pawcket the money. That sawt of dawg nevah does, suh. What we have tuh do is tuh kick Peralta out an’ put Prado in.”

Stowell looked at Jack, who nodded hearty assent. Then the young lawyer gave them both up as hopeless. Going to one of the windows, he stood looking with listless indifference at the scene on the plaza. Then, of a sudden, his indifference vanished and he straightened as he stood.

“By Jove, what a pretty girl!” he exclaimed. “And— hang it— she blushed!  She must understand English and have  heard what I said.”

“If being born and largely brought up in New York would teach her English, she probably does,” agreed Jack, who was run ning around the room in a wild search for his hat. “Her name’s Helen Westlock. Her brother, Tommy, was a classmate of mine at college, and a chum. Their mother is the wife of old General Torrenegro. Married him when Helen and Tom were little bits of kids. Tom’s been out of the city since be fore we came. Where in blazes has that lid of mine got to? She mustn’t be out there in the street alone! ”

He found the missing headgear as he spoke, and dashed from the room, followed, more sedately, by Mr. Grey. In a few strides Jack was close behind the girl.

“Helen!” he called.

She turned. The color left her face and her eyes snapped. “Have you forgotten my request that our acquaintance might cease? ” she asked coldly.

“Oh, Nell— don’t be foolish!” he begged. “Won’t you forgive me? After all, it was such a silly little quarrel.”

“I don’t agree with you. Will you let me pass?”

“At least, let me go to your door with you. It isn’t safe in the streets, with things as they are now. I wonder your people let you go out— but they didn’t know you were going to try, I suppose!”

“You are impertinent,” she replied, still more coldly, if possible, than before. “I much prefer to go home alone.”

WITHOUT more words she went on her way, her head held high, leaving him standing on the pave ment, looking after her. She had but a few steps to go. Seeing that she had entered the Torrenegro house, Jack turned, with a sigh, and was about to retrace his steps, when old Mr. Grey laid a detaining hand on his arm.

“I didn’t mean to spy on yo’, son,” said the old man gently. “I came out tuh see that nothin’ happened tuh you or that gyirl, an’ I couldn’t help but see that the way she received you caused yo’ pain. Do yo’ wish tuh tell me what’s wrong? I don’t ask from mere cu’iosity.”

Jack had no fear that the handsome, kindly-faced old man would wish to pry into the affairs of any one. Mr. Grey, though he had been a famous “gun-man” in the old and lawless days of the West, looked on Jack with the fondness of a father and had practically adopted him. To no one would he tell his troubles more readily.

“We were engaged— and there was a quarrel,” he said. “It wasn’t anything, really. She admired the Boers— it was during the Boer war— and I didn’t. She accused me of snobbery and all sorts of things, and then broke everything off. That’s all.”

That was all— and quite enough, too, so far as Jack was concerned; Mr. Grey could see that written on the young man’s face. And, versed in the ways of life, he knew that no quarrels are more difficult to heal than those of trivial beginnings. He was about to speak, when a shout from the Torrenegro house prevented.

“Jack! Jack Caltrop! Oh, Jack!” called a voice. “It’s me— Tom Westlock! Wait a minute, can’t you? ”

Jack stopped, some of the gloom leaving his face. Mr. Grey returned to the house as Tommy Westlock, a masculine and much magnified edition of his sister, came running out of the Casa Torrenegro.

“I’ve been out on the hacienda," Tommy explained. “I only hit town this morning— came with a rush when I heard you were here. Nell came into the house just now with her nose so high that she could nearly look into her own nostrils, so I knew she’d seen you. Sometimes that girl is more different kinds of an idiot even than the average female human of her age— and that’s going some,” he ended, with true brotherly candor.

“I came out to see that she got safely home,” was all the reply that occurred to Jack.

“She hadn’t any right to be out. Things are arranging themselves for a first-class shindy, if you want to know. Say, did you see me nail that cop? He isn’t dead; I didn’t want to kill him. But he was too blazing fresh. Who was that stunning looking old chap who just left you?”

Jack told him as they walked along toward the house.

“You don’t mean to say that it’s Graveyard Grey!” exclaimed Tom as his friend finished.

“He used to be called that—behind his back,” replied Jack. “It makes him awfully angry to hear it. Come in and meet him.”

“Sure, I will. And he won’t hear the name from me,” laughed Tom. “I value my fair young life too much, by far.”

His “fair, young life” was in no danger, as things turned out. Both Mr. Grey and Stowell took the strongest of liking for the handsome, open-faced young fellow who in a few minutes seemed to have known them all his life. They were laughing and chatting when Jack, who had resumed his favorite perch on the window-seat, pointed through the bars.

“Look, Tom,” he said. “Somebody’s going to visit your house in state. Who is that gorgeous, brass-bound individual at the head of those three companies of infantry? ”

The smile faded from Tom’s face, which went very white as he sprang to the win dow and looked out. “It’s the head of the police,” he said. “They’re after the only father I’ve ever known— General Torrenegro.”

For a moment there was a sympathetic hush. Then Jack offered what he hoped might be a crumb of consolation. “Maybe not,” he said. “If they were going after the old General, they’d hardly take those balks of timber with them, would they?”

“Yes. Of course they would. Our doors are very strong.”

The soldiers and their ornate leader now had passed out of sight. The Torrenegro house, being on the same side of the plaza as that from which the four men were look ing, could not be seen without leaning out of the windows, and that was prevented by the bars. For a moment they waited, hoping against hope that the destination of the hated police official was not the old general’s house. Then, seeing their own concern reflected on the faces of those who stood in the street, they knew that what they feared was coming to pass. Then followed the resounding bang of timber against heavy planks. Already the battering-rams were at work. A few scattering shots snapped here and there. The crash of a volley answered them.

“My mother’s still in the country, thank heaven!” cried Tom. “Helen’s in the house, though, and when I think of her being at the mercy of that beast Borja—”

“At the mercy of Borja! ” exclaimed Jack. “How at his mercy? They can’t take Helen— she’s done nothing.”

“What of it? Of course they’ll take her. Borja will see to that. He’s crazy about her— always has been. Hang it all, I can’t stay here! I must do something!”

He would have run from the room, but Mr. Grey, with kindly force, stopped him.

“Don’ be foolish, lad,” he said. “It would do no good to any one fo’ you to run out theah an’ be gathahed in by the pplice. Is theah no back way outah these houses? No path by which a man can get from one to anothah? Use youah haid! Think!”

“These houses are set right on the edge of the little level plateau that holds this part of the city,” replied Tom sadly. “From the rear windows is a clear drop of nearly three hundred feet.”

“That’s true,” admitted Jack, rising, his face set and determined. “Yet I think I know of a path that may serve. Come and see.”

He left the room, the others following him, and went to the rear of the house, pick ing up a long coil of light line on the way. The back wall was pierced not only by windows, but by a door, through which merchandise could be hoisted from the lower level. Some six feet below this door, a ledge, three inches in width, ran along behind the entire row of houses.

“D’you mean to say you’re going to try and crawl along that?” demanded Tom. “Well, I think not! If any one makes a stab at that stunt, it’ll be me. It’s my place to, and-”

“Tom, listen!” interrupted Jack. “There’s no time to talk. You’re twice as big as I, and weigh any number of pounds more. Besides, I’m used to mountain climbing, and you’re not. I have a chance of succeeding— you wouldn’t have.”

“He’s right, lad,” agreed old Mr. Grey. “ Heaven knows I’d not let him go if theah was any othah way! But if yo’ want tuh help youah sistah an’ the ol’ Gene’al, do as he says, an’ do it quick! Those doahs won’ las’ fo’evah.”

Very reluctantly Tom yielded. “All right,” he said shortly. “Is there nothing I can do?”

“Yes,” replied Jack. “Take that coil and pay out as I go.”

“But that little cord won’t hold you, if you fall.”

“I know it. It isn’t intended to. Your house is the fourth from here, isn’t it? The one where that heavy line, rove through a block, hangs down.”

“Yes. It’s used to hoist vegetables and stuff from below.”

“Right! So long.”

“So long, son,” responded old Mr. Grey. “ Good luck! Don’t yo’ get stahtled if yo’ heah a shot. It’ll be me who fiahs.”

With a wave of his hand to show that he understood, Jack dropped over the door-sill, lowering himself cautiously until he felt the ledge under his feet. Then, inch by inch, he began his perilous journey toward the house of General Torrenegro.

It was terribly risky work. Flattened as much as possible against the masonry, his balance was most delicately adjusted. Any thing—a crumbling bit of mortar, or even a sudden puff of the gentle breeze that was blowing—might have disturbed it and sent him whirling through the air down into the stable yards and kitchen gardens three hundred feet below. With bated breath the three men watched him, Tom paying out the line with greatest care, that there might be neither strain nor slack, Stowell clutch ing the stone door-jamb as though he would crush it in his grasp, and Mr. Grey, leaning from the doorway, holding one of the old Colts that had done such terrible service in days of yore, ready for any intrusive head that might appear.

FORTUNATELY, however, none did appear. The attention of nearly every one was directed toward the front of their houses that day. And at last, after a journey which, to the watchers, seemed hours long, Jack reached the door of the Torrenegro house. By luck, it was open—but then, few people thought of closing doors that only opened on to vacant space. Jack pulled himself up so that he could throw one knee over the sill and gain the floor. Then, unreeving the heavy line of which he had spoken, he bent its end to the thin cord that he had carried with him.

“Haul it in! Stretch it as tight as you can and then make it fast!” he called, and ran into the house.

Once inside he had to stop and blink until his eyes became in a measure accustomed to the semi-darkness of shuttered rooms. There was no need for Jack to search for those whom he was trying to rescue. The sound of crashing timbers and the crackle of shots guided him at once to the great front doors.

These doors, of massive wood riveted to heavy boiler-plate, had stood well, but now, sorely battered by the heavy timbers which had unceasingly been hurled against them, they had begun to yield. They winked with each blow, letting in a gleam of sun shine, and then, as the battering-rams rebounded, shutting it out again.

Before these doors a table had been moved, and seven repeating rifles laid upon it. By the table stood old General Torreegro, soldierly and straight, waiting for the fight to begin, which, doubtless, would be his last. Helen, white and trembling, yet cool with the coolness of desperation, stood close by, a tiny pistol, hardly more than a toy, clutched in her hand. Here and there Indian or half-breed servants crouched, whimpering, against the wall.

Taking in the scene at a glance, Jack wasted no time in greeting. “Come!” he cried, grasping an arm of each and pulling them toward the rear of the house. “There’s a way out— if you hurry!”

General Torrenegro permitted himself only one astonished look at the sudden advent of a total stranger in his barricaded house while the authorities of the so-called republic were trying, thus far vainly, to effect an entrance. But he knew well that there was no time to waste in questions. Deciding with the quickness of an old soldier that this extraordinary person was more likely to be friend than foe, he picked up one of the rifles and, yielding, was led to the rear door. Helen, guided by Jack, came submissively, like one who walks in a waking dream of horror.

Even the old General, brave man though he had proved himself a thousand times to be, turned pale at the sight of the path he was to follow. The heavy line that had been stretched from one door to the other made the passage far easier and safer than it had been when negotiated by Jack, it is true; but still it was sufficiently appalling to one who had not made perilous “face-climbs ” for pure sport. The General glanced at his stepdaughter.

“You go first, sir,” suggested Jack re pectfully. “The line ought to be tested. Slip it outside of you, and don’t look down.”

Without a word, General Torrenegro slipped over the door-sill and, with Jack’s help, found the ledge. Facing outward, grasping the line with both hands and keep ing his eyes tightly closed so as not to see the void beneath his feet, he sidled away. Jack turned to Helen.

“You see it’s easy,” said he, in a tone in tended to carry encouragement. “It’ll be your turn in a minute, now.”

“I can’t!” she replied, in a whisper.

“But you must!” he exclaimed in return. “Don’t you see? It’s not hard, if you keep your head, and don’t be—”

“I’m not frightened,” she interrupted. “That is, not in the ordinary way. But my body— not my mind— has a horror of heights. I can’t help it! My knees tremble and give way. I can’t do it. Rather than try, I’ll stay here, and— well, do what I may to keep Borja from getting me. I can do that. The other I can’t, that’s all! ”

Jack understood. It was not the first time that he had come in contact with this purely physical fear of heights, which, once roused, is so all-conquering. For the next few seconds he thought quickly. The doors, as he could tell from the sound of the blows upon them, were nearly down. Helen must not remain where she was; rather would he see her do what she “had to, to keep Borja from getting her.” And he could think of but one alternative— a desperate one, it is true, but there was no other that he could see.

Glancing from the door, he saw that the General had made the journey in safety. Quickly casting loose his end of the line, he tied it around Helen’s waist and, lifting her over the sill before she had time to realize what was happening, dropped her.

Jack’s heart sickened in sympathy with her terrified scream as she shot downward; his head spun as she whirled at the end of the taut rope; every time her tender body touched the cliff his own seemed to feel the hurt, magnified tenfold.

Then a final crash of the doors told him that it was time to think of his own safety. Helen was being raised as fast as willing hands could take in the line as he lowered himself to the ledge for the return journey.

Hardly had he started when there was a scream of triumph from the house he had just left; then a chorus of excited voices broke forth as it was realized that the expected prey had vanished. But some one of the servants, probably under the well-grounded fear of instant death, must have betrayed the method of escape. A head peeped through the doorway, then another and still one more.

“Look out, Jack— steady, now!”

It was the voice of Mr. Grey, and the sharp report of his pistol followed it in stantly. The weapon spoke thrice, with hardly a perceptible interval between the reports. Jack felt the wind of all three bullets on his cheek as they sped by. Glancing back he saw that but one head remained, and that this one hung limply over the doorsill, a small, round hole in its temple. The sight made Jack feel a sinking in his stomach for one second. In the next he was caught by Tommy’s powerful hands and hauled into the door of his own house as though he had been a sack of the vegetables which ordinarily entered in that way.

“How’s Helen?” he demanded, as soon as he felt the floor of the house under his feet.

“All right. A few slight bruises. She’s fainted. But come on. The police know where Helen and Dad have gone, now, and there’ll be things doing. There are win dows flanking the doors in this house, so we can lam the stuffing out of ’em if they try that timber-ramming stunt, but Dad’s afraid they’ll have brought a couple of guns by this time.”

“I wondered why they didn’t use artillery, or at any rate, dynamite against those doors of yours,” remarked Jack, as the two pulled in and coiled away the line that had been allowed to drop when Helen was taken from it. They hurried toward the front of the great house.

“There was no dynamite in the city, and no guns. We have friends who saw that everything that could be was sent away. Dad was watched so that he couldn’t do anything himself, but he’s been in communication with our people right along. They’re due to drop in almost any time, now. Peralta just found it out; hence the police. There— what did I tell you? ”

The report of a light field-piece, as Tom spoke, echoed from the opposite side of the plaza. Instinctively Jack listened for the sound of an exploding shell, but it did not come.

“What on earth can they be firing at?” he asked in amazement.

“At us— or rather at the front doors,” Tom replied.

“But that can’t be! They didn’t even hit the house. They couldn’t miss like that at a range of less than two hundred yards.”

“Can’t they? You don’t know what these gunners can do when they try. They’ll get the range later, though. Is this your rifle? Am I to take any of the others? Good. Come on! ”

THE scene in the plaza had changed since Jack had left the room over looking it, to which he now returned. No groups of sullen men were standing there. Save for two mountain-guns and a half-dozen platoons of infantry, the little park was empty of living men.

But, though the plaza was empty, the houses surrounding it were not. This fact was proved by several motionless bodies dressed in uniforms as gaudy as the flowers among which they lay sprawling, and by three more lying under the guns. Against one of them a wounded man leaned wearily. Rifles cracked from windows everywhere, and two platoons of soldiers were firing at will.

Most of this fire was concentrated upon the house where lived the Americans, whose rifles now began to reply with deadly effect. For these people did not miss, as their opponents generally did, and besides, they were sheltered by stone walls. Even Stowell, his legal training utterly lost among primitive passions, was fighting like the rest— and shooting as straight as anybody.

“They didn’t tell us to open the door; they just fired at us,” was the excuse he afterward offered for this unwonted conduct. “There’s absolutely no legal warrant for that. I wish there was a United States consul here.”

But there was no consul. And what was more to the point, an artilleryman, who, with the rest, had been driven from his post by the concentrated fire, sprang forward, pulled the lanyard of a gun, which already had been loaded and laid, then escaped to shelter before a bullet could find him. Screaming across the little park, the shell struck the great doors and exploded, shat tering one of them and driving both inward.

There was a yell of triumph. Infantry officers shrieked commands. Some of them fell with these commands hardly spoken. But others took their places. Bayonets flashed and rattled as they were snapped in position, and with shouts of self-encouragement the infantry charged.

Mr. Grey spoke a few hurried words in the ear of General Torrenegro, who nodded emphatic assent. Then the old man turned to Helen, who, having recovered from her swoon, was standing near.

“Run up those staiahs, honey, an’ out o’ the way,” said he gently, and as the girl obeyed, he spoke to the three young men. “We got tuh hoi’ these doahs. Stop firin’ from the windahs now. The othah houses will ’tend to that paht o’ the show; they crackle now, ’most eve’y one, like a cat’s back rubbed the wrong way. Gene’al Torrenegro suah mus’ have a lot o’ frien’s in this town, an’ a lot moah outside of it. This is the bes’ place fo’ us tuh take the rush, boys. It’s goin’ tuh be like ol’ times. Stan’ steady— heah, it comes!”

Thoroughly in his element now, talking easily, with a grim smile of pleasurable an ticipation on his face, the old man marshaled the three younger ones into line at the foot of the stairs. As he finished speaking, the portal darkened with a rush of men, each straining and eager first to reach the little party that stood waiting for them.

“Now, then— steady! ” warned Mr. Grey.

“Fire!” added General Torrenegro instantly.

Four rifles crashed as one. The terrible six-guns of the old frontiersman blazed with two practically continuous streams of fire. The front of the enemy crumpled, but, trampling the fallen under their feet, the survivors still came on.

Jack’s rifle was empty, so, clutching it by the barrel, he swung it back over his shoulder to strike at the head of a man who was about to thrust with a bayonet. The head vanished, but whether he had hit it or not Jack did not know— nor did he much care. Something had gone very wrong with him— in a languid sort of way he realized that. With mild surprise he found that he was lying on the floor raised on one elbow, while with the other hand he tried his best to empty his automatic pistol among the onrushing crowd.

But the work was too hard. Really, he couldn’t see that it paid. All he wanted was to rest— rest forever. The faces of the enemy blurred and became blended in an indistinguishable mass. From outside he thought he heard cheers and also yells of consternation, but was not sure. It didn’t matter, anyway. Then he sank gently back for his coveted rest, and with it, for the time, came oblivion.

A STINGING pain aroused him, and as it did so, he heard the voice of old Mr. Grey, speaking in Spanish.

“The chief surgeon, Colonel de la Vega, said that the bullet has touched no vital part,” Mr. Grey was saying. “He has lost much blood, but, young and strong as he is, he will soon recover.”

It was General Torrenegro who replied.

“God be thanked!” he said fervently.

“What has happened?” asked Jack, in a faint voice which, as it seemed to him, was the property of somebody else.

“Hush,” replied the General. “The surgeons say that you are not to talk.”

“But I want to know,” he protested querulously. “Where’s Peralta— and Borja?”

“Dead, both of them— they died against the churchyard wall.  I could not prevent it— I was not in time. But it is only an episode, my boy. They are common in this country, and this one now is happily ended. But we must not speak with you longer. Helen may come, and she—”

“She’s coming now!” interrupted Mr. Grey, and like two schoolboys who feared to be caught trespassing, the old warriors tiptoed from the room as Helen entered it. But Jack’s curiosity was far from being satisfied as yet. Seeing that he was going to speak, Helen laid a gentle hand over his mouth.

“Don’t, Jack, you’ll hurt yourself!” she begged. “I’ll tell you all there is to tell. Our men came just after that bullet struck you. You’re a popular hero; that rescue is known now from one end of the country to the other. And that’s all, I think— except that none of us, except you, were hurt.”

Raising a feeble hand, he dragged hers away from his lips.

“It isn’t all! ” he protested faintly. “It’s hardly a beginning. Helen, have you-”

Gently, she replaced her hand; then her head bent down until her face almost touched his.

“I’ve been thinking that— perhaps— the Boers aren’t such a very fine set of people— if you say so, Jack,” she whispered.

“They’re the best ever!” he whispered in return; then, smiling happily, fell asleep.

___________________

6: Towards Morning

F A M Webster

1886-1949

Mail (Adelaide) 13 July 1940

DETECTIVE Inspector Hollins brought into my study that breezy air of big spaces, beer, tobacco, and country inns which gives him the atmosphere of a prosperous farmer, whereas he is a peculiarly acute member ol the C.I.D.

'Mornin', Mulholland,' he said, extracting the inevitable pipe and tobacco pouch from a capacious pocket. 'We've a case that's rather move in your line than ours. We at Scotland Yard don't take much truck in spirit, except the sort they sell in bottles, but you seem to thrive on psychic phenomena, so now's your chance.'

'What's the story, Bill?' I queried. 'Have you found a new fake medium inducing foolish people to put their small savings into wild-cat schemes, and can't you get yourself invited to one of the seances?'

'Séance, my foot!' growled Bill Hollins. 'This looked like a plain case of suicide— perhaps murder; but the house where it happened is said to be haunted. You're experienced in such matters, and may be able to spot the trick that induced an eminently sensible young woman to chuck herself over the fourth floor bannisters of a respectable residence in Ledbury Gardens. There's no case at present that would lie against Mr. Thomas Marston, the owner, so we couldn't prevent him from going abroad immediately after the tragedy.'

'What grounds have you for thinking there has been foul play, and why should you suspect this Mr. Marston?' was the obvious question that I put to Bill Hollins.

'The chap's got a bit of a reputation as a gay Lothario,' Bill grunted, 'and Annie Edwards was a darned pretty girl by all account, until she spoilt her beauty on the flagged paving of the hall of the house in Ledbury Gardens. She was the housemaid and her mother was the cook. They'd been left alone to look after the house, and the mother had gone to the pictures on the night when Marston dropped in unexpectedly on his way through London. Marston, by the way, is a bachelor.'

Hollins paused to relight his pipe, and I broke in with an impatient, 'Well, get on with it, man!'

He pressed down the glowing tobacco in the bowl of his pipe and looked up at me with exasperating deliberation.

'Marston states.' he continued, 'that he came up to London from his country place on the way to the Continent, and entered the house with his latchkey. It seems that it was a rough night, with rain, and a regular gale blowing, and the front door blew to with a bang that seemod to shake the house.

'He says all the lights were on, snd he stood for a minute waiting, as it was yet early, and he did not anticipate that the two women he knew to be in the house had gone to bed— besides, he wanted some supper.'

'And then—?' I suggested, for Hollins had paused again to fiddle with his infernal pipe.

'Just as Marston was moving towards a bell-push beside the fireplace, a tremulous voice called down from above, "Who's there?" Marston says that he looked up and saw the housemaid  Annie Edwards, loaning over the fourth floor banister, that she appeared relieved when she recognised him, but slowly her features changed to a mask of the most awful horror. A second later, or so says Marston, she pitched head-first over the banisters and was smashed up on the flagstones almost at his feet.'

'A perfectly plain and straightforward statement, it seems to me.'  I commented. 'A simple case, in all probability, of sheer vertigo.'

'Half a minute.' broke in Hollins. 'Those banisters are exceptionally high, and thee girl was unusually short. It would have been necessary for her to jump to get her body sufficiently far on to the handrail to reach the point of overbalancing.'

'Very well, but still I don't see how Marston comes under suspicion.'

'I happened to be on duty at the Yard that night, when Marston telephoned, so I went along with the divisional surgeon to Ledbury Gardens. Mrs. Edwards returned from the pictures within a few minutes of our arrival. Putting aside the fact that she was quite demented to start with, and reproached herself bitterly for having left her daughter, a nervous, highly strung girl, alone in the big house while she was out on pleasure, I can't forget what happened later.

'What was that?'

'Within the week she came to Scotland Yard and asked for a personal interview. She wasn't satisfied that her daughter's death was entirely accidental. She made no suggestion that Marston had chucked the unfortunate girl down from the fourth floor, but said that she had seen him looking at Amie in a sort of way on several occasions. She admitted also that Amie had seemed rather more fond of her master than was altogether necessary.

'I gather that Mrs. Edwards was of the opinion that Marston had returned to the house earlier than he would admit, and finding Annie alone, had gone to the girl's bedroom.

'The woman suggested furtner that her daughter, being terrified at the thought of what was likely to happen to her, had got into a state of absolute panic nnd flung herself over the banisters.'

'Why didn't she bolt down the stairs, if the man was in her room?' I interrupted.

'That's exactly the question I wanted answered,' said Hollins. 'Mrs. Edwards thought that her daughtei may have seen Marston coming up the final flight of stairs.'

'Then why not lock herself in her room?'

'There was no bolt on the door, and the key could not be found after the tragedy.'

'In other words, it is suggested that Marston returned to the house secretly, possibly while Mrs. Edwards and Annie were in the kitchen, extracted the key from the girl's bedroom door, and waited for the mother to go out. How did he know that Mrs. Edwards would leave the house?'

'It was her night off, and she had never been known to miss the pictures on a Wednesday evening.'

'Any other data?'

'Yes. That's why I've come to you. Mulholland. As I say. Marston has gone abroad on some secret business of his own, which he appears to be very set upon, and no case could possibly lie against him. Still, I'm worried. You know how all sorts of bits of odd information reach Scotland Yard?

'Well, that's how we've learned that probably half a dozen people have lost their lives through falling into the hall at 8 Ledbury Gardens during the past one hundred years or thereabouts. I don't, and I won't, believe in ghosts, spooks, spiritualism, or any other hocus-pocus that can't be explained logically, so there you are. Still— one never knows. There may be a logical explanation of such things.'

'The earth-bound spirits of evil men and so on, eh. Bill?' I smiled.

'Maybe.' he said doggedly. 'Anyway, you know more about such things than most men. That's why I want you to take the post of caretaker which is being advertised. No woman will even look at the job; and, with a police recommendation, you are bound to get it.'

A WEEK later I was installed as caretaker at 8 Ledbury Gardens, and occupying the bedroom next to the one in which the unfortunate Annie had spent her last hours on earth. The house was one of those really handsome London mansions built in the reign of Queen Anne, and since modernised, without being in any way spoilt. The flagged hall was spacious, in the centre of which hung a magnificent chandelier suspended from a great black hook let into the cross beam beneath a glass roof-light. When I touched the electric switch that lit up the chandelier it seemed to have a thousand sparkling eyes. The glittering, useful ornament, I fancied, was not quite as old as the house.

The staircase was splendid, but the dimly lit top flight was both steep and narrow. I should not have cared to try running down the fourth floor stairs in a hurry, and the banisters, as Bill had said, were exceptionally high.

About the house there was nothing sinister, or in the least unpleasant, such as  the scientific investigator of psychic phenomena expects to feel upon entering a dwelling that is really haunted. At first it seemed to be just a handsome, well-lived-in and well-looked-after London mansion. I say 'at first' advisedly, for sometimes in the still and lonely watches of the night, and especially towards morning, I had that awful sensation of not being alone in the house which I knew to be empty of all other human beings.

I read a lot and I smoked a lot, a great deal more than was good for me. in fact. I got up rather late each morning, but that was excusable, since I spent so much of the night waiting and watching.

The question of servants provided a bit of a problem. Marston had gone abroad immediately after the inquest, which was held before Bill Hollins brought me into the case, and had apparently made no arrangements for the care of his town house. Possibly he had believed that Mrs. Edwards, who had been a sort of cook-housekeeper, would stay on and get a new girl to take her daughter's place. Mrs. Edwards was an old family servant, and it was she, I fancy, who advertised for a caretaker. I managed, however, to get the help of a daily woman, who kept the place clean and cooked my breakfast. I had the rest of my meals out, as there seemed no need for me lto be at the house in the daytime.

Night after night passed without a single disturbing happening. There were the usual rustlings and creakings and groanings one expects to hear in any old house. There was nothing abnormal in such phenomena. What caused me to return to the house each evening was an uncanny feeling, amounting almost to a certainty, that there was something more, something which was not of this world, and must be elucidated before whatever ghost there was could be laid to rest.

THE study of the six fatalities which Bill Hollins said had occurred proved intriguing but unprofitable. The details of each tragedy were almost identical, but not all the victims were women. In each case a person had either come out of a bedroom or gone upstairs and looked down into the hall for some minutes before falling over the banisters. In no previous instance had there been even the faintest suggestion of foul play.

By the end of the month for which I had taken the post as caretaker I was beginning to think there was nothing to discover, or if there was, I should not find it out. And yet that inexplicable urge kept nagging away at me to stick to my appallingly dull task for just a little longer, in the hope that Fate might relent.

None the less, as I walked back to Ledbury Gardens one Wednesday evening, considerably later than usual, a new thought came into my mind. Why it had not occurred to me before is hard to understand, for I had heard often enough of the extraordinary power of self-hypnotism which has caused people staring down from an upper floor of an old-fashioned house at a light in the hall to be so fascinated that they have given way to an irresistible desire to throw themselves over. I remembered also how the electric candles of the great chandelier, and the crystal pendants catching their light, seemed to wink at me with a thousand sparkling eyes.

Keen to test the matter further, I quickened by pace. The hall, when I entered the house, was in darkness, as usual; for the daily woman had gone some hours before. Even before my fingers pressed down the electric light switch I was aware of the strange aroma of an unfamiliar perfume. And then my eyes nearly started from their sockets, for, in the sudden blaze of light, I saw a dress sword with a jewelled hilt, such as the Regency bucks wore, resting upon the top of an old oak drawer chest.

I had never seen the weapon there before, and could hardly believe that it could have been found by the charwoman and placed in its present position. With systematic thoroughness I searched the whole house from basement to attic. I found nothing.

MORE than a little puzzled, I left the room and leaned upon the handrail of the banisters at the place from which Amie had fallen, as near as I could tell. For long minutes I gazed down fixedly upon the glittering chandelier, but, although I stared until my eyes ached and my head began to swim, I felt not the slightest temptation to throw myself over, as all those other unfortunate people had done. Grumbling to myself that so hardheaded a person as I am could hardly hope to be fascinated to the point of suicide by collection of Lights, especially when forewarned of the possible effect of staring at them, I went down to the kitchen and made some coffee. Shortly afterwards, despite the slightly unusual circumstances of the evening, I decided to go to bed.

In spite of my apprehensions, I must have slept heavily, for it was the sound a door banging, with a violence which seemed to shake the building, that awakened me towards morning. In an instant I was out of bed and across the room, for I could see through the crack of the door, which I had left ajar, that the lights I had extinguished before going to bed were now blazing in the hall. Creeping to the banisters and peering through the thick balustrades, I saw a strange sight.

In the hall four floors below me stood a handsome man and an amazingly beautiful woman, both dressed in the picturesque costume of the Regency period. They were laughing and seemed to be talking, but they must have been speaking in low tones, or their ghostly lips moved soundlessly, for no words reached my ears. And then the girl, still with a smile upon her lovely features, began to mount the stairs. The man switched on the electric candles af the wall brackets, presumably to give her more light. Then he picked up the sword and set it in the frog attached to the broad baldrick which crossed his chest.

By that time she had reached the third landing and was beginning to mount the fourth flight of stairs. Fascinated, I watched her as she entered the servant's bedroom next to mine. I saw the light go on, and a moment later she reappeared with a puzzled expression on her countenance. Then she crossed the landing and leaned over the handrail at almost the exact spot from which Amie Edwards had fallen.

Suddenly her body seemed to stiffen as she leaned farther and farther over; her hands gripped the rail, raising her slight frame until she stood on tip-toe, but I could do nothing, for some malevolent force seemed to hold me utterly spellbound.

It was the thunder of feet pounding on the stairs and an agonised shouting, 'Not there, my darling. Go back from those rails, I tell you,' that broke the spell and brought me to my senses.

I was only just in time, for she had actually overbalanced when my arms went round her rising legs in a sort of desperate rugby tackle. She screamed and struggled like a wild cat in my grasp, and the man seemed half inclined to thrust me through with the drawn sword which he held in his hand. This, however, was no time for lengthy explanations, for the girl was more than half hysterical and still inclined to struggle. I ordered her sharply to calm herself and the man to put up his sword. The girl, as we carried her downstairs, continued to mutter, 'that man, that dreadful man! Those awful eyes!'

It was not until after the doctor who was summoned had given her a sedative and left that Thomas Marston and I sat down for a heart to heart talk.

MY position was easily enough explained. He, it appeared, had gone quietly abroad to marry a lady with whom he had long been in love, but who had but recently become a widow. They had returned to England only that day, and had come to the house in Ledbury Gardens early in the evening to change into Regency costume for the purpose of attending a fancy dress ball. The day being Wednesday, and both of them knowing the habits of the cook-housekeeper, they had assumed that Mrs. Edwards had gone to the pictures, taking with her the new housemaid, who would probably object to being left alone in the house after the tragic fate of her predecessor.

Upon their return from the fancy dress ball, Mrs. Marston had gone up to the fourth floor to let Mrs. Edwards know that her master had returned -from abroad, bringing with him a wife. There was nothing unusual in this circumstance, for the new Mrs. Marston had known the cook-housekeeper during her own girlhood and previous marriage. Not unnaturally, the Marstons had assumed that the servants would be found asleep in their bedroom on the fourth floor.

That, however, did not clear up the mysterious happenings which had occurred, nor was Mrs. Marston sufficiently recovered until the next evening to accompany us to the fourth floor landing. From there, to my secret disappointment, she showed not the least desire to throw herself over, although, at my request, she stared hard at the chandelier. Then, quite suddenly, I realised the one circumstance that was different, and turned to Marston.

'Will you go down and switch on the lights of the wall brackets?' I requested, and, instinctively, moved nearer to his wife.

As the wall lights went on I felt her body stiffen and heard the stifled gasp of sheer horror that broke from her lips. In an instant my arm went round her shoulders. Then I saw what she saw, and shouted to Marston to put out the wall lights. For one instant I had seen staring up at us, from the panelled wall of the hall below, a fiendish face with the most compelling eyes it has ever been my misfortune to encounter.

Then the wall lights went out and the face, which had not been revealed by the illumination from the chandelier, vanished. I had felt the short hairs rising crisply at the back of my neck, sweat break cold and clammy on my forehead, and a most dreadful urge to hurl myself over the banisters. The strange thing was that when we rejoined Marston in the hall and studied the evil picture we could find nothing frightening or fascinating about it.

It was a portrait of a gentleman of the Regency period, with a full-lipped, sensual mouth and bold eyes, which the artist had given the appearance of staring into whatever corner of the room from which one viewed the painting. Looked at from the level of the hall, it seemed by no means sinister. But I knew for myself the way that picture was capable of changing. Gazed on from the fourth floor landing, the whole expression of the face altered, and the eyes exercised that strange, hypnotic power that had drawn a number of people down to a fearful death.

Further enlightenment came later, when Mrs. Marston had retired and her husband and I were alone.

'I never believed in ghosts, Mulholland,' said Tom Marston, 'but, all the same, I shall destroy that portrait before we go to bed.'

'Who was the man?' I asked curiously.

'An ancestor, but a bad lot, and a coward to boot,' came the answer. 'Morals, as you know, were pretty loose in his time, and he was, moreover, a great friend of the Prince Regent.

'One night, having sent the servants away, he enticed a young married woman to his house. When he became too importunate, she fled to the fourth floor, where he pursued her. The husband, luckily, got wind of the plot, and arrived in time to save his wife's honor. Not unnaturally he challenged my ancestor to a duel; but Claude Martton was a coward, as I have said, and, rather than meet the outraged husband, who was a famous swordsman, he hanged himself, just before dawn, from the great beam that now supports the chandelier.

'There is another thing. That sword with which I threatened you last night, and which I had not the slightest idea was in my hand, belonged to him.'

In silence Tom Marston fetched the portrait from the hall and cut the canvas out of its frame. Then he threw it on to the open fire. The paint blistered and blazed bravely as the flames took hold; but, to the very last, the malevolent features of Claude Marston seemed to leer at us from the heart or the fire, as the canvas crackled and writhed and twisted, and once again I felt the compelling horror of his hateful haunting eyes.

____________________

7: The Blue Dimension

Francis Flagg

George Henry Weiss (1898-1946)

Amazing Stories, June, 1928

I AM suspected of having made away with Doctor Crewe. Furthermore, my sanity is being questioned. That is all right; I can blame no one for holding to either or both suspicions. But, as a matter of fact, I have not murdered my friend, nor am I insane. Listen to me patiently please, and I will do my best to tell you of the wonderful discovery of Doctor Crewe, and in what manner he came to disappear.

As you all know, Doctor Crewe was sixty years of age, and a retired optometrist. He lived alone in this house with one servant and friend, myself. I am a man of thirty, young, strong. In a great many ways the Doctor treated me as a son. He paid me a liberal wage and made it possible for me to go to college. Sensible of the kindness he has shown me, I have hated to quit his service, even though graduated from the university for over a year and a half.

Doctor Crewe was a shy, retiring man with no friend, save myself, and few acquaintances. Engrossed in experiments of his own, he would often enter his private workshop and not emerge from it, sometimes for as much as twenty-four hours on a stretch. Except in a general way, he never discussed his experiments with me, for he was not a man given to much talk. I had not the least inkling of what it was that engaged his time and interest until two weeks ago. At that time he became very excited. God forgive me, I thought the excessive hours of work, coupled with little sleep, was affecting him mentally.

“Robert,” he said, calling me into his workshop. I went in. He was seated in a big chair right under the skylight. “Have you ever read this?” he asked, holding up a large copy of the “Book of Mormon.”

“No, sir. At least not all of it,” I answered. “But enough to know the story of how Joseph Smith dug up the tablets and was enabled to read and copy them?”

“You mean about the miraculous spectacles?” I laughed. “That bunk!”

“How do you know it’s bunk?”

“Why, of course it is,” I protested. “Who ever heard of such glasses before or since?”

“Nobody,” he admitted. “And, as you say, Joseph Smith’s story is probably bunk. But for all that, have you ever thought it might be possible to make a pair of glasses through which one could see—beyond this environment?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you know we are living an existence that is an enigma to the wisest of our scientists and philosophers. I believe it was Millikan, the physicist, who once, on being peremptorily requested to define what he meant by the term ‘spirit,’ retorted that he would gladly do so if his questioner would first define what matter was. As a matter of fact, matter is something beyond our comprehension. It is, of course, reducible to force. But what is force? You see, we can reason ourselves to an impasse.”

“Granted. But what has that to do with spectacles?”

“More than you think. Consider that we are living at a certain rate of vibration. Everything vibrating within range of our own rate would manifest itself to us as matter, that is, as concrete material, such as mountains, trees, cats, birds, snakes, etc. Anything below or above our range would to us be merely space, nonexistent. You follow me?”

“Not quite,” I confessed.

“Well, let me put it differently. You know there are sounds so high in frequency or pitch that the human ear cannot hear them, and vice versa, so low as to be inaudible.”

“I understand that.”

“Good. Then please remember that everything we observe around us, the smoke of factories, the red of sunset, houses, trees, animals, men, are all things manifesting themselves to us at varying degrees of vibration. At a certain rate they impinge on the ear as sound, the eye as color, the tongue as taste, the flesh as feeling. If that be true, then there must be a wealth of things all around us we cannot taste, handle or see.”

I had never thought of this before.

“You mean,” I said haltingly, “that as there are colors and sounds which go above or below our vision and hearing, so also there may be trees, animals— even men?”

“Why not? What is space to us may be reality to them, and what is reality to them may be space to us. I literally believe that, as, the Good Book says, there are worlds within worlds.”

The conception was stupendous; I stared at him fascinated.

“Robert,” said the Doctor impressively, “the world, as we know it, the world of our five senses, has been pretty well explored. Lots of people think there remains nothing more to discover. But what if someone were to open the way into those hidden realms all around us, the countless planes above and below! Think of the strange races that might be found, the new lands that might be visited, the wealth of knowledge that might be garnered!”

I thought of it and my head swam. Then I got a grasp on my common sense. All this was wonderful, of course; it made fine conversation; but, after all, it was speculation pure and simple.

“You know, sir,” I said smilingly, “you made me believe for a moment that such worlds existed and could be visited.”

“I am glad of that,” he replied quietly, “because they do exist, and one of them at least can be visited.”

This, I thought anxiously, is the result of overwork.

“Won’t you come to lunch, Doctor? You know you’ve had nothing to eat since an early breakfast.”

“Now, now, my boy,” he laughed. “I assure you I’m quite sane and not at all light-headed. I repeat that such worlds actually exist, and that I am the Christopher Columbus who has discovered one of them.”

I must have looked my incredulity, because he said with some force, “I see you doubt my contention. There is nothing for it, then, but to let you see it as I have seen it.”

He picked up from a workbench what appeared to be a pair of goggles. They were attached to a cap piece made to fit over the head. The lenses were of queer design.

“In fact,” said the Doctor, “they are ground with forty-five inner facets specifically arranged so as to redistribute the light waves before they impinge on the retina of the eye. Nor is that all of it. There are really two lenses arranged for each eye place, and in the space between them—about half an inch in thickness—is a space or cell filled with Radium Tetra Dimenol, a new substance. But I cannot tell you more, as I have discarded all the known formulae of optics in making these glasses.”

He fitted the cap over my head, but as yet held the goggles above my eyes.

“I beg you not to be in the least alarmed, no matter what you see. Remember to keep quiet and not to endanger these lenses by any sudden move. Bear in mind the fact that you are in no bodily danger, that I am constantly by your side in this workshop, and tell me, if you can, what you see.”

With that the eyeglasses were brought down until the rest piece fitted the nose, and the side flaps drawn back, were made fast in the rear. For a moment I was dazzled. My blinking eyes were lost in a maze of contrasting crystals. Then, so suddenly as to galvanize me with the shock, the crystals merged into one harmonious whole, seemed to expand, clarify, and I was gazing— gazing through the incredible aisles of a blue forest. It was a blue world that I saw. The trees, the giant ferns, the suckerlike blooms, were all blue. Not one prevailing shade of blue, no. The flowers, in some cases, were almost purplish red, and in others, shaded away into the most delicious contrasts of creamy whites and yellows. But the predominating color was blue. What could be seen of the sky was greenish blue. The very atmosphere had a bluish tinge, as if the winds were colored and could be seen. Whichever way I looked, the blue forest was before me. I turned my head. It was on either side of me—behind me. A shiver of fear ran down my back.

“Doctor!” I cried nervously.

The pressure of his hand reassured me. “I am right here, my boy. Tell me, what do you see?”

“A blue forest,” I said; “great ferns, and other growth of the same color.”

“That is what I saw,” he replied. “It isn’t a tangled growth, though; it is more like a natural park, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I answered, “it is more like a park. Wait! There’s something stirring in the bushes to the left of me. I can’t make it out as yet. I... Good God!” I gave a convulsive leap. If the Doctor had not held down my hands, I should have torn the glasses from my head.

“What is it?” he cried; but I couldn’t answer. The strength left my body. Frozen with terror, I glared at the awful nightmare which seemed to pause and stare right into my face. Even in that moment of stark horror I realized that it was human— or what would have been called by whatever term passed for human in that other world.

It was, perhaps, seven feet in height, naked, and of an indigo color over all. The eyes were set at the end of short tentacles which continually moved and writhed and could bring the creature’s vision to bear in any direction, or in several directions at the same time, for of organs of sight there were three. The mouth was a pouting thing that filled me with indescribable loathing, while the root like legs ended in flat feet probably a yard in circumference. Four snaky branches were attached to the upper part of the body and were evidently arms. What made me conclude that this creature occupied the place of man in its own world, was the fact that it carried a weapon. This was a length of stick shaped like a short spear.

That it was a weapon, and a deadly one, I soon had proof. Some monstrous sort of beetle came sailing through the trees. It was perhaps, a foot and a half long. The creature crouched, drew back what I must call one of its arms, and went through the motions of hurling the spear. The weapon never left its grasp, yet the insect fell as if struck by a bolt of lightning. The creature reached out with another of its snaky, branchlike arms. It seemed to have the ability of stretching it to an unbelievable extent. As the arm went, the tip of it became swollen, bell shaped, finally falling over the stricken insect like an inverted cup. With a whiplike motion the prey was retrieved to the pouting mouth and swallowed—or rather absorbed— with an insuction of the lips.

It was too much. The sensation of being alone in a weird wood, confronted by such a monster as this, made me shudder. When one of the writhing tentacles brought a saucerlike eye within an inch of my nose, I screamed and clawed at my head.

“For God’s sake, Doctor,” I screamed, “take them off!”

The glasses were removed. I stared at the familiar walls of the workshop with heartfelt relief. The blue forest, the hideous creature, were as if they had never been.

I rubbed my eyes and laughed sheepishly.

“I’ll admit, sir, that the thing scared me.”

“What thing?” “The indigo monster.”

He shook his head. “I’ve never seen it.”

I walked over to the faucet and drank a glass of water. “Tell me, sir, isn’t this some sort of trick you’re playing on me?”

“In what way?”

“Oh, by arranging those lenses so as to create an optical illusion.”

“No, my boy, no. What you saw is actual enough—only on another plane.”

I couldn’t believe it. That the blue forest, the incredible creature and the beetle it had swallowed, were all around me at that very moment, only manifesting themselves at a different rate of vibration, was unbelievable. It was too creepy an idea for me to accept without a severe mental struggle. What if something were to happen to the various rates of vibration, some accident merge them all into one!

I wiped the sweat from my brow.

“Don’t you think it possible, Doctor, that you may have accidentally brought about an optical illusion? That what I saw has no reality, save as the products of the glasses themselves, ground and arranged a certain way?”

“I thought of that,” he replied, “and that is one reason I called you in to look through them. The question was this: Would you only see what I saw? Personally, I saw only the blue forest, the flowers. But you saw something else besides. That would tend to prove that the spectacles are not deluding us, that we are really gazing into another dimension. However, let me assume the glasses and see if I can observe what you did.”

I helped him to adjust the spectacles.

After a few moments he said, “There is not one such creature as you describe, but a dozen. Some are smaller than the others, and these I take to be females. In addition to spears, most of them carry yellow sacks. Undoubtedly the creatures belong to the dominant species in this strange world, though one would hesitate before ranking them higher than the savages in ours. In some ways they remind me of trees. I shouldn’t be surprised to learn that they had evolved directly from the vegetable kingdom. Their legs are really roots with leaflike protuberances. Now they are going away. They have disappeared to the right of me. The immediate forest is empty.”

He was silent for a moment; but evidently saw nothing new, for in a few minutes he removed the spectacles.

“Robert,” he said impressively, “you are the only one I have taken into my confidence. For ten years I have dreamed and experimented, keeping my own counsel. Until I am ready to announce my discovery to the world, I wish no word said of this.”

“You can rely on my discretion, sir.”

“Thank you, my boy, I knew you would say that. But from now on I shall need someone’s assistance. Will you help me?”

“Gladly,” I replied, because the thought of that other world, the untold marvels that might be laid bare to mankind by the Doctor’s invention, fired my imagination.

The Doctor grasped my hand. “I’ll admit I had counted on you. Know then, that in conjunction with the glasses, I believe I have perfected a machine by means of which it is possible to enter that other plane.”

I could hardly believe my ears.

“You mean,” I gasped, “that you have invented a way of getting there?”

“Exactly.”

“But how?”

“Briefly, by altering the present rate of vibration and bringing it in harmony with that prevailing in the other dimension. Obviously, if my body can be made to vibrate in accord with the blue world, I shall manifest there and not here. At least, I think so.”

He led the way to what looked not unlike a big wringing machine of the roller type. The rollers, however, were of fine wire coils, interlockingly arranged, and there were twelve of them supported above a large tub filled with a metallic fluid. Several powerful looking electric batteries lay at the tub’s base, on the floor.

“This,” said the Doctor, laying his hand affectionately on the complicated apparatus, “is the Revibrator. The person or thing to be revibrated is run through those rollers, at the same time an alternating current of electricity is maintained in the wire coils which affects the molecules of matter and brings about the vibratory change. Just how this is done, I cannot tell you, for I do not know; but take my word for it, it is done.”

I stared at the inert piece of machinery with mixed emotions. That anyone or anything could be run through its rollers to another dimension seemed the height of absurdity. Yet, after my experience with the glasses, I was distrustful of my own doubt.

“I have here some white mice,” said the Doctor. “If you will put on the spectacles again, Robert, I shall run them through the rollers and you can see what happens.”

With trembling hands I affixed the cap, the goggles. The same blue forest grew before me, but now I saw it from a slightly different position. In spite of myself I could not repress a little shiver. This preliminary shiver was always to be mine whenever I gazed through the glasses. To all intents and purposes I was transferred from the workshop and set down in a blue wilderness. To reassure myself, I gripped the sides of my chair and ran my hands over them from time to time. In my ears sounded the purr of grinding cogs.

“Watch very carefully, Robert,” came the quiet voice of the Doctor, “I am sending the first mouse through.”

Nothing happened. I strained my eyes in the direction from whence his voice had come.

“I see nothing yet,” I began, then gave a convulsive start, for in the blue air, to one side of me, appeared the head of a mouse.

I stared at it tensely. The shoulders followed the head, the forepaws the shoulders; then, by degrees, the rest of the body. No sooner was the body altogether in one piece than it fell a distance of several feet to the ground. And what a white mouse!

It was now as large as an ordinary rat. For a moment it cowered on the purplish grass, its pink eyes darting from side to side; then, apparently recovering from its first surprise at finding itself in such queer surroundings, it ran nimbly up a tree trunk and was lost to view behind a mass of foliage.

Two more mice came through and acted in a similar manner.

“But what made them so much larger?” I asked the Doctor, after removing the glasses.

He looked at me thoughtfully.

“I cannot say for certain, unless the pressure of the atmosphere is much less on the other plane than it is here. But whatever the reason, it doesn’t seem to have impaired the activity of the mice. Also they went through the rollers in good physical condition. If mice, why not men?”

Indeed, why not? It appeared perfectly feasible. Yet at the thought of entering that other world physically as well as visually, my flesh crept.

AFTER lunch, about three-thirty, the Doctor called me into the workshop again.

“So far,” he said, “we have only looked into that other dimension from one spot, this room. How would it appear from some other place—say Lake Merritt Park?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well, let’s go and see.” Seated on a secluded bench, the Doctor opened his satchel and produced the glasses.

“Put them on, Robert,” he commanded. Nothing loath, I obeyed. The same startling metamorphosis took place in my surroundings; but this time I was on the edge of the blue forest and before me stretched a rolling plain. It was covered with a profusion of daisylike flowers and low-growing shrubs. A herd of purplish-black beasts with six legs and tortoise-like heads were grazing in the near foreground. They were about the size of sheep.

Though now more or less accustomed to the sensation of being transported, as it were, into this mysterious other plane, I could not refrain from instinctively crying out when the herd of beasts suddenly stampeded in my direction. It was hard to realize that I had no existence for them; that I was so much space through which they sped like a whirlwind and were gone.

Not all of them, though. A half dozen of the six-legged beasts were left behind, stark and lifeless.

From the low-growing shrubbery through which they had evidently crept in a recumbent position, burst a band of the oddest huntsmen mortal eyes ever beheld. I call them huntsmen, because, though much shorter than, and in some respects different from, the indigo monsters seen in the forest, they, too, belonged to the same dominant species. In color they were not unlike yellow copper, and in height they could not have exceeded five feet. If they had been the first “human” beings to meet my sight in this weird world, I should doubtless have considered them horrible enough; but compared to the hideous giants of their kind, they were almost beautiful to observe.

Formed much as were the giants, there was this difference in structure. The eyes— of which they possessed but two— were set on the ends of stable protuberances, and not of writhing tentacles. A feathery, fernlike hair grew plume fashion from the head and waved in the wind. The mouth was more pleasing than the pouting mouth of the indigo monsters, the lips flowerlike, but the arms and legs were of the same general nature, though on a more delicate scale.

I relinquished the glasses to the Doctor, who wished to observe them for himself.

“Yes,” he remarked, “these creatures are undoubtedly of the same species as the ones seen in the forest, but palpably of a dwarfish branch. I am inclined to think them higher in the social scheme than the others. They are armed with the same sort of spears, but in addition carry knives or swords with which they are dismembering the game.”

He rose abruptly to his feet.

“Robert,” he said, “they are getting ready to move on. By means of the glasses I am going to try and trail them to their homes. I want you to lead me by the arm and see that I don’t stumble into people and buildings or get run over. Keep track of the streets and the general direction, because later on I shall try and draw a map of the course I’ve followed!”

Then ensued one of the queerest walks I’ve ever taken. Oddly enough, the course followed by the creatures in that other world seemed to follow the streets laid out in this.

There were times, of course, when the Doctor complained I was leading him away from their trail, but nearly always some street swung us once more in the desired direction, or they turned back into ours. For three-quarters of an hour we walked. Suddenly, in the vicinity of Fruitvale Avenue, the Doctor halted.

“Marvelous,” he murmured. “Wonderful. I expected nothing like this.”

“What is it?” I asked, all on fire with curiosity. But for nearly ten minutes he made no answer; he was absorbed in the contemplation of something he saw. At last I could contain myself no longer. I shook him by the shoulder. “May I have a look, sir?”

“Yes, Robert, yes,” he said, coming out of his spell with a start. “Of course you may, my boy.”

I assumed the cap and goggles with trembling fingers. What new marvel could I expect to see? What further monstrosity?

The glasses came over my eyes, the flaps were buttoned. I strained my vision to the utmost. The familiar blue grew in front of me. But what was this! No forest, no rolling plain, but a city. A great square of sapphire blue was all around me. Underfoot lay a flagged pavement of the same color, dotted here and there by showering fountains, strange trees, exotic blooms. This square was bordered with magnificent buildings. Like spokes radiating from a central hub, wide avenues ran away from the square.

I looked about me with awe. Who owned this city? Surely not the indigo giants or the copper-colored dwarfs. This magnificent place seemed far beyond the capabilities of either to build. Here, undoubtedly, dwelt the real rulers of this other dimension, the superior race of all, but where were they? Save for some gigantic butterflies, some creeping reptiles not unlike lizards, the place was deserted. Everything was in perfect order, no sign of ruin or decay, yet not a glimpse of inhabitants could I gain.

“The housetops, Robert,” came the voice of the Doctor. “Look at the housetops.”

Even as he spoke, I saw them. Were they living beings or statues wrought from navy-blue stone? There they were, like carven images, on the cornice of every building. Their basilisk eyes were set in a fixed stare, and on one outflung limb some terrible insect poised, with wings spread, as if ready for flight. It was ghastly. I felt the gooseflesh rising on my skin.

And there was another uncanny thing. Try as we might, neither the Doctor nor myself could gain access to one of those buildings. Always, no matter how we moved, we were in the open, and the edifices of sapphire stone were so many sealed crypts.

“But that is natural enough,” I exclaimed, after some thought. “If from another plane, people were to gaze at our world, they would not be able to look through wood or stone into our houses.”

“True enough,” replied the Doctor, “but you forget that, while, by means of the glasses, we are viewing the wonderful city, our bodies are capable of moving through the space its buildings occupy. Theoretically nothing should prevent us from pausing on the spot in this plane occupied by one of those buildings on the other plane and viewing its interior.”

All the time we sat on the kerbing, talking and alternately gazing through the glasses, people in our own plane were passing to and fro and looking at us curiously. I wondered what they would say if I should grasp them by the arms and tell them that the space they walked through so carelessly was occupied by immense buildings of a strange design; that all around them were nightmarish monsters with three eyes and suckerlike hands; and that they were only separated from another world and all its untold terrors by a variation in the rate of vibration. They would call me crazy, of course. But what if they should catch a glimpse of an indigo giant through the spectacles? What then?

I pondered over that thought as we walked homewards.

That night, the Doctor drew a map of the other world—or rather, of as much of it as he had seen or could visualize.

“The forest is here,” he said. “To the east are the rolling plains; and southeast of us lies the Silent City.”

He studied what he had drawn intently. “That’s funny,” he remarked.

“What is?” I asked. “The size of that city. It occupies only a section of East Oakland, and yet it impressed me as being immensely large.”

He shook his head. “The whole thing is an enigma, but one that shall not baffle me much longer.”

Suddenly I thought of something. “Those huntsmen you followed,” I exclaimed, “what became of them?”

“I don’t know,” confessed the Doctor. “When I saw the buildings to one side of me, I ceased following the huntsmen and directed my footsteps toward the city.”

AFTER he finished with his map, we spent several hours gazing through the glasses. It was night, too, on that other plane. In the blue forest dense darkness brooded. Nothing was to be seen but spectral lights flitting through the trees. Several times vague shapes blundered by; and once a bat-like something soared right into the space that was my face.

So vivid was the scene on that other plane, so real the feeling of being surrounded by black night and at the mercy of unearthly creatures, that I was forced, from time to time, to remove the glasses and assure myself that I was not really there.

It was after midnight when I retired to bed, and left the Doctor still gazing through the spectacles.

In the morning, however, he was afoot early, and appeared fresh and rested, more so than I.

“Well, Robert,” he said cheerfully at breakfast, “this is the big day.”

“We are going to take the spectacles out again?” I asked eagerly.

“Better than that, my boy; I am going through the machine.”

I tried to dissuade him from his rash project until he had viewed the other plane more thoroughly with the glasses, but he was adamant. “The mice met with no harm and neither shall I.”

“From the machine, no,” I replied, “but what has their fate been from other beasts? Perhaps by this time they have been devoured. Think of the indigo giants. What would you do if you fell in with several of them? And there are doubtless more fearful creatures of which we know nothing.”

“True, Robert, true; but I shall take implements with me. A German luger with plenty of cartridges; a compass. You might as well cease talking, my boy, my mind is made up.”

Still I did not desist. “Let me go, sir,” I pleaded, even though my flesh crawled at the very thought. “I am younger than you, stronger.”

“No,” he said, “no. This is my adventure. I have been looking forward to it for a long time and do not mean to step aside for another.”

“Then take me with you!” I cried. “In that unknown world two will be much safer than one.”

But this request he also denied.

“You must stay on this side and be ready to operate the machine when I return.”

There was nothing for it, then, but to repair with him to the workshop and listen to his last instructions.

“I am going to make for the Silent City on my first expedition,” he said. “I expect to be gone only a few hours. Under no circumstances must you leave this machine in my absence.”

He laid his hand on the Revibrator.

“Watch for me with the glasses, and when I give you the sign, press this button here. It reverses the action of the Revibrator and will restore me to this room. Do you understand me?”

I made him repeat his instructions.

“There, I’m sure you’ve got it, my boy. And now look through the spectacles and see if the road is clear.”

With a heart full of misgivings I did as he bade. Nothing was stirring in the blue forest. Only the ferns waving gently, and the leaves of the tall trees.

“To make sure that the machine is functioning properly, I am sending the luger and a box of cartridges through by themselves,” said the Doctor.

Almost with his words the luger and cartridges materialized on that other plane. But now the luger was the size of a large rifle and the ammunition box as big as a shoebox. I remembered the mice, and a foreboding of trouble came over me.

“Doctor,” I began, but never finished the warning, because the Doctor was coming through.

I saw his head. It was an enormous thing. I looked at it with horror. Behind it came the massive neck, the mighty shoulders. Inch by inch, seemingly out of nothing, the unbelievable body emerged, fell to the purple grass.

“Good God!” I exclaimed; for when the Doctor rose to his feet he was all of twenty feet tall. He stood up, a great colossus of a man, and stretched his arms experimentally, stamping with his feet, and taking several deep breaths. He smiled reassuringly at me and waved his hand in my direction, though of course I was invisible to him. I watched him with bated breath, as he picked up the luger and retrieved the box of cartridges.

Quite calmly he consulted his compass and map, got his bearings, and after a last glance in my direction swung off through the trees and ferns. His gigantic figure was visible for some distance, the head appearing above the treetops. Finally it disappeared and I was left to my lonely vigil— surely the strangest vigil ever kept by mortal man.

LUNCH time came and passed. The evening shadows deepened. Darkness fell over the blue forest in that other world— the creepy forest through which I had seen the Doctor walk and disappear— and still he did not come. A prey to the most ghastly of fears, I sat all night by the Revibrator, peering through the glasses at the spectral lights that wandered among the trees, shuddering at the bat-like forms which swept silently on and over me.

And all the time I asked myself how it went with the Doctor, overtaken by night on that other plane. Had he succeeded in reaching the Silent City? Was he encamped there now or had some hideous beast destroyed him or some strange power taken him prisoner? I thought of those brooding images on the housetops and the blood ran cold in my veins.

I had one consolation. Save for the navy-blue statues in the Silent City, on that other plane, no creature as large as the Doctor now was, had been seen by me. Even the indigo giants were dwarfed by the colossus he had become. And he was armed with an immense luger— a deadly weapon. Yet for all that, anxiety consumed me.

Morning dawned. Haggard and worn, drinking cup after cup of black coffee, I watched through the leaden hours of the second day. The blue forest was strangely still. Or was it my imagination? Nothing stirred in its depths. No life, no motion. I might have been staring through a stereoscope at blended pictures. The Doctor had said he would be only a few hours, yet the second night came and he was still missing.

With the descent of darkness the blue forest became alive. It moved and murmured. Though I could not hear it murmur, I sensed it. Perhaps the blood was pounding at my heart. I cursed myself for ever having allowed the Doctor to embark on his rash journey. I should have restrained him— by force, if that had been necessary.

The third day dawned. I watched it breaking in that other, that incredible world, that blue dimension separated from our own merely by a slight difference in rates of vibration.

“If he does not come this morning,” I said to myself, “I shall take the glasses on the streets and go searching for him.”

But about eight o’clock I saw him. I shouted aloud in pure joy, oblivious to the fact that he could not hear my voice. He came striding through the forest, ten yards at a stride, and most amazing sight of all, a dozen indigo giants came with him.

The Doctor’s clothes seemed much the worse for wear, torn and rent, but he himself appeared sound in body and limb. I was beside myself with excitement. What strange sights had he seen, what adventures had he had?

The indigo giants were evidently his friends. He had been to the Silent City. In a few minutes now, he would be back in the workshop with me, telling me of the marvels of that other plane, the secret of the navy-blue statues. I could not restrain another exultant shout.

Arrived at the spot where he had made his landing three days before, the Doctor looked about him hesitatingly. I could read what he was thinking. Was this the correct spot? To reassure him I ran a pencil— the first thing my fingers picked up— through the Revibrator. It dropped at his feet the size of a walking stick.

At this sight the indigo monsters recoiled with every indication of wonder and fear. Instantly the Doctor smiled. He waved his hand. His mouth formed the words, “Reverse the Revibrator.”

I pressed the button he had instructed me to. Nothing happened.

The Doctor pawed at the air with his hands, a perplexed look beginning to dawn on his face. For perhaps five minutes I waited; then I scribbled a note on a piece of paper and sent it through to him.

“What is the matter?”

He picked up the paper, now the size of a napkin, and wrote on the reverse side, “I cannot come back, because on this plane the machine has no existence.”

“Good God!” I whispered, appalled. Then the following dialogue took place between us by means of written messages.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“That I have overlooked a vital thing.”

“In what way?”

“By forgetting that the Revibrator can manifest other things over here, but palpably not itself.”

Through the glasses I glared at him in horror.

“But what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. I’m trying to think. In the meantime, Robert, can’t you send me through some food—a pot of coffee? I’m starved.”

“Yes,” I answered back, “yes.”

To get the food and coffee I had to remove the goggles. How it happened I don’t know. Perhaps my nerves were unstrung from the long hours of wakefulness, the terrible suspense of three days, the crowning disaster of all. Be that as it may the cap, the goggles slipped from my fumbling fingers and fell— straight into the tub of metallic fluid under the rollers.

Half frantic with terror I dipped them out and dried them off. No, they didn’t seem hurt, they weren’t broken; but when I tried to look through the lenses I could see nothing but blackness. That was ten days ago. And every one of those days I’ve been in this room sending food and supplies through the Revibrator, and trying to fix the glasses.

That is all.

You ask me where the Doctor is? I tell you he is somewhere in space, on that other plane, trying to get back—and he can’t!

________________

8: The Heads of Apex

Francis Flagg

Astounding Stories Oct 1931.

JUSTUS MILES was sitting on a bench in the park, down at the heels, hungry, desperate, when a gust of wind whirled a paper to his feet. It was the advertising section of the New York Times. Apathetically, he picked it up, knowing from the past weeks’ experience that few or no jobs were being advertised. Then with a start he sat up, for in the center of the page, encased in a small box and printed in slightly larger type than the ordinary advertisement, he read the following words: “Wanted: Soldier of Fortune, young, healthy; must have good credentials. Apply 222 Reuter Place, between two and four.” It was to-day’s advertising section he was scanning, and the hour not yet one.

Reuter Place was some distance away, he knew, a good hour’s walk on hard pavement and through considerable heat. But he had made forced marches in Sonora as badly shod and on even an emptier stomach. For Justus Miles, though he might not have looked it, was a bona fide soldier of fortune, stranded in New York. Five feet eight in height, he was, loose and rangy in build, and with deceptively mild blue eyes. He had fought through the World War, served under Kemal Pasha in Turkey, helped the Riffs in Morocco, filibustered in South America and handled a machine-gun for revolutionary forces in Mexico. Surely, he thought grimly, if anyone could fill the bill for a soldier of fortune it was himself.

222 Reuter Place proved to be a large residence in a shabby neighborhood. On the sidewalk, a queue of men was being held in line by a burly cop. The door of the house opened, and an individual, broad-shouldered and with flaming red hair, looked over the crowd. Instantly Justus Miles let out a yell, “Rusty! By God, Rusty!” and waved his hands.

“Hey, feller, who do you think you’re shovin’?” growled a hard-looking fellow at the head of the line, but Justus Miles paid no attention to him. The man in the doorway also let out an excited yell.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the Kid! Hey, Officer, let that fellow through: I want to speak to him.”

With the door shut on the blasphemous mob, the two men wrung each other’s hands. Ex-Sergeant Harry Ward, known to his intimates as “Rusty,” led Justus Miles into a large office and shoved him into a chair.

“I didn’t know you were in New York, kid. The last I saw of you was when we quit Sandino.”

“And I never suspected that 222 Reuter Place would be you, Rusty. What’s the lay, old man, and is there any chance to connect?”

“You bet your life there’s a chance. Three hundred a month and found. But the boss has the final say-so, though I’m sure he’ll take you on my recommendation.”

He opened a door, led Justus Miles through an inner room, knocked at a far door and ushered him into the presence of a man who sat behind a roll-topped desk. There was something odd about this old man, and after a moment’s inspection Justus Miles saw what it was. He was evidently a cripple, propped up in a strange wheelchair. He had an abnormally large and hairless head, and his body was muffled to the throat in a voluminous cloak, the folds of which fell over and enveloped most of the wheelchair itself. The face of this old gentleman— though the features were finely molded— was swarthy: its color was almost that of a negro— or an Egyptian. He regarded the two men with large and peculiarly colored eyes— eyes that probed them sharply.

“Well, Ward, what is it?”

“The man you advertised for, Mr. Solino.”

Solino regarded Justus Miles critically.

“You have been a soldier of fortune?” he asked. He spoke English with the preciseness of an educated foreigner.

“Yes, sir. Rusty— that is, Mr. Ward knows my record.”

“I was his sergeant in France, sir; saw fighting with him in Morocco, Turkey, Nicaragua—”

“You can vouch for him, then; his character, courage—”

“You couldn’t get a better man, sir. If I had known he was in town I would have sent for him.”

“Very well; that is sufficient. But Mr.— Miles did you say?— understands he is embarking on a dangerous adventure with grave chances of losing his life?”

“I have faced danger and risked my life before this,” said Justus Miles quietly.

The other nodded. “Then that is all I am prepared to tell you at this time.”

Justus Miles accompanied Ward to his room where the latter laid out for him a change of clothing. It was luxurious to splash in warm water and bath-salts after the enforced griminess of weeks. The clothes fitted him fairly well, the two men being of a size. Lounging in his friend’s room after a substantial meal, and smoking a Turkish cigarette, he questioned Ward more closely.

“Who is the old fellow?”

“I don’t know. He hired me through an advertisement and then set me to employing others.”

“But surely you know where we are going?”

“Hardly more than you do. Solino did say there was a country, a city to be invaded. Whereabouts is a secret. I can’t say I care for going it blind, but neither do I like starving to death. I was in about the same shape you were when you applied. Desperate.”

Justus Miles stretched himself comfortably.

“A spiggoty by the looks of him,” he said; “negro blood, no doubt. Well, fighting’s my trade. I’d rather cash in fighting than sit on a park bench. I suppose the old boy will tell us more in good time, and until then we’re sitting pretty, with good eats to be had; so why worry?”

And yet if Justus Miles had been able to look ahead he might not have talked so blithely.

DURING THE week that followed his employment, he saw nothing of Solino, though Ward met the old man for a few moments every day to receive his instructions. “It puzzles me,” he confessed to Miles, “how the old chap lives. There’s a private exit to the street from his rooms, but I could swear he never goes out. How could he in that wheelchair— no attendant. And yet he must. How would he get food?”

Justus Miles smiled lazily. “No mystery at all, Rusty. We’re gone for hours at a time. What’s to prevent him from phoning to have his meals brought in?”

“But I’ve questioned them at the restaurant and they say—”

“Good Lord!— is there only one restaurant in Manhattan?”

Yet Justus Miles himself could not help feeling there was something mysterious about Solino, but just how mysterious he did not realize—until, one evening, he stood with a half dozen of his fellow adventurers in a lonely spot on the Long Island coast and watched the darkness deepen around them. “We shall wait,” said Solino presently, “until the moon comes up.”

The moon rose at about nine o’clock, flooding the beach and the heaving expanse of water with a ghostly light. From the folds of Solino’s cloak, close about his muffled throat, a peculiar ray of green light flashed out over the water. In answer, a green light flashed back, and presently, something low and black, like the body of a whale half submerged, stole towards the beach. Scarcely a ripple marked its progress, and the nose of it slid up on the sand. “Good Lord!” whispered Miles, grasping Ward by the arm: “it’s a submarine!”

But the craft on which the surprised soldiers of fortune gazed was not an ordinary submarine. In the first place, there was no conning tower; and, in the second, from the blunt nose projected a narrow gangway bridging the few feet of water between the mysterious craft and the dry beach. But the men had little time to indulge in amazement.

“Quick,” said Solino; “load those boxes onto the gangway. No need to carry them further.” He himself wheeled his chair into the interior of the submarine, calling back, “Hurry, hurry!”

The adventurers accomplished the loading in a few minutes. “Now,” came the voice of their employer, “stand on the gangway yourselves. Steady; don’t move.”

Under their feet they felt the gangway vibrate and withdraw from the land. For a moment they were in utter darkness; then a light flashed up and revealed a long, box-like room. The opening through which they had come had closed, leaving no sign of its existence.

In the center of the room stood a mechanism like a huge gyroscope, and a plunging piston, smooth and black, went up and down with frictionless ease. In front of what was evidently a control board sat a swarthy man with a large hairless head and peculiarly colored eyes. The adventurers stared in surprise, for this man, too, sat in a wheelchair, seemingly a cripple; but unlike Mr. Solino he wore no cloak, his body from the neck down being enclosed in a tubular metal container. The body must have been very small, and the legs amputated at the hips, since the container was not large and terminated on the seat of the peculiar wheel chair to which it seemed firmly attached.

Solino did not offer to introduce them to the man at the control board, who, aside from a quick look, paid them no attention. He ushered them ahead into another, though smaller cabin, and after indicating certain arrangements made for their comfort, withdrew. From the slight sway of the floor under their feet and the perceptible vibration of the craft, the adventurers knew they were under way.

“Well, this is a rum affair and no mistake about it,” said one of them.

“A freak— a bloomin’ freak,” remarked another whose cockney accent proclaimed the Englishman.

“Yuh’re shore right,” said a lean Texan. “That hombre out there had no legs.”

“Nor hands either.”

Miles and Ward glanced at one another. The same thought was in both minds. Neither of them had ever seen Mr. Solino’s hands. A rum affair all right!

Hours passed. Some of the men fell to gambling. At intervals they ate. Twice they turned in and slept. Then, after what seemed an interminable time, Solino summoned Miles and Ward to his presence in the control room. “It is time,” he said, “that you should know more of the enterprise on which you have embarked. What I say, you can communicate to the other men. A year’s salary for all of you lies to your credit at the Chase Bank of New York. And this money will not be your sole reward if you survive and serve faithfully.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Ward; “but now that we are well on our way to our destination, could you not tell us more about it? You have said something of a city, a country. Where is that country?”

“Down,” was the astounding answer.

“Down?” echoed both men.

“Yes,” said Solino slowly, “down. The gateway to that land is at the bottom of the ocean.”

As the two men gaped at him, incredulous, an awful thing happened. With an appalling roar and a rending of steel and iron, the submarine halted abruptly in its headlong flight, reared upward at an acute angle and then fell forward with a tremendous crash. The adventurers were thrown violently against a steel bulkhead, and slumped down unconscious….

HOW LONG they lay there insensible they never knew. Justus Miles was the first to come to, and he found himself in Stygian blackness.

“Rusty!” he called, feeling terribly sick and giddy. Only silence answered him.

“Good God!” he thought, “what has happened?”

His hand went out and recoiled from something soft and sticky. Gingerly he sat up. There was a lump on his head. His body felt bruised and sore but it was evidently sound. He recollected the small but powerful flashlight in his pocket, and drew it forth and pressed the button. A reassuring pencil of light pierced through the gloom. Even as it did so, someone groaned, and Ward’s voice uttered his name.

“Is that you, Kid?”

“It’s me, all right.”

“You ain’t hurt?”

“Nothing to speak of. How about you?”

“O. K., I guess. An awful headache.”

“Can you stand up?”

“Yes.”

Ward’s face appeared in the ray of light, pale and blood-streaked.

“I wonder what happened.”

“It sounded like a collision.”

They stared at one another with fearful eyes. A collision while underseas in a submarine is a serious matter.

“Where’s Solino?”

Justus Miles ran the beam of his torch this way and that, and saw that the room was in a fearful confusion. The gyroscopic mechanism had broken from its fastenings and rolled forward. Somewhere beneath its crushing weight lay the control board and the swarthy operator. Then they saw Solino, still in his overturned wheelchair, the cloak drawn tightly about himself and it; but the top of his head was crushed in like an eggshell. Justus Miles had touched that head when he stretched out his hand in the darkness.

He and Ward had been saved from death as by a miracle. Over their heads the great piston had hurtled, killing Solino and tearing through the steel partition into the chamber beyond, visiting it with death and destruction. One hasty examination of that place was enough. The men in there were dead.

Sick with horror, the two survivors faced the stark reality of their terrible plight. Trapped in an underwater craft, they saw themselves doomed to perish even more miserably than their companions. As the horrible thought sank home, a cool breath of air, suggesting the smell of stagnant salt water, blew through an opening created by the crushing of the plates in the vessel’s hull—an opening larger than the body of a man. Miles and Ward stared at it with puzzled eyes. With such a hole in her hull, the boat should have been admitting water and not air. However, they approached the gap and examined it with their torches.

“Here goes,” Ward said after a moment’s hesitation, and clambered through the opening, followed by his friend. When they were able to make out their surroundings, they saw that they were in a vast tunnel or cavern, the extent of which was shrouded in darkness. How the submarine had left the ocean and penetrated to this cavern it was impossible to say; but evidently it had come so far over a shining rail, a break in which had caused the disaster. The cavern or tunnel was paved with disjointed blocks of stone which once might have been smooth and even, but which now were disarranged by time and slimy with dampness and seagrowths. In the clammy air Miles involuntarily shuddered. “Good Lord, Rusty, we’re certainly up against it! The only fellow who could tell us our whereabouts is dead!”

Ward’s jaw tightened. “That rail leads somewhere: it’s our only hope. But first let us get our guns and some food.”

They were fortunate enough to discover several thermos bottles unbroken. Hot coffee revived their fainting spirits. Treating their bruises and cuts as well as they could, they left the submarine or car— it seemed to have been convertible for use either in water or on rail— and trudged ahead.

Beyond the break that had caused the wreck, the rail stretched away into illimitable blackness. Over rough stones, stumbling into shallow pools of water, the light of their torches serving but faintly to show the depressing surroundings, the two men plunged. Neither of them was without fear, but both possessed the enduring courage of men habituated to facing danger and sudden death without losing control of their faculties.

Time passed, but they had no means of telling how much, since their wrist watches no longer functioned. But after a while they noticed that the grade was upward and the going easier. At the same moment, Ward called attention to the fact that, even without electric torches, it was possible to see. All around the two Americans grew a strange light— a weird, phosphorescent glow, revealing far walls and massive pillars.

Now they could see that they were in a vast chamber, undoubtedly the work of human hands; a room awe-inspiring to behold, and even more than awe-inspiring in the reflections it forced upon their minds. Passages radiated on either hand to mysterious depths, and great bulks loomed in the spectral light. Justus Miles gave a low cry of amazement when a closer investigation revealed those bulks to be the wrecks of mighty and intricate machines, the use of which it was vain to conjecture. He looked at Ward.

“Solino spoke of a city down in the ocean. Can this be it?”

Ward shook his head. “Everything here is old, abandoned. Look— what is that?”

The figure of a giant creature, carved either from stone or marble and encrusted with phosphorous, stood lowering in their path. It was that of a winged beast with a human head. Its features were negroid in character; and so malignant was the expression of the staring face, so lifelike the execution of the whole statue, that a chill of fear ran through their veins. It was in Ward’s mind that this gigantic carving was akin to the ones he had seen in Egypt, and as old, if not older.

Beyond the statue the rail curved and the grade leveled; and, rounding the bend, they were amazed to come upon a sort of “yard” where the rail stopped. In that enclosure, on several sidings, were submarine cars similar to the wrecked one they had abandoned. But that was not the sight which brought them to a breathless halt. Beyond the sidings stood what appeared to be a small building of gleaming crystal.

After a moment of breathless wonder they cautiously approached the bizarre structure. No dampness or phosphorus impaired the clarity of its walls. The material composing them felt vibrantly warm to the touch. It was not glass, yet it was possible to look without difficulty into the interior of the building, which appeared to be one large room containing nothing but a central device not unlike the filaments of an electric bulb. In fact, the whole building, viewed from the outside, reminded the two adventurers of a giant light globe. The filaments radiated a steady and somehow exhilarating light. The door—they knew it was a door because an edging of dark metal outlined its frame—gave admittance to the room.

“Shall we?” questioned Miles; and Ward answered doubtfully, “I don’t know. Perhaps….”

But at last they turned the golden knob, felt the door give to their pressure, and stepped through the entrance into the soft radiance of the interior. Unthinkingly, Ward released his hold on the knob and the door swung shut behind them. Instantly there was a flash of light, and they were oppressed by a feeling of nausea: and then, out of a momentary pit of blackness, they emerged to find that the room of crystal had oddly changed its proportions and opaqueness.

“Quick!” cried Ward; “let us get out of this place.” Both men found the door and staggered forth.

Then, at sight of what they saw, they stood rooted to the spot in sheer amazement. The gloomy tunnel and the sidings of submarine cars had vanished, and they were standing in a vast hall, an utterly strange and magnificent hall, staring up into the face of a creature crudely human and colored green!

The green man was almost of heroic proportions; he was clad in but a breech-clout, and was so broad as to appear squat in stature. He carried a short club, and appeared almost as dumbfounded as the two Americans. A moment he regarded them, then, with a ferocious snarl of rage, he hurled himself upon the startled Ward and half clubbed, half pushed him to the floor. Recovering from his momentary inaction and realizing the danger in which his friend stood, Miles shouted and leaped upon the green man’s back, fastening his sinewy fingers about the giant’s throat.

But the latter was possessed of incredible strength, and, straightening up, he shook off Miles as a bear might shake off an attacking dog, and threw him heavily to the floor. Then the green giant whirled up his club, and it would have gone hardly with Miles if Ward had not remembered his automatic and fired in the nick of time. As if poleaxed, the green man fell; and both the adventurers recovered their feet.

“Look out!” shouted Ward.

Through a wide entrance came charging a dozen greenish giants. Miles fired both his pistols. The leader of the greenish men paused in mid-leap, clawing at his stomach.

“This way, Kid!” yelled Ward; “this way!”

Taking advantage of the confusion in the ranks of the attackers, the two sprang to where an exit in the far wall promised an avenue of escape. Down a broad passage they rushed. Seemingly the passage ended in a cul-de-sac, for a wall of blank whiteness barred further progress. Behind them came charging the greenish giants uttering appalling cries. Desperately the two Americans turned, resolved to sell their lives as dearly as possible; but at that moment happened a sheer miracle. The blank wall divided, revealing a narrow crevice through which they sprang. Noiselessly the crevice closed behind them, shutting out the green pursuers, and a voice said— a voice in precise but strangely accented English:

“We have been expecting you, gentlemen, but— where is Solino?”

NEVER WOULD Miles and Ward forget the amazement of that moment. They were in a place which looked not unlike a huge laboratory. Then they saw it was a lofty room containing a variety of strange mechanisms. But it was not on these their eyes focussed. Confronting them in odd wheelchairs, with hairless heads projecting from tubular containers like the one they had seen encasing the man at the control board of the submarines, were all of half a hundred crippled men!

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Miles, “I must be seeing things!”

“Where is Solino?” demanded the voice in strangely accented English.

Ward saw that the question came from an individual in a wheelchair a few feet in front of them.

“Solino is dead,” he answered.

“Dead?” A ripple of sound came from the oddly seated men.

“Yes, the submarine car was wrecked in the tunnel, and everyone aboard was killed save us two.”

The hairless men looked at one another. “This is Spiro’s work,” said one of them, still in English; and another said, “Yes, Spiro has done this.”

Miles and Ward were recovering somewhat from their initial astonishment. “What place is this?” asked the former.

“This is Apex— or, rather, the Palace of the Heads in Apex.”

The Palace of the Heads! The two Americans tried to control their bewilderment.

“Pardon us if we don’t understand. Everything is so strange. First the submarine was wrecked. Then we entered the crystal room and the tunnel vanished. We can’t understand how this place can be at the bottom of the Atlantic.”

“It isn’t at the bottom of the Atlantic.”

“Not at the bottom? Then where?”

“It isn’t,” said the voice slowly, “in your world at all.”

The import of what was said did not at first penetrate the minds of the Americans. “Not in our world?” they echoed stupidly.

“Come,” said the crippled man smiling inscrutably, “you are tired and hungry. Later I shall explain more.” His strangely colored eyes bored into their own. “Sleep,” said his voice softly, imperatively; and though they fought against the command with all the strength of their wills, heaviness weighted down their eyelids and they slept.

From dreamless sleep they awakened to find that fatigue had miraculously vanished, that their wounds were healed and their bodies and clothes were free of slime and filth. All but one of the crippled men— for so in their own minds they termed the odd individuals— had gone away. That one was the man who had first addressed them.

“Do not be alarmed,” he said. “In our own fashion we have given you food and rest and attended to your comfort.”

Ward smiled, though a trifle uncertainly. “We are not easily frightened,” he replied.

“So! That is good. But now listen: my name is Zoro and I am Chief of the Heads of Apex. Ages ago we Heads lived on a continent of your Earth now known to scholars as Atlantis. When Atlantis sank below the waves—in your sacred book that tragedy is known as the Flood— all but a scattered few of its people perished. I and my companions were among the survivors.”

The Americans stared at him unbelievingly. “But that was a hundred thousand years ago!” exclaimed Ward.

“Three hundred thousand,” corrected Zoro.

They stared at him dumbly.

“Yes,” said Zoro; “it sounds incredible to your ears, but it is true. Mighty as is the industrial civilization of your day, that of Atlantis was mightier. Of course, the country wasn’t then called Atlantis; its real name was A-zooma. A-zooma ruled the world. Its ships with sails of copper and engines of brass covered the many seas which now are lands. Its airships clove the air with a safety and speed your own have still to attain. The wealth of the world poured into A-zooma, and its rulers waxed vain-glorious and proud. Time after time the enslaved masses of A-zooma and of conquered countries rose in great rebellions. Then against them marched the “iron baylas” breathing death and destruction, and from the air mighty ships poured down the yellow fog….”

Zoro paused, but presently went on: “So we ruled— for ten thousand years; until the scientists who begot those engines of destruction became afraid, because the serfs themselves began to build secret laboratories. We of the priesthood of science saw the inevitable disaster. Long ago we had put off our bodies—”

Zoro smiled at the Americans’ amazement. “No,” he said, “I am not a cripple in a wheelchair. This tubular container holds no fleshly body. Inside of it is a mechanical heart which pumps artificial blood— blood purified by a process I will not describe— through my head. It also contains certain inner devices under my mental control, devices that take the place of human hands and feet. Only by accident or through lack of certain essentials can I die.”

His listeners stared at him in awe. “You mean,” faltered Miles, “that save for your head you are all— machine?”

“Practically, yes. We priest-scientists of the Inner Mystery prolonged life in such fashion. I was three thousand years old when— But enough! I will not weary you with a recital of how the slaves burrowed the bowels of A-zooma and of how the masters loosed against them the forces of the atom. Suffice it to say that on an island we built our vast system of buildings— or tunnel as you choose to call it— and sealed them away from the outside world, entrance being made by submarines through automatically controlled locks.

“At about this time our experiments opened up another realm of existence, manifesting at a vibratory rate above that of earth. To this new realm we brought workers who built the City of Apex and the palace you are in. But, unfortunately, we brought with us no weapons of offense, and in the new world we had neither the material nor the delicate mechanisms and factories to reproduce them. However, for countless ages there was no rebellion on the part of the workers who, even in A-zooma, had worshipped us as gods. They were born, grew old and died, but we abode forever. Besides, in the City of Apex they were freer than they had ever been before, merely having to furnish our laboratories with certain raw materials and the wherewithal to sustain the blood supply on which our lives depend. But, of late, they have made common cause with the original inhabitants of this plane, the green men—”

The green men! As if the words were a signal, a dreadful thing happened. Out of a far shadow leaped a lean and hideous monster. To Miles’ startled eyes it seemed to grow as it leaped. Thin, unbelievably thin it was, yet swelling at the head. From between two goggle-eyes writhed a rope-like trunk. Twelve feet in the air its head towered over Zoro. “Look out!” screamed the American.

Zoro’s chair seemed to jump. Too late! Around the tubular container wrapped the snake-like trunk, plucking the wheelchair and its occupant from the floor and dangling them high in air. “Shoot!” cried Zoro.

Miles shot. His bullet ploughed through the unbelievably thin body and ricochetted from a pillar beyond. Ward fired with better effect. One of the goggle eyes spattered like glass. Under a fusillade of bullets the monster wilted, giving expression to a weird, shrill cry. Zoro dangled head downwards. To drop from such a height on his skull would probably be fatal.

But the monster did not drop him. Instead, in its death agony, its grip tightened, and the Americans witnessed an incredible sight. Before their very eyes the monster began rapidly to shrink. Its tenuous body telescoped together, becoming thinner and thinner in the process, until on the floor there lay the lifeless body of a snake-like creature not more than six inches in length!

“Good Lord!” breathed Miles.

Zoro who had escaped unscathed from his perilous plight, regarded it with his peculiarly colored eyes.

“It is a tah-a-la,” he said, “and must have entered the room at the same time you did. The green men often capture and train them for hunting. When about to seize their prey their bodies have the power of enormously stretching.” Outwardly he seemed unaffected by the danger safely passed and waved away several of his fellows who had wheeled to the spot attracted by the noise of the pistols.

The Americans were more shaken.

“Perhaps,” said Ward, “there is danger of—”

“None,” replied Zoro. “I know there are no other tah-a-las inside these rooms, since it is the nature of these beasts to rush to each other’s aid when they scream. And as for outside attacks, the laboratories are insulated against any the insurgent workers can make. Their weapons are poor—the green men use but clubs. No, it is not their attacks we fear but their refusal to furnish us with supplies. They worshipped us as gods, and the giving of supplies was long a religious rite. But now they doubt our divinity, and, since they no longer listen to or obey our decrees, we have no means of punishing them. Spiro is responsible for this.”

“Spiro?” questioned the two men.

“He whom we raised to the dignity of godhead on the accidental death of Bah-koo, causing a deep sleep to fall upon him in the temple and grafting his head upon the mechanical body left by the latter. Twice before we had done this with citizens of Apex, and how were we to know that Spiro would resent it? True, he was in love with Ah-eeda, but the physical passions of men die with the organisms that give them birth. For three years he dwelt with us in the laboratories, learning the wisdom of the Heads, and then,”— Zoro’s face became forbidding— “he denounced us to the people. Though there was more or less discontent, they would never have dared defy us save for him. He told them that our curses could do no harm, that we were merely the heads of men like himself and would die if they refused to give us the wherewithal to renew blood.

“But this refusal of theirs is an evil thing,” he cried, looking at the Americans with his strangely colored eyes. “It violates the custom of ages, and strikes at the very roots of our existence. So we held council and sent two of our number to Earth after men and weapons to enforce our demands. For years we had watched Earth, seen its myriad civilizations rise and fall, studied the coming of America to power and importance. So it was to America that Solino went, by way of the tunnel that still exists under the Atlantic—”

“And hired us,” interrupted Ward, “and brought us to the tunnel in the submarine-car where we—”

“Stepped into the crystal chamber,” finished Zoro. “That chamber is a re-vibrating device of certain rays and chemicals. The shutting of the door closed the switches and hurled your bodies to where a receiving-station on this plane integrated them again.”

So they were not at the bottom of the ocean. They were— stupendous thought— living in a new world of matter!

“Spiro suspected our plans,” continued Zoro. “He isolated us in our laboratories, and, by means of a crystal tube, went through to the tunnel, tore up a section of track, and wrecked the submarine-car. But his act was only partially successful. You two escaped death; you are here; you are ready to keep faith and fight in our service.”

“We are ready to fight,” assented Miles and Ward. The situation was certainly an unusual one, and one they did not clearly understand; but theirs was the simple code of the mercenary soldier— they would fight for whoever hired them, and be loyal as long as their wages were paid.

“Then there is no time to lose,” exclaimed Zoro. “Already our blood grows thin. You must go back to the wrecked submarine and retrieve your weapons.”

“But how?”

“There is a sending tube in the next compartment.”

They followed Zoro through lofty rooms filled with amber light until they came to one wherein were assembled the rest of the Heads. Zoro spoke to them swiftly in a strange, flowing tongue. Then he conducted the two Americans to a crystal chamber at the end of the room and bade them enter it. The vibrant light caressed their limbs.

“When I close this door,” he said, “you will find yourselves back in the tunnel. Board one of the submarine-cars on the siding and proceed to the wreck.” He gave them detailed instructions how to operate the car. “Then get your weapons and return. Do you understand?”

They nodded.

“The workers possess no arms the equal of machine-guns and bombs. They will be at your mercy. Remember that you are fighting for our lives and that, if you save them, your reward will be great. Fear nothing.”

The door closed. After a moment there was a blinding flash, a moment of swooning darkness, and then they were staring through transparent walls into the phosphorescent gloom of the underseas crypt. Suddenly, what they had recently undergone seemed the product of an illusion, a dream. Ward shook himself vigorously.

“I guess it was real enough,” he said. “Let us see if the car works.”

They ran out to the wreck and returned without trouble. The machine-gun was mounted for action and the gas-bombs slung over their shoulders in convenient bags.

“All right,” said Miles tensely, “let us go.”

Again they entered the crystal chamber; again there was the flash of light and the sensation of falling into darkest space. Then, in a moment it seemed, they were stepping into the hall from which they had fled pursued by the green men— only for the second time, to be confronted by a crowd of hostile giants.

“Don’t fire, Kid!” yelled Ward. “It’s no use to kill them uselessly. Give them the bombs!”

Disconcerted by the attack of tear-gas, the green men broke and fled. “After them,” panted Ward: “we’ve got them on the run!”

Thrilling to the lust of battle, the two Americans emerged into an open square. They had little time to note the odd buildings and strange statues. Coming towards them with leveled weapons, the nature of which they did not know, was a band of short men— that is, short in comparison with the greenish giants. Behind this company appeared still another, and another. Tear-gas was useless to stop their onward rush.

“All right,” yelled Miles, “it’s lead they want!”

The machine-gun spat a hail of bullets. Before the first withering blast the swarthy men recoiled in confusion. Then a second volley scattered them like chaff. Miles and Ward were conscious of no pity for the dead and wounded lying on the pavement of yellow stone. This was their profession, the stern business of which they were masters. In France they had seen worse sights, and in Nicaragua and Mexico. They swept destructively out of the square and into a long tree-lined avenue. This might be another world or dimension but its trees looked not unlike those of tropical America.

In a short while the radiating streets were cleared of crowds and the cries of the mob died away. Miles and Ward paused in the shadow of an overhanging wall and wiped their faces. “That was quick work, all right,” said Ward; and, even as he said it, the wall seemed to fall upon their unprotected heads and crush them into unconsciousness….

OUT OF A SICK DARKNESS they came. At first they thought they were confronting Zoro. Then, as the mists of unconsciousness cleared from aching heads, they perceived that they were in a vast hall crowded with swarthy men in short tunics, and with greenish giants wearing nothing but breech-clouts and swinging short clubs. The fierce eyes of the greenish giants were upon them, and the vengeful ones of the swarthy men. But the desire of both to rend and tear was held in check by the dominant head emerging from a tubular container mounted upon a wheelchair. The Americans stared. This was not the head of Zoro. No!

“The head of Spiro,” thought Miles and Ward with sinking hearts.

They had fallen into the power of the leader of the insurgent workers!

Spiro— for it was indeed he— regarded them with pitiless eyes. His English was slower and not as fluent as that of Zoro, and his words harder to understand.

“You Americans, beings of another world, have come here at the bidding of the Heads to slay and kill for gold.”

He paused. “I who for three years studied your country, learned its language, history, did not believe men of your race could be so vile.”

He paused again, and Ward broke out hotly, “It is true that we came here to fight for gold, but who are you to speak of vileness? Have you not turned on the Heads, your benefactors, now your brothers, who raised you to their height? Are you not leading a revolt of the workers which would deny them the means of sustaining life? Are you not seeking to perpetrate— murder?”

Spiro regarded him slowly. “Is it possible you are in ignorance of what those means are? Listen, then, while I tell you the hideous truth. Since the dawn of our history, until the present moment, the Heads have maintained their lives by draining blood from the veins of thousands of Apexans yearly!”

The Americans’ faces whitened. “What do you mean?” breathed Ward.

“I mean that the artificial blood pumped by mechanical hearts through the brains of the Heads— yes, and that is now being pumped through my own!” cried Spiro bitterly— “is manufactured from human blood. Human blood is the basis of it. And to get that blood every Apexan must yield his quota in the temple. Slowly but surely this practice is sapping the vitality of the race. But though the Apexans realized this they were afraid to speak against the custom. For the Heads were worshipped as gods; and when the gods spoke, blasphemers died— horribly.”

Miles and Ward shuddered.

“Even I,” went on Spiro, “denounced blasphemers and thought it holy that each should yield a little of his blood to the Almighty Ones. Then I woke from darkness to find myself— a Head. At first I could not understand, for I was in love with Ah-eeda— and can a machine mate? But it is true that love is largely desire, and desire of the body. With the death of the body, desire died; and it may be that pride and ambition took its place. But, for all that, there were moments when I remembered my lost manhood and dreamed of Ah-eeda. Yes, though the laboratory of the Heads revealed wonders of which I had never dreamed, though I looked into your world and studied its languages and history, though I was worshipped as a god and endless life stretched ahead of me— nevertheless, I could see that the strength of my race was being sapped, its virility lost!”

His voice broke. “In the face of such knowledge what were immortality and power? Could they compensate for one hour of life and love as humanity lived it? So I brooded. Then one day in the temple I looked into the face of a girl about to be bled and recognized Ah-eeda. In that moment, hatred of the fiends posing as gods and draining the vitality of deluded worshippers, crystallized and drove me to action. So it was I who denounced the Heads, aroused the people!”

Spiro’s voice broke; died.

Miles and Ward stared at him, horrified; and after a while Miles exclaimed, “We never suspected! We would never have fought to maintain such a thing had we known!”

“Nonetheless,” said Spiro inflexibly, “you fought for it, and many people died and more are afraid. Superstition is a hard thing to kill. Already there are those who murmur that truly the Heads are gods and have called up demons from the underworld, as they threatened they would, to smite them with thunder until once more they yield blood in the temple. But I know that without blood the Heads must die miserably and the people be freed from their vampire existence. It is true that I too shall die, but that is nothing. I die gladly. Therefore, to keep the people from sacrificing blood, to show them that you are mortal and the Heads powerless to save the demons they have raised, you must be slain in front of the great palace.

“Yes; you, too, must die for the people!”

BOUND AND HELPLESS, lying on their backs and staring into the gloom of the small chamber into which they had been thrown, Miles and Ward had time to ponder their desperate situation. Spiro was delaying their death until the workers of Apex would have time to gather and witness it. At first they had struggled to loosen their bonds, but such efforts served only to tighten them. Then they had tried the trick of rolling together so that the fingers of one might endeavor to undo the knots securing the other. On a memorable occasion in Turkey they had freed themselves in this manner. But the attempts proved fruitless now. The floor of the chamber was smooth, nor could they find any rough projection on which to saw the cords.

Exhausted, they finally desisted. The same thought was in both minds: Were they doomed to die in this strange world, fated never to see Earth again? Well, a soldier of fortune must expect to meet with reverses. Still, it was a tough break.

After a long silence Ward said, “How were we to know that the heads lived on the blood of the people?”

“Would it have made any difference if we had known?” asked Miles.

“Perhaps not.” Ward tried to shrug his shoulders. “After all, we have fought to maintain systems not much better. There is little difference, save in degree, between draining the life-blood of a race and robbing it of the fruits of its labor.”

“But sometimes we fought to liberate people,” protested Miles.

“Yes, I like to think of that. It’s good to have something to our credit when we cash in. And it looks,” he said pessimistically, “as if our time to do so has come.”

They ceased talking. Time passed cheerlessly. Finally both of them fell into a heavy slumber from which they were aroused by the sudden flashing in their eyes of a bright light, bright only in comparison with the former intense darkness.

“What’s that!” cried Ward, startled.

“S-sh,” said a soft voice warningly, and when their eyes became accustomed to the illumination, they were amazed to perceive the slender form of a young girl carrying a torch. She was marvelously lovely to look at, with her blue-black hair brushed straight back from a low, broad forehead and her smooth skin as dark as that of an Egyptian. Nor was she dressed unlike pictures Miles had seen of people of ancient Egypt. The embroidered plates covering the small breasts shone and glittered; bracelets and bangles flashed on bare arms and shapely ankles; while from the waist to below the knees was a skirt of rich material. On the small feet were sandals of intricate design. Besides the torch, the girl carried a slim, gleaming knife, and for a moment the adventurers were guilty of imagining she had come to slay them where they lay. But her manner quickly dispelled their fear. Sinking on her knees beside them, she said, “Do not be afraid; Ah-eeda will not harm you.”

So this was Ah-eeda, the girl of whom Spiro had spoken. Miles and Ward devoured her loveliness with their eyes; her coming flooded their bosoms with renewed hope. She continued speaking. Her English was not at all fluent, and she was often compelled to make it clear with expressions in her own tongue and with explanatory gestures. But to Miles and Ward, who knew nothing of temple training, her speaking English at all was a miracle.

“Is it true that you are men from another world?”

“Yes.”

“And you came to make the people give their blood to the Heads?”

“No, that is not true. We were in ignorance of what it was we fought for. Had we known the truth we would have refused to fight for the Heads.”

“Then, if I were to set you free, you would go back to your own world and not fight my people any more?”

They nodded vigorously.

“Oh, I am so glad,” exclaimed the girl; “I did not want to see you die!” She looked at Miles as she spoke. “I saw you before Spiro this afternoon. Poor Spiro!” she murmured as she cut their bonds. It was some time before circulation was restored to their limbs.

Miles asked anxiously, “How many guards are there at the door?”

“Twelve,” said the girl; “but they are playing wong-wo in the room outside and drinking soola.” She pantomimed her meaning. “I came here through a secret passage beyond,” she indicated by a wave of her hand. “Now that you can walk, let us hurry.” Shyly she took Miles’ hand. The warm clasp of her fingers made the blood course faster in his veins.

Through a long passage they glided to another room. There were several confusing turns and dark hallways, and twice they had to cower in shadowy corners while Ah-eeda boldly advanced and held converse with occasional persons encountered, though for the most part the way was silent and deserted. At last they came to a low door opening on a narrow street and the girl put out her torch.

“To return to our own world we must first reach the Palace of the Heads,” said Ward. The girl nodded. “I will guide you there. But we must hurry: the workers will soon be gathered.”

Never were Miles and Ward to forget that breathless flight. The girl led them through narrow and devious byways over which dark buildings leaned, evidently avoiding the more direct and open thoroughfares. It seemed as if they were to escape without hindrance when, suddenly, out of a dimly lighted doorway, lurched the gigantic figure of a green man carrying a flare. This flare threw the figures of the fugitives into relief.

“Ho!” roared the green man, and came at them like a furious bull. It seemed characteristic of his kind to attack without parley. The torch dropped as he came. There was no resisting that mighty bulk. Unarmed, and with scant room to move backward, the two Americans went down; and that would have been the end of the battle if Ah-eeda, who had shrunk to one side out of the way of the combatants, had not snatched up the still flaming torch and held it against the naked back of the greenish giant. With a scream of anguish the latter ceased throttling the Americans, clapped his hands to his scorched back and rolled clear of them.

Instantly they staggered to their feet and fled down the roadway after the light-footed Ah-eeda. Behind them the screams of the green man made the night hideous.

“Damn him!” panted Ward; “he’ll have the whole town on our heels!” Providentially, at that moment the road debouched into the great square. This they crossed at a run, and so, for the last time, entered the Palace of the Heads. Its wide halls and chambers were practically deserted.

Past the crystal chamber where they had first materialized into this strange world they dashed, and through the far door and down the corridor to the blank wall. Already in the rear could be heard the sound of pursuit, the rising clamor of the mob. Ward hammered on the wall with both fists.

“Zoro! Zoro! let us in!”

Now the first of the mob had entered the corridor.

“Zoro! Zoro!”

Noiselessly, and just in time, the wall parted and they sprang through, Miles half carrying the slender form of Ah-eeda. The wall closed behind them, obliterating the fierce cries and footbeats of their pursuers.

In front of them was Zoro, his hairless head projecting from the tubular container. Ah-eeda shrank fearfully into Miles’ embrace. All the other Heads were ranged back of Zoro, but there was something odd about them. The massive craniums lolled loosely to one side or another and the curiously colored eyes were glazed or filmed. Zoro held his head erect, but only with an effort, and his features were drawn and ghastly looking.

“Yes,” he said in a feeble voice, “the Heads are dying. You need not tell me that you have failed. In the end force always fails. No longer will the veins of the people yield their blood to us, and without their blood we cannot live. Soon three hundred thousand years of intelligence will be no more.” His voice faltered.

Miles and Ward had learned to feel nothing but horror and detestation of the Heads, but now in the face of their tragic end, hearing the dying words of Zoro, awe and sympathy struggled with other emotions in their hearts. These mighty intellects had lived before the days of the flood; their eyes filming now in death had seen the ancient empires of Earth rise and fall…. Sumeria, Babylon…. Stupendous thought; and yet in the face of death a hundred thousand years of life was of no more importance than that of a day. Suddenly Ward sprang forward and shook the fainting Head.

“Zoro! Zoro! what of us? We served you faithfully and would now return to Earth.”

Visibly Zoro made a great effort to reply.

“Go to the crystal tube in the laboratory beyond,” he said at last. “It still works. I have told you how to run the car. Mend the tracks. The locks open automatically and let the car into the ocean when it strikes the switch. Your reward is in….”

The words died away. Then, with a sudden influx of strength, the hairless head straightened, the strangely colored eyes cleared, and in a loud voice Zoro called out something in an unknown tongue and then collapsed.

Out of that chamber of death the Americans fled, suddenly afraid of its weird occupants. In time the workers of Apex would break into that strange laboratory and find the vampires of the ages dead. And in a very short time Spiro himself would die— Spiro the avenger.

At the crystal tube Miles paused.

“Ah-eeda,” he said softly, “we return to Earth, but I shall never forget you, never!”

A moment he hesitated, and then bent and kissed her swiftly. Instantly she was in his arms, clinging to him passionately.

“I too,” she cried; “I too!”

“She means,” said Ward, “that she wants to go back with us. What do you say?”

“God knows I am tempted to take her,” said Miles; “but would it be right? What does she know of Earth?”

“Nothing,” said Ward; “but I believe she loves you. And have you thought that after helping us to escape she may not be safe among her own people?”

Miles bowed his head. “Very well,” he said; “so be it. I swear to make her happy.”

So there were three of them who entered the crystal tube.

_____________________

9: Kingbird

Hugh Pendexter

Adventure, May 1927

DAVID GEEN in the tall grass by the creek watched the dot down the Indian Nation trail develop into a small man on an unusually large roan horse.

The rider, on discovering Geen’s horse picketed up the creek, reined the roan down to a walk. He did not locate Geen in the thick grass until he had approached within easy pistol-shot. Geen sprang to his feet and quickly gained the trail and stood with his hands on his hips, close to his two guns. He scrutinized the horseman closely.

The latter approached at a walk. The thinness of his face was accentuated by the big hat. An attempt at a beard had not advanced beyond a yellow, scrubby fuzz which was insufficient to conceal the receding chin. Geen, as he stared at him, was trying to remember something. The stranger halted and cheerily called out—

“Be I aiming right to hit Medicine Lodge?”

“Off your course some miles,” mechanically replied Geen, as his memory almost recalled an elusive something. “Medicine Lodge is northeast of here. This crick runs into the Salt— Wait a second— Good land and hallelujah! That’s who you are! Charlie Pottle from Ryansville back in Iowy! Little Charlie Pottle, or I’m seven liars! Off that hoss, you runt, and shake hands!”

The small, inquisitive eyes darted up and down the tall figure. The lips parted in the beginning of a pleased smile, then straightened as the heavily bearded face remained that of a stranger. He slipped from his horse and in a shrill, chirrupy voice admitted:

“You’re dead right, mister, I’m Charlie Pottle of Ryansville. But darned if I can place you.” With a deep laugh Geen advanced with both hands outstretched.

“Look sharp, you little rat,” he commanded. “Mean to say you don’t know me, even with these whiskers on?”

Pottle puckered his brows, then yelped with delight and seized Geen’s hands and pumped them up and down.

“Dave Geen, you big ox! Well, of all things! Them whiskers plumb fooled me. And meeting up like this down on the edge of the Injun Nation!”

“And seeing you coming up from the Nation!” broke in Geen. “It’s the beatenist thing I ever heard tell.”

“And the last time I saw you was the day the teacher licked me and you chipped in so’s I could scoot through the winder— What? What?”

He dropped Geen’s hands and stared at the small badge pinned on the flannel shirt.

“The badge? Yes, sirree. I’m the sheriff,” acknowledged Geen.

Pottle had to shake hands again; and cried admiringly: “Doggone! Might ’a’ known you’d go and do it sometime, somewhere. You always played you was the sheriff in our games. Prob’ly because you was the biggest lummox in the village. Always the sheriff, busy hounding desp’rate outlaws. And here you be, with a truly-goodness badge on!”

“Squat down here and talk!” roared Geen, his big hand fondly patting Pottle’s shoulder, “I’ll picket your nag.”

“Hoss won’t wander any. You’ve made quite a waller on the grass already.”

And Pottle threw himself down on his back and clasped his hands back of his head and urged, “Now tell me things.”

Geen dropped beside him, and demanded: "Where’d you go when you pulled out of Ryansville? You quit town first. You talk first. Where you been? What you been doing these dozen years? I can’t get over meeting you here! And won’t Annie be surprized!”

Pottle stared round-eyed at his boyhood playmate, and mumbled: “Dave Geen, sheriff. Wearing a badge like all git-out. Packing two guns, just as he used to pack wooden ones.”

Then he ruffled his scant thatch of yellow hair and said more soberly, “Annie? Annie Bent, of course.”

Geen grinned and corrected: “Annie Geen. Married me and come out here and has stuck like a Trojan through some mighty slim pickings.”

Pottle came to a sitting posture and plucked idly at the grass and murmured:

“Of course. You two was made for one t’other. She knew you’d make good. Big feller like you can’t help making good. No one can shove you around. If I’d had your beef, the teacher wouldn’t tried to lick me that day, and I’d prob’ly stuck to Ryansville. Well, well, you’ve certainly had the luck, Dave, to git a girl like Annie Bent.” He fell silent.

Geen filled his pipe, then stuffed it back in his shirt pocket and mumbled:

“Charlie, I’m not always a hero. I’m a big jump from it just now. I’d never say as much to any living soul but you.”

“Bosh!” Then apprehensively, “But you’ve treated Annie all right, ain’t you?”

“Good land! As if any one would ever want to treat Annie bad. Nothing like that, Charlie. Let me tell you. We come out here to Kansas in ’81. Come to Caldwell. Wildest town on the border. You had to have guts to live there— with the prettiest woman in Kansas for your wife. We was poor as Job’s turkey, but I worked and worked and got ahead a bit. I found no one wanted to shove me around if I held my head up and my chin out. I was deputy under Mike Meagher.”

“Served under Meagher! Why, I heard tell about him down in the Nation. He killed a feller named Powell and then was killed by Powell’s cousin, Jim Talbot. But go on. Now you’re a sheriff as big as Billy-be— Tell the rest.”

“I ain’t trying to tell all I’ve done out here, Charlie. I’m working up to con¬ fessing something. We moved to Medicine Lodge, and two years ago I was made sheriff. Still keeping my head up and chin out.”

“Of course you’d be sheriff. You always was that in all our games. I was always the desp’rate cuss who got caught.”

“Shut up. I’m trying to confess something. And it ain’t easy to do. Three months ago we got word Annie’s old bachelor uncle had died—”

“Old Sawdust!” interrupted Pottle. “Always reckoned he’d live forever to save the cost of a burying. Old Sawdust cashed in. Well, who cares? He never had a smile for any one.”

Geen frowned slightly and explained:

“He left all his property to Annie. She’s a rich woman. We’re going back to Iowy and I’m going to manage her property.” He paused and fumbled for his pipe, but did not take it from the pocket.

“I can’t see no shame in that. Only decent thing Old Sawdust ever done,” mused Pottle. “Of course you’ll look after her property, being her husband. If you’d stay out here you’d double in no time. In a year or so they’ll open that pretty stretch in the Nation the redskins call Oklahoma. With ready cash, and being johnny-on-the-spot—”

“No, no, Charlie. We’ve decided to go back East. Annie never liked out here.”

Pottle’s gaze rested dreamily on the range of low hills in the southwest. In a low voice he said: “I can see the town now, Dave. Sleepy. Almost death-struck. We used to see who’d hear the first frogs singing in the spring. All the roads lined with trees. Make a hoss feel sleepy just to jog along in the shade. Well, well. I’m mooning. Why shouldn’t you go back? Nothing to confess in doing that. If I hadn’t been so undersized and onery I’d prob’ly be living there today. We keep gitting off the trail. You was going to tell me something— how I used to break my small back building sod’n’ ditch fences! And frost-bitten roasting ears! I can almost taste ’em now— Old gander leading the wild geese giving his call high in the sky. Wind moaning through the trees in late fall—”

“Shut up! Good land, Charlie, how can I get along if you keep that up? It’s hard enough anyway.”

Then Geen was silent again and tugged at his beard.

This time Pottle kept silent. Geen groaned, said: “You’re the only person on God’s green footstool I’d say it to, Charlie— Annie’s the last one I’d tell— I’m afraid.”

Geen averted his face. Pottle sagged backward until he rested on his elbows. Bewilderment and incredulity stared from his small eyes. After a count of five he querulously cried—

“I can’t git the right slant of it!” Keeping his face turned toward the creek, Geen pulled up long grass stalks and slowly explained: “It’s Old Sawdust’s property that done it. When we was poor I was always keen to take any chance. That’s how I got to be sheriff. That’s why I got the name of the ‘Fighting Sheriff.’ Ready to stand up against any odds. Had only my life to lose. Always felt luck was with me— Now it’s vastly different.”

“But ain’t you quick as ever with your irons?” shrilly demanded Pottle.

Geen ceased plucking the wild grass and stared for a bit toward the low range of hills. His voice lacked vibration, life, when he finally said:

“It’s deeper’n that. You prob’ly won’t catch what I mean. Of a sudden I find I’m mighty precious to myself. So much to live for.”

“But you’ve always had Annie, and have her now,” reminded Pottle sharply.

Geen nodded slowly several times and agreed: “Yes, I’ve had her as my sweetheart back in Ryansville. I’ve had her out here to meet me when I come back from a long ride, when I was fetching in a prisoner, or a dead man tied to a hoss. Now there’s the property to enjoy along of her. If I stop a hunk of lead it means I’ve not only lost my life, but seventy-five thousand dollars and a life of ease and happiness with Annie. Why should I run any more chances of being brought home, slung across a hoss like a bag of meal?”

Pottle sucked in his thin cheeks with an explosive sound, and said fiercely: “All right. Play it that way. But why tell folks about it? Why ain’t you back in Iowy, hogging your luck? What’s to hinder? The trail’s open. And just what’n-do you mean, anyhow, Dave?”

Geen kept his gaze on the hills, three miles away, and refused to meet his companion’s boring scrutiny. Squaring his shoulders as if tojwithstand a physical shock, he bluntly confessed:

“The property’s made a coward of me, Charlie. Fate’s waited till this property was dumped into our laps before arranging for me to git myself rubbed out. I know it! And if I’d only quit office a few days ago it would have been all right! But I thought I’d hang on till I was leaving for Iowy. Then Fate sprung the trap. A few days ago the Curt Smith gang robbed the Cass Town bank, killed the cashier and wounded a citizen. Smith’n’ his men rode off with seventy thousand dollars. After that happened I couldn’t quit.”

“You quit? The Fighting Sheriff quit? I’d like to meet the man who’ll dare say as much!”

“But I want to quit, Charlie. There’s the shame of it. I’m ’mazed to finding myself telling you this.”

Pottle laughed uneasily and said: “Reason’s plain enough. You feel free to tell me because I’m an undersized runt. I don’t count. It used to gruel me, but I got used to it. Even in the old days I was always the feller who was chased and always got caught’n’ put in prison. One of ‘Old Sawdust’s’ henhouses was our prison.”

“That’s not it at all, Charlie,” protested Geen. “It’s because you’re my friend from the old town.”

“Putting salve on the little feller’s feelings. Well, let it go that way. Now you’ve talked right out in meeting, I’ve found nerve enough to tell something I’d never tell any one but you: I used to be crazy about Annie Bent when we was younkers back in Ryansville. No one knew it. I was a runt and knew I didn’t ever stand any show. I didn’t mind being licked that day by the teacher. I did mind most mortal to have Annie see him lam me and to know she was pitying me. So I dug out. There! I’ve matched your card. Your bacon’s burning. Pull it off the fire. Here’s the guts of our talk— gang busted a bank and you wanted to quit. But you couldn’t quit and you ain’t quit. Why be ashamed?”

“I haven’t quit,” slowly agreed Geen. “I started trailing the gang. If my hoss hadn’t stumbled and thrown me, and hurt my arm, it would be all over by this time.” And he nodded gloomily toward the low range. “And there’s the notion burning in my brain, like a oil-lamp in a winder, that I’m sure to be killed if I go into those hills. I know it. It’s the trap Fate has set for me. Git myself killed just because folks have the notion a sheriff must always go ahead against all odds.”

“But you being here on this crick shows you have the strongest, simon-pure brand of courage,” insisted Pottle. “You ain’t to blame if your hoss tossed you and hurt your arm so’s to make you slow with a gun. Who’s in the gang? How many? I’ve been in Texas, this country’s new to me.”

“Texas? Then you’ve heard of ‘Kingbird.’ It’s said he was with Curt Smith. Gawd, Charlie! If I went into those hills that Texas hellion is sure to wipe me out.”

Pottle burst into a cackling laugh of derision. “Kingbird rub you out! Then it would be because you’re blind, ’n’ deef. Funny how folks will build up a big name for a man. That Kingbird’s mostly a bluff. Another thing, he ain’t up here. Chased down into Old Mexico. How many in the Smith band?”

“Five.”

“Then first ’n’ last’n’ all the time you, or any other sheriff, would be crazy in the head to ride into such a nest alone. Where’s your posse?”

Geen stroked his beard and wearily explained: “Afraid to fetch one along. I’m telling you everything. I’m afraid I might show I was scared if I had any men along.”

“Uh-huh? Five of ’em.”

“Trail split a mile back. Two swung wide to the west— probably to cut up the chase. Well, Charlie, you hold northeast for twenty miles and you’ll bump into Medicine Lodge. Go to my house. Annie will put you up. She always liked you as a younker; you was always that grinning and good-natured. Keep her mind off me till I come back, or am brought back. I must always be the Fighting Sheriff to her.”

“Yeah. Fine. Let’s have a look at your arm.” And without waiting for permission Pottle rolled up the right shirt-sleeve.

“Probably won’t show much. The hurt seems to be in the bone,” hastily said Geen. Pottle stared at the heavily muscled shoulder. He could discover no sign of a hurt. He lowered his gaze as he turned away and said—

“Seems to be swelling fast.” He squatted and pulled at the grass and kept his gaze directed toward the hills. He did not believe Geen would ride into the outlaws’ lair once he was left alone. Still staring into the southwest, he began insisting: “Time the sun goes down you’ll be slower’n cold molasses with the righthand gun. I can’t figger out why Annie should be made a widder just because you’re foolish. Never git yourself killed to prove you’re brave. Now here’s what we’ll do: I’m too onery’n’ small to hold attention. But because I’m undersized and used to being put upon I’m like a weasel in smartness. Now I can enter the hills and, if they’re there, look ’em over without being seen. Then I’ll ride back here ’n’ report. Then you can send for a posse or, if your arm’s better, go back with me and out-Injun ’em. If they’ve passed through the hills the chase is ended so far as you’re concerned. And you can quit the job without being ashamed.”

“If Annie knew what I’ve told you, or ever got the notion I held back—”

“What she don’t know won’t hurt her,” snapped Pottle. “She sure would think you was a fine fool to toss your life away to a band of low-down cowardly murderers. I’m going to do some spying before it gits dark.” He was on his feet.

Geen also rose and protested: “It ain’t reg’lar. A sheriff never should hold back and let an outsider do the trailing. We’ll wait till morning—”

“No, I’m going. I’m free born ’n’ white. You stay here, and nurse your arm. Mighty little for me to do for the sake of the old days when you used to save me from being licked by the older boys. You was a prime fool to come down here alone.”

“It ain’t reg’lar for an outsider—”

“I’m an insider,” interrupted Pottle. “Swear me as a reg’lar. Swear in my hoss— only be spry about it. I’m going anyway.”

More than ever did Geen fear his activities would end in the hills if the outlaws were there. If they were gone the chase was ended. Shame had sent him this far on a one-sided errand. Ryansville appealed as being very beautiful. Nothing to worry one there, especially if he possessed Old Sawdust’s money.

Then there was the fiction about his arm. He could legitimately profit by it, now he had told the lie. And there could be no danger to Charlie Pottle, who would reconnoiter from a distance. In the old days playing Injun none could compete with young Pottle when it came to slyness.

Pottle whistled and the big roan promptly came toward him.

Geen fumbled in a pocket and fished out a small silver badge. He said earnestly: “If I thought there was any danger in this for you, Charlie, I’d never permit it. But you’ve convinced me I’m a fool not to take every advantage in trailing that outfit. You’re to keep under cover and take no risks. If you fail to see a light or smoke, you’ll know they’re gone and you’ll come back at once. Hold up your right hand.”

Pottle slowly repeated the oath and the badge was pinned to his shirt. Then Geen reminded him— “You haven’t any gun.”

And he started to pull one of his own, but Pottle backed away, explaining: “I sha’n’t need any gun. If I do I’ve got one in my blanket-roll. But I ain’t carrying any fight to that gang. Slop some crick-water on that arm’n’ shoulder to stop the swelling. Be back in the morning. Maybe tonight, but don’t think so. Don’t fret.”

Agile as a monkey he scrambled to the back of the big roan. He nodded a farewell with the same vacuous grin that always characterized him in Ryansville, and forded the creek and rode for the hills.

IN ANCIENT times great pockets were scooped from the sides of the hills. Some of these pockets, accessible from the plains, had almost perpendicular walls and contained deep pools. They were so many culs-de-sac. Pottle made several false starts before finding a path which promised to lead him over the crest of the range.

The western sky was old gold and rose when he dismounted and led the roan through a stretch of broken ground. Twilight had changed to dusk when a well defined trail brought him clear of the rocks and to a fringe of trees along the rim of a shallow amphitheater.

At the foot of a gentle slope were several houses of logs and sod. There was the aroma of wood-smoke. A horse whinnied. A blob of light suddenly appeared in one of the houses. Pottle took a broad leather belt and two guns from his blanket roll and shifted the badge from his shirt to the inside of his big hat. Leading the roan he proceeded down the slope without any pretense at secrecy. The light vanished.

“Hi, the house!” he shouted. “Show that light so’s I can see where I’m going.”

A gun clicked on his right and a low voice announced— “Stranger, you’re going to-a-fluking if you can’t give a good reason for being here.”

Pottle quickly replied: “I’m a stranger from Texas. Give me some grub and a snort of liquor before you do any shooting.”

“Keep on down to the first house. I’ll be close behind you.”

“My hoss ain’t done nothing. Don’t shoot him,” requested Pottle, as he resumed the descent. Behind him scuffed the boots of his captor. When close to the house a voice commanded—

“Stand where you are.”

“I’ve got him covered, Curt,” called out the man in the rear. “Seems to be alone.”

“Mebbe a trap,” growled Curt. “One of you boys make a light inside.”

Pottle remained motionless until a lighted lantern was taken into the house. Then came the command:

“Clasp your hands back of your neck and walk inside.” Pottle did as bid and turned the comer of the house and entered the lighted room. He could hear men taking positions so as to scrutinize him through the small hole of a window of the open door. Suddenly one of the unseen burst into a guffaw of laughter, and exclaimed:

“The guns! See the rat’s guns! Bigger’n he is.”

Three men came through the doorway and stared at him curiously. The leader a tall, slim man, was the first to speak. He told Pottle:

“We don’t know how you happen to come here. We’ll prob’ly have to leave you here for the next feller to find. But you’re sure funny to look at, stranger.”

Grinning good-naturedly Pottle explained : “Been running away from Texas. Run clean through the Injun Nation. These hills looked likely for a hiding-place till I could rest and git the lay of the land. As to rubbing me out, any one with the drop can do that. But what’s the p’int? You’re strangers to me, so there can’t be bad blood between us. I’m striking north to make Nebraska. Just what chance is there for a bite to eat and drink of liquor while you folks are deciding what you’ll do with me?”

The leader made a gesture, and the man behind Pottle yanked the heavy guns from the broad belt. Then the leader explained: “I’m Curt Smith, boss of this outfit. Mebbe you’ve heard of me down in Texas.”

“Met a thousand Smiths down there. You’re some punkins up here, I take it.”

“I’m boss in these hills. You can put your hands down. Squat in the corner and tell who you be and how you come to quit Texas and be sudden about it,” savagely ordered Smith. Then to one of the men— “Hanks, fetch some bacon’n’ beans’n’ a drink.”

“I’ll bet he’s Billy the Kid come to life,” jeered Hanks as he slipped through the door.

Pottle dropped in a corner and smiled good-naturedly at the tall leader. He gave his name and explained: “Been living down on the Trinity and other places in Texas. Couldn’t agree with a marshal. They’re saying I rubbed him out. I quit on the jump.”

“Never heard of no powder-burner by the name of Pottle,” said the leader.

“Texas is a big place. Down there we don’t hear much about you folks up here.”

For nearly a minute Smith lowered at him in silence, then he asked the third man: “Ever see him or hear of him before, Tusk?”

Tusk shook his shaggy head. For emphasis he said— “If he’d ever crossed my path I’d either overlook him or remember him— he’s that onery.”

Smith told Pottle: “I allow you’re a lying little runt. Don’t believe you ever hurt anybody, let alone shooting a marshal.”

Chuckling softly, Pottle corrected: “Never let on I’d killed any marshal. I said that’s what Texas folks is saying.”

“Chief, I don’t believe he’s even hefty enough to swing one of them big guns,” said Tusk, as his gaze dwelt on the huge dragon Colt revolvers— too heavy and awkward for a man to carry unless mounted on a horse. Pottle plucked at his fuzzy yellow beard and asked— “Ain’t none of you reckoning that such an onery critter could be a law-officer?”

Smith smiled and promptly replied— “No, I’ll be —— if any of us can think that.”

“And you’d never pick me for a feller to come in search of this outfit, would you?”

“Not if you knew Curt Smith,” grimly replied the leader. Then he significantly reminded him. “But you’ve stumbled on to us. That’s bad.”

“Mebbe it’s good,” said Pottle. “This whole business seems as plain as my face to me. I come into these hills by chances. You ain’t law-officers. You ain’t a posse out hunting for my kind. Then you must be my kind. You don’t know anything about me, and I don’t know anything about you. I ain’t asking to be took on yet. I sure ain’t honing to throw in with an outfit till I know it’s got the fighting guts. But there’s no earthly reason why you should want to rub me out.”

“So you’re fussy about the company you keep,” sneered Smith. “You’ve got to pick’n choose. You must be some fine hellion.”

“It ain’t for me to do any bragging while I’m waiting to be fed and, mebbe, rubbed out,” Pottle replied quietly. “If I hadn’t run into you I’d ’a’ rested my hoss, took a long sleep and started for Nebraska. I’d ’a’ stopped just long enough to call on some bank and git some money.”

“As simple as that?” jeered Smith.

“Well, ain’t that what banks are for?” And Pottle grinned ingratiatingly. Smith stared at him curiously. Tusk’s eyes blazed ferociously.

Smith slowly remarked: “Mighty queer you should begin talking about robbing banks. A queer brand of talk for a man to make to strangers.”

Pottle replied evenly: “Mebbe I’ve guessed the wrong card. But even in Kansas they can’t jail a man for letting on he’d stop to get money from a bank. Mebbe I meant I would borrer it.”

At this point Hanks returned with a frying pan of hot beans and bacon and a jug.

Smith said: “Fill up, stranger. Rest of the talk can wait a bit.”

Pottle’s eyes gleamed as he reached for the food. He used a short sheath knife as a fork. Between hungry mouthfuls he tipped the jug and drank generously. He appeared to be wolfishly hungry.

Smith at last admonished— “We didn’t fetch a distill’ry along, stranger.”

“You’ve guzzled enough to eat a hole through a copper kettle,” growled Tusk.

“I could drink the whole jug and never roll an eye,” boasted Pottle.

The three men waited patiently. At last he had finished the food. He leaned back against the logs and sighed contentedly, and said— “Brother Hanks, when it comes to bacon’n’ beans fixin’s you’re a prime dabster.”

Smith told Hanks— “Stay here and see he don’t budge from that corner.” He walked to the door, motioning Tusk to follow him outside. The two voices were audible but Pottle could not understand what was being talked. Hanks leaned against the wall, his thumbs hooked in his belt, and lazily informed him:

“Chiefs trying to decide what he’ll do with you. Sort of bad luck you should come mousing in here.”

“Mousing? Didn’t I hoot the minute I saw the light?”

“I’m reckonin’ it’s bad luck for somebody just the same.”

Tusk came through the doorway and jerked his head significantly. Hanks went outside.

Pottle asked Tusk— “How’d you vote?”

“We ain’t voted yet—just talked. We feel you’re too onery to be of any help. But mebbe you could do lots of mischief if we let you go and you went to Medicine Lodge or Cass Town and told what you knew.”

“But I don’t know nothing. Medicine Lodge? What’s that— Injun village? Never in Kansas before.”

“It’s a town.”

“Let’s drink its health.” He started to reach for the jug.

Tusk covered him quickly and commanded— “First, throw over that knife.” Pottle pulled the knife and tossed it to stick in a log under the eaves. It was a neat cast.

Tusk smiled slightly. “Now you can drink. You’re a funny little cuss. Packing them big guns! Just what is your game?”

Pottle finished a pull at the jug. He smacked his lips and replied: “Running away from Texas is my business just now. How goes the voting. Mister Smith?”

The last was occasioned by the abrupt entrance of the leader. Smith ignored the question and asked—

“How much money have you in your jeans, stranger?”

“Five hundred dollars. Git some cards and dig up some money and we’ll play for it.”

“We don’t have to play cards for your money,” Smith told him. “We can’t just figger you out. You ain’t sizable enough to be dangerous. Yet you seem to be too come-uppity for a man who ain’t used to trouble. We might take on another man if we was sure of him. Two men quit us a short time ago. But we don’t know you from a buffler-hide.”

Pottle quickly assured him: “I’m used to more simon-pure trouble than any man you ever see. I’m in something of the same fix you be, I’m keen to throw in with the right outfit. Too bad we don’t know more about each other. Of course I can’t afford to hitch up with the wrong outfit. Never heard of any of you boys before. On t’other hand, only the most likely ones up here ever make an echo down in Texas.”

“—— your blab! You talk gentle. Just who the-be you? You brag tall enough for a mountain— and you’re the size of a wart.”

Pottle puffed out his cheeks and asked quietly— “Any of you ever hear of a Texas galoot called Kingbird?”

The three came to sharp attention. Smith said: “We’ve heard quite a bit about Kingbird. What of it?” Pottle sighed and answered— “Probably won’t do much good for me to say it, but I used to ride with Kingbird.”

“You little liar!” growled Smith.

“No, sirree, I ain’t no liar! I’d be with Kingbird now if he hadn’t lit out for Old Mexico. There’s prime reasons why I can’t cross the Rio. Liar, eh? See here, Mister Smith, I may be standing waist-deep in my grave, but give me a knife or a gun and meet me alone and you’ll swatter what you catted me, or this outfit will need a new leader.”

Smith was surprized by the little man’s defiance. After a few moments he smiled tolerantly and said: “You wouldn’t make a mouthful. If I knew you ever rode with Kingbird you’d be good enough for us. Well, we’ll go into the bunk-house and sleep on it. We’re pulling out in the morning. You’ll either go with us or stay behind.”

“Couldn’t do both,” grumbled Pottle. “But I know what you mean.”

Hanks and Tusk hooked their arms through the prisoner’s, and Smith brought up the rear with a drawn gun. Hanks had left a lantern burning after procuring the beans and bacon and, as the four men entered, Pottle glanced curiously at the twelve bunks and inquired—

“Where’s the rest of your boys?”

“All right here. Henry Brown used to hide up here after Billy the Kid was wiped out. Brown used to ride with the Kid. Trying to make this place when he was caught in a pocket on the east side of the hills.”

“I remember about Brown, along of his riding with the Kid,” softly said Pottle. “He was hung for some bank holdup. This place must be chuck full of fond mem’ries. I remember now that Brown had men in his outfit who went off halfcocked. That proves what I said about a man can’t affording to throw in with a weak outfit. One weak critter will sp’ile everything. Brown must ’a’ been all right to ride with the Kid, but some of his men had a yaller streak or got crazy in the head.”

“Oh, you talk too much. Close your trap and turn in. This bunk under the lantern. Or the floor. We ain’t going to tie you up. One of the boys will be on guard all the time. Make a move and it’ll be your last. Trouble with you Texas fellers is you reckon you’re the whole thing. Kansas breeds better men every year.”

“Well, Kingbird is the whole thing in his line. I rode with him,” insisted Pottle.

“Shut up! Open your yawp again and I’ll bend the bar’el of a gun over your peanut head!” roared Smith. “If you didn’t talk so much there’d be a chance of us trying you out.”

This time Pottle kept silent.

Smith was still muttering angrily as the prisoner chose the dirt floor and spread a blanket and composed himself for the night. The lantern flooded him with light. Throwing an arm over his head to shut out some of the light, he pretended to sleep. The three men did not talk, as two turned in and the third stood watch.

Pottle slept for short stretches. Each time he awoke he found the man on watch very alert and with a cocked gun in his lap.

During his periods of wakefulness Pottle considered his situation and was confident he had won. He had irritated Smith, but a certain amount of boasting had been necessary to make the desired impression. And a man claiming to have followed Kingbird was sure to brag. In the morning he would shift to earnestness. He was confident he could overcome Smith’s irritation. If he could secure a gun and catch them off their guard for the fraction of a minute the trick would be turned.

Well satisfied with himself and confident of success, he slept heavily near morning.

The sun was up when Smith stirred him with his boot. Pottle rubbed his eyes and said:

“Clear and sunshiny. I’m hungrier’n a wolf.”

Smith eyed him soberly. There was something feral in the steady gaze. Pottle regretted he had not been awake early to try and influence the final verdict. He was not surprized when Smith slowly told him: “Sunshine is all right. But you oughter be more interested in what we’ve voted to do with you.”

“If you mean business and got something likely in sight I’ll throw in with you,” said Pottle. “Like you will! Your blabbing has riled the boys. You’re either a windbag, or else you’re so-good you’d be trying to boss this outfit inside of a week. Last night we couldn’t decide. This morning we all see it one way. You’re going to be left behind.”

Pottle met his gaze squarely, and after a bit of silence he said quietly: “I see. Can I eat first?”

“Hank will fetch you some grub and a drink, if you feel that way.”

Smith started to leave him, then turned back as if feeling the need of justifying his decision. Pottle believed he could change the verdict. He kept quiet and Smith explained:

“We’ve made a killing. We don’t plan another job till we’ve had some fun out of the money we’ve got. We can’t share it with a new man, and it’s better not to take on another man till we’re ready to work. Either you’re all wool like what you claim and would foller and make trouble for us, or else you’re just filled to the chin with talk and will keep shooting off your mouth and make it bad for us— we can’t decide which. But whatever you be, you stay behind. Hanks, hurry along the grub and whisky. Tusk, git the hosses ready.”

Hanks deposited the food and jug on the floor before the prisoner. The latter asked: “You can’t mean to kill me, Brother Hanks? Not right on top of feeding me?”

“You come here without being asked. You’ve talked tall and wide. You ask for grub and a drink. There they be. This outfit runs no risk of losing a big bunch of money by trying any ’speriments with you.” Pottle had hoped to catch Hanks by the ankles when he brought the food, but Smith, with a gun loose, discouraged any such maneuver. Never were the little man’s ears and eyes more alert. Hanging from a bunk, close to where Smith stood, was the broad belt and the two big guns. From the corner of his eye Pottle hungered for them. As he ate he slowly worked his heels under him. He was lifting the jug when Tusk, outside, loudly called:

“What about the big roan? Kill him or take him with us?”

Smith turned his head a trifle and opened his mouth to answer Tusk. Pottle lifted the jug above his head and hurled it against Smith, and as he did so he whistled shrilly. Smith almost dropped his gun. The big roan gave a terrible scream and plunged for the open door. Tusk, off one side, began emptying a gun into the maddened horse.

Pottle leaped for his guns the moment the jug left his hands. Smith fired and Hanks yelled a warning and jumped into a bunk.

Seeing Pottle reel and all but fall. Smith shifted his attention to the doorway and believed the big roan was about to effect an entrance. His second shot, two seconds after the first, struck the roan in the head at a distance of ten feet. Hanks was yelling wildly.

Smith jerked about, discharging his third shot into the dirt floor at Pottle’s feet as the latter caught him under the cliin with the big bullet. Smith pitched forward on his face. Hanks leaned from the bunk to rake Pottle. The latter beat him by an instant, and Hanks hung over the edge of the bunk, shot through the head. All this occurred inside of thirty seconds. With his left arm hanging useless Pottle made for the doorway, partly filled by the head and shoulders of the dead roan. Dancing frantically around and waving two guns.

Tusk was yelling, “What’s up? What’s up?”

Then he beheld Pottle, kneeling by the head ofthe roan. He fired with both guns, shooting wildly. Pottle fired once, and was mechanically blowing the smoke from the long barrel as Tusk wavered and fell. Dropping the gun, Pottle caressed the big, bony head ofhis horse and halfsobbed: “You was worth many times theirmoney, old friend. You tried to git to me, to help me. You was worth more’n all the money that was ever stole.”

A shrill neighing brought him to the alert. He peered around the edge of the door. Then he was climbing over the dead animal to meet Sheriff Geen.

Geen leaped from his mount and stared, wild-eyed, at the silent figure of Tusk. He exclaimed faintly:

“My God, Charlie! You’ve had a fight. I heard guns and come on the gallop.”

“Peek inside and you’ll allow it was a real fight,” groaned Pottle. “They busted my arm afore I could git started. Worst of all, they killed my hoss.”

Geen, with cocked gun, advanced through the doorway and looked about. The room was acrid with the reek of burned powder. He saw the man sprawling on the floor and another leaning out of the bunk as if trying to reach the revolver on the dirt.

“Three!” gasped Geen as he mopped the sweat from his face. “They killed my hoss,” dully reminded Pottle! “He was worth more’n all the money.”

“Charlie Pottle! Little Pottle! To think you did for the three of them!” whispered Geen.

“They went and killed my hoss,” sniveled Pottle.

Geen conquered his runaway nerves and set about improvising a splint and a sling. The bone of the upper arm was broken. Finishing with Pottle the sheriff started to search the bunk-house. Pottle called after him— “Fetch out my hat.” Geen soon brought out the hat and a sack of money.

“Some twenty thousand dollars short,” he announced as he finished counting the loot. “That’s what the two missing men took away with ’em. Here’s your badge.”

Geen pocketed it and said—

“Now to get you to town and a doctor.”

Pottle stared at his dead horse and asked— “How you going to manage it, Dave?”

“You can ride a horse. I see three grazing. We’ll take it easy.”

“But how’d you come here, Dave? You was to wait till I’d done some spying.”

“God forgive me for ever letting you come, Charlie. I’m punished as never a man was before. Early this morning I saw myself a coward and quitter. Shame spurred me here as fast as my hoss could make it. And I got here too late to take part and win any credit. All Kansas will know I sent a new deputy where I wouldn’t go myself. Well, that’s my medicine and I must take it. Facing Annie is the hardest of all.”

“Annie never wanted you to get killed.”

“Oh, she’ll try to cover up. But this day’s work will always be in the back of her head.”

“Well, of all the no-account talk,” jeered Pottle. “Sling those three men on their hosses and then take me up behind you. Here, let me look at your gun for a bit.”

And before Geen could guess his purpose Pottle had it clear of the holster and was shooting at the sky. Replacing the weapon, he told the astounded official:

“There you be. You rode in here with your old playmate, tagging along behind, and shot it out with ’em. My hoss was killed and I got plugged the first card out of the box. You done all the shooting and fetched your old friend home. Load my guns and roll ’em with the belt in the blankets.”

“It’s cruel! It’s wretched that you—”

“That’s your suffering, if you enjoy it,” interrupted Pottle. “Annie comes first. Don’t be a fool. Who’ve I got to make proud by my shooting? Fetch out the jug, then Mister Smith and Brother Hanks and all their guns. I’ll empty a few shots from their irons. No one will ever know, and you’ll have the proudest wife what ever was.”

GEEN resigned as sheriff and won a rare reputation for modesty. He discouraged praise and refused to listen to his wife’s adulation. His affairs were in order, but he would not leave Kansas until Pottle was fully recovered. That insignificant victim of outlaw lead mended rapidly and continued a guest at the Geen home.

It was torture to Geen when people insisted on proclaiming him a hero. More than once he was tempted to tell the truth but Pottle fiercely argued that Mrs. Geen alone counted. Her peace of mind must not be disturbed.

“Look at it this way,” he would say, “no man but a crazy coot would ride into them hills alone in the night. I did, thinking I could do some spying. I was caught. My hoss saved me. You come on the jump in early morning. If I’d kept my fingers out the dish you’d been in time to corral the three of them. So you wa’n’t a coward.”

“I even lied about hurting my arm,” Geen would groan. “What you felt and said and did the day before the shooting is all wiped off the slate by your riding into the hill helly-ter-larrup early next morning. You’d be worse’n a coward—you’d be a skunk to fret your wife.”

One day Mrs. Geen told her husband: “Your loyalty to any friend from the old town is fine, David, but you wait on Charlie as if he were both child and invalid. He can use his arm. He told me this morning it’s all right now. Can’t we be going home?”

“Yes. Charlie’s going away soon to look at some land. I’ll tell you something you never knew about the little shaver, Annie. He was head over heels in love with you when we were in school together.”

“What nonsense!” She started to laugh at the absurdity of it; then found something very pathetic in the undersized figure sitting near the road. “Of course I never dreamed such a thing, David. I’m sorry. You’ve finished your work out here. You’ll always be remembered as the Fighting Sheriff. And I can’t get back to Iowy too quick.”

He winced under her words and turned his head.

“I asked Charlie to go with us,” he told her awkwardly. A little frown came and went. Then she was smiling and nodding her head, and saying: “What you think best is always best, dear. We will make him welcome. Only I wish you’d never told me that bit of boyish nonsense.”

“He refused to go back with us. That’s why I could tell you. He knows we are leaving soon. His arm is as good as new. Now I’ll tell him we start in three days.”

His wife went out with him. Pottle heard Geen name the date of departure, smiling whimsically, his small, bright eyes darting from husband to wife.

Mrs. Geen felt a sudden great pity as she contrasted his lonely lot with their happiness. She urged generously— “Go back with us, Charlie, please.”

“Thank you, Annie, but they might make me return to school or give me a licking for running away.” And he laughed loudly at the notion. Then seriously, “In three days? That’ll be Thursday morning. Dave knows I’m going land-looking. But I’ll be back before you two pull out. Prob’ly just as you’re catching the train. That hoss you give me, Dave, is a humdinger; but he never can come up to the roan.”

He rode away that day, and before night a committee of citizens waited on Geen and offered him any political preferment within the gift of southwestern Kansas. His wife scolded him, after the committee departed, for his lack of appreciation. His face was pale under the tan as he listened to her and his attempt at a smile was a grimace.

She never could know the hell he visualized as the committee talked and compelled him to see himself in the National House, and winning the honor because of Charlie Pottle’s heroism. Nor could she know how he counted the hours until they were walking to the station to take the train. He braced himself to listen to more encomiums, for the town had turned out to bid him Godspeed. With drawn face he listened to the local orators and wondered whether it never would be train-time.

Curiously enough his wife broke down and wept at the thought of going away. At last the conductor was shouting “All aboard!” and the Geens were free to mount the back platform for final handwaving and farewells.

Geen smiled and gestured mechanically and stared eagerly over the heads of the people and hoped against hope that Charlie Pottle would return in time. Then he saw Pottle riding like mad and whipping his horse as if his life depended on his reaching the train.

Geen leaned down and seized the conductor by the shoulder and insisted: “Hold her for a minute. My best friend, little Charlie Pottle, is coming on a dead gallop.”

Those who heard this wondered why Pottle should be held as “best friend.”

The conductor nodded and studied his watch. Geen, on the platform, watched Pottle swing to the ground on the edge of the crowd. He surrendered his horse to a man and handed him a piece of paper. Geen shouted to him to hurry. Then he laughed softly and told his wife:

“I’ll bet he’s sold the horse. The paper was a bill of sale. See? He’s fetching his belongings in a bag. He’s going through with us. Hurrah, Charlie! Hustle your boots.”

Grinning widely, Pottle burrowed his way through the mass of humanity and mounted the steps. Having no friends to bid farewell to, he went inside. The train was clear of the town when the Geens joined him.

“I’m so glad you’re going back with us, Charlie,” said Mrs. Geen. “No. Not this time, Annie. Just going a short distance with you. Gitting out at Pixley. Sent a telegraph message to a feller, who ought to be waiting there to take me to look at some cheap land south of Pixley.”

“But that’s only a telegraph station, Charlie. Train doesn’t stop unless flagged,” said Geen.

“I allowed you could fix it, Dave.” Mrs. Geen smiled at this trust in her husband’s ability to do things.

Geen conferred with the conductor and was told: “Against the rules for this particular train. But the man who cleaned out the Smith crowd deserves any accommodation the road can give. As we won’t be flagged except in an emergency you have Pottle on the steps to drop off when we slow down.”

During the few miles to Pixley the three chatted over old times, with Charlie Pottle whimsically recalling some ludicrous incidents. The conductor came up the aisle and nodded for Pottle to be ready, as no flag was out. Pottle bid Annie good-by and carried his bag to the lower step. Geen stood above him, patting his shoulder fondly. Charlie twisted his head for a farewell glance, and grinned. As the train slowed down Geen knew Pottle’s message had been received, as a man and three horses were waiting at the end of the platform.

Pottle dropped off and threw his bag over a horse and, mounted and, with a flourish of his hand to the Geens, was off, the three horses galloping rapidly. As the train began to increase its speed the telegraph operator emerged, waving a slip of paper, and raced forward. As he handed it over to the conductor he shouted: “Come few seconds too late. Am notifying next station.”

The conductor read the telegram, his mouth agape.

Turning to Geen on the step above him, he cried excitedly: “You missed the biggest chance of your whole life! Cass Town bank’s robbed for the second time. That Pottle feller got the money you got back from the Smith gang. Had all the loot in his bag, right under your nose! Had a pal planted in Pixley with horses. Pixley operator got the message just too late for you to nab him.”

If Geen had been on the lower step he might have fallen from the train. His amazement stunned him. The conductor gestured for him to get back on the plat¬ form.

Once there, and with the conductor at his side, he gasped: “Little Charlie Pottle a bank-robber? Oh, that’s too ridiculous!”

“Little Charlie! That runt is Kingbird! And the West ain’t turned out any more dangerous and deadly than him!”

Geen stared foolishly. He became alert as the conductor started to enter the car and spread the news. Seizing the conductor’s arm he begged:

“The last favor I’ll ever ask of Kansas. Say nothing till we’ve changed trains. I want to keep it from my wife. He went to school with us, back in Iowy.”

“All right,” gruffly promised the conductor. “But of all the bad ones that feller named after the little bird that’ll ride a hawk out of a neighborhood, is the worst.”

“Not entirely bad,” faintly defended Geen. “He keeps his word. He’s loyal.” Then he stared to the south where three specks, one of them little Pottle, was riding madly to gain the Salt Fork of the Arkansas. He heard himself muttering, “And I was always the sheriff, and he the feller I caught.”

He turned and with bowed head went up the aisle.

“Why, what’s the matter with your eyes, Dave?” she asked.

He applied his handkerchief in little dabs and explained— “Cinders.”

_____________________

10: Homeward Bound

Captain Dingle

Aylward Edward Dingle 1874-1947

Adventure, May 1927

British author Dingle spent 22 years at sea, survived five shipwrecks, and was castaway on St Pauls Island in the south Indian Ocean for three months before being rescued.  After he retired from the sea, he became a reliable author of sea stories for Adventure and other pulps, and wrote a number of novels. In 1942 he was a guest on the BBC radio show "Desert Island Discs", surely the only guest on the show to have been a genuine castaway on a desert island.

"HUMPY” ROGERS sat on a hard bench near the shore in the Domain, Sydney, watching a green clipper get her anchor for sea. The clipper’s sails were loosed; a tug was at her bows; a couple of shore boats hovered about her glossy green sides, people in them crying farewell to friends aboard; and a crowd of sailors on the forecastle head tramped around the capstan. Their lusty voices rang across the poppling water.

O, don’t you hear the Old Man say,

'Good-by, fare you well, good-by, fare you well?’

We’re homeward bound this very day,

Hooraw, my lads, we’re homeward bound!

She’s a flash clipper packet and bound for to go—

Good-by, fare you well, good-by, fare you well.

The girls have her towrope, she can not say no;

Hooraw, my lads, we’re homeward bound!

Humpy watched the homeward bounder raise her anchor and follow the tug, her snowy sails falling from the yards, being sheeted home and hoisted to chan¬ teys rapidly growing fainter with distance. In seventy-five days those men Homeward would be home, drawing their pay, setting their little neighborhoods alight in true sailor fashion with rum and Rosy, and gin and Jenny, and Polly and porter.

Humpy had not been home in twenty years. He wished those green clipper sailors good luck and fair winds; but his scattered old teeth gleamed yellowly in a wry grin as he mumbled the good wishes.

Humpy Rogers had been so long in deepwater ships that he was a good sailor by sheer insinct. He wouldn’t have known how to do a bit of sailorizing badly. He had hauled and dragged so many miles of rope through screeching sheaves, fisted and elbowed so many acres of rebellious canvas, grunted and sweated over so many fathoms of stubborn cable, that his shoulders were rounded, his arms hung low like the arms of an ape.

Once he had secured his second mate’s ticket; he had made a voyage as second mate; but he had gone no farther ahead. He had gone back. He still treasured that certificate which proved that he had once been something. He had pinned to it the solitary discharge which proved his boast that he once sailed second mate of a tall water ship. And sometimes he would show his treasures to a shipmate. Not often, because not often did he find a friend; but when he did show them he would rub his hard old hands together and grin wryly, showing all his yellow teeth.

And he wanted to go home. For years he had wanted to get back to the scene which he still rather foolishly imagined would be familiar. Not that he had anybody living who cared a scrap about him. When he had somebody, years ago, who did care for a while, he had behaved like many another sailorman at home. His friends could have anything he had; and his wife, glad to have her man home again, never made the protest she ought to have made. But his wife died of overwork while he was at sea, and his children, reared among strangers, had only vague memories and keen contempt for the parent who came home only once a year and then spent most of his time being a good fellow outside the home.

No, there was nobody at home who would kill any fatted calves for Humpy Rogers. If he arrived in a tall water packet the usual vermin of the docks might give him a grin and a whack on the back and a drink from a black bottle; he was rather too old for the girls to bother much with him, but, the black bottle and the whack on the back and the grin would have to be paid for— oh, very amply. Still, there was the insistent longing. Home is always home to a sailorman.

Sydney in Spring is a pleasant place to be; far more pleasant than dockland at home. The Domain was a gorgeous lounging place, and a man as old as Humpy needed little food. The sun was warm, and the magnificent harbor with all its coves and reaches lay agleam with light and was dotted with moving or anchored craft. For all of it, Humpy stared after the homeward-bound green clipper with hot eyes, muttering his grievance. He had been given the chance to sail in that ship. He had seen the mate, and there was a vacancy in the forecastle. But when he went to sign on there was a young fellow there also seeking to get home. Humpy had a second mate’s ticket, a discharge too, and the berth was his to take. The young man pleaded wife and baby at home— they needed him, he said; and Humpy turned away grumbling but kind-hearted.

The youngster was now sailing home in that fleet green clipper, and Humpy watched her go, muttering, muttering, his teeth uncovered in senile bitterness; for a man had spoken to him in the office, after the clipper’s mate had taken the new man off to the quay, and Humpy learned something—

“If you wanted that chance you was a chump not to take it,” said the man.

“The lad wants to get home to his wife and baby,” Humpy had retorted, and the man had laughed.

“He ain’t got no wife! That’s ‘Hard Luck’ Harry. Always got some weepy yarn to spin, he has. If you hadn’t been so soft he’d been pinched and in jail by tonight, I betcha. You sailors is proper green when you’re ashore, no mistake.”

So even when only the trucks of the clipper could be seen over the grass, Humpy Rogers muttered his ideas about Hard Luck Harrys and their deceitful ways. All the world over he had found them, and from none had he learned any lasting lesson.

WHEN Humpy’s money was spent there was only one ship in port.

“Bound home, ain’t you, sir?” he asked the mate of the Murray.

“Calcutta first with horses, m’lad; then home I hope.”

Humpy grinned and hove his bag aboard the Murray. Calcutta— that would be forty days; say sixty days in the river, finding and loading a cargo; and maybe a hundred days home. Two hundred days, say seven months, then home, with a nice bit of wages to take up, so that he could renew old acquaintances in shipshape fashion.

When the tug dragged the Murray seaward, it was Humpy Rogers who led the tune that helped the topsails aloft:

"A-way down south where I was born.

Oh roll the cotton down!

Among them fields of yaller corn.

Oh roll the cotton down!

"Was you ever down in Mobile Bay?

Oh roll the cotton down!

A-screwin’ cotton for a dollar a day.

Oh roll the cotton down!”

“That’s a good man, Mister,” the skipper remarked to the mate. Humpy couldn’t help being good. He was bound home at last, and good spirits came easy. He couldn’t help performing his duty like a good sailorman; that was instinctive in him. He looked every inch a stout old shellback, gnarled and knotted, but sturdy and sure-footed still, at the head of the halliards, under the glossy black rigging, his worn old dungarees touched with the bright sunlight and the strong wind making feathers of his gray hair. It was a pretty miscellaneous mob of men who hauled to his chantey, but anybody could have hauled behind him, singing as he sang.

“Oh five dollars a day is a white man’s pay,

Oh roll the cotton down!

A dollar a day is a black man’s pay.

Oh roll the cotton down!”

The yard was up. “That’s well. Belay that!” roared the mate.

“Belay! Come up behind!” yelped Humpy, and led the gang smartly to the next job of work.

Oh, he was happy! The Murray took her pilot for the Hughli in thirty-eight days. He had gained two days. And because she had made a fast passage across from Sydney, the Murray got a cargo quickly. She loaded jute, and dropped her Hughli pilot off Sand Heads thirty-five days after entering.

Humpy kept a dog-eared log with every day sailed marked therein, for much though he wanted to get home, he never forgot the little matter of wages earned. He kept his twin treasures inside the cover pocket of the book and, all-in-all, that dog-eared, salt-stained old book was about all he had in the world that had any value whatever.

His urge to get home was important, but of no value to anybody but himself. He jotted down the sailing date; then sneaked a look at his treasures. He would have to take his trick at the wheel in half an hour. Seven-bells had just struck. And he’d show ’em how to steer.

That old windjammer would never lose a day on a passage through any fault of his steering. It was a mellow, black night, such as the Bay of Bengal wears as a queen wears a velvet robe. If anything, it was a trifle too mellow. More breeze might have improved it. But the ship slipped easily through the water, and the running lines of foam were like strings of gems against the velvet.

One bell struck— the warning bell for the relieving watch—and Humpy put the strap around his logbook.

Then voices. Shouts. A smashing impact, and the Murray rolled over, cut to the water-line by a shadowy bulk that backed into the darkness and vanished, leaving nothing but a sinking ship and a reek of soft coal smoke.

Humpy found himself out in the lee waterways, rolling in water, clutching, as a drowning man a straw, his precious log-book. The Murray sank fast. Her boats had not yet been emptied of harbor trash.

Humpy Rogers tumbled over the reeling side before the rush of an empty water-cask that broke away from the top of the forward house. On that he floated. He heard men all around him; nasty sounds; a cry or two. Then there was just a vast sigh as the tall spars with all their canvas set slid down to the depths and spilled wind as they were submerged.

After that, silence, darkness and dread.

HIS yellow teeth all grinning, clutching his log-book, in the pearly dawn of another day, Humpy Rogers was picked up by a French bark bound for Noumea, New Caledonia.

There is little to attract a sailorman in Noumea. All Humpy wanted was a passage home. There was a steamer once a month, for Marseilles. There were island schooners, at any old time. Once in a long time a Britisher or American drifted in loaded with prison stores on charter; glad to get away in ballast from the sizzling French convict colony.

At the end of a week Humpy was desperate. He had only the patched, sun-and water- thinned dungarees he was picked up in, and the precious log-book which he hung on to with all the tenacity of a drowning man. There were no ships in Noumea— for a sailorman.

There was the mail steamer, once a month. She had no room for a poor beach derelict who knew French only as a heathen language, never seen except in the mad days of his youth in Dunkirk, when a pocketful of money bought him the privilege of ordering a meal from a card printed in a language which required the help of a very willing young waitress to decipher. Those waitresses had been brought up in the atmosphere of ships bound from abroad to Dunkirk for orders, whatever their flag might be.

Humpy had no memories of anything but home. He wanted to ship for home. How he lived during that first week he never knew himself. But when a ship, a steamer, came into port with prison stores, and the news went around that a man had died on the passage and a sailorman was needed. Humpy forgot everything but the need to get home. Steamers he despised. But this steamer was going home, or near home, and that was where he wanted to be.

“Discharges?” snapped the mate of the steamer when Humpy asked for the chance.

“Yes, sir,” said Humpy, fumbling with the strap of his log-book.

Behind Humpy was a young Frenchman, just out of jail. He wanted to get home, too. Humpy’s strap was rusted after the immersion in sea water and was hard to unfasten. The young Frenchman seized the opening, pushed forward, spoke volubly to his fellow countryman in his own language and got the job.

Only when mate and man moved away together did Humpy realize his chance was gone; then, still gripping the stained log-book, he shuffled after the youth and assaulted him fiercely from behind. So intense was the fury of Humpy Rogers that youth proved helpless for once against indignant age. The assault was unprovoked, to any outsider who chanced to see without knowing Humpy’s longing for home.

The youth just out of prison went steaming home; old Humpy Rogers went into jail.

He saw the steamer going out through Little Entrance next morning as he was being driven, among a gang of prisoners, to the dockyard to work.

Convicts in Noumea did the repairs needed by French naval vessels. During blazing days he labored and grinned crookedly. Through sultry nights he lay on his hard bed and tried to fight off the mocking memories that banished sleep. When the wind was high, he could hear the surf pounding.

One night a hurricane swept the place, and he heard the crash of destruction outside; the gun of a ship driving ashore; the cries of men. In his grim stone cage he was safe. But he cared nothing for safety. He would gladly exchange places with any man on a ship’s deck— even the deck of a ship driving shoreward. There at least was a chance that she might haul clear; and then seaward.

But the storm passed. There was plenty of work for gangs of prisoners then. Humpy was so tired that he slept the next night. But afterward came the same old memories again to haunt him. He thought back over the years. Since he had last seen home he had sailed in whalers, in blackbirders, in mission schooners. One voyage he started homeward bound, to be wrecked within a day of home, picked up by an outward-bound ship that landed him up in Vladivostok, about as far from home as it was possible to get in a ship. He had gone sealing from there.

The sealer was a poacher, and Humpy got in jail for the first time. It was a Russian jail. A Yankee whaler seemed comfortable after that. He was in the spouter two years; and got drunk and lost his passage when the old blubber-hunter called for wood and water for the run home, a full ship.

Twenty years of those memories.

Fellow prisoners, who couldn’t understand his language, said he was crazed, because he grinned so incessantly at the harbor and the ships. Who but a crazed one could so constantly grin? He grinned on the day he was turned loose. By that time the lines about his mouth had sunk so deeply that his grin never left him. And he had acquired a habit of licking his lips, his dry lips, so pitifully drawn back from his scattered yellow teeth.

He had no money; nothing but his battered log-book with its jealously cherished treasures of certificate and discharges. There were no ships in the bay. Hungry and footsore. Humpy was almost tempted to earn another spell of jail, when he came upon a chance which almost turned his grin into something warmer and genuine.

An ancient bark, a disused convict ship, was being prepared for the voyage home, to be shown as an exhibit, a relic of departed horrors.

Esperance, that was the name barely decipherable on the heavy, clumsy stern.

Humpy marched on board. As soon as he saw the aged decks, the rotting gear, the general decay, he felt sure that the job was his. Nobody but a stranded sailorman in desperate straits would want to take a chance in that old coffin. But she was bound toward home. Her name meant hope. He knew that much.

The officer to whom he applied for a berth grinned at him and engaged him. Humpy grinned, and started work at once. Nobody else was on board, except the workmen from shore. Humpy had no dunnage to stow. He offered to stay aboard as permanent watchman, and so earned a little food, a little red wine and a bunk, bedless, but still no harder than his prison cot had been.

On the day that the Esperance sailed most of Noumea’s population watched her depart and said doleful things. She would never reach home. A decent crew might have a chance to worry her through; but with the street sweepings she was manned with, no.

Besides the master and his two mates, who were being well paid for the risk, Humpy Rogers was the only sailorman in the ship. The rest were stranded derelicts, jailbirds, riffraff of the Pacific beaches. But there would be days of fine weather, and they are poor mates indeed who can not lick a gang of men into shape.

Humpy proved his worth and showed his enthusiasm so quickly that before the first nightfall he was unofficial boatswain. He knew no French, and but one man in the crew knew any English. But he could clap a rope into a man’s hand in any language; his example, backed by seasonable admonitions from the mates, drove the crew to work.

Humpy spent most of his watch below coiling up gear after the sails were set and yards trimmed. But he didn’t mind that. He was homeward bound at last. He made him a pipe with a bit of cane and a chunk of marrow bone plugged at one end. He drew tobacco from the stores, and sat on the forehatch long into the night, wreathed in smoke and exquisite anticipations.

In the morning he led the land-legged crew in the pleasant job of washing down decks. Barefoot in the sun, with the old bark rolling gently down a smooth sea, her threadbare sails full of a warm breeze, and even her decay made less glaring by the mellow light of early morning, men who lately infested the waterside of France's penal settlement like a plague swished brooms along drenched planks with something like willingness, if not exactly enthusiasm.

Humpy drew buckets of water from over the side, and slashed the sparkling brine among the brooms and feet. He was happy at last. Almost the fixed grin relaxed as he splashed here and there, searching out dry spots, singing in a quavery voice just about choking with elation:

"Oh, times were hard and'wages low—

Amelia where yo’ bound to?

I’m homeward bound,

I’m homeward bound.

Across the Western Ocean.

"The land o’ promise there yo’ll see—

Amelia where yo’ bound to?

I’m bound across tire Western sea.

To join the Irish army.

"Beware these packet rats I say—

Amelia where yo’ bound to?

They’ll steal yo’re hide and soul away.

Across the Western Ocean.”

Weather and winds that favored the old convict ship’s racked bones, blew her along placidly toward the Australian coast. The skipper meant to take no more chances than absolutely necessary. No Cape Stifftussles for him. He favored the Australian coast right around to the Leeuwin; then he meant to take the old passenger sailing route across to the African coast, sneak around the Cape of Good Hope within reach of land, and sight St. Helena, and as much land besides as possible, all the way up the Atlantic.

It was the wise course. That old bark had been built in Moulmein of seasoned teak, a hundred years before, and was as sound in rib and plank as many a new soft wood ship; but somewhere about her was a bit of dry rot, made evident when she got into a southerly buster off Wilson’s Promontory and began to leak. It was nothing very serious; the pumps took care of it easily; but land somewhere handy helped the feeling ofsecurity so necessary.

The leak stopped with the buster that caused it, and thereafter nothing but pleasant breezes and gentle weather accompanied the Esperance. Even the Great Australian Bight failed to live up to its blusterous reputation. The skipper, who had taken the job on contract, began to grumble because he had engaged so many hands to sail the ancient ark home. With weather like that, he could have saved the wages of three men at least.

But Humpy Rogers wasn’t bothering his head with such trifles. He lived pretty much to himself simply because he could not converse with his messmates. One young fellow there was who knew a smattering of English, and sometimes he smoked a pipe along with Humpy. As for the rest, they might be plotting mutiny, or his murder, for all Humpy knew.

They were not. In fact, the old bark swam along in an atmosphere of utter tranquillity. The food was better than most of them were used to. There was plenty of it; plenty of tobacco, sour red wine every day and rich old rum every Saturday night at eight bells. Discipline was non-existent. As long as the wheel and lookout were relieved promptly and the ordinary routine work done, neither master nor mates cared much what the men did with their time.

When that southerly buster caught her off Wilson’s, the bark was shortened down in clumsy fashion; but Luck was at her stern, looking at her name, and she came through the squall without losing a ropeyarn. The experience was enough to give assurance to the lubberly crowd.

Humpy Rogers alone knew how the buntlines, clewlines, and downhauls got into the hands that hauled on them. Only he knew how the top-gallant sails were snugged up there in the screaming wind, when helpless men clung to the jackstays in panic. Humpy didn’t mind. He would do six men’s work and never let a growl out of him. He was homeward bound, and his ship was Hope.

It was useless to perform the usual jobs of seafaring. Long ago the paint had flaked off. There was no brasswork. The brightwork had been painted brown. The binnacle and wheel boss had a useful coat of whitening over the brass.

There might have been the discontent that always follows idleness at sea but for the terrible condition of all the gear. There was sail-patching every day, in spite of the amazing weather. Humpy was never without a job of long-splicing. Halliards, braces, sheets— all old, some stranded. Nice work for a sailorman. The skipper and mates did most of the sail patching, with inexpert men standing by to thread needles and wax and twist the sail-twine.

Humpy had the young Frenchman who spoke English, Arsène, as his permanent helper. Only when the bark steered too badly for green hands did Humpy or Arsène leave their ropes for the wheel. Those two grew almost intimate.

In the easy-going passage across the Indian Ocean, with the bark making a steady hundred miles a day over a sea of unflecked blue, under a sky without a cloudlet, peace hovered over the old convict ship, laying the ghosts that haunted her dark, evil dungeons, making the many voices of her seem like whispers of benign spirits, whereas on setting out they had sounded to uneasy ears like the wailings of tortured souls.

And when, half-way across to the Natal coast, the barrel-built old bark got a fresh slant that piled the sea uproariously at her bluff bows, driving her wallowing along like a fat cow cachalot in a smother of fine weathersprays, and she overhauled and passed a modern iron ship twice her size, Humpy Rogers got on to the rail, flung his canvas cap to the four winds and howled in sheer delight. He knew, afterward, that the old convict-ship was light, ballasted just for her best sailing, while that big iron ship was like a half-tide rock awash with the burden she bore. He knew, too, that long before the passage was over the iron ship would go ahead again— just as soon as heavier breezes caused the lively old bark to shorten down.

But that failed to deaden his jubilation.

Cheerily, cheerily!

Haul and hold.

See how she goes for a skipper bold!

Cheerily, cheerily!

Rouse the dead!

See how she buries her lee cathead!

Humpy roared that old song so that men aboard the iron ship heard it. Going home? Why, he could smell the homeland smoke! What mattered all those futile years now?

“The gals got hold o’ the towrope now, Arsène!” he cried, as he gathered up his gear for the night. The young Frenchman smiled, a bit wistfully. In the dogwatch Humpy brought out his old log-book and jotted down the passing ofthatship.

He showed Arsène his treasured certificate. He bragged a bit, too, as an old man may when things go well.

“I too have something,” Arsene said. He entered the forecastle, and returned with a small canvas package. Not, perhaps, of canvas, either; rather the material looked like the stuff one clothed convicts with. How well old Humpy Rogers knew that! But he said nothing. He only grinned in that yellow-fanged, wry way.

Who was he to remind a man of prison clothes? But Arsène was no hypocrite. Even while he unfolded a little bundle of soiled letters and uncovered a cheap photograph of a pretty little woman with a fine four-year-old boy beside her, he was telling Humpy the story of how he had robbed to buy necessaries for his girl-wife about to have her baby; of how he had never seen his son; of his wife’s brave fight to live, and her splendid loyalty to him all the time he was serving his sentence.

The innate honesty of the young fellow was plain; Humpy remembered only that other young fellow who pleaded a wife and child and so cheated him out of going home long ago.

“Well, you can’t stop me going home now, Arsène,” he grinned.

The young Frenchman was too elated himself to care much what the old man meant. He chattered on about his little family until Humpy almost wished he could spin a yarn too. But just to be going home was enough for him. Let younger men have their wives and their kids. He had had his, and had been just as cocky in his day. He had nobody now. All the same, home was home, and he was getting nearer every day.

JUST once a squall off the coast tore a top-gallant sail off the bark. But Agul  has was kind. The Cape had nothing but smiles. Out into the Atlantic the Esperance sailed with never a check, never a moment of uneasiness for her crew.

When she sighted St. Helena, so confident had the skipper grown that he had the royal yards sent up and crossed, the royals bent and set. Crack on!

The Cape’s astern and passed.

From stem to stem she’s a-smother with foam.

Her jib-boom’s pointing north at last.

And she smells her road and follows it home.

Those were the days! Up through the horse latitudes and the doldrums. A few scattered squalls, which did little more than fill the water tanks and bathe the men in luscious fresh water, pushed the bark along faster while they lasted. And there were days of flying-fish weather— good fishing and splendid food.

Humpy showed them how to catch bonito; how to cook it; how to eat the rich flesh. Not that they needed much teaching. But he was bubbling over with good will. He had to do something for somebody.

The Western Islands. A dozen ships joined courses there. Woolships, jute ships, ships with nitrates from Iquiqui, great steel four-posters with grain from Frisco. All slipped ahead of the Esperance. Humpy didn't care.

“Good luck, boys! Tell the gals I’m a-coming!” he screamed to a tall clipper racing home for the wool sales.

By nightfall the old convict-bark swam alone on the sea again. But she made her phosphorescent thunder at the bows; her wake was a streak of flame; her head was pointed for home.

That last week Humpy employed all his spare time making a suit of clothes for himself. The mate gave him a pair of moldy shoes, which were easily made presentable with a lump of slush from the galley tub. He had kept bits of canvas from the torn top-gallant. A suit of clothes emerged from the scraps. Soaking for a few days in a bucketful of coffee grounds, also given him by the cook, took the canvas color out and gave the suit something of a sporty hue.

Humpy grinned as he folded the suit away. It would do until he got ashore. Then he could buy clothes— real dazzling blue, and a red bandanna and yellow shoes, and a varnished pipe with amber mouthpiece, maybe. Or perhaps he’d smoke cigars. Cigars seemed dignified, somehow.

Arsene was busy too. He had collected bones from the galley, and with file and knife had almost completed a dainty model of the Esperance. It looked like ivory.

“The little one will be pleased, because it is the ship that brings his daddy home,” he smiled, showing the toy to Humpy. “Here, let me do that r’yal riggin’,” growled Humpy, grinning. “You got it too thick an’ clumsy, lad.”

Humpy put many a finishing touch to the model before it was finally mounted in its box-frame. Always grinning, always singing, always doing something for somebody simply because he was happy. Nothing could stop him getting home now.

Already the mates were considering getting the cables up and the anchors shackled on. The deep-sea lead was stopped up in the scuppers forward for two days past. So near home were they that the cook, who had skimped a bit for a month past in fear of possible shortage, again dealt out full fare and plenty.

Then the light.

Swift and clear the flash stabbed the dark of a cool evening. There was a haze; the light was seen only twice before the haze concealed it, but it was the light all hands so longed to see.

It gave the skipper a necessary check on his position; gave him confidence; sent the watch below to their bunks all full of the morrow.

“That is my home!” Arsène exulted, flinging a hand toward the light. “Tomorrow— Ah!”

“Good for you, lad. My home ain’t far away, neither,” grinned Humpy.

And as he cut up a pipeful of tobacco to induce pleasant dreams, he finished his old song, the song that had lasted most of the passage:

“Cheerily, cheerily! Home at last!

The voyage is over, the danger past.

Cheerily, cheerily! Let out a roar!

Love to you lassies; we’re home once more!”

By morning the haze had thickened. There was little breeze.

“Get me a sounding,” the skipper said.

The heavy lead was carried forward, the line outside of all rigging, and men held coils ofthe line at intervals. Humpy had the lead; the second mate took the last coil of line, so that he could read the marks.

“Watch—O, watch!” sang out Humpy, and the lead sogged into the sea.

“Watch—O!” the next man took up the cry, throwing out his coils as the line straightened. So until the second mate felt the lead stop, and hurriedly gathered back the loose line.

“Fifty-two fathom, sand and shell!” he sang out, when the men hauled in the lead.

It had not been necessary to back the mainyards. The bark scarcely moved. Somewhere out in the fog a lighthouse siren screamed. That sound was lost about noon. The bells of sailing ships, the whistles of steamers were heard, but nothing came close enough to the Entrance to cause uneasiness.

Another cast of the lead found fifty fathoms and sand; no shells.

In two hours there was no air stirring. The lead gave a depth of forty-three fathom, mud and broken shell. An hour later, thirty-seven fathom, and blue marl. Somebody said he heard a foghorn ahead. But it was not heard again; and the bark’s head swung all around the compass. Still there seemed to be no ground for alarm. A snorting tugboat clattered by somewhere near; that appeared to reassure the skipper.

“Oh well, hombres, more days, more dollars,” said Humpy, coming below all dripping with fog rime after two hours on lookout.

When day should have died, there was no difference in the opacity of the fog. The bark had a ghostly air, all dripping wet, with long threads of rime, like spider threads, hanging from every yard and stay. On the forecastle-head the lookout pumped dolorous grunts from the foghorn.

The mate had cleared away both anchors; the skipper remained on deck, listening with all ears for some sound to guide him. He could not make the bark move in any particular direction, but he lately sensed that a strong tide ran beneath her, and was growing nervous.

“Sound again!” he cried.

“Watch— O, watch!” Humpy sang out, dropping the lead.

“Watch— O!” yelped the next man on the line.

Then the bark struck something hard with her bilge. She rebounded like an empty cask, hurling a man overboard, tangled in the lead line. She struck again, and staggered, heeling over while a rush of tide piled up on her other side, drumming against the hull tremendously now that she did not move before it. There was a rending of wood. The bark leaned dizzily until the kentledge she was ballasted with carried away and tumbled to leeward.

The anchors were let go as soon as it was realized that the ship was fast. Water was rushing into her. Somewhere in the murk a fog signal was heard again— two low-toned notes of a siren. They were heard again after a two-minute interval, and the skipper got panicky. He had the boats cleared away.

A hand-lead dropped overside and held in the hand showed that the bark was not moving, yet the tide roared against her weather side, heaping high, sending a quiver through the old hull. And the sails dripped water like rain, hanging flaccid in the windless air.

A boat was lowered. It filled and sank. Like the rest of the ancient fabric, the boats were dried out and worn out. They had never been overhauled, except to see that they possessed each a plug, oars, ax, water bareca and bread tank.

“Get the other boat over,” the skipper said, getting a grip on himself when he no longer heard that ominous fog siren with its two low-toned roars of warning.

Humpy was philosophical. In a dead calm, within sound of a lighthouse siren, he was near enough home to be willing to take his chance for the rest. While men ran here and there, scared at the unusual predicament, Humpy— who had seen many worse— got into his shore suit of coffee-stained canvas with the log-book tucked into its special pocket. By the time the second boat was swayed over the lee-rail he was there at the falls, ready to lower away.

It was a small boat. The shore was near. Some men said the tide was dangerous. No trace of the swamped boat could be seen two minutes after it left the side.

There was no dignity about the master of the Esperance. He had brought the old bark home on contract; and the contract said nothing about giving his life with the ship’s. It was a gamble. Nobody would insure her. He was well to the front, along with his mates, when the boat was ready. And all piled in. Like animals.

Humpy Rogers cursed them for lubberly landsmen as he held the turn on the cleat. Arsène was as twittery as a cat in water. After so long a waiting, he was all unbalanced in the crisis. Humpy saw that the boat was overladen. The skipper was seated, shouting importantly to the men to get aboard the boat. And the boat’s gunwale lipped water under the tremendous drag of the underrunning tide.

“Come on, one of you!” the mate shouted. “We’ll come back for the rest. Can’t take more than one!”

Four men were at the falls and the painter. Arsène was weeping. Humpy gripped him by the shoulder.

“Tumble in, son. I been twenty year gettin’ home. Twenty minutes more won’t matter.”

“The model— for the little one!” Arsène sobbed.

Humpy pushed him over the rail, lower every minute. “I’ll get it and bring it ashore when I come,” he said. “Hop in.”

Arsène hopped. The two men at the painter, crazed at the thought of being left behind, let go the painter, leaped for the boat, fell short and were swirled away. The boat vanished even quicker.

Humpy listened to the sounds, growling all the time about captains and officers who left a man aboard a wreck. Not that it mattered much. They were not sailors anyhow. Not sailors. And in half an hour he would be ashore. There was a queer feeling to the bark, but he had felt queer feelings before. She was strong enough to stand a couple of hours of such gentle pounding.

Humpy went to the forecastle and secured Arsène’s model in its little box. The gentle pounding seemed more of a crunching now. But in half an hour— Humpy felt the bark move. He believed she was afloat. A thought of saving her flashed into his mind. She jerked upright. Struck again. Rolled over the other side. Filled, and was buried under the terrific rush of the growing tide race that had murdered her.

IN THE morning a fisherman found him. Still clutching in his hands Arsène’s model of Hope in its box. The fisherman fetched his young wife.

“Ah,” she said, “the poor old man! He has a little one for whom he made his pretty ship. Poor one!”

The fisherman found the battered log book. He got the padre to interpret it.

They buried Humpy Rogers in a peaceful little churchyard, with a white stone over him, as became one who had been an officer of the sea.

And Arsène, learning that he had been found, came too late to see; but left the little model of the Esperance fastened to the headstone with copper rivets, for all the world to see if all the world should pass that way. And all the world, if all the world cared, might know therefrom that Humpy Rogers was home at last.

___________________

11: Deferred

Captain Dingle

Adventure, 15 Sep 1917

TAKEN by-and-large, that last China voyage of the full-rigged ship Foochow beat most sea fiction by fathoms to feet. A queer outward passage, occupying five months of all too fine weather, succeeded by a homeward trip of a hundred-and-eighty days from Hankow Bay to the Breakwater, would have been enough to give windjammer sailors a topic to add to the interminable hank of yarns about “last ships.”

The fact that we had, as bo’sun. Big Jim Chivers aboard of us, added a touch of color of its own, for Chivers had long been the talk of forecastles and after-guards alike. He had commanded big passenger steamers fifteen years before, and the story of his come-down wasn’t pretty. But it was Ben Corbet, A. S., who injected the ginger into the voyage that made it memorable: Ben, and the bo’sun’s final drop.

We slopped lazily out past Chusan into the Eastern Sea, homeward bound, and Ben Corbet had the wheel. His remaining on the Foochow puzzled everybody, from the skipper down, for he had spent most of the time in Hankow lying in hospital, and could easily have been discharged and sent home in comfort.

The old man told him as much while visiting him; for Captain Raikes was nearer human than most ship-masters. But it seemed as if the mere suggestion had hastened his recovery; for he took up his old bunk in the forecastle the next day. The skipper stepped to the binnacle, and after a peep at the compass, asked Ben:

“Feel all right now, Corbet? Don’t feel weak at all?”

“I’m feeling fit, sir, thank you,” responded the seaman, smiling at, the old man. “Never felt better, or stronger, sir.”

Forward a knot of men were putting a long splice into a big wire, and the bo’sun superintended the difficult job. His surly, growling voice could be heard all through the ship, and men had acquired the habit of jumping when he spoke.

Ben Corbet heard it, and when he had answered the skipper his eyes glinted coldly, in vivid contrast to the warm smile that had accompanied his answer; his body stiffened, and his chest heaved under his thin cotton jumper; his face lost its ruddy glow and went dead white. The skipper glanced at him doubtfully, and then came over to where the mates were standing, shaking his head.

“That fellow ought to have gone home by steam,” he remarked. “He says he’s fine and fit, but I know better. Look at him!”

“It’s either weakness or something he’s boiling up for the bo’sun, sir,” replied the mate, with a grin. “I’ve seen men look that kind of white just before something happened to a man they had it in for.”

“Perhaps it’s that,” returned Captain Raikes, thoughtfully. “I don’t think he’s fool enough to try to get even with Chivers, though. Corbet’s too intelligent, far different from the run of deep-water seamen. Anyway, keep your eyes open.

“I don’t want a repetition of the outward passage; and I’ll see that I don’t ship another broken-down liner-skipper in my ship again. Who could have ever known that that big husky, shipped spifflicated drunk by a shipping-master, could be the Big Jim Chivers who lost the Ultonia? Gosh!”

A repetition of the outward passage was desired by nobody. Chivers was a man of forty-five, with an ingrained wickedness that must have run back centuries. Whatever the cause that led to his initial tumble, his incumbency of the boatswain’s berth in the old Foochow was a thing to remember.

Aside from his five-feet-eleven of height, and two hundred pounds’ weight of sheer brawn and springy sinew, the fellow harbored a sort of inner-man that was four parts devil and one part devil’s twin.

As a seaman he bowed to no man, and with good reason. He had not risen to command in big liners without full qualifications. He was better than an extra mate in the ship; if there was any part of a ship not at his finger-ends, it was some new-fangled patent, such as automatic brace winches, that he had not yet seen. Even such things were an open book to Chivers after one comprehensive examination.

But in every deep-water ship there is at least one man forward who thinks himself as good as the next man, and this fact had some bearing on Big Jim Chivers’s inability to stay longer than one voyage in any ship and claw his way back to the top again.

It was not that the bo’sun ever met his match; it was the other way about; for no skipper cares to carry a bo’sun whose sole notion of conquering an assertive able seaman is to kill him outright.

Such killings might be in outwardly fair fight: they always were. But there were many of them against Chivers’s record, and various yarns concerning him all agreed on one point. Let the man who opposed him be as big and able as he might; let him possess the fighting quality of a whole watch of game-cocks; he must either knuckle under to the bo’sun’s mallet fists early in the voyage, or his strength and spirit would surely be sapped and broken by subtly contrived accidents until he became as putty in Big Jim’s hands.

Then the climax usually came in a cunningly picked rough and tumble. The early days of the Foochow’s outward passage had witnessed such a case, which, however, stopped short of a man-killing simply because the huskiest seaman speedily conceded the bo’sun’s superiority.

There was no other man in the forecastle capable of giving the hard case an argument, and Captain Raikes, who had looked glum on learning just who his bo’sun was, sighed his relief at the prospect of a quiet voyage.

THEN had come the great surprise. Ben Corbet, a youth of twenty, little more than half the bo’sun’s weight, and outwardly at least unused to hardship or hard work, had joined the ship at the dock just before she pulled out, and after the boarding master had delivered the balance of the crew.

Obviously of a different class from the other forecastle denizens, precise and cultured of speech, pink of face and hands, and scrupulously neat in dress, Corbet was shunned at first by his fellows who regarded him as an interloper. He, however, knew his work and they left him alone because of it.

During the taming of the single refractory seaman, the youth had looked on with a curious expression of countenance, and an utter absence of fear or awe for the terrible Chivers, that soon brought upon himself impleasant notice. His watch mates warned him in whispers that he’d better look subdued when the bo’sun spoke to him; but the warning served only to bring a queer smile to his lips, and a glinting light to his eyes.

The inevitable result was swift to arrive. Chivers pounced upon him joyfully and from then onward Corbet’s life was a nightmare. Yet he refused to take warning. It seemed as if he deliberately sought conflict with the bo’sun, and thrived on his cruel batterings.

As the weeks drew out into months, and the ship dragged out her wearisome passage, the slight frame filled out visibly, the pink skin took on a healthy tan, and Corbet’s encounters with the roaring, snorting Chivers began to assume an appearance of advancing equality. And with the physical improvement came a change of expression— in Chivers as well as his young tormentor.

The glint in Ben’s eyes took on a steely, yet contemptuous quality, the smile on his lips became a sarcastic grin that the severest beating failed to dispel; and, in ratio, the bo’sun’s scowling visage lost its ejqjression of cruel enjoyment at the punishment he inflicted, and gave place to savage exasperation that could only bring one result.

The fight that he intended was to be Corbet’s last, came off during a spell of squalls and calms in the China Sea, and the end was as sudden as the squall that caused it. Men stood amazed while the fight raged; amazed to see Ben Corbet holding his own, and to see fleeting but unmistakable uneasiness in the bo’sun’s eyes.

Then came the squall, and a scurrying to clew up and furl. In the first excitement Ben Corbet relaxed his attention to the job in hand, and drivers seized his chance. Wrapping his ape-like arms around the youngster, he bore him furiously across the deck and hurled him at the haIf-open galley door.

The sharp edge of the door broke some of Corbet’s ribs and split his scalp from ear to crown, drivers left him where he lay and sprang to drive the men to their stations for shortening sail without a thought for the man he had apparently killed.

The strange part about it was Corbet’s remark as he was hoisted out to go ashore to hospital.

“I can whip that man any time now!” he said, and a snrile lighted his pain-drawn face as he said it. “Save him for me, won’t you sir?” he seemed to beg of the second mate, who was superintending his removal.

LIGHT, irritating airs fanned the Foochow into the Indian Ocean, and apparently Chivers had turned over a new leaf, for the ship was as free from trouble as the weather. Day by day Ben Corbet regained strength, and instead of courting conflict with the bo’sun he appeared to have taken a saner method of completing his bodily powers of resistance.

In the wearisome and all but endless trimming of yards to the fickle zephyrs, he was as near ubiquitous as a seaman can be. Braces and sheets came in like magic when he bent his lithe back to the pull; in squalls that invariably punctuated the calm spells, no man ever beat Corbet to the job when fiurling or loosing sail was called for.

And the manner in which he swarmed aloft or came down by way of backstays, by a deliberate hand-over-hand motion that proved the temper of his rippling muscles, made even the oldest shellback blink. The change from the continual fighting of the outward passage was agreeably noted in the cabin.

“I think Chivers got a scare over Corbet,” remarked Captain Raikes, one evening at supper. “If he behaves like this all the rest of the voyage, I’ll be able to understand why he’s still in demand. The ship’s business runs like clockwork.”

“I never saw work done better, sir,” replied the mate. “But I’m not sure that we’ll make the Cape without a recurrence of the trouble. Have you noticed young Corbet’s development, and his expression whenever he passes Chivers?”

“Oh, yes, I’ve seen something of it, but I don’t fear any more trouble between those two. Corbet got enough in that last turnup, and Chivers got a scare that’ll last him, I think.”

“I hope so, sir,” returned the mate, dubiously.

He was closer in touch with the men than the skipper was, and had seen signs not so obvious to the other

“Chivers is a queer fish, anyway,” he went on, thoughtfully. “I never heard the truth about his history, sir. What put the mean streak into him? He’s the best seaman I ever sailed with, and I don’t quite savvee why he can’t watch himself better and get back into a better berth.”

“He can never do that!” exclaimed the skipper, decisively. “It was no ordinary loss of a steamer that made his name stink in the nostrils of every clean seaman. As I recall it now, he was a handsome, fascinating dog in uniform, and absolutely unscrupulous where women were concerned.

“He had plenty of opportunities in the line that employed him, for it is one of such a captain’s duties to act as a sort of male chaperon to unattached young ladies sailing in his ship. Most skippers are proud of the trust, and not often will you find one to abuse it. But by all accounts, Chivers made more than one bad break, and just after he got the Ultonia he was called up on the carpet and warned by his owners. There was some talk of a big scandal, but it was hushed up.

“Then he lost the steamer in a fog on the Islay coast. All hands got clear in the boats before she settled, and she was supposed to have sunk. But when the fog cleared, some fishermen found her with her upper-decks above water, and they found a woman locked in the captain’s stateroom. She was half-crazy then, as she would be, and nothing much could be got out of her; but enough was gathered to absolutely damn Chivers in the eyes of everybody who heard of the case.

“He had a clever lawyer to defend him, and got off without criminal prosecution; but his career was finished. He disappeared for a time, and when next he turned up he was much as you see him now: a drunken swab ashore, and a devil incarnate at sea to the men under him. But he is a first-rate seaman— a better bo’sun in a ship can’t be found— and that’s why he still finds employment. But he dare not aim higher. He’s finished.”

The second mate’s voice volleyed down the skylight in a roar, and the pattering of feet on the poop echoed sharply in the cabin, bringing Captain Raikes and the mate up the companion way with a run. Then Chivers’s hoarse bellow resounded, and was redoubled as Ben Corbet replied to it with a sneering laugh.

“What’s this! Stop that at once, Chivers!” snapped the skipper, and his face flushed angrily at the desecration of the sacredness of the poop. The two mates ran around the skylight, intent upon intercepting the bo’sun who charged furiously at the sneering Corbet.

The rush was not stopped. Neither did it reach its mark. When the frothing bo’sun reached within six feet of Corbet, the young seaman stepped nimbly aside and brushed Chivers’s face with his fingers, as if to show that he might as easily plant a punch as a flip.

Then the unforeseen happened. The bo’sun’s rush carried him headlong into the rail on the lee side; the top pipe-rail took him at mid-height, and with a clumsy, grappling tumble he shot overboard and disappeared into the sea.

“Down, down helm!” shouted the skipper, motioning to the wheel. “Easy! Don’t get her aback! Hold her just shaking! That’ll do— meet her!”

The cry “Man overboard!” rang out, and the second mate flung over a ring-buoy.

“Get the dinghy overboard!” Captain Raikes told the mate, and then turned to watch for Chivers’s reappearance. The second mate stood at his elbow, and volunteered the reason for the fuss.

“Corbet just came from the wheel, sir,” he said. “The bo’sun was replacing some buckets in the rack that had been fitted with new beckets, and the two of ’em just looked at each other as they passed. I didn’t catch any words, but Corbet whispered something to Chivers that sent all the blood out of the bo’sun’s face and made him froth at the mouth. He tried to hit Corbet a swipe, but missed, and the youngster just stepped aside and laughed. That made the bo’sun madder, and you saw the rest, sir. This ought to—”

“There he is!” shouted Corbet, forgetting for the moment where he was.—He was standing on the rail, holding on by the mizzen-shrouds, looking out anxiously for his enemy.—Then—“By God! He can’t swim!” he shouted, and in a flash had dived in a long, clean plunge that cut the water without a splash.

“Hurry up the boat!” cried Captain Raikes, then, watching the ship’s drift as she hung in the wind, he bawled— “Mainclew-garnet! Haul up both clews of the mains’l! Main-braces here!” and ran to set the example himself. The main-yards were backed, and now the Foochow lay hove-to, sagging very slowly to leeward and making no headway.

THE dinghy was overboard now, and with the inexpertness of deepwater sailors was being laboriously pulled clear of the ship’s side. A quarter of a mile away two black heads bobbed close together on the glassy sea, and then only one showed. Where the other had been a long, frantic arm waved for an instant, then disappeared.

It was justifiable for Corbet to give up then, and make for the boat and his own safety. But to the amazement of every man who had witnessed Chivers’s treatment of the lad, he trod water for a breath, rose half his length from the water, and then sank after the bo’sun.

“By heavens, the lad’s a goner!” gasped the skipper. “He can never handle Chivers half drowned!”

So it seemed, as the dinghy blundered clumsily toward the spot. Then Corbet broke water again, and from the ship it was plain that Chivers had wrapped his great arms about the smaller man and was strangling him from sheer panic. The mate in the boat drove his men to greater efforts that only made the progress less sure, and men who had liked Ben Corbet began to figure what they would buy when his sea-chest was put up at auction.

“He’s mastering him, sir!” whooped the second mate.

“Yes, I’m afraid Chivers is too strong for him. He’ll drown the pair of them.”

“No, no! Corbet’s got him free! Gee! See that!”

Corbet had got a knee up against the bo’sun’s chest, and in that position they both sank again. When they reappeared, Corbet was clear, floating on his back, with a hand sunk into the tangled hair of the bo’sun, whose face streamed blood.

The dingey picked them up, and brought them on board. While the ship was put on her course again. Captain Raikes had rescued and rescuer placed side by side on the skylight-settee, and administered first aid to the bo’sun. Corbet, after he had coughed the salt water out of his lungs, declined assistance with a grin, and went forward to change into dry clothes.

It was dark by the time Chivers was able to get into his own bunk, and the night-watches went by without reference to the occurrence. But early in the forenoon watch, immediately after he had taken his A.M. observation for longitude. Captain Raikes told the mate to muster all hands at the break of the poop, and to bring the bo’sun and Corbet up to him.

When all were clustered at the foot of the poop ladders, and Corbet and the bo’sun stood beside the skipper, Captain Raikes held up his hand for silence and said:

“Men, yesterday you saw Corbet perform an act that only a man could do. All the earlier part of the voyage there was trouble forward between the bo’sun and this brave lad. Now, whatever the trouble was about, yesterday’s deed wipes it out, and before you all I want these men to shake hands and put an end to trouble in the ship for all time. Come bo’sun, give Corbet your hand.”

The bo’sun had fully recovered from his immersion, and his powerful frame was once more under full control. But his face, as he looked at Corbet, was ghastly with the ghastliness of a terror that went deeper than physical fear. The skipper and the mates saw it; all hands saw it; and their glances went swiftly to Corbet’s face to find the reason.

There indeed was a different expression. The young seaman’s eyes blazed, while his lips smiled, and the muscles of his neck and chest worked and rippled under the skin in a way that indicated a tremendous effort at control.

“Come, Corbet,” urged Captain Raikes, staring astounded from one to the other. “Why, what the devil is the matter, man!”

Corbet stepped back a pace, and half

turned so that he presented a side face to the officers without taking his eyes from the bo’sun. At the same time— later on it was recalled— he assumed a position in which he had Chivers between hmself and the forward rail.

“Gentlemen,” he said, and nodded to Captain Raikes and the mates as to equals rather than to his superior officers, “for the moment please hear me as man to man. In a few minutes you’ll have to judge what you’ll do with me. I’m a sailor merely for a purpose, and after this voyage it won’t matter what happens to me.”

Corbet fixed his eyes on the bo’sun’s face, and the sneer at his lips intensified at what he saw there. The captain, mates, and crew stared at the seaman at first, startled at the unusual temerity evinced in addressing a skipper on his own poop. But there was that quality in Ben’s tones and words that compelled attention, and he was allowed to go on.

“Fifteen years ago,” he said, “that man commanded the steamship Ultonia. He cast her away in a fog, and in his cabin was found a woman half frantic with terror and disgrace. That woman was my mother!”

The skipper and mates gasped. The bo’sun’s face was livid; his lips parted, and the veins stood out on his neck like cords.

“This steamship captain was noted even then for the homes he had wrecked,” Corbet continued, evenly, “and my father’s home went to swell the total. He stole my mother from him while he was away on a long sailing-ship voyage: stole her by lying protestations of friendship for my father; persuaded her to break the monotony of her lonely life by taking a trip across the Atlantic in his fine ship. Only a friendly invitation, of course! Nothing wrong about it, for he was my father’s friend.

“My mother went. Once, twice, then many times, leaving me at home with a nurse after the first time. And she succumbed to this beast’s wiles. He tired of her, as he had tired of others who had been too weak to resist his blandishments.

“But she had, God help her, learned to care for him to the exclusion of my father. Then came the disaster to the steamer. This man saw a way to be rid of her then, and that is why she was found in his cabin, locked up, when everybody expected the ship had gone down!”

Chivers stood rooted to the deck, and Corbet stepped a half-pace nearer to him as he continued:

“In short, my father received her back to his home in full forgiveness, but the disgrace killed her. She died in his arms. Ever since I was big enough, I have followed the sea in the hope of one day sailing with this man. In this ship I found him, and carried out my intent.

“In all the fighting that has occurred between us, one object has been in view, that of finding his strength and matching it with my own. Yesterday I satisfied myself that I am at last able to handle him. I saved him from drowning, simply because I could not let him escape by that easy way. Captain Raikes, I have sworn to kill that man with my hands, and—”

“Look out!” roared the second mate.

Chivers uttered a bellow of sheer blind terror, and broke for the rail. The mate and Captain Raikes hurled themselves at the flying figure, but the maddened bo’sun burst through them like a charging bull. He was within three feet of the lee rail when Corbet plunged after him in a flying tackle, and brought him with a crash to the deck.

THEN ensued a silent, awful conflict that kept would-be interrupters standing open-mouthed. With the grip of his implacable foe upon him, Chivers called up all his fighting instincts and put out all his tremendous strength. With fists and feet he hammered and pounded at the clinging Nemesis; but Corbet’s slim, sinewy hands fastened in a steely grip on his brawny throat and squeezed like Fate.

The young fellow’s face and chest were pounded raw, his mouth and ear poured blood, one eye was closed and the other all but blinded. Still the knuckles of his hands shone white through the taut skin; still his fingers sank deeper and deeper into the great neck of his adversary.

Suddenly Corbet uttered the first sound since the conflict began, and it was a grim laugh of triumph. The bo’sun’s blows were missing now; the great fists hammered at deck and waterways; the ape-like arms moved jerkily and fell slower as his suffused face was overshadowed with the blackness of strangulation.

“By God! Stop them!” barked the skipper, stepping forward as he emerged from his stupefaction. “Pull him off, men!”

“Never mind, sir,” panted Corbet, rising and gulping in great breaths of revivifying air. “I’ve finished with him. Now do what you like with me.” He held out both hands. “I suppose you’ll turn me over to the police, sir?”

Captain Raikes walked the deck apart for several minutes, while the two mates ranged themselves on either side of Corbet, and a deep muttering growl of approbation went up from the seamen who had thrown discipline to the four winds during the fight and were now mobbed about the ladders.

“If I was the old man, Corbet, I’d recommend you for a Carnegie medal!” said the mate, gruffly.

“Same here,” rejoined the second mate, who-was yet thrilling with the excitement.

The skipper stopped at last, and said, shortly:

“You can go forward, Corbet. I’ll deal with you later on. Some of you men get this body down on the fore-hatch and let Sails sew it up.”

And when the poop was clear again, save for the helmsman and his officers. Captain Raikes told the mates:

“There’s only one thing to do in this matter, gentlemen. It’s no business of the police, or anybody else ashore. If you’re agreed. I’ll enter the affair in the log and have you witness it, and I think we can ring down the curtain on the final act of the Ultonia case.”

“If it clears Ben Corbet, sir. I’ll sign anything!” said the mate.

“Same here, sir,” agreed the second mate emphatically.

And this is the entry that appeared in the Foochow’s official log, duly witnessed, all shipshape and Bristol fashion:

Latitude 8 degs. 40 mins. South; Longitude 72 degs. 04 mins. East, James Chivers, boatswain, fell overboard. He was saved with great gallantry by Benjamin Corbet, Able Seaman. Chivers was in bad shape when brought on board, and died the next day of deferred strangulation.

________________

12: The Small House on Steven's Heath

Mrs L. T. Meade and Dr Clifford Halifax, M.D.

The Strand Magazine Nov 1895

AMONGST my numerous acquaintances was an old friend who lived on a somewhat remote part of a common situated between fourteen and sixteen miles out of London. For the purpose of this strange story I shall call it Steven's Heath, although its real name is another. The common stretches for many miles in several directions, and although within a very short distance of the Metropolis, is as lonely as if it belonged to one of the Yorkshire moors. My friend was a retired officer in the Army— he had a great fancy for lonely places, and chose the neighbourhood of Steven's Heath with a due regard to its solitude when he arranged to build a house upon its borders. He was an old man of between sixty and seventy— his children had long ago left him, and he and his wife lived a very happy Darby and Joan existence in their pretty new house and extensive grounds. The air was of the purest and freshest, and I always enjoyed paying my friend a visit. It so happened that an illness of a trifling character called me to Clover Lodge towards the end of a certain October. Colonel Mathison would never consult any medical man but myself, and I found him nervous and excited when I went to visit him. After a careful examination I was able to reassure him with regard to his physical condition. My verdict instantly put him into the highest spirits, and he insisted on my remaining to dine with him and his wife. Mrs. Mathison took me for a walk round the grounds just before dinner.

"Your verdict about Edward has made him very happy," she said.

"If he follows my advice he will be all right within a week from now," was my reply.

"Yes, yes," she answered; then she added, with a sigh, "You admire this place very much, don't you, Dr. Halifax?"

"You have the finest air in the county," I said; "no one would imagine that you are so close to London."

"Ah, that is just it," she answered; "but for my part, fine as the air is, I should much prefer wintering in town— the fact is, I am fond of seeing my fellow-creatures, and except one or two old cronies, the Colonel would rather spend his days in solitude. The fact of my being lonely is, however, a small reason, and it is not on that account that I am particularly anxious to go to a more civilized part of the country for the winter."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Well," she said, after a moment's hesitation, "I don't like the people I meet on this common."

"I daresay you do come across strange characters," I replied, "but surely they have nothing whatever to do with you?"

"Oh, I don't mean gipsies," she said. "I am not the least afraid of the ordinary gipsy; but of late, when out walking, I have met two or three very savage-looking men. It was only a fortnight ago that one of them, a man with dark eyes, a sweeping moustache, and very tawny complexion, suddenly started up in front of my path, and asked me, quite politely, what the hour was. Some sort of instinct told me not to take out my watch. I replied by guesswork, and the man did not say anything further. Now, his tone was quite gentle- manly, and his dress was that of a country squire— nevertheless, his manner, and the look on his face, terrified me so much that I returned to the Lodge trembling in every limb. The Colonel asked me what was the matter, and I told him. He naturally laughed at my fears, and, of course, I could not get him to see the affair at all in a serious light. In short, it needed to come face to face with that man to see anything serious in such a trivial incident— but the Colonel is an old man, doctor, and of a very fiery, irascible disposition, and if there were any danger―"

"Which of course there isn't," I interrupted, with a smile.

I looked hard at the little old lady as I spoke— she had evidently got a shock. I thought it was scarcely well for her to wander about this desolate common by herself.

"After all, it would be a very good thing for you to go to town for the winter," I said. " I will speak to Colonel Mathison on the subject after dinner. There is nothing serious the matter with him, but if he were close at hand I could look him up at intervals, and perhaps put him on a treatment which might prevent the recurrence of the attack which alarmed you both."

"I wish you would speak to him," she said, eagerly.

Soon afterwards we returned to the house. After dinner I broached the subject, but found the Colonel quite obdurate.

"Nonsense, nonsense," he said, "no towns for me. If Mary is nervous, and finds the place lonely at night, we can get in another man-servant, or the gardener can sleep in the house. As to my health, that is folly; I should die in a fortnight in your stuffy London, and when I am ill, and need your services, I know you won't refuse them to me, Halifax."

"That I won't," I replied, heartily.

There was nothing further to say, and soon afterwards I rose, remarking that it was time for me to catch my train.

"I will ring the bell for the trap to be brought round," said Colonel Mathison.

The servant answered the summons, and an order for the trap was given. In a moment the man re-appeared with a long face— the mare had suddenly gone lame and was unable to travel. Colonel Mathison was greatly upset, jumped from his chair, and began to excite himself in a very unnecessary manner. I went to the window and looked out. There was a moon, which would set within about an hour and a half— it would give me plenty of light to walk to the station. The nearest way thither lay straight across the common about the distance of from three to four miles. I felt that I should enjoy the exercise.

"You must not give the matter a second thought," I said to my old friend. " I shall start at once, and walk to Haverling Station. The fact is, I shall like it, and there is plenty of moon to show me over the ground."

"But the common is so lonely," said Mrs. Mathison.

"All the better for me," I replied. "I like to be alone with Dame Nature now and then. But I have no time to spare. I will wish you both good-evening."

I left the house, holding my umbrella in one hand, and a bag which contained a few surgical instruments and a Burroughs and Wellcome medicine case in the other, and started on my long walk. The clock in the hall just struck eleven as I left— my train would arrive at Haverling at ten minutes to twelve. I should therefore do the walk comfortably in the time. The night was a perfect one, and the moon flooded the entire place with a soft silver radiance. The trees which were dispersed at intervals across the common cast huge shadows, but my path lay where the moonbeams fell in an uninterrupted line.

The air was crisp and bracing, with just a touch of frost in it. I was in particularly good spirits, and could not help feeling that Colonel Mathison was right in refusing to exchange this fragrant and perfect air for the close atmosphere of town. I had a certain sympathy also, however, for the wife, who had not the passion for the country which her husband possessed, and was evidently easily frightened. As to her meeting a rough-looking man with a fierce aspect on a common like this, nothing was more natural, and I did not give the matter a serious thought. I walked quickly forward, little guessing what horror was lying directly in my own path.

I have, in my long and varied experiences, turned some sharp corners and gone through more than one moment of peril, but the adventure which I am now about to describe I shall always look back upon as the high- water mark of my own personal suffering and deadly peril. The situation, in the very midst of our civilized England, the close vicinity to London, the apparently trivial beginning of the incident— only heightened the horror when it did occur; but I must hasten to tell my story.

I had gone about half-way across the common, and the moon was rapidly approaching the horizon— in a short time she would set, leaving the entire place in complete darkness. I hurried my footsteps, therefore, wishing to gain the high road before this took place. I must by this time have reached almost the centre of Steven's Heath—  miles of undulating, broken land stretched to right and left of me. A sensation of loneliness suddenly struck at my heart. I am not a coward, and was surprised at the sensation. The next moment, with a sigh of relief, I saw that I was not alone. A tall man, dressed in the garb of a country gentleman, was walking slowly in advance of me. He was evidently keeping to the same path over which I was travelling— a clump of trees must have hidden him from my sight until now; but now, owing to the peculiar position of the moon, I saw him with great distinctness. There was nothing remarkable in this sight, and I should soon have passed my fellow-traveller without a thought, had not my attention been arrested by his peculiar gait and manner. He walked slowly and with some pauses; he stooped a good bit, and stopped from time to time to cough. His cough was wafted back to me on the evening breeze— it had a sound of great distress about it, and seemed to indicate that the man was in severe pain. When, he coughed I further noticed that he took a hand-kerchief out of his pocket and pressed it to his lips. At once I felt an interest in him, and, hastening my footsteps, came up to his side.

"Forgive me," I said, abruptly, "you seem ill and in pain."

He had not heard me as I approached over the soft, springy grass, and started violently when I suddenly addressed him. He wore a soft felt hat, which was pushed rather far over his eyes, and now, from under his bent brows, two haggard, suffering, and very dark eyes peered restlessly at me.

"I am not well, I thank you, sir," he said, speaking with a cultivated accent; "but I am not far from home, and when I get there, I have not the least doubt that a little rest will restore me."

His words were uttered in jerks, and he had scarcely come to the end of his sentence before he coughed again, and immediately a quantity of blood poured out of his mouth.

"You are seriously ill," I said. "I am a doctor on my way to London. Can I do anything to assist you?"

"A doctor!" he exclaimed. He pushed his hat away from his forehead, and gazed at me earnestly.

"Good heavens, this seems like a Providence," he muttered. "Do I understand you to say that you are a London doctor, sir ?"

"I am," I replied.

He carried a stout stick, on which he suddenly leant heavily.

"he fact is," he said, abruptly, "I have met with a nasty accident; I am seriously hurt, and―"

He broke off to resume the painful coughing.

"Will you permit me to see you to your house?" I said.

"No," he replied; "that would not be wise. I am much obliged to you, but I would rather you did not see me home. Perhaps it might be possible for you to give me a little advice here."

"Scarcely," I said. "You are either wounded or have broken a blood-vessel. You must lie down, and be properly examined before anything can be done for your relief."

He coughed again.

"I— I thank you, sir, but I would rather go home alone," he repeated.

A fresh fit of coughing interrupted the words, and the red stream flowed from his lips. "Come," I said, "you have met me unexpectedly; you must look upon it, as you have just remarked, as a Providence. You are not fit to go home alone. Accept my assistance, and regard yourself lucky to have met someone who can help you."

"There's my wife to consider," he said. "I — I can't speak much— my wife will feel it if anything happens to me. You can get away quickly after you have examined me, sir— yes, perhaps it is best."

"It is the only thing to do," I said. "Take my arm now, and pray speak as little as possible, or the bleeding will become worse. Just answer me one question, however. What do you believe to be the nature of your injury?"

"A bullet wound," he said, speaking now in gasps. "The villain has shot me in the lung, I believe."

His words were unexpected, and they startled me, but I had not a moment to think of myself.

"Lean on me," I said, in an authoritative voice, "and indicate from time to time with your finger the direction we are to take."

He was too weak and ill to expostulate further. I drew his hand through my arm, and we turned abruptly to the left.

Our way led us directly from the railway station. We soon reached a dingle, into which we descended. The man was now past speech, but at intervals he pointed out the direction which we were to take. We crossed the dingle, ascended a slight hill, found ourselves in a thicket of trees, and the next moment out again in the middle of a little clearing, in which a long, low, old-fashioned house stood. A faint light was shining out of the porch, which streamed direct on our path— the man gave a perceptible sigh of relief.

"Is that your house?" I asked.

He nodded. The next moment we were standing in the porch. A young woman, who evidently must have heard our footsteps, rushed out. She wore a white dress, and her hair fell in some disorder down her back.

"Oh, Ben!" she said, putting one arm round the man's neck, "how terrified I have been, and how late you are!"

She suddenly saw me, and started back with a stifled exclamation of alarm.

"Why have you brought this stranger home with you?" she asked of the injured man.

My patient was evidently making an effort to speak, which I saw in his present condition would be highly hazardous. I took the initiative, therefore, without delay.

"This gentleman is seriously hurt," I said. "Pray do not question him at present. I happened to meet him on the common, and, seeing the state of his sufferings, volunteered my assistance. I am a doctor, and it is possible that I may be able to relieve him. Let me help you to take him to a bedroom immediately. We must get him to bed at once. I shall then examine him, and render what assistance lies in my power."

The girl did not speak for a moment or two, then, with a deft movement, she flashed the full light of the lantern upon my face. From me she looked earnestly at the deathly pale face of my companion.

"Ben," she said, "did you knowingly bring this gentleman here?"

He nodded and frowned at her. The expression of his face seemed to convey some sort of warning. She took the initiative at once— her manner changed, her nervousness vanished, she became self- controlled and calm.

"It was kind of you to see my husband home," she said to me. "If you will give him your arm, we will take him to his bedroom at once."

She set down her lantern as she spoke. A large paraffin lamp was burning in the hall. It had been turned low; she went to it and raised the light. Motioning me to follow her, she ascended some stairs, and in a moment or two we found ourselves in a good-sized bedroom, which opened on to a small landing. It did not take me long to get the sick man on the bed and partly undressed. I unfastened his cravat, and opened his shirt. A glance at his chest showed me that the hemorrhage was caused by a wound. The nature of the wound made it evident that it was caused by a revolver; most probably the bullet was now embedded in the left lung.

The full nature of the injury it was impossible for me to discover, but it was all too evident that the man's life was in a precarious state, and if something were not quickly done to stop the excessive hemorrhage, his life must be the forfeit. I quickly opened my medicine case, and without a moment's delay injected a dose of ergotine. I directed the young woman to prepare cold bandages to lay over the man's chest, and having plugged up the wound, I turned my patient on his side, and told him quite plainly that his chance of recovery depended entirely on his lying perfectly still. When I spoke he fixed his eyes on my face— there was an expression of dumb anguish about them which painfully upset the young woman, who was standing close to him. She leant against the bed, trembling in every limb, and for an instant I feared that her self-control would give way— but another glance showed me that she was made of sterner metal— she soon recovered herself, and as at that moment hurried footsteps were heard in the hall beneath, she suddenly drew herself up, and a watchful, alert look crept into her face. The steps came quickly along the passage, they bounded up the stairs, the room door was flung noisily open, and a tall man with broad shoulders and much muscular strength entered.

I could not help giving a very perceptible start when I looked at him. I have seen evil faces in my day, but I do not think I ever before beheld one so sinister, so absolutely devoid of all trace of goodness. His eyes were small, of piercing blackness, and closely set— his features were aquiline, but his mouth was flabby and nerveless, and the under lip was so large and protruding that even the heavy moustache which he wore could not effectually hide it. He marched quickly up to the bed, and stood looking down at the wounded man without speaking; then his eyes caught sight of me, the angry colour flamed up all over his face, and a muttered oath dropped from his lips. The wounded man could not speak, but his eyes became painfully anxious in expression. The girl went up to the new arrival, and touched him on his shoulder.

"Leave the room, Hal," she said; " you see that Ben is very ill, and must not be disturbed. He has met with a bad accident— you doubtless know all about it; this gentleman met him on the road, and brought him home."

"I should have thought the gentleman would have known better than to interfere," muttered the man called Hal; "we don't care to have strangers about this place."

He bit his lower lip as soon as he had spoken— I was watching him narrowly. I saw that he was a man of violent passions, which he had very little power of keeping under control. The young woman touched him again on the arm, and drew him aside to a distant part of the room. He bent his ear to her, and she began to speak in an eager whisper.

My patient again fixed his eyes on my face; he motioned me nearer with his hand. I bent over him.

"Get out of this as fast as you can," he murmured.

His hoarse whisper nearly cost him his life. A fresh and violent flow of hemorrhage set in. The wife, uttering a cry, rushed to her husband's side, 'and the other man left the room. I did all that I could to stop the fresh flow of blood, and after a time it ceased. The patient was now drowsy, and closed his eyes as if he wished to sleep.

When I saw that this was the case, I beckoned to the wife to follow me on to the landing.

"Is there any hope of saving him?" she asked, the moment we were alone.

"He is in very great danger," I said, " but if we can keep him alive during the night, it may be possible to extract the bullet to-morrow. He has had a bad. wound, and in all probability the bullet is embedded in the left lung. The danger is that he may die of hemorrhage before anything can be done to extract the bullet. It is lucky that I happened to meet him."

"Lucky!" she repeated, gazing up at me, her eyes staring— " Heaven knows!"

She turned away, and taking a handkerchief out of her pocket, wiped some moisture from her forehead.

"Can you really do him any good, sir?" she asked; " for if not " Her voice faltered; she was evidently putting a great constraint upon herself— "if not, sir, it may be best for you to go away at once."

"No," I said, "I will not do that. I have come here, and I will stay until the morning."

"Well, sir, if you will not go, let me take you downstairs and get . you some refreshment."

She ran down a short flight of stairs, and I followed her. The flush of excitement had now mounted to her cheeks, replacing the extreme pallor which I had noticed ten minutes ago. She showed me into a well-furnished dining-room, surprisingly large and solid for the appearance of the house. As soon as I entered, I saw that the ferocious-looking man who had come into the bedroom was standing on the hearth. He had changed his dress, which was in much disorder when I saw him last— his manner had also altered for the better. When he saw me, he came forward and moved a chair at right angles to the fire.

"Sit down," he said, " I am obliged to you for coming to our assistance. Is my brother badly hurt?"

"The wound is a very severe one," I replied.

"I thought so," he answered. " We were both together, and he must have slipped away from me in the dark— I have been all round the place waiting for him for nearly an hour— I guessed that he was hurt."

"I always knew something bad of this kind would take place," cried the wife, with passion.

"Keep your tongue between your teeth," said the man, with an ugly oath. " The fact is, sir," he continued, fixing his bloodshot eyes with a peculiar glance on my face, " Rachel, here, is nervous; the place is lonely, and there is no woman near to keep her. company. Ben and I are a rough lot, and nothing will keep Ben out of mischief when his blood is up. He had a row with some fellows at a public-house not two miles from here, and this is the consequence. We are all Colonials, and, as you may know, sir, rough and ready is the word still, in most of the Colonies. We came to England two years ago, and took this cottage. We had a fancy to live a retired life. We heard that a chicken farm was a good speculation, and we started one— it gives us something to do, and the air of this common suits us. As to Rachel, she is always making the worst of things, but I suppose she does find the life somewhat tame."

"Tame!" cried the young woman, clasping her hands tightly together.

"Get the gentleman something to eat, Rachel, and then leave us," said Hal, in a blustering tone.

"Thank you," I answered, "but I do not wish for any refreshment."

"Well, at least, you'll have some wine," said Hal. " I have got a bottle of port which I can recommend— I'll go and fetch it at once. Come, Rachel, you can hold a light for me to the cellar."

He left the room immediately— his sisterin-law accompanying him. They paused in the passage outside to exchange some words, but I could not hear anything they said. I went and stood by the hearth and looked around, me. I considered the situation peculiar, but up to the present saw no cause for any special alarm as far as my own safety was concerned. The men were a lawless pair, and I did not believe the lame story offered to me about the revolver wound, but . having undertaken the case, I had no intention of deserting my patient, and felt certain that I should be able to defend myself should occasion arise. The man and young woman were not long absent. They quickly returned to the room. The woman carried a tray, on which were some glasses and a box of biscuits. The man followed with a bottle of port. He drew the cork carefully, and put ir undecantered on the tray.

"I'll go back to my husband now, sir," said the young woman, glancing at me.

"Do so," I replied; " and be sure you call me should my services be required. Pray remember, the main thing is to keep the patient perfectly quiet, and under no provocation to allow him to speak."

She nodded. She had nearly reached the door when she turned and came quickly back.

"You will like to know our names," she said. " I am Mrs. Randall. My husband and this man are brothers— my husband is Ben, this man is called Hal. I am deeply grateful to you, sir, for the services you are rendering to me and mine."

Her eyes were very bright, so bright that tears did not seem to be far away. She paused again, with her hand resting on the table.

"Is there any chance of Ben's life?" she asked, suddenly.

I had in reality very little hope, for the hemorrhage which had already taken place was of the most serious character, but I could not quench the longing in the young, eager eyes fixed on my face.

"Absolute quiet is the one and only chance of life," I said, emphatically.

"I understand," she said, nodding; " your directions shall be carried out to the letter." She left the room as she spoke.

When she had done this Randall flung himself on a large sofa at one side of the fire.

"Drink your wine, doctor, it will do you good," he said, with a sort of assumption of heartiness which sat ill upon him. " Upon my word," he added, " it was deucedly good-natured of you to come out of your way to attend to a stranger."

"Not at all," I replied, "if I can save the stranger's life; but I must tell you that I have very little hope of doing so."

"Good heavens!" he cried, in excitement, "do you think that my brother will die of his wound?"

"It is not only possible, but highly probable," I answered.

He swore a great oath, jumped up from his sofa, sat down again, and ground the heel of one big foot into the carpet.

"This thing will upset Rachel," he said, after a pause; "she's awful spoons upon Ben — the fact is, he rescued her from some of the aborigines years ago in Australia; she grew up with us, and when she was old enough he married her."

"She appears to me little more than a child now," I said.

"Women marry young in Australia," was the brief reply. " Drink your wine, won't you?"

He had filled a glass with port wine before he sat down. I raised it now to my lips and sipped it. After doing so, I put the glass down quietly; I do not think a muscle of my face showed emotion, but I knew at once what had happened— the wine was heavily drugged. It was loaded with morphia. Randall's eager eyes were fixed greedily on my face. At that moment his sister-in-law called. him. I jumped up, but he interrupted me.

"She wants me," he said. "I'll let you know if your services are required— finish your wine and help yourself to more."

He left the room, when I immediately walked to the window, flung it open, and dashed the contents of the wine-glass outside. I shut the window noiselessly again, and returned to my seat. I had scarcely done so when Randall re-appeared. I noticed that he glanced at my empty glass the moment he entered the room. A gleam of satisfaction lit up his swarthy face.

"It is all right," he said; "my brother is quiet— he is dozing off. Rachel is sitting with him. She wanted to ask me a question about the chickens— we send some to the London market almost daily."

"Do you make it pay?" I asked, quietly.

"I can't say that we do," he replied, "but why should I bother you with this? My brother and I have an income independent of the farm— we keep the chickens for the sake of occupation. The night is far advanced now, and I am dead-beat, if you are not. Shall I take you to a bedroom? If you are good-natured enough to spend the night here, you may as well have some rest until you are required."

I simulated a yawn with good effect, doing so with intention. I knew that if I had any chance of escape from the danger in which I undoubtedly was, I must quiet this man's suspicions. He must suppose that I had really swallowed the drugged wine.

"I am sleepy," I said, "and shall be glad to lie down; but don't take me to a bedroom. If you will permit me to have a stretch on that sofa, I shall do admirably."

"As you please," he said, with a careless nod. "The sofa is wide, and, as I can do nothing further, I will go to my room. You will find the wine on this table if you want any more. I will let Rachel know you are here, in case she may want you. Goodnight."

He left the room, slamming the door behind him, and I heard his footsteps noisily and clumsily ascending the stairs. I stretched myself on the sofa, fearing that he might unexpectedly return. There was no manner of doubt now that I was in a most grave situation, and that my life might be the forfeit of what had appeared to me to be an act of common humanity. Who were these people— what was their occupation? They were undoubtedly not what they seemed— the chicken farm was in all probability a blind to cover enterprise of a widely different character. The story of the revolver-wound was, on the face of it, false. Why had the girl looked so terrified? Why had the wounded man asked me to go? Why had Hal favoured me with glances of such diabolical hatred? Above all, why was the wine drugged? When the house was perfectly quiet, I slipped off the sofa and approached the window. It was a large one, and occupied the greater part of the wall at one end of the room. I had opened it with ease when I had flung the wine away, and now again it yielded to my touch. I threw it up without making the least noise, and bending forward was just preparing to put out my head to judge of the possibility of escape, when I started back with a voiceless exclamation. The window was effectually barred from without with a shutter composed of one solid piece of iron. I pressed my hand against it— it was firm as a rock. Half an hour ago this shutter had not been raised. By what noiseless method had it been slipped into its place? I closed the window again and went over to the door. I turned the handle— it turned, but did not yield. The door was locked. I was caught in a trap. What was to be done?

At that moment I heard a creak on the stairs, and the unmistakable sound of heavy footsteps. I instantly returned to the sofa, lay down at full length, and assumed as I well knew how the appearance and the breathing of a man suffering from morphia poison. I made my breath stertorous and quick. I assumed the attitude of the deepest slumber. My hearing was now preternaturally acute, and the walls of this queer house were thin. I heard the steps approaching the door. The lock was noiselessly turned, the handle was moved, and the door opened a very little. I knew all this by my sensations, for I did not dare to raise an eyelid. There was plenty of light in the room— the fire was blazing merrily, and a big paraffin lamp shone with a large globe of light on the centre table. Beside the lamp lay the tray which contained the glasses and the bottle of drugged wine. I seemed to see everything, although my eyelids were tightly shut, and I lay slightly forward on my face, breathing loudly.

"Aye," said Randall, coming up and bending over me, " he's all right— he's fast enough— as fast as a nail. Now, what's the matter?" he continued, evidently addressing Mrs. Randall, and speaking in a growling whisper. "You don't like this job, eh? There's no use in your snivelling, it has got to be done. He's fast, ain't he? Come over here and have a good look at him." "I won't look at him; you are the cruellest man that ever lived— you are a ruffian. I must speak to you alone— come with me at once; if you don't, I'll say what I have to say out here."

"You may shout as loud as you please, you won't wake him. I knew what I was about when morphia into the wine; he's fast. What's up, girl? Now, none of your blarneying, and none of your passion, either. All our lives are in jeopardy, I tell you."

"Be that as it may, you have got to let that gentleman go, Hal."

"There are two words to that; but if you must interfere and give trouble, come out of this. He is fast, am sure, but there no saying what your muttering may do for him. He looks dead-beat, don't he? It seems a pity to disturb him."

The man uttered a low laugh, the horror of which almost curdled my blood.

"Come into the pantry," he said, re-addressing his companion; "he won't hear us in there."

They approached the door, walking on tip-toe: they closed it behind them, and I heard the key turn softly in the lock. If I had the faintest chance of escape, it was necessary for me to know if possible what fate was about to befall me. Where was the pantry? I opened my eyes now, and was immediately attracted by a gleam of light coming in a slanting direction through a window which I had not previously noticed. This window was high up in the wall, and was evidently used as a through light into another room. It had certainly not been illuminated when last I had examined the dining-room. Could it possibly belong to the pantry which Randall had alluded to? The sound of voices reached my ears. They were muffled, and I could not distinguish their tones, but at this instant I also perceived that the window in question was open at the bottom about two or three inches. If I could press my ear to the wall just below the open window, I might hear what the pair were saying. The risk was great, for if Randall came back and found me it would be a fight for life, and he, of course, would be armed, whereas I had not even a walking - stick. I thought the situation over carefully, and decided that it was better to die fighting than motionless. I further observed that there was a heavy poker in the fender. I seized it, mounted a chair, and pressing my ear just where I could not be seen, but also directly under the partly-open window, I found to my relief that I was able to hear perfectly well. The first sound that reached me was that of a woman's sob.

"You sha'n't do it," said Mrs. Randall. "I have borne with you too long. I know that Ben is bad, but I love him— he has always been kind to me— he is my husband— he never was an out-and-out bad 'un like you. You never had a heart. Now, listen; my mind is quite made up— you shall not take the life of the man who came here to succour my husband."

"Stop your snivelling," was the harsh reply. " I tell you he must go. Ben must have been out of his mind to bring him here. I have no enmity against the man himself, but he was a fool to put himself into the lion's den. He knows too much, and he must go. Don't you understand me, girl? Haven't you a grain of sense left? Well, I'll tell you something. Ben killed his man to-night, and he'll swing for it if we let that doctor escape. The thing was clumsily managed, and everything went wrong— the police came up just at the nick of time to ruin us, and Ben put a bullet into one— the whole thing will be in the papers to-morrow, and the doctor— curse him! — knows enough to swear away the life of that precious husband of yours. Now, for Heaven's sake, stop crying— control yourself."

"The doctor must be saved," said the young woman. "You are saying all this to frighten me, but I won't be frightened. Anyhow, come what may, I am not an out-and- out villain, and neither is Ben, and we can't allow the life of the man who has been good to us to be sacrificed. You want to murder him, Hal, but I won't let you. If you don't promise to let the gentleman go, you have got me to answer to, and I'll just tell you what I'll do. I have Ben's revolvers upstairs— oh, yes, I have hidden them, and you can't get at them, but I will take them down to the doctor before you can prevent me, and tell him to fight for his life. You are a bit of a coward when all is said and done, you know you are, Hal."

The man replied with an ugly oath. He must have taken the young woman by her shoulder as he spoke, for I heard her utter a faint scream.

"Don't," she said. " Let me go this minute; you are a coward to try to hurt a girl like me."

"I could kill you if it comes to that," was the reply. " I tell you I am desperate, and what is a man's life, or a girl's either, to me? My brother will swing if that doctor gets out of this. And, then, if I escape with penal servitude for life, I may consider myself lucky. I have no taste for penal servitude, so the doctor must go— and you, too, if you don't submit."

I heard Mrs. Randall laugh in reply.

"You think penal servitude is all you have to suffer," she answered; " but I know things that may bring you in a worse fate. How would you like to be hung up yourself? Perhaps you will, if I have the managing of things. Do you remember that old man on the common last winter and the purse of twenty sovereigns ?— the purse had the man's initials inside— you never could find it. Do you remember the search you made, and how I pretended to help you? Well, I had the purse all the time. I thought I might as well keep it— it might prove handy some day. I have it upstairs now. You see, I can turn Queen's evidence any day and make it hot for you, and I will if you kill that doctor."

Her words were evidently unexpected— they had weight with the ruffian. I could hear him shuffling about, and I could even distinguish the young woman's quick, agitated breathing.

"I have got the key of the dining-room too," she went on; "I slipped it out and put it in' my pocket when you weren't looking, so I can do what I said. If you try to wrest the key from me, I'll rouse the house with my screams. You have drugged the doctor, but he is not dead yet."

"He'll never wake again," said Hal, with a laugh; "you can't save him, girl, even if you tried— I tell you he is done for. I put enough morphia into that one glass of port, to finish two or three men. He is sound— sound as a bell; fast as a nail— dead to all intents and purposes— they never wake when they breathe as he is doing."

"You are mistaken," was the reply. "I watched him, too, and at the present moment he could be roused, I am convinced. Do you remember the man you drugged in Australia? I saw him die; he was far worse than this doctor."

Hal swore another oath, and again tried to use personal violence on the girl. I knew this, because she evidently sprang away from him, and threw open the pantry door. A breath of fresh air which came in through the aperture in the window acquainted me with this fact.

"Now," she said, "you have got to choose. You have no weapons on you at the present moment; I am nearest the door; I can lock you in in a twinkling, and fetch Ben's revolvers. I will, if you don't do what I wish. Spare that man's life, and I'll stick to you through thick and thin; but kill him, and I'll give Queen's evidence. I don't believe Ben will recover, and I don't care that for you. I am so sick of this horrible life that, so far as I am concerned, the sooner it is over the better. Remember, I have got the purse, and I can tell a lot. Oh, I can make things look ugly for you, Hal, and before Heaven I will."

"All right," said the man, assuming a soothing tone, "do stop canting— you always were a tigress; I've told Ben over and over that you would sell us, and I was in the right; but I suppose I must yield to you now. I'll go in and wake the doctor presently. I was only pretending that I had given him such a lot of morphia. He'll wake when I shake him up. I'll get him to take an oath that he'll never tell of what occurred here to-night. He'll do it fast enough when he sees his precious life in jeopardy; but, remember, I only do this on one condition— you hand me over that purse."

"Can I trust you?" she asked.

"Yes, I know you, you cat, and I don't want to feel the scratch of your claws. Fetch the purse, and I'll do what you want."

Again I heard her quick breathing— the next moment she had turned and rushed upstairs. I stepped suddenly down from my dangerous eminence, and hiding the poker just under my body— for I did not for a moment believe the man's words, and meant to lose my life hard if I lost it at all— resumed the stertorous breathing and the apparently profound slumber of the morphia victim. I heard the girl's footsteps returning through the silent house. Then she went upstairs to where the wounded man lay. His room was evidently over the dining-room, for I heard her steps moving about overhead. There was an awful silence of ten minutes. During that time, I think I lived through the worst moments of my life. Each nerve was stretched to the utmost— each faculty was keenly on the alert; I felt more and more certain that my chance of escape was of the smallest— against an armed ruffian, I could do nothing. As long as I was alone in the room, I kept my eyes wide open, but a sudden and unexpected sound caused me to shut them quickly. I had seen a head protrude suddenly from out of the pantry window— it looked right down on me where I lay, and then softly and noiselessly withdrew. A moment later the door of the dining-room was opened, and I heard Randall's heavy footsteps as he approached my sofa.

"No humbug," he shouted, in a loud voice. "If you are. awake, open your eyes and say so. Wake up, I say, if you can. I had my suspicions of you just now— open your eyes."

I did not respond; my head was sunk low, my breathing was coming in longer and slower respirations than it had done when last the man bent over me. He put his hand roughly under my chin, raised my face and looked at me— then he removed his hand with an audible sigh of relief.

"He's all right," he said, aloud. "Lord, I got a fright just now— I fancied he looked at me when I thrust my head through that window, but I was mistaken— of course I was; he can't escape after that dose I gave him, and he drank the glass full— the glass was empty when I returned to the room. He's alive still, but not much more. I won't move him while he lives. If he dies like that fellow did in Australia it will be all over within an hour. Well, I have got the purse, and Rachel may do her worst now. I wonder what's keeping Jasper; I shall want him to help me move the body."

He began to pace up and down the room, not taking the least pains to keep quiet; he without doubt regarded me as practically dead.

"What a fool Ben was," I heard him mutter, sitting down on the edge of the table; "but for me he'd have been in quod now; I told him not to fire that shot; he needn't have done it. Lord ! what a fright the police got— it is as good as a play even to think of it. That big fellow went down like a ninepin. Ben shot him through the heart as clean as a whistle. How he had strength to give it back hot to Ben, is more than I can understand. But he is dead now, stone dead, and Ben will swing if I let this doctor go.

"If!" he exclaimed, bursting into another hoarse laugh; "why, he's quiet already; I do believe the chap is dead."

He again approached my side, pushed my head roughly round, and listened to my breathing. I had made it on purpose a little fainter, but it was still audible.

"He's going, just like the man did in the bush," muttered Randall. "Confound that Jasper, why isn't he in? I'll go to the door and listen for him— he ought to be back by now."

He left me— being so sure of his deadly work that he did not even trouble to shut the dining-room door. I felt the cold air coming in through the open hall door, and suddenly stood up.

"I won't feign sleep any more," I said to myself; "if I am quick I may be able to knock him senseless with this poker before he has time to fire at me."

I speculated whether I should follow the ruffian into the hall, but before I had time to act, my overstrained hearing had detected hurried sounds in the chamber overhead— footsteps fled across the room, they rushed downstairs, and the young wife burst into the dining-room. I came to meet her— she showed no surprise— she was evidently past surprise at that supreme moment; agony, terror, and despair were detected on her features.

"Oh, doctor, you are awake," she cried; "that is good— I knew he hadn't given you enough of that horrid drug to kill you; but come upstairs at once— he is bleeding his life away. Come, you may save him if you are quick. Oh, I love him madly— whether he is bad or good ! I love him with all my heart, and soul, and strength. He is dying, my darling. Come, doctor, come."

I followed her upstairs. As I did so, I glanced back at the open hall door. I expected to see it blocked by the huge figure of the ruffian, Randall, but he must have gone to meet his pal, for the coast was clear. A fierce temptation shook me for a moment. From the wife's account, the man upstairs was evidently dying. If the wound were bleeding to the extent she described, no human help could save him. If I left the house now I might escape. The temptation came and went. Life was sweet, but my duty called me to the succour of one in extremis. I entered the sick room and approached the bed— the patient was alive, but little more. Over his features had already stolen the grey hue of death. One of his hands was extended outside the bed-clothes— from his lips continued to pour the flood of crimson life. I saw that the slightest attempt to move him, or even to administer remedies, would but accelerate the death which was waiting to claim him. I motioned to the wife to calm herself; she gave me a passionate glance of despair.

"Can't you do something?" she whispered.

Nothing," I replied. "It would torture him to touch him— let him die in peace."

I took the patient's wrist between my thumb and finger— the pulse was scarcely perceptible; it came in faint throbs at longer and longer intervals— the glazed eyes were partly open. The young wife flung herself on her knees by the side of the bed and pressed feverish kisses on the man's extended hand.

" Oh, take me with you, take me with you, Ben," she panted.

Her words roused him— he made a feeble last effort to move— to speak— fresh blood poured from his lips— in that final struggle his spirit fled. I bent forward and pressed down the lids over the staring eyes. As I did so, Mrs. Randall sprang up and faced me.

"Is he dead?" she asked.

" His sufferings are over," I replied.

She pressed her hand to her forehead, as if she scarcely knew what she was doing.

"Try to keep calm," I said to her; "think of yourself— you are in danger."

"I know it," she said, " and so are you— listen, what is that?"

There was a noise downstairs. Heavy footsteps sounded through the little hall. I counted the steps— there were four.

"The man Jasper has returned," I said to the girl.

"Jasper," she said, in astonishment; "how do you know his name?"

"I heard your conversation with your brother-in-law," I replied. "He has no intention of sparing my life, and went a moment or two ago to fetch a man called Jasper. I heard him mutter to himself that he would require Jasper to remove my dead body. He has been false to you: he is not going to keep his word."

Her face could scarcely turn any paler, but her breath came quickly. She gasped and suddenly clutched at the neck of her white dress, as if it were strangling her slender throat.

"I might have known," she said, in a hoarse voice, "but I was distracted, and I had no time to think. Hal is more fiend than man; his word signifies less than nothing— I might have known."

She tugged again at her dress, and pressed her hand to her forehead.

"Let me think," she said.

I did not interrupt her. I was listening to the footsteps downstairs. For some reason they were quiet. The men had evidently not yet approached the dining-room. When they did so, and discovered my escape, all would undoubtedly be lost. They would make a sudden rush for the bedroom fully armed, and take no account of the man whom they supposed to be dying within the chamber.

During that moment's suspense, Mrs. Randall recovered her courage. She had been bending forward, something in the attitude of a broken reed; now she drew herself erect.

"I believe we shall manage them," she whispered; "anyhow, we'll try. My husband is dead, and I care nothing whatever for my life. You did what you could to save Ben, and I am your friend. Here is a case of revolvers."

As she spoke, she walked to the dressing-table, took up a case which lay upon it, and brought it forward.

"All the chambers are loaded," she said, handling the revolvers as she spoke; "take this and I will take the other. Now follow me: don't hesitate to fire if necessary."

"You had much better stay here," I said; "I believe I can fight my own way out with these fire-arms."

"You would not leave me to be butchered in cold blood?" she cried. "No, you can't manage them alone— there are two of them, and they are without scruple— I know them."

I said nothing further. My hearing, strained to the utmost, had detected the sound of the men's footsteps approaching the dining-room. I heard the door open and knew that they had entered the room. There was a full moment's pause, and then the bustling, eager, angry sound of incredulous and alarmed voices.

At that instant Mrs. Randall and I approached the head of the stairs. There was plenty of light in the hall, but where we stood was comparative shadow. Just as we reached the top of the last flight of stairs, the two ruffians, who had returned to the hall, looked up and caught sight of us. They both carried revolvers, but were evidently astonished to see us also furnished with deadly weapons.

"Fire at once, if necessary," she whispered.

I saw her at the same moment cover Randall with her revolver.

"Hold!" he cried. "You've played me a dastardly trick, Rachel; you shall pay for this."

"Ben is dead, and my life is valueless," she replied. "Let this man leave the house immediately, or I'll blow your brains out."

The ruffian turned his ugly eyes full on my face.

"So you think you have done me," he said. As he spoke he backed a step into the hall. I covered him with my revolver. I saw him shrink, and his tone changed.

"I see I must give you a chance," he cried. "You may go if you take an oath. As you hope to meet your God, swear that you will never tell what has happened here tonight ! You can go, if you swear it; but if you don't, before Heaven I swear―"

"Folly," cried the high-strained girl's voice at my side; "of course the doctor won't swear. You know perfectly well you haven't a leg to stand on. If you or Jasper attempt to raise your revolvers, we'll both fire."

Hal swerved again, and looked uneasy— his full, loose lower lip shook, but the man Jasper was of tougher metal.

"We must do for 'em both," he said. "Why should our lives be sacrificed to the whim of a minx?"

"Jove!— you're right," cried Hal.

I saw him raise his revolver— he aimed it full at my forehead. But before he could touch the trigger, a sharp report sounded through the house— the revolver fell from the man's right hand— his arm dropped— he gave a howl of agony— Rachel had shot him clean through the shoulder. At the same moment, I covered Jasper with my revolver.

His courage oozed out of him at the sight of Hal. "For God's sake don't fire, sir," he called out.

"Put your revolver down, Jasper, or I'll shoot you," shouted Rachel. He instantly complied.

"Now, doctor, you must get out of this at once," cried the excited woman. "Make way, Jasper; Hal, get out of the way."

She pushed past me, running down the stairs, and before either of the men could prevent her, picked up their revolvers.

"Come," she said to me, "we are safe now; they have got no others."

The next moment we found ourselves in the open air. She had been as cool and alert as possible during the whole of this brief and terrible scene, but now she trembled so violently, I thought she would have fainted.

"Don't worry about me," she panted; "I'll be all right in a moment. I never fired at a man before, and I nearly took his life— well, I would, before I'd have allowed him to touch a hair of your head. He is badly wounded, and there'll be no more courage in him for a day or two. As to Jasper, he is wretch enough to follow us, only he has no firearms— stay, he might remember Ben's old gun. Well, that's not worth considering. I'll see you to the edge of the common, doctor; come, let us get off quickly."

"I can go alone," I said, "you are not fit to walk."

"I am; it will do me good," she said. "Come."

She plunged suddenly to her right— we found ourselves in a thicket of trees and pursuing a winding path which I, alone, would never have discovered. We walked without articulating a single word for two to three miles. When we got to the edge of the common, Mrs. Randall paused abruptly.

"You are safe now," she said; "the railway station is not half a mile away, and that is the high road yonder."

"How am I to thank you?" I said.

"By not thanking me," she answered; "you did what you could for him. I tried to save you, but remember that my life is valueless."

" You have no right to say that— you are very young. Surely you can get yourself out of your present terrible predicament."

She shook her head.

"I don't know that I want to," she answered. Then she paused, and looked earnestly at me.

"You will, of course, give evidence against us?" she said.

I was not prepared to reply, and did not speak.

"Do not scruple to," she continued; "the life I lead is beyond endurance, and now that Ben is dead, I want to end it, one way or another."

"I think I can help you if you will let me," I said. "You will be in danger if you go back to the cottage. Let me try to get you into a place of safety."

"No," she said, "I am all right; I know how to manage them. I belong to the gang, and must take the rough with the smooth. Besides, my husband's body lies unburied, and I can kiss him again. Good-bye."

She turned as she spoke. The day was just beginning to break in the east, and I saw her white dress vanish amongst the furze-bushes and wild undergrowth of the common.

WHEN I reached town, I sent a messenger to Scotland Yard to ask an inspector to call upon me. I had a sort of hope that I might be in time to save Mrs. Randall, for, notwithstanding her brave words, I dreaded the fate that would be hers if she were left to the tender mercies of ruffians like her brother-in-law and Jasper. My interview with the police inspector resulted in his going down that very morning to the cottage on Steven's Heath. News of a daring burglary and of the murder of a policeman had already got into the papers, and my evidence was considered of the utmost value. In order to expedite matters, I accompanied the inspector to the scene of my last night's adventure.

The small house in which I had endured such long hours of agony looked calm and peaceful seen by the light of day. It was a rustic, pretty place; a few barn-door fowls strutted about; in a field near by were some downy chickens. Doubtless, the idea of the chicken farm was kept up as a sort of blind. On making inquiries, we found that the Randalls were known by their few neighbours as harmless, reserved sort of people, of the name of Austen; they had lived in the cottage for over two years; they had made no friends, and never until now had a breath of suspicion attached to them.

The cottage was two or three miles from any other dwelling, and beyond the fact that a young woman and two men lived there, the neighbours could give little information. The police and I passed now through the little porch and entered the hall, which was flooded with sunshine. The door stood wide open— a more peaceful spot could scarcely be imagined. It was almost impossible to connect so pretty a cottage with scenes of bloodshed and murder. I looked around me for any sign of Hal or Jasper, and still more anxiously for Mrs. Randall, but although we shouted and made a noise, no one appeared. Accompanied by the police I went upstairs. The dead man lay on the bed just where I had left him the night before— his eyes were closed, and someone had thrown a white sheet over him, but no sign of any human being was visible.

The police and I searched the cottage from cellar to attic. Not a trace of Jasper or Hal could we discover— not a trace either of Mrs. Randall. A quantity of stolen goods, plate, and other valuables were found in one of the cellars, as well as some almost priceless wine, which was afterwards identified as the property of a gentleman who lived not far from my friends, the Mathisons.

For a long time large rewards were offered, and there was a hue and cry all over that part of the country for the three missing individuals— but from that day to now, no trace has been found of them. The dead man could tell no tales, and the living had vanished as completely as if they had never existed.

These things happened a few years ago, but even now, in the midst of my active life, I think at times of Mrs. Randall— of her youth, and of the horrible life which was hers. Is she still in the land of the living, or what has been her fate? I am not likely to be able to answer that question until the curtain is lifted.

___________________________

13: The Great Dial of the Gold-Finders

Charles J. Mansford

1863-1943

(6th tale of the series "Gleams from the Dark Continent")

The Strand Magazine, December 1895

"THE camel has an abundance of good qualities, sahib," said our guide, Hassan, as he gravely watched the efforts of the animal which Denviers rode, as it laudably endeavoured to fling the latter to the ground.

"No doubt it has, Hassan," Denviers responded, when he had got the better of the vicious animal; "probably its natural modesty makes it keep them so carefully hidden. However, our long journey across this vast waste of sand is almost over; the first dealer we meet shall have these camels at his own price. Surely, unless I am mistaken, yonder is rising land at last!"

He pointed to the north as he spoke, and glancing in that direction Hassan and I saw that Denviers was right.

For several weeks we had been crossing the Sahara, during which time we had endured privations considerably beyond what we had expected. As we advanced towards where Denviers indicated, the white pall of mist which had shrouded the land slowly dispelled, and soon after we had the satisfaction of making a brief halt under the shade of a grove of palms. When we were preparing to mount our camels in order to cross the strip of intervening sand, Hassan, who, meanwhile, had been in close conversation with Kass and several others of our Wadigo followers, approached us and salaamed profoundly— as was his custom when he wished to communicate anything to us.

"Well, Hassan," Denviers asked, "what is the difficulty now? Have you had another quarrel with Kass? You both seemed pretty excited just now."

"Will the sahib look carefully at the spur of the mountain chain which is before us, and then tell the unworthy latchet of his shoes what it is like?"

"A great, shapeless, tawny mass of rock," my companion answered. "That is all I make it out to be. What is there peculiar about it?"

"What does the other sahib say concerning it?" our Arab guide questioned me.

"Pretty much the same; to me it appears like a great twisted cinder— "

"While in reality its outline bears a wonderful resemblance to a gigantic horse and rider," the Arab interposed.

"Very likely," said Denviers; "but its shape makes no difference to us."

"The Wadigos have begged me to ask the sahibs to avoid the tribe whose dwellings are by the foot of the mountain range. They declare that otherwise great danger will confront us all."

"That may be," Denviers answered, as he mounted his camel, and I followed his example. "You can tell us what they have to say as we go on."

Hassan hastened to where Kass stood, and giving the command for the journey to be resumed, left the reluctant Wadigos and quickly followed us, mounted on his own camel.

"The sahibs can see the shape of the rock more clearly now," the Arab began, as he rode between us. "With the yellow, shifting sand at our camels' feet, and the cloudless sky forming the background, the horse and rider seem wonderfully real at this distance; when we are closer to it, the rocky mass towering before us will then lose its distinctness of outline. Would it not be wise for the sahibs to avoid the place?— the Wadigos tell a strange story of it, indeed."

"Whether they choose to follow us or not matters very little now," Denviers remarked. "Once we get into the land beyond the mountain range we shall be able to dispense with their services. From there we will go on, after rewarding them and sending them back under Kass's command. I, for one, shall not be sorry to part with them, although they have been of great service in carrying our supplies. What have the Wadigos to say concerning this strange, twisted mass of rock looming ahead?"

"The sahibs shall hear," the Arab returned. At that moment Hassan's camel began to be troublesome. Expressing the desire that jackals might sit on the tomb of the brute's grandmother— a peculiar expression which had little effect upon the restive animal— our guide at once began to narrate what he had heard under the palm trees.

THE AFRICAN TRIBE dwelling at the foot of the mountain range fronting us has a curious name, which was gained in a strange way, sahibs. They who live there are called the Gold-Finders in the native tongue — why, you shall hear. On the other side of the range once dwelt a tribe with which all the Arab traders had dealings. Somewhere in the territory which this tribe inhabited was a dry river-bed, and from it great quantities of gold-dust, and nuggets, even, were obtained. So great was the tribe's wealth in the precious metal, that the chief of the natives dwelling on this side of the mountain determined to tax all caravans passing onward to barter their merchandise for gold. The Arabs concerned in the traffic paid the tax and continued their expeditions. High up the mountain range lies a great pass, leading from the territory of the one tribe to that of the other.

The chief, finding that the Arabs passed through his territory as numerously as before, made inquiries as to the strength of the fortunate possessors of the gold. The Arabs represented that the men with whom they bartered were as many as the sands of the Sahara; that they were trained for battle daily by their chief; moreover, they dwelt in a mountain fastness where no other tribe, without their consent, could pass. The chief thought over all these sayings, but the sight of the gold which he exacted by way of tax made him eager to get possession of the land whence the Arabs enriched themselves.

Soon the coveted opportunity came, and in this manner. Among the members of an Arab's caravan was a Portuguese exile, whom the Wadigos say was named Busaca. This Portuguese, sahibs, had led a wandering life for many years, and had only joined the expedition to see if the knowledge thus gained could be used to his own betterment. Taking advantage of the friendliness of the tribe with which the caravan was trading, he stole out from the encampment by night and explored the country about. To the chiefs warriors who tried to stop him he declared that such permission had been granted to him. His search, however, was unsuccessful until, by means of a bribe, he obtained the information he sought. The result was different from what he had expected. The tribe had exhausted the supply of gold from the dry river-bed, but the chief had stored in a great cave a vast quantity of the metal, and it was from this supply that the gold used for barter was obtained. Busaca, who apparently disbelieved the tribesman's story, begged to be shown the cave. It was a dangerous request, but his bribe was accepted and he was led to the place. Next day the caravan set out on the homeward journey to Tripoli, whence it had started.

On entering the territory of the rival chief, when the pass had been traversed, the Portuguese asked the Arab trader as a favour to allow him personally to pay the tax, a request which was granted. Accordingly, Busaca entered the chiefs presence, and prostrating himself before the latter, who sat on a tawdry carpet, with his spearmen about him, the Portuguese placed the tax at the native chiefs feet. When the gold was counted, for the tribe it came from were accustomed to weld it into bars, the amount was found to be considerably beyond that agreed. Pleased at this, the chief adopted a friendly air towards Busaca, who, feeling his way cautiously, eventually asked for an audience alone. What passed between the chief and the Portuguese none know, but the result of the private conversation was soon apparent. Busaca sought out the Arab trader and informed him that the chief desired him to leave the caravan and to become the head of the native warriors. The Arab, who was secretly pleased to get rid of Busaca, whom he mistrusted, granted with apparent reluctance the wish of the Portuguese. Accordingly, when the caravan again set out, Busaca was left with the chief to whom he had engaged himself, and for whom he is said to have constructed some strange mechanical contrivances.

For a year or more the Portuguese trained and drilled the chief's warriors, arming them with muskets instead of shield and spear, the weapons being supplied by a trader in Tripoli, to whom Busaca sent from time to time for the necessary muskets. The training of the natives was carried out with the utmost caution, so that whenever traders passed through the tribe's territory they saw the men apparently still armed with their shields and spears. The Arabs were right in saying that the enemy to be attacked were numerous, for Busaca himself computed them as being far more than those of the chief engaging him— whence he had hit upon the plan of making the latter's warriors more serviceable.

When all was ready, a message was sent to the chief in whose territory the gold was stored, peremptorily ordering him to give it up. Relying on the number of his warriors, the chief had the messenger beaten and sent him back with a broken spear, indicating that his strength was superior to that of the chief making the demand. At this, Busaca, leaving a sufficient force behind, set out with the pick of the warriors under his charge, and within three days had reached the territory of the tribe he intended to fall upon.

The great village to be attacked stood on rising ground beyond where the pass narrowed, sahibs. The Portuguese, knowing the difficulties of the place, made the last forced march by night, and succeeded in placing the main body of his warriors in a position where they could not be observed. At daybreak a few of his men, purposely armed with shields and spears, marched openly towards the narrow part of the pass. The native mountaineers, who had been expecting the attack, poured down in a black swarm upon the enemy, who instantly broke and fled, while the others hotly pursued them in disorder.

Then, out from behind the rocky masses Busaca's men dashed, raising their wild war-cry as they swept upward and onward, withering their enemies with a storm of bullets from their muskets. Taken by surprise, the others wavered, then, giving up the pursuit in which they had engaged, they turned about, and Busaca's warriors were hemmed in— for every rocky ledge and foot-hold seerried to spring into life before the Portuguese could take the entry, which he tried desperately to win. Down upon Busaca and his men the natives' spears rattled in a shower that seemed to them to darken the air; retreat for them was cut off, and knowing this they fought their way on inch by inch— and at mid-day the musket-armed natives had won!

The defeated chief was dragged from his hut and promptly slain; all the treasure was taken from the cave, and yet Busaca's greed was not assuaged. He made no attempt to slay the women, such as is frequently done in tribal wars, but he ordered them to remove the numerous bracelets and anklets of gold which they wore, and to gather these together in a great heap; and they, in fear for their lives, obeyed. Busaca, musket in hand, stood looking on as the women came forward in turn, threw down their ornaments, worked in many a strange device, then filed onward until all had complied with the terms which the Portuguese offered in return for sparing their lives.

Resting his men there until morning came again, Busaca set out then with his warriors laden with the vast store of gold which they had obtained. Anxious to see the end of his expedition, the Portuguese hurried his men back until at last, owing to their exhausted state, he allowed them to enter a great cave to pass the night. Busaca himself was so eager to speak of his success to the chief who had dispatched him at the head of the expedition that, leaving a native in command, and seeing that a guard was posted to watch through the night, he set out alone to convey the good news. The chief received him in barbaric state, while the rest of the tribesmen eagerly watched for the arrival of the richly-laden warriors whose return Busaca assured them- would follow in a few hours after his own arrival. Meanwhile the chief apportioned to the Portuguese a fitting share of the gold, and gave orders for the distribution of some part of the rest, keeping the bulk for himself— but his plans were premature.

All that day and far into the night the warriors were awaited in vain; Busaca and the chief held a long conversation regarding the delay, but the Portuguese could say nothing further than what he had already declared. At daybreak the chief dispatched several of his runners to discover what had become of the victorious tribesmen; a day after they returned, but unaccompanied. The chief heard their story, then summoned the Portuguese into his presence. Busaca saw at once that the natives had brought back bad news, but was still more astonished when the chief began to question him about the cave, in which, as I have told you, sahibs, the warriors lay down to rest.

'You say that the men possessed themselves of the gold,' asked the chief, 'and that the warriors of the hostile tribe were all destroyed; how, then, can the words of my messengers be true?'

Busaca bowed low before his questioner.

'Until I know what they say, how am I to explain? Let one of the runners tell me what he has discovered.'

The chief motioned to one of the messengers, who, after prostrating himself, rose to his full height and stretched forth a spear.

' See!' he cried. 'I brought this from the cave; it was taken from the dead hand of a brave, even that of Karukana, whom the white traitor declared to thee was among the living after the fight for the mountain pass.'

'Karukana was alive when I set out from the cave to bring word of the victory,' the Portuguese stoutly insisted. 'It was he who kept guard with two others at the entrance to the cave.'

'You say all the braves were slain on the enemy's side?' interrogated the chief.

'Not one was left living,' Busaca answered. 'I obeyed only too well your command to annihilate them!'

'And the women?' questioned the chief further.

'You have never yet enslaved such,' the Portuguese answered; 'so both these of this tribe and the surrounding ones say. Knowing that, I took the gold which they possessed, and left them to mourn those men we slew.'

'Hear what the messenger shall say, then answer whether, by your own cunning scheme or that of these women, my braves were destroyed,' the chief retorted. The runner who held the spear went on:—

'At thy command, O Chief, we set out. Neither to right nor left we turned; straight as the snake strikes its victim we kept the way. In a line we ran, the scorching sun beating in white floods of heat upon our uncovered heads. Beneath our naked feet the tangled, tawny scrub scarce bent, so quickly did we pass. Then at last we saw the spot which Busaca, the Portuguese, has spoken of, and of which we already knew. Quick as the changing wind we turned and ran to the entrance of the cave. Before it was a great heap of wood ash: there a fire had been raised, the smoke from which had rolled into the cave. Fearfully we entered the orifice, knowing how often such a simple device had cast endless sleep upon those too tired to beat out the fire, whose stifling fumes wrapped them about. Half a spear's cast within stood Karukana; heavily he leant upon his spear-shaft, the head of which was deep in the black soil beneath. His name we called— we spoke of his great deeds; no answer he gave. We lit a torch and held it before him; closed were his eyes. Karukana, Chief, was dead! Through all the many windings of that great cave we passed— in groups; alone; half upright some, prostrate others, their heads resting upon the ground— so we saw thy victorious warriors, as Busaca has called them. Not one living; nay, more, not one grain of the gold which they were said to be carrying back was there— despoiled and slain were the warriors. Such we saw; then faster than we went did we return. Let Busaca answer, and say what he knows of this.'

'The women of the tribe did this deed,' Busaca answered; 'let what warriors still remain alive here be sent into their territory: if they find not out the truth of what I say, let me be slain. Shackle me till they return.'

The Portuguese held out his hands towards the chief. Hardly had Busaca spoken when a great din rose without. The chief, carrying a curious, long-handled axe which was his fighting weapon, left his hut, his remaining warriors gathering about him as they heard from one end of the great village to the other their war-cry raised by the women and children. Busaca, the Portuguese, joined in the fray, leading on, beside the chief, the tribesmen. So well, however, had the surprise been planned, that the invaders won, for, though they were but women, as the attacked ones saw to their astonishment, their numbers were exceeding great and the chief's warriors but few. Sahibs, when the moon rose that night it shone upon a strange scene.

In the centre of a great throng of women, each carrying a shield and spear, stood one who had led them to battle. Her plan it was which had led to the slaying of the warriors in the cave and the recovery of the gold; she led them to the attack when the chief's power was overthrown. At her feet the Portuguese begged for his life and that of the few tribes-men who stood there, prisoners, fast bound. She granted the boon, but the men were made abject slaves. Sahibs, the Gold-Finders are a strange tribe to-day; over them one of their own tribeswomen rules; a great army has she of her own sex; trained to fight with shield and spear, yet no mere barbaric tribe is that of which I speak. Rich is this strange Queen in slaves bought from the Arabs, with whom traffic is still carried on. From their dress, their customs, their houses, built by skilful hands, none would suppose that less than a score of years ago the tribe to which they belonged dwelt in thatched huts and were but a barbaric race.

Now learn why our Wadigos do not wish the Englishmen to visit the beautiful city built about what the Arabs call Twisted Rock. Against our camp-followers the Queen would do nothing, nor would harm come upon your Arab slave, for of my race they say she speaks well. Busaca, after being pardoned, raised a revolt among the male slaves; many of the latter were slain, but the Portuguese was allowed to live a prisoner, immured for years, even to now. A great hatred has the Queen for white men. She distrusts them, for the Arab traders have told her one day they will take her land and city. The Wadigos have been faithful to the sahibs; Kass especially would wish them to visit the great countries beyond, as they have planned; when our camp-followers return to their far-off tribe, they wish to say that the Englishmen are living. Go into yonder city, and it will be the sahibs' last adventure, not even the Great Prophet will be able to protect them at their slave's request.

"ALL THE SAME, Hassan," said Denviers; " we mean to go on. How much of your yarn do you think is true?".

"Every word," the Arab answered, quickly. "The story is true because it is so."

Denviers uttered a few words expressive of his disbelief in the story; then we went on for some minutes in silence.

"See!" cried Hassan, who had turned away, discomfited at Denviers's incredulous words. "Yonder is wooded land, and if I am a true believer, surely I see the glitter of many spears."

"We will soon test that, Hassan," responded Denviers. He ordered the Wadigo to halt; then together we three advanced on our camels to where the Arab had pointed— a rash movement on our part, as we soon discovered.

ii

MAKING OUR WAY onward, we passed beneath a grove of olive trees; about us on every side rose the great tree trunks, like pillars supporting a dull green roof of foliage above, through which the sun shone at times. For a minute nothing broke the silence— all was as still as the great silent waste of sand over which we had passed.

"You were mistaken that time, Hassan," Denviers began, as we glanced cautiously about. "There seems to be nothing living, save ourselves and our camels, within sight."

"Hist!" the Arab whispered. "The sahib's ears are dull; from yonder the sound comes again. See! a spear glitters behind the great trunk there!"

We dismounted from our camels and, grasping our rifles, advanced. From all points we seemed to be instantly surrounded; warrior after warrior suddenly rose before our eyes from their lurking - places in the brushwood. Clad in garments of a crimson hue, which were richly embroidered yet did not hang sufficiently low to impede their movements, we saw at a glance that the warriors, at all events, bore out Hassan's account— for they were women! Each carried a shield of antelope skin, together with a heavy spear, the blade of which seemed to be of gold, so much did each glitter when the sun's rays chanced to fall upon it.

Denviers, acting as our spokesman, addressed one of the women in Arabic, but no answer was given. Our camels were promptly led off in the opposite direction to the one by which we entered the grove, while at once we were conducted into a great open space. There we found hundreds of the warriors gathered about two others, the latter being mounted on horseback. One of the women had, fastened to her wrist by a jess, a hooded falcon, while upon a black horse to the right of her own steed we saw the bodies of several antelopes. The woman before whom we were thrust, rather than led, and who we discovered was the Queen of the Gold-Finders— as the strange tribe was known— was more like a Circassian than one of the dark-looking tribe gathered about her.

Hassan, in obedience to Denviers's hurried request, bent low before the Queen, and then endeavoured to explain the object of the journey we had begun. He ended his short narrative by asking hospitality for ourselves and the Wadigos accompanying us. The Queen listened impatiently to the Arab's words, then raising her right hand she thrust back from her forehead a wealth of dark hair as she replied in Arabic:—

"For you who are an Arab there is safety; for the Wadigos a welcome; for these," she pointed at us scornfully as she turned an angry glance upon our faces: "for these, I say, there is neither safety nor welcome. Seize them!" the Queen cried. Hassan promptly drew his sword and attempted to defend us, calling on Allah and Mahomet to help him to be faithful to us. Seeing that matters were becoming serious, we reluctantly began to defend ourselves from our strange assailants, but, though we struggled desperately to shake them off, our efforts were useless. Hassan was separated from us and led away towards where we had entered the grove of olive trees; Denviers and myself were securely bound and about to be dragged off somewhere in obedience to a gesture from the Queen, when suddenly the grove resounded with the Wadigo war-cry, and Kass came rapidly bounding towards us, our followers close behind. We could do nothing to stop the scene of carnage which ensued. Our Wadigos, outnumbered altogether, tried time after time to break through the fierce cordon of the Queen's warriors which kept us prisoners; but the spears which the women carried were in skilled hands, and we saw Kass fall from the thrust of the weapon of one of our captors. He was badly wounded, although not fatally, as we afterwards discovered, but the Wadigos, being unaccustomed to such foes, and seeing the great numbers of them, turned and broke through those who had gathered in their rear, leaving us prisoners, and, as we rightly conjectured, to pay the penalty of our followers' rash attack upon the Gold-Finders.

"We are in a difficulty this time, Frank," I said to Denviers, in English, in order that my words might not be understood by those who held us prisoners.

"It was entirely our own fault to separate as we did from the Wadigos," he answered. "I should like to know what has become of Hassan, though— at first he was to be spared our fate, but after this I expect he will suffer with us."

Several of the women approached just then to where Kass lay, and placing the unconscious Wadigo upon two overlapping shields, some spears were passed beneath the latter, and having raised them, by grasping the butt and blade of the weapons, six of the women bore the Wadigo away. Then the Queen, gathering her warriors about her once more, had us placed before her, where, although we were bound, two women held each of us.

"Do the Gold- Finders make war upon the surrounding tribes or live with them in peace?" the Queen asked her women, imperiously.

"War upon those who seek war, peace with the rest," burst from the warriors' lips. "Why were so many of the men of our tribe slain?" she went on.

"For gold, and by a white man's treachery they fell," answered all.

"This then have we sworn," the Queen continued : "for every man of our tribe that fell we will have a life; the attacking tribe we blotted out, but not sufficient were they in numbers. The white man who led them on and planned our destruction still lives; when we have slain enough like him— within one— to make up the number, then shall he too die; the last shall he be, and so our vengeance be complete. These men have brought war where peace was, their followers have slain many of our tribe: what shall be theirs but death?"

"Let them die; die with the gold about them which shall never be theirs," the tribe answered.

Denviers made another attempt to explain matters to the Queen, for we expected each moment to be speared by the infuriated throng.

"I will not listen," she cried. "Go! or my warriors shall goad you on with their bloodstained spears."

"You shall hear me!" Denviers cried, striving his utmost to free himself. The Queen touched the reins of her steed and rode forward, while the warriors raised a great war song, which made it quite useless for my companion to speak further, as we were unceremoniously hurried along until we saw the great twisted rock frowning before us. We found that the entry to the city was by a steep winding path, by which we were conducted until we passed under a great, jagged arch of stone, beyond which we were allowed to see little, for, turning sharply to the left, our captors halted on what seemed to us to be a platform of rock. Directly afterwards something was passed under my arms, suspended by which I was lowered through a gap in the stonework until, after oscillating violently, I at last reached a hard pavement below, where I waited glancing upwards as Denviers was let down in turn. Our arms had been unbound, and staggering to our feet we removed the plaited ropes of grass from beneath our shoulders, after which we glanced about us, surprised at the strangeness of the place in which we were prisoners.

The light which came from the orifice high above us enabled us to observe that the floor and sides of the oblong apartment were constructed of a greyish stone, through which ran veinings of green, every block fitting closely to the others and being polished to a high degree of perfection. Almost the whole length of one side of the apartment was covered with, an inscription— and this was not completed. By the belt of inscription, which was perhaps five feet in width, we saw a stooping figure, and Denviers, advancing towards him, touched the man, whose face was turned from us. He turned about and glanced at us, but answered nothing, merely pointing at the inscription upon which he had been labouring. His garments hung in threads upon him, his hair and beard were perfectly white, hanging down unkempt to his waist. He shook off Denviers's hand angrily, as my companion laid it upon his shoulder, then, ignoring our presence, eagerly resumed his labour. We watched him at his strange task, wondering how many years he had been engaged upon it, for the captive worked with painful minuteness, notwithstanding the primitive nature of the tool he held.

Weary at length with our endeavour to get our strange fellow -captive to enter into conversation, we moved towards the lower part of the apartment, where Hassan's story seemed to be still more confirmed. Piled in one great heap, we saw the Gold-Finders' treasure, the vast quantity of the precious metal astonishing us. We carried several nuggets to where the light fell directly from the orifice above; among them was one shaped to represent a human head, which seemed remarkably realistic, as Denviers held the nugget up.

"Made, I daresay, by the Portuguese," commented my companion, " before he hit upon carving that interminable inscription, to while away the months and years of his imprisonment, most likely."

"That may or may not be," I answered, impatiently. "Can we find no way out of this place? Perhaps there is some mode of egress besides the orifice above, through which the Gold-Finders lowered us. That we cannot possibly reach; all the treasure before us, if piled up beneath it, would not reach half-way."

"It looks to me remarkably as if we are to be securely shut tip here till death releases us," he answered. "We might sound the walls, however." Acting upon this suggestion, we proceeded to carry it out, but the result was entirely disappointing. At the end of the stone apartment, beyond the heap of gold, we discovered some more evidence of the Portuguese prisoner's skill, as we correctly thought. Chief among these we saw the towering form of a female figure, bearing a striking resemblance, however accidental it may have been, to the great statue of Lutchmi, the wife of Vishnu. The figure was wrought entirely of gold, and its flowing robe, there represented, was a mass of minute tracery, quite unlike the work of any African tribe we had met. To a height of twelve feet or more it rose, while in its outstretched hands was grasped the handle of a mighty axe all made of the same polished metal. The blade of the axe was extremely wide, and appeared to be constructed of polished stone, similar to that used for the walls of the apartment. From the gold figures which were inlaid in the wall, and which projected slightly, we judged that the whole was intended to represent a dial, for the numbers ran in a curve, the highest being twelve and the lowest one, being so placed that the blade of the axe would cover them in moving from its position just above the topmost number.

"If there is any other way of entering or leaving this place beyond the hole above," Denviers remarked, as we stood closely examining this grotesque piece of work, "it is my opinion it lies behind that dial." He pointed to the figures upon the wall as I replied:—

"Probably there is some spring, if that is so; but how are we to discover it?"

We discussed the various pieces of mechanism which we had seen in our wanderings among different races of men, but could think of no solution to the difficulty before us. We ran our hands over the hard surface, but, with the exception of the projecting numbers, nothing impeded their progress. The idea occurred to us to try pressing these latter, but they appeared to be immovable.

Two hours or more we spent in our fruitless task; then the hopelessness of escape began to dawn upon us. We made our way to where the Portuguese was still employed upon his monotonous labour and, dragging him by main force before the curious dial, we pointed and gesticulated at it hoping to get the secret from him — if it contained one. The man covered up his face with his hands as if to hide the figure from his view, then as we stood apart watching him, he ran quickly back and, with feverish anxiety, continued his work upon the unfinished inscription.

"What we are to do now I cannot imagine," I said, gloomily, to Denviers; "our natives have probably fled across the Sahara— such of them, at least, who were not slain by those fanatical women. Kass is probably dead, while Hassan is beyond doubt a close prisoner. Help from without we cannot get, while no efforts of our own are likely to release us from here. How this Portuguese has existed so long in this place I cannot imagine; the air seems stifling."

We made our way once more towards where the orifice was above, and then flung ourselves down upon the stone flooring.

The night came, but in our position sleep was impossible. When the light of morning came stealing into the apartment we had lost all hope of escape. Suddenly, above us, something seemed to cut off the rays of light, and glancing quickly upwards, we saw the face of a woman turned upon us, while she thrust down her hand and arm. As she did so, something fell at our feet, whereupon the woman quickly disappeared. Denviers seized the object only just in time, for the Portuguese, who was probably accustomed to receive his miserable supplies of food in this way, darted forward and tried to intercept my companion's hand. I kept him off as Denviers raised a fragment of wood, upon which, in charcoal, was scrawled a message from Hassan, as the first word of it plainly indicated. It ran briefly as follows:—

"Sahibs, the Wadigos have retreated. Kass and I have been thrust out of the city and cannot return. Seek the stairs beyond the dial. The two secret numbers make together seven."

We hastened to where the great dial was, and examined the numbers upon it carefully which were below seven. Fortunately they were at the part of the curve stretching down towards where we stood. From the six to the one there was no indication of any of the numbers being movable. We grasped each a wedge of gold heaped upon the floor, and Denviers struck with all his force upon the lower numbers, but none of them moved.

"The solution is before us, it is evident," my companion said, as he stopped to rest for a minute; " Hassan's words are plain enough. You will notice that the six, together with the lowest figure— the one— make up the number mentioned by the Arab. Let us each strike one."

We aimed our blows together. The numbers instantly yielded, then down swung the ponderous axe, its keen edge sweeping through a wide course a few inches from the dial,

"Get back!" cried Denviers, as we both barely avoided the deadly stroke. Up swept the huge axe into its original position, but the dial itself yielded in no place.

"Do you think someone has given Hassan the combination of numbers for the purpose of causing us to slay ourselves?" I questioned my companion, as we faced the dial once more.

"Can't say," he answered. "You have, of course, noticed that the two next inner numbers make seven, as do also the inmost pair. We must try again: perhaps we may yet succeed."

Each again aimed a blow, and a second time the axe swung quickly down— but the dial still remained apparently as solid as ever.

"Let us try the other numbers— it is our last chance of escape," I said.

We struck the four and the three together.

"The dial moves!" I cried, excitedly, for the great, armed figure and the dial swung forward as if on one hinge ! Through the opening we darted just as the strange piece of mechanism clashed to behind us. We heard a strange cry as we ran up a wide, stone stairway which we came upon. Turning round we saw that the Portuguese had escaped with us. After dashing past us, Busaca ran madly on ahead.

Up the stairway we stumbled until its jagged roof was past, and we stood upon a path which ran precipitately down to the great plain below. Only one warrior of the Queen did we encounter, for it was still early morning, and she, on seeing the Portuguese, haggard and unkempt, dashing along, made no attempt to bar our progress. Reaching the foot of the path, we hurried across the sandy waste for some considerable distance. Finding ourselves unpursued, we stopped at last to rest, afterwards searching for the remnant of our expedition, and at last we heard the cry of welcome which came from the Wadigos' lips as we came upon them towards afternoon.

Kass and Hassan explained, round our camp fire that night, when we were far away from the city of the Gold-Finders, how they had been thrust from the city.

"The natives say that the Portuguese made the strange dial of which I learnt the secret," Hassan observed, as he concluded his narrative. "Nay, more. Long after Busaca was thrust down there, and before he relapsed into the sullen silence which the sahibs observed, the native whom I bribed declared that the one mad cry of the Portuguese, which for months he repeated, was the one word Forgotten! He who made the dial remembered not its secret."

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Index to "Past Masters" stories, by author.

Issues 31-33

I never envisaged this series of original anthologies going into so many issues, and the ever-growing index to all issues was becoming unwieldy.  Accordingly, I have now divided the Index.  This Index commences with Past Masters 31.

The Index to Issues 1 to 30 can be found in Past Masters 30, or as a stand-alone document uploaded to the Kindle and Epub libraries at MobileRead.

The stories are arranged in Alphabetical order of Author's surname, or if the author's name is consistently a pseudonym, that pseudonym.  They are then in alphabetical order of title, disregarding "A", "An" and "The".

Anonymous

The Lady Detective's Story 32

Wolcott LeClear Beard

A Ledge of Safety 33

H Bedford-Jones

Apache Gold 31

The Devil's Fire 31

The Devil is Dead 31

The Fog at Fiddler's Green 31

Lady of the Evil Eye 31

Sons of Kalewa 31

C. Langton Clarke

The Detective for the Defense 33

Captain Dingle

Homeward Bound 33

Deferred 33

Francis Flagg

The Blue Dimension 33

The Heads of Apex 33

Guy Gilpatric

The Crafty Jerko-Slovaks 32

Headon Hill

Rogue's Legacy  32

S. B. H. Hurst

The Brightest Jewel of Them All 32

Charles J. Mansford

The Veiled Idol of Kor 32

The Great Dial of the Gold-Finders 33

Mrs. L. T. Meade

Beauty Dear 32

The Yellow Dragon Vases 32

Mrs L. T. Meade and Dr Clifford Halifax, M.D.

The Strange Case of Captain Gascoigne 31

With the Eternal Fires 32

The Small House on Steven's Heath 33

Clarence Herbert New

The Attack from Moscow 32

The Island of Heaven and Hell 32

Owen Oliver

A Pretty Woman 31

Hugh Pendexter

It Might Have Happened Otherwise  32

Kingbird 33

The Raven Mocker 33

Lewis Ramsden

Désirée 32

Arthur Somers Roche

The Dayless Diamonds 32

A Flutter in Finance 32

"Illimore!" 31

The Premiere Danseuse 32

The Robbery at the Café Ravasan 31

The Victim of Amnesia 31

William Alexander Taylor

Intermere  33

F A M Webster

Towards Morning 33

Raoul Whitfield

The Caleso Murders 32

Rivals of the Clouds 31

Sinners' Paradise 33

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Table of Contents

1: The Raven Mocker / Hugh Pendexter

2: Intermere / William Alexander Taylor

3: Sinners' Paradise / Raoul Whitfield

4: The Detective for the Defense / C. Langton Clarke

5: A Ledge of Safety / Wolcott LeClear Beard

6: Towards Morning / F A M Webster

7: The Blue Dimension / Francis Flagg

8: The Heads of Apex / Francis Flagg

9: Kingbird / Hugh Pendexter

10: Homeward Bound / Captain Dingle

11: Deferred / Captain Dingle

12: The Small House on Steven's Heath /

13: The Great Dial of the Gold-Finders / Charles J. Mansford

Cumulative Index of Nos 31-33