PAST MASTERS

THIRTY-SEVEN

July 2021

Part 2

Produced by Terry Walker

("Pulpmeister")

Contents

1: Jumbee / Henry S. Whitehead

2: An Experiment in Gyro-Hats / Ellis Parker Butler

3: Hats and Lilies / Ellis Parker Butler

4: The Mystery at Mulungban / Culpeper Zandtt

5: The Boss / Culpeper Zandtt

6: The Man Who Forgot / Clarence Herbert New

7: The Arizona Callahan / H Bedford-Jones

8: The Family Compact / George L. Knapp

9: The Case of Mimbres / Frederick R. Bechdolt

10: The Lepers Guest / Max Pemberton

11: The Wizard of Swazi Swamp / Charles J Mansford

12: The Ladies of Catsmeat Yard / Guy Gilpatric

Cumulative Index Nos 31-37

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1: Jumbee

Henry S. Whitehead

1882-1932

Weird Tales, Sept 1926

(Originally a Danish colony in the West Indies, St Croix is now one of the American Virgin Islands— Ed)

MR. GRANVILLE LEE, a Virginian of Virginians, coming out of the World War with a lung wasted and scorched by mustard gas, was recommended by his physician to spend a winter in the spice-and-balm climate of the Lesser Antilles— the lower islands of the West Indian archipelago. He chose one of the American islands, St Croix, the old Santa Cruz— Island of the Holy Cross— named by Columbus himself on his second voyage; once famous for its rum.

It was to Jaffray Da Silva that Mr. Lee at first turned for definite information about the local magic; information which, after a two-months' residence, accompanied with marked improvement in his general health, he had come to regard as imperative, from the whetting glimpses he had received of its persistence on the island.

Contact with local customs, too, had sufficiently blunted his inherited sensibilities, to make him almost comfortable, as he sat with Mr. Da Silva on the cool gallery of that gentleman's beautiful house, in the shade of forty years' growth of bougainvillea, on a certain afternoon. It was the restful gossipy period between five o'clock and dinnertime. A glass jug of foaming rum-swizzel stood on the table between them.

"But, tell me, Mr. Da Silva," he urged, as he absorbed his second glass of the cooling, mild drink, "have you ever, actually, been confronted with a Jumbee?— ever really seen one? You say, quite frankly, that you believe in them!"

This was not the first question about Jumbees that Mr. Lee had asked. He had consulted planters; he had spoken of the matter of Jumbees with courteous, intelligent, colored storekeepers about the town, and even in Christiansted, St. Croix's other and larger town on the north side of the island. He had even mentioned the matter to one or two coal-black sugar-field laborers; for he had been on the island just long enough to begin to understand— a little— the weird jargon of speech which Lafcadio Hearn, when he visited St. Croix many years before, had not recognized as English!

There had been marked differences in what he had been told. The planters and storekeepers had smiled, though with varying degrees of intensity, and had replied that the Danes had invented Jumbees, to keep their estate-laborers indoors after nightfall, thus ensuring a proper night's sleep for them, and minimizing the depredations upon growing crops.

The laborers whom he had asked, had rolled their eyes somewhat, but, it being broad daylight at the time of the inquiries, they had broken their impassive gravity with smiles, and sought to impress Mr. Lee with their lofty contempt for the beliefs of their fellow blacks, and with queerly-phrased assurances that Jumbee is a figment of the imagination.

Nevertheless, Mr. Lee was not satisfied. There was something here that he seemed to be missing,— something extremely interesting, too, it appeared to him; something very different from "Bre'r Rabbit" and similar tales of his own remembered childhood in Virginia.

Once, too, he had been reading a book about Martinique and Guadeloupe, those ancient jewels of France's crown, and he had not read far before he met the word "Zombi." After that, he knew, at least, that the Danes had not "invented" the Jumbee. He heard, though vaguely, of the laborer's belief that Sven Garik, who had long ago gone back to his home in Sweden, and Garrity, one of the smaller planters now on the island, were "wolves!" Lycanthropy, animal-metamorphosis, it appeared, formed part of this strange texture of local belief.

Mr. Jaffray Da Silva was one-eighth African. He was, therefore, by island usage, "colored," which is as different from being "black" in the West Indies as anything that can be imagined. Mr. Da Silva had been educated in the continental European manner. In his every word and action, he reflected the faultless courtesy of his European forebears. By every right and custom of West Indian society, Mr. Da Silva was a colored gentleman, whose social status was as clear-cut and definite as a cameo.

These islands are largely populated by persons like Mr. Da Silva. Despite the difference in their status from what it would be in North America, in the islands it has its advantages,— among them that of logic. To the West Indian mind, a man whose heredity is seven-eighths derived from gentry, as like as not with authentic coats-of-arms, is entitled to be treated accordingly. That is why Mr. Da Silva's many clerks, and everybody else who knew him, treated him with deference, addressed him as "sir," and doffed their hats in continental fashion when meeting; salutes which, of course, Mr. Da Silva invariably returned, even to the humblest, which is one of the marks of a gentleman anywhere.

JAFFRAY DA SILVA shifted one thin leg, draped in spotless white drill, over the other, and lighted a fresh cigarette.

"Even my friends smile at me, Mr. Lee," he replied, with a tolerant smile, which lightened for an instant his melancholy, ivory-white countenance. "They laugh at me more or less because I admit I believe in Jumbees. It is possible that everybody with even a small amount of African blood possesses that streak of belief in magic and the like. I seem, though, to have a peculiar aptitude for it It is a matter of experience with me, sir, and my friends are free to smile at me if they wish. Most of them,— well, they do not admit their beliefs as freely as I, perhaps."

Mr. Lee took another sip of the cold swizzel. He had heard how difficult it was to get Jaffray Da Silva to speak of his "experiences," and he suspected that under his host's even courtesy lay that austere pride which resents anything like ridicule, despite that tolerant smile.

"Please proceed, sir," urged Mr. Lee, and was quite unconscious that he had just used a word which, in his native South, is reserved for gentlemen of pure Caucasian blood.

"When I was a young man," began Mr. Da Silva, "about 1894, there was a friend of mine named Hilmar Iversen, a Dane, who lived here in the town, up near the Moravian Church on what the people call 'Foun'-Out Hill.' Iversen had a position under the Government, a clerk's job, and his office was in the Fort. On his way home he used to stop here almost every afternoon for a swizzel and a chat. We were great friends, close friends. He was then a man a little past fifty, a butter-tub of a fellow, very stout, and, like many of that build, he suffered from heart attacks.

"One night a boy came here for me. It was 11 o'clock, and I was just arranging the mosquito-net on my bed, ready to turn in. The servants had all gone home, so I went to the door myself, in shirt and trousers, and carrying a lamp, to see what was wanted,— or, rather, I knew perfectly well what it was,— a messenger to tell me Iversen was dead!"

Mr. Lee suddenly sat bolt-upright.

"How could you know that?" he inquired, his eyes wide,

Mr. Da Silva threw away the remains of his cigarette.

"I sometimes know things like that," he answered, slowly. "In this case, Iversen and I had been close friends for years. He and I had talked about magic and that sort of thing a great deal, occult powers, manifestations,— that sort of thing. It is a very general topic here, as you may have seen. You would hear more of it if you continued to live here and settled into the ways of the island. In fact, Mr. Lee, Iver- sen and I had made a compact together. The one of us who 'went out' first, was to try to warn the other of it. You see, Mr. Lee, I had received Iversen's warning less than an hour before.

"I had been sitting out here on the gallery until 10 o'clock or so. I was in that very chair you are occupying. Iversen had been having a heart attack. 1 had been to see him that afternoon. He looked just as he always did when he was recovering from an attack. In fact he intended to return to his office the following morning. Neither of us, I am sure, had given a thought to the possibility of a sudden sinking spell. We had not even referred to our agreement.

"Well, it was about 10, as I've said, when all of a sudden I heard Iversen coming along through the yard below there, toward the boose along that gravel path. He had, apparently, come through the gate from the Kongensgade— the King Street, as they call it nowadays— and I could hear his heavy step on the gravel very plainly. He had a slight limp.

'Heavy -crunch— light-crunch; heavy-crunch— light-crunch; plod-plod— plod-plod; old Iversen to the life; there was no mistaking his step. There was no moon that night. The half of a waning moon was due to show itself an hour and a half later, but just then it was virtually pitch-black down there in the garden.

"I got up out of my chair and walked over to the top of the steps. To tell you the truth, Mr. Lee, I rather suspected— I have a kind of aptitude for that sort of thing— that it was not Iversen himself; how shall I express it? I had the idea, from somewhere inside me, that it was Iversen trying to keep our agreement. My instinct assured me that he had just died. I can not tell you how I knew it, but such was the case, Mr. Lee.

"So I waited, over there just behind you, at the top of the steps. The footfalls came along steadily. At the foot of the steps, out of the shadow of the hibiscus bushes, it was a trifle less black than farther down the path. There was a faint illumination, too, from a lamp inside the liouse. I knew that if it were Iversen, himself, I should be able to see him when the footsteps passed out of the deep shadow of the bushes. I did not speak.

"The footfalls came along toward that point, and passed it. I strained my eyes through the gloom, and I could see nothing. Then I knew, Mr. Lee, that Iversen had died, and that he was keeping his agreement.

"I came bad: here and sat down in my chair, and waited. The footfalls began to come up the steps. They came along the floor of the gallery, straight toward me. They stopped here, Mr. Lee, just beside me. I could feel Iversen standing here, Mr. Lee." Mr. Da Silva pointed to the floor with his slim, rather elegant hand.

"Suddenly, in the dead quiet, I could feel my hair stand up all over my scalp, straight and stiff. The chills started to ran down my back, and up again. Mr. Lee. I shook like a man with the ague, sitting here in my chair.

"I said: 'Iversen, I understand! Iversen, I'm afraid!' My teeth were chattering like castanets, Mr. Lee. I said: 'Iversen, please go! You have kept the agreement. I am sorry I am afraid, Iversen. The flesh is weak. I am not afraid of you, Iversen, old friend. But you will understand, man. It's not ordinary fear. My intellect is all right, Iversen, but I'm badly panic-stricken, so please go, my friend.'

"There had been silence, Mr. Lee, as I said, before I began to speak to Iversen, for the footsteps had stopped here beside me. But when I said that, and asked my friend to go, I could feel that he went at once, and I knew that he had understood how I meant it. It was, suddenly, Mr. Lee, as though there had never been any footsteps, if you see what I mean. It is hard to put into words. I daresay, if I had been one of the laborers, I should have been half-way to Christiansted through the estates, Mr. Lee, but I was not so frightened that I could not stand my ground.

"After I had recovered myself a little, and my scalp had ceased its prickling, and the chills were no longer running up and down my spine, I rose, and I felt extremely weary, Mr. Lee. It had been exhausting. I came into the house and drank a large tot of French brandy, and then I felt better, more like myself. I took my hurricane-lantern and lighted it, and stepped down the path toward the gate leading to the Kongensgade. There was one thing I wished to see down there at the end of the garden. I wanted to see if the gate was fastened, Mr. Lee. It was. That huge iron staple that you noticed was in place. It has been used to fasten that old gate since some time in the Eighteenth Century, I imagine. I had not supposed anyone had opened the gate, Mr. Lee, but now I knew. There were no footprints in the gravel, Mr. Lee. I looked, carefully. The marks of the bush-broom where the house-boy had swept the path on his way back from closing the gate were undisturbed, Mr. Lee.

"I was satisfied, and no longer, even a little, frightened. I came back here and sat down, and thought about my long friendship with old Iversen. I felt very sad to know that I should not see him again alive. He would never stop here again afternoons for a swizzel and a chat. About eleven o'clock I went inside the house and was preparing for bed when the rapping came at the front door. You see, Mr. Lee, I knew at once what it would mean.

"I went to the door, in shirt and trousers and stocking feet, carrying a lamp. We did not have electric light in those days. At the door stood Iversen's house-boy, a young fellow about eighteen. He was half asleep, and very much upset. He cut his eyes at me, and said nothing.

" 'What is it, mon?' I asked the boy.

" 'Mistress Iversen send ax yo' sir, please come to de house. Mr. Iversen die, sir.'

" 'What time Mr. Iversen die, mon,— you hear?'

" 'I ain' able to say what o'clock, sir. Mistress Iversen come wake me where I sleep in a room in the yard, sir, an' sen' me please cahl you,— I t'ink he die aboht an hour ago, sir.'

"I put on my shoes again, and the rest of my clothes, and picked up a St. Kitts supplejack— I'll get you one; it's one of those limber, grapevine walking-sticks, a handy thing on a dark night— and started with the boy for Ivcrsen's house.

"When we had arrived almost at the Moravian Church, I saw something ahead, near the roadside. It was then about 11:15, and the streets were deserted. What I saw made me curious to test something. I paused, and told the boy to run on ahead and tell Mrs. Iversen I would be there shortly. The boy started to trot ahead. He was pure black, Mr. Lee, but he went past what I saw without noticing it. He swerved a little away from it, and I think, perhaps, he slightly quickened his pace just at that point, but that was all."

"What did you see?" asked Mr. Lee, interrupting. He spoke a trifle breathlessly. His left lung was, as yet, far from being healed.

"The 'Hanging Jumbee,' " replied Mr. Da Silva, in his usual tones.

"Yes! There at the side of the road were three J urn bees. There's a reference to that in The History of Stewart McCann.  Perhaps you've run across that, eh?"

Mr. Lee nodded, and Mr. Da Silva quoted:

"There they hung, though no ladder's rung

Supported their dangling leet.

And there's another line in The History," he continued, smiling, which describes a typical group of Hanging Jumbee:

"Maiden, man-child and shrew.

"Well, there were the usual three Jumbees, apparently hanging in the air. It wasn't very light, but I could make out a boy of about twelve, a young girl, and a shriveled old woman, — what the author of The History of Stewart McCann meant by the word 'shrew.' He told me himself, by the way, Mr. Lee, that he had put feet on his Jumbees mostly for the sake of a convenient rime,— poetic license.' The Hanging Jumbees have no feet. It is one of their peculiarities. Their legs stop at the ankles. They have abnormally long, thin legs— African legs. They are always black, you know. Their feet— if they have them— are always hidden in a kind of mist that lies along the ground whereever one sees them. They shift and 'weave,' as a full-blooded African does— standing on one foot and resting the other— you've noticed that, of course— or scratching the supporting ankle with the toes of the other foot. They do not swing in the sense that they seem to be swung on a rope,— that is not what it means; they do not twirl about. But they do always — face the oncomer....

"I walked on, slowly, and passed them; and they kept their faces to me as they always do. I'm used to that...

"I went up the steps of the house to the front gallery, and found Mrs. Iversen waiting for me. Her sister was with her, too. I remained silting with them for the best part of an hour. Then two old black women who had been sent for, into the country, arrived. These were two old women who were accustomed to prepare the dead for burial. Then I persuaded the ladies to retire, and started to come home myself.

"It was a little past midnight, perhaps 12:15. I picked out my own hat from two or three of poor old Iversen's that were hanging on the rack, took my supplejack, and stepped out of the door onto the little stone gallery at the head of the steps.

"There are about twelve or thirteen steps from the gallery down to the street. As I started down them I noticed a third old black woman sitting, all huddled together, on the bottom step, with her back to me. I thought at once that this must be some old crone who lived with the other two,— the preparers of the dead. I imagined that she had been afraid to remain alone in their cabin, and so had accompanied them into the town,— they are like children, you know, in some ways,— and that, feeling too humble to come into the house, she had sat down to wait on the step and had fallen asleep. You've heard their proverbs, have you not? There's one that exactly fits this situation that I had imagined: "Cockroach no wear crockin'  boot ' when he creep in fowl-house?' It means: 'Be very reserved when in the presence of your betters? Quaint, rather! The poor souls!

"I started to walk down the steps toward the old woman. That scant half-moon had come up into the sky while I had been sittfng with the ladies, and by its light everything was fairly sharply defined. I could see that old woman as plainly as I can see you now, Mr. Lee. In fact, I was looking directly at the poor old creature as I came down the steps, and fumbling in my pocket for a few coppers for her— for tobacco and sugar, as they say. I was wondering, indeed, why she was not by this time on her feet and making one of their queer little bobbing bows— 'cockroach bow to fowl,' as they might say. It seemed this old woman must have fallen into a very deep sleep, for she had not moved at all. although ordinarily she would have heard me, for the night was deathly still, and their hearing is extraordinarily acute, like a cat's, or a dog's. I remember that the fragrance from Mrs. Iversens tuberoses, in pots on the gallery railing, was pouring out in a stream that night, 'making a greeting for the moon!' It was almost overpowering.

"Just as I was putting my foot on the fifth step, there came a tiny little puff of fresh breeze from somewhere in the hills behind Iversen's house. It rustled the dry fronds of a palm-tree that was growing beside the steps. I turned my head in that direction for an instant.

"Mr. Lee, when I looked back, down the steps, after what must have been a fifth of a second's inattention, that little old black woman who had been huddled up there on the lowest step, apparently sound asleep, was gone. She had vanished utterly— and, Mr. Lee. a Little white dog, about the size of a French poodle, was bounding up the steps toward me. With every bound, a step at a leap, the dog increased in size. It seemed to swell out there before my very eyes.

"Then I was, really, frightened— thoroughly, utterly frightened. I knew if that 'animal' so much as touched me, it meant death, Mr. Lee— absolute, certain death. The little old woman was a 'sheen,'— chien, of course. You know of lycanthropy,— wolf-change,— of course. Well, this was one of our varieties of it. I do not know what it would be called, I'm sure 'Canineanthropy,' perhaps. I don't know, but something — something first- cousin- once -removed from rycanthropy, and on the downward scale, Mr. Lee. The old woman was a were-dog!

"Of course. I had no time to think, only to use my instinct. I swung my supplejack with all my might and brought it down squarely on that beast's head. It was only a step below me, then, and I could see the faint moonlight sparkle on the slaver about its mouth. It was then, it seemed to me, about the size of a medium-sized dog,— nearly wolf-size, Mr. Lee, and a kind of deathly white. I was desperate, and the force with which I struck caused me to lose my balance, I did not fall, but it required a moment or two for me to regain my equilibrium. When I felt my feet firm under me again, I looked about, frantically, on all sides, for the 'dog.' But it, too, Mr. Lee, like the old woman, had quite disappeared. I looked all about, you may well imagine, after that experience, in the clear, thin moonlight. For yards about the foot of the steps, there was no place— not even a small nook— where either the dog or the old woman could have been concealed. Neither was on the gallery, which was only a few feet square, a mere landing.

"But there came to my ears, sharpened by that night's experiences, from far out among the plantations at the rear of Iversen's house, the pad-pad of naked feet someone— something— was running, desperately, off in the direction of the center of the island, back into the hills, into the deep 'bush.'

"Then, behind me, out of the house onto the gallery rushed the two old women who had been preparing Iversen's body for its burial. They were enormously excited, and they shouted at me unintelligibly. I will have to render their words for you.

" 'O, de Good Gahd prorec' you, Marster Jaffray, sir,— de Joombie, de Joombie! De 'Sheen,' Marster Jaffray! He go, sir?'

"I reassured the poor old souls, and went back home."

MR. DA SILVA fell abruptly silent. He slowly shifted his position in his chair, and reached for, and lighted, a fresh cigarette.

Mr. Lee was absolutely silent. He did not move. Mr. Da Silva resumed, deliberately, after obtaining a light.

"You see, Mr. Lee, the West Indies are different from any other place in the world, I verily believe, sir. I've said so, anyhow, many a time, although I have never been out of the islands except when I was a young man, to Copenhagen. I've told you, exactly, what happened that particular night."

Mr. Lee heaved a sigh.

"Thank you, Mr. Da Silva, very much indeed, sir," said he, thoughtfully, and made as though to rise. His service wristwatch indicated six o'clock.

"Let us have a fresh swizzel, at least, before you go," suggested Mr. Da Silva. "We have a saying here in the island, that 'a man can't travel on one leg!' Perhaps you've heard it already."

"I have," said Mr. Lee.

"Knud, Knud! You hear, mon? Knud,— tell Charlotte to mash up another bal' of ice,— you hear? Quickly now," commanded Mr. Da Silva.

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2: An Experiment in Gyro-Hats

Ellis Parker Butler

1869-1937

Amazing Stories, June 1926

THE idea of a gyro-hat did not come to me all at once, as some great ideas come to inventors. In fact I may say that but for a most unpleasant circumstance I might never have thought of gyro-hats at all although I had for many years been considering the possibility of utilizing the waste space in the top of silk hats in some way or other.

As a practical hat dealer and lover of my kind, it had always seemed to me a great economical waste to have a large vacant space inside the upper portion of top hats, or high hats, or "stovepipe" hats, as they are variously called. When a shoe is on, it is full of foot, and when a glove is on, it is full of hand; but a top hat is not, and never can be, full of head, until such a day as heads assume a cylindrical shape, perfectly flat on top. And no sensible man ever expects that day to come,

I had, therefore, spent much of my leisure in devising methods by which the vacant space above the head in high hats might be turned to advantage, and my patents ranged all the way from a small filing cabinet that just occupied the waste space, to an extensible hat rack on the accordion plan that could be pushed compactly into the top of the hat when the hat was worn, but could be extended into a hat and coat rack when the hat was not in use. This device should have been very popular, but I may say that the public received the idea coldly.

My attention had been for some time drawn away from this philanthropic work by certain symptoms of uneasiness I noticed in my daughter Anne, and my wife and I decided after careful consideration that Anne must be in love, and that her love must be unhappy. Otherwise we could not account for the strange excitability of our usually imperturbable daughter. As a practical hat dealer my time has been almost exclusively devoted to hats and, as a good wife, my companion's attention has been almost exclusively devoted to her husband, while Anne was usually so calm and self-contained that she did not take my attention from my hat business at all. But when such a daughter suddenly develops signs of weeping and sighs and general nervousness, any father, no matter how devoted to the hat trade, must pay attention.

One of the primary necessities of a dealer in good hats is calm. An ordinary hat dealer may not need calm. He may buy his hats as another dealer buys flour, in the bulk, and then trust to advertisements to sell them ; but I am not that kind of hat dealer. Hat dealing is an art with me, and great art requires calm and peace in order that it may reach its highest development. When I buy hats I do not think of dozens and dollars. No, indeed, I think of noses and ears. To be able to buy of a manufacturer a hat that will make the pug nose and big ears of a man I have never seen seem normal and beautiful when that man enters my store and buys a hat, requires calm. And no hatter can have calm in his soul while his daughter is love-sick and unhappy. I demand happiness about and around me, and I must have it. So I told my wife, and I told her so most emphatically, and I Informed her that Anne must become happy at once.

Perhaps you can imagine the shock I received when my wife, after making the necessary inquiries of Anne, informed me that Anne was indeed in love, and in love with Walsingham Gribbs. It was not because Walsingham Gribbs had never bought a hat of me that I was shocked. Bad hats are a common failing of mankind, and a man will try a hundred hatters before he at last comes to me.

The trouble was deeper than this. The thing that staggered me was that Walsingham was a staggerer, (This is a joke, but I hold that a hatter has as good a right to make a joke as the next man.)

That my daughter had fallen in love with Walsingham Gribbs without having met him was altogether to her credit. She first saw him when she was crossing the ocean (for she travels where she pleases, my hat business affording her such pleasures) and that he reeled and staggered about the boat did not impress her, for it was a stormy trip and everyone aboard reeled and staggered, even the captain of the boat. But when she returned to New York and saw Walsingham Gribbs on the firm pavement of Fifth Avenue, she had a harsh, cruel disillusionment. Walsingham Gribbs reeled and staggered on terra firma.

I am glad to say that my daughter saw at once the impossibility of the daughter of a high-class hatter mating with a permanent staggerer, As she realized this, she became sad and nervous, thus creating an atmosphere in my home that was quite, opposed to the best high-class hatting, irritating my faculties and threatening to reduce me to the state of a mere commercial hatter.

Further investigation only made the matter seem worse, for quiet inquiries brought out the information that Walsingham Gribbs had been staggering since the year his father died. He had been constantly in a reeling, staggering state since his twentieth birthday. For such a man reform is, indeed, impossible. And what made the case more sad was that all proof seemed to, point to the fact that Walsingham Gribbs was not a "bounder" nor a "rounder," two classes of men who occasionally acquire a stagger and a reel in company with hearty boon companions.

In short, no one had ever seen Walsingham Gribbs take a drink in public, and I was forced to conclude that he was of that horrid type that drinks alone— "Alone but with unabated zeal" as that great poet, Sir Walter Scott, has remarked in one of his charming poems.

If all these investigations of mine were conducted without the knowledge of Walsingham Gribbs, you must admit I did only what was right in keeping them secret from him; for since he had never met my daughter he might have considered the efforts of a perfect stranger to peer into his life as being uncalled for. My wife did what she could to comfort Anne, but Anne sadly replied that she could never marry a man that staggered and reeled day in and day out. Thus day by day she became more sad, and I became so upset that I actually sold a narrow-brimmed derby hat to a man with wide, outstanding ears.

Of course this could not go on. No high-grade hat business could support it, and I was standing in my shop door looking gloomily out when I chanced to see Walsingham Gribbs stagger by. I had seen him many times, but now, for the first time I noticed what I should have noticed before— that he invariably wore a high hat, or "topper," as our customers like to call them.

I observed that the shape was awful, and that the hat badly needed the iron, and then my mind recurred to the old problem of the vacant space in the top of top hats; but I found I could not concentrate. Whenever I tried to think of top hats I thought of Walsingham Gribbs in one of them, staggering and reeling up the street, and gradually the thought came that it would be an excellent idea should I be able so to use the space in the top of Walsingham's hat that he would no longer stagger and reel, and then the thought of the gyroscope hat came to me.

I admit that at first I put the idea aside as futile, but it came back again and again, and at length It seemed to force me into enthusiasm. I dropped everything and went to work on the gyro-hat.

The gyroscope is, as everyone knows, a top, and I might have called the hat I invented a top hat, except that any tall cylindrical silk or beaver hat is called a top hat, so I was forced to adopt the name of gyro-hat,

A gyroscope is not an ordinary top. It is like a heavy fly wheel, revolving on an axle; and if it is spun, the speed of the revolutions maintains the axle in the perpendicular, A huge gyroscope is used to steady the channel steamers, which would otherwise stagger and reel. A gyroscope has been adopted to the monorail cars, and so long as the gyroscope gyrates the monorail car cannot stagger or reel. If a proper gyroscope was fastened on the end of a knitting needle and gyrated at full speed, that knitting needle could he stood on end and it would not fall over.

Therefore, if a gyroscope was placed in the top of a top hat, and the top hat firmly fastened to the head of a man, and the gyroscope set going, that man would remain perpendicular in spite of anything. He could not stagger. He could not reel. He could walk a line as straight as a crack.

When I had completed this gyro-hat I showed it to my wife, and briefly explained what it was and what I meant to do with it. The small but wonderfully powerful motor and the gyroscope itself were all concealed inside the hat, and I explained to my wife that Walsingham Gribbs need but fasten the hat firmly on his head and he would never stagger again. At first my wife seemed doubtful, but as I continued she became more and more enthusiastic.

The only thing she disliked was the method of fastening the hat to the head, for as it was quite necessary that the hat be very firmly fixed to the head, I had sewed ear tabs to the hat, and these I tied firmly under my chin. My wife said she feared it would require some time to persuade the public to take to silk hats with ear tabs, and that the sight of a man in a silk hat with ear tabs would be a sign that he was a staggerer. She wanted another method of holding the hat on the head.

"Vacuum suction," I said, for I am quick to catch an idea. A man has to be, in the hat business. "But," I added, "where would you get the vacuum? A man cannot be expected to carry a can of vacuum, or whatever he would need to carry a vacuum in, around with him; especially the kind of man that would need the gyro-hat."

"My dear," said my wife, after a minute of thought, during which we both studied the gyro-hat, "I have it! Let the hat make its own vacuum. If the hat is lined with air-tight aluminum, and has a rubber sweatband, and an expulsion valve, the gyroscope motor could pump the air out itself. It could create its own vacuum,"

"Of course it could!" I exclaimed. "I could rig it up so that putting the hat on the head would start the gyroscope, and the gyroscope would pump a vacuum. All any staggerer would need to do would be to put on his hat, and the hat would do the rest. It would stay on his head and it would keep him evenly on his keel." (Of course I would not use a nautical term like "keel" in my hat shop, but at home I allow myself some liberties of that sort.)

I set to work at once to perfect the gyro-hat on the plan suggested by my wife and in a few days I was able to say it was a success. By this I mean it was a success insofar as the eye could judge by looking at the hat, and all that was needed was a practical trial.

As the hat had been invented for Walsingham Gribbs more than for any other man, I proposed to my wife that Walsingham— we had spoken of him so often that we now mentioned him as Walsingham— should be the man to try it out. But my wife is better posted in social matters than I, and she said it would not do at all to attempt such a thing.

In the first place, none of us knew Walsingham; and in all other places, it would be insulting to suggest such a thing to him, and might ruin Anne's chances. I then assured my wife that I did not mean to allow any ordinary intoxicated man to experiment with the only gyro-hat I possessed, and possibly wreck and ruin it. We had too much at stake for that. So, after considerable discussion, my wife and I decided upon what was, after all, the only rational course— I should try out the gyro-hat myself.

I admit here that I am not much of a drinker. Although not so by principle, I am by action a teetotaler. I consider that the highest good of a hat shop demands it. As a matter of fact I had never up to this time tasted intoxicating liquor, but it was evident to my wife and me that the time had arrived when the hat business demanded this sacrifice on my part. Evidently, if a gyro-hat is meant to keep a staggerer and reeler steady on his keel, the only test of the gyro-hat must be on the head of a man who, without the hat, could not help staggering and reeling— a thoroughly intoxicated man.

We did not, of course, admit Anne into our little conspiracy, and we chose a restaurant where we were sure intoxicants would he sold. We proceeded to the restaurant about the dinner hour; and after studying the waiters carefully, I selected one that seemed likely to know something about intoxicants, and we seated ourselves at his table. I placed the gyro-hat carefully across my knees, first setting the starter, and beckoned the waiter to us.

"My good fellow," I said, when he had approached with his pencil and order card in hand, "I desire to become intoxicated this evening, and I presume you know something about intoxicating liquors."

"Yes, sir," said the waiter.

"Tell him, Henry," said my wife, "that we also wish something to eat, but that as our principal object in coming here is to secure intoxicants, we wish him to be particular about them."

"You have heard what the lady said," I told the waiter, "and you will be guided accordingly."

"Yes, sir," said the waiter, politely. "Does the lady desire to become intoxicated also?"

"Heavens, no !" exclaimed my wife.

"Certainly not," said the waiter.

"Now," I said to the waiter, "you doubtless have different kinds of intoxicating liquors here— some strong and some not so strong— and I do not desire to drink a great quantity to obtain the result I desire. What would you recommend to give the required reeling arid staggering condition as quickly

"Well, sir," he said, "if you will let me advise, I would advise a certain brandy we have. Of that brandy, sir, a little goes a Song way. I have seen it work, sir, and I can assure you that a small quantity of that will make you stagger and reel to your heart's content."

"Very well," I said, "you may bring me some. I suppose a quart would be enough."

"I beg your pardon, sir," he said, "but have you ever tried the brandy of which I speak?"

"I have not," I said,

"Then, sir," said the waiter apologetically, "unless you are a very heavy drinker I would not advise a quart of that brandy. A quart of that brandy, sir, would, if I may so speak, lay you out flat. You would not reel and stagger, sir. You would be paralyzed stiff, sir, dead to the world."

I thanked the waiter warmly.

"You observe," I said, "that I am not used to this sort of thing, and I appreciate the interest you are taking. I am inclined to leave the matter entirely in your hands. I may not know when I have had exactly the right quantity, but you, with your larger experience, will know, sir."

"Yes, sir. And I think the lady will know, sir," said the waiter.

I found the brandy most unpleasant to the taste, but certain symptoms assured me that the waiter had not belied its effectiveness. Long before the waiter was satisfied that I would stagger and reel, my long lost vocal prowess returned and I caroled gaily some songs that had been favorites of my youth. Many of these were affectionate songs, and when I sang them I had a great longing to hold my wife's hand, and did so; but as she would not let me kiss her, I felt the need of kissing the waiter. Here again I was repulsed, but it did not make me angry, I merely slid down into my chair and waved my hand at him coquettishly.

"If you please, sir," said the waiter, when I had finished another burst of song, "I think you are pretty ripe, now. If you would just get up and walk a few steps I can tell more definitely."

My wife smiled at me reassuringly and nodded to me that what the waiter proposed had her full sanction; but even so, I was filled with a fear that we were about to be parted forever, and for a few minutes I clung to her neck, weeping bitter tears. I then tore myself away, and I did indeed stagger and reel, I believe I knocked over two small tables and ended by seating myself in the lap of a young man who was dining alone. He accepted my apology before I had spoken more than fifteen minutes of it, and then he aided the waiter in steering me back to my table.

Whatever may have been my past opinion of Walsingham Gribbs — for it was he— I loved him most dearly at that moment, and in my incoherent manner I tried to tell him so, I think he understood. At any rate, he spoke to my wife like a true gentleman.

"Madame," he said, "I can sincerely sympathize with your husband, and if you will allow me, I will gladly help you assist him to a cab. I beg you not to be frightened by his condition. I myself am subject to the same trouble, and although he may seem drunk—"

"Seem drunk!" exclaimed my wife. "Seem drunk! I beg you to know that my husband is as drunk as a man can become without being senseless. Either that, or we have been defrauded by this waiter!"

Walsingham Gribbs looked at my wife, and then smiled.

"Very well," he said, "if what you wanted was to have him drunk, I'll admit that he is about the drunkest man I have ever seen. I only spoke as I did in order that I might spare your feelings, for most wives object to seeing their husbands stagger and reel, I myself stagger and reel continually, and I have never tasted intoxicating liquor in my life, but I can share the feelings of one who staggers and reels, or who has a relative that staggers and reels."

At this my wife said:

"Are you not Walsingham Gribbs? If you are I am delighted to meet you, even in this unconventional manner, for what brought us here will interest you."

She then told him of the gyro-hat I had invented, and explained just why I had come to this place and had swallowed the strong brandy. I took no part in this conversation, but Walsingham gladly agreed to accompany us, and he put my gyro-hat on my head.

The result was indeed marvelous. Instantly the vacuum pump began to work and the gyroscope to revolve. My head, which had been lying on one side, straightened up. The rubber sweat band gripped my head tightly with a slight pulling sensation. Without assistance I arose from my chair and stood erect. .My brain was still confused, but I walked as straight as a string direct to the door of the restaurant, and stood holding it open while my wife passed out with the ever staggering Walsingham.

The gyroscope was revolving at the rate of three thousand revolutions a minute, and the slight humming was hardly noticeable. I did not stagger and I did not reel. When I reached Gramercy Park I was full of glee. I had been walking on the edge of the curb, but I now desired to climb atop of the iron fence that surrounds the park, and walk on the points of the pickets.

My wife and Walsingham tried to dissuade me, but I climbed to the top of the fence. I not only walked on the points of the pickets easily, but I was able to place the end of one toe on the point of one picket, and thus balanced, wave the other leg in the air. My wife and Walsingham Gribbs coaxed me to come down to the level of the walk, but as I saw no reason to do so, I flatly refused, and at last Walsingham reached up and took me by the hand and pulled me.

Ordinarily a man that had imbibed a quantity of brandy would have fallen to the street if pulled by one hand while standing on the top of a row of pickets, but I did not. When Walsingham pulled my hand I inclined gently toward him until I was at right angles to the picket fence, with my foot still on top of the picket; and when he released my hand I slowly swung upright again, without any effort whatever on my part. I got down off that fence when I was ready, and not before.

There could be no doubt whatever that I was far more intoxicated than Walsingham Gribbs, and all the way home I gave vent to tremendous bursts of laughter over the idea that while Walsingham thought he was seeing me safely home I walked as straight and true as a general, and he staggered and reeled except when he clung closely to my arm.

Many persons stopped and looked at us, and I cannot wonder at it. For Walsingham is a young man of most dignified countenance, and it must have seemed strange to see a young man of such sober mien reeling drunkenly, while a dignified and steadily walking hatter laughed and shouted drunkenly. It was as if the two of us had been able to afford but one spree, and had divided it in that way, he taking the stagger and I taking the boisterousness.

My wife was much touched by the kind attentions of Walsingham, and when we reached home she invited him in, and while I found a little harmless amusement in walking up the stair banisters and sliding down them standing on my feet, which I was enabled to do because of the steadying effect of the gyro-hat, she took Walsingham into the parlor and introduced him to Anne formally.

My poor daughter was quite overcome with embarrassment and pleasure, but when Walsingham was sitting he showed no evidence of his stagger and reel whatever, and they managed to become quite well acquainted while my wife was assisting me to bed.

Unfortunately I had neglected to arrange any method for letting the vacuum out of the gyro-hat, and although my wife tugged and pulled at the hat, the auction held it fast to my head and it refused to come off unless my scalp came with it. My wife decided that I must sleep in the hat, since I was in no condition of mind to do anything about it myself.

I was dying for sleep, and my wife tumbled me into bed and pulled the sheet over me, and that same instant I fell into a heavy slumber, but the moment my wife released her grasp on me I began arising to my feet, irresistibly drawn to the perpendicular by the action of the gyro-bat. I continued to arise until I was standing upright. I can only liken the manner in which I arose to the way a man might raise a stiff arm slowly until it pointed straight upward.

My wife immediately pushed me down onto the pillow again, but it was unavailing. Again the gyro-hat drew me to a standing position, and my wife was forced to let me continue my night's rest in that position.

The next morning I did not feel very well, but I never saw my wife in better spirits. She told me she was sure Walsingham had taken a great fancy to Anne, for he had asked permission to call again that evening, and my wife said that in her opinion it would be well to take up the matter of the marriage with Walsingham at once, before it went any further. If he meant business he would be glad to wear the hat and be rid of his stagger and reel; and if he meant nothing it would be a good thing to know it, and the sooner we were rid of him the better. I agreed with her fully, but I spent the day perfecting the vacuum outlet on the hat.

I must admit that Walsingham seemed somewhat surprised when I made the suggestion to him that evening. For a few minutes he did not seem to know what to say. Perhaps it was a little overcoming to have the parents of Anne suggest the idea of a marriage in this offhand manner and at the same time propose the wearing of a gyro-hat; but Walsingham was a gentleman, and when he glanced up, after his first surprise, and saw Anne gazing at him appealingly, with her hands clasped, I could see that love had won. But instead of acquiescing immediately, Walsingham Gribbs took one of Anne's hands in his, and after patting it, spoke directly, to me.

"Sir," he said, "I cannot but appreciate the delicate manner in which you have handled this matter, but if I am only too glad to find that there is a hat that will correct my unfortunate staggering and reeling, and if I am to accept your offer of that hat, I feel it due to myself to assure you that liquor has nothing whatever to do with my staggering and reeling. I am the victim of an unfortunate experience of my youthful days.

"My father was a man of many ideas, and always trying to make the world better. He had a neighbor that had a mule. It was a mouse-colored mule and very stubborn, and it used to wring my father's heart to see the neighbor belabor that mule with a heavy whip, trying to make the mule proceed in a direction in which it did not wish to go. The mule was quite willing to go toward the barn, where the feed was kept; but it often refused to go in the opposite direction, although it would go well enough if it once started.

"My father, therefore, conceived the idea of what he called the Gribbs Mule Reverser. This was a circular platform large enough to hold a mule and his loaded. wagon, and beneath the platform was a motor capable of revolving the platform. All that was necessary was to place the mule and the wagon on the platform and start the mule in the direction at home, and then suddenly turn the platform in the direction the mule was desired to go, and the mule would proceed, unwittingly in that direction."

"A very excellent idea," I said.

"Except that it would not work In the least," said Walsingham. "In the first place, it was necessary to dig a pit five feet square beneath the revolving platform to contain the motor, and this was not always convenient. In the second place, the platform and motor would hardly ever happen to be where the mule balked, and it would have been a great deal easier to load the mule on a wagon than to load the platform and motor on three wagons. And in the third place, if the mule would not start homeward, neither would it start towards the platform of the Mule Reverser.

"So, after my father had tried the platform in our back yard, with a mule on it, and the revolutions had thrown the mule up against the side of the barn, breaking both the mule and the barn, he decided that other things were better to invent and abandoned the platform, I and the lads of the neighborhood found this a good place to play, and one day I was standing exactly in the center of the platform when one of the boys happened to start the motor, I had sense enough to remain exactly in the center of the platform, or I would have been thrown off, and possibly killed, for the platform was revolving at the rate of eight-thousand revolutions a minute. The motor had power to revolve the platform slowly when loaded with a mule and loaded wagon, so it was capable of immense speed with only a small boy on it.

"When my companions saw what they had done," continued Walsingham, "they all ran away, and for four hours I remained in the center of that platform, being revolved at an enormous speed, and when my father came home and stopped the platform I staggered and reeled and fell in a heap at his feet. That is how I acquired my unfortunate stagger and unpleasant reel, and I have only told you this that you may have no unjust suspicions."

"But why," asked my wife, who had been greatly interested by Walsingham's story, "do you not revolve in the opposite direction, and 'unwind' yourself as we used to say?"

"Madame," said Walsingham, "I have. Every night, for one hour before I go to bed I revolve, but it requires an immense number of revolutions to overcome such a spin as I had in my youth." He waited a moment and then said: "But I am now ready to try the gyro-hat."

I looked out of the window, and hesitated. A thin rain was falling and was freezing as it fell, and I hated to have a good, silk, gyro-hat go out into such weather; but as a leading hatter I felt that it would never do for me to seem small and picayunish in regard to hats, I remembered that a really good silk hat would not he ruined by a few drops of water ; and I saw that if anything could convince Anne and Walsingham that the gyro-hat held their happiness, it would be a trial on such slippery walks as the evening had provided.

So I brought down the hat and pressed it on Walsingham's head. Instantly the vacuum creator began to work and the hat clung fast to his head. He arose to his feet and walked across the parlor in a perfectly steady manner, and out into the hall. I held open the front door and he stepped out.

Walsingham crossed the porch with as steady a tread as ever any man crossed the porch of a high class hatter, but when he reached the top step his foot struck the ice and ho slipped. He did not stagger nor reel. If he fell, he fell steadily. I can best liken his fall to the action of a limber reed when the wind strikes it. He inclined slowly, with his feet still on the top step, and continued to incline until his head touched the walk below with considerable violence; then his feet slipped down the edges of the steps until they rested on the walk.

I never saw a more graceful fall, and I was about to congratulate Walsingham, when he began to incline toward the perpendicular again, in the same slow manner. But this was not the reason I held my words, the reason was that the gyro-hat and Walsingham were behaving in a most unaccountable manner. Walsingham was revolving.

I discovered later that the fall had jammed the gyroscope on the pivot so that the gyroscope could not revolve without revolving the whole hat, and as the hat was firmly suctioned to Walsingham, the hat could not revolve without revolving Walsingham. For an instant Walsingham revolved away from us down the walk, and Anne gave a great cry; hut almost at that moment Walsingham regained the upright and began to revolve rapidly. The icy walk offered no purchase for his feet, and this was indeed lucky; for if it had, his head would have continued to revolve none the less, and the effect would have been fatal.

I estimated that Walsingham was revolving at a rate of perhaps fifteen hundred revolutions a  minute, and it was some minutes before my wife was able so far to recover from the shock of seeing her prospective son-in-law whirl thus as to ask me to stop him. My first impulse was to do so, but my long training as a hatter had made me a careful, thoughtful man, and I gently pushed my wife back.

"My dear," I said, "let us pause and consider this case. Here we have Walsingham revolving rapidly. He is revolving in one of the only two directions in which he can revolve— the direction in which he revolved on the Mule Reverser, or the opposite direction. If it is the opposite direction all is well, for he will be unwound in a few hours, if his neck is not wrung in the meantime. If it is in the same direction it is no use to stop him now, for by this time he will be in such a condition of reeling and staggering that we would not have him as a son-in-law on any terms, I propose, therefore, to let him spin here for a few hours, when he will have had a full recovery or be permanently too dizzy for any use."

My wife, and Anne too, saw the wisdom of this course, and as it was very miserable weather outside we all withdrew to my parlor, from the window of which we could watch Walsingham revolve. Occasionally, when he seemed about to revolve off the walk, I went out and pushed him on again.

I figured that by six o'clock in the morning he would be sufficiently revolved— provided he was revolving in the right direction— and at midnight I sent my wife and Anne to bed. I fear Anne slept but little that night, for she must have had a lover's natural anxiety as to how all was to turn out.

At six the next morning Anne, my wife, and I all went into the yard to stop Walsingham. Then it came to me that I had no way of stopping him. To add to my dismay I knew that when the sun arose the thin ice would melt, and as Walsingham's feet could no longer slip easily, he would in all probability be wrenched in two, a most unsatisfactory condition for a son-in-law.

But while I was standing in dismay, love found a way, as love always will, and Anne rushed to the cellar and brought out the stepladder and the ice pick. Placing the stepladder close to Walsingham she climbed it, and holding the point of the ice pick at the exact center of the top of the hat she pushed down. A sizzling noise told us that she had bored a hole in the hat, letting the vacuum escape, and the hat flew from Walsingham's head. Slower and slower he revolved, until he stood quite still, and then, without a reel or a stagger he walked up to me and grasped my hand, while tears told me the thanks he could not utter. He had revolved in the right direction! He was cured!

___________________

3: Hats and Lilies

Ellis Parker Butler

Australian Women's Weekly 2 Nov 1940

FOR MORE more than a week Miss Essie Miller debated with herself whether she would or would not buy a spring hat. Every year for at least seven years she had bought a new hat at this time, because with the coming of spring her thoughts of Joe Felton became more hopeful.

"This year," she thought. "Joe is sure to speak out. A nice hat does make a person look better. Yes, I'll buy a hat "

That was what she had always said, but Joe Felton had never "spoken out." and with money so scarce a new hat was a luxury this year. "It's not worth while," Essie told herself with that sudden feel-ing of self-deprecation that some-times comes to girls of twenty-six years. "I'm just a habit with Joe; he's never going to ask me to marry him: I'm doomed to be an old maid. Hats won't help."

For seven years-or was it eight years?-Joe Felton had been "handing around" Essie, as it is called in Dellerton, quite monopolis-ing her time, unquestionably fond of her but never coming to the point of asking her to marry him. Although but a few years older than Essie he was principal of the high school. He boarded with the Job Dellers. where he had a comfortable room; he spent a considerable amount on books, and he dressed well, and owned a small car. He was certainly settling down into a comfortable bachelor existence.

This particular day— Saturday— Essie went downtown with her mind not quite made up regarding the hat. The one she wore was still good enough, but of a rather odd shape, and she was tired of it. She paused to look at the hats on dis-play and one caught her eye. But she shook her head and went on where spring flowers were on dis-play.

At the flower shop she paused, looking at the potted plants displayed outside. The proprietor was busy holding a potted lily for a customer's inspection.

"Three blooms and a bud," he was saying. "Good as anything I've got. Yes. ma'am, we'll deliver it. Thank you!" He slipped the money into his pocket and turned to Essie. "And what's yours, Miss Miller?"

"How much are the hyacinths?" Essie asked. "Then I'll take two. These, please."

The hyacinths were cheaper than the lilies, but Essie knew that her father and mother would love them— love the spirit of their giving. The man wrapped them, and placed them in Essie's arms. She turned back toward her home, and as she turned she bumped against a young fellow who was hurrying by. One of her potted hyacinths slipped from her arm. falling, but the young fellow shot out an arm and caught it In the air. He laughed

He was Milt Cousins, a new-comer to Dellerton, who had bought the Star Garage. Dellerton thought him rather smart— a "Chicago smarty"— and he did not lessen the opinion by the clothes he wore, or by his general air of insouciance

"Am I some juggler!" he exclaimed, handing the potted hyacinth to Essie. "The hand is quicker than the eye. No, no— no thanks: it was my fault—"

"Indeed it was not," said Essie, smiling "I backed into you."

"A gentleman should never be where a lady can back into him," said Milt Cousins, and he added. "Miss Miller—" and Essie must have shown her surprise that he knew her name for he said. "You see I know you; I'm the Milt Cousins you may have heard about."

"Oh!" said Essie; "Salina," as if that explained everything, which it did. and for a minute or two more she talked with Milt Cousins. She did not see Joe Felton drive by, but he saw Essie. He drove to the end of the block to turn, but when he drove back past the shop Essie and Milt Cousins were gone. Milt had entered the tobacco shop next door to Barmeyer's and Essie had gone into Miss Ferncliff's millinery shop. Little Miss Ferncliff was taking a hat from the window— the hat Essie had admired.

Professor Joe Felton drove on, frowning. He did not like what he had seen. It was no business of his with whom Essie talked on the street, but she had been laughing with Milt Cousins in a most friendly way, and Milt Cousins was the sort of fellow Felton particularly detested.

That evening after dinner Essie was helping Salina with the dishes.

Salina was the most inexpensive of housemaids or Essie could not have afforded her, but some maid Essie had to have, being a teacher with a mother not able to do much house-work. Salina was being helped because she was going out that evening. They were talking— at least Essie was— about her new hat.

"—and right there is a silver buckle. I picked one out and told Miss Perncliff to put it in place of the red bow.''

"It must be lovely." said Salina. "I can't wait till I see it, hardly."

She did not have to wait long. Little Miss Ferncliff had promised faithfully to let Essie have the hat that night, and as Salina hung up the dish-towels Bud Herring rapped on the kitchen door.

"Here's your hat, Miss Miller." he said. "Miss Ferncliff says she guesses it is all right."

"I'm sure it's all right." Essie said. "Thank you so much for bringing it, Bud."

She closed the door and opened the flimsy paper bag and took out the hat. She drew it down carefully over her hair

"Of course, when my hair is right—" she said, but Salina was exclaiming that the hat was "Lovely, just lovely, Miss Essie!"

"I thought it was." said Essie, touching the hat on one side and the other. "You don't think it is too youngish for me, do you, Salina?"

"It's just perfect on you, that's what it is, Miss Essie."

"I'll show father and mother," Essie said. She hurried into the living-room and Salina began putting the dishes in the cupboard.

"They like it," Essie said when she returned. She had in her hand her old hat. "I'm going to give you this one if you'd care to have it," she told Salina. "Let's see how it looks on you."

"Oh, Miss Essie! That hat? Why, it's as good as new!"

"You take it. Salina: I've worn that hat— well, I'm simply tired of it, thats all! Who's that?"

For someone was mounting the kitchen porch steps. Now he rapped on the door.

"It must be your Milt Cousins," Essie said. "I'll get out of here. And don't stay out too late, Salina "

"No'm; I said I'd have to be back at eleven."

Essie left as Salira opened the kitchen door. Milt Cousins stood there, smiling behind a potted lily. It was a fine lily with three open flowers and two unopened buds, the dark green leaves on the stalk crisp and numerous.

"All for you!" Cousins said, thrusting the pot into Salina's hands.

"Milton Cousins! For me?" cried Salina rapturously. "How lovely! Milton, it's the first potted lily I ever had. And I never saw such a lovely one."

"The best one the shop had left." said Milt Cousins. "The last one with three lilies on it. And those two buds will open. I came mighty near not getting it. There was another fellow ahead of me and he came mighty near taking this one. but I fancy he thought it too rich for him. He took one with two lilies on it and I grabbed this."

Salina, still wearing Essie's hat, put the pot on the kitchen table. She stood a moment or two admiring the lily and pushed her nose close to scent its fragrance.

"It's lovely, Milton." she said. "I'll get my coat on: I won't be a minute. What car did you bring, Milton?"

"I brought the sedan. That all right?"

"Of course, Milton. Only I'd wear my old hat if you hadn't. How do you like my new hat, Milton?'

"Lovely." he said, and Salina hurried away to get her coat. She went up the back stairs, but when she came down she used the front stairs because she wanted to go to the living-room to tell Mrs. Miller she was going. Mr. Miller was read his newspaper and Mrs. Miller was doing some mending. Essie sat on a couch, her new hat in her lap.

"You'll try to be in by eleven?" Mrs. Miller asked, and Salina said she would. She went to the kitchen and let Milt Cousins out and bolted the door on the inside, and then went through the hall to the front door.

"I'm taking the key," she said, and Mrs. Miller answered something and Salina went out and locked the door behind her. She went down the walk to the street where Milt Cousins had left the sedan. He was already in the car and Salina climbed in beside him.

"How would this do?" Milt asked.

"How about going to Templeton for the movies? We could get there in time for the second show. Salina '

"I'd love to. Milton, but we wouldn't get back till midnight and I said I'd be back early."

"Couldn't we just go to Turnerville and be in time for the first show and get me home by eleven?"

They sat discussing this, Milt with his foot on the self-starter, while he argued that Mrs. Miller would not mind If Salina was late one day in her life, and Salina insisted that she must be home early because she had promised. Half a block down the street ahead of them a street light burned, silhouetting their two heads against the pane in the back of the sedan, and suddenly Milt laughed and kissed Salina, She pushed him away, but she was not angry.

"Now, don't!" she chided. "I won't go with you at all if you don't behave yourself," and Milt stepped on the self-starter.

"I'll be good," he laughed.

Down the street behind them Professor Joe Felton had been driving his small car. On the seat beside him stood a potted lily, and he was holding it upright with one hand and driving slowly. It was a lily with two blossoms and one bud, and he had meant to give it to Essie as a little gift, but when he saw the well-known hat silhouetted against the street light he stopped his car.

He recognised-or thought he did -the fellow in the car as the young man who had been talking with Essie that afternoon and who had bought the lily that evening. And then he saw the fellow lean over and kiss the girl beside him. Joe Felton was suddenly more angry than he had ever been in his life. For the first time he knew what jealousy was.

His hand reached for the pot and he might have thrown it had his windshield not been in the way and had not Milt Cousins' car just then shot forward down the street.

For a minute or more Professor Joe Felton sat grasping his steering wheel, gazing after the sedan. Then he let his car go forward. A half block behind the sedan he followed until it crossed the main street and took the country road towards Turnerville. There he stopped.

He looked at the lily on the seat beside him and was tempted to throw it into the road. He felt suddenly limp and desolate and sat frowning in the dark, thinking bitter thoughts about Essie and her willingness to go gallivanting with any chance fellow she met.

He was very severe with Essie for a while there in the dark. He thought of a great many things to say to her. "I was certainly mistaken in you, Miss Miller," he would tell her; "I did think you were not the sort of person who would allow yourself to be—" To be what? "To accompany a man of that sort on a ride at night—"

He turned his car and drove home where he had pen and ink, and he wrote Essie a short and bitter letter, but the letter would not let itself be short and bitter. It began bitterly enough, but it was presently ten pages and still increasing, and Pelton tore the letter to bits and began again.

"My dear Esther," he wrote; "quite unintentionally I saw tônight something that surprised and amazed me. I have always considered you a most admirable person—"

He tore that up.

"My dear Miss Esther," he wrote; "After what I saw tonight, indicating your willingness to associate with a person whose character—"

And he tore that up. He knew nothing about the character of the fellow.

"My dear Miss Miller," he wrote; "Perhaps you have noticed that I have had for you a feeling somewhat stronger than friendship. I need not dwell on that now— that is past."

He wrote six pages more telling her that it was past, hinting that he had been sorely disappointed in her and that, while he hoped they might still meet as friends, he hoped she would excuse him from going to church with her the next day.

He signed this "Joseph Felton." He put the letter in an envelope, and sealed it, went down to his car, and started for the Miller home. Jealousy was stewing in Felton like a sulphurous volcano.

Professor Felton was not aware how time had sped while he was stewing over his letter, tearing up one, writing another and pacing the floor between letters, but it was eleven o'clock when he stopped his car behind a sedan in front of the Millers' house. The front door was just closing and Milt Cousins was turning from it. Professor Felton got out of his car and stood waiting. He found himself trembling again and he reached back and picked up the potted lily. He held it snugly in his hand. Milt Cousins came down the few steps and turned to his sedan.

"One minute, if you please," said Professor Felton.

"What?" asked Cousins, surprised.

"Just a minute, please," said Professor Felton aggressively. "I would like to know what you are doing here."

"Here?" said Milt Cousins. "Why, it's none of your business what I am doing here. Who are you, anyway?"

"It does not make the least difference who I am," said Professor Felton, trembling with rage while Milt Cousins looked at him curiously. "I want to know what business you have coming here and taking a— a young lady out at night when—"

"Now look here, mister," said Milt Cousins, "I don't know who you are and I don't care, but you can't talk to me like that. It's none of your business who I take or where I take her. If that girl is your girl—"

"That young lady is my girl, if that's the word you use," said Professor Felton, getting angrier every moment. "And what is more," he said, shaking the potted lily at Milt Cousins, "I want you to leave her alone. You keep away from her— do you understand that? I won't have any come-quick-go-quick fly-by-night fooling around my girl!"

"Now, wait a minute— wait a minute!" said Milt Cousins, stepping closer to Felton. "I don't take any talk like that from you or from anybody, understand that? I go with any girl I want to go with, and it's none of your business. Do you get that?"

"You— you—" cried Professor Felton, and he raised the potted lily and slammed it at Milt Cousins. The pot struck Cousins on the chest and bounded off onto the soft grass at the side of the walk and lay there, and Cousins' fist shot out and caught Professor Felton on the side of the head, throwing him back against the sedan. The car kept him from falling and he leaped forward. His blow missed Cousins and his fist went over Cousins' shoulder and the two men went down.

For a couple of complete amateurs it was a very fair fight.

In a couple of minutes Milt Cousins got a foot against Felton and threw him against the forewheel of the sedan, rather stunning him for an instant, and when Felton got to his feet Cousins slapped him twice with his open hand, knocking him down again. Felton sat holding the side of his face and Milt Cousins stood over him, panting for breath.

"Get up if you want some more," he panted. "I'll show you whether I can take Salina to a show or not."

"Wait;" said Felton, for Cousins stood menacingly above him; "who did you say?"

"I said Salina, that's who I said," declared Milt Cousins. "And you nor nobody else is going to stop me from taking her anywhere I please. Get up if you want some more of it."

Felton did not get up. He leaned back against the wheel of the sedan and looked up at the shadowy form of Milt Cousins.

"Salina?" he asked. "Was it Salina you took out?"

"You know it was. Who did you think it was?" asked Cousins.

"Friend," said Professor Felton, "I'm sorry. I beg your pardon. I didn't know it was Salina."

"Who did you think it was? A great idea, jumping on me and throwing flower pots at me-and you don't know who for! What are you crazy?"

"It was a mistake," said Felton, getting to his feet. He retrieved his hat and, after touching the top of his head gingerly, put it on. "I thought," he said, picking up the potted lily, "the lady was Miss Miller— Miss Essie Miller."

"Who?" asked Milt Cousins. "Miss Miller? Say— I know her; does she live here?" He looked close into Professor Felton's face. "You're going to have a bad eye there," he said. "You want to get home and put something on it— raw steak or something. The sooner you do it the better. And don't go lamming into folks until you know what it is all about after this. If I hadn't been able to take care of myself you might have hurt me. Move over, will you, you're standing on my hat."

Professor Pelton moved over. Milt Cousins picked up his hat and brushed it with the flat of his hand and put it on.

"Crazy idea, punching into a fellow like that," he said rather resentfully, and he climbed into his sedan and drove away.

Professor Joe Pelton stood and watched the sedan disappear down the street and then he turned and looked at the Millers' house. On the third floor he saw a light go out and that was probably Salina's. In the living-room a light still burned and Felton saw Essie's silhouette on the shade.

With a sudden impulse Professor Joe Felton hurried up the walk to the house. Not for another minute was he going to allow Essie to be so unpledged that he could even imagine she would go out with any-one but himself. He rang the bell. The door opened and Essie stood in the light of the doorway

"Why, Joe!" she exclaimed as he held the potted plant towards her "You've brought me a potted lily! How lovely!"

But the lily was not lovely. Only now did Professor Felton notice that all its blooms and its bud were gone It was nothing but a leafy stalk.

"It had an accident." he said, hiding one of his eyes with his hand. "I can't stop now! I'll tell you about it some time; but, Essie—"

"Yes, Joe?"

"I want you to marry me, Essie. Will you?"

It was not thus, on the doorstep, that she had thought of Joe asking this question-if he ever did ask it -but there was something so pleading in his eye, the eye he was not hiding, that she could not refuse him.

"Why, yes. Joe," she said. "Yes, I will. But won't you come in? Just for a minute, Joe? Just till I show you my spring hat? I have the loveliest new hat."

"Yes," said Professor Felton; "I guessed you had a new hat." and then he thought of raw steak, "I'll see it to-morrow," he said, and he added, "dearest Essie."

________________

4: The Mystery at Mulungban

Culpeper Zandtt

(Clarence Herbert New, 1862-1933)

Blue Book, Feb 1928

AS botany and horticulture were among Galt's hobbies, Her Ladyship had asked him up to Government House that morning to look at some  plants which had been sent to her by the chief botanist at Buitenzorg in Java and make a few suggestions concerning an extension of the garden which she was having laid out on the Ridge. When it began to get uncomfortably warm in the sun, after eleven, they went up to one of the shaded verandas, and were still absorbed in their subject when one of the Governor's aides appeared with a request that the Doctor would see His Excellency, presently, and then remain for tiffin— which brought a smile to Her Ladyship's face, and a suggestion that they could resume their horticultural discussion later.

"Go in to Sir Laurence now, Doctor— he's been chatting with that lovely girl quite long enough, and in case she's not staying on for tiffin, I wish you to see her."

"Would it be Miss Farquhar, by any chance? I noticed her coming up the hill in a ricksha when we were out there in the garden. She's certainly handsome! Seems to be quite chummy with my friends, Lady Frances Harlingdean and Marjorie Adams— they were going to introduce me at first opportunity. Some mix-up in Miss Farquhar's plans, wasn't there? Didn't she come out from England with the expectation of joining an uncle and aunt at one of the out-stations?"

"Yes. But when she reached Singapore there were letters from them saying there was sickness in their district and they thought it advisable for her to remain here until conditions were a bit healthier at their station. Fortunately, the girl has a comfortable enough income of her own, so that by watching expenditures a bit she's able to come and go about as she pleases. I fancy it's the aunt who is her relative—but the man she married is exceptionally good-looking and agreeable, so that Alice is rather fond of him as well. Very much of a ladies' man, you know—a bit too much so at times— rather trying for his wife, I fancy."

"Where is their district, by the way? Up the Peninsula?"

"No—in Borneo. Rather by way of being underground politics, you know. But Sir Laurence can give you the details much better than I. Best go in and see him for an hour, before tiffin is ready."

Doctor Galt found Miss Farquhar sitting by the Governor's desk—apparently they'd been having a discussion which had been more or less serious. She smiled enough to show two lovely dimples when the Doctor was presented to her—but was plainly in anything but a care-free mood and was about to leave the room, saying that she would see them at  tiffin, when His Excellency detained her for another few moments.

"Suppose you wait, Miss Alice, until I've given the Doctor some idea of the situation? You'll be able to answer questions upon which I would have little or no data. It's like this, Galt: Miss Farquhar came out from home expectin' to join her aunt an' uncle at their station in the interior of Borneo, but they wrote her to wait until they had the bubonic and cholera cleaned up a bit— which of course was quite proper advice. But she's been here three months now, and recently has been getting less satisfactory communications from them. One infers that Cadbury has been away in the jungle a good bit, regulatin' native disturbances— sickness— one thing or another—and that Lady Gwen has been in sole charge during his absence.

"The official letters I get are signed with his name in her handwriting, with her initials, 'per-pro.' Four letters, presumably, were signed by Cadbury himself when he was back for a while—in fact I'd never have questioned the signatures, but Miss Farquhar is positive he didn't sign 'em, an' has pointed out little discrepancies that I had overlooked. In the letters from her aunt, Lady Gwen would appear to have the situation very well in hand— provin' herself a splendid executive— noticeably better, I fancy, than her husband. But to a girl in Miss Alice's position—waiting on here indefinitely— the letters seem to her too vague— leaving a good many of her questions unanswered, as if her aunt were much too busy to consider anything outside of the immediate task in hand. She's said nothing about Cadbury's bein' ill or incapacitated in any way—but he seems to be at the station very rarely."

THE Doctor had been studying the girl smilingly. Now he said: "Would you mind very much if I ask some rather direct questions, Miss Farquhar? I've not the least idea why His Excellency sent for me or what you may have in mind concerning my being taken into your confidence to this extent. But if you wish me to understand the whole situation as you see it, and what you have at the back of your mind, I should have more data along certain lines. Any objection to that?"

"Quite the contrary, Dr. Galt! Marjorie Adams and I have become quite chummy since I came out—she's given me a good bit of information concerning Borneo, from her experiences with you a few months ago in the Rajah of Soeltoenak's state— told me you're by way of being an adopted uncle of hers and said I could get more information from you concerning the interior of Borneo than anyone else I was likely to meet in Singapore at present. In fact, that's why Sir Laurence asked you to come in and talk with us. You see— on top of a vague uneasiness I'm beginning to feel about my aunt and uncle— His Excellency has just received a letter sent out from the back-country by a young scientist who is collecting data for the Royal Society. He was in Mulungban about two months ago — saw Lady Gwen— had but one brief glimpse of my uncle—and said nothing of any sickness worth mentioning. From what Mulungban news there was in his letter, the inference was that my aunt had the Dyaks thoroughly in hand—was decidedly respected by the sultan, Akhazul Bendahara Khalim—and seemed to be carrying on in my uncle's absence rather better than he had been doing himself.

"Mr. Walthorpe, apparently, was rather impressed by Lady Gwen, but though of course he was too polite to write anything of the sort in a letter to the Governor, didn't seem as strongly attracted by her as the men used to'be in London. Probably he's more of a scientist than a ladies' man—but there was something more than that in the general tone of his letter, as if he had remained at her station no longer than necess'ry to check up some of his supplies which were going in for him through there. Usually, the men cook up excuses of one sort or another to stick around and enjoy her society when opportunity comes their way. Now— with your knowledge of Malay life in the back-country of Borneo, what would you make of all this?"

"Tell me something about your aunt and uncle— describe them."

"Well—Lady Gwen stands about five feet six, and weighs around ten stone. Very good figure— but solid rather than too soft. Fond of out-door sports— quite good at them. Rides well— a crack shot with gun or pistol— knows ju-jitsu. Rather dark complexion, but handsome. Belongs to the younger branch of the Hertfordshire Willoughbys— her uncle is the Marquess of Endelstone— and deep inside of her, she's like all the rest of them, immensely proud of their caste— takes pride in keeping up the traditions of the family in the way of honorable dealing and having nothing to do with rotters of any sort. Uncle Cadbury was a younger son before his two brothers died and a berth as attache was obtained for him in the Washington embassy— though it's doubtful if he ever gets very high in the diplomatic service because he hasn't enough reserve and self-control for it, or the special type of brain necess'ry, I fancy. He's now in line for the baronetcy when his father dies— will probably settle down at their country-place in Bucks and leave the service when he comes into the title."

"Have any of the Singapore official lot gone in to see them since they took over the station?"

"No— there are reasons for avoiding that which Sir Laurence will explain to you presently. Three or four .of the scientists and botanists have stopped over with them a few days on their way through to more inaccessible parts of the Bornese jungle— and an American from Manila acts occasionally as outside agent for the Sultan in matters which he doesn't care to have the Dutch Government know about. As far as I know, those are the only whites they've seen since they went there. They've managed to rig up a private radio-installation with enough power to get the Singapore station under favorable atmospheric conditions—so that they're usually in touch with His Excellency if anything comes up requiring instructions from him, in code. A Dutch Resident is supposed to be in the little town around the Sultan's palace, merely in an advisory capacity— but those, sent in there have taken one sickness or another, and several months go by before the next one turns up. Now I'm going to see Her Ladyship before tiffin— but Sir Laurence will tell you the rest."

WHEN the girl had left them, the Governor pulled down a large-scale wall-map of Borneo where both could examine it as they sat by his desk.

"Have you ever been in the region around Mount Batoe, Doctor?"

"Yes— I've climbed to within a thousand feet of the top when I was on a botanizing trip, though my two China boys were the only ones not afraid to go with me. Soeltoenak— my friend the Rajah's state— lies northeast of it. (I see you've outlined it, roughly. The borders are wrong in three or four places, but of course you had no survey to go by.) Batoe represents the hub of a five-spoke wheel— each spoke being one of the chief mountain-ranges in Borneo, radiating east, south and southwest— and the valleys between being those of the bigger rivers— the Sesajap, the Kajan, the Kutei, the Bari to and the Kapuas. I've never been in the Mulungban district—but it lies southeast of Mount Batoe and nearer to it than Soeltoenak. Dense jungle on the slopes—natives all afraid of evil spirits on the mountains—can't make 'em go up."

"Your knowledge of the terrain saves me a lot of rather incomplete description— so I can get down to Cadbury at once. Of course he's not supposed to be in the British service at all. I fancy you'd call it a sort of export manager for the Sultan —with the additional duties of an efficiency-expert in gettin' the most out of the Dyak labor without offending the brownies until they do not work at all. It requires a good bit of tact an' more knowledge of the Malay temperam'nt than he had when he went in there. Well, d'ye see, there's a deal of unrest among the brownies all over Asia at present— egged on by the Russian-Manchurian soviet— sort of preliminary to a show-down between white an' brown races all through the East. The Dutch have been successful colonizers because they've managed heretofore to keep white interference out of their Islands— but it's now the brownies themselves who are spreading the propaganda, an' it's quite necess'ry that our Indian secret service should be as well informed concerning what goes on among 'em in the Dutch islands as in the Straits, India or China. As you doubtless know, there are several of the Malay sultans who have Englishmen in their employ in one capacity or another—but chiefly as their own political advisers. The Dutch Residents at their little capitals naturally tell 'em nothing which might be against the Dutch policy in future—but the English an' Americans give 'em more of the all-round point of view and I suppose frequ'ntly assist in smuggling out a cargo of rubber, coffee or tobacco. All of the East Coast sultans are independent rulers— but acknowledge Dutch supremacy. Ethically, we're not supposed to meddle with the Dutch policies in the least an' we try to avoid doing so—but they do meddle a bit with ours, under the rose, and I fancy our men often see things they're not supposed to see. If ever it comes to a general revolution out here, the white races must either settle the question of supremacy by costly fighting an' stamp the thing out for another hundred years or so—or else turn over Asia to the Asiatics and get out. I fancy it'll prove to be the British in the long run. An' in that case, the sultans already favorably disposed toward us will be inclined to accept British protectorates—political and commercial supervision over their states. That's Cadbury's real object in being out there—fostering good-will toward us while he handles the Sultan's labor as he can't handle it himself.

"And actually, he's more or less connected with your secret service— turning in to you data on the native conditions there and all that?"

"Well— it's not admitted, you know— but it amounts to something like that. If there were any tangible official connection, he would be under orders from the Governor of British North Borneo, who is nearest by any practical means of communication, or from Rajah Brooke of Sarawak, who is nearest in actual distance across the mountains. But he has no communication with either of them in order to avoid any appearance of politics. Whatever requisitions are sent in to him go by supply-boat from the Straits Govemm'nt— which sometimes goes up the river some distance in the high-water season, but usually sends up the stuff in a launch and meets it again when it comes down the river from a point where the supplies are transferred to a native banco or small prahu."

"H-m-m— what sort of stuff goes in to him that way?"

"As little as possible, now. When his predecessor first took the berth at the Sultan's request, we sent fittings to make the station comfortable in every practical way— piano, phonograph, radio-outfit in small packages, cots, hangings, electric fans to work on the Sultan's current— he has his own telephone and lighting systems. Materials for constructing a swimming-pool— tennis-set— guns an' pistols enough to defend the station temporarily— markng everything in the Sultan's name as if for his own use. But now it'll be mostly tinned foods, beverages, clothing, medical-stores, reading-matter, disinfectants. That sort of thing. One item they requisitioned two months ago was six barrels of lime— which of course was quite all right for disinfectin' and possibly other purposes. Only point which makes me recall it was the amount. With the sickness Lady Gwen spoke of in her letters to Miss Farquhar, a hundred barrels would have been nearer the mark, presumably. On the other hand, had it been merely for drains around the station-bungalow, one or two barrels would have been quite sufficient. Naturally, there's no wall plastering to be done— goes to pieces from dampness in the rainy season."

"HAS Cadbury any knowledge of rnedicine?" inquired Galt.

"Merely a smattering of first-aid and general sanitation— as all our men are supposed to have in the out-stations. But Lady Gwen had two or three years of medical study with a bit of practical surgery thrown in. She amputated the leg of a Dyak who'd been bitten by a cobra last year— made a very workmanlike job of it. The brownies all know that she unquestionably saved the man's life."

"Well— as I understand it, you and Miss Farquhar are beginning to think there's something decidedly wrong out there— but you can't put a finger on what it is that you vaguely suspect? Eh?"

"Er—quite so. Nothing to prevent Miss Farquhar's staying here in Singapore indefinitely if she pleases, or going home to England at any moment. But she's always been fond of Lady Gwen, and has liked Cadbury ever since he married her. I fancy Miss Alice is beginning to think Cadbury seriously incapacitated— dead, or missing— and her aunt in serious difficlties of some sort which she's too plucky to let us know about. Faith, she's got me around to the point of fancyin' much the same thing— if I could assure myself that there might be circumst'nces in which she couldn't or wouldn't communicate with me in code, by radio! That's what sticks in my mind. It's difficult to be convinced that she'd not communicate with me if the situation is at all serious. On the surface, you understand, there's no official connection between 'em and the Straits or any other British Colonial governm'nt. They're merely two British subjects employed by His Highness the Sultan of Mulungban. Injury to or flagrant abuse of them naturally would be taken up as a Governm'nt matter— protection of British subjects.

"But to all intents, they're out there strictly on their own. On the other hand under the surface, we render them every possible assistance an' keep much more closely informed concerning what may be happening than anybody dreams we are doing. Now, considering all these points, and with your knowledge of general conditions out there—what would you say may be going on?"

"That's a difficult question to answer, Sir Laurence. Much depends upon Cadbury's treatment of the Dyaks and his manner with them. If he's been indulging in any foolish abuse of them, they're likely to stick his head up on a pole at any moment If he's learned how to handle them and Lady Gwen is as much of a diplomat as you say, they're getting everything they want from the brownies. If there really has been much bubonic and cholera, he'd probably go down with either much more quickly than she. If he's been drinking much, he'd pass out. But your scientist-chap— Walthorpe— mentioned no disease at all, and he'd have been likely to if he saw any evidence of it. Which adds to the appearance of mystery surrounding the situation.

"All we have are these presumable facts: Cadbury hasn't been around the station except for brief visits during the last three or four months. Lady Gwen— after getting her niece out here to visit them— is evidently determined that she shall not go in there for the present, at least— possibly not at all. She appears to have taken over the entire management of the Sultan's affairs entrusted to Cadbury and to be handling them in a satisfactory manner. But there is an inference from the tone of her communications that she is strung-up to a taut, nervous pitch all the time— under a pretty heavy strain of some kind with the chance of going to pieces at some moment when it will be disastrous to herself and Cadbury, at least— incidentally destroying all that your government hoped to accomplish through them. It seems to me that one of your service men could be of assistance to her if he were disguised to avoid recognition as a government agent."

"That's just the diffic'lty! Sooner or later, he'd be spotted as a service man— particularly if he had to give any evidence in a court. I've been thinking that if I could find some one who knows the country an' would consider accepting a confidential commission from the Straits Governm'nt— some man not in our service at all— I'd be glad to send him out for the purpose of ascertaining just what the conditions are. Miss Alice has been talking with your adopted niece, Miss Adams, about her experiences in Soeltoenak with you— and is quite determined to go along if I find the right sort of man to send in."

"Hmph! I could have told you what was in her mind after she had been talking a few minutes. Marjorie sneaked aboard my boat when I left for Soeltoenak and didn't show up until we were at sea— knowing that I'd not have taken her willingly. But I must say she proved herself one of the few women who can go to places like that and come out none the worse for it. Miss Farquhar may be of the same type and may not— no way of telling until one actually sees her under such conditions. Coming right down to cases, Sir Laurence, I suppose you'd like to have me go out there for you— eh? As you've paid me quite generous sums for similar commissions upon one or two other occasions, you think that entitles you to put the proposition up to me, anyhow. Eh? Well— I've nothing else on hand at present. Suppose I accept your commission— go out there and have a look-see— render Lady Gwen any assistance that may be necessary? Could you communicate with that Royal Society chap, Walthorpe, before I get in there? Would he agree to come down and meet me at the station?"

"I fancy that might be managed without much diffic'lty. Walthorpe would consider any official suggestion from me. The Sultan has a low-powered radio-outfit with which he communicates with Rajah Brooke at Kuching, Sarawak, across the mountains— and he would send a runner up into the jungle where Walthorpe and his men are camped. What would be your object with him?"

"He knows me by name and I've heard quite a lot about him. Just the sort of man I'd pick to stand by me in any sort of a mix-up— speaks Malay better than I do, and understands their oblique point of view, perfectly. We would appear to be two professionals interested in scientific matters to the exclusion of everything else— no suspicion of politics anywhere."

"My word, Doctor! You're absolutely Right! I'll see that Walthorpe meets you at the station. But—how about Miss Farquhar? Will you take her? She's an out-of-doors girl— good nerves, I fancy."

"Yes— and my own China boy, Ling Foh. He's worth a dozen. I fetched him down the Peninsula after that mess in Pranganoe, and he's stuck to me like fly-paper ever since. There's only one consideration which induces me to take the girl along. I see little risk getting her in there as far as the station— after which, she'll be with her aunt who invited her to come. Presumably she considers the neighborhood safe enough for the young lady."

AS the government supply-steamer was leaving for Jesselton and Sandakan at the end of the week, with two river-launches on her boat-deck, the Doctor and Miss Farquhar went out on her, accompanied by the highly efficient Ling Foh.

The master and crew of the steamer minded their own business exclusively. If the Doctor's party let it be understood in the British North Borneo ports that they were merely cruising to get some idea of the Borneo coast, that went with the officers and crew, also— as far as anything they said ashore. But when the boat reached the delta of the Kajan there was plenty of water on the bar for their light draft, and they went up the river nearly a hundred miles— anchoring in mid-stream and sending the Doctor's party farther up in one of the launches.

After going eighty miles, it passed a landing on the bank for one of the only three roads in Eastern Borneo— there were excellent reasons for not taking it—and went on another seventy miles to where a jungle-path led by a short cut to the little station near the Mulungban rubber-plantations where Cadbury was in charge of the Dyak labor-camp which, by this time, had assumed all the characteristics of the usual jungle kampong, with its nipa huts and community-house on posts six feet above the ground, built along a little creek which ran into the river further down. From this labor-kampong a narrow private road led through the jungle eight miles to Bakit-Satu, the little town which was the Sultan's capital, with his 'dobe palace— faced and lined with colored tiles— on higher ground along the northern edge of it. Bordering this road was a line of trees from which the lower branches had been lopped off, carrying telephone and electric feed-wires to the labor-kampong.

WHEN the party reached the station bungalow and its "guest-annex"— another bungalow one hundred feet away— they were told that the Memsahib or Tuana had gone up to Bakit-Satu for a conference with His Highness, but that the Tuan Walthorpe had arrived with his China boy after she left and was then napping in the guest-bungalow.

Walthorpe came out on the veranda at that moment to welcome them— his "boy" immediately fraternizing with Ling Foh and taking him inside to stow the luggage in the proper rooms. Walthorpe proved rather reserved in manner but exceedingly pleasant. When Miss Farquhar had gone to her room to freshen up, he strolled to the outskirts of the kampong with the Doctor and began asking for information.

"I could have made excuses to the governor, you know, an' remained in my own diggings— because he's no real authority over me beyond the courtesy of forwardin' my supplies. But I've wished to meet you, Doctor—been hearin' about you ever since I came out in this region— an' the fact of Miss Farquhar's accompanyin' you gave me some uneasiness— made it seem as though I might be needed here. Otherwise— well— I'd have avoided this station except when it might be necess'ry for me to pass through, goin' in or out."

"That indicates pretty well our reason for coming here, Walthorpe. What's wrong with this place, anyhow? Lady Gwen has warned Miss Farquhar of bubonic and cholera as a reason for not having her in— but you made no mention of them in your letters to the governor."

"Naturally— because I saw no evidence of anything like an epidemic an' none of the Dyaks said anything to me about it. Oh, there may be sporadic cases, here an' there— we always get that much in the back-country, anywhere in Asia. But there's been nothing for whites to consider as far as I know. Aside from that— well— there's no surface indication of anything seriously wrong here. But in a few hours you'll get it sub-consciously, I fancy. I've seen Cadbury but the once— nearly three months ago. Good-lookin' chap— agreeable manner. Drinks too much—has a very appreciative eye for the Dyak women— insisted upon havin' one of 'em to wait upon the table instead of the usual house-boy. She was handsome— no gettin' around that. He said he'd always had a cravin' for everything beautiful— liked to surround himself with beautiful things whenever he could— saw no reason for havin' a rather ugly house-boy pass his food to him when a handsome girl was available. Of course the girl and her family were flattered, gave themselves airs among the other Dyaks in consequence.

"That sort of thing alone is apt to breed trouble when you're livin' among such races, an' the whites avoid it if they know their book— unless, of course, a chap is at an out-station all by himself an' goes native from sheer loneliness. Well— I've not seen Cadbury since then. He was gone when I came back up the river— lookin' for spots in the jungle favorable for clearin' an' rubber-plantin', Lady Gwen said, but my boy told me none of the kampong Dyaks had gone with him; I fancy he may have taken a couple of the Sultan's men from Bakit-Satu. I got in here possibly four hours ago—naturally went into the livin'-room of the station bungalow for a glimpse of the last gazettes which came out— an' I saw no sign of the good-lookin' Dyak girl either about the bungalow or around the kampong. Y'know the beggars usually come out for-a look-see when any visitors arrive— practically the whole population.

"Of course one asks no personal questions of the brownies, either about the Tuan or any of themselves— that's generally picked up by one's boy if you're really curious to know about any individual, but I wasn't inquirin' about one of their women— bad form. Last time I was here, Lady Gwen seemed a bit changed in some ways. Just as handsome an' pleasant in manner, you know— but rather as if she were under a strain of some sort that was giving her enough to do in handling it. If I'm any judge of the Dyak mind, an' I should be by this time, the beggars all respect her immensely. But somehow I sensed a vague impression that they fear her as well. She's saved the lives of at least half a dozen by medical treatm'nt an' fairly good surgery— but they say she's nerve enough to shoot any one of 'em if he really deserves to be shot, an' I fancy they'd all back her up in it. Now—what's the answer? There is something wrong here—but what? She's carryin' on the work of the station a dev'lish sight better than Cadbury ever has— sent a prime shipm'nt of rubber an' tobacco down the river in bancos that got it aboard a cargo-boat twelve miles inside the bar. She steamed out. again an' disappeared without bein' seen by the Dutch patrol-boat. An' Lady Gwen knew she was goin' to pull it off beforehand— made all the arrangem'nts herself. Of course, any of these independent Sultans on the east section of the Island has a perfect right to ship an' sell his stuff wherever he pleases—but if the Dutch catch a shipm'nt goin' out or have proof that one was sent,'they make the shipper pay an export-tax, one way or another."

"HOW does she stand with the Sultan?" asked Galt.

"Couldn't stand higher. When she first came up, he admired her immensely— tried to flirt, every chance he got. He's an Oxford man, you know, an' quite good-lookin' if a woman doesn't mind cafe-au-lait in the decorative scheme. But since Cadbury has taken to campin' out in the jungle so much. His Highness treats Lady Gwen with much more formal respect. In fact, from what my boy has picked up, one would almost say he has more or less subconscious fear of her, like the common Dyaks. Of course she can be the very essence of dignity when she fancies it necess'ry— entirely courteous, d'ye see, but absolutely distant.

"It's possible Akhazul Bendahara may have carried his flirtatious experimentin' a bit too far when he knew Cadbury wasn't around or likely to materialize suddenly— an' that she quietly put him in his place so thoroughly that he's still a bit dazed over it. But there's a feature in that proposition which may not have occurred to her— yet— but which is bound to come into his mind sooner or later. With Cadbury nowhere in sight, she's just one handsome an' healthy white woman absolutely alone among thousands of Dyaks who would do anything the Sultan ordered, an' do it on the jump, no matter how much they thought of her. If he has her fetched up to his palace some day for his own amusement, he knows the English would make a row over it, but he's fairly sure that neither they nor the Dutch Governm'nt would go so far as to send a punitive expedition up here strong enough to defeat his Dyaks an' capture him— this not bein' India or the Straits. As long as he's convinced she has nerve enough to kill him an' would certainly find a way to do so if he went too far, he'll let her respectfully alone. But if her nerve happens to slip— just once! Eh?"

"You think that may be at the bottom of the strain she's under? I don't—not quite. A white woman always has it in mind to kill herself in any contingency of that sort and doesn't worry about it so much. That has been demonstrated over and over. Her being alone here, and carrying on the work of this'station, wouldn't account for the vague depression which I'll admit I already begin to feel creeping over me. It's not malaria or jungle-fever— because the Dyaks show no signs of it, and from all accounts Lady Gwen is in excellent health. But if I believed in disembodied spirits at all— as all the brownies do— I'd swear there are cold, clammy ghosts prowling about this kampong and breathing down the back of my neck every little while!"

"My word!. That really is the sensation, you know! Of course you an' I aren't fooled by any such rot. What we're prob'ly gettin' is a reflex from the native mind hereabouts— reactin' on us. By Jove! That would account for the way the beggars act! They believe there are ghosts about this place! But whose ghosts? What makes 'em prowl? What incantation will make 'em behave an' take themselves off? Eh? What?"

WHEN Alice Farquhar reappeared, with a clean madras shirt and the mud brushed from her riding-breeches, she seemed listless, to the two men. Presently she asked if there were any accommodations for visitors at Bakit-Satu—and Walthorpe said there was a very comfortable bungalow for the Sultan's visitors near the palace, on the high ground. After a moment's consideration, she said:

"How could we get up there— before dark?"

"The usual hammocks— swung from poles carried by four men to each person. When Lady Gwen returns, His Highness undoubtedly will send her down in his motorcar— this road of his is none too good for autos, but with the balloon tires they manage very well. I'd rather not ask him to send a car for us. But there's plenty of time to see Bakit-Satu— it's not so much of a metropolis."

"Hmph! The way I feel, I'd rather not wait! Do you fancy I'm coming down with fever, Doctor?.... I'm frightfully depressed— more jumpy than I can remember feeling at any time before this!"

"Just nerves, Miss Alice—that's all! Some places have a way of affecting people like that— Walthorpe and I have both noticed it here, but as nearly as we can find out there's no sickness at present so it's probably psychological. Your room is comfortable— isn't it? Mine looked very decent— much better in fact than one would have any reason to expect in a place like this. Electric lights— running water from the big storage-tank up there on the higher ground, and unusually good water, too— from a spring, I fancy. Evidently, the Sultan wished to make his commercial manager comfortable."

"Oh, as far as bodily comfort goes, it's much ahead of what I fancied they could have in a place like this— but I certainly have a royal fit of the blues and I don't fancy I'll sleep a wink tonight!"

"Oh, yes, you will— trust me for that! Hello! That must be your aunt coming in, now— I hear a car bumping along the road."

AFTER the steamer had left Sandakan, when it was too late to stop them, Lady Gwen had received a radio-message from Singapore that they were coming— so was not surprised to find them at the station when she returned. Otherwise it would have been a staggering jolt, as her niece was about the last person on earth she wanted there at the time. Having been warned in advance, however, she put a good face upon the matter and welcomed them cordially enough. As far as either of the men could judge, her poise was perfect and her nerves in excellent condition. As she stood chatting "with them in her riding-breeches and solar helmet, she was a most attractive woman— with some finer quality of command which would have made her a dominant figure anywhere. Never for an instant did she appear to be at a loss for the right word or the proper decision upon anything the natives put up to her. And as the darkness fell with tropic suddenness, she said that dinner would be ready almost immediately and nobody was to change for it.

"At times, we make rather a function of dinner and dress— just to avoid getting into sloppy habits. But with Mr. Cadbury away and all of us fairly tired, I fancy, there's no sense in bothering. Did you by any chance fetch down your violin, Mr. Walthorpe?"

"Why— er— no, Lady Gwen! I was to meet the Doctor, d'ye see— with no tellin' just what sort of a scientific hike he might have in mind— so I came down light. But I hope you'll play for us just the same?"

"Of course— if you wish. And Alice has a very good contralto."

"Which will have to wait until the climate lets it rest up a bit, Aunt Gwen— I'll not risk it tonight! But I don't mind playing— after you— if I know any of their favorites."

IT was meant to be a rather gay little meal— with a sober-faced Dyak giving them excellent service and wine of exactly the right temperature. It was swimming along nicely, past the chicken-and- curry, salad, jelly— when the Dyak slipped on the polished teak floor and went down with a crashing tray and a scattering of dishes— which made all of them jump as if they'd been shot. While their nerves were still a bit ragged over this interruption to the meal, Alice Farquhar suddenly broke off what she was saying and peered into the shadows at the back of the living-room where there were a passage leading back to the kitchen and two doors— one opening into Lady Gwen's private room and the opposite one into Cadbury's study, used as a business office as well. The girl's face was tense— colorless.

"Listen! Don't you hear those footsteps in the study? Could Uncle Cadbury have returned?"

The men heard a faint something which might have been footsteps— but Lady Gwen shook her head.

"Any bungalow in the tropics sways a bit on its posts, so far above ground— has all sorts of little creaks one soon gets used to. Not in the least like a house built upon solid ground, you know."

It was a perfectly reasonable explanation— yet somehow there was something uncanny in the very air. Galt, from his first talk with Alice and the Governor, had had his own theory as to what the underlying mystery at the station might prove to be—but it was an ugly one. Natural enough in the circumstances— but the sort of thing one prefers keeping out of his mind as much as possible. When Lady Gwen had been playing for them a while,— Debussy, Tschaikowski, Liszt,— he ventured a question, watching her face without appearing to do so.

"Er— Lady Gwen— what's become of the handsome Dyak waitress our friend, here, was telling us about? He seemed to have been quite impressed with her unusual good looks— and we were anticipating an opportunity for seeing whether he was hypnotized or really had a sense of beauty."

He thought some of the color drained from her cheeks, but couldn't be certain in the red glow from the piano-lamp. Her manner, certainly, gave no evidence of her being unpleasantly startled, as she replied calmly:

"He meant the one Cadbury liked so much, of course. We've had but two Dyak girls for table-maids, and the other certainly was no beauty. The good-looking one disappeared a few months ago— may have gone to one of the other kampongs— up to Bakit-Satu or somewhere else. I fancy her mother and sisters have gone also— there were no men in the family. But Mr. Walthorpe was justified in his opinion; the girl was both handsome and well-formed— a strain of white blood, possibly."

MEANWHILE, in the guest-bungalow, Ling Foh and Walthorpe's China boy were having a talk in low Chinese gutturals which brought a look of profound respect to the eyes of Wang Chu— a description of the Tuan Hakim whom Ling Foh served and of certain things known about him. He was of ancestry most illustrious, to begin with— one saw that in his face and manner. But more than all other things in importance, he was affiliated with the Great Tong, as one might see, if observant, when the Tuan Hakim was reading of an evening and absently fingering a cube of the finest ivory measuring three-quarters of an inch, upon one face of which was a peculiar Chinese ideograph inlaid in solid gold. Both Cantonese were in agreement that the status of such a personage should become known at once among the Dyaks, several of whom were themselves among the lower order connected with the Great Tong like many of the Malays, Shans. Tamils and Siamese. It was obvious that when this was known throughout the District, matters which the Tuan Hakim desired to know would be communicated through them without hesitation, no matter how much tabu there might be in such matters.

GALT, of course, had said nothing to Ling Foh of his vague suspicions— he didn't have to. The faithful Cantonese had a way of salting down occasional remarks overheard and afterward piecing them together—so that he probably knew as much as any of them concerning outward conditions at the station when he arrived there. Being psychic like all Orientals, he surmised a good deal which might or might not have happened under the surface— and later that evening the two Chinese were squatting on their heels in a circle of Dyaks around a fire on a clay platform in the community house, the glow bringing out; in strong relief the brown faces against the background of deep shadow, and there were muttered questions and roundabout hints of certain matters very seldom discussed. On the second night following, Ling Foh asked if the Tuans would listen to something he had heard, while Wang Chu kept watch outside the bungalow to warn them if anyone approached— Miss Farquhar being with her aunt at the larger bungalow, playing over some of her music.

TO describe his communication in Ling Foh's "pidgin" would be tedious for the reader, as there was a good deal of it. Boiled down, this was the substance: In the edge of the jungle, on the outskirts of the kampong— in a small clearing of its own— the first Resident had built a storehouse for such perishable food and materials as needed a cool place to be kept in good condition. It was practically a cellar eight feet below the ground-level, with concrete walls and a rammed-earth floor— covered with a roof-thatch over threp feet thick to prevent any heat from the sun getting inside. The gable-ends were of concrete with a small iron ventilator set in each and there was but a single door, of thick teak— and padlocked.

Several months before, the supply-boat had fetched around a number of packages and cases— among them, six barrels of lime. And two or three weeks after all of these had been stowed in this isolated storage-cellar, Her Ladyship, the Memsahib, had seen a few big jungle-rats in it, and shot three of them—plugging up the hole in the floor which they had dug to get in. All rats are plague-arriers and Lady Gwen had very good sanitary reasons for not particularly fancying cellar-storehouses for food in a tropic jungle. So she'd had another storehouse built at the edge of the kampong on posts ten feet high— with an air-space between walls, floor and roof— and had removed all the stores from the cellar except the six barrels of lime, several charpoys and empty packing-boxes. After which, she announced her intention of destroying every rat at the station by trapping them with poisoned food.

She had her Dyaks dig a pit in the floor of that cellar six feet long, four feet wide and five deep— at the bottom of which they laid slices of toasted cheese scattered among bacon-rinds and cooked meat with cyanide dusted over them, and then opened up the hole which the rats had dug originally. Within a week there were over a hundred dead rats on the bottom of that pit, with lime sprinkled over them. All of this, of course, was a purely sanitary-measure, obvious even to the Dyaks— obvious to the governor at Singapore or any medical officer of his staff had it been mentioned to them in a letter— obvious to the Sultan, when he heard of it. But that wasn't all of the story connected with that cellar, and the rest of it has never come out except in surmise— without proof. Only their fear of the Great Tong induced the Dyaks to give the two Cantonese their slant on it that night around the fire in the community-house, with evil spirits hovering in the shadows behind them, as they thought— and they didn't tell all, then!

EVERYONE at the Station knew that Cadbury was fooling with the handsome Dyak girl every chance he got, when he thought his wife wouldn't notice it. To the Malay mind, that was all right enough as long as he paid the girl's family for her and the Memsahib raised no objections. They had their own code and knew the Memsahib had hers. It was distinctly up to her in their viewpoint— and they were content to look on. When one buys a good padlock, he gets two keys with it. One of the keys to the storage-cellar was on Cadbury's chain— the other, he tossed in a drawer of his desk, where Lady Gwen had no trouble in finding it. When you come to think of it, that cellar was a fairly isolated place if one desired to spend an evening in a lady's company. With something against the ventilators on the inside, and that thick teak door closed, not a glimmer of light could be seen outside. None of the natives had any occasion to go near the place unless to fetch and carry when the door was unlocked in the daytime. Nor, presumably, would anybody else go there at night.

As a rule, Malays don't prowl about a kampong much after eight in the evening— they sit on the pole-verandas of their raised nipa-shacks or the usual big community-house until they get sleepy— singing, chatting, strumming native instruments a bit. Even the young fellows and girls pick out some dark corner above the ground for their spooning rather than risk stepping upon a snake, centipede or scorpion in the dark. And they don't prowl about in the jungle at night as much as the story-writers would have us believe. If the girl strolled out to that storage-cellar after dark and Cadbury followed a few minutes afterward, ostensibly smoking his pipe and getting a bit of exercise, the chances are that none of the Dyaks followed or saw them go into the place— there was no reason why they should—it was the Tuan's business, not theirs. If the Memsahib went out around the kampong in her breeches and leather puttees, it was no more than she did many a time either for exercise or to see some of the Dyaks who were sick— to assist at the birth of a baby if need be.

In two of the huts nearest the storage-cellar—perhaps three hundred feet, with thick jungle-bush between— some of them thought they heard two or three pistol-shots from that direction one night, soon after the rats were caught in the pit— echoes so faint that the shots, if there were any, might have been fired at some animal further in the jungle. They were by no means sure that they even heard shots.

But from that time, the door of the storage-cellar had been padlocked and none of them had seen the inside of it. Had anybody asked them if the remaining five barrels of lime had been emptied over something in the pit and the earth shoveled in on top of it, they had no knowledge or inference upon which to base a reply. The Memsahib might have done such a thing in the Tuan's absence— but nobody had seen her anywhere near the place. The only points they could agree upon as to any approximate date were that the Tuan had not returned to the station since about that time— nor had the girl been seen. To the best of their recollection, her mother and sisters had left the kampong a week or so later, as if to join her in some other place.

Although cross-questioned several times by Galt and Walthorpe, Ling Foh's account of what he had picked up from the Dyaks didn't vary by so much as a word. That was the story— all they seemed to know— not a scrap of further evidence one way or another. But there was an inference, Ling Foh thought, that the Memsahib might have attended to a certain personal matter exactly as every Malay would attend to it— and by so doing had earned both vastly increased respect and a good bit of wholesome fear. A Memsahib who attended to her affairs in the Oriental way rather than that usually observed among the "Clistian whites" was one to be placated— not angered needlessly. She saw with the Asiatic eye, and all things were known to her, according to the Dyaks.

WHILE they were still pumping Ling Foh for more definite evidence of what might have occurred, there was a sudden chorus of excited voices outside, as a number of Dyaks rushed by— and when the men hurried out upon the veranda, a bright glow at the further end of the kampong, with occasional flame streaking above the jungle bush showed that some hut was on fire—the jungle-growth being too damp and too green to burn. Running along after the others, they made their way through the fringe of bush and saw that it was the thick roof of the storage-cellar which was burning— a three-foot mass of solid nipa-thatch, dry as tinder on the under side. In a few moments, the blazing roof-timbers crashed down into the cellar, carrying with them the glowing mass of thatch which soon consumed the door and every inflammable thing which had been in the cellar—the embers smoked for two or three days.

As the two scientists walked back down the kampong, they saw Lady Gwen and Alice Farquhar on the veranda of the station-bungalow, watching the glow of the fire.

"Aren't you enough of the average person, Lady Gwen, to enjoy running to a fire?"

"Oh, I started up the kampong after Alice called me— but I saw where the fire was and knew there was little risk of its spreading this way with the wind as it is— and came back. Just as well that cellar is gone— the fire will purify it."

Later, Galt asked the girl if her aunt had been with her the whole evening.

"Why—yes. Until she went back to her room for something. I was reading the Illustrated News— and called her, after running out to see what all the commotion was about."

The Doctor glanced at Walthorpe—who nodded slightly. There had been just about time enough, they both knew—but it was pure surmise, and Miss Farquhar's testimoney would have made it seem ridiculous. After all— what difference did it make? Suppose they took some opportunity when Lady Gwen was up conferring with the Sultan, to dig down among the ashes and debris of that cellar— found the rat-pit filled in— dug into that until they struck lime.A gruesome job— one which none of the Dyaks would touch— in fact none of them would go within two hundred feet of the place if he could avoid it. What would it prove? Coming right down to cold fact, what did they want to prove? It would be purely circumstantial at best— and not so much of the circumstantial at that.

Next day, Galt went out into the jungle with Walthorpe— taking his camera and a couple of film-packs to photograph certain plants before they wilted, after uprooting, if he could find them. And upon their return, he asked Lady Gwen if there were any developing-chemicals or printing-frames at the station.

"Why—yes. Cadbury uses his camera a lot when he's here—generally darkens the kitchen windows and develops his plates in there."

"That's luck! I think I can rig up a better dark-room over at the guest-bungalow, and we'll not be so likely to have anyone barging in upon us, there. If you'll show me the chemicals, printing-paper and frames, I'll take them over."

"Certainly! Come into Cadbury's study with me. I don't venture in there when he's away because he rows so about his things being disturbed—but he'd wish you to use the chemicals, of course. By the way, I fancy he hadn't developed the last pack of films in his adapter when he left. Could you be sure of not spoiling them if you developed that pack with yours?"

"Just as sure as I would be of my own, and I've done quite a lot of it. I see you have a nickeled tank—that simplifies the developing a lot. And his packs are the same size as mine. Wonder if you'd let me borrow or buy a couple of packs? You seem to have two or three dozen, and it looks as though I may need more than I fetched along."

"As many as you wish, Doctor. All I know about photography is 'pressing the button' and having some dealer 'do the rest'—so I'm not likely to use many of those packs myself."

THE Doctor and Walthorpe put in a whole evening in their dark-room when they had rigged it up—with results they hadn't anticipated. The Doctor's plants came out beautifully — perfect exposures against a background of black velvet which he had carried with him and propped up on twigs behind them. But when they took Cadbury's exposures out of the tank they again sensed the impression of ghostly, clammy forms peering over their shoulders in the dark-room, lighted only by the small red incandescent bulb. The exposures appeared to have been perfectly timed—presumably the man was an artist with ideas of feminine beauty which he wished to bring out, and his model had held the poses without moving. The girl was nude —posed in eight different positions, some of them quite graceful, against a dark-green ivory palm shrub for background. The remaining four films were of Cadbury himself—and the girl was handsome enough as to leave no question as to her identity.

As they looker at the prints, Walthorpe asked:

"What the deuce are you going to do with 'em? Hand 'em over to Lady Gwen? I don't think!"

"Mo—I'm going to run one of these fresh packs through the developer until every bit of the emulsion is eaten off and then hand her the clear films—say they evidently weren't exposed at all. But—well— dammit all, Walthorpe, do you suppose she knew what these exposures undoubtedly were, and—er—and wanted them to be a sort of 'Exhibit A,' as an excuse for anything which might have happened? Gosh! These negatives pin it on Cadbury without a shadow of doubt! Here's what the fellow was—with his own charming wife right in the same house with 'em! If he'd been all alone in an out-station for two or three years—time enough to forget wife and civilization—one might" let it go with the knowledge that it's done by a good half the chaps who come out to such places. But I swear this was raw enough to condone pretty nearly anything! Consider her pride of race—and the smirch this was upon her!"

"H-m-m—what about Alice Farquhar? How is the best way to handle that end of it? I met her three years ago in London—an' now she's got me so I find it difficult to maintain the scientific point of view when she's around. Women are a sort of disturbin' influence—aren't they? What are you goin' to tell Alice—what will you do with her?"

"Take her back to Singapore after another week or so, and a few days up with the Sultan. She'll go! This whole District terrifies her more and more every day. She knows all the Dyaks believe the place is haunted, and it's getting her nerve. If there were such things as ghosts, they sure would stick around this kampong and drive the whole outfit crazy! How Lady Gwen keeps her nerve so magnificently is something new in my professional experience— I've never seen anything like it I And if she doesn't weaken, I'll say she can't have done what we know damned well she must have done! My hat's off lo her! Great suffering cats! .... Consider, will you? The punishment actually thought out as far back as when those six barrels of lime were ordered from Singapore! .... Planned to go through without a single hitch! We may condemn the 'unwritten law' as much as we please in what we consider civilized places—but it sure goes in Asia! It's in the very atmosphere out here!"

"What'll you tell the Governor—at Singapore?"

"Tell him Cadbury disappeared in the jungle with a handsome Dyak wench and is either dead or gone native—certainly will never turn up again among civilized people."

"Well—I fancy he wont, you know! An' that leaves the Memsahib — where? What becomes of her?"

"That's something she'll attend to herself—and it'll be a good clean job. She can be more valuable to the Straits Government right here than anyone else they could send. If, eventually, there's a race-revolution in Asia, she'll come out of it a Ranee or a Begum."

ALICE FARQUHAR wanted desperately to get away from that gruesome station—out of Borneo—and never see it again. The nameless dread she sensed from every direction was running her into a nervous breakdown. But she also felt as if she couldn't go back to Singapore without her aunt. After another week, it came to a show-down at dinner, one evening—when Lady Gwen said:

"You must go down the river tomorrow, Alice—and catch the supply-boat. There's something about this climate or the neighborhood which doesn't agree with you. just as I feared—you'll be a helpless invalid on my hands if you stay. Really, you know—I've enough on my mind without that!"

"But—when will you come out, Aunt Gwen?"

"That's very indefinite. I'm needed here in various ways. In fact, I doubt if another manager would stay in the place a fortn't. Perhaps some day I'll go back to England—perhaps not. Who knows?"

The last they saw of her was a graceful figure in breeches and sun-helmet on the river-bank—waving good-by to them with a spotless handkerchief. Looking around at Ling Foh, they saw him kow-towing to her on his hands and knees—as he burned a stick of punk to his joss and murmured: "She velly Numbel One Memsahib!"

___________________

One of the series "The Exploits of Mr. White"

5: The Boss

Culpeper Zandtt

Blue Book, Jan 1925

OF the eight men who sat around the long table in the Board Room of the Mastodon National Bank, but two were directors of the institution— a fact which indicated that the conference had a wider scope than mere bank affairs, and that those present had chosen this particular place as the one offering the most privacy. The distinguished-looking man at the head of the table was Mendon Barclay, president of the Mastodon, and of a trust company as well. The smiling gentleman at his right, who had no distinguishing mark to set him apart from the average of humanity, was Sam Wentworth, a power in Wall Street and the financial world. At his left, the dyspeptic individual with a scowl was Caleb F. Wattrous, known as one of the meanest men in the metropolis, but commercially, a colossus who owned mills and factories by the dozen. Frank Atchison— dignified, able, conservative— was chairman of the board. The other four were men who controlled big enterprises of one sort or another, and they had come together for the discussion of a political menace which appeared to be gripping the city by the throat. Barclay summed this up, when their cigars were lighted and they were comfortably seated:

"With the ordinary political boss, gentlemen, the city takes what it has to take during one or two administrations, and then manages to clean house somewhat, with a reform election. But Mike Costello dives a lot deeper and swims farther under water than that. Three years ago Pat Riordan controlled the lower East Side, absolutely. Jim O'Shea had the lower West Side in his pocket. If there was any vote-swapping west of the Park, for the judiciary or State officers, Mollenhauer and Nick Torella were the men our party had to do business with. On the upper East Side, Schmidt and Tony Caprella ran their party to suit themselves. In the northern districts Swenson had things pretty much his own way. Without mentioning the leaders in other boroughs, these seven will do to illustrate the present situation.

"I believe Costello first became known as a henchman of Tony Caprella's in one of the wop neighborhoods of that section. His mother was Sicilian—his father Italian- Irish. And he 'had something on' Tony from the start—some Maffia or Camorra business in the old country, I suppose. It wasn't long before Mike was giving Tony the orders—and Tony was taking them like a lamb, because he knew his throat would be cut if he didn't. Schmidt was the next one; no saying how Costello got anything on the German, but he appears to have done it somehow. Today, Mike Costello has every one of those men I've mentioned just where he wants them—con- trols the radical element in every part of the city. Each of the local men is sup- posed to be as much a power in his dis- trict as ever, but I happen to know that when they nominate anybody Costello doesn't like, he's unexpectedly dropped with no explanation, and some other man is offered as a candidate in his place. This sort of thing is a menace at any time; this year it's specially dangerous, because word has been passed around that Costello means to have his administration control and operate all the transit-lines in the city, as a starter in the. way of getting every public utility into the hands of the city government."

"WELL—discount that!" snarled the dyspeptic Wattrous. "What does it really amount to?"

"Just this: Under private management of the subways, for instance, if a motorman is drunk, jeopardizes a trainload of passengers without any better excuse than bootleg booze, he's fired! And he stays fired, as far as that road is concerned. They don't take chances with him again; that danger is eliminated. The men all understand this and are careful, accordingly. Accidents will happen sometimes through no fault of the motorman or any preventable fault of the management, but they've been minimized to a point where fewer lives are lost compared to the number carried than upon any other railway in the world. Now— put these same roads under political management, and you at once destroy all individual responsibility. If a bad accident happens, they pass the buck from one politician to another until you simply can't find anyone to hold for it. The drunken motorman can't be fired— because he's got a vote and a pull. He may be transferred to some other section or division, but that's the worst that can happen to him. So— he gets drunk again, kills more people— perhaps, by good luck, gets killed himself. This same letting-down of responsibility enters into every sort of utility managed by a political machine. Remember the telephone-service during the war— when the Government took it over? I don't want to do business in any city where that happens again! Watch the elections in France just now—  they are voting to put the railways, telephones and telegraph-lines under private management. Italy also! The waste and inefficiency of government operation are so notorious that the people in every country where they've had it are getting dead sore— determined to get better service and operating conditions. On the other hand, no political machine wants to give them up— they represent too much power and patronage."

"I think Wattrous has got his answer, Barclay! Such conditions are indisputable— and inexcusable! We all realize that Costello is getting the city more and more in his power every month. Question is: what are we going to do about it? As a former boss once asked, what can we do? It happens to be a pivotal year, politically— the sort of election when the men who might change such conditions are more concerned with the Presidential ticket than local affairs. But even if we could get the exact situation before the people of this town, it's a question whether we could form a coalition strong enough to beat Costello. And the joke of it is, I don't believe those district leaders under his thumb like him any too well, at that!"

"Like him! I think I could mention at least five who would shoot him, or get him shot by gunmen, if they dared! They don't, any of them, quite dare try it! What Costello may have on each, I couldn't guess within a mile— but he's got it so absolutely that they obey him like whipped dogs. Of course it's his game to see that the graft is pretty tempting for them. Aside from the blow to their pride and local prestige, they have nothing to complain of. Meanwhile, this big city— full of fairly decent people, as a whole— is being run by a dictator and a holdup man who has so little sense of responsibility toward them that he puts their lives in jeopardy every day while he's putting his hands into their pockets! If Mike Costello were suddenly gathered up by the angels, the district leaders would be where they were before he gained the power, and not one of them has nerve enough to make his management too raw. They're better politicians than that—have been through a few reform elections and know they can only go about so far without getting in bad. I'm told they've put this up to him— only to get sneered at for chicken-livered cowards who lack the nerve to take all they can get, while the taking is good.

"Coming right down to it, we've had some bosses in this town who were no pikers— men with something of the same idea, but a bit more conviction that there is a limit— somewhere. In the glad days of their gilded reigns, we felt about as we do now— that they were too powerful to be crushed. But we did smash those rings, one after another—the old bosses are but a memory now. Conditions today, however, are materially changed; we have a more dangerous and unscrupulous element to deal with. Costello appears to be the most dangerous of the lot— most strongly intrenched."

"I suppose we could find somebody with nerve enough to shoot that bird—"

"Undoubtedly. We could offer money enough to get a thousand men shot— but what man of decency or standing wants to risk anything of that sort! Costello would have us wiped out in a minute, without turning a hair— if he thought we were really in his way. But none of us happens to be that breed; we don't believe in such methods, even if they might result in a benefit to the whole city."

WENTWORTH, the Wall Street man, had seemed preoccupied for several moments— as if he were scarcely following the conversation or interested in it. But he now made a remark which arrested their attention.

"I know a man who might eliminate Costello, in a way not in the least criminal— if we could persuade him to attempt it. There's some doubt as to whether he'd try it; but if he once agreed— well, sooner or later, this particular bad citizen would cease to function in the way he's doing now." "Hmph! What's your friend's particular line, Wentworth? A sort of super-man?"

"I told you he would do nothing unlawful— even though some of his actions might appear to be so until the inside facts were known. If you gentlemen are interested, I think I might get him down here for a chat with us in half an hour— or less. Eh?"

"H-m-m—you can trust him, of course? This discussion isn't the sort of thing we'd like to have generally known; we've each too much at stake to be implicated in any such proposition as we're trying to work out. It would be misunderstood, no matter how clean our motives are!"

"Well— I'll say this by way of a guarantee. I'd hand him my check for a hundred thousand dollars without any question or security if he merely asked for it. He speaks four or five languages, and knows how to keep his mouth shut in all of them. If he doesn't care to mix in this business, he'll simply forget everything we tell him about it."

"Then for the love of Pete get him here as soon as you can! I guess we're all in a mood where we'll try anything, once!"

Wentworth called an uptown number, but was told by his friend's valet that he was probably at a certain club within a few blocks of the Mastodon Bank. At this club he was paged and located in a few minutes— agreeing to come around at once. Ten minutes later the bank's special policeman admitted him by the private door— and after brief introductions, Went worth rapidly covered the main points of the political situation as they had discussed them.

AS Wentworth finished, White reflected for a moment— then asked: "What sort of a looking man is Costello? Ive heard a lot about him, of course, but never happened to run across a picture of him in any of the papers— never had him pointed out to me."

"No! You wouldn't! He doesn't mean to have you— or anybody else! Suits his game better to remain very much in the background— concealing his personality in a very modest way which, they say, isn't at all like the man when you know him. I happened to see a Journal man get a snapshot on the City Hall steps one morning— and it didn't do him any good at all. I'd no idea who the man was, at the time. A friend told me— after the circus was over. Costello is a medium-sized man who must be a bunch of muscles under his clothes, and quick as a cat. He made just one long jump, landed on that photographer before the fellow knew he'd started anything, grabbed the camera out of his hand, smashed it to bits on the pavement— opened the holder, and ripped out the films. There wasn't a fragment left which could have been developed.

"The occurrence got me plumb interested. Costello's face and figure were branded on my mind so that I'd remember him if we met in Central Africa— but that didn't satisfy me. The man so evidently didn't propose to have any picture of himself floating around loose that it sort of stirred up all my obstinacy. I've a friend whose side-hobby is getting impossible photographs, just for his own amusement, and so I described the occurrence to him— roused his interest. How he ever located Costello under conditions where he could get a shot at him, he wouldn't tell me— I rather imagine he found it dangerous work and had some narrow escapes. But in about six weeks he came to my house one night and handed me these ten unmounted prints—showing "the Boss" in as many different positions and expressions. Anybody could identify him, positively, from them— I've studied the lot pretty thoroughly at odd times."

WENTWORTH took the prints from his pocket and passed them over. The others at the table had seen them before. "Is there any particular assembly district which the man uses for his headquarters— or does he make a point of showing up in all of them, equally?"

"Well— you wont find his name in any directory, but he owns several houses and other buildings. I happen to know that he usually sleeps on the upper floor of a house in Forty-eighth Street— it's something rather gaudy in the way of apartments when you get a glimpse at the inside, the sort of taste you'd expect from that type. The outside of the house looks cheap and run-down. I heard the other day that he's considering a two-hundred-thousand-dollar place out on the Island. If I wanted to find the man, I'd stick around the Twelfth Assembly, especially in the morning— some of the little basement eating-places, cafeterias, saloons that are selling soft drinks, with Chianti on the side. Evenings, he's around the theater district and the lobsterpalaces quite a lot— dinner-coat and all the trimmings. But you wont get any of the waiters to point him out; they've been told where they get off if they do. That's why the newspaper boys can't do much more than guess at him— even when they've been tipped off that he's dining in a certain restaurant or is in one of the theaters."

"Hmph! That sort of a bird, eh? H-m-m— let me get this straight, if I can. As I understand it, you don't really like Mr. Costello— wish he were elsewhere, or would lose his interest in politics. Eh? But tell me just why— some reason which the majority of citizens in this town would accept as a valid objection to the man?"

"If Costello isn't stopped pretty soon, forced to back down and get out of politics, the city tax-rate will be so high that nobody can afford to own real estate or live here. He'll increase the bonded indebtedness more than double, when the interest on existing bonds is badly in arrears. The risk to life and property will be greater than it is in Mexico or any mining-camp. Under pretense of administering the city government for the benefit of the masses, he will make business and labor conditions such that no employer can remain here and do business. The labor-element believes that somehow he's going to bleed the rich until every man and woman in the tenement-districts will have money to burn— automobiles, gilt furniture, expensive clothes, all the diamonds they can wear. It sounds pretty nice to an ignorant man— who can't see that Costello will drive all the money out of the city if he keeps on, so that there wont be a job for anybody. And of course this little burg is so darned rich, normally, that it'll take a little while to destroy the wealth in it or the business possibilities— during which time he undoubtedly will graft enough from the taxes to make a few of the laboring men rich— so rich they wont see or believe the storm of ruin which is as certain as death to follow. This man has exceptional ability— abnormal qualities of leadership and organization. None of the other leaders in his camp have the intelligence to go anywhere near as far. Consequently— he's unquestionably a menace which should be sidetracked if possible. Now do you get it?"

"Ves, I think so. You've convinced me— and I suppose you'd convince almost any thinking citizen. As I understand it, you believe I may be able to accomplish what you wish— in some way of my own— at a price?"

The dyspeptic Mr. Wattrous leaned across the table with a leer, pouncing upon this suggestion of compensation.

"Before discussing any definite arrangement, White, we should naturally wish to know how much we're getting let in for! It seems to me you mentioned the word 'price' as though you thought we were rather easy in that direction. But I think you'll find it a mistake! What would be, for example, your idea as to proper compensation?"

Pennington White had met one or two such men in the course of his experience— knew exactly what was to be expected from them if they entered into any business relations with him. And his status at that conference became merely that of a consulting-expert, then and there.

"Nothing— Mr.— er— Wattrous."

"Nothing! Come, come— man! You ought to know our time is too valuable to be trifled with! What do you mean— nothing? You can't afford to do business that way—and we know it!"

"I've no idea of doing any business with you, Mr. Wattrous. I was asked down here to confer with you gentlemen— I didn't suggest it, or bind myself in any way. I think I might accomplish what you wish— it's neither impossible nor so very difficult to break the influence of a political boss. But I'll have to refuse. In the first place, my services would cost you a lot of money— more than there's any chance of your approving. But the real reason is that I wont risk undertaking anything like this."

"Why wont you?"

"Because, from what you tell me, there are half a dozen men in the city who would kill Costello if they dared. Before I got through with him, some of them might very likely get their nerve up to do it. Then— suppose somebody who doesn't like me too well should whisper it about that I had accepted a big sum of money to put the man out of politics in this city? That would be just pie for the men who did kill him! I'd go to the chair, with hardly a possibility of saving myself! So let's have it distinctly understood right now that I wouldn't mention a price for such a thing— wouldn't consider it for a minute! Do you get me?"

As Caleb Wattrous butted in, raising his question as to price and giving the impression of haggling over terms, President Barclay made an involuntary movement expressive of annoyance and disgust. Catching the eyes of other men about the table, he saw that they were affected the same way— having all found the dyspeptic a difficult man to handle.

After White had quietly made his refusal unmistakable, there was a silence of two or three moments; then Barclay said in a conciliating tone:

"Mr. White, I think Mr, Wattrous may be willing to apologize for anything offensive in his manner or remarks. If you will think a moment, you'll readily see that nobody in this room could betray the slightest hint that you had accepted a price to put a certain man out of business without incriminating all of us as givers of that price— with that object. Several men, recently, have been executed for planning and paying for murders in which they had no actual hand themselves. Of course, we haven't dreamed of such a thing as trying to get this man killed— any more than you would try to eliminate him from politics that way if you have the sense with which we credit you.

"Now—Wentworth has said he was more or less positive you could do what we wish done without getting outside the law—and I'll admit right now that you impress me as a man who generally makes good on anything he says he can do. Can't we get together in some way on this proposition?"

WHITE didn't hesitate a second. He knew if they did get together, it must be in some other place— with not more than two of them dealing with him.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Barclay! I'd like to help you— and I appreciate the fact that my decision must be disappointing in the circumstances. But the risk is really too great a one! I think if any of you were in my place, you'd feel the same way about it. There is always risk in a political feud— but where the stake is so overwhelmingly big as the one covered by success or failure at the polls in this next city election, a few human lives don't amount to much."

There didn't seem to be any more point in continuing the discussion. White had the good taste to leave them when there was clearly no object in his remaining longer— and Sam Wentworth got up to accompany him. At the door, however, Barclay had a moment or two of whispered conversation with him; then, thanking White for his courtesy in coming down, he went back to resume the conference on ways and means, around the table.

It was not until they were eating in a corner of the club dining-room that Wentworth finally asked: "Didn't you change your mind rather suddenly, Pen?"

"I certainly did! You see, I hadn't paid much attention to that Wattrous skunk until he jumped me about the cost question. Then I took a minute to look him over— size him up. Of course I recalled his reputation, as soon as I'd placed him—  dollars first, last and all the time, above every other consideration. He'd have had heart-failure if I had mentioned ten thousand for my services. And as sure as the sun shines, he would have written a note to the District Attorney, anonymously, giving away what I had agreed to do for so much money— in the hope of saving the few measly dollars which his share would come to, in case some one did kill the man. He'd have risked being drawn into it himself as something most unlikely. So the only thing I could do was refuse even to consider such a proposition—and take that stand quick, without a second's hesitation. As I left the matter, I don't think a man in that room except Wattrous could refuse to testify on oath just how unequivocally I did refuse it."

"No— they'd exonerate you, absolutely! All right! We've closed that chapter— let's go on to the next. Here's Barclay's suggestion— in confidence. Before they get through with that conference, they will collectively pledge a pretty large sum for campaign expenses in the next election, and undoubtedly place it in Barclay's hands for distribution in such directions as his judgment may indicate— because he's known to be absolutely straight. He said to me that if you cared to be a campaign-worker, he saw no reason why you shouldn't be fully compensated— he and I being the only ones to know exactly what your services happen to be, or what they're worth. Well— how about it? On that sort of a basis, do you care to play in our alley—or don't you?"

"H-m-m— that's a different proposition altogether! Legitimate employment for legitimate compensation. In case it seems attractive, could I depend upon you and Barclay dining several times, in different places, with a man whom I'll send to you— as a detail in my campaign?"

"Certainly you can— I'll answer for both of us!"

"Just a minute— there's something else. Both of you are active workers in your own party organization, I suppose?"

"You'd think so if you traveled around with us the month before election! We believe it the duty of every American citizen to take an active interest in politics, no matter which side he's on— whether he's on his uppers or worth millions. We vote before we play golf on election-day, and give a lot of pretty valuable time to organization work."

"That's about as I sized you up. Now let's get a bit of light on the practical side of it. Are there any occasions when you meet or have conferences with leaders of the other party—your political enemies?"

"THE public gets suspicious at any hint of that sort— but it's really done all the time, and it's usually safer to do it rather publicly as 'old friends of different political beliefs'— than be caught sneaking into some rendezvous to meet one of the enemy. In public, you might be friendly enemies taking a night off, just as I said— but if you're caught in dark corners with them, it smells to heaven of graft and rotten politics. Er— perhaps I haven't altogether covered your question, yet. It is sometimes to our advantage to sacrifice a weak candidate, merely nominated as a compliment to his district or friends, when by so doing we get enemy votes for some man in a crucial position where his election means a lot more to us than it does to them— particularly, in a line-up for the following year, or as good timber for a much higher office. There is always a certain amount of such trading going on under the surface, because there's no getting away from it if you're playing the game to win and have the instinct for political chess. If every citizen could be depended upon to register and vote as conscientiously as he attends to his other business, we would probably do away with such methods, but we're obliged to accept our political campaigns as they are, rather than as we would like to have them."

"Then— there would be nothing politically impossible in Costello's dining with you and Barclay at one of the big hotel restaurants— particularly if the party also included some Wall Street man known to belong to his organization?"

"Considering the fact that the man isn't known either to the public or the newspapermen— no! Nothing at all impossible about it! Even if he were quite well known, your other man from his camp would make it all right. Barclay and I know several who'd dine with us in a minute!"

"Hmph! Guess that's about all I need to know. I'll keep you posted, more or less, on whether I'm making progress."

THE problem before White seemed to be one that, presumably, no sane man would tackle— or stand any chance of solving if he did. In a bitter political campaign, with millions in graft as the stake on one side, and efficient, conservative government on the other, there are two methods of fighting which, so far, have produced results: the usual and lawful one of vote-getting at the polls, in a thousand different ways— and the violent sort which doesn't stop at murder in a pinch.

White had calmly accepted the proposition to smash the power and discredit the powerful leader of a faction which had controlled city politics, off and on, for several years— entrenched behind henchmen of all breeds, whose interest it was to protect him in every way— entrenched in a part of the city where whole neighborhoods were his admiring supporters. It wasn't a good insurance-risk, any way you looked at it. But Pennington White had peculiar methods of his own that would not have occurred to anyone else or even seemed possible to carry out.

His first move was to rent a couple of furnished rooms in Forty-eighth Street on the next block to the house which had been described to him as Costello's real home— giving his occupation as an electrician who was expecting to go in business for himself as soon as he had secured a few big contracts. That same night he walked into the Twelfth District Political Club and asked to be enrolled as a member.

By examining a large-scale insurance map when he returned to his rooms, he saw that the club, on Forty-ninth Street, backed up directly opposite the rear of Costello's house on Forty-eighth Street.

Next day— by showing an electricity inspector's badge which he had managed to obtain— he went up to the roof of the adjoining house, where a radio-aerial had been connected up in such a way that the "lead-in" seemed to be defectively insulated, constituting a fire-risk in a thunderstorm. (At least, that's what he told the landlady— and she never thought of questioning it.) As he had considered likely, he saw a gate in the rear fence of the back yard, next door— so that one could pass through into the yard of the club without having to climb the fence or making any disturbance. Having in mind the floor-plans of the club, he could easily determine by exactly which door such a person would come into the reading- and assembly-rooms.

Next came the question as to where Costello probably got his meals in the neighborhood. Of course, the woman in charge of the house— supposed to be the landlady— might serve breakfasts in his apartment. But glimpses of the rooms, which the supposed inspector managed to obtain through a couple of skylights, didn't reveal the sort of tables upon which a meal could be spread out unless a carelessly piled lot of papers, books and odd articles were removed each time— the dust on them indicating that they were not frequently disturbed. So the probabilities were in favor of the man's getting his earlier meals at some nearby eating-place.

Of those nearest the house, two on Second Avenue were run by Germans— one, on First Avenue, by Greeks— and a nearer one, which appeared to be well patronized by Italians and Irish, had no sign indicating its nationality. It was in a basement several steps below the sidewalk level, yet looked cleaner than any of the others, and had none of the usual rancid smell of stale grease. The cooking, evidently, was Italian—with a number of dishes rarely seen in restaurants of other nationalities—and the place seemed to have a reputation. Although frequented by a good many workingmen, there was also a sprinkling of more prosperous individuals who evidently came out of their way for the cooking they got there.

TAKING a chance on the food, White got a very appetizing breakfast, served by a big waiter whom others in the place called Giovanni. Purposely biding his time until most of the others had left, the supposed electrician took another chance, presently— when Giovanni had brought him a second cup of coffee. He asked, in Italian with a Sicilian accent, if "Il Padrone" had been in that morning. Looking stealthily around the basement to see just who were still there, Giovanni muttered that it was still an hour too early for him. Either he came in about seven, when he had a long day ahead— or if up late the night before, slept until ten and came in for breakfast at half-past.

The supposed "Connolly" then said he'd been living across the river, and that one of his friends in the Third Assembly District had told him to see the Boss about getting the wiring of some new apartment-houses which would pay enough to start him in business for himself. He couldn't wait until ten-thirty— but was now living in the neighborhood and might see the Padrone sometime in the club on Forty-ninth Street. Giovanni thought that might be a better place to get acquainted, as the Padrone frequently turned up there at about eleven P.M.— and suggested that he first have a talk with Giuseppe Fornari, who was in charge of the club, evenings. Once solid with Giuseppe, he'd put him next to the "big feller" some night when he was feeling good.

In the course of his various activities, White became acquainted with more people of different breeds than the average citizen in just the one line of business ever does. He also made a point, as a matter of good policy, to put as many of them under obligations to him through one little service or another as he conveniently could. (It's surprising how much of that sort of thing a person can do without going very far out of his way.) The result was that he found himself in position, almost any time, to ask little favors in return, with the assurance of having them cheerfully granted.

In the dramatic club of which he'd been a member for several years, for example, the membership was of mixed political and religious beliefs. Some of the men who liked him best were actually of strongly opposed ideas in politics, had they but known it. One of these to whom he had loaned money, for a surgical operation on his wife, lived across the river, was active in the politics of that borough, knew men in each of the different political clubs.

Telling this man that his friend Connolly was moving into that neighborhood from one of the suburban towns as soon as his lease expired, and would like to extend his political acquaintance in the neighborhood meanwhile, so that he wouldn't be entirely among strangers when he did settle down there, he suggested that a note of introduction from him to some man prominent in the Third District Club might smooth the way for Connolly quite a lot. He got the note within ten minutes.

Before presenting it, White changed his appearance to impersonate the man Connolly (the character he had decided upon using in his political adventure) and called, with a second note of introduction written by himself, upon the friend in the dramatic club who had so readily given him the other one. This he did as a preliminary test of his impersonation—and so thoroughly had he changed his clothing, voiceinflection, manner of walking and moving, that the friend never suspected him for a moment.

The supposed Connolly explained that he had called to thank him for the note of introduction sent through Mr. White— that he had wished to meet the writer personally, before using it, so he would know more about him— be satisfied that he was all right. This little precaution was an additional measure of safety for White— who knew that when he finally did meet Costello, inquiries about him were likely to reach back pretty far, and it was necessary to have the trail fairly straight for some distance.

Then he started his acquaintance over in the Third District— made himself rather popular, there, in two or three evenings, and was in position to refer to it when he took the rooms in Costello's neighborhood.

NEXT evening, with Wentworth's photographs fresh in mind, he saw the Boss slip quietly into the club through a door which apparently led from the kitchen in the rear basement of the building. As he was talking at the moment with Giuseppe Fornari, in Italian, and had told the Venetian about the kind of jobs he'd like to get through the "big feller," if he could, Giuseppe didn't really hesitate about saying: "Shaka de han' weeth Signor Costello— Meester Connolly. Mebbe he mighta know some of da building' wich 'aven't gotta da wirin' geeve out."

Costello was so completely "average" in his appearance that he would have disappeared had he joined any group of six or eight men in the room. He stood about five feet seven and a half, weighed something over a hundred and fifty,  had brown hair, neither light nor dark, greenish-gray eyes which in some lights appeared almost blue, in others hazel— features almost exactly like thousands of other men on the streets— wore clothes exactly like nine out of ten men one passes, though they were of good material and well cut. He might have been any Costello in the directory— but to suppose from his appearance that he was really "Big Mike," the powerful and dreaded Boss, seemed too ridiculous for belief. His manner was retiring, and the expression in the eyes was rather sleepy.

But there was a suggestion of glitter under the half-closed lids as Connolly explained the sort of jobs he was looking for in the borough. They had been talking in Italian, which Connolly spoke as one does who has spent a good many months, at least, in Naples and Palermo. When some one fetched up a Hamburg friend to meet the Boss, Connolly presently switched into very good German with him. At a nudge and a whisper from Costello, the Venetian made a rather broad joking remark in French— and Connolly, over his shoulder, instantly came back at him with as good as he sent— in even better French. After this the glint in the Boss' eye became a bit speculative as he examined Connolly in occasional side-glances. Before fading out of the group, he said to him quietly:

"I think we c'n t'row a job or two your way, Connolly. Mebbe I might think of another line what'd pay you better if ye feel like considerin' it. Talk about it some other time—hey? You livin' near here?"

"Got a coupla rooms on Forty-eighth. I was thinkin' of movin' in from Pleasantville— settlin' across the river. But they told me over there in the Third Assembly that if I could land a few of the big apartment jobs this side the river, there was a lot more money in 'em. I've knocked about quite a lot— made money, an' lost it. But 'twas pikin' stuff compared to what there is here, if a man's in right!"

"How much education you got?"

"Depends on what you call education! I've been pretty much on my own ever since I was six— sold newspapers on the street when I was seven. Then a man staked me through grammar an' high school. I worked over in a big electric plant one summer— shipped as deck-hand to Naples 'cause I wanted to see Europe—  stayed over there two or three years— got enough of it, and came back. Course I picked up a good deal of mixed knowledge, one way or another. All comes under the head of education."

"Bet your life it does! Well— say— I'll see you again— round here, somewheres."

TWO days later they met at half-past seven in the morning in the basementrestaurant on First Avenue. The night before Costello had happened to think of him, casually, and called up the Third Assembly Club across the river—asking for a local politician who practically ran it. Mullaney came to the phone in a moment or two.

"That you, Mullaney? This is Mike Cos. Say— d'ye know anything about a feller by name of Connolly— 'lectrician— been livin' in Pleasantville?"

"Oh-h-h—that wan! Yis. He'll be all right, I'm thinkin'. Give me a letther from wan I know over in tha Fifth Assimbly. Tha felley wants in on some av tha big apartmint work if ye could t'row it his way. I dunno is he a Roman or not— but he'll be a party man, all right— mebbe the persuadin'-kind, wit' his gift o' gab. Course ye don' have to give him nothin' 'less happen ye feel that way—but I'm thinkin' tha felley's tha makin's av a good disthrict man, mebbe."

This seemed to be as much of a recommendation as anyone needed with him, Costello thought. Mullaney vouched for him— and another leader of equally good standing before him. Apparently these was no point in tracing Connolly farther back than that. His linguistic ability stuck in the Boss' mind— he thought he could use an intelligent man like that if he came out of a few little tests all right. (Costello trusted no man until he had first "proved" him by certain methods of his own.)

When the Boss saw him eating his breakfast alone in the restaurant, Connolly nodded respectfully, but made no move toward presuming upon their meeting in the club— and the "big feller" liked this evidence of common sense in him. The man seemed to be independent enough— not afraid of anybody; but he also understood that he wasn't in the same class with Costello and made no attempt to assert himself. So he was presently beckoned over to the big man's table. (The Boss was democratic when it suited his purpose— which somewhat explained the hold he had upon the rank and file.)

"Connolly—I can give you the wirin' of a new apartm'nt goin' up on the West Side, or mebbe I can give ye a chance to use your bean— if ye'd like to work with that instead of your hands. How about it? After a bit, there'd be more in workin' your bean, I'm thinkin'."

"Me for the bean if it isn't going to get me in Dutch, somewhere! I'd kinda like to have some idea about it, first. Like to do most anything for you, Mr. Costello— but I suppose there are some that wouldn't look so good to me." (This struck the Boss favorably. A man who was too anxious to jump at anything offered wasn't strong enough for him, mentally.)

"Well— I dunno are you good enough, myself. I'd have to start you in an' try you out a bit. Suppose I sent you down to Pat Riordan, this morning, with a note? Pat's got all kinds in his district— an' has a man goin' about with him to explain what some of 'em are sayin'. You'll just go along with them two in Pat's car an' make out you're a new district worker I'm lendin' him f'r a bit—but you'll be listenin' to what the Dutchies an' Frenchies an' Spanish an' Italians do be sayin' to him— an' what the other man says they're sayin'. But you'll not open your mouth until you're alone with Pat, afterward! Will you try it out f'r me an' see is that other guy straight? You see, most o' that lot talk a few words of English, so Pat gits along with 'em after a fashion— but when they jabber among themselves, he has to depend upon this interpreter-boy, an' he might be double-crossin' him, here an' there."

THE supposed Connolly rather liked this idea. Said if that was the general line of work the Boss wanted, and if there was any real money in it, the proposition would suit him very well. He also gave additional proof of his intelligence by remarking: "Of course I understand this is only a try-out— that what you probably have in mind is more or less confidential work among these foreigners in the way of herdin' 'em into the party an' keepin' 'em there. Otherwise, the service wouldn't be worth anything running to big money."

Costello smiled— and sent him down to Pat Riordan with a note. But before Riordan turned up in his office, where Connolly sat waiting, the Boss saw him in another place and gave certain instructions, the result of which was an apparently deliberate mistranslation upon the interpreter's part in talking with a lot of Hungarians in German. As he gave the gist of it to Riordan, it would have led that loyal party-man into doing and saying things offensive to every hunky in that crowd and thrown a monkey-wrench into the Boss' local machinery. With a party of Italians, he did the same thing— talking so fast that anyone having but a smattering of the language couldn't have followed him. Connolly afterward told Riordan exactly what had been said and the subtle ways in which its meaning had been twisted by his interpreter— a report of which subsequently went over the telephone something like this:

"Say, Mr. Costello! That felley of yours is all right! He was afther spottin' Minelli's double-crossin' every time, an' told me I betther square mesilf with them wops we saw, right away, if I didn't want throuble!"

From this outlining of his methods, it will be seen that in a very short time, by figuring out the safest and most practical ways of going about it, White succeeded in placing himself where he had almost unlimited opportunity for studying Costello at close range— observing his unconscious movements, habitual mannerisms, tones of voice, many of the suits in his wardrobe, getting acquainted with the various men who were most in the leader's confidence, and their subordinates who carried orders back and forth.

Beyond this, he frequently accompanied the Boss during his evenings in the lobster-palace and theater district— obtained a lot of inside information concerning the hotel and theater-people under Costello's influence— became so well known to them in a few weeks that they gave him any tip he asked for when he came into their places alone. And word was passed down through the Police Department to get a good look at the "big feller's" new interpreter, so as to keep their hands off him if they ran across the man in any part of the city— the supposition being that wherever he was or whatever doing, he was in some way carrying out the Boss' orders, and they might better monkey with a dynamo than interfere with him.

INSIDE of two months White thought he had studied the Boss sufficiently to impersonate him. In the way he proposed doing this, there was much less risk of detection than if he attempted to confer in some private room with half a dozen politicians, as Costello. But just to assure himself that he could get by with it, he chanced one brief meeting where the impersonation had to be very nearly perfect.

Going to a certain hotel where Pat Riordan was in the habit of meeting some of the other district leaders occasionally, he sat down in a corner of the lobby where he would not be conspicuous and waited for him to show up— camouflaged behind his newspaper. He knew the clerk at the desk and some of the hall-boys had spotted him as Costello, but gave no sign that he was aware of this or even knew them.

When Riordan presently came in with an up-state politician, the supposed Boss peeked around the corner of his paper and beckoned him over with an almost imperceptible nod. Pat would have introduced the other man, but a slight negative shake stopped him. The exchange of words was brief— but seemed to be thoroughly understood.

As Riordan bent down behind the newspaper, White muttered: "Layin' for a dame that's comin' in here with a feller I think's playin' round, some, with the other party. You aint seen me a-tall this evenin', Pat! Get that? Tip off Bill Schenk, at the desk—an' the bell-hops—after I'm gone!"

"Sure! Nobody aint seen you around— nowhere! I getcha!"

Although the man had been sitting in an out-of-the-way corner, there was a good light for his newspaper, shining down from the bulbs over his head— light enough to see his face, clothes, shoes, the rings on a finger of each hand, distinctly. All of them were unmistakably those of the Boss himself. Recognizing him, beckoning to him, calling him by name without the slightest hesitation, would naturally have predisposed Riordan to be certain that he saw the "big feller."

Yet so well did he know the man, with all his personal char acteristics, that had there been any little detail not quite perfect, he would have become suspicious at once. As it was, he never dreamed that he'd been fooled.

A good many will claim that so perfect an impersonation is impossible— that no actor, no matter how expert in that sort of thing, could really get by with it. Without careful study of his subject at close range for more or less time, the writer admits that it would be at least very difficult. But given a similarity in height, weight, complexion, and the same general type of features, close study will enable a scientific impersonator to do it nine times out of ten.

If you doubt this, consider George Billings, for example. Does anyone who has seen his characterization of Abraham Lincoln doubt that he could have presided at one of Lincoln's cabinet meetings without detection as an impostor? He studied Lincoln's life until he acted and thought as Lincoln did. One contributing factor which always helps deception of this sort is the fact that under stress of worry, pleasure, irritability, anger, we frequently present to those who know us most intimately an impression quite different from our usual appearance. In such cases they say: "So-and-so is not himself, today— he's sick— got something on his mind— so tickled over the killing he made that he's like a crazy kid!" So that there is always considerable latitude in a person's everyday appearance which we unconsciously allow for before the idea of imposture enters our minds.

White admitted to himself that when he once began appearing in public as the Boss, it would be much safer if he could get rid of the supposed Connolly altogether— but Costello was using him so frequently in that character for confidential work that if he suddenly disappeared, he knew the police would quietly turn the city inside out searching for him, urged by the Boss' impression of foul play.

Just when he decided that he'd have to go on risking the double characters, however, chance played into his hands most opportunely.

HE had gone down to a tenement in one of the slum districts, at night, upon business with a man prominent in the underworld— who took the precaution of going out of the building first, leaving the pseudo-Connolly in one of the upper rooms.

In a moment or two Connolly heard muttered curses through the flimsy partition, muffled sounds of a struggle, a heavy blow with a sickening, crunching sound— a jar, as of something resilient falling upon the floor, then stealthy footsteps toward the door, a cautious unlatching of it, a slight creaking of the stairs.

Knowing that no "bull" in the city would interfere with him, no matter what compromising situation he might be found in, he tiptoed into the adjoining room and saw, as he had expected, a dead man on the floor— a man with his face and the front part of his head literally crushed to a pulp by a bar of iron which lay upon the floor. As the murderer undoubtedly was safely out of reach by that time, there seemed to be no object in White's remaining there.

But as he was turning to go out, something about the corpse arrested his attention. It had on a decent suit of clothes— appeared to have been a man of higher position in life than any occupant of the tenement. An empty bill-wallet lay upon the floor— one or two letters and envelopes scattered about. A buttonhole in the waistcoat was ripped— evidently from yanking a watch-chain out of it. But what caught his attention most was the fact that the dead man was just his height and build—  similar in complexion and in what there was left of the face.

In another second it struck him that here was exactly the opportunity he might have asked for. Although there was an increasing puddle of blood on the floor, none of it— fortunately— had touched any part of the clothing. Locking the door, he dragged the corpse a little farther along and then rapidly stripped it, even to the collar and shirt. As there were no laundry-marks on the underclothing or socks, he didn't remove them—but put on the dead man his own shirt, collar, necktie (stickpin torn out) and suit, with his name on a tailor's label stitched into one of the inside coat pockets.

Getting into the other clothes,— though his flesh crept a little— he then slipped Connolly's seal-ring upon a finger of the right hand, gathered up the scattered papers and bill-wallet and quietly left the building. In face and manner, he was still Connolly— if any of the police had seen him,— but before reaching his own apartment on the West Side, even that resemblance had been obliterated. His valet Kato— knowing the absorbing interest he took in his dramatic club— supposed that, coming home as he often did in a make-up which changed his appearance entirely, he was merely practicing up some part which he was going to play and testing it on the streets to see how good he was at it. So he merely smiled at each new stranger who rang the apartment-bell and identified himself by a few words prearranged between them.

BEGINNING with the next evening, a jinx seemed to have camped on Costello's trail. Those who were most closely associated with him saw the Boss in one place or another with men known to be prominent in the other party-organization— men normally his and their political enemies.

Little attention was paid to this at first because the "big feller's" methods and finesse had always been too successful, no matter how they might look on the surface. But on one particular night Pat Riordan came into a well-known restaurant with a girl of stunning appearance and saw Costello, as he supposed, at a table with the president of the Mastodon National Bank— a country-wide institution, with branches in all the larger cities abroad— and two well-known financiers, one of whom was prominent in his own party.

Riordan's table having been reserved in advance, a rat-faced Italian waiter seated him and the girl in its corner, just behind Costello— and Pat was sure that neither the Boss nor their other associate had seen him come in.

Now— Pat was of the breed which becomes fussed and upset when it "loses face" in any embarrassing situation— so much so that it vindictively remembers any person who appears to be the deliberate cause of it. He was anxious to stand well with the girl, a popular screen actress of the younger lot, rather hoping to win her favor if money, standing or influence could do it. (He was known to be at least a millionaire and the silent backer of a producing company.)

Without mentioning names, he had whispered to her that the man he indicated was the biggest power in city politics— and from where they sat, it was easy enough to catch some of the talk at the other table. Presently a name mentioned by the supposed Costello sharpened his ears to closer attention. The banker had been asking about the situation in one of the uptown districts where the registration was somewhat more evenly divided between the two main parties— wanted to know if there was any great objection to letting his nominee, a manufacturer by the name of Sidbourne, go to Congress. After thinking a minute, the supposed Boss said:

"No— we'll let you have Sidbourne if you want him— guess we got enough of our own men in the other districts, though I might even trade some of them with you. There's one or two leaders is gettin' too fresh— they'll be needin' a lesson to make 'em trail along like they ought to. 'Take the Sivinth Assembly, now— where your man Sidbourne is runnin'. That'll be Nick Torella's district. Well— Nick's a bit too independent, account of him standin' pretty high in the Camorra— thinks it makes no difference what anybody's got on him 'cause they wouldn' risk usin' it— but he's got another guess comin'! He wanted to put up Hans Gottlieb— a Dutchy, kinda independent like himself— him controllin' Gottlieb an' the patronage o' course. But I steps on it— says he'll be puttin' up John O'Reilly or I'll be inquirin' about it— John bein' a double-crosser I'm puttin' up to get licked. That's why I'll pass the word to knife him an' throw the votes to Sidbourne. Then— there'll be  another guy I'm thinkin' of, down in the Eighth Assimbly. He's been like cream to the cat wit' me— but he's meddlin' in some personal matters an' tryin' to get some o' th' other leaders wit' him. If there was a bit o' money passin' about, I think 'twould put him outa business nex' election."

RIORDAN almost strangled over a gulp of wine. The Eighth was his own district, and he could think of nobody outside of himself in it who might be meant by the Boss. ("So that was it, eh? Askin' a price on him, was he— the bloody double-crosser! An' he was knifin' Nick Torella, was he— him an' his Wall Street friends! An' John O'Reilly! Two o' the squarest guys in city politics!")

Just then, their own organization-man nudged the supposed Boss with a side motion of his head, whispering:

"Go easy, Mike! Riordan's sitting just behind you with Irma Colville." (White knew, when he telephoned the other three to dine with him, that Pat had reserved that particular table for the evening.)

The pseudo-Boss drained his glass and then slued around in his chair to look them over— bringing him squarely face to face with Pat Riordan and giving that honest politician what he thought an excellent opportunity to impress his fair guest.

Riordan smiled affably— bowed in a way that was clearly an invitation to come over and be introduced— but Costello looked through him with a perfectly blank, supercilious expression as if he didn't know him from any other stranger, and deliberately turned his back again. It was done in a manner subtly insulting— not only to Pat but to the girl also, whose face turned noticeably red. If she hadn't been with him, there would have been serious trouble in about a second— but Riordan had no notion of dragging her into a brawl, and nervously apologized for the occurrence.

"Faith— I— I think I musta been mistaken! It's not the man I thought, at all, at all! But it'll be a raysimblance as would desaive his grandmother— an' her wit' her sight failin' a bit. It's askin' your pardon I am, Miss Irma. If ye like, we'll go awn to some other place f'r a dance— where we'll not be seein' things!"

"Oh, no— I like it, here! Those boors will be going out very soon— then there wont be anything to annoy us!"

This was said in clear, even tones which carried distinctly. Wentworth and Barclay inwardly grinned— but the party man felt creepy down his spine at what he thought was fool recklessness on the Boss' part. White, for the moment, was tempted to make the incident still worse, but was afraid of overdoing it—and they presently went out. Then— beckoning the rat-faced waiter to him, Riordan asked in a low tone:  "Jacopo—was that the 'big feller' or is me mind wanderin'-like?"

"Aw— sure it's heem! I t'eenk he wanta put somet'ing over on da bigga bank-man. He playa some game—si!  Not lika know anybod' in deesa crowd. One—two— t'ree night, he come in. Somatime wit' deesa man— somatime wit' fella b'long otha crowd. Not know anybod' here. Gallagher say: 'How do, Mist' Costello!'—an' he say: 'You maka da mistak'—that notta my name!' Si!"

FROM this incident it is easy to picture the several others which occurred— in each of which Costello appeared to be double-crossing, right and left. Rumors began creeping about that he had purchased a country-place for a quarter of a million— some one else had seen him in the offices of a famous yacht-builder, getting estimates upon a thirty-knot seagoing yacht. He was spotted in various places peeling yellow-back notes from wads so big that they made two or three pockets bulge. Putting it plainly, he seemed to be filthy with money— and the company he was frequently seen with accounted for it perfectly, if his actions could be taken at face value.

It is probable that the real Costello must have had some premonition of approaching trouble, the cause of which was a mystery to him— aside from the known dislike of several district leaders whom he had forced to become merely his executives. Trouble from them he had discounted as unlikely— they were too dangerously in his power and too much afraid of what incriminating papers or memoranda he might have arranged to have made public in case of his sudden death. But there was an under-current which he couldn't account for— nothing definite, just a feeling that lightning might strike somewhere out of a clear sky.

The finding of the body, assumed to be that of Connolly, without much question, in that upper room of the Cherry Street tenement, was a severe jolt to the Boss. His message to the other man in that building probably hadn't been delivered by his interpreter— in which case the unknown man, not receiving the money he had been promised, might squeal in a way that would result in unpleasant complications. Apparently, Connolly had been robbed of everything on him after he was murdered.

Aside from this unpleasant feature the Boss had taken a real liking for him— owing to his unusual executive ability and invariable straight dealing, as far as could be ascertained. Then— several of his underlings were noticeably surly, more independent when conferring with him.

The situation finally came to a show-down in the Italian basement on First Avenue. Costello rarely went there in the evening— preferring more high-toned places, among the class of people he meant to associate with as soon as he had gotten together enough money to live as he wanted to in that stratum of society. But word came to him through some one in the club that Pat Riordan and Nick Torella would be waiting to see him in the little restaurant, that night, at half-past eleven. Sensing the possibility that some of his plans in their districts might have struck a snag, he kept the appointment— instead of designating, as he usually did, some place where they could see him.

As he came down the steps, Nick Torella sat at a corner table farthest from the door. Nick preferred to wolf his food alone, when he wanted to really enjoy it, so there was nothing suspicious in this. But when the Boss, closing the door behind him, was fairly in the room, low voices in the front under the sidewalk made him whirl about— discovering Pat Riordan, Jim O'Shea and Tony Caprella at a table there. The waiter, Giovanni, was nowhere around; there was no sound of activity from the kitchen in the rear; there seemed to be something ominous in the air.

But Costello drew out a chair and sat down with them, saying: 'Well, boys! What's broke now?"

Pat Riordan hotly accused him of public insult in a well-known restaurant on a certain night, and double-crossing him in his own district— which the Boss emphatically denied, and said he could prove it. Nick Torella burst into a torrent of lurid Sicilian, in which he accused Costello of selling the whole party out for a million dollars and double-crossing so cleverly that they hadn't a chance at the next election.

Again Costello denied it— offered to give proofs inside of half an hour— but he now knew what he was up against, knew he hadn't a chance in the world. Jim O'Shea produced a snub-nosed "gat" which he shoved against the Boss' side— but Riordan stopped him with a touch on the arm:

"Too much noise, Jimmy! We don't want the bulls in on this f'r an hour or so, yet. We'll hold him while Nick does it! — Go ahead, Nick— finish him!"

It was cold-blooded— merciless. Torella leaned over Costello's back, placed the point of his razor-edged knife in the hollow behind the collar-bone and deliberately pushed it down in, to the hilt— working the blade up and down, once or twice, to sever the arteries.

THE morning newspapers featured the murder, to the exclusion of other news items— but the police seemed apathetic. In political circles it was generally admitted that Costello had probably controlled the most powerful machine ever known in the city— that had he lived, he would have elected a President from his own party. But the general opinion was that he'd had it coming to him— had become poisoned with the social bug and sold out for millions. No clue as to who killed him was ever found.

In discussing the case with Barclay and White, Sam Wentworth said: "Not one of us went near the man after White had studied him a bit. None of us paid one penny for his life— wanted to have him murdered— or would have had any hand in such a thing! But I guess there isn't much question that he'd be alive today, and dangerous to the city, if it hadn't been for us three."

____________________

From the "Free Lances in Diplomacy" series

6: The Man Who Forgot

Clarence Herbert New

1862-1933

Blue Book, Feb 1928

COMING down from a thousand metres in one of his new-model 'planes, Earl Trevor made a perfect landing near his private hangars in the Croydon neighborhood. Leaving his mechanics to overhaul the 'plane, he quickly changed into street clothes in a little bungalow at the end of the hangars, and was just stepping into his car when the 'plane from Le Bourget came down.

He had passed this Paris air-service craft some distance the other side of the Channel, and noticed a man sitting just behind the pilot who didn't look to him like one of the regular assistants. Some touch of curiosity prompted him to have his Afghan chauffeur drive over near enough to look at the six passengers as they climbed down; and presently the pilot of the passenger 'plane, came over for a word with him.

"I was tempted to speed up a bit when Your Lordship passed us so handily— but knew it was no use! Our old busses are built for safe, every-day flying, and they do very well if they mark a hundred miles, 85 on the wind. We fancied you must be doing a hundred and eighty, at least?"

"Prob'ly a shade over two hundred. I usually make it from Le Bourget in fifty minutes, unless I'm using one of the heavier 'planes. I say! Was that a new assistant, sitting behind you? I don't seem to recall his face."

"No— chap is a stranger who's been strolling about the Paris flying-fields several days. Been up a few times. Fancy he must have been an ace in the war— he's a wonder when he gets hold of a joy- stick! Seems to be a bit out in his mind— shell-shock, I suppose. Doesn't appear to know where he lives or where he's going, from day to day— except upon one point. The idea's been fixed in his mind that he wished he might get to London— somehow, anyhow. I took a chance on letting him come along in Jenkins' place this morning. Fact is— I'd rather Your Lordship wouldn't mention this Bradley's coming over with me as he did— the men here at the field suppose he's an extra man we've taken on, and they're paying no attention to him. When I go back, I'll take my relief-pilot with me."

"But if Bradley's a bit dazed, as you say, what'll become of him? Is he able to look after himself?"

"Oh, in a general way— aye. Has money enough to keep him going for a bit, anyhow— an' sense enough to stow the stuff where it'll not get away from him easily. He's in Lunnon now, d'ye see— place where he's been wishing to come; and whatever he wants to do here, or whoever he'd like to see, will possibly come to him after a bit. Still— I'm not altogether easy about him, sir!"

"H-m-m— suppose you were to introduce me as a well-known aviator who'll be glad to take him home as a guest for a week or more— talk 'planes and mechanics a bit, you know? Would he be likely to come along and accept the invitation in good faith, d'ye think?"

"My word! I may say I've heard a lot about Your Lordship's doing little things like this just out of kindness! You may fancy I was partly suggesting something of the sort, sir— but I'd no thought of it in mind! Of course, d'ye see, I can't answer for the way Bradley'll take to the idea, but from what little I've seen of him, I fancy he'll go along like a lamb— take it as a matter of course. The chap was by way of being a gentleman once— that's to be seen, you know. An American, I fancy— though I'm by no means sure as to that. He might be Canadian."

THE man's greeting was instinctively courteous when he was introduced— so unconsciously so that it classified his earlier breeding without question. Somewhere, at some previous time, he had belonged among cultivated, well-bred people, and the breeding was either English or the best American, not Continental. At the mention of the Earl's name, he gave no sign that he had ever heard it before. After a second glance at His Lordship, however, a puzzled expression came into his face, as if he were trying to recall something.

"There was a man— who flew from a battle-wagon in the Agean across the mountains to Sofia in the second year of the war. It hadn't been done before— over such a distance or terrain. I saw him in the city just after he had killed two Bulgarian brutes who were about to cut his throat in a cellar. Then he disappeared— presumably in the service of the Entente. I never heard of his being captured again, or killed. Your Lordship resembles that man, though he had another name at the time."

"Were you in our service yourself, Mr. Bradley?"

"Why— I— I think so. Not sure, you know. At all events, I wasn't going about Sofia openly. There's some recollection of a Prussian uniform, credentials at the Prussian Legation— and yet I'm positive I wasn't in sympathy with that crowd at the time."

"Have you any definite plans here in London?"

"Naturally! Else why should I have come? But for the moment, they're gone from me— just temporarily, you know. I— I can't seem to remember just what I had decided to do first—"

His voice trailed off in a wondering, speculative way— rather tired, a trifle sad.

"Well— that happens quite fortunately for me, old chap! You see, I was hoping you might be willing to come and stop with us for a week or so while you're considering just what you wish to do. We're by way of being rather comfortable, up there in Park Lane. What say? Eh? Come along! We'll go over those days in Bulgaria—compare notes—all that, you know! Talk about flying and mechanics—what?"

"Why—there'll be ladies in your family, of course? I brought no luggage, you see. Came away from Paris a bit unexpectedly. All my stuff's at that little hotel in the Rue de l'Echelle—"

"That's a matter quite easily remedied. We're of practically the same build. My man will fit you out in any togs you require—"

"Mighty decent of Your Lordship, I'm sure! Of course I'll be only too pleased to accept if you really mean it. Er— just a moment, please? There was something I was to ask Mr. Griffin, here— but— hanged if it's not gone from me! Prob'ly something about our trip over. Er—would you let me settle for my transportation, old chap?"

"Nothing to settle, Bradley! I fetched you along as my guest— or tempo'ry assistant, if you like. Fact is, the shoe's on the other foot— I'm under obligations to His Lordship in the matter, you know. His invitation is a courtesy to me as well as you, old top! And I'll wager you'll enjoy your stop with him—what?"

UNDER cover of casual chat as they drove into the city, Trevor studied his guest to see about how much responsibility he was likely to show if permitted to wander about by himself. His eyes betrayed no definite recognition of familiar streets or buildings, but one sensed an instinct in him which would have led his steps, like those of a somnambulist, to whatever locality had been in his mind at some previous time when he felt the urge to be in London. Left to himself, the man probably would have walked the streets until pretty well tired out, then stepped into the first restaurant he passed, for a meal, and asked his way to a small but clean hotel afterward— some inconspicuous place within his means.

Upon reaching the Earl's famous Jacobean mansion in Park Lane, Bradley walked into it in a matter-of-fact way as if accustomed to that type of house all his life, and went upstairs in the wake of the deferential Afghan, to whom Trevor gave a few low instructions in the hall. The man spoke excellent English with a slight accent, and was unmistakably efficient in everything he did— one knew he would have to be in order to hold his job. In an airy, sunny room on the third floor, Achmet looked his charge over critically— then fetched a dressing-robe to be put on after he had removed the flying-clothes.

"If the Sahib will permit me to take his measurements, it will be easier to select a few suits that will fit him perfectly. I recall some tweeds that will do very well for a stroll in the Park, opposite, or for lounging about the house if he prefers. Before dinner I shall have some evening things ready."

The man glanced over his charge reflectively.

"If the Sahib permits a suggestion— the hair and beard are a trifle long— eh? One understands, of course, that the Sahib has been traveling. Would it not be an improvement if I trimmed them somewhat?"

"Why— er— I fancy it might. I'm in your hands, you know. Turn me out as you think proper."

"Has the Sahib a preference in the shape of his beard? It suggests the Prussian just now, I think— a bit square, you know— and the last time the hair was cut, it was en brosse. Neither of which suits the Sahib's face— not his type at all."

"Er— all the same to me, you know— I seldom think of matters like that. What do you suggest?"

"The Van Dyck, by all means! Closeclipped on the cheeks. It is the Sahib's type. The hair short— yet not too close over the ears."

"Sounds rather attractive. I fancy it may give me quite a different appearance. Do as you please, Achmet."

Bradley's manner was very far from being that of a weak-minded man or of one lacking in intelligence; it was more a suggestion of having his mind so crammed full of other matters that it was difficult for him to concentrate upon trivial ones.

Dressed in the well-fitting suit of tweeds, with hair and beard neatly trimmed, he presented a startlingly different appearance— so much so, in fact, that none but a trained observer could have recognized in him the unkempt individual in aviator's coat and helmet who had accompanied the Earl from Croydon. This was a result which His Lordship had instructed Achmet to bring about if possible— for a few good reasons of his own. He thought that the self-respect which accompanies a decent appearance might assist in restoring bits of memory to the man, and (a remote contingency, but still worth keeping in mind) if anybody had been shadowing him with sinister motives, it was quite likely to throw such a person off the track.

DESCENDING to the ground floor, Achmet found for him a fedora hat and stick in keeping with the suit; then Bradley strolled out, alone as he supposed, to sun himself in Hyde Park and get his plans in more definite shape, if he could. He failed to notice, as anybody would, the unobtrusive, dark-complexioned man apparently strolling about the Park like himself, yet never letting him get out of sight for a moment.

This was Hassan, another Afghan of His Lordship's household, and a cousin of Achmet. (All of them were related, one way or another, to Sir Abdool Mohammed Khan, G. C. S. I., who had been Trevor's intimate friend and companion for many years.) And the object of this espionage was twofold— His Lordship had too strong a sense of responsibility for his casually assumed charge to risk his wandering away into difficulties by himself, and he wished to test out, if possible, the chance that the man might be an object of interest to persons unknown.

As it happened, by a strange coincidence, some color was given to this possibility, and Bradley became of more definite interest to the Earl himself, through a casual incident in the Park. Three men strolled past as he was sunning himself on a bench, pipe in mouth, entirely oblivious of them. They were discussing something, absorbedly. Two of them didn't even notice the man on the bench. The third slowed up a little and glanced at the rather fine-looking stranger in a puzzled way as if reminded of something. He nudged his companions. They also looked around with searching glances— then shook their heads.

Hassan was by this time near enough to overhear what they said, and managed to keep stalking them from behind the shrubbery until they sat down on another bench farther on.

"Nothing familiar about him to me, Albrecht! Never saw the fellow in my life! Who did you think he reminded you of?"

"That iss of what I am not sure. It iss somepody I've seen undt talked wit'. Wait! Der bosition of der headt undt shoulders wass like t'at of our friendt Pradley, I tink. Ja!"

"Mebbe like him— yess! wass not Pradley!"

"Vell— I didn't say t'at, didt I? Where wass Pradley— last?"

"Paris. Loafing around the flying-fields— room at the little old Normandie—picking up an occasional stake as expert mechanic when he runs out of funds. That's something he can do any day in the week— make quite a decent living at it if he kept busy; but he can't concentrate any more on the larger abilities that would net him thousands instead of hundreds. We tested that out in Russia, you know— on the clerical end of intelligence department work. He'd unconsciously give us valuable hints by sheer flashes of inspiration— but when it came to working out what he suggested, his mind appeared to slump. Doktor Skoffel told us exactly how he expected the case to develop— and it did. He said if there wass any bossipility of the man's recovering his former faculties wndf mental soundtness, it would be in the third year after the case wass brought to him. 'We kept him in Russia that year, just on the chance of this. But that if he didn't recover then, he never would. According to Skoffel, he wass likely to dewelop a lower, more crippled form of intelligence— sufficient to earn some sort of a living, but little beyond that."

"Look you, Borgfeldt! Subbose this Pradley efer didt come back— eh? He wouldt pe most dancherous— not? I haf said all along t'at he shouldt pe eliminated shust so soon as we squeeze out of him der last bit of genius which he certainly hadt at one time— shust to pe sure he nefer come to life again so he couldt tell what he knew petween fourteen wd nineteen. Nopody knows how much he didt find out— but it wass blenty! If der old memory shouldt come pack— eh?"

"Well— the Herr Doktor-Professor Skoffel bets his professional reputation that it won't come back. He says his course of treatment wass final after that third year— and the medical profession accepts Skoffel's statements as beyond question. The man iss a scientist who believes that a mistake is a criminal offense. In his earlier years, he made some— yess. Now that he iss the learned Herr Doktor, he cannot afford to— he iss much more careful! Still, I'm of Albrecht's opinion— that it will be simple common sense if we kill Bradley at first opportunity—"

"T'at, you cannot do wit'out der permission of der Junta, Borgfeldt. T'ey still haf some ulterior object mit der man— some way of using him in his bresent condition wich iss to our adwantage. When t'ey say t'ey are through, we kill him—right away. Ja!"

Hassan had managed to hear all of the talk up to this point, but he now saw his charge get up from the bench to stroll on, and was about to follow when he got a glimpse of Achmet, seemingly coming in search of him.

Motioning his cousin to keep track of Bradley, he decided to stalk the Berliners as far as he could and find, if possible, where they could be located afterward.

AS the Earl was dressing for dinner that evening, Hassan returned— and came up to His Lordship's room at once. Trevor became so absorbed in what he heard as almost to forget that dinner would be served in half an hour— Bradley's case appeared to be assuming a shape which entirely justified the Earl's curiosity in stopping to ask about him at Croydon, and the inexplicable hunch which had prompted it.

"Hassan— thy father's son hath shown forethought and resource, as was to be expected. Go thou, and tell the tale to His Lordship of St. Ives— saying also that I will step around to his room before the meal is served, that we may speak of this thing before we go down."

In a few minutes Achmet looked the Earl over with a final nod and brushing—  satisfied that he was immaculate in his appearance, groomed to perfection. When a man is dressed as well as this it often cramps his style somewhat, if it isn't life-long habit— but one of the subtle impressions about Trevor is his unconsciousness of clothes. You find his manner exactly the same whether in dinner-clothes or a bathing-suit.

Presently he was in Earl Lammerford's room on the upper floor— and his friend looked around while fastening his collar: "You seem to have struck something intresting, George. I've had no glimpse of your find as yet, but doubtless I'll recognize something familiar about the chap if he's been in public life at all. What prompted you to stop and have a look at him when you came down?"

"Why, I fancy anyone would say just idle curiosity, but it was possibly a bit more than that. He was not one of the regular assistant pilots in the Paris service —I noticed that when I passed them, rather close aboard. Yet there was no reason to suppose him anything but a new man just taken on. Possibly he betrayed the born aristocrat even as he sat there in flyingtogs."

"You think he's American—or Canadian?"

"Not! He was, sometime, an Englishman of good birth— and no renegade, either! Says he can't remember whether he was in the boche service or that of the Entente— not positively. But I know without any question! Til wager a thousand quid that he was in our service with a pretty high record, if we could but trace it out."

"What do you infer from the talk among those fellows whom Hassan overheard?"

"Oh— a dozen different possibilities. What they implied would fit a good many combinations. Hassan traced them to a house in Bayswater near the yards of the Great Western— evidently where two of them are stopping. Sets back from the road in grounds behind a high wall— just the place for a political rendezvous or almost any outrage that such fellows might possibly carry out. I've given orders, however, that others of our household are to watch the place for several days and follow everyone else who visits it. There may be houses which they frequent in other parts of London that we'd never locate unless we took some such precaution as this. All three of those bounders were apparently convinced that the man they saw over yon in the Park was not Bradley, even if some motions or expressions vaguely suggested him— but it's quite possible that some of them may run across him another time and wonder if he really isn't their man after all. No telling, you see, where our friend may stray to if we let him go about town unaccompanied, and we've no right to make a prisoner of the chap, you know."

IN the drawing-room Bradley, who wore his dinner-clothes as if born to them, was presented to Lady Sibyl, and asked to take her in. This he did with the unconscious manner of one who has no fear of making a slip of any sort or even thinks of such a possibility. It had been thought safer, at his first dinner with them, to assign the daughter of the house as a dinner-partner, inasmuch as she was clever enough to flag him in an imperceptible way if there were occasion for it, and to put him more thoroughly at ease.

One of her many admirers who had been unexpectedly switched in consequence wasn't overpleased with the arrangement, but he got a few extra dances afterward by way of reward— and Bradley proved a rather brilliant success in an absent-minded way, keeping up a subconscious flow of witty small-talk, automatically, and occasionally making a gencral remark across the table which pleasantly scored.

Among the few outside guests was a former Cabinet minister who gave it as his opinion that, while the Central Powers were always to be reckoned with as to certain national traits, there was no chance of their producing any marked impression upon world-affairs for several generations at least— their political leaders being too much at loggerheads and there being no dominant party in control. The total loss of their overseas possessions, he thought, had been a staggering blow from which it would take them a century or more to recover.

When he had finished, a quiet voice from farther down the table asked:

"Does Your Lordship know or realize what is happening at this moment in practically all of their former overseas possessions— particularly those in Africa and the Indies?"

"Why— er— fancy I'm as well informed as the next man, sir! Unusual facilities for coming by confidential information—all that sort of thing, ye know. Had you any particular occurrence in mind, sir?"

"Been through most of them— recently, I think. When our people took over the possessions, we— er— found the various activities in the hands of Prussian managers— superintendents— foremen— very well organized—beggars spoke the local dialects fluently. Well, d'ye see, it was a question of scrapping their organization an' methods— starting fresh all over again and going on from there— or availing ourselves of the existing conditions. Naturally, it was economy and common sense to go on with their organizations— keep on a good many of their managers and foremen— proceed with the systems they had developed. Well, consequence has been, you know, that the beggars have built up intensive Prussian organizations right under our noses. It would take years gettin' the blacks and brownies to work our way, if we started all over again— cut into the export-trade to a prohibitive degree. Their merchantmarine is increasing to an astounding extent, getting back a lot of the carrying trade from those former colonies— and every Prussian in them is helping one way or another to ship in Teutonic bottoms. If we don't jolly well come to our senses pretty soon, they'll be doing the bulk of the business in our outports and laughing at us! Just through sheer incessant, intensive organization while we're napping! Of course there's a good bit more of this I could give you— but— so many things on my mind, you know— forget a lot at times. What?"

FOR a moment or two tne cable was silent while the guests digested these statements from a man whose quiet manner assured them that he knew exactly what he was talking about. It had not occurred to any of them— particularly, the former Cabinet man— that such conditions were possible in territory which had been wrested from the enemy during the war and turned over to the British Empire as part of its indemnity.

Presently the ex-minister asked: "But— but, my dear sir— if such conditions exist in our conquered territories, and of course I do not question your word in the matter, what's the remedy? What would you do to block the menace before it gets worse?"

"Get rid of every Teuton in authority— naturally. Even down to the lesser foremen and interpreters. Then build up a British organization throughout— with our own interpreters and managing staffs."

"But— wouldn't that disorganize the whole present trade from each locality?"

"Unquestionably. A falling-off of exports that would run to millions. But I fancy a year would see matters going at more or less profit under straight British management— and when the interpreters talked with the blacks or brownies, we'd know what was being said to them! At present, we don't— when the interpreter is a foreigner. Can't you see the opportunity for propaganda and milit'ry organization in such a condition?"

"Aye— unquestionably! But, d'ye see, our commercial men, who've money invested in the trade, will never consent to such an upheaval as you propose, with its inevitable loss of millions while the change is being made!"

"No— they'll not. Well, at some future time they'll wish they had— that's all! I'm quite well aware of the fact that nothing will be done about it. There should be a row in Parliament that would get some action in the matter, but there wont be. Not a chance of it— any more than there is of stopping the flooding American markets with goods from Central Europe when such flooding causes the shutting down of one American factory after another. None of the leading nations excepting France and Japan seems able to learn anything by experience—"

Bradley stopped abruptly when it seemed to others at the table that he was about to launch into a tirade unpleasant to hear, the raving of a man who was not quite balanced, mentally— and there was a sense of comfortable relaxation from growing tension. After all, Mr. Bradley was undoubtedly better informed concerning the matters touched upon than any of the others, but it was seen that he was also courteous enough, instinctively, to know just when it was pleasanter to stop. So with nods of appreciation in his direction, the guests went on with other discussions as the courses appeared.

Only Lady Sibyl, who had been closely watching his face, noticed the beads of perspiration, the deep wrinkles between the eyes, which indicated suffering that he was trying to cover up. Gently placing one hand upon his, she whispered:

"You are suffering, Mr. Bradley! Is there anything one might do or suggest?"

He turned a grateful look upon her while evidently struggling with what must have been torture.

"That is most kind of you, Lady Sibyl. It's only one of these frightful headaches which come whenever I try to concentrate upon remembering anything. Gets one all across the forehead, you know, and clear up to the top of one's skull. I should have had the sense to let Lord Cranby's remarks go unchallenged. In trying to show him just what conditions really are out there, I had literally to force myself mto recalling what I had seen. Most of it eluded me— fortunately, or I should be raving by now. But the effort has put me simply out of it for half an hour at least. If— if you would be— so— so very kind— as to cover me— a bit! Just— just flag anyone who— er— speaks to me, you know. What? I shall be— very grateful!"

A squeeze from the dainty hand and a warm glance of appreciation for his courage reassured him.

LATER she described the occurrence in detail to her parents and Earl Lammerford when their guests had gone and they were im the big library, where there was no chance for interruption.

"You say you can't place him at all, Lammy?"

"I really can't, you know— and it makes me wonder a bit if my own old bean isn't going balmy after all these years! Chap's face seems to have a vague illusive sug gestion of familiarity—as if I'd known him at one time, somewhere, but next moment I famcy it pure imagination, just because I'm trying to see a resemblance where there really isn't one, don't you know. Doubtless Bradley was one of us— once. Quite possibly in the peerage, but I can't seem to hit upon any missing peer who might fit his case. Of course I'm no walking Burke or Debret— there are scores in the Peerage whom I dare say I've never seen. And yet, taking the portraits in the gazettes and news-sheets, it's a question if the features of any particular one wouldn't be somewhat familiar to me."

"It's quite possible that he may not have worn a beard in the days before the war, you know."

"Well— if I'd never happened to meet or talk with him, that might make recognitiom a lot more diffic'lt, now. But if he were some one I'd known rather well, it would make no diff'rence at all because one may easily visualize any particular face clean-shaven, if the trick is once acquired."

pigics morning the Earl's secretary made an appointment for him by telephone for eleven-thirty with Sir James MacBirnie, the greatest mind-specialist in London; and arriving at the physician's house in an aristocratic quarter of the city, was requested to place a check for twenty guineas in the hands of his secretary before the Earl was ushered into the consulting-room.

The celebrated specialist's time was worth every penny of the fees he received, and more; but the twenty guineas made His Lordship smile a little as he cordially shook hands with the man. He would have paid ten times. the amount for the information he hoped to obtain, and mever missed it— because his abilities lay im a far more remunerative line. Sir James was inclined to be a little testy for a moment when he saw that the famous peer was unquestionably in the best of health— he had been considerably pleased with the request for an appointment, hoping to add a most distinguished patient to his list; but after a few moments' explanation of why His Lordship had come, his professional interest was aroused in the case described to him.

"Will Your Lordship, verra carefully and in detail, go over every symptom ye've noticed in the man from the first moment ye saw him— every little trick o' manner, of forgetfulness— every little scrap o' unexpected memory?"

This the Earl did in a systematic manner, adding in conclusion: "Since my daughter's account of the man's suffering at dinner, last evening, I'll admit a growing conviction that the boches did something to him— presumably at a time when he was a prisoner in their hands— which was the original cause of the torture he now occasionally experiences, and that it was done quite deliberately, with the object of destroying his memory."

"Weel—that is possible, ye ken. It might be done— though I doot that it actually was, because it would seem a much seempler matter to hae killed the man as a spy or for any one of a hundred reasons which the Huns would hae conseedered quite sufficient. What would be the object in letting him leeve— taking a deal of trouble to destroy his memory?"

"Suppose I answer that objection by putting a question or two, Sir James? I'm asking for information, you understand— as a layman, who knows nothing more than the rudiments of medicine, surgery or brain diseases. It seems to me that I recall being told by a specialist, some time ago, that a person suffering from certain forms of amnesia occasionally gets a reflex nerve-action which causes him unconsciously to blab every blessed thing stored in his mind at some former period of his life in some such way as a thoroughly drunken man babbles of everything he knows— not with the slightest effort at concentration or attempt to remember, but more like the relaxing of certain muscles which have been automatically holding something back as their particular function in normal health, when they suddenly let go. The sort of unconscious outpouring which is perhaps illustrated by a man talking in his sleep of matters which he guards most carefully when awake. Now, is there such a phase of amnesia, reacting in that way— or is the idea merely unproved theory?"

"FRANKLY— I canna say, positeevely, because such a case has never come under my pairsonal observation. But I'm of the impression that cases like that hae occurred in circumstances where there was little opportunity for obsairving them scientifically. Aye— I may say that I've heard of them. Ye fancy, then— if your theory as to intentional injury at the boches' hands is correct— that it wair deleeberately done wi' the expectation o' obtaining some such reflex action at a future time, an' thereby getting at certain data or secrets the man wair supposed to hae locked in his brain?"

"Suppose it turns out that he was at some former time an F. O. man in our diplomatic service— who had once been in position to know a great deal concerning the data on file in Downing Street, and specific plans concerning our foreign policy? Wouldn't they consider that a good enough reason to let him live and go where he pleased, under constant surveillance— instead of killing him out of hand, and thereby losing all chance of prying his brain open to see what might be in it?"

"Aye—it's conceivable they'd reason along those lines. Verra guid! Let us now coom to a mair definite understanding o' Your Lairdship's object in consulting me? Ye weesh, as I understand it, to know if I conseeder there is a possibeelity o' alleviating the man's occasional suffering— if not restore him to normal health completely—eh?"

"That is the first and most important part of it, Sir James. We've all taken a liking to Bradley— wouldn't for a moment consider any question of expense if medical science can do anything for him. But— in confidence of course, as you can well understand— there's more to the case than that. If Bradley was the Huns' prisoner for, say, five or six years,— if, during that time, he managed to obtain information vitally important to Downing Street, before they blotted out his memory,— the restoration of that memory is likely to be a seriously desirable matter to the British Gov ernment! From even the little he said to Lord Cranby last evening, it's to be seen that he has stored in that brain of his a mass of information most valuable to us if we can but recover it from the wreck they made of him."

"H-m-m-m— Your Lairdship is quite right! I'd no' conseedered that aspect o' the case befoor. Er— would ye fetch him here for an examination?"

"Not at first— no knowing just how the chap would take to the suggestion. Might alarm him so that he'd attempt to leave us at first opportunity. We've no right to detain him against his wishes, you know. What evening this week have you and Lady MacBirnie disengaged—if any?"

"Why— I fancy we've naething booked for Thursday, as yet. My secretary will ken—"

He asked the question from his desk telephone.

"No—no acceptances for Thursday at the moment— though we may hae an hoor hence. I was keeping the end o' the evening open for a look-in at the hospital boord meeting."

"Would you and Lady MacBirnie have the kindness to dine with us in Park Lane, then?"

"At your famous old mansion— which I fancy must be known half aroond the warld? Faith, we will so! Your family and your hoose hae been on her tongue mair than once— she'll enjoy that dinner immensely, I'm quite certain. An' if happen your case is anywhere in sight, I'll study him closely enough posseebly to venture an opinion before leaving."

In discussing the matter with his wife that evening, the specialist expressed some doubt as to whether he should not have returned His Lordship's check for twenty guineas— but this was straining her Glasgow thrift a bit too far.

"Nae, nae, Jamie! Ye gae him an hoor o' your time, did ye no'? An' 'tis worth the money, these days— as a' the warld kens. Had ye gi'en him back his bank order, he might hae ta'en back his inveetation—an' that would hae made me greet like a bairn! Nae, lad— let be as it is!"

WHEN Thursday evening came around, as our engagement-dates have a way of doing, Sir James and his wife drove up to the Park Lane mansion in their stylish landaulet half an hour before dinner was served— finding among the other guests a couple of old friends who occasionally consulted the specialist professionally. Earl Lammerford of St. Ives and Sir Abdool Mohammed Khan were also known to them, but were at the Trevor mansion so much of the time when in London as to be considered members of the family— Sir Abdool's own house, in fact, being situated upon that portion of the Earl's property which gave upon Park Street in the rear. Bradley, of course, was an inmate of the house for an indefinite time.

During the meal Sir James— who was seated next to the lady on Bradley's right, just around the corner of the table— had plenty of opportunity for studying the man at a distance of something less than three feet, close enough to see quite plainly the texture of his skin, with whatever lines or scars there might be in various places.

It was but a few moments before the specialist's attention was fixed upon two slight depressions, one over each eye and about an inch above it. From these, his searching glance traveled to the scalp, where the roots of the hair began. Half an inch above the front margin of hair— which was of thick, heavy growth, but parted cleanly wherever the masses fell away from each other—his keen eyes presently made out a slight ridge in the scalp running across from one side to the other, as if it had been cut at some former time and stitched together again. At each end of this ridge was a vertical extension of it which ran down an inch or more. If turned down over the forehead, that portion of the scalp would have resembled the inverted flap of a coat-pocket, but so well was it hidden by the thick growth of hair that nobody would have noticed it unless looking for that particular sort of thing.

While the others were having their coffee and cigars in the big library, Trevor, Sir James and Earl Lammerford went down to Trevor's sound-proof radio-room for a private consultation. After examining the place a moment or two appreciatively, the specialist sat himself down in a big Tudor chair, lighted a fresh cigar— and gave them his professional opinion.

"At some time within the past foor or five years, Mr. Bradley was operated upon by a surgeon who pairfectly understood his business. If he wair in the boches' hands at the time, it might hae been Skoffel, o' Dusseldorf, or Hauptner o' Berlin. Either o' them is capable of doing a job like that wi' such preceesion as to accomplish whate'er his object might hae been. The periosteum hae been incised and toorned doon over the eyes; then the frontal bone hae been trephined an' buttons ta'en oot exactly ower that portion o' the brain at either side which controls the function o' memory. What was done beyond that, only anither operation would reveal, defineetly— but frae the man's seemptoms, I would say that sma' layers o' fungus wair inserted ower the brain in those openings— the periosteum toorned back an' steetched.in place again— a new layer o' bony structure forming ower the holes in the coorse o' seex months or so. The pressure o' the fungus or anything else upon the brain at those pairticular spots would cause intense suffering wi' every attempt to foorce those portions o' the brain to function normally. If ye look closely at Mr. Bradley's forehead, ye'll notice the slight deepressions produced by trephining and the ridge under the hair, where the scalp wair cut an' peeled doon."

"H-m-m— that seems to corroborate the impression I'd been forming, Doctor. Do you think another operation might be successful— permit the removal of whatever is pressing on the brain— restore Bradley to normal health and memory?"

"There'll be little question as to that, Your Lairdship. Remove the cause o' the trouble, and nature does a deal o' restoring on her own accoont."

"How serious a risk would it be for Bradley? What would be his chances for recovery?"

"Depends, of coorse, upon how greatly his seestem hae been weakened by suffering an' driftin' aboot in an abnormal condeetion— improperly nourished at times, I dare say. Also upon what fever or ither germs he may hae ta'en into his seestem during several months in Africa. But judging as weel as one may frae his appearance this evening, I'd say that the reesk o' his no' recoovering is scarcely a serious one. The cause o' inflammation and blood-infection will be removed— everything cleansed thoroughly an' sterilized. The shock effect, while under the anesthetic, is negligible. Speaking professionally, I'd no' by any means conseeder the risk a proheebitive one."

"Very good! We'll have Bradley down here and suggest it to him— with the agreement, of course, that he's to do exactly as he pleases about it. What?"

BRADLEY, it should be understood, had no knowledge of Sir James' profession or reputation, the subject having been tacitly avoided by the other guests on the ground that professional men, especially physicians, dislike talking shop when they are out for an evening. It savors too much of fishing for professional advice without paying for it. So, until he went below with Trevor to the radio-room, he had no suspicion of any object upon his host's part beyond wishing him to hear bits of conversation with the big Chincoteague station on the other side of the Atlantic.

When this was finished, and they were sitting there comfortably over their cigars, the Earl asked Sir James if he would mind giving them some details of a recent successful operation which had attracted world-wide newspaper comment. This the specialist did— drifting into it casually and explaining the technical terms so that none of them should lose any of the points. It was really a description of a hypothetical case very similar to that of Bradley's— so much so that it caught and held his attention from the start.

In a muttered aside to Lamme ford, he said: "I didn't know Sir James was a surgeon— evidently a most successful one, if he performs operations like that! Is he by way of being known in the profession— outside of London?"

"Hmph! He has the reputation of being the greatest brain-specialist in the British Empire— one of the greatest in the world! And yet, like all big men, you notice that his manner is as simple and unaffected as a child's. Tell him of some case which has haffled the profession, and you enlist his interest at once—but try to say anything 'bout what a great man he is, and he gets testy—thinks you're trying to have him on."

"H-m-m—I wonder what his fee would be for an examination?"

"Depends a lot upon whether he was int'rested in the case or not. To the average person with a trouble which is partly imaginary, I fancy his fee would be rather stiff. Trevor was describing you to him after we came down here— your headaches, diffic'lty in remembering— all that, you know. An' blessed if the chap didn't say he'd been observing you closely at dinner, diagnosed your case as the result of some operation a few years ago, an' told us exactly how it had been performed. Seems he was looking for little traces that nobody else would see."

"The deuce! Did he— er— suggest any remedy for the— er— frightful headaches— and all that?"

"Yes. He said you'd have 'em— probably getting worse as time goes on— until the cause is removed— which means another operation like the first one, only reversed in some respects."

"Dangerous operation?"

"Not unless your whole system were badly out of shape. He said that unless you have the scars of old wounds, you're prob'ly in excellent condition— and could think of no injury which you might have received during the war that would have warranted or excused the operation you had. Apparently it was done willfully— with some definite object in view."

"Gad! If one but had a little extra tin— eh? I'd take the chance of another operation under the knife of a man like that in one holy second! But I fancy there'll not be over a hundred pounds in my luggage back there— somewhere—the last place I left it— can't seem to remember. And I've not over sixty or seventy quid here in London! An operation performed by Sir James would prob'ly run to a thousand at least."

"Something like that— in the average case. But he was int'rested enough to observe you closely, seemed to feel that he'd like to undo that former work if he could. I'd not be surprised if he named a merely nominal sum and gave you a couple of years to pay it, if necess'ry. —I say— Sir James! Would you be good enough to repeat for Mr. Bradley what you told us about his case—describe the former operation? Eh?"

THE great specialist did this, smilingly— leading Bradley's finger along the crescent-shaped ridge in his scalp and over the two little forehead depressions.

"Now obsairve! I'm going to gie ye a tough bit o' headache— but 'twill last only a moment or two."

Placing the tip of his forefinger over one of the forehead indentations, he pressed upon it firmly though not very hard, and the man could scarcely repress a groan of torture— his face showing the relief he felt when the pain subsided.

"Ye pairceeve? I increase the pressure o' whate'er substance is lying against the brain under that thin disk o' new bone, and there's enough local irritation—posseebly inflammation— to make the effect seemply excruciating. Weel, Mr. Bradley— whate'er substance there is in there must coom oot befoor there be any prospect o' relief for ye."

"Would an operation of that sort restore memory besides removing the pain— give me back the sort of mind I had before?"

"In time—wit'oot much question. The superfeecial injury to the brain-cells must be healed up— and that canna be done in a moment."

When Bradley, rather haltingly, raised the question of cost, Sir James told him he need not consider it— that he would be interested in the case and see that the patient got proper hospital care subsequently, until convalescent, whether there was ever a penny paid or not. While the man was naturally hesitating about accepting such a proposition, Earl Trevor slipped a penciled memorandum into his hand:

Don't consider the expense, Old Chap. I'll lend you five thousand in the morning— give you twenty years to pay it back if necessary —or find some service you can do for me to cancel the debt entirely.

With the money and influence at the Earl's disposal, it was a simple matter to get action in much less time than with the average case. Bradley was taken around to the private sanitarium in the rear of Sir James' house, next morning, and operated upon that afternoon.

Upon the following day there was a curious incident which might not have occurred once in half a million times. Bradley was lying in a private room, his head swathed in bandages— partly conscious, but slightly drugged to deaden the soreness resulting from the operation. His hair had been shaved off to an inch beyond where the incision was made in his scalp, the rest of it being closely clipped, and his face completely shaved— so that, from the eyebrows down, his face was uncovered.

While he lay there alone, the attendant nurse having stepped out for something, a handsome woman in costly furs came along to the opposite room, just across the little side hall, and glanced in at him before knocking upon the opposite door— where the friend whom she had come to see was convalescing from a major operation.

Catching sight of Bradley's face, she staggered back against the jamb of the door and leaned there as if almost fainting. Slowly— her glance wandered from one feature to another. Then the nurse came softly down the hall, and the woman grasped her arm before she could go in to her patient.

"Nurse! Will you tell me, please, who that man is?"

"A Mr. Bradley, Baroness. Most interesting case! Operated on by the enemy during the war— for some beastly purpose of their own, I suppose. And Sir James has undone the mischief they did! The patient is doing very well indeed— we really feared complications of some sort. Came out of the ether beautifully. We're keeping him under a sedative to ease the soreness and pain from the operation, but he'll feel easier in a few hours."

"Bradley? Bradley! That can't be his name, possibly! You say the enemy did something to him? Then he must have been captured by them during the war! A prisoner with them ever since! Yes— that would explain— some of it, at least! Not all— but some of it. Tell me! You must have bathed him— changed the bed-linen? Has he a small triangular scar upon the outside of his right thigh— as if a point of barbed wire had torn it deeply and the wound had healed unevenly?"

"Why—Baroness—I—I think I do recall some little mark in about that position. I say! He's not sufficiently conscious to know what we're doing— he'd take you for another nurse, I fancy! Suppose you come in while I look? Eh?"

Gently pulling up the bedclothes until a few inches of the man's thigh were uncovered, they saw a small livid scar of exactly the shape Her Ladyship had described. Dropping the counterpane back over him, she stood by the bedside examining closely the handsome features on the pillow— then beckoned the nurse out into the hall and asked if she might talk with Sir James at once.

As he happened to be disengaged at the moment, she was taken through the rear grounds to his house and shown into the consulting-room.

"Sir James— you probably don't know me, though I've been seeing my friend, Mrs. Seton-Bayley, every day since her operation."

"I don't forget people as easily as Your Ladyship fancies; Baroness Windercombe's charities hae becoom too well known since the war to mak' recogneetion diffeecult in any case. Ye wished to consult me aboot yourself, perhaps? Aye?"

No. About your patient Mr. Bradley. There is a monument to him in his family burying-ground upon our estate in Cornwall— killed at second Ypres when six boche 'planes sent him down in flames after he had dropped four others. His posthumous D.S.O., Croix de Guerre and other decorations were sent to me after the Armistice. Well— your Mr. Bradley is my dear dead husband— Lord Francis Windercombe of St. Orway! There is no question about it whatever! The nurse has been giving me some details of his case— his loss of memory— his wandering about with no recollection of his identity. What's to happen now, Sir James? Will he remember me at all— ever be anything like his old dear self again?"

"I theenk I can promise Your Ladyship that wi' some chance o' making my word guid— but it may take time. In a few days we'll test him oot wi' ye at his bedside. Meanwhile, as a pairsonal favor, will ye accoompany me to Park Lane for a chat wi' the Earl and Countess o' Dyvnaint? They hae a much greater eent'rest in your husband than appears on the surface. In fact, but for them, he ne'er would hae been placed in my hands for treatment, in all probability— so I fancy ye owe them some obligation upon your own part. They will tell ye much that ye will weesh to know as to how Lord Windercombe happens to be in England at a', and under protection as their guest."

DURING the next two months Lord and Lady Windercombe were guests at Trevor Hall, the Earl's beautiful estate in South Devon, while the Baron was recovering and growing enough hair to hide the scars from the operation. Then he dictated to the Earl's secretary a detailed report of everything he had seen or heard while in Central Europe. At Trevor's suggestion three copies were made and duly attested— with a certificate from Sir James MacBirnie that His Lordship was in perfectly sound mind and body when the reports were executed, and that his mind was unquestionably clear upon every experience he had been through.

These three copies Earl Trevor had filed, through his personal influence, in as many different vaults at the Foreign Office— and subsequent events proved it a wise precaution.

A week after Windercombe returned to his wife's town-house in London, he was attacked on the street one foggy night after leaving his club, and bundled into a limousine at the curb, where he was effectually chloroformed by men who recognized him as "Bradley" and thought he seemed much clearer in mind than when they last saw him in Paris.

When he regained consciousness, he found himself in an upper chamber of a villa in what seemed to be a respectable neignborhood, though not far from one of the railway yards, but there was a high wall inclosing the grounds and two large police-dogs in evidence. Presumably he would be shot as a supposed burglar before he could shake them off in any attempt to escape.

The Baron's mind was now working with all its old-time precision when he had been one of the most efficient officers in the service and one of its most spectacular aviators. Trevor had explained his theory as to why the enemy had not killed him out of hand when they began to suspect how much he had learned as to their future plans— the idea appearing to be an exceedingly probable one.

He knew, from the moment he was attacked, that he was certain to be disposed of unless he somehow convinced his captors that his mind was in the same clouded condition that it had been in during the past three years. So when two of his captors entered the room, his manner was the same vague, undecided one with which they had become familiar. He seemed at first to partly recognize one of them— then turned to look out of the window as if they were strangers in whom he had no interest.

"Your Lordship will probably recall the last time we met in Charlottenburg? Eh?"

"No— though I fancied at first that I'd seen you before. And why the title? If we have met, as you say, you know that I'm Bradley. 'Burke's Landed Gentry,' if you like— but not the Peerage. I— you'll have to excuse me, I fancy! Beastly headache, you know!"

Again His Lordship quietly turned and looked out of the window. Presently his headache appeared to be letting up a bit— a cheerful grin deepened the corners of his mouth.

"I say, you chaps! Did I ever tell you what the English have up their sleeves in Downing Street? Managed to get a berth in the F. O. some time ago, d'ye see. We know a deal more about your plans than you fancy! Two of our best men went through a lot of the secret archives in Wilhelmstrasse one night— got the vault combination, somehow. Odd that you never considered it necessary to put time- locks on that vault! Of course most of it is old stuff now— plans discarded, your best operatives dead and gone. But you'd blocked out your policies in detail for the next fifty years, and there are men still living who will undoubtedly carry them out— eh— what? I— er— ah! .... That rotten headache again! Tell you— whole story— some other time! Want you— understand—can't bluff us as much as you— er— think!"

AS his voice trailed away, Albrecht and Borgfeldt glanced at each other and then at a third man— whom they had summoned from Paris to examine the sometime "Bradley" and decide whether he knew too much to remain alive. They turned and went quietly out to another room for a consultation.

"Gott, Hauptner! It pegins to look as if der Herr Doktor Skoffel wass right! Der man iss chust itching to spill all he knows apout t'at time he wass in der Pritish Foreign Office! Ja! It seemed crazy to tink efer he wouldt work his mindt like t'at— but Skoffel iss a scientist mit der human prain, undt he wass sure, if we take time enough. Like ignorant fools, we wass going to kill der phonograph pefore he sing to us! Ja!"

At the end of another half-hour the house was surrounded by Scotland Yard men and the three Berliners arrested. They claimed to have been sent for to come and identify a supposed friend who seemed to be out of his mind— produced an unsigned letter to that effect, giving the Bayswater address. And when His Lord- ship was questioned, he failed to identify either of the three as being among those who had attacked him the night before— knowing that if it were Trevor and his friends who had succeeded in locating him, as he supposed, they would have secret service men from the Foreign Office shadowing the Berliners wherever they went. He knew it had been a rather near thing for him, but was convinced that he had completely bluffed them for the time being.

A WEEK LATER one of the undersecretaries at the F. O. handed a copy of Lord Windercombe's report to the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs who had come in with the new government. Leaning back in his chair, the minister pursed his lips, noted what the document was, flipped a page or two, reading a sentence here and there— then laid the document on his desk.

"H-m-m— this is one of those papers, Hammerford, which ought to quietly disappear— so completely that it never turns up again! Here is a man who admittedly has been wandering in his mind for three or four years, claiming to have fully recovered his memory and all of his mental powers, asking His Majesty's Government to believe a long list of incredible, utterly preposterous things which he claims to be future plans for world-conquest, both commercial and military, which a certain government has worked out and is determined to put through. We are at peace with it now— re-establishing trade and commercial relations which are absolutely necessary to both countries. If we paid any attention to this mess of trash, it would make us view with suspicion every act of that government— the boards of trade in that country— clog all the reconstruction machinery— lead us to throw away good business and look for trade almost anywhere else in the world! H-m-m— I fancy I'd best put this document where it can't possibly start further trouble in the future!"

Getting out of his armchair, he stepped over to the little fireplace and laid the papers upon the glowing sea-coals.

This action was reported by telephone at Trevor Hall within the next two hours, as the Trevors and Windercombes were chatting out on the cliff-brow. A faint smile of sarcastic amusement appeared around Lord Windercombe's mouth— but there was a gleam of purpose and determination in the partly closed eyes which looked out over the waters of the Channel.

"Some day we shall have another government— another secretary who is more of a statesman and less of a tradesman. Then those other copies of my report may serve their purpose— thanks to you, Trevor!"

______________________

7: The Arizona Callahan

H Bedford-Jones

1887-1949

Blue Book, March 1924

1

NELLY CALLAGHAN was the only one to see just what happened. Everyone else in camp had gone down the island that day to get a count of the half-wild cattle among the blueberry swamps.

The wild drive of rain and low clouds to the westward hid Garden Island from sight and lowered all the horizon, until Lake Michigan seemed a small place. Beaver Island was clear vanished, and so was High Island with its colony of Israelites. Nothing was, to be seen from this north end of Hog Island except the foaming shallows and the deeper water beyond, and the huge rollers bursting in from the Wisconsin shore— with two other things. One, as the keen blue eyes of the watching girl could make out, was or had been a boat; the other was a man. She had heard shots, faint reports cracking down the wind, drawing her to the point of land to see what was happening out there toward Garden Island. For a long while there was nothing to see, until the boat came into sight. It was only a blotch, rising and then gone again, gradually sinking from sight altogether.

Few would have seen it. Nelly Callahan, however, was an island girl, and her eye was instantly caught by anything outside the settled scheme of things. So she knew it for a boat, and after a time knew that it had gone down entirely.

Presently she made out the man. To her intense astonishment he was sitting in the stern of a canoe, and paddling. Canoes are rare things in the Beaver Islands these days; here in the center of Lake Michigan, with the nearest land little more than a mirage above the horizon, there are other anid safer playthings, and life is too bitter hard to be lightly held.

Yet here was a canoe driving down the storm, a rag of sail on a stumpy mast forward, tarpaulins lashed over freight-rolls amidships, the man paddling in the stern. What connection was there between him and that sunken boat, and those shots behind the curtain of rain and mist?

That he was trying to get in under the curving line of exposed ledge and shoal that ran out from the point was obvious. If he missed, he would be carried on out to the open lake, for once around the point his chances of getting to land were slim. Nelly Callahan watched him admiringly as he fought, gaining inch by inch, now leaning hard on his paddle, now stroking desperately as the gusty wind threw off the canoe's head. The odds were worse than he could realize, too; all along the point there were shoals, running only two to three feet of water, and his canoe evidently carried a centerboard.

SUDDENLY she saw the paddle snap in his hands. The canoe swayed wildly over, swayed back again, rose on a sweeping foam-crest and was flung forward. Another instant, and she would have been rolled over, but the man snatched out another paddle and dug it in. Again the stubborn, straining fight, but he had lost ground, and the current was setting out around the point of land.

Still, he had a good chance to win. He was closer, now; Nelly Callahan could see that his shirt was torn to ribbons, that his mouth was bleeding; and those things did not come from wind and rain alone. The canoe was a wide lake-cruiser, safe enough in any sea except for her heavy load— but this rock-studded shore water was safe for no craft. All the wide expanse around the Beavers is treacherous with rocks barely awash.

An invisible hand seemed to strike the man suddenly, knocking him forward on his face. The canoe staggered, lay over on one side—she had struck bottom. Frantically the man recovered, jerked up the centerboard, threw in the pin. But he was too late; he had lost the game. The bow, with its scrap of sail, bore off before the sweep of wind, and like an arrow the canoe darted out around the point and was gone.

For a moment Nelly Callahan stood motionless at the edge of the trees. Then she turned and started to cut across the base of the long point, to get a view of the north shore beyond. There was no trail, however. Nobody lived on Hog Island; the brush was heavy and almost impenetrable. Excited, breathless, the girl struggled on her way, but knew that she was too slow. However, she kept on. Presently she burst through the final barrier, her feet slipping and sliding on the ground-pine that trailed across the sand, and came out on the northern stretch of shore. Nothing was in sight.

For a little while she stood there, dismayed, agonized, incredulous. She had been a long while getting here, of course; yet some sign of man or canoe, even had the latter capsized, must have been within sight. Here around the point the force of the rollers was lessened, too. Yet everything was empty. Man and canoe had vanished.

A SHOUT roused the girl. She glanced over her shoulder, fear flitting into her blue eyes; then she turned and retraced her steps. When she stepped back into the clearing of the camp, the others had returned. She shrank within herself slightly, as always, as her eyes swept them; for though Nelly was a Beaver girl, she was also something more. Her mother had come from the mainland, and there was none of the closely interbred strain in Nelly Callahan.

"Where ye been?" called Matt Big Mary, her father, combing out his tangle of black beard with knotted fingers. "Get the coffee on, girl! It's needin' it we are, the day."

It was something of a tribute to Matt Callahan that he was not known by the usual island diminutive, though the peculiar system of nomenclature obtained to distinguish him from his cousin Matty Basset Callahan. He was a giant of a man, massive as an oak, in his deep eyes a brooding, glooming shadow that had lain there since his wife died.

The others were merry enough, however, for Hughie Dunlevy had fallen into the swamp and mired himself head over ears; small wonder that Jimmy Basset and Willy Tom Gallagher made sport at that, since Hughie Dunlevy was a great man on the island, holding a second mate's ticket, and strong as any two men except Matt Big Mary. He was fishing this summer, going partners with Matt, and had bought a half-interest in the Callahan cattle that ran here on Hog Island. Men said in St. James that he would make a good son-in-law to Matt, for it is always the wildest who settle down the best, and if he would but leave Jimmy Basset's moonshine liquor alone, he had a great future fronting him.

Here for a week they were, pulling the long stakes that had held pound-nets all the spring out at the edge of deep water where the great trout and whitefish ran, and working the north island shore with trap-nets and bloater lines. Here for a week were the four men, with Nelly Callahan to cook and mind camp. She and her father occupied the old shanty at the edge of the clearing; the other three slept in the brown tent near by.

Now, any other Beaver girl would have at once drawn general attention to the sunken boat, which would wash in and make salvage, and to the presumably drowned man and his canoe. But Nelly Callahan kept quiet. She had become a changed girl since getting home from her school-teaching this spring, and finding that her father had made a match with Hughie Dunlevy for her; much had happened; sorrowful things had transpired; and Nelly Callahan was biding her time.

Half an hour passed by, and the noon meal was over; and since the weather was too bad for work, there was naught to be done but sit and smoke. Then Matt Big Mary took Jimmy Basset and Willy Tom Gallagher with him, and a trap-net from the big launch dragged up under the trees, and set off down the shore.

He gave Hughie Dunlevy a significant wink.

"We'll take the skiff down to Belmore Bay," said he, "and be setting a trap out beyond the old wreck, and maybe pick up a fifty-dollar box o' bass come Saturday. Hughie, me lad, keep your eye on the camp."

"Aye," said big Hughie, grinning all over his broad, good-natured face; and they filed off down the shore on their two-mile tramp to Belmore Bay. Nelly was keenly aware of the strategy, but made no comment. She was afraid of Hughie, as well she might be. A fine, strapping lad he was, except when he was crossed, and good-humored while he had his own way and there was no liquor in him; yet he was one to be afraid of.

"There's more cattle down the island than we looked for, Nelly," said he; chewing at a cigar and watching the girl as she cleaned up. "The buyer will be over from East Jordan next week, and then there'll be doings. What's more, there's some big pine in yonder that's never been cut out. I'm thinkin' of raftin' it over to the mill."

"Good idea, if you owned it," said a strange voice. "But you don't."

HUGHIE DUNLEVY turned, stared, came to his feet with a leap. There at the edge of the trees, his approach unheard, stood the man whom Nelly Callahan had seen in the canoe. He wore nothing but his ragged shirt, the most essential half of a pair of overalls, and canvas shoes. Short, curly red hair crowned a face that was weather-hardened, humorous, strong-boned; one glimpsed, sparkling gray eyes that could either laugh or glitter, and a wide, generous mouth. Dripping wet. as he was, the stranger showed bruises and a cut lip, and a red streak ran across his halfexposed chest.

"If you could spare me a bite to eat, young lady, I'd appreciate it!" exclaimed the stranger genially. "Did I scare you folks? Sorry! My boat went down, and I was washed ashore, saw the smoke of your fire, and came for it. Is that a fish mulligan I smell? Then if there's any left, have pity on a starving man!"

Nelly, with a smile at his laughing words, turned to the big pot.

Hughie Dunlevy regarded the stranger with a frown on his wide features.

"Where'd ye come from? Who are ye?"

"Callahan's my name," said the stranger, coming forward. "You're no island Callahan!" said Dunlevy promptly.

The other laughed. "No, I haven't that honor; but our ancestors were kings in Ireland at the same time. I don't go by that name either; mostly folks call me Hardrock."

"Hardrock Callahan, eh?" exclaimed the girl, not liking the general aspect of Hughie Dunlevy. "Well, I'm Nelly Callahan, and this is my father's camp, and you're welcome. Shake hands with Hughie Dunlevy and make yourself comfortable. I'll have this mulligan hot in a minute, and coffee's all ready."

Hardrock stepped forward and extended his hand. Dunlevy accepted it, though not with any marked warmth, and for an instant the two men measured each other.

"What was that you said when you showed up?" demanded Hughie. "About me not owning this timber?"

"Something like that, I guess." Hardrock Callahan laughed cheerfully. "I  happen to own it myself. Oh, coffee ready? Thanks, Miss Callahan— or if I may say so, Miss Nelly! I hate to use the name of Callahan on the Beavers— too many other Callahans here already."

He sat down, turned his back to the scowling, indeterminate Hughie, and sipped the hot coffee. Nelly Callahan did not smile, however, as she put the mulligan pot in the embers. It had come to her that while she was crossing the point, this man must have worked his canoe in to the shore, have dragged it up, and have made camp. And what was this story of owning the timber?

"You and me will have a talk," said Hughie Dunlevy, "when you've had a bite to eat."

"Right," said Hardrock Callahan. "I've had one or two talks already this morning. The girl looked at him, met his twinkling gray eyes, and smiled despite herself.

2

NELLY CALLAHAN saw that this man Hardrock was a stranger; and yet he was not a stranger. No one but a fool would have walked ashore on the Beavers and claimed ownership of land, unless he was known and accepted for little good his law title would do him. Hardrock was certainly not a fool, however; and at the same time he had some knowledge of the islands. He had hidden his canoe and the stuff in it; and it was significant that Nelly did not look upon the story he told as a lie, but as justifiable precaution...

Was it his motorboat that she had seen sinking?

"And did ye say," inquired Hughie, recalling the boat, "that your boat had gone down?"

"Motorboat," and Hardrock nodded in affirmation. "Hit a sunken rock out yonder and raked her bottom out."

"Where from?"

"St. James."

Hughie scowled at that, as well he might, since no one but an islander was from St. James; and this man was no islander. Set in the middle of Lake Michigan, inhabited by a hundred and fifty families, each related to the others, living by the loot of the lakes and woods, the islanders were a clannish lot who clung together and let the world go by.

A few Indians lingered; a few outsiders had roamed in; a few tourists came and went; and over on High Island was the colony of Israelites— silent, wistful men with wide eyes and hairy lips. No law was on the Beavers, nor ever had been, save when King Strang established his brief Mormon kingdom at St. James.

There was not an officer in the group, not a judge nor a lawyer nor a doctor, and one man was as good as another; and once when the revenue men came to pry around, with talk of the Eighteenth Amendment, there were dark tales of what happened by night— but no more revenue men came. As for game wardens they were not fools.

The Beavers were not out of touch with the world, however. Scarce a large boat on the western lakes but had from one to ten islanders aboard, and the Beaver Gallaghers were known from Buffalo to Duluth; how many island men lay at the bottom of Whitefish Bay, it was hard to say. Some, who made money, spent the winters in Chicago or elsewhere; and Bowery Callahan, who swung the island vote, was State road-inspector and traveled up and down the land enjoying his ease.

NELLY looked at the two men by the fire, and felt a sudden hurt in the heart of her for the smiling stranger. He had no fear in his eye, and under his brown throat his skin was white like ivory, and his arms under their tattered sleeves were smooth as silk.

At him as he ate glared Hughie Dunlevy, broad and dark like all the Dunlevys, rippling with great muscles, a man with strength to toss a box of fish like a toy; and many a tale was told of Hughie on the lake boats, and how he put the boots to any man who dared stand up to him. Now Hardrock sighed, and smiled at Nelly, and thanked her for his meal.

"We'll have our talk," said he to Hughie, "and then I'll have a smoke."

"I'm not so sure about that," said Hughie. "What are ye doing here?"

"Resting on my own land, if you want to know. I bought this end of the island from Eddie John Macaulay in Charlevoix."

There was no parry between the two of them, no hesitation. Hardrock looked Hughie in the eye and gave him the news straight and direct.

"Buying isn't keeping," said Hughie. "We'll have a word about that matter. Eddie John told us to take the timber if we wanted it, and take it we will."

The gray eyes of Hardrock glittered for a moment.

"Take it you won't," said he bluntly.

Hughie laughed, and it was a laugh to reach under the skin and sting.

"Is that so, Mr. Callahan? It's sorry I'd be to hurt ye, and you washed ashore and out of luck; so keep a civil tongue in your head. Have no such talk around Matt Big Mary, I warn ye, for this is his camp and mine, and he's a bad man in his anger."

Hardrock's thin lips twitched. "So they said about Connie Dunlevy this morning in St. James. I hope he's not related to you? He came out on the dock to have a talk with me, and I think they're taking him over on the mailboat this afternoon to the hospital."

Hughie scrambled to his feet. "Glory be! What have ye done to my brother Connie, ye red-haired outlander?"

"Not a thing," said Hardrock, and chuckled. "Poor Connie fell off the dock. I think he broke a rib or two, and maybe his shoulder."

"Get up!" cried Hughie hoarsely, passion flaming in his face. "So that's who marked ye up, eh? Then I'll finish the job—"

Hardrock stretched himself and began to rise, lazily enough. Just then Nelly Callahan stepped forward. "Don't, Hughie!" she exclaimed. "It isn't fair— you mustn't! He's all worn out—"

Hughie turned on her and shoved her aside.

"Out o' this! Stand aside, and see—"'

He never finished the sentence, for Hardrock was off the ground like a spring of steel, a billet of firewood in one hand, and the sound of the blow could be heard across the clearing. Struck behind the ear Hughie Dunlevy threw out his arms and went down in a heap.

Hardrock looked at Nelly Callahan, and the glitter of his eyes changed to a smile.

"So that's that," he said coolly. "Too bad I had to use the stick, Miss Nelly, but you spoke the truth when you said I was done up. Don't worry about him— he'll come around after a bit. Do you suppose you could find me a bit of dry tobacco? Then we'll sit down and talk things over."

For a moment the girl looked at him. She was blue of eye and black of hair, and the color was high in her cheeks; and when she smiled there came a dimple on either side of her mouth, and her body held a spring of the foot and a supple grace of round lines that the school-teaching had not taken out of her. Suddenly a laugh broke in her eyes.

"Hughie had it coming, I think," said she, and turned. "I'll get you the tobacco."

She got him some, and sat down at the fire and watched him stuff it into his pipe and light it with an ember. Hughie Dunlevy lay where he had fallen.

"Father and the other boys will be back in an hour or sooner," she said. "I think you'd better go and get that canoe of yours, and be off while you have the chance."

Hardrock gave her a swift look, then chuckled.

"Oh! Saw me land, did you? No, I'm not going, thanks. I'm staying."

"Then you'll have trouble, I'm afraid."

He shrugged, and lay back on one elbow, smoking contentedly. "Very likely. Eddie John Macaulay thought he worked a smooth trick when he sold me this end of the island, timber and all, but I'd been warned beforehand. I spent the night at St. James and went up to the dance and had a grand time. Connie Dunlevy had too much moonshine, though, and this morning he started to make trouble."

"Listen, please!" said the girl, an urgent note in her voice. "You can't take this seriously— but you must! You don't understand. You'll not be allowed to stay, after all that's happened. Who was shooting out in the channel? What boat was that I saw sinking?"

Hardrock took the pipe from his lips and regarded her for a moment. "My dear Nelly," he said quietly, "I'm afraid you're the one who doesn't understand. Did you ever hear of Danny Gallagher?"

Her eyes opened at that. "Danny? Why of course! His father Vesty owns the sawmill down at the head of the island. But Danny has been away two years, in Arizona."

"And I've come from, Arizona," said Hardrock. "That's where I got my nickname. I've been running a mine out there, and Danny has been working with me. He's a fine boy, Danny is! He told me so much about the islands that I came up here when I got a year off, and I'm going to settle down in a cabin here under the trees, and finish writing a mining book for engineers. Danny has written his father about me. I meant to look up Vesty, but haven't had a chance yet."

THE troubled comprehension in the blue eyes of the girl deepened at this.

"Why didn't you do it first?" she broke out. "If people knew that Danny had sent you here, and Vesty Gallagher would answer for you, there'd have been no trouble! Vesty is a big man on the island. A word from him—"

"My dear girl, I stand on my own feet," said Hardrock quietly. "The sunken boat you saw was mine. Two of Connie's friends got after me. I suppose they thought it was quite safe, for the rain was coming down in sheets and one could scarcely see three hundred yards. They ran me down before I knew what they were up to. Fortunately, I had time to cut the canoe loose and get into her, and then I opened up on the two rascals with my shotgun, and gave them plenty. Never fear! When I go over to St. James I'll know 'em again, and take a little punishment out of them for the loss of that motorboat. Satisfied, are you?"

Under his twinkling gray eyes, the girl laughed a little.

"Hold it!" he exclaimed. "Oh, no use— gone again."

"Eh?" Her gaze widened. "What?"

"Those dimples. How long is this camp to continue?"

"Until the first of the week."

Nelly Callahan was disconcerted by his abrupt change of subject and forgot to resent the personality. "Father's rounding up some cattle and counting how many there are here."

"Good! Then I'll be over to the dance next Thursday night. May I take you?"

She was startled by his words. She was more startled a moment later when a crashing of brush sounded, and she leaped to her feet.

"Oh! Father's coming—"

"Answer the question," persisted Hardrock. "Quick!"

"Yes," she said, and then turned swiftly to him. "Go quickly—"

"Nonsense!" Hardrock puffed at his pipe. "Nothing to get excited about. I'm not going to start any trouble, I promise you. Great Scott! Is that your father?"

He stared at the huge figure of Matt Big Mary advancing upon him, with the other two men following. All three gaped at him. Matt, astonished, came to a halt.

"What's this!" he rumbled. "Hughie! Where's Hughie, lass? Who's yon man?"

"Hughie's gone to sleep," said Hardrock, and came easily to his feet. "My name's Callahan—"

"He's a friend of Danny Vesty Gallagher," broke in the girl swiftly. "From Arizona. And Danny had him buy this end of the island from Eddie John Macaulay, Father."

"Shipwrecked on my own land," said Hardrock, laughing. He held out his hand. "You're Matt Callahan— Matt Big Mary? Danny has told me about you. Glad to meet you."

Matt gave him a huge grip, between surprise and bewilderment.

"What's all this? Bought it off of Eddie John, ye did? And what d'ye mean by shipwrecked? There's been no boat—"

"My motorboat went down," said Hardrock. "I got ashore with my duffle, though. Got a camp down shore a piece. Came over from St. James this morning."

"Oh! And it's a friend o' Vesty Gallagher ye are, eh? What's the matter with Hughie?"

"Hughie made a mistake," Hardrock grinned cheerfully. "He didn't believe that I had bought this bit of the island. Somehow, Hughie and I didn't get along very well. He had some queer idea that I ought to walk home, and I didn't agree with him. So he went to sleep. I guess I'll be going. Drop over to my camp sometime. I'll likely run in and see you again. Thanks for the coffee, Miss Nelly."

And he was gone, with a wave of his hand, before the three astonished men knew what to say or do.

3

HARDROCK CALLAHAN passed along the narrow sand-strip that edged the north shore of Hog Island, until he found a slight opening among the trees that suited him. Then he came back to his pulled-up canoe and began to transport his load to the spot selected; the canoe itself he left hidden where it was.

The storm was not clearing off, but was turning and bringing down a new and colder drift of rain and wind from the north. Ax in hand, Hardrock attacked the tangle of dead and living trees that rimmed him in like a wall. For an hour he worked steadily, slowly driving back the growth and clearing the grassy sward that had attracted him; then he dragged the débris to the shore and was rid of it.

This done, he sat down in the wet sand, stuffed some of his own tobacco into his pipe, and sighed comfortably.

"What a girl!" he observed. "And she's the same one Danny Gallagher showed me the picture of, too. That's a coincidence. Well, I'd better get a shelter up before I settle down to dream about her. Good thing the motorboat went down instead of my canoe! She's a grade above most of the islanders that I've seen—"

Whether he referred to canoe or girl was not determined. He set to work methodically getting up the tent, which he now unlashed, and anchored it securely. His clearing opened on the shore to the north, and the trees fully protected him from the eternal west winds; since he was pitching the tent for all summer, he made a thorough job of it, and this took time.

Then, opening up some of his bundles, he produced flannel shirt and corduroys and other garments, and clothed himself in decency. Having already collected some dry wood from the thicket, he now built up a cheerful blaze and watched the wispy smoke whirl away in gray shreds down the wind.

The afternoon was waning, and he was considering opening up some grub when a huge figure came into his vista of the shore and Matt Big Mary was striding up to him.

"Greetings!" exclaimed Hardrock cordially. "Come in out of the rain and toast your shins."

The big man nodded solemnly, sat down beside Hardrock in the tent opening, produced a black pipe and blacker tobacco, and lighted up. He sat for a little in silence, staring over the fire at the gray lake with those deep-set, melancholy eyes of his.

At length he removed the pipe from his lips and spoke. "Hughie tells me ye've bought the timber."

"Yes. It went with the land, said Eddie John. I've no use for it, except this tall pine right back of here. If you want the rest, you can have it."

"I don't," said Matt. "You're none of the island Callahans?"

"No. New York State."

"So are we, out of County Tyrone. All the same stock." Matt puffed over that for a bit. "Ye done a bad day's work, fallin' foul of Hughie Dunlevy."

"That's as may be. Sooner him than you." Matt turned and swept Hardrock with his slow gaze.

"Why?"

"Because,"'— and Hardrock -stretched himself out more comfortably,—''because I expect to marry your daughter."

"I don't like jokes," said Matt Big Mary, after a moment. "Not that kind."

"I'm not joking," said Hardrock coolly. "Danny Gallagher showed me a picture of her, and that's why I came here, partly. Now that I've seen her and talked with her, I know. I'm fair with you. If she's in love with nobody else, and I can win her, I'll do it."

"Hot head, queer heart," said Matt, a gathering rumble in his tone.

Hardrock laughed.

"She's promised."

"By herself or by you?"

"No matter. Hughie Dunlevy marries her."

"No."

Storm grew in Matt's eyes, and his big black beard bristled. "Careful, me lad! The boys wanted to come over and have a talk with ye, but I set down me foot. I want no trouble, without ye force it on me. I'll have no man makin' light talk of my girl, more particular a stranger."

"It's not light talk, Matt; I mean every word of it," said Hardrock. "And I'm not a good one to bluff, either. You fellows on the Beavers, Matt, are all clannish, and you all stick together like burrs, and you throw a strong bluff. Why? Because you're all afraid of the big world. Let a better man walk in and whip one or two of you, and things are different. Besides, I have a friend or so if I want to call on 'em, and I'll be no outcast. So think twice, Matt, before you lay down the law."

Even while he spoke, Hardrock felt his words fruitless. Matt's mental horizon was too narrowed to comprehend him in the least.

"You take my advice," said Matt Big Mary after a moment. "Be out of here before tomorry night, me lad. Ye'll find a skiff on the shore down to the bay—"

"Want me to put you off my land, Matt?" said Hardrock quietly.

The other was so astonished that he turned his head and stared. What he saw in those hard, icy gray eyes held him silent.

Hardrock continued: "You seem to think, Matt, that I'm a boy to obey you. I'm not. I don't intend to put up a 'No Trespass' sign and keep folks off, but I'm not taking orders from you, and I'm not scared worth a damn. If you bring a fight to me, I'll meet you halfway every time. I've tried to be decent with you, because I want no trouble. Now, I have to be in St. James tomorrow morning, and I'll expect you to see that my camp here isn't disturbed while I'm gone; you're square enough to keep your men away from it. Think things over. When I come back, I'll see you. If you've made up your mind to avoid trouble and meet me halfway, I'll be glad. If not, we'll settle things in a hurry. What d'you say to that?"

"I'm safe enough," Matt Big Mary laughed slowly. "Aye," said he. "That's fair, Hardrock. But you'll not come back from the island, if what Hughie did be tellin' us is so. Connie Dunlevy will be waitin' for you, or his friends."

"So will Vesty Gallagher." Hardrock grinned cheerfully. "I'll be back tomorrow night or next day. Anything you want me to fetch with me— mail or grub?"

Matt stared at him a moment, then rose to his feet.

"Damned if I can make ye out," said he reflectively. "So long. I'll answer that the boys don't touch your camp."

He strode away and vanished along the shore.

AS DAYLIGHT died, the storm was blown out and the rollers were already going down. Hardrock Callahan, after luxuriously dining on beans and biscuit and hot tea, smoked his pipe and watched the stars, then laid out his blankets and rolled up. He was asleep almost at once.

It was two in the morning when he wakened, as he had set himself to do. A glance at his watch confirmed the hour. He dressed, and went down to the shore. Everything was quiet, save for the wash of waves and the whisper of breeze in the trees overhead. Off to the northwest came the swift, clear flash of the Garden Shoal light, and farther west, the red flash from Squaw Island light glimmered over the horizon.

Nodding, Hardrock returned to his tent, produced an electric torch and for ten minutes pored over an unrolled chart of the island group. Then, satisfied, he laced up the tent-flap, turned to the shore, and went to where the wide lake-cruising canoe was laid up under the bushes. In ten minutes the light craft was standing out under the breeze, rounding the point and holding south for Beaver Island and St. James.

The dawn was breaking when he drew down toward the long and narrow harbor. Instead of holding for it, however, he went to the right of the unwinking red eye of the lighthouse, came to shore on the point amid the thick trees and half-ruined dwellings there, and drew up the canoe from sight. Hardrock Callahan was learning caution.

He set out afoot, and presently came to the road that wound along the bay and was the artery of the straggling row of houses circling the bay-shore for a mile or more and forming the town of St. James.

The sun was rising upon a glorious day when he had passed down the length of the bay to the head, and reached the hotel and the restaurant adjoining. The hotel was not yet alive for the day, but the island itself was astir, and the restaurant was open.

Hardrock went in and breakfasted leisurely by the help of Rose McCafferty, who was waitress, cook and proprietor. Finding himself taken for an early tourist from the hotel out for the morning's fishing, he let it go at that.

"Hear any more about the boys who were shot up?" he inquired casually, in the course of the meal.

The response stupefied him.

"Glory be, and what more is there to hear, except the name o' the scoundrel that done it? Poor Marty Biddy Basset— a grand boy he was, and only yesterday morning he was settin' here before me! And Owen John will maybe get well, but the fever's on him and it's no talkin' he'll do this long while. The doctor at the hotel is wid him this blessed minute."

"Eh?" Hardrock stared at her. "One of them's dead, you say? I didn't know that—"

"Wasn't they picked up by the Danes and brought in last night, and poor Marty wid a bullet through him, and two through Owen, and the both of 'em all peppered wid birdshot as well, and the boat ruined wid bullets? There she lays down to the Booth dock this minute—"

Hardrock laid a coin on the counter and went out. He stood staring down at the line of fish-sheds and wharves across the road, feeling numb and unable to believe what he had heard. Dead! Yet he had certainly used no bullets; he had neither rifle nor pistol.

Mechanically he crossed the road and walked through the soft, deep sand to the fish-company's wharf. Red-haired Joe Boyle had just opened up the shed and was getting in some box-parts to knock together; he flung Hardrock a casual nod as the latter approached, and went on about his business. The boat was not far to seek.

She lay on the north side of the dock, and Hardrock stood gazing down at her. That she was the same which had run him down, he saw at a glance; not many of these boats were open craft; nearly all having a boxlike shelter for engines and lifters and men. Across her weathered stern-sheets was a pool of dried, blackened blood, and the thwart by the engine carried another grim reminder.

Fear clamped upon Hardrock— fear lest he be blamed for this affair. It seemed only too probable. Whoever had done the murder, too, must have done it shortly after he himself had peppered the two men with his shotgun. The swift impulse seized on him to run while he could.

Instead of running, however, he leaned over and jumped down into the boat. Up forward was a tangle of ropes and lines and life-belts, and a colored object there caught his notice. He picked it up. It was a small pennant-shaped bit of canvas, painted half white, half black, attached to a stick that had broken short off. Moved by some instinct, certainly by no obvious reason, he pocketed it and climbed back to the wharf.

"Morning," said a voice, and he looked up to see a gnarled, red-whiskered man surveying him with an air of appraisal.

"Your name aint Callahan, by any chance?"

"Callahan it is. Otherwise, Hardrock."

"Good. I been lookin' for ye," said the other. "I'm Vesty Gallagher, Danny's dad. Let's you and me go somewheres, and go quick. Come on over to Dunlevy's shed. Good thing I seen ye, Hardrock— blamed good thing! Come on."

4

IN the heavy, dank quiet of the shed where the big nets hung, Hardrock sat smoking his pipe. His brain listened mechanically to the words of Vesty Gallagher; yet other sounds were borne in upon him; the rattle of ice from the wharf, the slam of fish-boxes tossed about, the eternal creaking of the great net-frames as they swung and swung endlessly in the breeze and groaned futile protest.

"By luck I come to town last night for freight, and remained over," said Vesty, "and by luck I seen you this morning and knew ye for a stranger. I said a word or two last night, when there was talk about your scrap wi' Connie Dunlevy, after the two boys was brought in. Some said you had done it, d'ye see? Nobody knows what's happened out there in the fog and rain, but there's plenty that intend to know. Eleven families o' Bassets there are on the island, and Marty Biddy dead today. Not to mention Owen John, wi' two bullets through him and the fever bad on him, and he'll go over to the Charlevoix hospital on the mailboat. By luck my boy Danny had been writin' me, and I was looking for ye."

Hardrock nodded and turned to the gnarled man beside him.

"It was more than luck that I met you this morning," he said quietly. "You don't know just how bad things look for me. Here's what happened."

He told what had taken place the preceding day, omitting no detail. "They were not close enough for the shotgun to do much damage," he concluded. "Where those bullets came from, I can't pretend to guess."

Vesty Gallagher bit his pipestem thoughtfully, watching Hardrock from screwed-up, sharp little eyes.

"You're straight," he said suddenly. "I'm with ye. So that's settled. Now hark ye here, me lad! I'll have a word wi' the priest, and he'll have a word wi' the boys, and they'll go slow. But if I was you, I'd come down to the sawmill with me and spend a while there."

Hardrock smiled. "Thanks, Vesty, but I can't do it. Surely there must be some way of telling who shot those two fellows?"

"There's many would ha' liked to do it," said old Gallagher. 'The two of them was a bad lot— them and the Dunlevy boys hung together. Ye'll have trouble there. Connie Dunlevy and Hughie will guess that ye had a hand in the shootin', and they'll go for ye. Better ye come down home with' me, lad."

"Can't. Promised Matt Callahan I'd come back to Hog Island and settle matters with him."

The gray eyes of Hardrock twinkled. "I said I'd put him off my land if he wasn't reasonable, and I'll do it."

"Glory be! Have ye been fighting with Matt Big Mary? And I hear Hughie's over there—"

Hardrock related a version of his encounter on the island— a version which very tactfully omitted any mention of Nelly Callahan.

Old Vesty chuckled and scratched his red whiskers and then chuckled again.

"Praise be, it's fine to hear of some one who's got the guts to stand up to them Callahans!" he exclaimed. "Betwixt 'em, the Callahans and Dunlevys have been runnin' too high a hand and drinkin' too much o' Jimmy Basset's moonshine. What came ye to town for?"

"To find who it was had run me down, and make 'em pay for my motorboat," said Hardrock. "But now I'll reconsider the program. It wont do to have everybody know what happened, or I'd be—"

"You'd be shot so damned quick ye'd never know what struck!" said Vesty promptly. "Word's been passed around that you're a revenuer, but I've put a stop to that. If Owen John does any talkin' before they take him to Charlevoix, he'll be able to tell what happened, but they say he's bad off."

"I suppose the sheriff will be over to investigate?"

VESTY sucked at his pipe a moment. "Maybe," he said slowly. "And maybe not. Depends on what story's told. This here is Beaver Island, me lad. Them fellys has had scraps with everybody— Injuns, Danes, Israelites and Washin'ton Island men. Last week they had a scrap with some fellys from Cheboygan that was robbin' some nets. A wild bunch, them Cheboygan lads, fishin' on other folks' ground and runnin' whisky in from Canady. What'll ye do now?"

"Go back to Hog Island," said Hardrock.

"Do it, and if ye have any regard for health, keep the peace with Matt Big Mary! I'll walk up the shore with ye— left your canoe on the north point, ye said? It'll do ye no harm to be seen walkin' with me."

They left the shed and swung up to the road, and there Vesty hailed a man and halted Hardrock to meet him.

"It's Tom Boyle Gallagher, me own cousin, and his boys run the freight-boat and he runs the store yonder. Hey, Tom! Shake hands with Hardrock Callahan. He's the felly who had the scrap with Connie Dunlevy yesterday mornin'. It's a friend of Danny's he is, and a friend of mine, and he's bought some land on Hog Island from Eddie John Macaulay."

Tom Gallagher grinned as he met Hardrock's grip. "Glad to meet ye. Another Callahan, eh? Glory be, but the fightin' Callahans are all over the world! I seen ye to the dance the other night. Hear ye knocked Connie clear off'n the dock, eh? Good for him."

"Sorry I had any trouble," said Hardrock. "I want to spend the summer up here, and it seems like I got off to a bad start."

"More like a good start," and Tom chuckled. "Drop in to the store any time. It's glad to see you I'll be. See ye later, Vesty!"

The two men walked up the road together, meeting not a few folk. To more than one of these Vesty spoke, introducing Hardrock with emphatic cordiality, stopping now for a word or two and again for a bit of talk, so that it was a good hour afterward when they approached the canoe.

Hardrock, who wanted to pick up a trout or whitefish on the way back, showed his trolling line to old Vesty, and had a word of advice as to tackle, and then Vesty gave him a word as to other things.

"Lay low, me lad. When news comes, I'll have Tom Boyle Gallagher's boy bring it to ye— Micky, his name is. There's a few Gallaghers left on the island yet, praise be, and any friend o' Danny's is goin' to have a square deal. Be off with ye now, and good luck."

Ten minutes later, with the canoe leaning over to the breeze as she drew out, Hardrock was steering north and exchanging a last wave of the hand with Vesty Gallagher. Under the latter's optimistic influence and quick friendship, his stunned depression had quite evaporated. He was himself again, no longer hesitant or doubting, ready for whatever might happen.

"Blamed lucky thing I met him!" he thought, as he let out his trolling line and settled down to steer for home. "And I sure hope that wounded chap will open up and talk before long. Well, by gosh, I feel a heap better than I did! I think I'll drop in on Matt's camp— ought to get there about noon. Going to marry Hughie Dunlevy, is she? Not if I know it! Not, that is, unless she wants to, and I'll gamble she doesn't."

With just the right amount of ballast to hold her head down, the canoe was a marvel for speed, and Hardrock Callahan, who had not spent all his life in Arizona, knew how to handle her. Thus it was not quite noon when he bore up for the north point on Hog Island.

In spite of the big whitefish that came to his line and set his knife to work and brought the gulls wheeling to pick up the offal, Hardrock had plenty of time to reflect on his situation. He was not particularly given to reflection, but just now there was need of it. One man was dead; another was badly wounded; by good fortune, no one knew of their encounter with Hardrock Callahan, but that story was bound to come out. If the wounded man did not recover, and could not give an account of the killing, investigation would probably fasten the blame on Hardrock, from circumstantial evidence. So far suspicion was not directed at him— but it would come.

"These are slow-thinking people, and the law is probably slower to reach up here," he mused. "So much the worse when the time for action comes! Looks like it's distinctly up to me to land the murderers, as a matter of self-protection; and a fat chance I have of doing it! Since there was no mention of Connie Dunlevy being taken to the hospital, he's probably not so badly hurt as I thought. That gang is against me, sure. Hm! Guess I'll take counsel with the young lady. She's got a level head."

He held in for the strip of shore before Matt Big Mary's camp, and perceived that the updrawn boat was gone. As his canoe scraped on the sand and he leaped ashore, Nelly Callahan appeared and waved her hand.

"Welcome back! Have you come for more coffee?"

"That and other things," responded Hardrock cheerfully, holding up the whitefish. "Anybody around?"

"They've all gone to finish pulling stakes and wont be back until late," said the girl. "Did you have any trouble in town?"

"No. I met Vesty Gallagher, and we had quite a talk. Got any nails around here? If you have, let's get this fish on a slab and we can discuss the weather while it's browning."

Searching the shore, he presently espied a slab of mill wood, nailed the opened fish to it, spilled plenty of seasoning over the firm white flesh, and got the slab in position beside the fire. Then he sat down and lighted his pipe and looked at Nelly Callahan, who sat on the end of a log and darned a thick stocking; and presently he told her all that he had learned this morning in St. James.

FOR a moment her face flashed white, and in the depths of her widened gaze he read alarm and swift fear and wild surmise. Then she was herself again, cool and steady, her blue eyes searching into him with unconcealed tenseness of interest, and only her breath coming a little swifter to denote the startled heart that was in her.

"It seems impossible!" she murmured. "Oh! And when everyone learns of how you used your shotgun on them—"

"Steady! Nobody knows that except you and Vesty," said Hardrock. "Who'd believe me? They'd say I had a pistol or rifle and dropped it overboard after shooting the two men. And how do you know I hadn't, Nelly? How do you know I'm not lying?"

She looked at him steadily for a moment, meeting his gaze squarely. Then: "How did Vesty know it?" she said, and smiled a little. "Don't be silly. Did you see any other boat around, except theirs?"

Hardrock shook his head. "No, but that means nothing. I couldn't see far for the rain, and I was intent on them— they'd been following me, you know. If there's any clue to be gained, it's from you."

"From me? How?"

"The shots. You said you had heard shooting. Now, I let off both barrels of my shotgun, no more. I did think that I heard shots after that, but my sinking boat was making such a racket— the exhaust pipe was smashed when they ran me down— and I was so infernally busy handling that canoe, that I didn't notice them. You did. How many were there? You'd notice the difference between the bang of my shotgun and the crack of rifles, too."

The girl nodded, and lifting her eyes, stared out toward the blue mass of Garden Island on the horizon.

"There must have been five or six shots," she said slowly. "Now I think of it, I believe that two did come sometime earlier— that was what drew my attention. Yes, and the others were different. They sounded more like the deep crash of an automatic pistol than the sharp crack of a rifle. But how can that help you? I couldn't see what happened. I can't swear—"

"You're not expected to!" Hardrock responded, and felt through his pockets for a match. "The thing is, to make sure of what you heard. Somebody else was out there—a third boat—"

He broke off sharply. From his pocket he drew a strange object; then recognition came into his eyes as he stared at it. It was the pennant-shaped canvas he had taken from the boat at the Booth dock.

5

"THAT'S funny!" he exclaimed, staring at the scrap of canvas. The girl glanced at it, then gave him a puzzled look.

"Why?"

"You know what it is?"

"Of course. It's the little flag left flying from a fish-trap to show its position."

"Oh!" Hardrock laughed and tossed it aside. "I don't know what made me bring it— found it lying in that boat this morning, with a lot of other stuff."

To his surprise, the girl's eyes dilated suddenly, excitement leaped into her face.

"What boat?" she demanded. 'Not—"

"Yes, the one that ran me down. Why?"

Dropping her work, Nelly Callahan pounced on the bit of canvas, and lifted blazing eyes.

"Don't you see! It explains everything! Can't you remember seeing that flag in the water just before they ran you down?"

Hardrock stared at her, his gray eyes narrowed and glittering. "Am! Blamed if I can see why it amounts to much— come to think of it, I believe I did notice such a flag. Ran close to it. Not the same one, probably."

"Of course it was the same one!" exclaimed the girl, excitedly. She was all animation. 'Don't you see? This flag is painted to denote ownership, so each man will know his own traps! We don't use them much around here—don't need to. But the perch season is coming on, and fishermen from Charlevoix and Petoskey and even Cheboygan who work around here need to use marked traps. Now do you see? Hughie Dunlevy and his friends have been fighting the men from outside who come in on their grounds. Well, Marty Biddy Basset and Owen John, as soon as they ran you down, circled back to that fish-trap and probably started to rob it. They broke off this flag so the owners wouldn't find the trap again, and—"

Hardrock whistled. "And then the owners came along and opened fire! Upon my word, Nelly, I believe you've struck it! And nobody noticed this flag lying in the boat last night—"

They stared at each other, until suddenly the girl broke into a tremulous laugh.

"So all you have to do is to find who uses this flag!"

"Who does, then?"

"I don't know. Any of the men would know, probably."

"Hm! Vesty said that Hughie and his friends had fought last with some Cheboygan men. He mentioned whisky-running—"

"Yes!" The girl flashed up indignantly. "And you know what they say about us over on the mainland— that everybody on the Beavers runs whisky from Canada! It's not so. None of us do that. Jimmy Basset, who's here with Father, makes whisky— that's true; but most of the time he's so crippled up with rheumatism that he can't fish and do any work, and it's the only way he has of supporting his family. So nobody else on Beaver makes whisky, and nobody runs it from Canada— it's those Cheboygan men who run it! And they hide up on one of the islands here until they can sneak it in to Ed Julot over at Harbor Springs for the summer resorters to buy— and then everybody blames the Beaver men! Look after that fish, or it'll burn— quick, it's in the fire! I'll get the coffee and bread." The girl was up and gone for her supplies.

HARDROCK rescued the planked whitefish from the encroaching blaze, smiling to himself as he did so, over the utterance of the indignant Nelly. He could appreciate her point of view and could even sympathize with it.. There was something whimsically just about one half-crippled man being allowed a monopoly on moonshine liquor, by common consent, for his support.

"Thank heaven I'm no prohibition-enforcer!'' reflected Hardrock. "I expect she's hit it right, however, as regards the runners who supply the resort towns from Mackinac to Traverse with booze. These islands are ideally located for their purpose, and the pretense of being honest fishermen— hm! By hemlock, I've got the answer to the whole thing! But not a word of it to her. No wonder those fellows opened fire, and shot to kill, when they saw their fish-trap being robbed! But I'd better go mighty slow until I'm sure. There's nothing on which to hang any legal peg, so far."

Even though the girl's theory was right, even though he found the men who used this black-and-white flag, any accumulation of legal evidence as to the shooting was distinctly improbable. Hardrock recognized this clearly. At the same time, he felt confident that he had hit upon one solution of the whole enigma— a solution which promised to be highly interesting, even more so than writing a textbook for mining engineers.

Planked whitefish, fresh from the lake, and coffee, and thick bread; and over the bread, the rich juice of the eternal mulligan, made this time from the white small-mouth bass that swam around the wreck down the shore. Thus the two dined together, not gracefully but well, and by tacit consent avoided the matter of their early talk.

Instead, Hardrock spoke of Danny Gallagher and Arizona, and the mines, and gradually fell silent and brought the girl to speak of herself and her life down State, where she had these two years taught school, and the world outside this narrow horizon of the Beavers. Two on an island together— and time was not.

"I stayed in St. James the other night for the dance," said Hardrock, filling his pipe for the third time, "hoping you were there. I knew you down in Arizona, you see."

"In Arizona?" Her level blue eyes searched his face, perplexed.

"Sure. Danny Gallagher had some pictures that were sent him. One was of you, standing on a wharf—"

"Oh!" exclaimed the girl. "Why, Hughie took that last summer—"

"You haven't changed. How'd you like to see Arizona?"

She looked at him, met his gravely steady gaze—then sprang suddenly to her feet and stood looking out at the point. Hardrock caught the deliberate thud-thud of an exhaust, then saw the big launch turning the point. He rose.

"Father's not in her— yes, he's lying in the bow!" she exclaimed. Hughie Dunlevy, at the tiller of the launch, waved his hand to her and lifted his strong voice as the launch rounded in toward the sandy stretch. "Come aboard, Nelly! Get anything you want to bring—come quick! Your dad's hurt."

The launch sputtered; her engine died; and she came to a halt with her nose on the sand a dozen feet from shore. The girl made a hesitant movement; then Hard- rock caught her up in his arms and waded out to the launch. Dunlevy and the two other men took her from him. In the bow lay Matt Big Mary, eyes closed.

"Badly hurt?" asked Hardrock, as his eyes met the hard gaze of Hughie Dunlevy.

"No. Knee dislocated, I guess; we'll run him home. Got caught in a line and fell over the engine. You been to St. James already?"

"Yes." Hardrock's gray eyes narrowed. "You'll find news waiting for you. Two your friends shot up— one dead. Whisky-runners did it, some one said; nobody knows for sure, though."

Dunlevy looked startled, then waved his hand.

"All right. You been havin' a good time here, I see. So long. When I come back, you'll be singin' another tune."

"I'll expect you," said Hardrock, and smiled.

The engine sputtered into life; the launch was shoved out, circled in a wide arc, and headed south, with Nelly Callahan crouched over the figure of her father. Once she looked back, lifted an arm, waved it in farewell to the man on the shore, as though in token of an unquenched spirit.

"She's all right," said Hardrock to himself. "Independent— not afraid of 'em. No need to worry about her; real woman all through!"

He turned to the deserted camp, got the dishes attended to, left everything ship-shape, kicked out the fire-embers, and then made his way through the brush along the point of land at this northwest tip of the island. Here, where the bushes thinned out and the land ran out in little islets, he sank down under cover of the greenery, filled and lighted his pipe, and lay motionless, watching the empty waters to north and west and south. Safely tucked away in his pocket was the little black-and-white pennant of painted canvas.

Now as he watched the sun glinting on the waves between the point and Garden Island, where his motorboat had gone down, he reconstructed in the light of his present knowledge what had taken place there yesterday morning. He was quite certain, now, that he recalled seeing that little pennant of canvas sticking out from the water. Those two recklessly pursuing men from St. James must have seen it also, as they drove down upon him. Then, when he had vanished in the rain to leeward, when after his two shots they probably thought him dead or drowning, they had put back for that fish-trap flag.

Why?

Not because it marked a fish-trap alone, but because it marked something else of which they knew. And, drawing down upon that little flag, had been a third craft, unsuspected in the obscurity.

"They broke off the flag, were probably fishing up the trap, when the other chaps appeared and opened fire. Then what? The chances are a thousand to one that the murderers didn't wait to get what they had come for. One doesn't shoot down a couple of men and then stick around long. Besides, the flag was gone, and there were heavy rollers running, and the sheets of rain obscured everything. They couldn't hope to find the trap again in all that muck; they'd have to go away and come back in good weather, when they might locate the spot by means of landmarks and bearings from shore. Therefore, if my theory is correct, if they're really whisky runners and that little flag marked a stock of whisky as well as a fish-trap— all I have to do is to wait. No boat has been up this way all morning. Either I'd have seen it, or Nelly would have seen it and remembered about it."

Conviction grew upon him that he had the right steer by the tail. Fishermen would not be apt to open deadly fire, even if they caught other men robbing their traps; but liquor-runners take no chances.

Again he was impressed with the absolutely ideal situation of the islands— many, like that on which he now lay, uninhabited. East-coast fishermen could bring in the stuff from the Canadian side and plant it, and go away again. Other fishermen from the adjacent mainland, from the upper peninsula, from the Wisconsin shore, could come and get it. Who would suspect? And if anyone did suspect, as Nelly Callahan had said, the island men would get the blame. The Beavers had a reputation for turbulency which was less justified than forced upon them.

The afternoon hours waned, and the sun sank, and nothing happened. Nothing broke the horizon save the big green-and-white fishboat belonging to the three Danes, coming in from the north and heading for the settlement on Garden Island, with a swarm of gulls wheeling and trailing behind her to tell of fish being gutted and nets being washed.

She vanished, and Hardrock rose stiffly, went to his canoe, shoved out and paddled around the point. He sought his own camp and found it undisturbed. As he rolled up in his blankets that evening, it came to him that he had not yet settled matters with Matt Big Mary.

"Good thing!" he murmured. "But I wonder— was he worse hurt than they said? That yarn didn't sound very plausible about his falling over the engine— hhm! Should have thought of that before. I don't like that fellow Hughie Dunlevy. No matter. Tomorrow's Sunday, and I'll keep quiet— and watch. Good night, Nelly Callahan, and pleasant dreams!'' He fell asleep, smiling.

6

SUNDAY on Beaver Island was theoretically a day of devotion. Not even the mailboat came over from Charlevoix, since there were no fish-boxes to be transported. It was a day for visiting, for going to the church down the highway three miles from St. James, for eating and drinking and talking. The only man on the island who went his way regardless was old Cap'n Fallows, who was a socialist and proud of it; but as the old skipper had been here thirty years and was by this time related to everyone else, he was regarded with unusual tolerance— a shining bad example of a godless old man, happy in his iniquity and glorying in his lonesome politics. Also, the Cap'n was something of a doctor, after a fashion. He was in demand this Sunday.

Marty Biddy Basset was dead and buried that day, and Owen John had gone to Charlevoix on the mailboat, talking in his fever but talking no sense; but down the island by the old Russian baron's farm lay Matt Big Mary Callahan, with a hurt leg and a hurt head.

Matt had been struck by a big pile and had fallen over the engine of the boat, and would not walk again for two days, so he had gone home to the farm and Cap'n Fallows was doctoring him with liniment and talk on the rights of man. There was much to talk about, and there was a gathering at the store all day long, while out at Jimmy Basset's farm the keg of white liquor grew lower every hour.

The Bassets and Dunlevys were taking counsel here and there, the older heads advising patience, the younger heads listening to Hughie Dunlevy and his brother Connie, who was badly bruised but not seriously hurt.

Connie was two years younger than Hughie, and if not so strong, was just about as hard to kill. It was true enough that Vesty Gallagher spoke a word to the priest; and the priest, who was the only man obeyed by other men on Beaver Island, passed along the word. Thus it came about that Hardrock Callahan was accepted as neither a revenue man nor an enemy, and his affair with the Dunlevy brothers was taken for what it was— a private matter.

Hughie Dunlevy heard of this, and moved cautiously and spoke softly; but with his brother Connie and four other lads he was neither cautious nor soft. He and they gathered in Jimmy Basset's kitchen that evening and went into the affair at length.

Among the six of them it was not hard to guess close to the truth. Connie Dunlevy knew that Marty Biddy and Owen John had gone out in the launch to catch Hardrock; nobody else knew this, but he knew it, for he had sent them. And he knew that they, like himself, had been up and raising deviltry all that Thursday night, and like himself had been in liquor.

"They had no guns," he swore solemnly to Hughie and the other four. "What would they be havin' guns for, now? It was this felly Hardrock that had a shotgun anyhow, and likely carried a pistol."

"He told me," said Hughie, stirring his hot one, "that it was whisky-runners had shot up the lads."

"How'd he know that?" demanded Jimmy Basset.

"If they sunk his boat and he shot 'em, it's hangin' he needs. He told ye the tale of whisky-runners, Hughie, for a blind."

"Most like he did," agreed Hughie. "We'll have no outlanders comin' in here and murderin' poor helpless lads like them! What story was told on the mainland about it?"

A cousin of the dead man spoke up, his face black and gloomy.

"It was told they had put a box of cartridges into the stove by mistake. Irene Dunlevy is a nurse in the hospital yonder, and Owen John's father did go over wid him, so there'd be no chance of Owen's talkin' to outside ears."

"Then the matter's up to us to settle?"

"It is that. There'll be no officers pokin' their heads into the island."

Hughie sipped his hot one reflectively. They looked to him for leadership, and he was not backward in accepting the guidon; at the same time, he was not going to rush headlong into trouble. There had been altogether too much trouble of late, and any rash actions that would compel the law to make an investigation would make everybody on the islands irritated with Hughie Dunlevy.

"We'll tend to him," said Hughie. "We'll give him a dose that'll send him away where he come from. I got a little score of my own to be settlin' wid him."

"So I hear," said one, and there was a snicker. "What'd he hit ye wid, Hughie?"

"Blessed if I know, but he'll not do it again! You felleys go easy wid your talk, now. We got other things to mind besides him. I'm goin' to cut loose every fish-trap up and down the shores that aint ours, and if we meet them Cheboygan or Manistique lads, we'll make 'em like it."

"That's the stuff, Hughie!" came the chorus of affirmation.

Now Jimmy Basset spoke up, as he limped over to the stove and refilled the kettle.

"After church this mornin' I was talkin' a bit wid Matz Larsen. Ye know that little point where his wharf and fish-sheds are, on the Garden Island shore up beyond his place? He was tellin' me that on Thursday mornin' at the break o' the storm, him and his boys were mendin' nets when they seen a strange boat off the island, cruisin' about."

"Eh?" Hughie's eyes narrowed. sort o' boat was it?"

"Green wid a red stripe around the house. A stranger. Up from Ludington, maybe, or one o' them ports. It was no Cheboygan boat; that's certain."

"Well,"— and Hughie stood up,— "it's time I was off, for I've a date. We'll go over to Hog Island tomorry night and attend to the lad from Arizona. We'll take my big open boat that the resorters use for fishin'-parties. Jimmy, fetch a quart along to cheer us up. I'll have the boat ready as soon as it's dark."

"Then put lights aboard her," said Connie Dunlevy, "for the coast-guard has been raisin' hell wid the lads for carryin' no lights."

Hughie laughed at that, and swung away. It was little he cared for the coast-guard.

So with all this keeping the island busy, and no boats putting out that Sunday, and the wind in the east so the tourists could make up no fishing-parties, there was none to notice the small launch that came drifting up the channel toward sunset, past the length of the island, with a man standing in her and waving his shirt as a signal for help.

The coast-guard might have seen her, but it was dark before she came within sight of the point, and then the channel current carried her out and on past Pismire Island. So she went on drifting up between Garden and Hog, and no lights on her, and not a soul knew of her being around. It was well they did not, for if they had seen her and had seen the man who was aboard her, there would have been some tall talk.

It was Hardrock Callahan who heard the man yell. Hardrock had been down the island shore in his canoe that afternoon, having grown tired of waiting for boats that did not come, and had been pulling bass from around the wreck in Belmore Bay.

He kept nothing under three pounds, and he had sixteen on his string when night came, and stayed to make it twenty.

He was paddling up for the end of the island in the darkness when he heard a long shout and then another one coming from the water, and started out to see who was there. When he sang out and got answered, he paddled up toward the launch.

"Engine's broke down and my gas has leaked out," called the man in the launch. "I left Charlevoix this morning and have been drifting up the channel all afternoon. Can you give me a lift?"

"You bet," said Hardrock, coming along- side. "No oars aboard?"

"Nary a sign. What you got there, a canoe? You can't pull the launch with that."

"You climb aboard and take my other paddle," said Hardrock, "and save your breath to work with. Got any grub? No? Then we'll get around to my camp and fry some of these bass, and in about an hour you wont give a cuss whether you get home tonight or not."

The other laughed, transferred skillfully to the canoe, and after making fast a line to the launch, they set out. Neither man spoke as they slowly worked the dragging launch ahead, got her around the point, and then down the north shore to Hardrock's camp.

"Here we are," said Hardrock as he headed in. "You might get some of those bass cleaned while I get the fire started and the skillet hot. Coffee, too. We can attend to your launch afterward. Better pull her up out of sight."

"Why?" queried the other man.

"Tell you later."

THE two men observed a mutual reticence until, half an hour afterward, they were sitting down to their meal. Then the stranger, who was a grizzled, roughly dressed man with a pair of keen eyes above a draggled mustache, grinned across the fire and put out his hand.

"My name's Fulsom, and I sure owe you a heap o' thanks."

"Callahan's mine— Hardrock Callahan."

As they gripped, Hardrock noticed that Fulsom looked startled, but no comment was exchanged. Both men were too hun gry to indulge in needless talk.

Not until the last scrap of bass was cleaned up and the coffee-pot was empty, and pipes were lighted, did Hardrock learn who his visitor was. Then Fulsom, puffing soberly, eyed him for a moment and spoke.

"Hardrock, I'm mighty sorry 'bout all this. Looks to me like luck was playing hard for both of us. You don't know what I come over here for?"

"Y'm not a mind-reader," Hardrock chuckled.

Fulsom threw back his vest to show a badge pinned to his shirt. "I'm the Sheriff o' this county, and the main reason I come over here today was to sort of pry around a bit. You aint an island man— I know 'em all. I've knowed 'em for twenty year more or less. Reckon you've heard of the killing the other day?"

Hardrock nodded reflectively. He liked this sheriff— read the man for straight and square and unafraid. None the less, in the keen probing of those eyes he read danger.

"Yes. Heard about it yesterday in St. James."

Fulsom puffed, spat into the fire, and asked a question. "Know anything about it?"

Despite the careless tone, despite the offhand manner of the speaker, Hardrock sensed something beneath the surface. He was astonished by the manner in which he had met Fulsom; yet he was not astonished that the sheriff had appeared. Fiction to the contrary, every abnormal detail of life in civilized communities involves a consequence; for what we call civilization is simply the ways of men set in a groove, and any departure from that groove brings investigation. With this intangible flash of mind to mind, with this singular "feel" that something unsaid lay behind that question, Hardrock considered briefly and then an- swered it in utmost frankness.

"Sheriff, if I told you all I knew or thought about it, the chances are that you'd arrest me."

Fulsom gave him a glance, and grinned. "I'd have a hell of a job doin' it, wouldn't I— not to mention gettin' you off to jail?"

Hardrock broke into a laugh. 'Good for you! Here's what I know."

And he told what had happened to him since arriving on Beaver Island.

SHERRIF FULSOM listened to the story without a word, puffing as methodically after his pipe had smoked out as before; he sat like an image of bronze, giving no sign of what was passing in his mind. With such a man Hardrock was at his ease, for he knew now that he might expect some measure of justice, and not hasty jumping at conclusions for the sake of political prestige.

"You got your nerve to tell me all this," said Fulsom, when he had finished. Hardrock knocked out his pipe and filled it anew. "No witnesses present. Besides, I figure you as square."

"That's the hell of it— I got to be square all around. You're under arrest for that shootin', Hardrock Callahan."

"Eh?" Hardrock stared, for the Sheriff had not moved an inch. "You're in earnest?"

"Yep, so far as it goes." Fulsom wiped his mustache and chuckled. "Got to do it. I been nosing around the hospital, and heard that wounded man talkin' in his fever. Mentioned your name. Now, I'm right well acquainted with the Beavers— too durned well acquainted to come over here on business without a posse, unless I come alone. These lads over here may have their faults, but they're men clear through. If I come over alone, I get a square deal. If I come with a posse, I'm liable to get most anything. Well, now, I come over to look you up and' see what I could learn. And, from hearin' your story, looks like it's my duty to arrest you. Any law officer would have to do it on the evidence."

"All right," said Hardrock whimsically. "Then what? You can't prove my story."

"Nope. All I figure on is doin' my duty and breakin' square with all concerned. Now, you're arrested, and charged with murder. You're in my custody. You and me understand each other, I guess. I don't believe for a minute that things aint exactly as you've told 'em to me, and I figure to stay right here a spell and help you work 'em out. Let's see that there fish-flag."

Hardrock dived into the tent and looked up the bit of canvas. In his heart he felt a queer sense of relief, a dropping away of all oppression. This officer was not to be feared. He was under arrest, and if nothing turned up, he would have to stand trial, and the evidence was bound to be bad— yet Fulsom was square, and this counted for everything.

"I'm mighty glad we met up," he said as he came back to the fire. "And I reckon we do understand each other, Sheriff. Here's the flag. Know it?"

The Sheriff gave it a glance, then laid it down.

"Yep. Belongs to Johnson Brothers of Ludington. But they ain't fished up around these parts— aint fished at all since last year. Sold out, lock stock an' barrel, to some fellows from Escanaba, I heard, who were carrying on the business. Now, either those fellows are running nets up this way, which I don't hardly think is so, or else it's like you say— they're running something else for bigger money. S'pose you and me go out early in your canoe and look for that fish-trap. Eh?"

"You're on," said Hardrock cheerfully.

7

THE boats went out Monday morning, went out early. They went out from the St. James harbor and from the scattered holdings on the other islands, boats of Indians and white men, out to the fishing grounds where lacy gill-nets and hidden trap-nets and long bloater lines and other legal and illegal methods of obtaining the finny prey were put into effect. Boats bobbed here and there against the horizon of island or sea or reef, and engines whirred as the lifters brought the nets aboard, while trout and whitefish and perch went tumbling down into the tubs. There was heavy work to be done, since the fish must be all cleaned and boxed and in to St. James to make that afternoon's mailboat.

All that morning Hardrock's canoe bobbed here and there off the end of Hog Island, with a drag out from bow and stern, countering back and forth. It was too shallow hereabout for the big fish, and the waters looked all deserted, with only a sparkling flash of gulls off the blue line that marked the north end of Garden to show that a boat was working there beneath the horizon.

Back and forth they went, and found nothing, though they searched hard enough for any sign of the black ropes that might mark a trap. Nothing came near them on the water, excepting a covey of young ducks that bore down and then wheeled and went flashing away through the waves in a hurry.

With noon, they returned to camp, where the Sheriff's launch was drawn safely out of sight among the bushes down the shore, and lunched leisurely, and then returned again to the search.

It was nearly three o'clock when at last they found the trap, and then only by accident, for one of the drags picked up the mooring line, and Hardrock hauled the canoe along this until the dim mass of the trap itself was under the canoe. Fulsom came to his assistance, since it was no light task to haul in the heavy lines without tipping the canoe, and together they got it to the surface. They could see perch in it, and big bullheads from the mud bottom,  and one lordly yellow sunfish, but no whisky.

"Hold on!" exclaimed Fulsom, who knew more about traps than did Hardrock. "Hold her till I get a grip on that mooring-line! Now let go, and catch hold." Now they tugged at the line, and bit by bit worked loose the anchor down below, and after a time got it on the up-heave. Hardrock was leaning far over on the line, depending on Sheriff Fulsom to balance the canoe, and giving his entire attention to the rope below him. This came heaving up soggily from the depths, and presently disclosed another line knotted around it and hanging straight down.

"Thought so!" came the exultant voice of Fulsom. "Haul in on the short line, now—"

IN another moment the end of this came into sight, and showed a firmly lashed case of liquor. Hardrock glanced up over his shoulder.

"Want it aboard?"

"If we can get it, yes. No telling how many more cases there are, but we'll have to leave 'em for the present. We'll see what this is—make sure of it. Looks to me like you needn't worry about that murder charge any more. Better move lively, too. Looks like a boat is heading this way from Beaver. Left my binoculars in camp, so I can't tell much."

Hardrock could not pause to look—he got the box in under the canoe, then came the ticklish matter of swinging it aboard. This was finally accomplished, though at imminent danger of capsizing the frail craft; then he straightened up for a look at the approaching boat. It was still half a mile distant, and bearing up between the islands as though heading for them.

"Better get in to shore," said Fulsom. "I aint anxious to be recognized around here until it's necessary, the way things are now. Looks like we got some Canadian Club here, all right—we'll open her up and make sure. Set that extry paddle in the trap to mark her before we go."

Hardrock nodded and made fast the paddle so that it floated on the line from which the whisky-case had been cut, then he headed the canoe for the point and pushed her hard. Whether that boat was heading for them or not, he meant to take no chances. In ten minutes he was cutting through the shallows inside the point and was out of sight of the boat.

When they came to camp, they speedily lifted the canoe ashore and in among the trees. Then Fulsom, obtaining Hardrock Callahan's woods hatchet, began to pry at the lid of the whisky-case.

"Aren't you tampering with evidence?" said Hardrock, chuckling.

"Who, me? I ain't no prohibition officer," returned the Sheriff dryly. "No sir, I never voted for no prohibition, but I aim to do my duty. First thing is to find out if this stuff is whisky or not. Can't tell by the box, can't tell by the label—"

"The only way is to taste it, eh?" laughed Hardrock. "All right, I'm with you, and will give expert testimony. Go to it! We can't afford to make any mistakes; that's sure."

The case opened, Fulsom produced a bottle, unhurt by its immersion, and attacked the cork. When this was out, he handed the bottle to his nominal prisoner.

"Let's have your verdict, Hardrock!"

The latter tasted the contents, and grimaced. "It's the stuff," he returned, handing back the bottle.

The Sheriff promptly tilted it, and held it tilted until his breath was gone. Then, gasping, he lowered it, and replaced the cork.

"Gosh, that's good!" he observed. "Wisht I could keep the whole bottle."

"Go ahead."

"Nope." He slid it back into the case. "TI could sort of ease my conscience by havin' an excuse for one drink to make certain what the stuff was. And I sure made that drink a good one! But any more'd be stealin' evidence, which I don't aim to do. S'pose you slip out to the shore and keep an eye on that there boat. Maybe she's the one we're lookin' for. I'll lay up out o' sight till I see who it is."

SMILING to himself at the odd conceit of the Sheriff, whose regretful devotion to duty was indubitably sincere, Hardrock left the cover of the trees and returned to his clearing. He was just in time to see the launch which they had observed come circling around the point and head in.

To his astonishment, he saw the figure of Nelly Callahan standing in the bow, while another figure aft was tending the engine. The girl waved to him eagerly, while her companion, a young fellow no more than a boy, shut off the engine and let the boat run in until her nose touched the sand.

By the flush of excitement in the girl's face, Hardrock guessed that she carried news of some kind. She jumped ashore, then turned and waved her hand at the boy.

"Hardrock, this is Tom Boyle Gallagher's boy Micky— Vesty Gallagher was sending him over to find you, so I came along to bring the message myself. I knew more about it than Vesty did, anyway, because I heard Hughie Dunlevy talking to Father last night—"

"All right," cut in Hardrock. 'Wait just a minute, will you? Come ashore, Micky. Got any gasoline aboard?"

"Ten gallon in the tank still," said the boy, grinning.

"Know anything about engines?"

"He knows all about 'em," broke in the girl.

"Why?"

"I have a launch down the shore that I'd like to have him look over. She's down by that clump of sumach, Micky, drawn up. See if you can find the trouble, will you? We may have to put her into the water."

"Sure," and Micky started off.

Hardrock turned to the girl, smiling. "Excuse me for the interruption, but I had a bit of news too, and didn't want him to overhear. Now come and sit down and tell me what's on your mind."

They sat down together on a fallen log at the edge of the clearing, and Hardrock got his pipe alight.

"Two things," said the girl, "or maybe three," and she laughed. "First, Hughie and some of his friends are coming over here tonight. I heard him tell Father they meant to drive you away, and send you back to Arizona."

Hardrock, thinking of the Sheriff among the trees, broke into a hearty laugh.

"Go on," he said after a minute. "Go on! What next?"

"Isn't that enough? Vesty got wind of it, and sent Micky off to warn you. There's no telling what they'll do, really— and it's nothing to laugh about!"

"It will be, I promise you," and Hardrock chuckled. "Not for them to laugh about, though. Don't mention it to anyone, for he doesn't want it known— but Sheriff Fulsom is over there in the trees now. It's his launch that is down the shore. I picked him up last night— he was drifting up the channel, disabled and out of gas. He and I are working on this business, and we've already proved my ideas right by finding that fish-trap and a case of whisky with it. There are other cases at the same spot, probably."

She stared at him, wide-eyed.

"Oh, good!" she exclaimed.

"And I don't forget that I owe the tip to you, either," he went on. "Well, what next?"

"Hughie thinks that you did the shooting, but he isn't sure. He told Father that a strange launch had been seen around here— a green boat with a red stripe running around the house. A fishboat. I thought right away that it might be the one—"

"Good for you, Nelly Callahan! I'll bet a dollar she's the one we're looking for. Any further news from the chap who went over to the hospital?"

"He's still between life and death, they said."

"Looks bad. Well, what else is on your mind?"

She looked down at the sand, stirred a branch of ground-cedar with her foot, colored faintly. Then her eyes, direct and searching, lifted suddenly to meet his gaze. "Nothing."

Hardrock frowned. "Something you don't want to tell me, you mean?"

"Yes. Please don't ask."

FOR a moment Hardrock looked into the troubled depths of her eyes, and the answer came to him. He remembered his talk with her father; he could make a shrewd guess at about what that sort of a man would do and say to the girl.

"All right, I won't," he said abruptly. "You remember what we were talking about when the boat came along and you had to jump in and go? About Arizona, and you, and Danny's picture of you. That's why I came up here to the Beavers, Nelly. Now let's not have any discussion of the question. I don't want to know what your father said, or how he may have reported what I said to him. The facts are that I came here because I had seen your picture, and now that I've met you, I'm going to stay here for a while. I told your father so, and it's nothing to be ashamed of. Here's Micky coming back, so let's drop the subject until a better time. I'll be taking you to the dance Thursday night, as the boys say. What's the good word, Micky?"

The grease-smeared lad grinned widely.

"Ye can't run an engine without a spark, can ye? Sure, she's all right—I've got some extry batteries here and can fix her up in no time."

"But that wont fix the leaky gas tank." Hardrock looked at the boy's boat— an open launch of no great size. "See here, Micky! Could you run off some gas into that big tin can aboard your boat, and siphon that into the carburetor, and run my launch into the harbor? If you can, there's a ten-dollar bill for you. Leave your boat here and I'll rent it until you can get my tank soldered up."

"You bet!' exclaimed the youth eagerly. "Half an hour and I'll have her in shape. You going back with me, Nelly?"

"Yes, and hurry up," said the girl. "We don't want to be out all day and night."

Between them, Hardrock and Micky got the Sheriff's launch back into the water, and the boy fell to work. There was no occasion to construct a siphoning arrangement, for he discovered that the leak lay in the piping connections, and stopped it temporarily with some soap. When he had run five gallons of gasoline into the tank and turned over the engine, it functioned perfectly.

"Hop in, Nelly!" he sang out. "We'll get back 'fore dark."

"Thank you for coming over, dear girl," said Hardrock, as he gave Nelly a hand and helped her into the boat. "If I don't come around before then, I'll see you Thursday night. Good-by, and good luck!"

"Good-by," she answered quietly. Then, as the boat circled out from shore, he saw her turn a laughing face, and lift her fingers to her lips, blowing him a kiss. For a moment he stood astounded, then a laugh broke from him, and a long shout.

"I  may not wait until Thursday—after that!"  he called, and she waved her hand in farewell. Then the launch was drawing around for the point, and passed from sight.

Sheriff Fulsom appeared from the bushes, and he regarded Hardrock with twinkling eyes.

"Gosh, ye look right happy over something!" he commented dryly. "Say, this was a good job ye done, too— got us a launch all shipshape! They'll recognize my launch over to St. James, but no matter. Nobody'll see it until tomorrow anyhow."

"You heard what she told me?" demanded Hardrock.

The Sheriff nodded. "Yep. I don't know that boat, but no matter. She's our meat, I reckon, if she'll only come and pick up that shipment o' case goods! But what about them fellows coming over here tonight?"

His shrewd gaze inspected Hardrock gayly. "Looks to me like you and Dunlevy are bound to fight it out, young fellow!"

Hardrock chuckled. "We should worry about what happens tonight. I'm your prisoner and if you don't protect me— Hello! Sheriff, where are your binoculars? Get 'em!"

"Gone with my launch, durn you! Why? What you lookin' at?"

Hardrock, who was staring out to the northeast, drew back from the shore.

"Looks to me like our boat— see her? Green, sure enough; can't tell about the red stripe. Get back out of sight, Fulsom. Here— help run this launch up a little first! Move sharp. They mustn't suspect anyone is here. Can you make her out?"

"Yep. That's her," affirmed Fulsom confidently. "Go get your shotgun, Hardrock."

8

THE round ball of the sun was hanging low above the purple line of Garden Island in the west, and the breeze was down until there was hardly a ripple on the water. From cover of bushes along the point, Hardrock and Fulsom watched that green fishboat, a red stripe running broadly around her, spin past the point and round it, and head for the floating paddle that marked the whisky-cache.

"She's fast," said the Sheriff appraisingly. "Built for the work. She came up from the south, all right, followed the channel through past Gray's Reef as though going to the straits, then cut straight west and headed here. She wasn't taking any chances by coming up past Beaver."

"What's your program?" demanded Hardrock.

"Get out in that launch, and get quick. You got your shotgun, I've got my pistol. She'll let us come alongside, and we'll grab her, that's all. No time to waste. You're my deputy— swear!"

"I swear," said Hardrock, and laughed. "Making a prisoner into a deputy—"

"Oh hell, shove along! We got to move fast. I aim to catch her with the goods."

They hurried back along the shore and ran out the open launch. Fulsom gave his automatic pistol to Hardock, took the shotgun, and scrambled into the bow. "You tend the engine. We'll get 'em back here and put 'em through the third degree separate. Don't say a word about the murder. Leave me to handle it."

"With pleasure." ue engine spat and coughed and puffed, and presently they were slipping out past the long point. The green fishboat had halted at the fish-trap. She was a boat of fair size, housed over except for foredeck, after-deck, and a narrow strip along the sides. The after end of this house was wide open. Forward on each side were wide openings where the lifter brought in nets and fish.

Just now, however, two men were at work forward in the bow, hauling in better prey than fish. Several cases were piled up, and they were getting another case aboard. A third man appeared in the stern, stared at the launch, and called to his companions. All three turned, watching her. Hardrock headed as though to bear up past them for Beaver Island and waved his hand, to which they made no response. The man from aft had ducked out of sight, reappearing on the foredeck with the others. As Fulsom was apparently at work on something and not interested, the whisky-runners evinced no alarm.

Then, when he was opposite their boat and a hundred feet distant, Hardrock shoved the tiller hard down and swung in toward her. One of the three waved his arm and shouted:

"Git away! Sheer off! We don't want no visitors."

Sheriff Fulsom straightened up, pointed down, and shouted something indistinguishable. Hardrock held on his course. Again  the leader of the three waved them off, this time with added oaths. Fulsom grinned.

"Got something to show ye! Look here— look at this!" The Sheriff leaned forward as though to drag something up to sight, then came up with the shotgun leveled. The other boat was now not thirty feet distant. "Stand quiet and put your hands up! You're under arrest. Hands up, durn ye!"

The whisky-runners were caught entirely unawares. This boat, obviously an island boat, with only two men in her, had been unsuspected; while to lake-farers any talk of arrest among the Beavers was in itself ludicrous. There was nothing ludicrous about Fulsom or the way he handled his shotgun, however, and after one surprised oath the astonished and dismayed trio put up their hands.

"Run her alongside," said the Sheriff to Hardrock. 'Then go aboard and disarm em. Go through her for guns. You three gents roost high and quiet, or Í'll blow daylight into ye."

"What's this for, anyhow?" demanded the leader."

He was a big, lantern-jawed fellow marked with a scar across his cheek. His two comrades were swarthy men, whom Hardrock took to be Greeks or kindred foreigners. "Who are you, holdin' us up this way?"

"Sheriff," and Fulsom put up one hand to display his star. "All right, Hardrock." As the two craft came into each other, Hardrock jumped aboard the larger boat and made fast a line.

The sight of the officer's badge had disconcerted the trio, and they offered only sullen curses as he swiftly went through them. From two of them he removed heavy automatics, which he tossed into his own craft. The third man was unarmed.

Crawling through the forward opening of the deck-house, Hardrock paused in surprise. There was no lifter in sight, no nets were aboard, nor fish. Under him was a pile of a dozen whisky-cases, the white wood all brown and soggy with water, which had evidently been picked up at some other point in the course of the afternoon. A quick search sufficed to show that no rifles or other weapons were in evidence, and he returned to the foredeck.

"Nothing aboard but whisky, Sheriff, and plenty of that," he called. "They loaded another cache aboard before coming here."

"Right thoughtful of 'em," said Fulsom grimly, and moved back into the stern, after tossing the captured weapons ahead of him.

"You three birds hop down into the bow, here. Come along, now, and no talk."

"Can't we fix this up, Sheriff?" demanded the leader. "We got some money—"

"Now I'll soak you for attempted bribery," snapped Fulsom. "Git down!"

CURSING anew, the scar-faced leader got into the bow of the open launch, and his two comrades followed him. Fulsom looked up at Hardrock.

"Cast off that anchor in her bows and make sure the line's fast. Give her the len'th. Good holdin' ground here, and she'll drift in toward the shore and set pretty. No wind comin' up tonight, anyhow. I got two pair o' handcuffs at camp, and when we get these birds fixed up and have supper, we can figger what to do next."

The three "birds" looked decidedly unhappy. The two Greeks began to talk in their own language, until the Sheriff peremptorily shut them up.

Hardrock, meantime, dumped the big anchor over the bows of the green fishboat, watched the line run out until it drew taut, and then climbed back into his own borrowed craft. The sun was just sinking from sight.

"Back to camp?" he asked, and Fulsom nodded assent.

The engine started up, and the boat circled out for the point, the Sheriff standing amidships with his shotgun ready.

The three prisoners, crowded on the bow thwart, showed no symptoms of putting up any fight, however.

"Simplest thing on earth," said Fulsom calmly, "is to handcuff a gent with his arms around a sapling. We'll do that with two of these birds, and interview the third— give 'em turn and turn about at it. And we'll keep 'em at far separated trees. And no supper. Make 'em talk better, hun— "

As they were perhaps meant to do, these words reached and stung the trio. After a rapid-fire exchange of Greek, the leader turned around.

"This aint legal!" he exclaimed savagely. "You aint got no warrant—"

"I got a shotgun," said the Sheriff, a cold glint in his eyes, "and you'll taste it if you get gay. So turn around there and set easy. We aint ready for you to talk yet awhile."

The boat was around the point and heading in for the shore. Hardrock, one hand on the tiller, swept her directly in toward the clearing, threw out the clutch, and after a moment threw it into reverse. With hardly a jar, the prow of the boat came into the ground a couple of feet from shore, weighted down as it was by the three prisoners.

"Now, then," ordered Fulsom, "you birds hop out and draw her up. Don't any of you make a break, or I'll pepper your hides!"

THE big leader, with a growled oath, obeyed the order. There was no sand at the water's edge, the beach being composed of small stones, which farther back ran into sand. The two Greeks likewise got out. The leader took the prow, each of the Greeks seized the gunnel, and they drew up the launch until the bow was on the shingle.

"Now you, Hardrock," commanded the Sheriff. "Never mind the guns— I'll 'tend to 'em. Run over to my pile of stuff and fetch the handcuffs, will you?"

"Sure."

Hardrock stepped past the Sheriff and jumped ashore.

At the same instant, the big leader stooped; and the two Greeks shoved outward on the boat with all their power. Fulsom, caught unawares by the tremendous lurch of the boat, lost his balance, dropped the shotgun, and reeled for an instant.

The leader hurled a chunk of rock that struck the staggering man squarely in the side of the head and sent him down like a shot. The whole thing passed off swiftly, neatly, with increditable precision and accuracy.

Even as Hardrock whirled about from his spring, Fulsom was down and the launch was darting out twenty feet from shore. Then he found all three men on top of him.

One of the Greeks came first, and went sprawling in the water as Hardrock's fist met his face. The second Greek lunged in from one side, a knife in his hand, and took a kick under the chin that laid him senseless, but the leader was hurling himself forward and Hardrock could not evade.

Caught in a burly grip, arms locked, both men went down, thrashing.

Even then, had matters been equal, Hardrock would have won out, for with a twist he came up on top and rammed a fist into the scarred face— but just then the first Greek swung a stone that laid the man from Arizona prostrate.

Dazed and almost senseless from the blow, Hardrock keeled over, and before he could recover he was pinned down under both opponents.

"Tie him up!" growled the leader, and two minutes later Hardrock was bound hand and foot, while the Greek stooped over his unconscious comrade and the burly leader stood laughing and panting.

He grinned down at Hardrock.

"So that's what we think of you and your blasted Sheriff!" he declared. "We'll let him float to Mackinac, if he aint dead. By the time he gits back here, we'll sure be on our way. Got a good camp here, aint you? Guess we'll git us a bite to, eat 'fore we bring up our boat and beat it."

For a little, however, the man had his hands full. The groaning Greek, revived by his compatriot, retrieved his knife and flung himself on the bound captive; the leader interfered, and the trees resounded to bellowed oaths and orders and imprecations. Hardrock, helpless to move, watched and listened grimly.

At length the arguments of the leader took effect.

"And ye don't want to be the same damned fools ye were before, do ye?" con cluded the wrathful leader. "We don't want to be trailed for murder! Leave him be. We'll fix him so's he can't hurt us none— and we wont murder him neither. Ye may think ye can pull a stunt like that more'n once, and get away with it; but ye can't. How d'ye know that there Sheriff didn't want ye for the other shootin', hey?"

The sullen Greek acquiesced, put away his knife, and all three men stamped away up to the camp.

Darkness was gathering upon the waters, but Hardrock no longer stared after the rapidly vanishing boat that was drifted off along the shore and toward the open lake. Those words of the leader were dinning in his brain. He knew now who had shot down those two boys from St. James.

9

IT was perhaps five minutes afterward, while some tins of food were being opened, that the three whisky-runners realized they had committed an error. Their leader, whose name appeared to be Marks, was the one who realized it most keenly. He came down to the shore, stared off in the gathering darkness at the boat, now a mere speck in the dusk, and cursed fervently. The shotgun had gone into the lake, and their pistols had all floated away with poor Fulsom.

Hardrock chuckled. "You fellows turn me loose," he offered, "and I'll tell you where there's a boat laid up down the shore."

Marks turned away. "You'll tell more'n that 'fore we're through with you. Shut up!"

The three gathered again about their food, getting a fire lighted and in their clumsy ignorance of the woods heaping on fuel until the yellow flames were leaping high and far. Over such a fire, any cookery was impossible, and Hardrock chuckled at their profane efforts to make coffee without getting the pot too hot to be handled.

He, meantime, while apparently motionless and helpless, was in reality hard at work. He lay, half sitting, against a log between fire and shore, at the clearing's edge, arms bound behind him. He had been tied up with the first thing to hand— bandanna handkerchiefs produced by the Greeks, and had made the gratifying discovery that the material was old and would tear easily. Therefore he was tearing it, against the log at his back, and by the increasing looseness knew that his wrists were nearly free.

Marks conferred at length with his companions, who were obviously taking their orders from him, and presently the two Greeks rose and stamped off into the darkness along the shore, going toward the point. Marks himself rolled a cigarette and came toward Hardrock.

"If you're going to starve me," said the latter, "you might at least starve me on a smoke. Look out your friends don't get lost."

Marks laughed easily. "I'll get you some coffee and a smoke," he replied, "if you'll talk. Will you? Or shall I make you?"

"Sure thing," exclaimed Hardrock. "It's a bargain. And cut me loose."

"Not much," retorted the other, and went back to the fire, where he poured out a tin cup of coffee. Hardrock seized the instant. His arms came free. Swiftly he got a hand into his pocket— thus far, they had not searched him except for weapons— and slid out his pocket knife. His arms again in place behind him, he opened a blade of the knife and waited. One cut at his ankles, and he would be free. Without that cut, he dared take no chances, tempting as the occasion now was.

FOR Marks now came back to him, held the lukewarm coffee to his lips as he drank, then gave him the cigarette and held a match to it. Sitting down and wiping sweat from his face, for it was hot near that big fire, the burly ruffian rolled himself another cigarette. He was almost within arm's reach of Hardrock— yet the latter controlled himself. Until his feet were free he must attempt nothing.

"Now let's have it," said Marks. "I didn't want them two lard-eaters to get wise. What was it the Sheriff wanted to give us the third degree about?"

"About the shooting you fellows pulled off last time you were here."

Marks nodded, a frown darkening his scarred features. Evidently he had anticipated this information.

"Ain't it hell how ye can't make foreigners savvy anything?" he demanded, to the astonishment of Hardrock. "Them two fellers have just one notion o' fighting— to take a gun and kill somebody! I'll have to let 'em go. I can't make 'em savvy that there's a durned sight more danger in a murder charge than in running liquor."

"You mean they're working for you?"

"Yep. The blamed fools run on them Beaver men the other day, found 'em lifting the trap out yonder, and riddled 'em— then let 'em go. That's a fool Greek every time. I wasn't along, doggone it! I was in Escanaba, sick that day, and ye can't get nothin' on me. I got to stand by them fellers, o' course, and get 'em away safe, but I don't like it a mite. This sort o' killing is bad business."

Hardrock laughed curtly. "What about the Sheriff?"

"Oh, him! He's a Sheriff, takin' chances. Same with you— depity, aint ye? Yep. He aint killed, though. He'll drift over in the channel and'll get picked up by a barge. We'll run ye out to Gull Island and leave ye there with some grub. That's decent all around. A fight is one thing, and killin' is another thing. I been running booze a year now, and never had a speck o' trouble before this. Durn them hot-headed Greeks! They've spoiled the best little game this side the Soo."

"Youre sure frank about it," said Hardrock dryly."

"Why not? I want you should understand it; I aint anxious to be follered up for a killin' I didn't do! Bad enough to have my business busted up. Now I got to land this cargo and then go somewheres else. Dog-gone it! I hope they pass them immygration laws an' do it quick. A feller can't make an honest livin' no more, the way these durned foreigners are everywhere."

Hardrock broke out laughing.

Marks surveyed him darkly. "Ye may think it's funny, but I don't. It aint the law so much, neither. It's these durned islanders! They're all over the lakes, them or their relations. If they take the notion it was me responsible for the killin', they'll drive me off the lakes, that's what."

The man's viewpoint was irresistible, and Hardrock laughed the harder, while Marks sucked at his cigarette and glowered angrily. Then came the "chug-chug" of a gas engine, and a low call from the darkness.

Slowly the shape of the green fishboat drifted in upon the shore and then halted as her bows hit the shallows ten feet from the beach.

"They had to swim to get her, anyhow!" exclaimed Marks. "The durned fools needed a bath."

He rose and went past Hardrock to the shore. "Hey, boys! Toss that anchor ashore so's she wont drift off. We'll get away pretty quick, now."

Hardrock moved his arm, and the little blade of the penknife flashed in the firelight as he slashed the bonds about his ankles. He was free, now— but he must let them all get ashore. His only chance, against the three of them, was to get their boat and leave them here. It was a time for strategy, rather than for fighting; so, at least, he thought.

He was to discover his mistake very shortly. The two Greeks came ashore, bearing a line. It appeared that they had cut loose the anchor rather than haul it in.

There ensued a furious storm of oaths from Marks; the two men became ugly, and for a moment it looked as though a row were imminent. Then Marks cooled down, and told them to get some of the supplies from Hardrock's tent aboard the boat.

All three passed up to the tent, none of them observing that the captive was no longer bound.

THIS was the opportunity Hardrock had been praying for, and he gathered his muscles. Once he could shove out that boat and scramble aboard her, he had everything in his own hands! He drew up his feet, saw that the three men were busily engaged with his supplies, and rose—

While he was in the very act of rising, a voice boomed out among the trees at the clearing's edge: "There's Callyhan and his whole crowd— git 'em all, lads! Take 'em!"

Hardrock was already springing for the water, but a figure appeared and blocked him. It was the figure of Hughie Dunlevy. Instantly, Hardrock realized what had happened, and cursed the luck that had brought the Beaver lads here at this moment.

From the brush was going up a crash of feet and wild yells, Marks was bellowing, the Greeks were cursing and fighting— beyond a question, Dunlevy thought that they were part of a gang under the direction of Hardrock Callahan.

There was no time for any explanations. The man from Arizona barely had a chance to check his leap for the water, to spring back and gain balance, when Dunlevy was upon him with a roar of battle-fury and a whirl of fists.

"Ye will murder poor lads, will ye?" he yelled, and struck.

Hardrock ducked the blow and answered it with a smash to the wind that stopped Hughie Dunlevy for an instant. Glancing around, Hardrock was aware of the three whisky-runners by the tent, furiously engaged with four or five other men. He and Dunlevy were for the moment alone. Only a glance— then he was driving at his opponent, hoping still to get out and aboard the boat.

That hope seemed vain. A wild swing caught Hardrock under the jaw and knocked him ten feet away; Dunlevy was after him instantly, leaping high in air to come down upon him boots first. He came down only on the shingle, however; and the man from Arizona, evading a savage kick, reached his feet and began to fight.

Hughie Dunlevy gasped and grunted as the blows smashed into him, while before him in the firelight danced that unhurt face with its blazing eyes and its furious unleashed anger.

For all his tremendous strength, the islander helplessly gave ground, was driven backward, fists driving into him with relentless accuracy. In vain he tried to grapple, to kick, to gouge— each attempt failed and only drew upon him another terrific smash under the heart.

Warmed as he was by white liquor, having great strength in place of stamina, Dunlevy could not stand up under this battering. Never once did Hardrock strike for the face, but drove in fists like hammers that pounded heart and stomach in frightful repetition.

ON the other side of the fire, one Greek was thrashing over the ground with Jimmy Basset pounding him into submission. Connie Dunlevy was down, trying to quench a knife slash that ran from shoulder to elbow. The other three island men were battering Marks, who was badly hurt and groaning as he fought, and the second Greek whose knife flashed crimson in the firelight.

Now Marks gave way and came crashing down, and the snarling Greek reeled as a stone smashed into his face. Hardrock got home to the wind with one direct punch that sent Hughie Dunlevy two steps backward and brought down his hands — drove in another that rocked him, and then set himself deliberately for the finish.

His feet shifting perfectly to keep balance, he now put over a light tap to the mouth, and then laughed.

"How d'ye like it, Hughie? Come and get it, boy, come and get it—"

With a gasping bellow of anguished fury, the other obeyed, rushed blindly into the blow that Hardrock smashed in with full force— a perfect solar-plexus knockout. Dunlevy simply doubled up and rolled to the ground.

Two leaps took Hardrock to the boat. As he splashed through the water, wild yells chorused up behind him, and he glanced around to see dark figures bounding after him.

He set himself against the heavy bow of the boat and shoved— vainly. He could not budge her. Desperate, he gave up the attempt and with a leap was dragging himself over her rail.

Too late! They were upon him, three of them; that effort to shove her off had lost him his fighting chance. Mad with battle-lust and moonshine whisky, they dragged him back and bore him down, all three hurtling in upon him bodily, careless of his blows, so that only they might land blows upon him.

Slipping on the stones, he lost balance, went down, was stamped into the knee-deep water—

That was all he knew, for a time.

Presently, half strangled and exhausted, Hardrock came to himself again. This time he found ankles and arms fast lashed by men who knew how to handle ropes. Beside him lay one of the Greeks, dark features masked by blood, beaten senseless and bound; the other Greek lay farther away, muttering low curses. Hardrock realized that some terrible sound had dragged him to life, and now it came once more— a low scream of agony.

His head cleared slowly, as he visualized the scene before him. In the circle of firelight lay Hughie Dunlevy, still unconscious, and by him sat his brother Connie, weak and white and rather drunk, his arm all swathed in crimsoned bandages. The other four men, by the fire, held the frantically struggling figure of Marks, and were shoving his feet into the red embers. From the man broke another scream, this time rising shrill with pain and horror.

"Quit it! Quit it! I'll tell!"

"Then talk, ye domned murderer," growled Jimmy Basset. "Pull him out and give him a drink to make him talk, lads—"

The groaning Marks waited for no drink.

"It was them Greeks done it!" he cried desperately. "I wasn't along with 'em, I tell ye! It was them two done it!"

"All right,'' snapped Bassett, lurching a little as he glared down at the captive. "And what about this Hardrock felly? Is he your boss?"

"I don't know him," returned the unfortunate Marks.

"Shove him in again, lads—"

Marks screamed and twisted terribly. "No, no! Yes, he's my boss. Sure he is."

"Don't you fools know a man will swear to anything under torture?" demanded Hardrock furiously. 'You're going too far here. Cut this business out!"

Marks was hastily flung aside. They all turned to stare at him. Connie Dunlevy, waving a bottle in his free hand, gave a weak, drunken laugh.

"Glory be, he's awake! off'm him, byes!"

The four lurched over. Hardrock made one desperate effort to pierce through the liquor fumes to their fuddled brains.

"Hold on, there, boys! You've got this thing all wrong. These men are whisky-runners, and they had captured me before you came along. I was getting away—"

Jimmy Basset leaned over and struck him across the mouth, heavily. "Shut up wid you and your lies! Well we know it's you that's the whisky-runner, and behind all this deviltry. So it was them Greeks done the killin', was it? Well, it Burn the boots was you behind it all, and it's you we'll have a bit o' fun wid the night. Up wid him, lads! Up and shove him in!"

Hardrock felt himself picked up. The next instant, with a wild yell, the four men shoved him at the fire, shoved his feet and legs into the heart of the blazing embers. He made one frantic, frightful effort, kicked himself out of the flames, rolled aside.

The four gripped him and lifted him again, with a maudlin yell of glee.

"All together, now!" howled Basset. "One, two—"

10

AS the shot rang out, Jimmy Basset jumped into the air, then stood staring at his arm that dripped blood. A voice struck on the silence— a voice from the edge of the trees.

"All right, boys— hands up all around! Sheriff Fulsom talking, and two guns to talk with. First man moves gets a bullet in the leg."

That crisp, business-like voice bit into their drunken senses like acid. Hardrock lay where they dropped him. Sheriff Fulsom stepped forward into the circle of light, a pistol in each hand, and not one of the islanders moved, after reaching upward.

"Cut loose that man Hardrock and do it durned quick. He's a Deputy Sheriff of this county, if ye want to know who he is. Cut him loose, Willy John. Move sharp."

One of the men stooped and fumbled with Hardrock's bonds. They were all struck silent and were held in a stupefaction of dismay and consternation by the appearance of Fulsom, whom they all knew. A sudden and terrible sanity crept upon them.

"You boys are shoving a good thing too far," continued Fulsom. "Hardrock and me got them murderers, and then they jumped us. Lucky I ain't as soft in the head as I look to be, for a fact! Took me quite a spell to get ashore and come back here, at that. H'are ye, Hardrock?"

"All right," said the latter, getting to his feet.

"You done some swift action gettin' out of that fire, sure enough! Here, take a gun and stretch yourself. All right, boys, put your hands down. I'm doin' the talking for a spell— remember that. What's the matter with Hughie Dunlevy?"

"I knocked him out," and Hardrock chuckled. "Connie got knifed by one of these Greeks— badly slashed, I think."

"All right, Connie, you go climb aboard that there launch, and do it quick— no talk! Jimmy Basset, go with him. We'll tend to your arm quick enough; long's you can move your hand it ain't broke. Git!"

The two men, dazed, obeyed the order and stumbled toward the boat at the shore. Fulsom looked at the other three, grimly enough.

"Now, I want you three boys for deputies. We got to take this whisky boat over to Charlevoix and lock up these birds. Hardrock, got any information to spill?"

The man from Arizona briefly recounted what Marks had told him about the murder by the Greeks. Fulsom comprehended at once, and nodded.

"All right. Willy John, I s'pose you snuck up here in a boat and left her laying down the shore?"

"Yes," said Willy John, rather sheepishly. "She's down to Belmore Bay."

"All right. You three deputies take the pris'ners and get aboard. I'll rustle up some handcuffs, if you rascals aint lost 'em. Hardrock, get aboard likewise."

Hardrock smiled. "Sorry, Sheriff. Can't be done."

"Eh?" Fulsom eyed him sharply.

"We got to have your evidence—"

"You'll get it. I'll come over on the mail boat tomorrow." Hardrock motioned to the figure of Hughie Dunlevy. "I've got a little business to settle with this chap, first— I may have to convince him a little more that I'm the better man. Then we'll have to get his launch and Micky's boat back to St. James. And I have a very important errand there."

"Oh!" Fulsom broke into a grin. "Oh! So that's it, eh? That Callahan girl, eh? Dog-gone you, Hardrock, here's luck to you! See you later, then."

He went for his handcuffs. Hardrock looked down at the slowly wakening Hughie Dunlevy.

"Looks like that textbook for engineers is never going to get written!" he murmured.

"Sure looks that way. I've got to convince this fellow, then I've got to convince Matt Big Mary that I'm a good man to marry his daughter, and then I've got to convince the daughter of the same thing— but, I guess an Arizona Callahan can do it, by gosh!"

And he grinned happily.

_______________

8: The Family Compact

George L. Knapp

1872-1950

Blue Book, March 1924

SOME are born crooks; some achieve crookedness; and some have crookery thrust upon them.

When James Robbins, Junior, was twelve years old, he wondered if he belonged to the first class; when sixteen, he was sure he belonged to the third. He may have been right both times. I only know that Junior never took his place in the great middle class, which, in the under world as in the upper, occupies most of the landscape and does most of the work.

There was some grounds for the boy’s early self-distrust of which he was wholly unaware. His father, James Robbins, Senior, was a small-town lad who began work as clerk in the local jewelry store. It paid scant wages, but he thought it more “elegant” than other forms of clerking. He gave good service, and when he moved to a fair-sized city, got a place in a jewelry store there on the strength of home experience and recommendations.

Then came trouble. After being a model youth long enough to get solid with his new employers, Robbins proceeded to sample the gay life. Chance threw him in with a fellow named Gurney, no older than himself in years, but much more experienced in sinfulness.

The young clerk soon was living beyond his salary, and Gurney suggested ways of making up the deficit. Robbins balked instantly at a proposal to rob the store in which he worked, but consented, after much urging and the threat of exposure of a poker-debt, to join in a raid on one of the local magnates. This was in the days when people still fondly believed that a burglar-proof safe could be built small enough to install appropriately in a dwelling-house.

The jewels of the magnate’s wife reposed in such a device while the family was away on a Western trip, and the big mansion was tenanted only by a watchman. Gurney, who had learned the lay of the house, sent a confederate to get the watchman drunk; and then, while Robbins served as lookout, opened the “cheesebox.”

The loot was disappointingly small; its disposal value to the crooks did not exceed five hundred dollars, of which about fifty came to Robbins. He was encouraged to hope for better returns next time, and coached in the simpler technique of burglary; but before a next time came, Gurney went to the city to celebrate. There he was caught in a raid on a West Side pawnshop, and sent to prison.

ROBBINS suffered agonies of terror when he read of the arrest, fearing a confession which would tell of other “jobs.” It was Gurney’s cue, however, to pose as a first offender, and no confession was forthcoming.

The shock sobered Robbins; he vowed to walk straight and did— though he made no move to restore or give to charity the small profits of his adventure in housebreaking.

He soon moved to a larger city, then to the metropolis, and finally gained his goal, the position of traveling salesman for a wholesale diamond firm. Meantime, before he was twenty-one, he had married and become the father of James Junior, who is the real subject of this history.

The man who reforms from fear, whether of hell or the penitentiary, is likely to think terror the sole means of righteousness. It was so with Robbins. Junior was trained with precept and paddle in the way he should go. He was made to understand that lying is a terrible sin, and stealing a worse one, and that the size of the loot and the circumstances of the case make no difference in the gravity of the offense.

Since every kid takes liberties with the truth and the sugar-bowl at times, the net result of such tactics is to make him think he is a sinner anyway, and there is always danger that he will decide to be hanged for a sheep rather than a lamb.

Junior early realized that, at times, at least, he was a very bad boy. It was not that he was punished so severely, rather that his sins were rated as so serious that no punishment could atone for them.

He was seven or eight when he made the discovery that Sunday-schools can be made to yield a revenue. Candy was not lacking in the Robbins home, but it was well made, sanitary, grown-up candy, lacking in the pep so dear to a youngster. In a store window between home and church were some gorgeous suckers, compounded, I think, of mucilage and aniline dyes. Junior’s soul yearned for these, but his unaccountable parents said him nay.

He pondered over the matter for a week, and when Sunday came, bought a sucker out of his Sunday-school money. No fatal results following, he repeated the crime next week, and next.

A playmate, noting this triumph of fiscal wisdom, demanded a share of the profits; Junior refused, and the playmate told. Junior was spanked, which was proper enough; but the language he had to endure was far more daunting than the strap.

Robbins was really a devoted parent, who was alarmed at the tendencies which he thought he could note in his offspring. He was also as vain as when he chose his first job because it was elegant; and to have his son caught in a childish swindle stung the man on the raw. He wondered eloquently what he had done to have a boy who behaved like this. He asked fervently how Junior could do such a thing; and Junior, sniffing and bewildered, finally guessed he must have been born that way— which seemed to puzzle his father worse than ever.

THE human mind is such a mixed-up affair that Robbins probably took his pose of impeccable righteousness seriously. His wife and son did, and some years later, an event happened which made doubt on the subject impossible. The worst of making the wrong acquaintances is that one never can be sure of unmaking them.

Robbins had erased Gurney from his list of friends, but though the paths of the two men did not cross for years, Gurney had not done the same for Robbins. Gurney served the brief term given to a first offender, was caught again a couple of years later and sequestered for a somewhat longer spell. From that time on, though constantly and properly under suspicion, he paid no more penalties to the law. He had always wanted to specialize on jewel-robbery, and the moment Robbins went on the road as a diamond salesman, Gurney marked him down.

On his second long trip, while Robbins came out of his hotel one day, a well-dressed man strolling carelessly passed, looked up and spoke:

“Why, hello, Jim! I haven’t seen you for years. Don’t you remember me?”

“Oh— er— yes. I didn’t know. you at first,” said the salesman. His handclasp was as warm as the kiss of a fish, but Gurney did not seem to notice it. He fell into step alongside.

“You’ve come up in the world since I knew you,” he remarked.

“Yes, a little.”

“How’s the graft in the new job?”

“I don’t know,” said Robbins. “I’m not grafting.”

“No offense,” said Gurney pleasantly. “It’s all a graft, though. That’s the way the world goes. I’m doing pretty well, myself.”

“That’s good,” said Robbins. “You'll have to excuse me, now. I’m pretty busy.”

GURNEY let him go. Robbins watched like a hawk for days, but nothing happened. A week later, in a distant town, he met Gurney again. The interview lasted longer this time, was followed by another;— and at the third meeting the ex-convict proposed a deal. He and a confederate would stage a fake hold-up; Robbins was to submit after a fake battle; and the loot would be split three ways. Since he was carrying some sixty thousand dollars’ worth of diamonds at the moment, the project looked good; but he turned it down at once.

“Noth-ing do-ing,” he said with emphasis. “Get me right, now; that goes. If anybody tries any funny business with me, I'll shoot first and inquire afterward.”

“Don’t try the high and mighty on me!” retorted Gurney. “I know some things you don’t want printed.”

“Think anybody’d believe you if you spilled ’em?” sneered Robbins. “I tell you, nothing doing. What’s more, I don’t want you hanging around me. I’m off you for life!”

Gurney’s answer was wholly unprintable, but though he raged and stalked away in a fury, he did not believe Robbins would be as good as his word. When it became clear that the salesman had said nothing of the approach to the police, Gurney felt sure that the warning was all a bluff.

With two companions, he tried to hold up Robbins in the lobby of one of the upper floors of an office building. They did not know that he had been aware of their shadowing for half an hour, that he had taught himself to shoot with his left hand, and that the light overcoat draped so carelessly over his left arm concealed an ugly bulldog revolver.

The foremost bandit dropped with a bullet in his heart, and the others fled.

They were picked up by the police, but Robbins refused to identify them. “That one,”— pointing to the stranger,— “may have been one, or may not. I can’t say. This man,”— pointing to Gurney— “wasn’t there. I knew him when I first went to Columbus; we used to tear around together— that was before he got into trouble— and I guess I was as wild as he was till I saw where it was taking me. I’ve seen him since, too, I’d have known him in a second, and he wasn’t there.”

This gentlemanly lying made Robbins feel better satisfied with himself, and spiked for all time any chance of his one “job” being brought up against him. It also gives a pretty good map of his character. He was nervy, quick-witted, resourceful— able to turn apparently damaging circumstances to good account. He had a strong personal loyalty, and would not cheat his em ployers. But of respect for the rights of property in general, he had none.

It is a common attitude; and when joined to dull wits, lively caution and a sheltered life, carries millions of men from cradle to grave without any breach of law; but for a man like Robbins, it was a slender tether.

OF course the episode set him on a pedestal in his own house, and made Junior somewhat unhappy. The lad could not understand why he was so different from his father— it was the mother who raised the question.

Junior’s predatory streak, larger than that of most boys, kept getting him into scrapes, and he finally came to the settled conviction that he was born a bad boy. It did not worry his conscience much— that would come later; but he was sorry, because it worried his parents.

As the years went by, Junior, somewhat to his own surprise, appeared to be outgrowing his sins. Then, in his first highschool year, he fell sick. After a long, expensive illness, he recovered, and then it was his mother’s turn. She was in hospital most of the time for months, and when she came out, the doctor prescribed absolute quiet and freedom from household cares for a long period. This meant that Junior must go to a boarding school.

Robbins, with his scant savings used up and his credit heavily pledged by this run of bad luck, came in from a business trip to find that the firm he worked for had merged with another, and that he was out of a job.

The experience would be unpleasant for any man; for Robbins, it was infuriating. He knew himself to be a better salesman than the one who was to take his place; but that man, Rimsky by name, had married into one of the combining firms, and held his position by the pull thus given. Robbins kept a poker face and congratulated his supplanter, but he swore then and there to take it out of Rimsky in some fashion at the first chance.

That chance came quickly. Buerger, vice president of the firm which had employed Robbins, and holding the same position in the enlarged concern, was one of those men whose muddling kindliness is always trying to bring together people who ought to be forbidden to live on the same continent.

He invited Robbins, the Rimskys and some other friends to dinner at his home. Robbins, inclined at first to beg off, accepted as soon as he learned that his successor would be there.

He had not thought of himself in the role of a thief for years, but now he pictured the situation as vividly as if his lifetime had been spent in preying on the careless rich. There would be cardplaying after dinner; Mrs. Rimsky always wore too many rings and always took them off when she sat down to play. She might not leave them within his reach, but he would be ready if she did.

Everything played into his hands. The Buergers occupied an old-fashioned but comfortable flat on the second floor. The door below, controlled by a buzzer, opened directly on the stairs. At the top of these was a little front hall, from which doors opened into the back hall, the front parlor, and a small bedroom or den off that parlor. The ladies put their wraps in that bedroom, as usual, and Robbins satisfied himself that the door opening into it from the hall was unlocked.

He bore Mrs. Rimsky’s half-concealed triumph without seeming to notice it, said he expected to make a connection soon which would yield a good income, and generally appeared rather grave and preoccupied but entirely without malice.

Dinner over, two card-tables were set out in the back parlor; Mrs. Rimsky went to the front bedroom and came back without her rings. Robbins sat by through the first few hands, and then rose to go. While putting on his overcoat in the back bed-room, he contrived to drop his emerald stickpin in an out of the way corner, and as he called good night to his hosts from the lower door, he snapped the catch so that it could be opened from without. He waited in the vestibule a minute, stole noiselessly up the stairs— his stickpin a perfect excuse if anyone came upon him in the hall, listened till certain that all present were at the cards, and slipped into the front bedroom.

One quick move gave him the rings, which were spiked to a pincushion, another rumpled the wraps as if in a hurried search for valuables, a third unfastened the catch of the window which opened on a small balcony. In two minutes, he was out of the house, the door locked behind him; and in ten, he was phoning from the station to say that he had lost his pin, and would Buerger bring it to the office next day if found.

In all the vast surplus of language that was spilled because of the theft, there was no word of suspicion directed toward Robbins.

AT almost the moment that he entered his hotel that night— so shamelessly does history repeat itself— Junior was reckoning up his card-debts at fully forty dollars, wondering how long it would take him to save the sum out of his allowance, and speculating as to whether the governor would stand a touch.

Do not hang haloes above Robbins’ furrowed brow, and say that he resorted to crime for love of his famity. Thousands of men who love their families just as much go through worse trials without even think- ing of crookedness.

Vanity and temper had at least as much to do with his action as economic pressure and family affection; and for all his long years of law-abiding, his real nature remained the same. His motto was that of the Black Douglas, “Thou shalt want ere I want,” and he chuckled at the success of his foray.

He first secured a roving commission from a diamond broker of rather shady reputation. This gave him a legitimate reason for being on the road with jewels in his possession. That done, he turned immediately to a jeweler whom he knew in a moderate-sized town about sixty miles from where Junior was at school.

“Brad,” he said, for the two were on good terms, “I’m doing a little broking business myself, now, and I’ve got a bargain in diamonds that I suspect never paid lu ys"

“I’ve heard that story before,” said Brack.

“I know damned well you have,’’ retorted Robbins: ‘You heard it just five months ago, and made money out of it. That’s why I’m telling you now.”

Their eyes met, and Bradley was first to look away.

“Let’s see ‘em,’ he said. In ten minutes the transaction was finished, to the satisfaction of both parties.

Generally speaking, a jewel-thief may count himself lucky if he gets one-third the wholesale value of his diamond plunder; the settings bring him nothing at all. In this case Robbins and Bradley agreed on ne worth of the stones, and divided fifty- fifty.

These things happened in the fall. Junior was delighted to receive an extra check which, with the savings he had been able to effect, enabled him to square his card-debts. Part of these were to his school-mates, but about twenty dollars was owing to a middle-aged man named Gurney whom Junior had met, quite by accident, some time before, and engaged disastrously at poker.

Gurney was almost surly about taking the money. “I told you there wasn’t any hurry about that,” he said crossly.

“I know,” said Junior, “but I'd better pay up while I’ve got it.”

“Old man kick in?” asked Gurney.

“All by himself,” said Junior. “I didn't ask him at all. He’s— he’s an awful. good scout. Wish I was more like him.”

“Humph!” said Gurney.

He had thought himself very artistic in arranging that debt of twenty dollars. It was big enough to worry a kid, and not big enough to look bad for the man if the matter became public; and Gurney much desired some information which an unsophisticated youngster could secure for him.

But the quarry, thus delivered from his clutches came back to them very soon. Junior and two other boys hired an auto one evening, drove ten miles to a roadhouse which ther were forbidden to visit, and on the way back, ran the machine into a ditch. The owner demanded payment; two of the boys settled in cash; but Junior, less bountifully supplied, was persuaded to sign a note.

The moment he had done so, he realized how he was caught, but it was too late. Pestered by the owner of the auto, threatened with exposure which he believed would cost him his home as well as his school, Junior was a picture of woe when he met Gurney a little later, and a few questions put the crook in possession of the, whole story.

“Hum!” he said, thoughtfully. “Maybe I can put you in the way of earning  that money."

“Oh my!” exclaimed Junior. “How?”

Gurney did not appear to hear the question. He looked thoughtfully out at. the landscape, occasionally darting quick glances at his young companion.

Finally he spoke. “Beats hell, the way things go,’ he said. “Here you are, a decent kid. You get into a little bad luck, and you're likely to be expelled and disgraced so folks wouldn’t look at you any more. There’s old Murdock— I can see his greenhouse from here— fifty-seven kinds of a thief, and everybody kowtows to him.”

“I didn’t know he was a thief,” Junior, with little interest, said

“Stole every dollar he’s got, and most of what he’s spent,” said Gurney vigorously. “Robbed the railroad when he was contracting. Got a lease on some coal land from a farmer, and robbed him. Robbed the city, and wound up by robbing his partners. I bet they raise a fund to build him a monument when he croaks.”

“But what—” began Junior.

Gurney interrupted: “Murdock’s away. Do you know who’s left in the house?”

“No,” said Junior, wondering.

“Find out. I want to know some things about the dump, and if you'll help me, I’ll help you. I'll fix you up with one of these magazine subscription deals, and you go canvassing in the neighborhood—”

“But I don’t know how,” said Junior.

“It’s easy; I’ll give you the dope,” said Gurney. “You go to the house next door. Make your spiel, and while you’re talking, ask about the Murdock place. They’ll tell you the family’s away for a spell. You want to know how long, and whether there isn’t some one there who might take a subscription to help a poor boy through college. See?”

MUCH more the crook said, contriving every few words to mention the dark disgrace which hung over the boy; and at last Junior consented to perform the strange errand. He could not help knowing that some queer work was in the wind, but he was in deep trouble; and Murdock, so Gurney said, was a thief, anyway.

He turned in a report that would have won a word of praise from most city editors, and Gurney gave him on the spot about half the money he needed to settle his note.

Two nights later the Murdock home was entered, the two servants tied up, and the place regularly cleaned out. Rugs, furs, pictures, plate— the thieves missed nothing. Murdock was something of a collector of Oriental rugs, and the haul was the biggest made in that part of the country for years.

Junior spent wretched days following the burglary. He knew that he had helped prepare it, and for all his predatory streak, he was shocked and alarmed.

He would have given back the money received for spying, but had already paid it to the owner of the wrecked auto. That, of course, was the object of letting him have it so early; Gurney was craftily securing himself and his pals against a squeal. Barred from going to his mother by her physical condition, or to his father by his belief in that parent’s Puritanical probity, the boy was fairly caught.

He did not see Gurney for a week, although that shrewd crook had not left town. At the end of that time, seeing that the police were still running round in circles, he deemed it safe to approach the youth. They met, apparently by accident.

“Hello, kid,” said Gurney. "Come to my room; I’ve got something to tell you.”

Junior followed, tongue-tied and perturbed. Gurney closed the door behind them, and faced the boy with a crooked grin.

“Well,” he queried, “what do you think about tricks now?”

“I— I didn’t know—” weakly.

“Like hell you didn’t!” answered Gurney roughly. “You aint a fool. You may not have known anything— you don’t know anything you can tell, now— but you had a damn good guess!”

There was truth enough in that statement to close the boy’s lips. Gurney watched him, cynically.

“Well,” he said, “what you going to do about it?”

Junior shook his head. “It would kill my mother,” he said. “And I think my father would kill me, if he knew.”

Gurney stuck his thumbs in the armholes of his vest, and let go a thunderous laugh.

“That’s good!” he gasped: “Oh, my Gawd, that’s good! Say, kid, don’t be the death of me!” He stopped abruptly, and fixed the youngster with a scowling glance: “The only thing that’d make your dad cross is for you to get caught! He’s damn particular about that! I'll tell the world he is!”

“What do you mean?” demanded Junior, his voice husky with anger and a growing fear that he would not acknowledge.

Gurney stepped closer and shook his finger under the boy’s nose.

“I mean your dad’s a thief!” he said. “He’s a crook, just like me. We were pals till he threw me down!”

A fist, hard though light, spatted against Gurney’s jaw, and he staggered. Junior leaped after him, fairly frothing; but the struggle was too one-sided to last.

Gurney was in the prime of life, with a good fifty pounds the advantage in weight. He warded off the next blow, caught the boy’s wrist, got a grip on his collar, and flung him on the bed.

“Damn you!” he exclaimed in a furious undertone. ‘What did you do that for? Quiet, now; I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if you make a racket! Will you be quiet if I let you up?”

Junior did not answer, but he ceased struggling. Gurney took this for agreement, released his hold and stepped back, rubbing his jaw.

Junior rose and started for the door. Gurney waved him back, took a chair, and motioned the lad to another.

“Look here, kid,” he said. ‘You’re the only fellow that ever landed on me without getting it, right. See? Well, I’m going to overlook it. I aint going to touch you. I didn’t think how you'd take it, but it’s true!”

Junior shook his head obstinately.

Gurney went on: “Yes, it is. I could prove it by having you ask him some questions. The first job we were in together was at Lackland’s place, at Columbus— funny that I remember the name, but I do. Your dad did the scouting for that, just like you did on this Murdock job. We got all there was, which wa’n’t much, and we did several other jobs, too. Then I got pinched in Chicago. I never squealed, just took my rap alone; and he never lifted a finger for me, neither then nor afterward. I met him, accidental, when he was on the road, and he treated me like dirt. He was pulling jobs right then, too; I had it straight, and I know.”

He was silent for a space. Junior felt instinctively that part of the story was true. He sat on the bed, too wretched for words.

Gurney spoke again: “You see, he’s got no kick coming. He can’t reproach you with anything— unless you fall down and get caught— and that'll never happen while you’re with me. I’ve taken a fancy to you, kid. At first, I didn’t like you, on account of your father, but I do, now. We're going to have, some swell times together. You tell your dad you’re going to get subscriptions through vacation— he’ll like that. You'll get ’em, too, but there’ll be other things.”

JUNIOR stumbled down the stairs. It was Saturday; he did not have to be at the school till evening, and he took the least frequented street for the woods, where he would be alone. He was numb to everything but misery, and his brain could hold but one idea. His father was a thief, a thief, a thief. He was the son of a crook.

That was why he was bad. That was why he committed crimes, almost in the cradle— stole cookies, stole apples, stole Sundayschool money. His father was a thief, and he was a thief. Like father, like son. There was no escape, he was foredoomed.

It is needless to follow in close detail the career of Junior and his treacherous seducer in the next few months. The lad had no further adventures in burglarly till the end of the school year— Murdock’s was the only place in town that was worth a clean-up; but Gurney saw him at short intervals, and by the time vacation came, the boy was broken to crook’s harness.

He announced that instead of going to a camp, he would like to canvass for subscriptions. His father welcomed this evidence of enterprise, and agreed.

Whether a born thief or not, Junior was a born salesman and had excellent success, but his chief business was to scout for the gang. He marked down several places that summer, three of which were raided by the gang.

In September, just before time to start back to school, Junior was called on for still another service. Gurney had some valuable jewels; whether he had helped steal them, or received them to pass on, his novice never knew. For some reason the crook was under suspicion at that time; he had been searched once when the loot was not on his person, and feared that he would be nabbed if he tried to deliver it.

Junior was in one of the suburbs, canvassing for subscriptions. Gurney managed without much trouble to transfer the diamonds and give instructions; and with his first real thrill at the game, the boy carried them to the fence.

IN the underworld as in the upper, organization is the key to success. In diamond-thieving, thanks to the small size and unidentifiable character of the loot, independent operators like Robbins and Gurney have a fair chance; but the organization does most of the work and collects most of the profits, even there. The actual thief passes his plunder to an intermediary, who passes it to a fence, who gives it to the man higher up, though sometimes the fence is one of the higher-ups himself.

It was so with Blackman, né Schwartzburg, the fence whom Junior was to see. He kept a second-hand and curio shop in a Midwestern city which shall be nameless; his political pull was strong, his underworld connections international; he was altogether a man to be feared. Junior walked carelessly into his place, looked around, examined several articles and priced a few till he got a chance to speak to the proprietor with no one in earshot.

“I have a message from Gurney,” said the boy.

“So?” said Blackman. He lifted an ivory elephant and held it up admiringly. ‘Here is a little thing, now, that’s a reg’lar jewel, an’ cheap, too.”

“Jewel it is,” said Junior, grinning. This was something like— almost equal to crime in the movies.

“It’s several jewels.”

“On hand?” asked the fence, in a low tone, still admiring the toy.

“Pretty close.”

“The Cleveland lot?”

“All right.”

Junior passed the little packet, which was concealed at once in a big palm. Blackman spoke louder: “You should see the one in my private office. It is bigger, but no besser.”

Still carrying the ivory elephant, he led Junior to a room at the rear. It opened from the store, and was about twelve feet square. There was one window, near which stood a roll-top desk, and half concealed behind the open door was a safe, which Junior already was wise enough to know could be looted by any competent yegg with a can-opener. Blackman poured out the diamonds, and looked them over.

“Fair— notting to brag of,” he pronounced. ‘Vy didn’t Gurney come?”

“Didn’t think it best,” said Junior, repeating instructions.

“Vatched, I suppose. All right; I settle as usual. Here is something for yourself.” He gave the boy a ten-dollar bill, which barely paid his railroad fare, and the little ivory elephant. The boy figured the last would make a good Christmas present for his mother.

He went back and reported. Gumey grunted scornfully. “The old tightwad!” he said. “He ought to come across with a century note on a deal like that. There’s the trouble with this game; you got to give it all to the crowd behind. I’d like to get into that store just after he gets a cargo to handle.”

“Why, that— why, we’re dealing with him; he trusts us!” protested Junior, who was like his father in more ways than one, not to mention an honest inheritance from the other side of the house.

“Trusts us? Not on your life. We got to trust him, and get stung for it. We get two bits out of every dollar, and Blackman and the higher-ups get all the rest.”

Junior pondered this view of the situation, and decided there might be something in it. A practical detail occurred to him.

“Where do you suppose he keeps that stuff?" asked the boy. "That tin can in his office is no good.”

“Good enough, with his pull to back it,” said Gurney. “He don’t hold goods long. But I’ve known him to have over a hundred grand in that shop at once, just in ice. If I could get at the safe with that in it— oh, baby!”

HE was lying at least fifty per cent, but even so, the prospect was alluring. Junior went back to school— his father insisted on that— wondering if sometime he and Gurney would raid Blackman’s place, and make a haul like that.

He was not the only one who had an eye on the Blackman “dump.”

The big fence had been immune so long that he had grown careless. He paid too little attention to his half-witted slavey— people of defective intellect are sometimes keen observers. Not long after Junior went back to school, his father and Bradley were holding a conference on ways and means, and one of them, at least, was much better informed than Gurney.

“I’ll handle this for you, Jim, but don’t ask me to take any more for at least six months,” Bradley was saying. “My trade won't warrant it, and the big fellows will get suspicious. I'd like to get out of the game, anyway.”

“That’s all right for you, Brad,” returned Robbins gloomily. “But what about me? You’ve got a good business to live on. I'd like to quit; too, but how’d I care for my family?”

“Listen,” said Bradley. “I’ve watched you. You’re on the make, but you ain't a double-crosser. That goes with me, too. I know a dandy place out West that we can get, an’ it’d make us both rich. I can’t swing it alone, but you’re a salesman and I’m a workman, and together, we could do it easy. What say?”

“How much?” asked Robbins. Bradley told, and the other man shook his head.

“I haven’t got the money,” he said. “You can raise it, I guess,” said Bradley. “Anyway,” he added, as Robbins shook his head again, “if you pinch anything in the next half year, don’t bother me with it. Take it to Blackman.”

“That fat hog!” exclaimed Robbins. “He’d cheat me out of the fillings in my teeth. I’d sooner rob him.”

“I can tell you how to do that, too,” said Bradley calmly.

“Yes, you can— not!” scoffed Robbins.

“I sure can,” insisted Bradley. ‘“Remember Jerry the Goat, that went out with T. B. last year? He got onto it, told me, and wanted me to stake him. I’d have done it, too, but he had a hemorrhage before he could get to the job.”

“I don’t need any stake, but what’s the dope?” demanded Robbins. “And what do you want out of it?”

“I’ll take diamonds enough to pay half the price of that store at twenty-five per cent under wholesale,” said Bradley, after a minute’s thought. “Anything over that, I'll give you cash or allowance of twenty-five per cent, and we'll put it in stock and split profits fifty-fifty. I want you with me, Jim, and if you come, we’re going to cut out the crooked business.”

He spoke with no thought of irony.

“That goes,” said Robbins. “Shoot the dope."

“Here’s Blackman’s store,” said Bradley, sketching rapidly. "Here, at the back, just in front of his workroom, he keeps a big grandfather clock. He says it’s for sale, but the price is high enough that he don’t sell it. The left-hand weight’s hollow; the opening’s at the back, big enough to hold sparklers worth a hundred grand, easily. That safe aint much more’n a blind— I suppose he keeps small stuff in it, though.”

ROBBINS went to Blackman’s town immediately, scouted the place himself, laid his plans, and then settled to wait till he could feel sure that the crook had just received a consignment of diamonds. He proposed to work alone; it was less dangerous, on the whole, than taking in a partner, especially as he meant this to be his last coup.

He had not long to wait. A big jewel robbery pulled in Pittsburgh had all the marks of the gang of which Blackman was a part. Robbins came back to the town, and after two days of careful watching, saw a man whom he felt sure was the thieves’ messenger enter the store. It was already afternoon, and that evening was Hallowe’en.

Junior had received a telegram the day before, signed with his father’s name, and asking him to come to Cleveland for the week-end. It was from Gurney, of course, and meant that the boy was to come to the town where Blackman kept his shop.

The boy reached the rendezvous, to find the crook limping about with a cane, in a state of high excitement.

“You’ve got to be the main guy this time, kid,” he said. "Blackie’s got the Pittsburgh swag. I had the straight tip it was coming to him, and it’s there now. I’ve got the combination out of that nitwit slavey of his, and fixed it with her to leave the lavatory window unfastened. It’s a pipe— and here I am laid up with this knee. You'll have to go in.”

“All right,” said Junior, with a thrill, half pleasant, half fearful at the idea. “Who’s doing lookout?”

“I'll have to do that myself, though it’ll most kill me,” returned Gurney. "Damn this knee!” He meant it. If the kid did the inside work, he probably would expect an even split, while Gurney, if he did the actual stealing, could hold out most or the swag himself.

AT eleven that night, Robbins senior slipped into the alley back of Blackman’s. It was early for burglary, but with half the cops watching boisterous kids in the residence district, an early hour seemed best. The lavatory window gave under his jimmy with unexpected ease, and in a moment, he was inside.

The store was dark, there was not a sound, yet he felt uneasy. After waiting five minutes with no results, he told himself he was a fool, found the clock with a cautious use of his flash, found the hollow weight and a paper-wrapped package inside, thrust it into his shirt to drop and be held by his belt, and tiptoed toward his point of entry.

At the second step, a pencil of light came through the darkness to rest on the pit of his stomach, and a hoarse whisper with something familiar about it commanded: “Stick ’em up!”

Robbins lived five years in one sickening second, and it was not the punishment that appalled him, but the disgrace, and the fact that his wife and son would know him for a thief. He put up his hands, mechanically.

“Turn round,” said the same hoarse voice— where had he heard that hauntingly familiar note?— and hope surged up anew. This was a brother-crook, and with such a one, he had a chance.

“Might have known it!” The voice was not natural yet, but Robbins whirled with entire indifference to pistols.

“Junior!” he said in a gasping whisper.

“Yep,” returned the young man with a flippant effort to disguise his real feelings. “Quite a family party, aint it. Like father, like son! I’m starting early too.”

“Gurney, by God!” exclaimed Robbins. “I'll kill him for this. Let’s get out.”

“You let Gurney alone,” returned Junior. “You worked with him all right till he got into trouble, and then you threw him down.”

“Listen, Junior,” said his father desperately. “That’s a lie. I helped him on one trick, the Lackland place; he coached me, and I was scout and lookout. That’s the only time I ever was with him. He went to Chicago and got pinched, and I quit, and stayed straight till I lost my job after your mother got sick. I’ve turned three tricks since then; but Junior, I’ll never turn another if you’ll come with me now. That’s the truth!”

SOMEHOW Junior knew it was the truth.

“All right,” he whispered. “Wait.”

He hurried to the private office, Robbins on his heels.

"What are you doing?” asked the older man.

“Putting back his money— I didn’t get his sparklers,” answered the youth. “We'll start square. Now—”

A whistle, like and yet unlike the regular Hallowe’en noise, came from the street.

“That’s Gurney!” exclaimed Junior. “Go, quick; I’ll hold ’em!” whispered his father fiercely.

“I won't!” returned Junior in the same tone.

“Go!” repeated Robbins. “Oh, God!”

For the door at the front of the store swung open, and they heard Blackman’s voice: “It’s all right, Officer. I yust come down with a friend to get some papers.”

There was an inarticulate reply, then the door shut and the lock grated.

“Here!” exclaimed Robbins. “Do just as I tell you. We'll get out yet!”

He forced his son down behind the safe, and squatted there himself. Heavy steps came down the aisle to the private room, came inside, there was the snap of a switch and the room sprang into light. Robbins rose from his ambush, face covered by a Hallowe’en mask, automatic leveled in a steady grip.

“Don’t move, Fatty,” he said; and no man not bent on committing suicide would have disobeyed him. “Keep your hands right where they are. You,"— to the other man,—“close that door. Good! Now put 'em up. Turn round. Tom, take their guns.”

Tom, alias Junior, collected the artillery. The two men were laid face down on the floor, bound and gagged; and there was nothing amateurish about that tying. Then Robbins turned to the safe. He threw on the floor the package of bills which Junior had taken and put back. He did the same with a quantity of stamps, the result of a raid on a country post office. He locked through the papers in the safe, chuckled at some of them, and put these in his pocket.

“Listen, Fatty,” he said. "You haven’t lost anything. But if you try to frame anyone for this, these papers go to Uncle Sam.”

He switched out the light, closed and re-fastened the window by which they had entered, and after assuring himself that the coast was clear, went out the front way, locked the door, and motioned the boy into Blackman’s auto.

Junior obeyed, but whispered anxiously as his father took the wheel: “You wont— steal it, will you, Dad?”

“No,” said Robbins. “Just want it out of the way, so the cops won't go exploring too soon.”

“What— what do you think he’ll say?” asked Junior.

“Who? Blackman? He'll be too busy explaining those stamps to say anything else,” returned Robbins.

“That’s so.” Junior chuckled. “Besides, he hasn’t lost a thing.”

Robbins kept a discreet silence.

“Dad,” said Junior, after a pause, “we’re going to quit, aren’t we? We'll never take anything that doesn’t belong to us again?”

Robbins stopped the car and got out. They were beyond the city limits, now, and the car which he had driven in was not far away. He held out his hand to his son.

“Jimmy,” he said, “we’re not going to quit; we have quit. I quit when I saw you in that store. We’re going West— I won't leave you in school where Gurney can get at you. And I’ve got a chance to go in partnership with a clever chap in a store. I’ll never steal another cent’s worth as long as I live, and I know you wont.”

They shook hands on the bargain, and kept it. But Robbins thought it unnecessary to say that his resolve to reform came after he had secured the Pittsburgh diamonds, still safely ensconced inside his shirt.

___________________

9: The Case of Mimbres

Frederick R. Bechdolt

1874-1950

Blue Book, March 1924

OLD Beaver Smith, the justice of the peace of Paradise, was holding court. Behind his chair, on the store’s dingy wall, hung the certificate of his appointment. Before him on the counter lay a yellow volume of the Arizona statutes. Tinkham, the constable, sat conveniently between the whisky-barrel and the counter’s end.

Thus every morning at the hour of ten, for a month past, these two had assumed their places in the rear of the establishment, which forthwith suspended its functions of supplying the community with every sort of wares from patent medicines to cartridges, and became, for the time being, the law’s temple.

Of that serene judicial calm which is the proper attribute of those holding the reins of justice, old Beaver’s countenance bore not a trace. An unpleasant light gleamed in his narrowed eyes; his goat’s beard stood out at an angle with his chin; at intervals he tugged it savagely. And Tinkham sat bent forward glowering beneath his bushy brows.

Confronting court and constable, the town’s six leading citizens stood waiting in heavy silence upon the former’s word. The law had come to Paradise; but on this morning, after a month’s sojourn, the question was whether or not the law was going to remain. The justice of the peace ceased tugging at his wisp of whisker and addressed the sextet whom he had summoned here for conference.

“The showdown’s come,” said he. “What do yo’ aim to do?”

They shifted their booted feet uneasily. This experiment with formal rules of action had been rather pleasing as long as things moved smoothly; there was not one of them but had felt a certain enjoyment— which was not unmixed with pride— in watching the application of the Territory’s statutes to such cases as had arisen in their midst. But now that complications had developed, they were smitten with a sort of trepidation at the idea of laying their hands on the machinery.

CURT WILCOX was the first to find expression.

“When the Sheriff come over from Tombstone,” the cow-man said slowly, pausing between phrases to stroke his drooping mustache, "an’ give out the word that this camp had grown too big to run itself, we got yo’ to take this job an’ promised yo’ we’d back yo’r play. We aim to see that this co’t gets an even break. But we have got to know the right way to go about it, an’ yo’r the man to tell us.”

He looked around him for assent.

“Curt is right,” Bronco Bob Lee asserted with finality. He was the youngest of them all, but the width of his experience, which had included border cattle-raiding, faro-dealing and traffic with Mexican smugglers, before he became part owner of the camp’s best-paying mine, gave him high standing.

“We are plumb busy these days, making money, every man of us. So none of us is keepin’ cases on yo’r justice-co’t. Me, I’d like to hear the hull business from the start. All. that I know is that this outlaw Mimbres an’ his gang has been shootin’ up the town ag’in.”

“That’s all there is to know, I reckon,” the outraged court informed him. “‘An’ it ought to be enough fer any man. Here I be, every mo’nin’, finin’ miners an’ Mexicans that has raised too much hell the night before. An’ all han’s take their medicine without a kick, ontel Mimbres gets the notion of ridin’ over to Paradise. Fust time he shows up, the’ aint much harm— only a few lights shot out an’ busted windows an’ the like o’ that. But last week he puts a bullet through Lon Jenkins’ back-bar mirror an’ drills a Mexican between the eyes. So Jenkins comes an’ makes a kick— which I don’t blame him none, fer them mirrors cost a heap of money. Me, I send out word by. Tinkham that sech foolishness has got to stop. Then Mimbres rides. into town last night along with Black Jack Davis an’ Bill Fallon, an’ when he hears my orders, he tears loose an’ busts the hull street wide open. What’s more, he creases Tinkham; who is tryin’ to get action with a sawed-off shotgun.”

He paused and clutched his shred of whisker while he spat.

“That brings the showdown. Question is, does this here co’t, or Mimbres, run the town of Paradise.”

“The way it looks to me,” suggested Pony Deal, whose wagon-outfits had been carrying freight into the country since the days when Cochise was on the warpath, “this would be easy. All we got to do is lay fer the gang next time they come along, an’ kill ’em.”

Old Beaver shook his head.

“That aint the law. The statutes are plain in these here matters. If a man would tell the co’t to go to hell over in Tucson like Mimbres has done here, the jedge would show him where to haid in mighty quick.”

“Well,” Curt Wilcox demanded, "what would the jedge do, Beaver?”

“Make out a warrant,” the latter answered briskly, ‘an’ send somebody to fetch the feller in.”

The cow-man smiled grimly under his heavy mustache.

“Tinkham ain't hurt too bad to ride, I reckon,” he drawled. "An’ we are here to go along with him. Write yo’r warrant, Beaver.”

CONSTABLE TINKHAM straightened in his chair, and for the first time that morning he looked as one who regards life as really worth while.

“How many do yo’ want?” Curt asked him.

“Three’s enough of us.” The constable’s voice was soft, with the gentle singing drawl of Texas. “The’s only three of them. They’ve been up Fort Grant way stealing hosses from the reservation; but last night Mimbres give it out that he was aimin’ to shove on to La Cañada. Yo’ know that kentry, Curt; s’posin’ I take Bronco Bob an’ yo’.”

“Which makes me think,” said Bronco Bob Lee: “what is the charge in that there warrant, Beaver?”

The court glanced up over the steelrimmed spectacles which he always wore while writing or administering justice. “Disturbin’ of the peace,” he answered, “onless Tinkham wants to get action fer that bullet that glanced offen his ribs last night.”

The constable shook his head.

“Aint no call to go to law about that,” said he. “I’d o’ done the same ef I was Mimbres.”

“What I was goin’ to say,” Bronco Bob went on thoughtfully, “—La Cañada’s in New Mexico. Aint the’ some kink in the law about crossin’ the line fer a man?”

“The’s sech a thing,” the court informed him tartly, “as bein’ too damn fussy about the statutes, Bob. Yo’re as bad as that Tombstone lawyer that I had Tinkham throw out of the place fer sassin’ me las’ week. Now, my instructions is to get this feller Mimbres, no matter if yo’ have to foller him to hell.”

“Hell or La Cañada,” Bronco Bob rejoined serenely, “it’s all the same to me, as long as yo’ are backin’ the play in proper shape.”

THE pale, oak-dotted mountains, between whose granite folds the little town of La Cañada lay concealed, were drenched by a downpour of hot sunshine when the three men of Paradise rode down the winding wagon-track which looped its way across the divide.

Constable Tinkham was expressing himself concerning the scattered population of the region.

“Sheep-herders an’ prospectors,” he growled. "Cain’t say I think much of ’em. This feller Mimbres ’pears to have ’em all plumb locoed. Jes’ speak his name among a bunch, an’ they’ll quit talkin’ like they’d gone dumb.”

“La Cañada,” Curt Wilcox interrupted, “lays almost under us. We'll see it when we round that next turn. We ort to get some news there..... Now what in hell!”

He pulled up his pony, and the others came to a halt beside him. A rider, coming toward them around the curve, had stopped his horse on getting sight of them. As the cow-man was speaking, he whirled the animal and fled. They looked blankly at one another.

“Beats me,” old Tinkham muttered. “Well, le’s shove on.”

They passed the turn and saw a huddle of one-story buildings in the base of an amphitheater whose opening gave a long view to distant flat lands shimmering in the hot afternoon sunshine, and a range of saw-toothed mountains beyond.

They came on down the hill, and the road straightened out between two rows of flat-topped adobes whose vega-poles cast sharp, slanting shadows against the mud-colored walls.

“Nice town,” Bronco Bob Lee commented, “but mighty quiet. Puts me in mind of Sunday mo’nin’ when I was a kid back in Kentucky.” The rider whose abrupt flight had astonished them was not in sight, nor was any other of the inhabitants.

The men of Paradise found themselves flanked by deserted sidewalks; from under the wooden awnings empty windows stared at them as as if they were intruders.

“Reckon the Apaches is out,” Curt hazarded. “They’re hell in these mountains.”

A door banged somewhere ahead of them, and they heard voicés in the next crossstreet, but when they reached the thoroughfare, it was lifeless.

“There’s a saloon,” Tinkham announced, and pointed to the opposite corner. “My tongue is, hangin’ out.”

They left their ponies at a hitching-rack before the building. As they entered the establishment, a half-dozen men who were standing at the bar forsook their glasses to depart hurriedly through a side door. The bartender alone remained.

“Yo’r customers,” said Bronco Bob, “seems techy. What ails em?”

The bartender drew a deep breath, as of relief; then force of habit reasserted itself, and he fell to polishing the counter. He nodded his head to indicate Curt Wilcox.

“It’s that long mustache an’ the Texas hat he wears. They think he’s Mimbres.”

“So that’s what made the hull town hole up,” old Tinkham drawled. “How many is in Mimbres’ gang, a regiment?”

“What’ll it be?”

The bartender shoved forth the whisky-bottle and the glasses before answering the constable’s question. While they were drinking, he enlightened them.

“Mimbres,” said he, “killed six men back in Texas, an’ there’s two a-ridin’ with him that’s jest as tough— Fallon an’ Black Jack Davis. When them three come to town, they run the place. An’ most folks finds it handy to get out of sight.”

“I see,” old Tinkham answered dryly. “They’re the big he-wolves in these parts. Well, le’s have another.”

“He-wolves is right,” the bartender nodded. "Las’ night they stood up the stage from Silver right at the aidge of town. The sheriff has been out all day with ten men after ’em.”

“It is,” Tinkham told him, “plumb interestin’ to listen to you, but we have got to be shovin’ on.”

In the doorway he turned.

“Which way did your sheriff ride?”

The bartender pointed down the street in the direction of the long flats which lay far below the town. “He allus goes that road when he is after Mimbres,”’ said he.

“The sheriff,” said Bronco Bob when they had swung into their saddles, “ort to of stayed to home fer fear them three outlaws might come back an’ carry off the hull damn town.”

Old Tinkham shook his head. “Eleven men! They'll shore eat up Mimbres and the other two. Wont be nothin’ left fer us to fetch back to Beaver.”

“Mebbe,” Bronco Bob suggested hopefully, “we'll come up with ’em before the fightin’ starts an’ get a chance to throw in with the posse. Them outlaws is gen’rally pretty good at hidin’ their trail.”

“That’s what I’m hopin’ fer,” the constable replied. “Le’s make the best time we can, boys.”

EVENING was approaching when they reached the flat, and their shadows stretched grotesquely long before them on the white alkali. Out of the blanched expanse, backed by an empurpled range of saw-toothed mountains, they saw a group of horsemen emerging as from beneath the surface of wide waters.

"It's the sheriff all right,” Curt Wilcox announced. “I can count eleven of ’em.”

“Reckon he’s killed ’em this time,” Bronco Bob Lee’s voice was heavy with disappointment, “or he wouldn’t be comin’ back so soon.”

They halted at the edge of the plain beside a cluster of crosses which marked the graves of Mexican victims of some Apache ambush. Here they awaited the oncoming posse.

The New Mexico sheriff was in the lead; and as he drew nearer, the men of Paradise could see his silver star gleaming in the slanting sun-rays. They noticed how his head was bowed as if from weariness; the others followed, straggling in two’s and three’s, backs bent and shoulders drooping.

“Howdy,” old Tinkham bade them. The leader pulled up his pony and barely raised his head to answer the greeting.

“I reckon,” the constable went on, “we have come too late fer what we want. We was lookin’ fer Mimbres.”

“I reckon so.” There was no joy in the sheriff's voice. He touched his pony with “the spur.

“Yo’ve killed him, then?” Curt Wilcox asked.

The sheriff shook his head in passing them.

“Done lost their trail?” Bronco Lee called.

The sheriff drew rein. “The trail,” said he, “is plain ef yo’re lookin’ to foller it.” He pointed toward a notch in the mountain-range beyond the flat. “They’ve rode acrost the pass.” He gazed upon them briefly. "I dunno who yo’ men be, but I kin tell yo’ this. Nobody that wears a star crosses them mountains. That country belongs to Mimbres.”

“Hol’ on,” old Tinkham bade him as he spurred his pony again. “Us three will throw in with yo’ ef yo’ say the word.”

The sheriff laughed unpleasantly.

“Not me,” said he. ‘Them there long flats an’ mountain ranges is held down by renegades. The’ aint an honest man between here an’ the Mexican line, only the stage station-keeper at Ash Springs, an’ he puts in a heap of time at mindin’ his own business. The outlaws does what man-huntin’ is done over there.”

“We have,” the constable replied, “come a long ways, an’ I reckon we may’s well ride fu’ther—”

But that sheriff did not hear. And the members of the posse did not heed; they were too busy urging their ponies up the trail toward La Cañada.

THE marvelous blue night of New Mexico had soothed the fevered land to grateful coolness and softened every savage outline until the ragged mountains were as purple velvet, and the great alkali flat below lay glimmering like the ghost of a departed lake enshrouded by long mists of shadow.

Under the faint light of the stars, the low mud-colored stage-station in the pass had become a mauve blur from whose center, as from the midst of a setting, a small window glowed like an orange jewel.

Within the room a kerosene wall-lamp was sending a thin spiral of ill-smelling smoke to the dingy ceiling-cloth, leaving in one corner a deep pool of shade that drowned the battered little bar, and casting upon the whitewashed wall black silhouettes which wavered to every movement of five players busy at poker around an oilcloth-covered table. At times a face emerged into the area where the light bathed it; and again the wide-rimmed hats obscured the features of their wearers. Always there were the butts of big revolvers and holsters of burnished leather gleaming somewhere around the table in the lamp’s shine.

“Ef the’ aint no harm in askin’,” Curt Wilcox was saying to the fat station-keeper, “why do yo’ call it pain-killer?”

“Three cards fer me,” the latter said; and when he had picked them up: “Becuz yo’ don’t have to buy revenue stamps fer patent medicine.”

“Nothin’ like travelin’," Bronco Bob commented genially, “to give a man an eddication. I'll take two cards.”

“Where be yo’ fellers from?”’ the dealer asked. He was a pockmarked man with a long nose.

“I'm betting ten,” old Tinkham interrupted quietly.

“An’ ten,” the station-keeper chimed in. The pockmarked dealer relapsed to watchful silence, and his question remained in abeyance during two more raises. On displaying a king-high flush at the showdown, Constable Tinkham seized the opportunity to relegate it still farther into the background.

“A dose all round,” said he. And when the station-keeper had returned from the bar, with allopathic portions: “Trade good?”

“Sometimes.” The station-keeper settled himself into his chair with obese unhurriedness. ‘An’ sometimes only so-so.”

“My deal.” Bronco Bob picked up the cards. “All sorts of folks passin’ through, I reckon?”

“I fed a minister one time,” the stationkeeper told him. ‘An’ Jesse James played poker at this same table, two year ago on his way back east from California.”

“Where did yo’ say yo’ fellers come from?” the pockmarked man asked.

“Jesse James,” the unreconstructed Tinkham cut in, “was a good man. I would of done the same as he done ef I had been in his place. I will play these.”

“Which bein’ the case, I'll jes’ deck my hand,” Curt announced. “Good man is right. Yo’ don’t find none like him around here.”

“Oh, I dunno.”

What with the briskness of the night’s trade and the four jacks which had been dealt him, the station-keeper was warming to loquacity.

“Mimbres aint so damn slow. An’ there was two with him the other night when he stopped off, that would pass as tough in any comp’ny.”

“Two cards,” the pockmarked man growled. “Mimbres may not be slow, but this game is gettin’ to be.”

Old Tinkham was stroking his mustache thoughtfully.

“Mimbres, yo’ say?” He turned to the station-keeper. “Which way was he headed fer?”

“Me; I will take one card,” the station-keeper told Bronco Bob hurriedly. Thenceforth he remained silent.

The game went on. During the next hour there was no talk, save those brief remarks which its necessities demanded. It was getting on toward midnight when the pockmarked man yawned loudly and stretched his arms.

“Reckon I’ll cash in,” he announced. “I aim to saddle up early. Where be yo’ fellers goin’ to sleep?”

“We'll make down out there in front of the house,” Tinkham replied indifferently.

“That bein’ the case, I'll roll up behind the corral.” The pockmarked man rose. “I snore. Some folks don’t like it.”

In the doorway he turned. “See yo’ at breakfast.”

TWO hours later the men of Paradise were unrolling their blankets on the hard earth before the adobe building. Curt Wilcox was swearing softly.

“Pain-killer!” he murmured. "Wow!"

“I have drank as bad,” old Tinkham told him, “up Taos way. They make it out of corn which they have raised themselves, an’ it is white as snow.”

“What I want to know,” said Bronco Bob, “is why yo’ asked about which way Mimbres was haided? Yo’ like to stampeded that there fat man.”

“I reckon that aint all I done.” Tinkham shook the tarpaulin to smoothness. “Do yo’ mind what the sheriff said the other day about the outlaws doin’ what man-huntin’ was done in this country? Well, I happened to think of that, an’ it come to me that the feller who is bein’ hunted gets the chance to pick his fightin’- ground. This here strikes me as a right good place.”

“Think our pockmarked friend will ride tonight?” Curt Wilcox asked.

“He’s rode already, ef I aint mistaken,” the constable answered quietly. "Slip over by the corral, Bob, an’ see ef you can hear him snoring like he says he does.”

“Not a sound,” Bronco Bob announced when he had returned, “an’ his hoss is gone.”

Old Tinkham was settling himself beside the cow-man underneath the blankets.

“Take the first watch,” said he, ‘an’ wake me in an hour to relieve yo’.” He sighed. “Ef yo’ hadn’t dropped out of that last pot, Curt, I’d o’ caught another ace an’ got ten pesos: more off’m that station-keeper.”

THE first suspicion of the coming dawn was beginning to show above the eastern skyline when Tinkham shook the blankets of his two companions.

“I hear their hosses in the pass,” he whispered; “an’ jedging by the sound, the’ must be four or five of ’em."

They were on their feet before he finished speaking, with their rifles in their hands. Within the narrow space between the flanks of the surrounding mountains, the darkness still lay thick. As they were hurrying to the corral out by the road, they caught the rasping of hoofs against the rocks less than a hundred yards down the ravine.

“Mind,” the constable bade them, "ol’ Beaver wants Mimbres. Don’t kill him onless yo’ got to.”

Now as they slipped along beside the high corral fence, there emerged from the blackness just ahead of them a vague mass which changed in form as it approached, then stopped. They heard the riders dismounting.

The voice of Mimbres came to them.

“Hold the hosses, Ed. Us three will slip up on ’em where they are layin’.”

“Han’s up,” old Tinkham interrupted loudly, and before he had uttered the second word of his command, he felt the breath of a leaden slug against his cheek.

Thin tongues of orange light were licking the darkness before him; the flashes of his own and his companions’ rifles leaped toward them. The stillness of the place was riddled by a brief series of sharp, dry reports which came in irregular succession and of a sudden ceased, like the noise of a cluster of firecrackers set off together.

With the same startling unexpectedness as its breaking, the silence resumed. But only for a moment! There came from the darkness a sobbing cough.

“Don’t shoot.” It was the voice of the pockmarked man who had been playing cards with them. “My han’s is up.”

“I think my shoulder is busted,” Bronco Bob was saying.

Tinkham was straining his eyes in the effort to seek out the form of Mimbres in the darkness.

“Keep your gun on that feller with the hosses, Curt,” he bade the cow-man. As he was speaking, there came a sudden clatter of hoofs. The constable leaped forward and stumbled over a body in the roadway. The hoofbeats were already growing fainter down the pass.

“We got the other two,” Bronco Bob called to him.

He made no answer.

The pockmarked man stood before him with both hands uplifted; he heard one of the horses close by, and edged over toward the animal,

“Easy, boy,” he said, and his fingers found the trailing reins.

AS Tinkham was swinging into the saddle, he saw the first faint flush of the dawn creeping over the eastern horizon.

He drove the spurs in, and was off down the pass on the dead run. At intervals the sides of the mountains drew closer, and as he passed through these narrow spaces, it seemed as if new stores of darkness had been poured into the ravine. Then the summits would spread again, and the blackness would melt into a deep gray dusk.

The noise of his pony drowned all sounds ahead of him; it was as if he were riding alone, with no man near. When he passed between the last bare hills at the cañon-mouth and came out on the flat, he pulled up for a moment and listened.

From far before him there came the rat-tat-tat of hoofbeats. And even while he was looking, the heavens grew brighter in the east; the blanched surface of the old dried lake-bed became more clearly visible; it was as if the veils of twilight were being swept away by an unseen hand. He got sight of the fugitive through their last thinning shreds, a blurred shape, small, and growing smaller in the distance.

“Plenty of time,” he told the pony. “We'll take it easy fer a while.”

During the next mile he contented himself with keeping to a gentle trot. The bands of pink were widening on the eastern sky, and growing deeper in hue. The whole flat was beginning to throb with reflected tints. The receding horseman showed more plainly.

Constable Tinkham rode on at the same pace, his rifle athwart the saddlebow. The form ahead of him ceased moving. He saw how it had resolved itself into two shapes, one a mere dot.

A rifle-bullet whined above his head.

“Yo'r sights is fuzzy, Mimbres,” he muttered, “but we don’t take no fool chances.”

He reined his pony to one side and drew off from the other’s trail, still pressing forward. So for another mile, keeping always the same distance between them, and at the same time edging nearer to the range of mountains which showed dark purple under the splendors of the sunrise across the plain.

Mimbres was in the saddle again and urging his pony to the utmost. He had caught the significance of Tinkham’s maneuver, and he did not mean to be cut off from those mountains.

For half a mile they raced. Then the constable drew rein so abruptly that a cloud of alkali rose from about his pony’s hoofs. He flung himself from the saddle. Before the dust had fairly settled, his gaze was traveling along his leveled rifle, finding the rear sight’s slender notch, lining the bead with it. The muzzle of the weapon swung across a brief space, following the movement of the pony five hundred yards away. His finger pressed the trigger.

“Yo' are afoot now, Mimbres,” the constable said quietly, and rose.

The fugitive’s pony was pitching forward on its knees.

The sun came up. The surface of the wide plain lost its shell-tints and turned to glaring white. Upon it two specks showed. The smaller one was moving slowly; the larger crept more swiftly toward the eastern mountains. Now and again a bullet kicked up a little flick of dust before it. And at intervals there rose toward the cloudless sky the report of the outlaw’s rifle, sounding strangely small and -flat in these vast spaces. Then from the base of the dark western mountains a third speck crawled forth upon the white expanse. And as it moved on, the horseman in the east halted. Thus Tinkham waited, with his rifle ready, watching Curt Wilcox closing in behind, and watching Mimbres, who was coming slowly toward him, with both hands upraised.

THE little town of La Cañada was drowsing in the heat of a New Mexican midafternoon when the three men of Paradise rode up the wide main street with their prisoner.

A few cow-ponies stood before a hitching-rack with heads bowed and eyes half closed; a group of swarthy sheep-herders, shod in flinty rawhide sandals, lay asprawl under one of the wooden awnings, their steep-crowned sombreros drawn down over their faces; all others were within doors.

As the four riders came on, the street began to awaken. Faces showed in the wide doorways on both sides of them; the sidewalks behind them resounded to swift footfalls.

Constable Tinkham smiled grimly. “They aint afeard of that Texas hat of yourn no more, Curt.”

“They shore are turnin’ out fer us,” the cow-man drawled. “I’ve an idee we’d jest as well shove on right through: Think yo’ can make it, Bob?”

Bronco Bob Lee was busy readjusting the bandana handkerchief which was serving as a sling for his left arm.

“Suits me.” He glanced at the prisoner, who was riding beside him.

"Nobody here yo’ want to kiss good-by?”

The outlaw grinned under his drooping mustache. “The’s too many rawhide ropes an’ cottonwood limbs in this here town, ef yo’ are askin’ my opinion.”

THEY rode on up the street and left La Cañada buzzing like a hive of bees. As they were nearing the summit of the hill, they heard the beating of hoofs. Behind them half a dozen horsemen were following on the dead run.

“Ef I aint mistaken,” Tinkham said, “that is the sheriff in the lead.”

He drew his rifle from its sheath beneath the stirrup-leather. Curt followed his example. The pair halted their ponies side by side; Mimbres and Bronco Bob rode by and took their places in the rear.

The sheriff of La Cañada drew rein. His companions did likewise, cursing the impetuosity of their mounts. The voice of Constable Tinkham came down the hill to them.

“What do yo’ want?” The sheriff touched his pony with the spur. When he had come within a hundred yards, he saw the pair before him raise their rifles to their shoulders, and he stopped.

“I want that man Mimbres,” he called. “I hold warrants fer him an’ Black Jack Davis an’ Bill Fallon.”

Constable Tinkham lowered his rifle, holding it athwart his saddlebow while he made answer.

“Yo'll find Black Jack Davis an’ Bill Fallon at the Ash Springs stage-station. Their graves is back of the corral. But ef yo’ want Mimbres, yo'll have to talk business with the jestice-co’t of Paradise.”

The rifle came back to Constable Tinkham’s shoulder, and his voice grew colder, traveling across the leveled sights.

“That is where we are takin’ him. An’ don’t yo’ dast to even look as ef yo’ wanted him, ontel he gets there.”

The silence that followed was broken by the scraping of hoofs in the hard roadway.

The sheriff looked behind him. His followers were not blessed with that enthusiasm which will lead a man to try conclusions with a single-action revolver against repeating rifles. And as he saw them departing, it occurred to him that the law offered its own solution of this problem. He turned and rode away to find recourse according to the statutes.

OLD Beaver Smith, the justice of the peace, was holding court on the morning when the sheriff of La Cañada rode into Paradise. Constable Tinkham was sitting in his place beside the counter’s end. He glanced up and nodded greeting to the visitor.

“Howdy,” said he.

The sheriff made no answer. The memory of their last meeting was still fresh; but things had changed since then; the executives of two commonwealths had been invoked and had come to aid him. He felt that the situation was in his hands. He reached into his pocket and brought forth the extradition warrant, for whose procurement he had set the law’s machinery in motion before Tinkham and his companions were fairly out of sight from La Cañada.

He laid it on the counter.

Old Beaver took the paper and unfolded it. He peered at the large seal through his iron-rimmed spectacles for some time; he thrust his nose a little closer and read with painful slowness, moving his lips to shape the words.

“As nigh as this co’t can make out,” he said at length, “this here comes from the Guv’nor of New Mexico, who makes demand on this here co’t fer the pusson of one Mimbres.”

The sheriff nodded. “And,” said he coldly, “yo’ll notice that it has been duly honored by the Governor of Arizona. I'll take my man right now, ef yo’-all aint got no objections.”

Old Beaver cleared his throat portentously.

“When yo’ ride back,” said he, “jest give the Guv’nor of New Mexico the compliments of the jestice-co’t of Paradise, an’ tell him this co’t is plumb sorry, but it cain’t accommodate him.”

The sheriff frowned.

“I’m tellin’ yo’," he declared, “this warrant has got to be honored. Yo’ cain’t hold no man again’ the processes of extradition.”

“This co’t,” old Beaver retorted, “aint looked up the law in them there matters; but how kin the Guv’nor of New Mexico expect me to turn over a man when I aint got him?”

A sudden foreboding made the sheriff speechless for a moment. When he was able to find the words:

“Have yo’-all lynched him?” he demanded.

Old Beaver laid aside his spectacles and with them a portion of his judicial dignity.

“Lynched, hell!” said he. “I done socked him a hundred dollars fine for disturbin’ of the peace an’ warned him not to come back this way or he’d get it harder next time. An’ jedgin’ by what he said when he rode out of camp, I reckon he wont bother this here town no more!”

__________________

10: The Lepers' Guest

A Story of the Pyrenees

Max Pemberton

1863-1950

Strand Magazine, Dec 1895

THE omen of the night was not such as to lead me further upon my road; yet, well or ill, it did not lie in my power to turn back. I had been riding upon a bridle-path since the clock of a village church chimed the hour of four; and now the way was so narrowed and stony that no horse could turn upon it. Nay, I began to fear that I should ride on to an impasse, and find myself for my pains perched high upon the mountain side in a place of peril and difficulty whence I might never hope to emerge. And at this I fell to hard thoughts of the man who had sent me from the high road, and had put me to so much discomfort for the gratification of so small a curiosity.

I say "for so small a curiosity," and, indeed, at that time I thought his curiosity almost pitiful. I had met him three weeks before in the English Club at Pau. They told me that he was a man of substance, and entitled to call himself the Duc de Trevino; though he was known commonly as Senor Quiroga. The most part of his lands had long passed from his possession to that of his hungry creditors; yet he contrived to maintain some position, and had no little glory from his traditional lordship over three castles in the Basque provinces. It was to one of those that I was now going, at his request. He had learnt, in a short conversation with me at Pau, that I had affairs to settle in the country of his birth. A mutual devotion to horses and to trout had put us upon terms of considerable intimacy. He begged me, if it should happen that I found myself in Biscay, to strike the mountain road to Durango, and to seek out the village of Mondragon.

"It would be a very great favour to me," said he, "if you would accept the hospitality of my steward, even for a single night. I would welcome a word on that which you see. Once you are at Mondragon, you will not meet a man who cannot put you upon the road to the chateau. I myself must be at Santander in the last week of the month. You tell me that you also must be there at that time. If that is so, I should have news of my home from an unbiased and friendly witness."

I assured him that nothing would give me greater pleasure, and told him that I hoped to come to Mondragon one day during the Christmas week. And at this his anxiety that I should do his bidding redoubled.

" Nothing could be better for both of us," said he ; " although a Spanish welcome is not usually exhilarating, I promise you a cordial greeting from my steward. Ask for Juan Bazan anywhere in the village, and tell him that you spend Christmas Eve with him. I say Christmas Eve, for it is then that you would see some of the most amusing of our customs. You know something of the Basque legends, of course?"

I said that I did, and having repeated my promise to help him in his intention, I took leave of him. For the matter of that, the conversation passed quickly from my mind, and I proceeded to forget both the Duc de Trevino and his steward who was to welcome me. Not until the third week in December, when my business as a railway engineer carried me to the western spur of the Pyrenees, did any thought of my promise recur to me. But a filthy Spanish inn at a village called Isaro, and the rough company of equally filthy Spanish peasants, brought it suddenly to my mind. And it was curious, indeed, that this inspiration should have come to me on the morning of Christmas Eve. In short, I resolved to go.

The intention being formed, I spoke of it forthwith to the landlord of the venta. He surprised me by regarding it as an excellent joke ; so excellent, that he called other of the villagers in to share his merriment ; and they stood together, alternately guffawing or regarding me with a curiosity too profound for words. They were still standing thus when I turned the corner of the street, and the last word I heard was the host's shrill cry:—

"Ho, Ho, the noble cavalier rides to the House of Snows. God be with you, senor. Hasten your visit, senor. Ojala!"

Now, what to make of talk like this, I knew no more than the dead. That they should find amusement in my visit to the Duke's house was only to be accounted for upon the supposition that I was the victim of a hoax. But this I would not believe. The man I had met at Pau was, before all things, a gentleman. I would have wagered my life that he would not entertain so sorry a trick. Nor could I, rack my brains as I would, imagine any reason for the merriment of the folks at the inn. Indeed, it rather provoked me to curiosity, and, determined as much to fathom it as to keep faith with him who sent me, I put my horse upon the moun- tain road and set out for the place.

It was then about three o'clock of the afternoon, and the sun shone pleasantly in the valleys, though up upon the peaks the snow was glistening upon countless domes and spikes and silvered rocks. What wind there was came shrill and cutting through the gorges and the forests of pine; and so keen had been the frost of the night, that even the cascades were still, and hung like ropes of jewels and of crystal down the faces of the ice-bound hills. The trees themselves were powdered prettily with the scattered snow-flakes; the rough road below me was as hard as iron ; the chasms above seemed to be plated with gold as the sun fell upon them. There was no sign of man or beast or of any living thing, save a great eagle soaring. All the world had fled to the towns to keep the feast, and I alone was abroad upon the pass.

They had told me at the inn to strike the bridle-path, which would appear upon my right hand when I came to a shrine of the Virgin, some four miles or more from the village. I was mounted upon a sturdy brown-black cob, cunning at treading a narrow track, and well used to the dangers of the heights. I had a thick black Spanish cloak or capa about my shoulders, and a sombrero of felt drawn over my eyes. Myzamarra, or short coat, was of black sheep-skin, and my wine-bottle upon my saddle was strained to the point of bursting with its generous store of the rich vino de toro. Nor had I forgotten my pair of Army revolvers, which were at my hand upon the saddle, and likely, I said, to be of service if necessity should find me still upon the road when night came down.

How long I rode before any suspicion of the path dawned upon me, I am unable to say. Dusk was falling, and there was mist of the snow in my eyes when at last I observed that any further abridgment of the track would compel me either to halt or to risk my neck in an endeavour to turn upon the path. And that was no place to invite a careless foothold. On the one hand, the sheer rock towering up with face as of quartz and jaspar to the snow-bound heights above me; on the other hand, the fathomless ravine with its thousand precipices and jagged points, the valley round lying like a streak of silver amidst the pine woods below me. One false step, one slip of my horse, and we should go hurrying down to death. The thought braced me to renewed effort; it called also for unspoken abuse of the man whose hospitality was girt about such a forbidding frontier. Indeed, in that moment, I cursed the Duke of Trevino and all that belonged to him; and with a final word of objurgation for the day upon which I had met him, I gave my cob his head, and prayed aloud for my safety.

There is an old saying that a sick man must be worse before he is better. And this, for a fact, was my own case. I had come at last to a place upon the path which, it seemed to me, no human thing could pass. The precipice here turned abruptly to the right. The track itself wound round the face of the rock, but with such a treacherous foot-hold that my cob must go like a cat, hesitating at every step and shivering with terror. As for me, I was benumbed with the icy cold, the wind searched my very skin, my right arm brushed the wall of rock, my left hand swung above the ravine, whose depth I dare not imagine. And just at the moment when I had shut my eyes, fearful to survey the situation longer, the good beast, who had carried me so well, began to neigh with pleasure and to bound forward in a free, swinging canter which, I swear, was the most delightful I have ever known.

A single glance made manifest to me the change which had come upon our fortunes. The turn of the path had carried us out upon a broad plateau nestling in the very heart of the mountains. A fair carriage-way was to be observed not a furlong distant, and it was plain to me at once that this was the road by which I should have come up to the Duke's house. For the matter of that, there was the castle itself, standing, as it were, in a niche cut out of the solid rock; a bare, gaunt structure of white stone, looking for all the world like a monastery; and just as uninviting as any house I ever clapped eyes upon. Though it was now almost dark, not a light shone from any of the narrow windows of that gloomy building; no gates shut it off from the highway; there was no pretence of approach or inclosure; the lower windows were barred like the cells of a prison; no loom of smoke blurred the exquisite whiteness of the snow above its towers; no foot-mark was to be seen upon the untrodden carpet before its door. Desolation, solitude, neglect, these were my impressions, and every step that my horse took did but strengthen them. "This, then, is the Duke's joke," said I to myself when at last my cob began to clatter up the stony pavement before that which would have been called, by courtesy, the great gate. "Here plain enough is the cause of mine host's merriment. The one has sent me fifty miles out of my way to inspect a ruin; the other will tell him of his success. The deuce take the pair of them."

It was all very well to indulge in this pious wish, but it did not help me to food or to shelter; and for food and for shelter I had begun to crave exceedingly. The night was set- ting in bitter cold ; the blast howled dismally in the hollows of the hills; a spume of wind-cloud covered the sky threateningly. The lonely shapes of the gaunt head- lands brought me to a sense of melancholy and foreboding; I thought of my friends making merry in Bayonne or Pamplona; I remembered that the morrow was Christmas Day— and at this, my estimate of the Duke was such as I could not possibly write. Nevertheless, I was but half convinced that he could plan so shabby a jest; and with this thought for consolation, I tugged at the long handle of his bell, an was answered by a jangle of sound which echoed a thousand-fold from every height and depth around. To my utter astonishment, the great, iron-studded door was opened at once; and just as I was saying that there was no one in the house, a civil old man was bowing before me and muttering phrases which, for all the meaning I could make of them, might have been so much Chinese.

"Halloa!" said I, when at last the old fellow paused, and, indeed, he was shivering like a man with the ague; "are you Juan Bazan?"

Now, instead of answering me directly (and I have some considerable acquaintance with Spanish), he, to my confusion, began to ramble on with such a string of appeals and complaints that I set him down at once as a maniac.

" God save me," he cried, again and again; "I am but an old man, and it was not my work. I have meant no ill-will to you. Blame not the servant for the deed of the master. Let me go, and my lips shall be shut upon this night's work— I will swear it upon the Holy Cross. Before Heaven, I am telling you the truth."

This was the way he gabbled on; nor do I believe for a moment that he was sane when he spoke to me. All my appeals fell on deaf ears. I gave him the letter from the Duke, his master, and he stood gibbering with the note unopened in his hand. Meanwhile, I had dismounted from my horse, and had pushed my way into a Moorish court which would have moved an antiquarian to ecstasies. Glorious arches, memorials to dead centuries, raised their frescoed crowns on every side. A fountain, rich in sculpture and tracery, cast out a frozen jet which had the appearance of a band of silver; a balcony with delicately wrought balustrades gave access to innumerable rooms. Never was a greater contrast between interior and exterior. Without, I had been the sole actor in a scene of desolation; within, I was the guest in a house which kings might have built and queens enjoyed. Yet this was the mystery, that the man who was responsible for my entertainment regarded me as a cut-purse who had come to steal his master's spoons.

"Look here," said I, angered beyond restraint, "don't you think that you've played the fool long enough? I have come here to stay the night at your master's orders. You have his letter in your hand, if my word is not enough. Take me to the stables, I beg, and get me some supper."

At this appeal he bowed again, though I could see that his legs were tottering under him.

"Certainly," exclaimed he. "I know well whence you come. Oh, indeed, I am your servant. All that you ask shall be done— I pledge my faith. I am but an old man, and it was not my work. God save your Excellency."

"Amen, to that," said I, telling myself that Juan Bazan, steward to the worthy Due de Trevino, was nothing less than an imbecile, But he was already on his way to the stables, and thither I followed in a state of perplexity and wonder which no words could express.

"This way, senor," he cried, snatching up a lantern which he had left upon the pavement, "this way, I pray you. The stables are through the great arch here. Have a care to the pavement; it is worn, I fear. If I had but known sooner. Oh, truly, news goes with a lame foot in Biscay."

"Then you knew that I was coming?" cried I.

"Your Excellency is the best judge of that," he exclaimed, and at the same moment he threw open the door of the stables.

His answer struck me as curious and enigmatical. Unless the landlord down in Isaro had played a joke upon the pair of us, who should have told him of my coming? And this supposition afforded the only key that fitted the logic of the mystery. I saw at once that they had frightened the old man, and I turned round to tell him so. But he, who a moment before had been at my elbow, was no longer to be seen. He had vanished like a fleeting ray of light.

" A malediction on the old fool," said I to myself; " they have told him some cock and bull story, and he takes me for a brigand. I shall have an account to settle with mine host of Isaro if ever misfortune carries me to his village again."

Truth to tell, directly I had begun to understand the thing, the humorous side of it appealed to me irresistibly. I had played many roles in a young life— but the role of brigand was new to me. Better, said I, to be taken for a brigand than a bagman ; and with this for satisfaction, I tended my horse and gave the poor beast a feed. Nor could I, in reason, complain of the stables. They were ornamental enough to have moved architects to tears ; and I did not fail to observe that one of the stalls was occupied by a sturdy bay cob, which was in the best of condition. Mad or sane, the steward of the Duke of Trevino undeniably loved his beast, and this was no small point in his favour. I resolved that I would reward him by putting an end to the farce we were playing ; and so think- ing, I returned to the court and began to call to him.

Many times I called, my voice sounding wonderfully deep and baying under the old arches of the cloister; but no word answered me. A search in the lower rooms about the quadrangle was no more fruitful; the most part of these, as is the custom in Spanish houses, being given up to lumber and to cellarage. It was only when I had made the circuit of the yard twice, and had come upon a little staircase which carried me to the balcony above, that I found evidence of life and occupation. Many doors opened upon this balcony; some leading to reception-rooms, gaudy in Spanish splendours ; some to gloomy bed-chambers of vast size; one to a chapel with an altar weighed down with time-worn emblems of devotion; one to a library sparsely stocked with heavy volumes. But at the very far end of the passage, facing the stables, I came suddenly upon two apartments that spoke unmistakably of very recent occupation ; and in the larger of these there was a spectacle which filled me as much with merriment as with wonder.

The first of these rooms was furnished as a sitting-room, the second as a kitchen; but it was not their furniture which I remarked with such amusement. Filed high upon the floor of the larger chamber were silver vessels, cups, goblets, dishes, spoons, of every conceivable shape and variety. Mingled with them were a number of rings, bracelets, necklaces, and other votive offerings, snatched, I surmised, haphazard from the altar near by. I guessed instantly that the excellent Juan Bazan had made this attempt to save such of his master's property as he could from the hands of one whom he regarded as a marauder. Defeated in his purpose by my sudden coming to the House of Snows, he had left the heap as a witness to his endeavours. But more than this, he had also left the house. Even as I was examining the amazing collection at my feet, I heard the great gate clang upon its hinges. The windows of the room looked out upon the mountains ; I beheld, by the white light of the glittering snow, the unhappy steward flying for his life down the broad road to Isaro. Terror at length had conquered him. I was sure that he had gone for the police.

This utterly unlooked-for greeting struck me at first as entirely funny. I said to myself that a whole company of alquazils would occupy the house presently, and that they would be merry souls, at any rate, and to be preferred to the gibbering idiot who had offered me such a bewildering welcome. Meanwhile, the terror-stricken man had left a very decent dinner and a very good bottle of wine behind him— not, perhaps, the dinner to be eaten on a Christmas Eve in England, but mightily welcome in the Pyrenees, and a God-send under the circumstances. I judged that it would have been an insult not to have sampled his cooking on the spot, and wishing him bon voyage on his way to the police station, I fell to with the appetite of a hungry and snow-driven man, and made a meal worthy of a prince-bishop.

It must have been near to nine o'clock when I had finished. There was a wealth of the moon's beams then pouring into my room, and the surpassingly white light fell plenteously upon the mountains. All the valleys had put on armour of silver and of jewels; the amphitheatre of hills and peaks glittered with an irradiance blinding to the eyes; the pine trees had the aspect of great bushes made of silver twigs; the cascades were like froth of diamonds and of pearls. No human thing was abroad at such an hour. I opened the window of my room and listened if there were any sound of horses' tramping, or of men approaching. "But all was still as the zenith of the night; the police which Juan Bazan were to bring were not yet to be heard. Solitude reigned in the heights; the towns alone echoed the spirit of the feasts

I had made myself sure of this, and was about to close the casement again, for the wind was bitterly cold, when the first really startling vision of that night of visions came to my eyes. I say that I thought myself alone, the victim of a pretty hoax, the living thing in house of mysteries, just when I was hugging the notion that I would do Juan Bazan the honour of sleeping in his bed until he should return, and was about to make the window fast, what should I see but the shadow of a girl cast plain and clear-cut upon the white terrace before the house. There it was, the reflection of the shape of a woman in Spanish dress; of a young woman, as I thought, and of one who was watching and waiting. During long moments the shadow lay upon the snow. Then it passed quickly; nor was there any sound, not so much as of a footstep or a whisper, to indicate whence it came or whither it had gone.

To say that this apparition alarmed me, would be to magnify the truth. There had been nothing particularly terrifying about the aspect of Juan Bazan; there was nothing so far in the house which he had left to compel suspicion or watchfulness. I argued that the girl possibly was his daughter; or was employed about the place. She, too, it might be, went in dread of the "brigand" who had descended so suddenly upon her home. I determined to reassure her; and snatching the lantern which the estimable Juan had left behind him, I ran into the court and began to bawl Spanish exclamations with the energy of a watchman. Yet, and this was strange, not a whisper of an answer did I get. Except for the crackle of the frost beneath my feet, the whole yard was as silent as the fields of snow upon the heights above. Smaller courts opening from the greater one were alike deserted, and lit only by the moon-beams which flooded down upon them so searchingly. No longer did any black shadow lie upon the untrodden snow. The ghostly corridors had no company; the entwining pillars were the only sentinels that guarded this haven among the mountains.

Convinced of this, I began to think that a poor digestion was responsible for my apparition ; and though a certain vague uneasiness, bred, perhaps, of the strange shapes about me, was not to be put off, I returned at last to the steward's room and lay down upon his bed.

The lantern was still burning where I had set it; there was a flicker of firelight upon the ceiling when at last I went to sleep. The day's work had tired me; the crisp, bracing air of the mountains weighed down my eyes with drowsiness. I could not have been upon Juan's bed more than ten minutes when a dreamy, restful unconsciousness stole over me. And the same dreamy feeling still possessed me when, after that which seemed an excaeding short time, I awoke again, and observed the red glow from the fire still dancing upon the ceiling of the room. But the flame of the lantern had burnt itself out, and I was in the very act of feeling for a match, when there burst upon my ears a sound which seemed to freeze my very heart, so mournful was it, so* shrill, so dirge-like. It was the sound, not of one, but of many men chanting a slow measure, fit to be styled a dirge of the dead — a haunting, weird melody rising up like a summons to all the spirits of the mountains — a chant, now of triumph, now of despair — as wild and as plaintive as any music man has listened to.

A roving life, lived amongst many men, and in many cities, is the best antidote to the sins of the nerves. For my part, whether it be temperament or whether it be education, I have never been a considerable victim of panic or of alarms. Yet, I confess that when first I heard that mysterious chanting in the House of Snows, my heart seemed to stand still, and an icy cold sweat broke out upon my forehead. Whence came the sound I could not, at the first hearing, tell. The whole house was full of it ; the cloisters resounded the dismal note ; the night wind carried it far up into the mountains. Now shrill as with voices of women ; now deep and sonorous as with the power of men, the measure rose and fell in haunting cadences, swelling at one time to the grandeur of a great organ, dying away presently until it was a mere lisp of words. And so soul-stirring was it, so terrifying, that I listened spell- bound, motionless, nay, almost terrified.

The chant rose and fell and died away in lingering harmonies. It was not until the final chord had ceased to reverberate beneath the eaves that the spell left me ; and full of curiosity, perhaps of fear, I sprang from the bed and ran out upon the balcony before my door. Clear reason had then returned to me, and I knew that the music was the music of human voices. But whence came they ; why were they raised in the House of Snows? The answer to such speculations was given to me immediately. No sooner was I upon the balcony than I saw a spectacle which I shall not forget, though I may live for a hundred years. The court, which had been dark save for the moonlight when I had gone to my sleep, was now glowing with a hundred lights from a hundred flaming torches. Wild figures of wild-looking men danced and capered in grotesque attitudes around a great fire which burnt at the very foot of the frozen fountain. Women snapping castanets, girls

dancing dreamily, cripples hobbling, the blind feeling their way, ragged cloaks elbow- ing scarlet sleeves and embroideries of gold ; strange creatures, drunk with excitement and with warmth, helped that wondrous and haunting scene. Never had I looked upon the like of it ; never heard sounds so strange or cries so shrill. A hundred demons might have risen suddenly from the shades and come to hold carnival in the mansion of the Duke. The master of pantomime might have had out his wares in the court especially for my delectation.

For many minutes I stood upon the balcony watching this medley with curious feelings. I had remembered that the Duke had spoken to me of the Basque customs, and had laid it upon me to visit the house if possible at the eve of Christmas. This remembrance helped me to regard the whole thing as a play, a surprise of the wily old steward who had left me so cunningly. And I was just about to declare myself, thinking to get fun of the frolic and the din, when events below took a turn which showed the whole thing in a new light, and one so horrible that its memory is to this day like a haunting vision of my sleep. Of a sudden there was a great cry at the chief gate of the court. I beheld many with torches running to that place; but returning immediately with new-comers, who had formed a ring round one whom they were beating and cuffing and dragging onward, regardless of the shrieks and cries, and wailing appeals for mercy. Now falling, now up again, now torn almost limb from limb, his face bleeding, his eyes outstanding, I recognised the victim of the mob. He was Juan Bazan, the steward of my host, the Duke of Trevino. And him they pushed forward, the women more fiercely than the men, until they had him at the edge of the great fire they had made ; and here they formed a ring about him, while he continued to raise cries which must have been heard miles away in the mountains.

"Mercy! for the love of God! Mercy, as you hope for mercy. I am an old man; I have done you no hurt— I swear it. I am but the servant— pity me!"

These, often repeated, were his words when they forced him upon his knees before the fire. And the mob, listening to them, greeted him with ringing guffaws; some stripping his clothes off his shoulders, some thrusting torches in his face, some flashing their shining knives before his eyes. Nor, for many minutes, could you hear a word; not, indeed, until a deformed old man, who appeared to be the leader of the gang, suddenly raised his hand, when instantly the whole company hushed its voice. And to this hush there followed the croaking note of the leader — harsh, satirical, and unpitying.

" Juan Bazan," said he, and I could but just follow the patois, " you ask mercy of us. We will give it to you even as you have given it to us. You cry that we shall pity you. Let our pity be as yours. You call on the sacred name of God, that name under the cloak of which your master has hunted us from house to house and hill to hill, putting a curse upon our children and a yoke upon our lives. Let the holy name of God be our justification."

He said this, and with the word he raised a hand from the shelter of the brown cloak. As I looked at it by the torches' light, an overwhelming horror came upon me. It was the hand of a leper. But he went on with his accusation.

"Let the holy name of God be our justification," he repeated, turning to the mob behind him, who answered his words with a savage roar of anger. "What say you, my children? This man who has driven you from your homes, who has hunted you like wolves— what shall be done to him?"

It was not possible to doubt the nature of the answer which would be given to him. The horde no longer had patience to listen to the accusation. Drunk with the desire of blood, hot in uncontrollable anger, the Spaniards sprang upon the terror-stricken steward. The light playing over his face showed me a countenance distorted with agony and the fear of death. In one horrible moment I saw the flash of many knives; I heard the man's long-drawn shriek as the blades were buried in his body; I saw him roll over and over, clutching the ground in his agony. And then I shut my eyes for very terror, and a loud cry escaped my lips.

Until this time I had watched the scene like a man in a dream. Waked from my sleep to take part in it, there were moments when I said that I had imagined the whole thing— that it was a freak of the brain following upon a stolen supper. But no sooner had I uttered a word of protest than the grim reality was brought home to me. Every face in that throng below instantly turned upward to mine. A hundred torches were raised that their light might fall upon me. The quivering body of the steward was left that men might come and look at him who sought to stay their hands. And never have I heard anything like the shouts which fell upon my ears when the mob had satisfied itself that I had witnessed its work.

Twenty men seemed to leap together to the staircase upon my right hand ; others, grinning with rage, swarmed up the pillars ; some ran to and fro roaring with their desire of vengeance; the women and young girls added voices to the clamour ; the leader endeavoured to make himself heard, but none listened to him.

As for myself, though I had whipped out my pistols as the horde ran to the staircase, I looked for nothing but instant death, for such a death as Juan Bazan had died. The meaning of those shrill cries was unmistakable. The faces of the first-comers, as they appeared at the head of the staircase, betrayed neither pity nor hesitation. I was one against a hundred mad with the lust of blood and murder. The very thought moved me to a dogged and obstinate determination to strike one blow for my life. Quick as light, I set my back against the wall and covered the first of the Spaniards with my pistol. As he thrust his dirty face forward, raising his arm to strike me, I shot him through the shoulder and his body rolled back upon his fellows. A second and third discharge, fired point-blank into the mob, left a second and a third of the company prone upon the stairs. For an instant, the tide of the assault rolled back. A hush as the hush of storm fell upon those below. I heard the leader's voice, loud and sonorous, as he called upon his men to come down. I heard a new and angrier roar of refusal ; and then, as the mob gathered itself together for a last great rush, I, of a sudden moved by one of those clear ideas which come to us often in the heat of danger, sprang headlong from the gallery to the snow below, and was at the leader's side even before those who pressed upon me had marked my intention.

"For God's sake, look what you do," cried I, shouting with all my lungs. "I am an Englishman, and your people will pay for this night's work."

"What do you here, then?" he asked, turning upon me a pair of eyes horribly bloodshot and watering.

"I was passing through the mountains, and I came for a night's shelter. I have friends at Isaro, who will look for me tomorrow. There is my passport."

It was a terrible moment. The crowd, as crowds will, had paused directly their chief exchanged a word with me. I saw about me hundreds of wild eyes and horrid faces, knives glistening, features drawn with ferocity. Hands raised here and there ; bared breasts, legs showing through rags which swathed them, told me of what sort these men were. They were cagots, the lepers of Biscay, those hunted, driven wolves of the mountains of which even tradition speaks with a hushed voice. And now they pressed upon me, while the dread and the loathing of them which I suffered is not to be set down.

The chief made a pretence of reading my passport. His fellows waited for his word. I knew that it was the supreme moment of my life. A sign from him— a hesitating word, and the mob would tear me limb from limb. So great was the agony of suspense that the sweat rolled from my face and fell in cold drops upon my hands.

"Well," said the chief at last, and hours seemed to pass before he spoke, "I see that you are an Englishman. But I must ask again, what brought you to this house?"

"The request of the Duke of Trevino, whom I met last month at Pau."

The thing was said without a thought of the consequence. Yet it proved to be the turn of the crisis.

"The Duke is at Pau!" almost screamed the leader.

"He was there when I left," said I, "but he is to be at Santander directly."

I had raised my voice again, so that all the Spaniards in the court could hear me. The result was remarkable beyond any expectation.

"Listen to that," cried the chief; "the Duke is to be at Santander directly."

The others answered him with turbulent shouts.

"You swear that you are not lying to us?" cried the leader, turning upon me suddenly, as the possibility occurred to him.

"I swear it," said I.

"Then let him lead us there," cried a young girl in the throng— and her suggestion moved the mob to raptures of delight. The crowd began to pour out of the. great gateway, some of the crew calling for my horse, some bidding their friends to fire the building, others again wringing their hands in delight at the news I had given to them. Soon I found myself, how I know not, once more in the saddle, with the army of repulsive lepers gibbering about my horse's girths. A hundred torches lit up the darkness of the mountain road. The brown cloaks of the men (not a few of them stamped with the duck's foot, the sign of the leper in Biscay), the bright dresses of the girls, the music of guitars, and the clash of tamboureens added to the wonders of the scene. And the drama of it all culminated when, suddenly and terribly, great, red flames burst from the building we had left, and a newer, fiercer light shone out over the mountains. The assassins had fired the House of Snows, and made it a beacon of the hills.

The burning of the house, and this was not strange, modified, in some measure, the ardour of the mob. There were many who turned their backs upon the company and slipped away in the darkness directly we left the gateway. That which had been a band of a hundred or more when we set out was a company of fifty when we gained the summit of the pass. At a mile from the burning building there was but a score of men with me, and they had lost their tongues.

Turning round in my saddle, I looked down the mountain road upon the house I had left. It burned with a lurid red light; but soldiers were moving in its courtyard, and with them were many villagers come to see the meaning of the beacon. Elsewhere all was still in the heights; of all the throng that had set out so gaily to the murder of the Duke of Trevino but one remained, and she was a girl; a girl whose age, allowing for her Southern maturity, could not have been more than sixteen years. Pretty, piquant, quaintly dressed, with large, round eyes, and coarse, black hair— she now stood timidly holding to my stirrup-strap. I saw that she wished to speak with me.

"Well, pretty one," said I, "why do you wait? Do you not see the soldiers?"

"Señor," said she, avoiding my question, but holding the tighter to my strap, "will you take me away from here?"

"Take you away, child?— where should I take you?"

"To Santander— to the Duke, my master."

"And what would you do at Santander?

"I would warn him. Oh, I can tell him what he will never hear. Do not be afraid of me— I am not as the others."

By this she meant that the fearful disease to which so many of her companions were victims had not put its dreadful seal upon her, and she held up a pair of exquisitely white arms, to convince me of the truth. Yet how to answer her, I did not know.

"See, little one," said I at last, "there is but one horse."

"I will ride on the saddle before you," she protested; and giving me no time to answer her, she sprang up suddenly from the ground, and soon was resting in my arms.

An argument pressed home like this was irresistible. I gave the beast his head, and we began to descend the pass to Bilbao. But at the next posting-station, where I left her to see if I could procure another horse, she rewarded me roughly for my pains. For when I came out of the post-house, there was not a trace of her to be seen. She had ridden off with my cob; and I did not doubt that her destination was my own.

I ARRIVED at Santander on the eve of the following day, thinking it imperatively necessary to make known to the Duke of Trevino the whole circumstances attending the sack and destruction of his house. With this intention I descended at the principal inn, La Fonda de Boggio, and asked the landlord for news of him I sought. He met me with a look of surprised incredulity.

"How," said he, "have you not heard? The Duke was assassinated in the Calle de Bacedo at two o'clock this afternoon. The whole town is full of it. He was struck down by a girl as he was coming from the house."

I listened, silent, in amazement. Then I asked:—

"Have they caught the creature?"

"Indeed, no— and yet she was only a child. Oh, trust a cagot for craftiness."

"And to what do they attribute the crime?"

"To the fact that he prevented the slut's marriage to one of his servants because she was the daughter of a leper. Oh, he has hunted them merrily, those poor devils, and now they have repaid him. God rest his soul."

I muttered an Amen— and it seemed to me that the whole story of the night was now made clear. The Duke had sent me to the House of Snows to bring him news of those he had persecuted. I knew well that roving bands of hunted lepers were still to be found in the mountains and caves of Biscay. And it was such a band that had worked so deadly a vengeance upon Juan Bazan and his master.

Every year for many years, they told me afterwards, these nomadic lepers had held carnival at Christmas Eve somewhere upon the Duke's estate, always swearing vengeance and nursing their hate. But upon the night when I crossed the mountains, they had conceived the daring notion of supping in the Duke's very house, Juan Bazan must have heard of this intention, and was preparing to defend himself when I arrived. I reflected bitterly that if, in his panic, he had not mistaken me for one of those whom he feared, I might have saved his life and that of his master. It was clear that they had caught him as he fled to the village, and had carried him back to be the passive victim of that memorable scene I had witnessed.

As for the Duke, I have never doubted that the hand which struck him down was the hand of the child I had carried in my arms through the mountains.

__________________

11: The Wizard of Swazi Swamp

Charles J Mansford

1863-1943

Strand Magazine, Aug 1895

From the series "Gleams from the Dark Continent".

TONGUES of silvery water ran in and lapped the rock-strewn beach of an island on which we were encamped some weeks after our adventure at the strange City of Kor. In order to rest our Wadigo followers after a dreary march, we had constructed some boats of bark, and crossed the lake with the intention of remaining several days upon the thickly-wooded island.

On the second night after our arrival it fell to the turn of Kass to keep watch, and, wishing to consult him on some matter, I joined the Wadigo. For some time afterwards we stood together, silently looking across the great sweep of waters, studded as they were with massy scarlet and white flowers, which raised their cup-like blossoms above the rippling surface of the lake. Suddenly Kass, whose peculiar dialect had become familiar,  laid his hand upon my shoulder and pointed warningly to a dark speck upon the water.

"See!" he whispered; "there; something moves upon the lake."

Nearer and nearer the object came, until at last we knew it to be a canoe, as we saw the prow cleaving the waters, while the paddles were swiftly plied. Watching it closely in the light of the moon and yellow lantern stars, we saw that its sole occupant was a woman.

" What can she be out upon the lake alone for at night?" I asked Kass, glancing into the Wadigo's face.

He returned no answer to my question, for, at that moment, the woman's keen eyes caught sight of us as we stood watching her. Then, to our surprise, she rose in the canoe and seemed to beckon us. Again she grasped the paddles, and, uttering a cry of entreaty, she turned her frail vessel towards a narrow inlet, after entering which she leapt upon the low, rocky bank, and immediately afterwards flung herself prostrate before us.

Kass gently raised her, and while I looked curiously at the woman, he endeavoured to learn from her why she had so strangely sought us out. From the many rows of shells which covered the garment of goat-skin she wore, as well as from a bracelet of teeth adorning her right arm, I judged that the woman belonged to a tribe which Kass had recently described to us. Her features, however, were cast in a different mould, for in spite of the two huge tiger's teeth which disfigured her ears, the woman seemed to represent a rather refined tribe of Africans. Her half-clothed, and somewhat slender, form was surmounted by a fine, shapely head, while her skin was olive in hue, rendering prominent the intense black colour of her thick, clustering hair. I noticed, too, that Kass, after addressing her in the Wadigo dialect, quickly changed it for another of which I knew nothing. After a few minutes had elapsed the Wadigo turned to me and asked:—

"Would the White Chiefs care to go on a journey to save a man's life?"

"Where do you want us to go, and when?" I said, answering his question with another.

"Where, I know not," he replied; "yet if the moon departs before ye reach the place, then shall ye be too late."

"Then I can promise nothing, Kass," I answered; "but come, I will wake the other White Chief, and then you must explain what it is that this woman seeks."

We moved away together to where the rude huts which our Wadigo followers had constructed were situated, and hastily rousing Denviers and Hassan, our Arab, we held a hurried consultation. From what Kass said, every minute was of importance, since we had some distance to cover if we agreed to make the adventure. We could get no clear idea from the woman's words as to what was required of us. She had somehow heard that we were encamped upon the island, and, having a very exaggerated opinion of white men and their prowess, she wildly besought us to launch a canoe and make for a spot she would point out.

"Rather a queer request to make, certainly," commented Denviers to me, aside. "This woman evidently supposes that because we are white, instead of black, we have charmed lives."

"Kass tells me that her name is Mwicha. She declares that our Snakes are good," I replied, with a smile; "meaning, I suppose, that we are kindly protected by Fate from assegai thrusts. Shall we go?"

"We may as well," he answered. "If a chance occurs on the way, we must try to learn from the woman what the object of our journey is to be, and, above all, we had better take our rifles with us."

Leaving Hassan in charge of the camp, as we usually did, we quickly launched one of our bark canoes. The Arab watched our craft depart, little knowing under what circumstances we should see our faithful guide again. The woman sat in the stern, Kass in the prow of the canoe, while Denviers and I used the flat paddles with a will.

Crossing the lake, we kept in the shadow of the trees which fringed the mainland, and so, for an hour or more, our frail canoe was thrust rapidly forward. Suddenly the silence of the night was broken by a great sound, the like of which, previous to that hour, we had not heard during our expedition across the Dark Continent. Mwicha, the native woman, bent forward and grasped my hands; understanding her movement, I ceased paddling, Denviers at once following my example. I heard the ripple of the water against the prow of the canoe as the latter went on some yards without being propelled, then again all was silent, till once more the place resounded with the noise which we had heard before.

Taking a paddle from Denviers's hand, Kass pressed the blade upon the bank, and then the four of us landed when the canoe lay alongside. Noiselessly we advanced, breast deep in reeds and rank herbage, till we saw before us a clear space, beyond which the trees rose once more.

"Down, Harold, down!" whispered Denviers to me, hastily. "Look!"

We stooped at once and became motionless, then, glancing ahead, we saw whence the noise had come, and its cause. Down at the water's edge we saw a lioness and a whelp, while standing as guard over them was the male, his head being turned towards us as he grandly woke the echoes of the wilds about him. With the instinct of hunters, we raised our rifles. In a moment the woman, Mwicha, grasped mine by the barrel with one hand as she raised the other warningly and pointed towards the stem of a huge tree opposite, muttering something unintelligible into my ear as she did so.

"Wait and watch," so Kass explained her words. "We are in time at the Place of the Lions. Perhaps the lion may slay instead; who knows?"

Something moved from behind the tree which faced us, whereupon the lioness, quick to take alarm, seized the whelp in her mouth and dashed into cover, springing almost upon us as she went past. The male turned his head and faced the spot where a slight rustling had occurred— then, armed with a great shield of hide and a single assegai, there came forth a man who deliberately faced the angry beast.

A strange, weird-looking being he was at whom we glanced. His hair, which was almost white, owing probably to his extreme age, hung down to his waist in matted disorder; while surmounting it he wore a curious head-dress. The latter, like the apron which fell from his loins, was made of jackal skins, while fastened upon it were numerous beads and curious charms. Although his back was bent and his black skin was shrivelled upon his long, attenuated limbs, he turned a fierce and malignant glance upon the infuriated animal, which showed that he, at least, did not fear the result of the approaching combat.

"Nyoko, the great King's wizard!" the woman muttered. "First the lion then the man will he slay, that the King may live! Would that blunt were his assegai and blind his eyes, that his naked feet might slip in his own life-stream, and the moon light up the lion feasting on his quivering flesh!"

"A very amiable wish, certainly," commented Denviers to me, as Kass explained its meaning; "to me it looks remarkably as if Nyoko, the distorted savage opposite, has the chance of a speedy release from life, unless when he seems to be getting the worst of it we can shoot the lion. Look!" He stopped; for the strange combat between man and brute had begun.

With one tremendous spring the lion was upon him; but Nyoko, the wizard, agilely slipped aside, quickly turning to face his foe in an instant. With his shield held so that it almost covered his body, the wizard peered over the top of it, holding his assegai ready. At him the lion sprang again, and a second time the wizard's skill stood him good service in his need. Then, as the brute went by, Nyoko thrust hard at it with his assegai, but missed his mark. Retreating quickly a few yards, he waited for the attack once more. I almost betrayed our presence as I gave a sharp, though low, cry at what followed, for so far as we then knew, the natives were possibly watching the contest concealed by the trees before us, although, as we afterwards discovered, it was not so. Bounding through the air, the lion struck the wizard's shield a tremendous blow with its paws. Down to the earth the man went, covered by his shield of hide, as the maddened beast crashed heavily upon him. Then to our astonishment, just as we covered the brute with our rifles, Nyoko, raising his head and arm, suddenly lunged upward and nearly buried his assegai in the lion's body. A dull roar of mingled wrath and mortal pain seemed to shake the ground on which we stood, then we saw the wizard extricate himself from beneath the shield on which the lifeless body of the lion fell, and rising, he bent over his defeated foe, straining with his two hands to tug out the assegai.

We watched the wizard curiously, as he deftly stripped the skin from his slain enemy, then, throwing the trophy upon his arm, seized his shield and struck rapidly into the gloom of the forest trees before us. I turned hastily to Denviers and asked:—

"Shall we follow him?"

Before my companion could reply, however, Mwicha, the native woman, who seemed to grasp the meaning of my words, motioned to where our canoe was fastened, and pointed there silently, as if our way must be upon the lake. Kass moved off immediately in the direction indicated, and knowing the value of his guidance in places so unknown as that, we at once followed him. Entering the anoe, we forced it rapidly but cautiously forward. After a while we found ourselves coasting along a swampy part of the mainland, which, for some distance inland, the waters of the lake inundated. With considerable difficulty the canoe was paddled up a shallow arm of the lake, until beyond the swamp the ground lay high as we passed on, with a scanty fringe of trees lining either bank, which broadened out farther on into dense forest land.

"Stay!" cried Mwicha, suddenly. "When the wizard is seen to pass we must follow afoot," and accordingly we waited.

"Kass," said Denviers to our Wadigo, who had changed his position in the canoe in order to converse with Mwicha, "why have we been brought here?"

"Soon shall ye know," the Wadigo answered, "for we are past the dreaded swamp of Swazi, and Mwicha has told me why she seeks our aid. Strange is the reason; stranger still what ye shall see and hear. Listen, then!"

ii

"I AM not of the tribe that Swazi, King of the land which bears his name, has rule over, although in the hut of one of his chiefs of late have I lived," began Kass, repeating the words which Mwicha, the native woman, had used. "As many as the leaves of the forest are the young men of Swazi, whose spears and assegais are early washed in the blood of their foes. So feared are they, that the tribes dwelling about the lake to meet them in battle dare not, for their strength bends and breaks when Swazi shields crash against theirs, as they follow the chiefs who lead them on. So it comes about that, in fear, many tribes have owned Swazi's rule, and sent great presents to him that he may let them live, nor blot them out, as often they fear he will do.

"Among the tribes whom Swazi once reduced was that of the Wanas, which held out longest against him, but their King being slain, at last they yielded, and Swazi named Chika, a young chief, as their headsman under him. Much as the latter wished to shake off Swazi's yoke he could not, for the Wanas became like children ; they ceased to point their assegais, nor longer slew the great forest beasts that their skins might become hard and tough for the making of shields of hide. So Swazi, who knew these things, was glad, and as the men of this conquered tribe became many, some of them he took as slaves and others he sold to the Arabs, who, as ye know, ever deal in such wares. Heavier and heavier, harder and harder to bear, became the tribute paid to Swazi, who at last sent a chief, saying that Chika was disloyal, and calling upon the tribe to slay him. He demanded, too, that every head of cattle within the land where the Wanas dwelt should be driven into his, Swazi's, country, that he might share them among his own people.

"Chika, the chief of the Wanas, listened in silence to the demand for his death and the spoliation of his tribe, till the chief who brought the hard request had concluded it.

" 'Go now,' he said; 'tell Swazi, your great King, that in three days he shall be answered.'

" 'Swazi will not wait; he needs at once the Wanas' answer,' cried the other.

" 'May I not live even three days?' asked Chika. 'Leave me, lest I have thee speared! My message to Swazi has been spoken.'

"Then the chief returned to Swazi. While gathering the men and women of the Wana tribe about him upon the plain where now is the great swamp, but which then was dry, Chika stood before them, spear in hand, and told of Swazi's demand.

" 'Ye Wana slaves,' he cried, 'how long will ye be bought and sold like dull herds of cattle, without resisting Swazi's demands? Whose hut has not lost one that he has asked for, and ye have given? Day after day ye work the ground, ye, who should leave such toil to women, and fit spear and assegai to your hands. Yet once, by Swazi's tribe, was feared the bare name of Wanas, whom then great chiefs led on. So low are ye sunk that Swazi asks for your cattle— he thinks they will sell to traders for more than ye do. Still, he remembers that once ye were men ; and fearing again ye may be, he seeks to slay me, lest turning at last upon the oppressor with me, ye blot out each one of his tribe.'

"Then Chika, holding out to those about him the heavy spear he gripped, continued: —

" 'Spear me, spear me, ye Wanas, that, unlike ye, I may die as a man should!'

"No one took the proffered spear, and Chika, glancing at them, saw that they were slowly kindling with the fire of his words and gestures.

" 'Worse things yet shall come upon ye than ye suffer now like cattle!' he went on; 'for when the tribes about shall want a word to mean a great coward, they shall call the one they taunt a Wana, and tell how Swazi blotted ye out. Are ye so afraid, ye who are the sons of chiefs? Chika, the one left to ye by your King, who fell in battle, asks will ye slay or be slain? If your tongues are heavy with fear and ye cannot lift them to answer, let your women speak and say, which shall it be?'

" 'We will slay!' the Wanas cried, hoarsely, as they wildly flung up their hands in assent to Chika's words.

" 'Then back to your huts,' the chief cried: 'night and day shall ye work to make shields and assegais as best ye can, for in three days the men of Swazi shall know that the Wanas, smitten too sorely, have turned at last!'

"Throughout the tribe that night the making and fitting of weapons went on. When day dawned, the Wanas slew their cattle, drying the steaming hides quickly in the sun, to turn them into shields. At last Swazi, receiving not the cattle nor the dead body of Chika, sent a band of braves into the Wanas' territory. Of these but one returned to his tribesmen to tell them how the Wanas had risen and slain those who had gone there with him against them.

"Then Swazi sharpened his spears and assegais, and led his remaining warriors, who were as many as are the ants of a hill, against the revolted tribe.

"All that day, shield to shield, hand to hand, spear splintering spear, they fought— yea, they slew and were slain in turn, till the grey grass grew scarlet, and the earth could not sop up the pools upon it, which were as red as the waters of the lake are each day when the sun is lost and night comes on. Ah! Chika, the brave chief, was slain, and his great men also; yet the Wanas fought grimly on; yea, here and there a woman seized spear or assegai, as fitted her hand, and thrust at the swarming foes. On came Swazi's men, still on, till not one man of the Wanas was living— and then Swazi won! Next the great King bade his braves finish their work, and women and children, too, were blotted out. Left for dead among a heap of slain, I"—for Kass still narrated the woman's story as if she told it— "yea, I crawled out and looked sadly upon the great plain. Even then the foul beasts that prowl were gorging upon those of my hut and tribe, who were too blind to see the wound which a Swazi spear had given me— for of all, I alone lived! Then into a hut I crept to wait the day, knowing not where to go, for the tribes about would not receive me, lest Swazi slew them because of it.

"The sun was up; I rose, struck into the forest, and there was seized by a body of braves sent by Swazi to burn the huts of the slain.

" 'Why does a Wana still live?' cried one, and lifting his spear, he thrust it down at me as others held me fast. The point had touched me, when a young chief of Swazi thrust upward the descending spear, exclaiming:—

" 'Spear her not. As I am Swazi's favourite chief, the woman is fair!'

"His words were listened to, and when the braves returned to Swazi's territory, the young chief sought in turn that his deeds in battle should be rewarded by the great King. Asked what he wished, he begged a hut for me, and that I should become one of the tribe. Gladly I agreed, but Swazi, the King, at first would not. Yet were the words of the young chief smooth, and because of the many he had slain, Swazi heard him and consented.

"Not long after this, Swazi went forth to spear lions in the land where now is the swamp and once the Wanas dwelt. At night he lay down to rest where the battle had been, of which ye have heard. Strange things saw he, and in dread, he called upon Nyoko, the wizard, to explain what they might mean. Nyoko, who had much power over Swazi and desired more, soon stood before the great King.

" 'Say on, great Swazi,' he cried; 'first must thy slave hear what thou didst see, that he may tell what thou shalt see.' Then did Swazi speak strange words:—

" 'Nyoko, Ruler of the Rains and Maker of Charms to thy King, listen: It was night; the moon was up; among the reeds swashed the waters of the lake; beasts that love not day prowled; no wind shook the leaves; tired, I slept. Suddenly a sound woke me, a sound ever sweet to the ears of Swazi— the crash of shields and the whirring of assegais. Listening, I heard the cries of braves speared to death; the shouts of men trampling down men; the screams of some thrust into the lake and drowning. Quickly I rose, seized shield and spear and hastened to battle. There I saw the Wanas in thousands, fighting against my own braves. Into the thick of the struggle I went and fought all through that night: Wana spears splintered against my shield in vain. At last my warriors seemed to win, when suddenly a woman lifted a spear and thrust at me. I felt no wound, yet strange it was, for in that hour I seemed to grow old; my arm failed; down dropped both spear and shield. My warriors who saw this ceased to fight, and lo ! the Wanas, even they conquered my Swazi host. They smote them with assegais ; thrust them through with spears; dragged them down with their hands as the wind flings down great trees. Then the waters of the lake came up and covered the land, so that I was forced for life to retreat. I made my way from the battle and sought for a place to die in, when, know that I stumbled. Looking down, I saw one of my braves. I bent and turned his body over to count the wounds upon his breast, and to see if I knew his face. He was not dead, for, lo! he rose and faced me! Then I asked why he lived when his tribe had been beaten in battle, and he answered me strangely.

" 'Not dead are the men of Swazi,' he cried; 'surely they live to do thy will to the last, great King!'— and he pointed to where lay those who had gone with me to spear the wild beasts. Again I touched a Swazi brave; he also rose, and wondered why I awoke him. Hear me, Nyoko, to whom many things are known. I fought not in a dream, I say, for my eyes saw Wana and Swazi braves contending, and truly did I lead on my own men. Yet long ago it is since we blotted out the Wanas; were the men I saw then alive that strange night? Say, Wizard of Swazi, what can this mean?'

"Now, Nyoko, the wizard, glanced at Swazi's shield and spear, and saw that they were bloodless. One enemy he had who laughed at his spells and charms, the young chief Alii, who had taken me to his hut. So Nyoko planned to deceive the King, and at the same time to bring trouble upon his enemy.

" 'A great and a hard task is it to find out the meaning of what thou didst see, great Swazi,' he answered: 'yet in three days will Nyoko, thy slave, discover its meaning ! '

" So back to rule his tribe went Swazi, while Nyoko plucked simples and took strange charms by which to learn what the great King would know. These he cast into a fire, and after watching the strange shapes which the smoke took, he went to Swazi and said:—

" 'Know, great Swazi, what thou wishest clear, is so. When the Wanas were slain, did all die? Not so; for a woman of the tribe has been permitted to dwell among us. She it was who appeared to thrust a spear at thee that dreadful night, when dead braves woke to fight in battle again. A spell is upon thee, great King, and thou shalt grow old even in a year unless it be removed. No Wana woman could bring this about; but she has taught one of thy chiefs to do evil to thee, for perhaps he longs to rule the tribe when thou art gone. Say, great Swazi, who can this chief be?'

"Swazi understood, yet because he knew that Alii had killed many of his foes, he would not listen to Nyoko's counsel to slay him. Then it happened that a great storm swept the lake, so that its waters broke the banks and made the swamp which is even now before us. Again went Nyoko to the King, pretending that Alli's spell had caused this.

" 'Lo!' he cried, 'what I saw in the smoke was true, for the swamp which came about thee, Swazi, one night, is now real. Where thou didst see the warriors fight, have the waters come. Are Nyoko's words wrong, then ? Do not the men of the Swazi tribe say to each other, that every day their King becomes more bent? Hear me before it is too late, and let Nyoko cast the spell from thee.'

"Swazi was startled when he heard that the men of his tribe thought him old, for among them the elders are slain, that none may have to hunt to get them food— even so die their Kings. So Swazi bade the wizard say how he could avoid death, which none save Nyoko had done through the whole Swazi tribe.

" 'Great Swazi, hear me,' answered Nyoko. 'He who has bewitched thee is one of thy four great chiefs— it may not even be Alii, but that I cannot tell. At the Place of the Lions, great beasts have been seen many nights. Call the Swazis together this night and build the test fire, as is done in our tribe. I, alone, will slay a lion and bring its skin and head as the men are waiting thy words. To each of the four will I give a tooth from the lion and with it a charm. Those who have not bewitched thee need not fear aught, for thrusting their gifts into the fire, they will smoulder away. He who holds this spell upon thee need fear alone, for the charm will betray him by its flare. Let thy warriors seize him and spear him— so wilt thou live many years and carry a shield to battle. Yet, if my words thou wilt not hear, the Swazi tribe will be blotted out, even as thou didst so strangely see, for without thee who can lead them to win battles and spear their foes?'

"So Swazi has gathered his men about a fire in the forest, and they wait for Nyoko to carry to them the spoil of the lion and his charms. Whose portion think ye will flare save that of Alii, in whose hut I dwell? Will ye not save the chief I love? Nyoko fears the waters of the swamp, or would have come the way I brought ye—"

Kass stopped suddenly. We had no time to think of the danger that such an enterprise might bring us, for the Swazi woman at that moment left the boat, and concealed by a tree from Nyoko's view, pointed out the wizard, even then on his way to the tribe.

"Come!" she cried. And gripping our rifles we followed her as she cautiously led the way through the dense forest.

iii

NYOKO, the wizard, who little suspected that he was being followed by us, kept on his way steadily for an hour or more, when the rude huts of the Swazi tribe were seen to rise up before us. Keeping under cover, we advanced until we came to a clearing, where we saw a number of Swazi's men gathered about a fire, as the woman had declared. No sooner did Nyoko appear than the braves beat their spears upon their shields and loudly cried out the wizard's name. Cautiously we drew nearer still, until we could distinguish the great King himself, who stood so that the glare of the glowing wood lit up his face distinctly. Nyoko had evidently persuaded him that his strength was really failing him, for, although he was scarcely of middle age, the King leant heavily upon a spear as he glanced into the wizard's face when the latter approached.

The braves drew to left and right as Nyoko advanced, and then we saw that four of them carried neither shield nor spear, while the rest glanced at them curiously as the wizard fronted the King.

"See!" cried Nyoko, as he held up the tawny hide, to which the head still adhered; "great Swazi, the lion is slain!"

The wizard flung his trophy on the ground at the King's feet; then, with the point of a spear, he dug out four of the lion's teeth. These he placed each in a small bundle of herbs, whereupon the King harangued the tribe, evidently explaining to his braves the purpose for which they were assembled. Kass explained to us his concluding words as the braves caught them up and cried:—

"Yea, the innocent shall live, the guilty shall die!"

We watched the wizard as he approached the four unarmed braves and gave to each man his portion; then, standing beside the King, he waited for them to come forward to essay the strange test. We saw the first approach and fling his share upon the glowing wood. A great wave of anxiety passed over the brave's face, as he waited in fear the result. Beyond a little smoke, nothing came from the fire, and those who favoured him at once raised a cry of satisfaction that he was not doomed to die. The second of the four next threw in his portion ; he, too, escaped. Then Alii, the third of the unarmed braves, stood out. A great-limbed fellow he seemed, as he approached the fire and, without a quiver of his muscles, flung down his portion. Scornfully he glanced into the wizard's face as, in a second, the fire leapt up with a great flame of scarlet that flung its light upon the trees around.

"Seize him!" cried Nyoko, pointing to the brave as he spoke: "Alii it is who has bewitched the King! As ye are Swazi's men and braves, seize the evil one; seize him, I say, and spear him!"

The guilt of Alii seemed to be at once accepted as proved by the others, for several of them ran forward and threw themselves upon the Swazi. Two of them he dashed to the ground with stunning blows, as they closed with him, but he was immediately overpowered. Forcing his arms behind him, the braves held him while Nyoko himself advanced, poising a great spear. Raising it in both hands he drew the weapon back above his head, the captive scorning to appeal to the King even for his life. Then, to our dismay, Mwicha, the woman who had led us there, dashed out from where we were concealed and caught from behind the wizard's arms before he could crunch the spear into the body of his enemy! At once she was dragged away, while Nyoko again raised his spear, when Denviers, hastily levelling his rifle, fired at the wizard. Nyoko flung up his arms apart, then with the spear still gripped in one hand, he fell heavily forward at the feet of the brave whose death he had so subtly planned!

"Look out, we are in for it this time," cried Denviers to me as the Swazis turned and poured quickly down upon us. We beat them off with the butts of our rifles, clubbing them as they gathered about us, Kass doing all that he could to help us in that one-sided combat.

"Why are ye here?" asked Swazi, when we were overpowered and dragged before him. Kass gave a reply which, as we expected, failed to appease Swazi.

"How came ye here?" continued the King. Kass explained that we had entered his territory by way of the swamp.

"Then by way of the swamp shall ye die ; so too shall the one ye came to save, since Nyoko is slain," he answered. At a sign from the King we were thrust from his presence, shut up in a mud hut, and closely guarded till day, when we were hurried through the forest by the way we came until the waters of the swamp stretched before us. Passing along its marshy side for some distance, the Swazis led us to a spot where several peculiarly-built boats were made fast to some upright stakes. The largest of these had paddles for about twenty men; its prow stood high out of the water, and this was adorned with a pair of buffalo horns, the skin of the slain animal hanging down loosely in front. Into this boat we were forced and held down by some of the braves, while the rest paddled vigorously forward to the middle of the swamp.

The boat then stopped, and the Swazis began to lash our limbs fast together with thongs of hide, intending, we supposed, to throw us into the swamp to drown— when, suddenly, one of the braves raised an excited cry and pointed across the lake. We caught the sound of paddles striking the water, but before we could free ourselves, as we struggled to keep the Swazis from binding us, we heard the welcome voice of Hassan loudly urging on our Wadigo followers, whose bark canoes soon surrounded the boat in which we were held fast. Failing to keep them at bay, the Swazis flung us into the swamp and succeeded in getting their boat clear and away. With a few swift strokes of their paddles, the Swazis shot forward fifty yards or more ahead of the pursuing Wadigos.

"Call to our men to return, Hassan," said Denviers, when we had been pulled into our faithful guide's boat; and the Arab most reluctantly did so.

Once more we struck across the swamp, then our canoes shot across the waters of the lake as we made for our island retreat.

"The sahibs have been successful, after all," said Hassan, in his grave way ; " they have saved the one in whose cause they set out." The Arab, as he spoke, pointed to a canoe close to ours, and there we saw Alii, the young Swazi chief, who had been flung into the swamp with us.

"Why, surely that is Mwicha by his side," I exclaimed, as I caught sight of the woman's face, wondering how the one who had led us to the chiefs rescue came there.

"Yes, sahib," answered Hassan; "she heard that ye three were to be drowned in the swamp at day, and so for a second time she stole from the Swazi tribe and made for the island. Hearing how badly it fared with the sahibs, Hassan, the latchet of their shoes, manned the canoes with Wadigos, and waited for the Swazis to attempt their evil deed. Allah and Mahomet prospered us— the rest, the sahibs know."

"Your promptness saved our lives, Hassan," said Denviers, glancing into the Arab's face. "What shall we do with these two: Alii, the young chief, and Mwicha, his bride?"

"Let them journey with us at present, sahib," Hassan answered; "for we must start at once, lest Swazi may make an attack upon us."

We changed our clothing, sodden with water and slime from the great Swazi swamp, then, having rested for a few hours, set out once more. Less than a week after, we entered the territory of a friendly tribe, to the King of which we made presents of cloth, and he, in return, allowed Alii and Mwicha to have a hut among those of his own people.

_________________

12: The Ladies of Catsmeat Yard

Guy Gilpatric

1896-1950

The Saturday Evening Post August 26 1933

ALONG the left bank of the Thames where it winds through Limehouse Reach is a dismal cluster of slums like an old dead growth of barnacles. It is a neighborhood of mean streets upon which the sun seldom shines, for even when the fog clears off, as it sometimes does, there still remains a sable pall from factory chimneys and the funnels of great ships sliding down to the sea. It is a cheerless region any way you look at it, though it were well not to look too hard lest one of its denizens mistake you for a copper's nark and bryke yer hinquisitive nose fer yer.

At the center of this teeming faubourg is Catsmeat Yard, a narrow cobbled rectangle walled in by a dozen two-story brick dwellings. It is a community within itself, a Pomander Walk strewn with fish spines and potato peels, a placid backwater in the torrent of traffic which city folk call life. For nothing much ever happens in Catsmeat Yard; there hasn't been a murder since the days of Jack the Ripper, wives are seldom beaten and then only on Saturday nights, and the three counterfeiters— decent blokes, they were— who occupied the basement of No. 5, went off that peaceful that a body'd have said they were bound for evensong if it hadn't been for the handcuffs. Once, long, long ago, Queen Victoria was pleased to honor the Yard with her presence, coming to bestow a bronze medal upon a certain Thomas Tugg, a good bit of whom, including several arms and legs, had been lopped off by a chainshot at the Siege of Sebastopol. Her Majesty graciously sustained Mr. Tugg with the thought that as he still had one eye remaining, he could look at the medal whenever he felt like it, and the fact of the royal visit was duly recorded for posterity upon a brass plate on the wall of No. 3. In 1899, however, when scrap brass was fetching tuppence the pound, posterity stole the plate and so the event is now all but forgotten.

A couple of the houses in Catsmeat Yard are occupied by families who live at leisure on the Dole and who therefore hold themselves grandly aloof from such members of the working class as Mrs. O'Halloran of No. 11, the Jessups and the Gonigles of No. 6, the Flynns of No. 8, and the Smiths of No. 1, together with their numerous lodgers. But these humble toilers are joined by a dual bond of interest, for not only do they all work, they all serve the same masters. Bert Jessup is Steward of the S.S. Inchcliffe Castle; the mountainous Veronica O'Halloran, relict of the late Tom O'Halloran, A.B., is charwoman in the offices of Messrs. Clifford, Castle & Company, Limited, owners of that ship; the brothers Flynn are Bosuns of the Swalecliffe Castle and the Hardcliffe Castle respectively, while the worthy Joseph Gonigle is donkey man in the Ormcliffe Castle. The paying guests in these households include the wives, mothers and children of deckhands and firemen aboard various other vessels of the Clifford & Castle cargo fleet, in such numbers that a summer evening in Catsmeat Yard is like unto a Board Meeting in the company's offices, except that a great deal more is decided.

It was on such an evening that Mrs. Alf Flynn, sitting on her doorstep to catch a breath of air, glanced over the rim of her pot of 'arf and 'arf and spied Mrs. O'Halloran ponderously settling herself in her portal across the way.

"Lawks, Missus O'Halloran!" she screamed. "Fair wilted, I am! Phew, dearie, did yer ever feel such 'orrible 'ot 'eat? Oh, the menfolk is lucky to be orff at sea on a night like this, though at that I hexpecks some of 'em's in 'otter plyces than Lime-'ouse, poor chaps, and I means no disrepeck to yer lyte 'usband, 'im being dead and rotting in 'is gryve and orl. Why, no longer than teatime ago I was saying to Myrtle, I says, "Ot? Yus, it's perishing 'ot, but 'ow'd yer like to be in poor Veronica O'Halloran's corsets, slaving aw'y up there in the owners' orffices fer fussy old Mister 'Azlitt, and 'er not even able to so much as slip into a kermoner, the poor dear?'— Them was hexackly my words, wasn't they, Myrtle?"

"Yus," screamed Myrtle from the window above. "That's hexackly wot she says to me, Missus O'Halloran, and then I says the very syme thing to 'er."

"Well, I must say it did get cruel sultry this afternoon," screamed Mrs. O'Halloran in turn, helping herself to a swig from the pint of bitter which she had placed beside her on the step. "We 'ad a very busy day at the orffice, a very busy day indeed."— Then, impressively, "—There's— there's something going on in the wind, Missus Flynn, something 'ighly himportant, you mark my words!"

"Oh, yus?" Mrs. Flynn pricked up her ears and Myrtle hitched forward on the window sill. "Well, I 'opes they ain't planning another cut in the wages, that's orl I 'opes! In these 'ere 'ard times, with orl the lines laying hup ships and laying orff men, a body can't call its soul her own from one day's end to the next.— But just wot 'appened, Missus O'Halloran dear, if I might myke so bold as to arsk?"

There was a soft rustling sound as dim, kimonoed figures appeared in the windows and doorways on all four sides of Catsmeat Yard and prepared to tune in on the broadcast. Mrs. O'Halloran took another dollop of the bitter and then, to give her audience time to settle, very deliberately lighted a Woodbine.

"Well," she explained, "Sir John Castle and Mister 'Azlitt and the other gempmen 'ad their Hannual Meeting this arfternoon, and a shocking narsty brawl they turned it into.— 'Ammering on the tyble with their fists, they was, and 'ollering at each other that scandalous you'd 'ave thought it was Satiddy closing time at the Pot and Puddink."

"Indeed, Missus O'Halloran!" Mrs. Tousey chimed in from the steps of No. 3. "It must 'ave been most hundignified, I must say! But just wot was the question at tissue?"

Mrs. O'Halloran took a thoughtful puff, and nodded good evening to Mrs. McCoy and Mrs. Regan, who were bulging from the parlor window of No. 9. "Well," she said, lowering her voice so that it carried a scant eighth-mile, "I couldn't get it orl in detyle, so to say, because they shut the door and it 'asn't got no key'ole. But as far as I was able to 'ear— as far as I was able to 'ear— there's been something very serious 'appen to the dividends!"

For a moment there was a stunned silence. Then Mrs. McCoy cleared her throat diffidently. "Something very serious 'as 'appened to ... to the wot did yer say, Missus O'Halloran?"

"To the dividends, Missus McCoy, and I 'eard 'em say it with my own ears. Why, it happeared from wot they said that Clifford & Castle ain't declared a single solitary divident fer three years, and them was the very words they used!"

"You don't mean it!"

"Oh good lawks!"

"Fer pity's sakes!"

Again there was a pause. "But— but 'ow do you hexplain it, Missus O'Halloran, dear; 'ow do you hexplain it?" inquired the perplexed Mrs. Jessup, hoping like the rest of them to glean from the answer at least some faint clue to the meaning of it all.

Mrs. O'Halloran shrugged. "Well, I suppose that furreign countries 'ave just simply stopped shipping 'em, or else the dirty Rooshan Commonists is dumping 'em in 'ere fer next to nothing or something. Any'ow, old Lord Tilligrew flew into such a flyming styte of ryge about it that they 'ad to lead 'im outside, loosen 'is waistcoat and feed 'im a good stiff peg of whisky to keep 'im from catching the hapoplexy."

"Well bless me, I don't wonder!" gasped Mrs. Tousey, the gravity of the situation, whatever it was, finally dawning upon her. "Fancy trying to run a line of freighters without no dividends!"

"Ah, you may well say it, Missus Tousey! I gathered from the 'orrible 'ullaballoo that the cargoes on dividends the ships used to carry must of been the company's very bread and butter, so to speak."

"Dearie me, 'ow 'orrible! Was they imported dividends, Missus O'Halloran, or them as is manufactured at 'ome?"

"Imported ones, no doubt the very finest," said Mrs. O'Halloran. "'Declared' dividends means the kind that 'as to go through the Customs 'Ouse, don't yer see? Oh, I'll tell yer wot, lydies, the business is in a cricketal styge!"

"Hunh, it means a lay orff, if you should arsk me!" opined the pessimistic Mrs. Dill.

There was a thin chorus of sighs. All around the yard the heads shook sadly in the gloom.

Mrs. O'Halloran, gratified by the effect of her baneful intelligence, rewarded herself with a gulp from the growler. "But of course," she continued, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand and working up to the high spot of her news, "of course, Mister 'Azlitt is too smart a fiddler to be caught without two strings to 'is bow. If Clifford & Castle can't book dividend freights with the rotten old ships they've got— and 'e said 'imself as 'ow 'e was fair sick and tired of trying to get the Captains to operate 'em more hefficiently—why then, 'e says, there's nothing fer it but to go in fer a new type of ship altogether."

"—Motorships!" gasped several ladies in unison.

"Ah, motorships, blyme, I knew it!" wailed Mrs. Bossert, whose husband was a coal trimmer. "Clifford & Castle are going in fer motorships to throw a lot of honest men out of work! Why, orl it tykes to run a ruddy motorship is an happrentice to turn a spiggot and a Dutchman to tend the stove!"

"Now wyte a minute, 'old 'ard!" and Mrs. O'Halloran's voice was vibrant as she prepared to cast a figurative lifebuoy to the drowning. "'E didn't say motorship at orl, and I didn't say 'e did. 'E spoke of a ship that's something entirely new— I couldn't catch the nyme of it, but 'e perdicted that in six months' time the 'ole shipping world will be talking about it. 'Gempmen,' 'e says, 'Gempmen, when this thing is hannounced, it will shyke the British Mercantile Marine to its very foundations!' Yus, girls, them was Mister 'Azlitt's own words, and you know 'e's not one to boast!"

"Oh, and indeed 'e ain't, not 'im!" agreed Mrs. Tousey eagerly. "Why, my good grycious, if sly old 'Azlitt mykes a stytement like that, it means the 'ole difficulty's as good as settled!"

There were cries of "'Ear! 'Ear!" followed by a relieved and assenting babble. Mrs. O'Halloran sat back, sloshed up a head of foam on the bitter which remained in the can and drank it, a moth and several gnats with audible satisfaction.

"Ah!" she mused with a knowing chuckle. "'E's a clever one for fair, old squint-eyed 'Azlitt is!"

"—Oh, 'e'll get them dividends some'ow!"

"Trust 'im!"

"Lawks, wot a hintellect!"

"Well, 'ere's to 'im!"

Somewhere out in the Reach a steamer's siren bellowed, and in the distance, very faintly, Big Ben chimed nine strokes. Still clicking their tongues and nodding their heads at Mr. Hazlitt's astounding shrewdness, the good ladies of Catsmeat Yard gathered their kimonos around them and went their optimistic ways to bed.

ii

...TEN ...ELEVEN ...TWELVE; Big Ben boomed the midnight. Mechanically, at the final solemn note, Mr. Hazlitt snapped open his watch and squinted at the dial. Then he sat bolt upright in his chair.

"Ha!" he ejaculated. "Well, by gad!"

At every hour of every one of the cruelly long working days which he had imposed upon himself throughout his forty years with Clifford & Castle, Mr. Hazlitt had been trying to catch Big Ben in error, and now, at last, he'd succeeded! He'd begun it as a Junior Clerk; he'd continued it as General Manager. It was his hobby, his sole diversion; and it was characteristic of him.

"Eleven Fifty-Eight and a Half!" he gloated, waving his watch on high. "Ah, I knew it, I knew it!— Big Ben, the master timepiece of the greatest city in the world, one minute and thirty seconds fast! Well—" he leaned forward and harangued the empty gloom which hemmed in the pool of light from his green-shaded desk lamp "—Well, it just goes to show the sorry state to which the whole world's fallen! We preach Efficiency, but how do we practice it? We rant about the value of Time, the raw material of which all things are made, and yet we can't even measure it! We're heedless, we're careless, we're sloppy, we're inefficient— er, well, most of us are. I've sounded the warning for years, a still small voice crying in the wilderness, and now—" he brought down his fist upon the pages of figures, mostly red, which lay before him on the desk "—and now, perhaps too late, they believe me!"

He twisted the flexible neck of the lamp so that it lighted a large-scale map of the world which hung upon the wall. Thrust into this map were twenty-three pins upon each of which was a little paper flag bearing the name of one of the company's ships. These flags dotted the seaports, rivers and watery wastes of four hemispheres; they jutted from the harbors of Wai-hai-wei and Vadso, Saigon and Samarang, Barcelona and Boston; there was one in the Plate below Buenos Aires, another in the Suez at Timseh; two were in the Mexican Gulf off Galveston, and in the desk lamp's beam, the remainder cast their little oblong shadows upon three printed oceans and half a dozen seas.

Here, to a layman's eye, was romance, but not to Mr. Hazlitt's. For he was seeing red— the danger signal red of those ominous figures on his desk. He shook his fist at the map, and though the gesture was intended for the twenty-three ships, the whole inefficient world was included.

"Oh, the slackers!" he rasped. "The sluggards, the wasters, the dolts! Well, I'll try once more to make them listen to reason!"

Switching on the current in his electric stenophone, he seized the mouthpiece, cleared his throat and dictated:—

"Form letter to Captains of all C. & C. ships. Address individually, in care our agents. My dear Captain: (a-hem) The showing of your vessel continues to be deplorable in all departments. Despite my frequent letters urging upon you the vital necessity for offsetting decreased tonnage and starvation freight rates with increased efficiency, the S.S. (fill in the name of the ship, Miss Melcher, and mind that you do a neat job of it) is a burden upon the company, a disgrace to the fleet, and a constant proof of your utter inability to command. As you are aware, Clifford, Castle and Company, Limited, are among the few owners who have not yet laid up a single ship, it being our theory that a vessel at sea with half a cargo is better than one laid up to rust, just as you yourself are better off afloat, even with your present reduced wages, than you would be ashore and out of a berth. To turn this theory into practice, however, we must accomplish what so many other lines have failed to do— in other words, we must increase our efficiency (type that all in capitals, Miss Melcher) er, we must increase our efficiency in every branch of our operations. But instead of that, what are you doing, question mark. You are burning more coal than any other two ships under the house flag. Your engine-room repair costs are shocking. Your Steward's catering average would be high even for a transatlantic liner. You waste time through missing tides, through clumsy docking, and due to bungled working of cargo. Your record is atrocious, a-hem, er, period. H'm, let's see, oh yes, paragraph. This is a time when all of us have got to put our shoulders to the wheel. We've got to work, work, work, exclamation point. Here in the office we do not spare ourselves, we do not watch the clock—, er ..."

Abstractedly, Mr. Hazlitt dragged out his watch and consulted it. Behind his pince nez, his nearsighted eyes protruded like those of a frog. "No!" he gasped, and the mouthpiece of the stenophone slipped from his fingers. "No! Why damme, it's impossible!" But there was no dodging the fact that the hands of the watch still stood at Eleven-Fifty-Eight and a Half— stood there, because Mr. Hazlitt had forgotten to wind it.

"Good heavens!" he muttered dully. "Hazlitt, Hazlitt, what in the world has come over you?" He slumped down in his swivel chair and realized for the first time in his life that he, like the rest of mankind, was fallible. Big Ben had been right and Virgil Hazlitt wrong— Wrong!— Careless!—  Inefficient!

It was a bitter pill to take. As he sat there, his head in his hands, he seemed to grow smaller. Smaller, and older, and grayer.

Big Ben spoke once.

Mr. Hazlitt stirred, shook himself, wound his watch and set it. Then, very slowly, he removed the record from the stenophone and smashed it in the wastebasket. "The pot," he murmured, "was about to call the kettle black."

Taking up his hat and stick, he moved toward the door. But halfway across the room he seemed to remember something. He turned and bowed to the little paper flags which jutted from the map. "— My most humble apologies to all of you!" he said. "Good night, gentlemen, good night!"

iii

IT WAS noon, and the sun blazed like a magnesium flare in the blue above the Darsena del Comercio in Barcelona harbor. The S.S. Inchcliffe Castle, John Ball, Master, lay alongside the Muelle de Pescadores, heat waves dancing giddily on her rusty steel decks and the once-white paint of her superstructure pouting up in great gummy blisters. Wafting out of her in all directions came that peculiarly discouraging effluvium combined of steam grease, garbage, members of the crew and the dusts and juices of many ancient cargoes, by which even a blind man with one nostril may recognize a tramp ship stewing in the sun.

"Well, gentlemen," beamed Captain Ball, taking his place at the head of the dinner table and mopping his brow with his napkin, "here we are enjoying a pleasant little holiday, as you might say, and from the look of things out there—" he nodded toward the doorway, which framed a shimmering vista of idle cranes and laden freight cars on the mole beside the ship "—from the look of things out there, we're likely to enjoy it for another week at least."

"Yus," agreed Mr. Montgomery, the Mate, with an effort managing to reassemble the two halves of his face at the finish of a capacious yawn. "If it wasn't fer them there soldiers lying hasleep, yer'd say the bleddy plyce was a deserter's village, yer would upon my word!"

"Is Mister Glencannon back from huptown yet?" inquired young Mr. Levy, the Wireless Operator. "— I mean to say, I wonder if they're still shooting in the streets?"

"No, 'e ain't back, so per'aps, please God, they are!" said Mr. Montgomery, with fervor. "Ho, wouldn't it be a jolly bit of luck if, er— oh—" his face fell and so did his voice "—ere 'e comes now."

"Aye, here I come, lik' Wallace trioomphant fra the wars!" proclaimed the Chief Engineer, a stocky walrus-mustached personage whose visible, audible and smellable characteristics were all unmistakably Scotch. "But whurra, Captain and colleagues, such is the parlous state o' politeecs in Spain that I can thonk my lucky stars and a vurra neat knuckle-duster o' my ain design that I got here at all! If yon is the Catalonian idea o' a 'paceefic deemonstration,' gi' me the guid old days in the Dardanelles ony time!"

"Ah yes, Mister Glencannon, but a general strike is a general strike, and you can't get away from it," Captain Ball reminded him. "What I mean is, you can't have a general strike without undergoing all the goings-on which generally goes on in all general strikes, if you follow me. Well," he sat back and stretched luxuriously, "let 'em take their own good time to settle it, says I! We can't get loaded till they do, and a few days more rest won't do us a bit of harm."

"'Ow's things going in the city?" asked Mr. Swales.

"Ah, they're going something frichtful," replied Mr. Glencannon, "Fra what I was able to obsairve, the Repooblicans, or Purple Shirts, are going for the Syndicalists, or Gray Shirts; the Syndicalists are going for the Separatists, or Green Shirts, and the Separatists are going for the Foshists, who wear the conventional black. The Black Shirts are going fer the Communists, or Red Shirts, and they're all going for the Royalists, who hae no shirts at all. Except for them, a mon wud think it was a war among the haberdashers!"

Captain Ball puffed out his fat cheeks jovially. "Heh, well, a fine chance there is of settling a rat-fight like that! But what are they all quibbling about, Mister Glencannon;—what's the casus belli, heh?"

"I dinna ken the cause's belly," said the Engineer. "In foct I dinna ken its head fra its tail. All I can tell ye, at feerst hond, is that in the street whuch they've christened the Paseo de Colon in honor o' the lower intestine, a dense mob made up o' all factions were joyfully setting fire to a tram car. Hae'ing lighted my pipe on it, thus saving mysel' a motch, I continued on my way to the agent's office and picked up the mail. Among it was this letter for you, Captain."

"Ah, mph!" sniffed Captain Ball, considering the envelope. "It's from Hazlitt, dam his gimlet eyes! I'd been wondering all these weeks what'd happened to the ruddy old ram;—I haven't had one of his bellyaching letters since the one at Rabat about how we was using too much red lead or vanilla extract or something. Well, I fancy he's heard about the strike and now he's writing to blame all this delay on me." Cleansing his knife of mutton gravy with a skill which would have aroused the envy of even the most talented sword swallower, he slit open the envelope and scowlingly perused its contents.

Presently, though, the scowl gave way to a look of bewilderment. He spread the letter flat upon the oilcloth and studied it with the fascinated wariness of a guinea pig confronted by a cobra. His lips moved as he spelled out each word, and strange noises issued from his throat.

"Well, wot is it this time; some more of the usual?" inquired Mr. Montgomery, unable longer to restrain his curiosity.

"No!" bellowed Captain Ball, violently recalling himself, "it's not the usual, not by a dam sight! Why gentlemen— gentlemen, the sneaking little sniveler has actually got the insolence to try to get chummy with me!— Yes, chummy, after twenty-four years of the vilest abuse, the meanest blackguarding, the most niggling eir— er, but here, listen:— "'My dear John,' he says (yes, 'John,' there it is in black on white, but who in hell ever give him leave to call me John, that's what I want to know, heh?) 'My dear John: Just a line to let you know that I'm thinking about you and hoping that you are well. I am glad to note that your ship is upholding its usual standard of efficiency; indeed, its record is the envy, the inspiration and the goal of the entire fleet. The Board of Directors held its Annual Meeting yesterday; business continues bad, but I do not want you to worry about it. If you or your officers hear any rumors, please dismiss them from your minds. I hope you'll drop me a note whenever you're not too busy, and give me the news of yourself and your ship. Please convey my warmest personal regards to Mr. Glencannon, Mr. Montgomery and all the others. As ever, Cordially yours, Virgil.'"

"—'V ... Virgil'?" gasped Mr. Montgomery. "Do yer mean 'e hactually signs 'imself Virgil?"

"Aye, Veergil, there it is, ye can see it plain!" said Mr. Glencannon, who had been reading the letter with his head cocked sideways. "'—As ever, Cordially yours, Veergil!'— Weel, weel, weel!" He sat back and gnawed his mustache thoughtfully.

"But what's it all mean?" demanded Captain Ball. "Why, there's not a single word of complaint in it!— I mean, aside from its nasty, sticky drooling familiarity, what in blazes do you make of it?"

"Well, I'll tell yor wot I myke of it," blurted Mr. Montgomery. "I myke of it that 'Azlitt's gone stark, ryving cryzy! Arfter all these years, 'is own natural narstiness 'as finally poisoned 'im and drove 'im as mad as a March 'atter!"

"Why of course!" agreed Mr. Levy. "The bleddy old curmudgeon's completely orff his chump."

"H'm," mused Captain Ball, "I fancy you're right.— I mean to say, insanity's the only sane explanation.— Come, come, don't you think so, Mister Glencannon?"

"No!" declared the Engineer. "Absolutely no! Yon Hazlitt is a vurra shrewd auld glaggy, and going daft is the last thing he'd do as a favor to his fellow men. I give ye solemn warning, Captain and gentlemen, that this thing is a snare, a pitfall, a trop— aye, it's a plot whuch Hazlitt has hatched for our undoing!"

"A plot?— A plot what about?"

"A plot to get rid o' us—to sack us oot o' our jobs—to beach us! Why, ye ken as weel as I do that he hates every mon in the Inchcliffe Castle, and his ain past letters prove it! But having lairned through experience that he canna pin a single thing against us in line o' duty, he hopes the noo to lull us into a false sense o' security, catch us off our guard, and lop off our heads—squirp!—lik' that! When he says 'If ye hear ony rumors, please dismuss them fra yere mind,' it's plain he's afraid we've already got wind o' his neefarious mochinations und is striving further to hoodwunk us."

Captain Ball heaved ponderously. "Well, ker-huff, now wait a minute! What I want to know is, why should he think we've heard any rumors, heh? What kind of rumors from where, for instance?— Have any of you gentlemen heard any rumors?"

Around the table there was a searching of memories and a shaking of heads.

"Well, there you are!" said Captain Ball. "—I mean, there you are, aren't we?"

From the doorway of the pantry passage came the sound of a discreet cough. "I begs yer pardon, Captain...."

"Yes, what is it, Jessup?"

From the pocket of his white jacket, the Steward produced a letter. "Per'aps this 'ere may carst some light on the subjick, Captain," he said. "It's just come from my wife in London, Sir, 'oo's very friendly with Veronica O'Halloran, 'er as is the widder of Tom O'Halloran wot broke 'is neck when 'e fell down the 'old drunk that time, as no doubt yer'll remember, Sir. Well, it 'appens that Veronica is char in the owners' orffices, and she hinforms my wife very confidential that Mister 'Azlitt says as 'ow the comp'ny is going to buy a new ship."

"A new ship?" repeated Mr. Swales. "Wot kind of a ship?— A motorship?"

"No, Sir," said Jessup, "and that's the strynge part of it. Haccording to wot Missus O'Halloran told my old woman, it's a very special ship— a new kind of ship entirely; in fact—" he consulted the letter "— in fact, Mister 'Azlitt was over'eard to perdict that it would shyke the British Mercantile Marine to its very foundations."

"Oh, ho!" exclaimed Mr. Glencannon. "Noo we're getting doon to bross tocks! Clifford & Castle's buying a new ship o' some kind, Hazlitt is afraid we've heard rumors o' it, and doesna want us to believe them— Why?— why?"

Captain Ball's clenched fist descended like Thor's hammer upon the table. "—Why? Well, here's why, and we might have guessed it at the start! I'm maybe one of the most senior Captains in the whole C. & C. fleet, ain't I?— Same way with Mister Montgomery among the Mates, and with you, Mister Glencannon, among the Engineers, ain't you? Well, then, by every rule of precedence, this here new ship, whatever it is, should go to us, and Hazlitt knows it. But he's scheming to rob us of our rights; he wants us to turn slack and inefficient and ruin our records, so's he can hand the new ship over to McCartney or Dwight or Swithy or one of his other particular pets! He wants to trap me into writing him chummy letters like one pal to another so's he can show 'em to Sir John Castle and get me fired for insubordination! Yes, it's a plot, a plot, exactly like Mister Glencannon says!"

"O' coorse it is," declared Mr, Glencannon. "It's plain as the nose on Muster Levy's face!"

"Yus, Sir," said Jessup, "such is my own 'umble hopinion. But Mister 'Azlitt's 'atred of the Inchcliffe Castle hincludes not only the horfficers, but even me and the Bosun, the Cook and the crew, Sir. Why, gorblyme!" his face clouded and he snapped his dish towel savagely, "them letters 'e wrote about me at the time of that plum jam hincident is sumping I ain't ever likely to ferget, Sir!"

"Aye!" growled Mr. Glencannon, his brows knitted in thought. "He's got it in for all o' us, o' that there is no doot!"

"No doubt at all," admitted Captain Ball, who was by this time somewhat pale around the gills. "And now, rot the luck, here we are stuck here in Barcelonia by this rotten strike, with not a chance to load, and the wharfage charges and everything mounting up on us and making our record blacker every minute, and, and I mean to say, oh hell!" Into his mind flooded thoughts of dismissal, of his wife, and of a snug little cottage in Surrey completely thatched with mortgages.

"But noo, look ye here," and Mr. Glencannon shook his finger impressively, "if there was one way at all to save our skins, it wud be to save coal and food and time and charges— to mak' things hum sae briskly that e'en auld scrooge Hazlitt wud be forced to reecognize our merit. Ye ken as weel as I do that we could do it. That we haven't been doing it in the past is sumply because o' our notural and justified spite o' him."

"Yes, of course, I mean to say, there's something in that," Captain Ball's false teeth were clicking like castanets to the wild measures of a flamenco. "I know very well that we could tighten up on things and run 'em smarter, now that we're faced with a— a dread alternative. But how's that going to get us loaded and out of Barcelonia, heh?"

"Here's how!" barked the Engineer. "We'll put the crew to work loading richt noo! The Ship's Articles, whuch they've all signed, require them to work cargo in emeergencies. When Jessup has explained to them that Hazlitt's ondootedly scheming to beach them alang wi' the rest o' us, they'll load wi'oot a murmur or a brukken head, won't they, Jessup?"

"Yus, Sir!" declared the Steward stoutly. "Oh, they'll get arfter it 'ammer and tongs, if it's a question of spiting 'Azlitt!"

"Richt ye are! And noo, Captain," Mr. Glencannon rose to his feet, "wi' yere pairmission, let's get started. Muster MacQuayle, I'll thonk ye to hae steam on deck immediately. Mysel', I'll gae wake up the soldiers, bestow a bottle o' whusky upon them and osk them to protect our operations fra the strikers. If Muster Montgomery will be guid enough to loan me six men wi' crowbars, we can jockoss yon cars alang the track and smosh their doors open in a jiffick. I, pairsonally, will tak' charge o' the wharf cranes. Hoot, gentlemen, we'll fox the auld fox yet!"

iv

SOMEWHERE off the Nash in the raw dusk of a December day, Captain McCartney and Mr. Rollands stood shivering in their oilskins on the bridge of the S.S. Northcliffe Castle, cursing the slowness of the Cardiff pilot whose boat was even then struggling toward them across the expanse of nasty lead-gray chop.

"Hell!" complained Captain McCartney, passing the binoculars to the Mate. "If he keeps on at that rate we'll miss the bleddy tide, and...."

"Hell!" complained Mr. Rollands in turn, but rather louder. "Why look, look there, Captain! That there other ship's cutting in on us, it is!— Yessir, he's going to pick up that pilot right out from under our noses, arfter us wysting 'arf the arfternoon 'anging around out 'ere wyting fer...."

"Haw!" snorted Captain McCartney. "Yes, blow me if he isn't! Well, by George, I'm not the man to submit to no such insolence as that, by George, and when I get ashore I'll tell him so to his face, I will, and I don't care who he is! But— who is he?"

Snatching back the glasses, he trained them upon the other ship which, pilot now on board, was driving ahead into the murk to landward. "Why, she's another C. & C.!" he announced, studying the funnel markings. "Yes, another C. & C.!— Tell you what, Mister Rollands, I'll bet you it's Ball! I-n-c-h— of course, Inchcliffe Castle! Well, the dam double-dam old pirate!"

"—Still up to 'is tricks, just like we 'eard!" grunted Mr. Rollands. "Good grycious, wot could've come over 'im, these past six months? 'E used to be just a big fat blob of suet, and with just about that much biff to 'im; but now they say 'e's a regular driving 'ellion!"

"Here's the glasses, take a look at him," said Captain McCartney. "That's him on the bridge."

With a following wind and sea, the Inchcliffe Castle came plunging along like a scout cruiser, racing the black wisp of smoke which swept in a long low streak ahead of her. She was her own battered self, as always, but now, strangely, there was about her something bold and brisk and businesslike. She lacked paint, but she wasn't rusty. She was vomiting soot like a crematory, but she was clean as her own whistle—which, along with all her other brightwork, was burnished golden as the handle of a beer pump. Upon her decks, men were moving with that efficient unhurried swiftness which marks a well-disciplined, intelligently-officered crew. And calmly lording it over everything, the monarch of all he surveyed, was Captain John Ball.

"Yus, it's Ball sure enough!" sneered Mr. Rollands. "Strutting about like Hadmiral Jellicoe, no less, or Nelson in Trafalgar Square! And look there, Captain! 'Ere 'e is, still out 'ere at sea, and blyme if 'e ain't getting the tarpaulins orff the 'atches, and steam on deck orl ready to unload!"

Captain McCartney smote the wind-tautened canvas of the dodger with an exasperated fist. "Oh, and is he? Well, that's the way he does things, blast him! That's why he's Hazlitt's precious pet! And that's why I and you and everybody else on this ship has got to shake a leg, Mister Mate, or that rat Hazlitt'll put us on the beach just like he's scheming to do!" He seized Mr. Rollands by the shoulder and shoved him toward the ladder. "Rout out the men and lay onto them hatch covers, you!" he bellowed. "Get steam on deck, and clear the derricks! Smartly, now, Mister— jump to it, d'ye hear! I'm going to drive this swill barge in without a pilot, and fight it out with the Port Authority or anybody else who says I can't!"

Thus it came about at a late hour of the evening that Mr. MacLean, the Northcliffe's Chief Engineer, ashore in Cardiff to stretch his legs and wet his whistle, espied a familiar figure approaching. This person walked briskly and in the purposeful manner of one without time to waste, but despite the quickness of his step and the military swing of his arms, his gait was markedly peculiar. This was because, through some oversight, he walked with his right foot upon the curb and his left in the gutter.

Mr. MacLean, whose own course was none too steady, contrived to time a violent sheer to starboard so that they collided.

"Weel, weel, Glencannon!" he roared as they clung together teetering. "I thocht it was yersel the moment I got a breath o' ye! Come, lad, hoist yere foot oot o' the gutter and let's gae somewhere and imbibe!"

"Imbibe?" repeated Mr. Glencannon. "Imbibe?" Then, squinting his eyes and managing to bring Mr. MacLean into focus, "Ah, guid losh!" he exclaimed. "If it isna auld Davey MacLean in pairson! How are ye, Davey, how are ye? I crave yere forgiveness for no haeing reecognized ye at the ootset, but my mind was entirely occupied wi' the monnifold affairs o' business. I must get back to the ship, Davey, I must get richt back to the ship!"

"Ah, swith, what's yere hurry, Colin? Canna we e'en hae a little drink together? I've a-muckle I'd lik' to talk to ye aboot."

Before replying, Mr. Glencannon took a monkey wrench from his pocket, shook it, held it to his ear, and consulted it gravely. "A-weel," he said with a thoughtful frown, "inasmuch as ye hae broached the subject o' a drink, pairhops I can arrange to spare ye fufteen minutes." And linking arms, they assisted each other across Bute Street and into the bar of the Royal Edward.

"Noo then," said Mr. MacLean, when they were seated to a round of Duggan's Dew of Kirkintilloch, "We both o' us ken that there's a-muckle o' rivalry and back-biting betwixt the ships o' the Clifford & Castle Line, but you and I are auld friends, Colin, so we can talk as mon to mon. Therefore, let's lay our cards on the table."

Mr. Glencannon examined the table minutely, but being unable to discover any cards upon it, he returned his attention to the whisky.

"Ah!" he murmured, "by all means!"

"It's aboot this new ship which Hazlitt's haeing built," continued Mr. MacLean, lowering his voice confidentially. "Ah, dinna deny that ye've heard aboot it, Colin! Full five months ago one o' our firemen got the news fra his wife, who got it straight fra that fat Missus O'Hell-'n'-what's-her-name who works in the office, and I ken dom weel that by noo it's all ower the fleet. The point is, what sort o' a ship is it, and who's slated to get command o' her?"

Mr. Glencannon extended his hand in a searching gesture. It chanced to encounter his glass. "Ah, Davey!" he said, "What kind o' a ship it is still remains a dark, onfathomable and most mysterious mystery. But I dinna mind telling ye betwixt friends that though for the past six months Captain Ball and the rest o' us hae been breaking our backs and sweating blood to force auld Hazlitt to appoint us in charge o' it, as is our richtful due, he's still plotting to knife us, blost his nosty pale-green soul!"

"Meaning exoctly whuch, Colin?"

"Meaning he's still trying to throw us off our guard by writing us the most soft-soapy, goody-goody letters I e'er set eyes upon! He's hoping we'll slock doon and get lazy, and...."

"Letters?" exclaimed Mr. MacLean. "Colin, mon!—D'ye mean to say he's trying to work that letter game on Captain Ball too?"

Mr. Glencannon's jaw dropped in amazement, just in time to make way for the rim of his glass. "Foosh, o' coorse he is! But—But I'm stunned to gather fra what ye say that Captain McCartney's in for it as weel!"

"Aye, but he is! And so's Dwight o' the Hardcliffe and Swithy o' the Marlecliffe and Howard o' the Bournecliffe, and guidness knows how monny more. Each o' them conseeders himsel' entitled to the berth, and each believes that Hazlitt's trying to bilk him, as no doot he is. But what hae ye o' the Inchcliffe been doing about it, Colin?"

Mr. Glencannon's face darkened in a scowl. "Weel, we've been fighting!" he rasped. "Fighting, and we'll keep on fighting to the vurra last ditch, deespite McCartney and Dwight and Swithy and the rest o' them! E'er since we feerst got wind o' it, in Barcelona, we've been slaving lik' horses, and running the auld tub lik' a bottleship! We loaded her oursel's that day;— aye, and we've done it monny's the weary time since, to save time and expense. We're still living on three or four carloads o' tinned quails and calves' tongues and goose-leevers and asparagus that we loaded by mistak', wi' a consequent saving o' money in the Steward's Department whuch Clifford & Castle is getting the benefeet o'. Also, through an owersight, and no being able to read Sponish, we got awa' wi' eight weeks' supply o' coal. Ah, weel!" he rolled his eyes resignedly, "I suppose, later on, the Repooblicans, or Purple Shirts, blamed it on the Syndicalists, or Gray Shirts; the Syndicalists blamed it on the Separatists, or Green Shirts, and the Sep...."

"Weel, great swith!" Mr. MacLean interrupted him. "Dom if you Inchcliffe lads aren't the lucky ones. But I onderstond that the Bournecliffe, whuch was in Shanghai, got awa' wi' half a shipload full o' odds and ends whuch they're still living on, the Jopanese army and the Chinese bondits catching the blame for it. And seeveral o' the other ships fared none too bodly, what wi' the wars, earthquakes and similar colomities whuch hae been sae popular throughout the world o' late."

"Losh, losh, ye dinna say!" marvelled Mr. Glencannon. "Why, 'twud seem that the speerit o' diligence had peervaded the fleet lik' an epideemic o' scurvy! But after all, Davey, I'll bet that none o' ye've been pinching and toiling and driving half so conscientiously as the poor auld Inchcliffe Castle!"

"Weel, as to pinching, the most the Northcliffe's been able to snoffle to date was a few tons o' stuff off the dock i' Callao, during the Peruvian reevolution. But we've been toiling and driving lik' yersel's and lik' all the other ships— driving day and nicht! Why, thus vurra afternoon, after Ball nosed us oot o' that pilot, the Auld Mon tuk the ship in by himsel', e'en wi'oot a tug, to save the expense. Dom if he wudna hae drove her clear through the lock gates if the dock pilot hadna come aboord and stopped him. But o' coorse the docking service is free, so Captain McCartney let reason prevail."

Mr. Glencannon sat back and drained his glass. "Weel, dearie me! Every officer and every mon in the whole dom fleet is vying wi' one unother to save his skin and get that mystery ship!— What a speectacle— What modness! Where will it all end, Davey, where will it all end?"

"Aloss!" sighed Mr. MacLean, with a shrug which rocked the table, "Aloss, who can say?" He coughed, glanced from the empty glasses to Mr. Glencannon, and back to the glasses again. Mr. Glencannon, catching the significance of the look, lurched impulsively to his feet. "Guid nicht, Davey!" he said. "Time's up, and I must hie me back to the ship. Effiffiff ... er, efficienshish ... weel onyway, it's Captain Ball's motto, and may the best mon win!"

v

MRS. ALF FLYNN, a year older, a trifle stouter, and a great deal warmer than she had been three hundred and sixty-five evenings previously, glanced up over the rim of her pot of 'arf and 'arf and perceived Mrs. O'Halloran ponderously settling herself in her portal across the way.

"Oh, 'ullo there, Missus O'Halloran, dear!" she screamed. "Well, 'ere we are in the fourth night of this 'ere 'orrible 'eat-wyve, and the pypers say there's no relief in sight. Orl day long, when I thought of yer slaving aw'y up there in the owners' orffices fer that fidgety little 'Azlitt, my 'eart went out to yer, Veronica dear."

"Oh yus?" screamed Mrs. O'Halloran, taking her nose out of her can of bitter. "Well, it was very kind of yer to think of me, I must say, fer a perishing busy day I 'ad of it. Sir John Castle, Mister 'Azlitt and the other gempmen 'ad their Hannual Meeting, and it larsted orl arfternoon."

"Oh, yer don't say!" said Mrs. Flynn, edging forward on the step. "Did anything himportant 'appen, dearie?"

Mrs. O'Halloran took a drag at the bitter and waited for her customary audience to assume their places. "Well, no," she said. "It was a pretty quiet and huninteresting meeting, from wot I could 'ear through the partition. Mister 'Azlitt said as 'ow 'e was 'appy to perdict that the Company would soon be declaring dividends agyne, but of course that wasn't no surprise in view of wot I told yer larst year. Then 'e went on to spill out a lot of bilge about 'ow throughout the year the orfficers and men on orl the ships 'ad mannerfested a wonderful spirit, and 'ad hincreased the hefficiency of the line no end, and so on. 'E said that this was hespecially remarkable because they'd bucked up and myde things jump without no urging from 'im, and brought the hexpenses down to next to nothing. Then 'e read a letter— 'orrible slop it was— which 'e is sending with a gold watch to Captain Ball, of the Inchcliffe."

"Lawks!" chuckled Mrs. Jessup. "If 'e only knew wot the Inchcliffe's orfficers and men think about 'im, 'e wouldn't be 'arf so generous with 'is watches, 'e wouldn't!"

"Generous?" Mrs. O'Halloran sneered. "— 'Oo, 'im? Haw, lydies, there's just the most comic joke of orl! That watch, as I 'appen to know, is a old second-'and one that 'Azlitt's been carrying fer years!"

"Oh, yer really don't mean it!"

"Second-'and? Why, the rotten skinflint!"

"Well, I never!"

"But wot about that fymous new ship 'e was talking about larst year— the one that was going to shyke the British Mercantile Marine and orl?— Did 'e mention it today, Missus O'Halloran?"

"Humph, yus. 'E said as 'ow Clifford & Castles ain't going in fer it arfter orl, that's 'ow much 'e mentioned it!"

"Wot?— Not going in fer it arfter orl?"

"No, dearie, and them was hexackly 'is own words. The little blighter 'as just simply welshed on the 'ole propersition!"

"—But 'ow's 'e think 'e's going to get them dividends if 'e 'asn't got the ship?"

Mrs. O'Halloran shrugged. "Arsk 'Azlitt!" she retorted, dismally.

From all around the Yard there came a murmur of disappointment.

"But wot kind of a ship was it, dearie? Was yer able to 'ear its nyme today?"

"I was," said Mrs. O'Halloran. "Receivership, that was the nyme of it. But there ain't the faintest 'ope of our 'aving it now!"

Mrs. McCoy sniffed disgustedly. "Well, that shows yer 'ow much 'is word is worth!"

"Wot a ruddy old fraud 'e is!"

"Ain't 'e, just!"

"Not 'arf!"

Somewhere out in the Reach a steamer's siren bellowed, and in the distance, very faintly, Big Ben chimed nine strokes. Still clicking their tongues and shaking their heads at Mr. Hazlitt's astounding mendacity, the good ladies of Catsmeat Yard gathered their kimonos around them and went their pessimistic ways to bed.

End

Index to "Past Masters" stories, by author.

Issues 31-37

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 (eg "Owen Oliver").  They are then in alphabetical order of title, disregarding "A", "An" and "The".

____________

F. Anstey

The Talking Horse  34

Robert L. Ahern

Murder Needs No Motive  34

Anonymous

The Lady Detective's Story 32

Wolcott LeClear Beard

A Ledge of Safety 33

Frederick R. Bechdolt

The Case of Mimbres  37

H Bedford-Jones

Apache Gold 31

The Arizona Callahan  37

The Devil's Fire 31

The Devil is Dead 31

The Fog at Fiddler's Green 31

The King's Pipe  34

Lady of the Evil Eye 31

Sons of Kalewa 31

Leslie Beresford

Eastern Guile 35

Ellis Parker Butler

An Experiment in Gyro-Hats  37

Hats and Lilies 37

Egerton Castle

The Closed Door  35

C. Langton Clarke

The Detective for the Defense 33

Dorothea Conyers

Lord Hillayton's Settlement 35

Ted Copp

Blackmail Moll 36

Captain Dingle

Homeward Bound 33

Deferred 33

George Manville Fenn

Lady Florry's Gems  34

Francis Flagg

The Blue Dimension 33

The Heads of Apex 33

Elliott Flower

The Elusive Ten Dollar Bill 36

Emile Gaboriau

The Little Old Man of Batignolles

Lady Gilbert

Aurora's Treasure 35

Guy Gilpatric

The Crafty Jerko-Slovaks 32

One Good Tern  35

The Ladies of Catsmeat Yard  37

Beatrice Heron-Maxwell

The Dancer's Mascot  35

Headon Hill

Rogue's Legacy  32

J. L. Hornibrook

Captain Cronhelm's Blunder 35

S. B. H. Hurst

The Brightest Jewel of Them All  32

Marianne Kent

A Black Diamond  35

Otis Adelbert Kline

The Dragoman's Slave Girl 35

George L. Knapp

The Family Compact  37

Thomas H. Knight

Old City of Jade  36

William J Locke

Ladies In Lavender 36

Charles J. Mansford

The Dervish of the Nile Pyramid 34

The Great Dial of the Gold-Finders 33

The Hidden Egyptian Shield  34

The Lost Fetish of Walai 35

The Veiled Idol of Kor 32 '

The Wizard of Swazi Swamp   37

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

"To Every one His Own Fear"  34

Arthur Morrison

A Lucifo Match 36

Clarence Herbert New

The Attack from Moscow 32

Bill Garford’s Last Play (Culpeper Zandtt) 36

The Boss (Culpeper Zandtt)  37

A Challenge to the Submarine  36

The Island of Heaven and Hell 32

The Man Who Forgot  37

The Mystery at Mulungban  (Culpeper Zandtt)  37

A Night in the Kremlin 34

The Secret of Banda Sea 34

Owen Oliver

The Cape Conspiracy  35

A Pretty Woman 31

A Rapid Conveyance  36

Frederick C. Painton

Narcotic Man 36

Max Pemberton

The Cripple at the Mill  34

The Lepers Guest   37

G. G. Pendarves

The Eighth Green Man  35

Hugh Pendexter

It Might Have Happened Otherwise  32

Kingbird 33

The Raven Mocker 33

Lewis Ramsden

Désirée 32

C. S. Raymond

The Wireless Death 36

Morgan Robertson

The Subconscious Finnegan 36

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 Merriam Rouse

The Nitwit 36

William Alexander Taylor

Intermere  33

F A M Webster

Towards Morning 33

Henry S. Whitehead

Jumbee 37

Raoul Whitfield

The Caleso Murders 32

Inside Job 36

Rivals of the Clouds 31

Silence House 36

Sinners' Paradise 33

William Alron Wolff

Bait, Hook and Sinker  34

_________________

Table of Contents

1: Jumbee / Henry S. Whitehead

2: An Experiment in Gyro-Hats / Ellis Parker Butler

3: Hats and Lilies / Ellis Parker Butler

4: The Mystery at Mulungban / Culpeper Zandtt

5: The Boss / Culpeper Zandtt

6: The Man Who Forgot / Clarence Herbert New

7: The Arizona Callahan / H Bedford-Jones

8: The Family Compact / George L. Knapp

9: The Case of Mimbres / Frederick R. Bechdolt

10: The Lepers Guest / Max Pemberton

11: The Wizard of Swazi Swamp / Charles J Mansford

12: The Ladies of Catsmeat Yard / Guy Gilpatric

Cumulative Index Nos 31-37