Past Masters Fifity One
Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: Sixteen short stories in the public domain, gathered from magazines, newspapers and the like: 1: The Inconsiderate Waiter / J. M. Barrie 2: The Dead Sexton / Sheridan Le Fanu 3: The Demon Spell / Hume Nisbet 4: Romance of a Balloon / Hume Nisbet 5: A World of Sound / Olaf Stapledon 6: The Ghost-Ship / Richard Middleton 7: The Red Raid / Clarence Herbert New 8: Seaweed / Elia W Peattie 9: The Jerusalem Express / William J. Makin 10: Good Graft / Ellis Parker Butler 11: The Hunting of the Haggis / Guy Gilpatric 12: Climbing Death / Raoul Whitfield 13: Soaked in Seaweed / Stephen Leacock 14: Capt

PAST MASTERS

FIFTY-ONE

December 2021

Produced by Terry Walker

("Pulpmeister")

Contents

1: The Inconsiderate Waiter / J. M. Barrie

2: The Dead Sexton / Sheridan Le Fanu

3: The Demon Spell / Hume Nisbet

4: Romance of a Balloon / Hume Nisbet

5: A World of Sound / Olaf Stapledon

6: The Ghost-Ship / Richard Middleton

7: The Red Raid / Clarence Herbert New

8: Seaweed / Elia W Peattie

9: The Jerusalem Express / William J. Makin

10: Good Graft / Ellis Parker Butler

11: The Hunting of the Haggis / Guy Gilpatric

12: Climbing Death / Raoul Whitfield

13: Soaked in Seaweed / Stephen Leacock

14: Captain Cut-Throat / Albert Richard Wetjen

15: An Error in Equation / Ernest M Poate

16: False Teeth / Ernest M. Poate

Cumulative Index

___________________

1: The Inconsiderate Waiter

J. M. Barrie

1860-1937

The Illustrated London News, Christmas 1891

FREQUENTLY I have to ask myself in the street for the name of the man I bowed to just now, and then, before I can answer, the wind of the first corner blows him from my memory. I have a theory, however, that those puzzling faces, which pass before I can see who cut the coat, all belong to club waiters.

Until William forced his affairs upon me that was all I did know of the private life of waiters, though I have been in the club for twenty years. I was even unaware whether they slept downstairs or had their own homes; nor had I the interest to inquire of other members, nor they the knowledge to inform me. I hold that this sort of people should be fed and clothed and given airing and wives and children, and I subscribe yearly, I believe for these purposes; but to come into closer relation with waiters is bad form; they are club fittings, and William should have kept his distress to himself, or taken it away and patched it up like a rent in one of the chairs. His inconsiderateness has been a pair of spectacles to me for months.

It is not correct taste to know the name of a club waiter, so I must apologise for knowing William's, and still more for not forgetting it. If, again, to speak of a waiter is bad form, to speak bitterly is the comic degree of it. But William has disappointed me sorely. There were years when I would defer dining several minutes that he might wait on me. His pains to reserve the window-seat for me were perfectly satisfactory. I allowed him privileges, as to suggest dishes, and would give him information, as that someone had startled me in the reading-room by slamming a door. I have shown him how I cut my finger with a piece of string. Obviously he was gratified by these attentions, usually recommending a liqueur; and I fancy he must have understood my sufferings, for he often looked ill himself. Probably he was rheumatic, but I cannot say for certain, as I never thought of asking, and he had the sense to see that the knowledge would be offensive to me.

In the smoking‑room we have a waiter so independent that once, when he brought me a yellow chartreuse , and I said I had ordered green, he replied, 'No, sir; you said yellow.' William could never have been guilty of such effrontery. In appearance, of course, he is mean, but I can no more describe him than a milkmaid could draw cows. I suppose we distinguish one waiter from another much as we pick our hat from the rack. We could have plotted a murder safely before William. He never presumed to have any opinions of his own. When such was my mood he remained silent, and if I announced that something diverting had happened to me he laughed before I told him what it was. He turned the twinkle in his eye off or on at my bidding as readily as if it was the gas. To my 'Sure to be wet to‑morrow,' he would reply, 'Yes, sir;' and to Trelawney's 'It doesn't look like rain,' two minutes afterward, he would reply, 'No, sir.' It was one member who said Lightning Rod would win the Derby and another who said Lightning Rod had no chance, but it was William who agreed with both. He was like a cheroot , which may be smoked from either end. So used was I to him that, had he died or got another situation (or whatever it is such persons do when they disappear from the club), I should probably have told the head waiter to bring him back, as I disliked changes.

It would not become me to know precisely when I began to think William an ingrate, but I date his lapse from the evening when he brought me oysters. I detest oysters, and no one knew it better than William. He has agreed with me that he could not understand any gentleman's liking them. Between me and a certain member who smacks his lips twelve times to a dozen of them William knew I liked a screen to be placed until we had reached the soup, and yet he gave me the oysters and the other man my sardine. Both the other member and I quickly called for brandy and the head waiter. To do William justice, he shook, but never can I forget his audacious explanation: 'Beg pardon, sir, but I was thinking of something else.'

In these words William had flung off the mask, and now I knew him for what he was.

I must not be accused of bad form for looking at William on the following evening. What prompted me to do so was not personal interest in him, but a desire to see whether I dare let him wait on me again. So, recalling that a caster was off a chair yesterday, one is entitled to make sure that it is on to‑day before sitting down. If the expression is not too strong, I may say that I was taken aback by William's manner. Even when crossing the room to take my orders he let his one hand play nervously with the other. I had to repeat 'Sardine on toast' twice, and instead of answering 'Yes, sir,' as if my selection of sardine on toast was a personal gratification to him, which is the manner one expects of a waiter, he glanced at the clock, then out at the window, and, starting, asked, 'Did you say sardine on toast, sir?'

It was the height of summer, when London smells like a chemist's shop, and he who has the dinner-table at the window needs no candles to show him his knife and fork. I lay back at intervals, now watching a starved-looking woman sleep on a door-step, and again complaining of the club bananas. By-and-by I saw a girl of the commonest kind, ill-clad and dirty, as all these Arabs are. Their parents should be compelled to feed and clothe them comfortably, or at least to keep them indoors, where they cannot offend our eyes. Such children are for pushing aside with one's umbrella; but this girl I noticed because she was gazing at the club windows. She had stood thus for perhaps ten minutes when I became aware that someone was leaning over me to look out at the window. I turned round. Conceive my indignation on seeing that the rude person was William.

'How dare you, William?' I said, sternly. He seemed not to hear me. Let me tell, in the measured words of one describing a past incident, what then took place. To get nearer the window he pressed heavily on my shoulder.

'William, you forget yourself!' I said, meaning— as I see now— that he had forgotten me.

I heard him gulp, but not to my reprimand. He was scanning the street. His hands chattered on my shoulder, and, pushing him from me, I saw that his mouth was agape.

'What are you looking for?' I asked.

He stared at me, and then, like one who had at last heard the echo of my question, seemed to be brought back to the club. He turned his face from me for an instant, and answered shakily:

'I beg your pardon, sir! I— I shouldn't have done it. Are the bananas too ripe, sir?'

He recommended the nuts, and awaited my verdict so anxiously while I ate one that I was about to speak graciously, when I again saw his eyes drag him to the window.

'William,' I said, my patience giving way at last, 'I dislike being waited on by a melancholy waiter.'

'Yes, sir,' he replied, trying to smile, and then broke out passionately, 'For God's sake, sir, tell me, have you seen a little girl looking in at the club windows?'

He had been a good waiter once, and his distracted visage was spoiling my dinner.

'There,' I said, pointing to the girl, and no doubt would have added that he must bring me coffee immediately, had he continued to listen. But already he was beckoning to the child. I have not the least interest in her (indeed, it had never struck me that waiters had private affairs, and I still think it a pity that they should have); but as I happened to be looking out at the window I could not avoid seeing what occurred. As soon as the girl saw William she ran into the street, regardless of vehicles, and nodded three times to him. Then she disappeared.

I have said that she was quite a common child, without attraction of any sort, and yet it was amazing the difference she made in William. He gasped relief, like one who had broken through the anxiety that checks breathing, and into his face there came a silly laugh of happiness. I had dined well, on the whole, so I said:

'I am glad to see you cheerful again, William.'

I meant that I approved his cheerfulness because it helped my digestion, but he must needs think I was sympathising with him.

'Thank you, sir,' he answered. 'Oh, sir! when she nodded and I saw it was all right I could have gone down on my knees to God.'

I was as much horrified as if he had dropped a plate on my toes. Even William, disgracefully emotional as he was at the moment, flung out his arms to recall the shameful words.

'Coffee, William!' I said, sharply.

I sipped my coffee indignantly, for it was plain to me that William had something on his mind.

'You are not vexed with me, sir?' he had the hardihood to whisper.

'It was a liberty,' I said.

'I know, sir; but I was beside myself.'

'That was a liberty also.'

He hesitated, and then blurted out:

'It is my wife, sir. She—'

I stopped him with my hand. William, whom I had favoured in so many ways, was a married man! I might have guessed as much years before had I ever reflected about waiters, for I knew vaguely that his class did this sort of thing. His confession was distasteful to me, and I said warningly:

'Remember where you are, William.'

'Yes, sir; but you see, she is so delicate—'

'Delicate! I forbid your speaking to me on unpleasant topics.'

'Yes, sir; begging your pardon.'

It was characteristic of William to beg my pardon and withdraw his wife, like some unsuccessful dish, as if its taste would not remain in the mouth. I shall be chided for questioning him further about his wife, but, though doubtless an unusual step, it was only bad form superficially, for my motive was irreproachable. I inquired for his wife, not because I was interested in her welfare, but in the hope of allaying my irritation. So I am entitled to invite the wayfarer who has bespattered me with mud to scrape it off.

I desired to be told by William that the girl's signals meant his wife's recovery to health. He should have seen that such was my wish and answered accordingly. But, with the brutal inconsiderateness of his class, he said:

'She has had a good day; but the doctor, he— the doctor is afeard she is dying.'

Already I repented my questions. William and his wife seemed in league against me, when they might so easily have chosen some other member.

'Pooh! the doctor,' I said.

'Yes, sir,' he answered.

'Have you been married long, William?'

'Eight years, sir. Eight years ago she was— I— I mind her when… and now the doctor says—'

The fellow gaped at me. 'More coffee, sir?' he asked.

'What is her ailment?'

'She was always one of the delicate kind, but full of spirit, and— and you see, she has had a baby lately—'

'William!'

'And she— I— the doctor is afeard she's not picking up.'

'I feel sure she will pick up.'

'Yes, sir?'

It must have been the wine I had drunk that made me tell him:

'I was once married, William. My wife— it was just such a case as yours.'

'She did not get better, sir?'

'No.'

After a pause he said, 'Thank you, sir,' meaning for the sympathy that made me tell him that. But it must have been the wine.

'That little girl comes here with a message from your wife?'

'Yes; if she nods three times it means my wife is a little better.'

'She nodded thrice to‑day.'

'But she is told to do that to relieve me, and maybe those nods don't tell the truth.'

'Is she your girl?'

'No; we have none but the baby. She is a neighbour's; she comes twice a day.'

'It is heartless of her parents not to send her every hour.'

'But she is six years old,' he said, 'and has a house and two sisters to look after in the daytime, and a dinner to cook. Gentlefolk don't understand.'

'I suppose you live in some low part, William.'

'Off Drury Lane,' he answered, flushing; 'but— but it isn't low. You see, we were never used to anything better, and I mind when I let her see the house before we were married, she— she a sort of cried because she was so proud of it. That was eight years ago, and now— she's afeard she'll die when I'm away at my work.'

'Did she tell you that?'

'Never; she always says she is feeling a little stronger.'

'Then how can you know she is afraid of that?'

'I don't know how I know, sir; but when I am leaving the house in the morning I look at her from the door, and she looks at me, and then I— I know.'

'A green chartreuse, William!'

I tried to forget William's vulgar story in billiards, but he had spoiled my game. My opponent, to whom I can give twenty, ran out when I was sixty‑seven, and I put aside my cue pettishly. That in itself was bad form, but what would they have thought had they known that a waiter's impertinence caused it! I grew angrier with William as the night wore on, and next day I punished him by giving my orders through another waiter.

As I had my window‑seat, I could not but see that the girl was late again. Somehow I dawdled over my coffee. I had an evening paper before me, but there was so little in it that my eyes found more of interest in the street. It did not matter to me whether William's wife died, but when that girl had promised to come, why did she not come? These lower classes only give their word to break it. The coffee was undrinkable.

At last I saw her. William was at another window, pretending to do something with the curtains. I stood up, pressing closer to the window. The coffee had been so bad that I felt shaky. She nodded three times, and smiled.

'She is a little better,' William whispered to me, almost gaily.

'Whom are you speaking of?' I asked, coldly, and immediately retired to the billiard‑room, where I played a capital game. The coffee was much better there than in the dining‑room.

Several days passed, and I took care to show William that I had forgotten his maunderings. I chanced to see the little girl (though I never looked for her) every evening, and she always nodded three times, save once, when she shook her head, and then William's face grew white as a napkin. I remember this incident because that night I could not get into a pocket. So badly did I play that the thought of it kept me awake in bed, and that, again, made me wonder how William's wife was. Next day I went to the club early (which was not my custom) to see the new books. Being in the club at any rate, I looked into the dining‑room to ask William if I had left my gloves there, and the sight of him reminded me of his wife; so I asked for her. He shook his head mournfully, and I went off in a rage.

So accustomed am I to the club that when I dine elsewhere I feel uncomfortable next morning, as if I had missed a dinner. William knew this; yet here he was, hounding me out of the club! That evening I dined (as the saying is) at a restaurant, where no sauce was served with the asparagus. Furthermore, as if that were not triumph enough for William, his doleful face came between me and every dish, and I seemed to see his wife dying to annoy me.

I dined next day at the club for self‑preservation, taking, however, a table in the middle of the room, and engaging a waiter who had once nearly poisoned me by not interfering when I put two lumps of sugar into my coffee instead of one, which is my allowance. But no William came to me to acknowledge his humiliation, and by‑and‑by I became aware that he was not in the room. Suddenly the thought struck me that his wife must be dead, and I— it was the worst cooked and the worst served dinner I ever had in the club.

I tried the smoking‑room. Usually the talk there is entertaining, but on that occasion it was so frivolous that I did not remain five minutes. In the card‑room a member told me excitedly that a policeman had spoken rudely to him; and my strange comment was:

'After all, it is a small matter.'

In the library, where I had not been for years, I found two members asleep, and, to my surprise, William on a ladder dusting books.

'You have not heard, sir?' he said, in answer to my raised eyebrows. Descending the ladder, he whispered tragically: 'It was last evening, sir. I— I lost my head, and I— swore at a member.'

I stepped back from William, and glanced apprehensively at the two members. They still slept.

'I hardly knew,' William went on, 'what I was doing all day yesterday, for I had left my wife so weakly that—'

I stamped my foot.

'I beg your pardon for speaking of her,' he had the grace to say, 'but I couldn't help slipping up to the window often yesterday to look for Jenny, and when she did come, and I saw she was crying, it— it sort of confused me, and I didn't know right, sir, what I was doing. I hit against a member, Mr. Myddleton Finch, and he— he jumped and swore at me. Well, sir, I had just touched him after all, and I was so miserable, it a kind of stung me to be treated like— like that, and me a man as well as him; and I lost my senses, and— and I swore back.'

William's shamed head sank on his chest, but I even let pass his insolence in likening himself to a member of the club, so afraid was I of the sleepers waking and detecting me in talk with a waiter.

'For the love of God,' William cried, with coarse emotion, 'don't let them dismiss me!'

'Speak lower!' I said. 'Who sent you here?'

'I was turned out of the dining‑room at once, and told to attend to the library until they had decided what to do with me. Oh, sir, I'll lose my place!'

He was blubbering, as if a change of waiters was a matter of importance.

'This is very bad, William,' I said. 'I fear I can do nothing for you.'

'Have mercy on a distracted man!' he entreated. 'I'll go on my knees to Mr. Myddleton Finch.'

How could I but despise a fellow who would be thus abject for a pound a week?

'I dare not tell her,' he continued, 'that I have lost my place. She would just fall back and die.'

'I forbade your speaking of your wife,' I said, sharply, 'unless you can speak pleasantly of her.'

'But she may be worse now, sir, and I cannot even see Jenny from here. The library windows look to the back.'

'If she dies,' I said, 'it will be a warning to you to marry a stronger woman next time.'

Now everyone knows that there is little real affection among the lower orders. As soon as they have lost one mate they take another. Yet William, forgetting our relative positions, drew himself up and raised his fist, and if I had not stepped back I swear he would have struck me.

The highly improper words William used I will omit, out of consideration for him. Even while he was apologising for them I retired to the smoking‑room, where I found the cigarettes so badly rolled that they would not keep alight. After a little I remembered that I wanted to see Myddleton Finch about an improved saddle of which a friend of his has the patent. He was in the newsroom, and, having questioned him about the saddle, I said:

'By the way, what is this story about your swearing at one of the waiters?'

'You mean about his swearing at me,' Myddleton Finch replied, reddening.

'I am glad that was it,' I said; 'for I could not believe you guilty of such bad form.'

'If I did swear—' he was beginning, but I went on:

'The version which has reached me was that you swore at him, and he repeated the word. I heard he was to be dismissed and you reprimanded.'

'Who told you that?' asked Myddleton Finch, who is a timid man.

'I forget; it is club talk,' I replied, lightly. 'But of course the committee will take your word. The waiter, whichever one he is, richly deserves his dismissal for insulting you without provocation.'

Then our talk returned to the saddle, but Myddleton Finch was abstracted, and presently he said:

'Do you know, I fancy I was wrong in thinking that the waiter swore at me, and I'll withdraw my charge to‑morrow.'

Myddleton Finch then left me, and, sitting alone, I realised that I had been doing William a service. To some slight extent I may have intentionally helped him to retain his place in the club, and I now see the reason, which was that he alone knows precisely to what extent I like my claret heated.

For a mere second I remembered William's remark that he should not be able to see the girl Jenny from the library windows. Then this recollection drove from my head that I had only dined in the sense that my dinner‑bill was paid. Returning to the dining‑room, I happened to take my chair at the window, and while I was eating a deviled kidney I saw in the street the girl whose nods had such an absurd effect on William.

The children of the poor are as thoughtless as their parents, and this Jenny did not sign to the windows in the hope that William might see her, though she could not see him. Her face, which was disgracefully dirty, bore doubt and dismay on it, but whether she brought good news it would not tell. Somehow I had expected her to signal when she saw me, and, though her message could not interest me, I was in the mood in which one is irritated at that not taking place which he is awaiting. Ultimately she seemed to be making up her mind to go away.

A boy was passing with the evening papers, and I hurried out to get one, rather thoughtlessly, for we have all the papers in the club. Unfortunately, I misunderstood the direction the boy had taken; but round the first corner (out of sight of the club windows) I saw the girl Jenny, and so asked her how William's wife was.

'Did he send you to me?' she replied, impertinently taking me for a waiter. 'My!' she added, after a second scrutiny, 'I b'lieve you're one of them. His missis is a bit better, and I was to tell him as she took all the tapiocar.'

'How could you tell him?' I asked.

'I was to do like this,' she replied, and went through the supping of something out of a plate in dumb‑show.

'That would not show she ate all the tapioca,' I said.

'But I was to end like this,' she answered, licking an imaginary plate with her tongue.

I gave her a shilling (to get rid of her), and returned to the club disgusted.

Later in the evening I had to go to the club library for a book, and while William was looking in vain for it (I had forgotten the title) I said to him:

'By the way, William, Mr. Myddleton Finch is to tell the committee that he was mistaken in the charge he brought against you, so you will doubtless be restored to the dining‑room to‑morrow.'

The two members were still in their chairs, probably sleeping lightly; yet he had the effrontery to thank me.

'Don't thank me,' I said, blushing at the imputation. 'Remember your place, William!'

'But Mr. Myddleton Finch knew I swore,' he insisted.

'A gentleman,' I replied, stiffly, 'cannot remember for twenty‑four hours what a waiter has said to him.'

'No, sir; but—'

To stop him I had to say: 'And, ah, William, your wife is a little better. She has eaten the tapioca— all of it.'

'How can you know, sir?'

'By an accident.'

'Jenny signed to the window?'

'No.'

'Then you saw her, and went out, and—'

'Nonsense!'

'Oh, sir, to do that for me! May God bl—'

'William!'

'Forgive me, sir; but— when I tell my missis, she will say it was thought of your own wife as made you do it.'

He wrung my hand. I dared not withdraw it, lest we should waken the sleepers.

William returned to the dining‑room, and I had to show him that if he did not cease looking gratefully at me I must change my waiter. I also ordered him to stop telling me nightly how his wife was, but I continued to know, as I could not help seeing the girl Jenny from the window. Twice in a week I learned from this objectionable child that the ailing woman had again eaten all the tapioca. Then I became suspicious of William. I will tell why.

It began with a remark of Captain Upjohn's. We had been speaking of the inconvenience of not being able to get a hot dish served after 1 A.M., and he said:

'It is because these lazy waiters would strike. If the beggars had a love of their work they would not rush away from the club the moment one o'clock strikes. That glum fellow who often waits on you takes to his heels the moment he is clear of the club steps. He ran into me the other night at the top of the street, and was off without apologising.'

'You mean the foot of the street, Upjohn,' I said; for such is the way to Drury Lane.

'No; I mean the top. The man was running west.'

'East.'

'West.'

I smiled, which so annoyed him that he bet me two to one in sovereigns. The bet could have been decided most quickly by asking William a question, but I thought, foolishly doubtless, that it might hurt his feelings, so I watched him leave the club. The possibility of Upjohn's winning the bet had seemed remote to me. Conceive my surprise, therefore when William went westward.

Amazed, I pursued him along two streets without realising that I was doing so. Then curiosity put me into a hansom . We followed William, and it proved to be a three‑shilling fare, for, running when he was in breath and walking when he was out of it, he took me to West Kensington .

I discharged my cab, and from across the street watched William's incomprehensible behaviour. He had stopped at a dingy row of workmen's houses, and knocked at the darkened window of one of them. Presently a light showed. So far as I could see, someone pulled up the blind and for ten minutes talked to William. I was uncertain whether they talked, for the window was not opened, and I felt that, had William spoken through the glass loud enough to be heard inside, I must have heard him too. Yet he nodded and beckoned. I was still bewildered when, by setting off the way he had come, he gave me the opportunity of going home.

Knowing from the talk of the club what the lower orders are, could I doubt that this was some discreditable love‑affair of William's? His solicitude for his wife had been mere pretence; so far as it was genuine, it meant that he feared she might recover. He probably told her that he was detained nightly in the club till three.

I was miserable next day, and blamed the deviled kidneys for it. Whether William was unfaithful to his wife was nothing to me, but I had two plain reasons for insisting on his going straight home from his club: the one that, as he had made me lose a bet, I must punish him; the other that he could wait upon me better if he went to bed betimes.

Yet I did not question him. There was something in his face that— Well, I seemed to see his dying wife in it.

I was so out of sorts that I could eat no dinner. I left the club. Happening to stand for some time at the foot of the street, I chanced to see the girl Jenny coming, and— no; let me tell the truth, though the whole club reads: I was waiting for her.

'How is William's wife to‑day?' I asked.

'She told me to nod three times,' the little slattern replied; 'but she looked like nothing but a dead one till she got the brandy.'

'Hush, child!' I said, shocked. 'You don't know how the dead look.'

'Bless yer,' she answered, 'don't I just! Why, I've helped to lay 'em out. I'm going on seven.'

'Is William good to his wife?'

'Course he is. Ain't she his missis?'

'Why should that make him good to her?' I asked, cynically, out of my knowledge of the poor. But the girl, precocious in many ways, had never had any opportunities of studying the lower classes in the newspapers, fiction, and club talk. She shut one eye, and, looking up wonderingly, said:

'Ain't you green— just!'

'When does William reach home at night?'

''Tain't night; it's morning. When I wakes up at half dark and half light, and hears a door shutting, I know as it's either father going off to his work or Mr. Hicking come home from his.'

'Who is Mr. Hicking?'

'Him as we've been speaking on— William. We calls him mister, 'cause he's a toff. Father's just doing jobs in Covent Gardens, but Mr. Hicking, he's a waiter, and a clean shirt every day. The old woman would like father to be a waiter, but he hain't got the 'ristocratic look.'

'What old woman?'

'Go 'long! that's my mother. Is it true there's a waiter in the club just for to open the door?'

'Yes; but—'

'And another just for to lick the stamps? My!'

'William leaves the club at one o'clock?' I said, interrogatively.

She nodded. 'My mother,' she said, 'is one to talk, and she says Mr. Hicking as he should get away at twelve, 'cause his missis needs him more'n the gentlemen need him. The old woman do talk.'

'And what does William answer to that?'

'He says as the gentlemen can't be kept waiting for their cheese.'

'But William does not go straight home when he leaves the club?'

'That's the kid.'

'Kid!' I echoed, scarcely understanding, for, knowing how little the poor love their children, I had asked William no questions about the baby.

'Didn't you know his missis had a kid?'

'Yes; but that is no excuse for William's staying away from his sick wife,' I answered, sharply. A baby in such a home as William's, I reflected, must be trying; but still— besides, his class can sleep through any din.

'The kid ain't in our court,' the girl explained. 'He's in W. , he is, and I've never been out of W.C.; leastwise, not as I knows of.'

'This is W. I suppose you mean that the child is at West Kensington? Well, no doubt it was better for William's wife to get rid of the child—'

'Better!' interposed the girl. ''Tain't better for her not to have the kid. Ain't her not having him what she's always thinking on when she looks like a dead one?'

'How could you know that?'

''Cause,' answered the girl, illustrating her words with a gesture, 'I watches her, and I sees her arms going this way, just like as she wanted to hug her kid.'

'Possibly you are right,' I said, frowning; 'but William had put the child out to nurse because it disturbed his night's rest. A man who has his work to do—'

'You are green!'

'Then why have the mother and child been separated?'

'Along of that there measles. Near all the young 'uns in our court has 'em bad.'

'Have you had them?'

'I said the young 'uns.'

'And William sent the baby to West Kensington to escape infection?'

'Took him, he did.'

'Against his wife's wishes?'

'Na‑o!'

'You said she was dying for want of the child?'

'Wouldn't she rayther die than have the kid die?'

'Don't speak so heartlessly, child. Why does William not go straight home from the club? Does he go to West Kensington to see it?'

''Tain't a hit, it's an 'e. Course he do.'

'Then he should not. His wife has the first claim on him.'

'Ain't you green! It's his missis as wants him to go. Do you think she could sleep till she knowed how the kid was?'

'But he does not go into the house at West Kensington?'

'Is he soft? Course he don't go in, fear of taking the infection to the kid. They just holds the kid up at the window to him, so as he can have a good look. Then he comes home and tells his missis. He sits foot of the bed and tells.'

'And that takes place every night? He can't have much to tell.'

'He has just.'

'He can only say whether the child is well or ill.'

'My! He tells what a difference there is in the kid since he seed him last.'

'There can be no difference!'

'Go 'long! Ain't a kid always growing? Haven't Mr. Hicking to tell how the hair is getting darker, and heaps of things beside?'

'Such as what?'

'Like whether he larfed, and if he has her nose, and how as he knowed him. He tells her them things more 'n once.'

'And all this time he is sitting at the foot of the bed?'

''Cept when he holds her hand.'

'But when does he get to bed himself?'

'He don't get much. He tells her as he has a sleep at the club.'

'He cannot say that.'

'Hain't I heard him? But he do go to his bed a bit, and then they both lies quiet, her pretending she is sleeping so as he can sleep, and him 'feard to sleep case he shouldn't wake up to give her the bottle stuff.'

'What does the doctor say about her?'

'He's a good one, the doctor. Sometimes he says she would get better if she could see the kid through the window.'

'Nonsense!'

'And if she was took to the country.'

'Then why does not William take her?'

'My! you are green! And if she drank port wines.'

'Doesn't she?'

'No; but William, he tells her about the gentlemen drinking them.'

On the tenth day after my conversation with this unattractive child I was in my brougham , with the windows up, and I sat back, a paper before my face lest anyone should look in. Naturally, I was afraid of being seen in company of William's wife and Jenny, for men about town are uncharitable, and, despite the explanation I had ready, might have charged me with pitying William. As a matter of fact, William was sending his wife into Surrey to stay with an old nurse of mine, and I was driving her down because my horses needed an outing. Besides, I was going that way at any rate.

I had arranged that the girl Jenny, who was wearing an outrageous bonnet, should accompany us, because, knowing the greed of her class, I feared she might blackmail me at the club.

William joined us in the suburbs, bringing the baby with him, as I had foreseen they would all be occupied with it, and to save me the trouble of conversing with them. Mrs. Hicking I found too pale and fragile for a workingman's wife, and I formed a mean opinion of her intelligence from her pride in the baby, which was a very ordinary one. She created quite a vulgar scene when it was brought to her, though she had given me her word not to do so, what irritated me even more than her tears being her ill‑bred apology that she 'had been 'feared baby wouldn't know her again.' I would have told her they didn't know any one for years had I not been afraid of the girl Jenny, who dandled the infant on her knees and talked to it as if it understood. She kept me on tenter‑hooks by asking it offensive questions, such as, 'Oo know who give me that bonnet?' and answering them herself, 'It was the pretty gentleman there;' and several times I had to affect sleep because she announced, 'Kiddy wants to kiss the pretty gentleman.'

Irksome as all this necessarily was to a man of taste, I suffered even more when we reached our destination. As we drove through the village the girl Jenny uttered shrieks of delight at the sight of flowers growing up the cottage walls, and declared they were 'just like a music‑'all without the drink license.' As my horses required a rest, I was forced to abandon my intention of dropping these persons at their lodgings and returning to town at once, and I could not go to the inn lest I should meet inquisitive acquaintances. Disagreeable circumstances, therefore, compelled me to take tea with a waiter's family— close to a window too, through which I could see the girl Jenny talking excitedly to the villagers, and telling them, I felt certain, that I had been good to William. I had a desire to go out and put myself right with those people.

William's long connection with the club should have given him some manners, but apparently his class cannot take them on, for, though he knew I regarded his thanks as an insult, he looked them when he was not speaking them, and hardly had he sat down, by my orders, than he remembered that I was a member of the club, and jumped up. Nothing is in worse form than whispering, yet again and again, when he thought I was not listening, he whispered to Mrs. Hicking, 'You don't feel faint?' or 'How are you now?' He was also in extravagant glee because she ate two cakes (it takes so little to put these people in good spirits), and when she said she felt like another being already the fellow's face charged me with the change. I could not but conclude, from the way Mrs. Hicking let the baby pound her, that she was stronger than she had pretended.

I remained longer than was necessary, because I had something to say to William which I knew he would misunderstand, and so I put off saying it. But when he announced that it was time for him to return to London,— at which his wife suddenly paled, so that he had to sign to her not to break down,— I delivered the message.

'William,' I said, 'the head waiter asked me to say that you could take a fortnight's holiday just now. Your wages will be paid as usual.'

Confound them! William had me by the hand, and his wife was in tears before I could reach the door.

'Is it your doing again, sir?' William cried.

'William!' I said, fiercely.

'We owe everything to you,' he insisted. 'The port wine—'

'Because I had no room for it in my cellar.'

'The money for the nurse in London—'

'Because I objected to being waited on by a man who got no sleep.'

'These lodgings—'

'Because I wanted to do something for my old nurse.'

'And now, sir, a fortnight's holiday!'

'Good‑bye, William!' I said, in a fury.

But before I could get away Mrs. Hicking signed to William to leave the room, and then she kissed my hand. She said something to me. It was about my wife. Somehow I— What business had William to tell her about my wife?

They are all back in Drury Lane now, and William tells me that his wife sings at her work just as she did eight years ago. I have no interest in this, and try to check his talk of it; but such people have no sense of propriety, and he even speaks of the girl Jenny, who sent me lately a gaudy pair of worsted gloves worked by her own hand. The meanest advantage they took of my weakness, however, was in calling their baby after me. I have an uncomfortable suspicion, too, that William has given the other waiters his version of the affair; but I feel safe so long as it does not reach the committee.

________________

2: The Dead Sexton

Sheridan Le Fanu

1814-1873

Once a Week, Christmas 1871

There was once a tradition of horror and uncanny stories in Christmas issues of British magazines

THE SUNSETS were red, the nights were long, and the weather pleasantly frosty; and Christmas, the glorious herald of the New Year, was at hand, when an event— still recounted by winter firesides, with a horror made delightful by the mellowing influence of years— occurred in the beautiful little town of Golden Friars, and signalized, as the scene of its catastrophe, the old inn known throughout a wide region of the Northumbrian counties as the George and Dragon.

Toby Crooke, the sexton, was lying dead in the old coach‑house in the inn yard. The body had been discovered, only half an hour before this story begins, under strange circumstances, and in a place where it might have lain the better part of a week undisturbed; and a dreadful suspicion astounded the village of Golden Friars.

A wintry sunset was glaring through a gorge of the western mountains, turning into fire the twigs of the leafless elms, and all the tiny blades of grass on the green by which the quaint little town is surrounded. It is built of light, grey stone, with steep gables and slender chimneys rising with airy lightness from the level sward by the margin of the beautiful lake, and backed by the grand amphitheatre of the fells at the other side, whose snowy peaks show faintly against the sky, tinged with the vaporous red of the western light. As you descend towards the margin of the lake, and see Golden Friars, its taper chimneys and slender gables, its curious old inn and gorgeous sign, and over all the graceful tower and spire of the ancient church, at this hour or by moonlight, in the solemn grandeur and stillness of the natural scenery that surrounds it, it stands before you like a fairy town.

Toby Crooke, the lank sexton, now fifty or upwards, had passed an hour or two with some village cronies, over a solemn pot of purl, in the kitchen of that cosy hostelry, the night before. He generally turned in there at about seven o'clock, and heard the news. This contented him: for he talked little, and looked always surly.

Many things are now raked up and talked over about him.

In early youth, he had been a bit of a scamp. He broke his indentures, and ran away from his master, the tanner of Bryemere; he had got into fifty bad scrapes and out again; and, just as the little world of Golden Friars had come to the conclusion that it would be well for all parties— except, perhaps, himself— and a happy riddance for his afflicted mother, if he were sunk, with a gross of quart pots about his neck, in the bottom of the lake in which the grey gables, the elms, and the towering fells of Golden Friars are mirrored, he suddenly returned, a reformed man at the ripe age of forty.

For twelve years he had disappeared, and no one knew what had become of him. Then, suddenly, as I say, he reappeared at Golden Friars— a very black and silent man, sedate and orderly. His mother was dead and buried; but the 'prodigal son' was received good‑naturedly. The good vicar , Doctor Jenner, reported to his wife:

'His hard heart has been softened, dear Dolly. I saw him dry his eyes, poor fellow, at the sermon yesterday.'

'I don't wonder, Hugh darling. I know the part— “There is joy in Heaven.” I am sure it was— wasn't it? It was quite beautiful. I almost cried myself.'

The Vicar laughed gently, and stooped over her chair and kissed her, and patted her cheek fondly.

'You think too well of your old man's sermons,' he said. 'I preach, you see, Dolly, very much to the poor . If they understand me, I am pretty sure everyone else must; and I think that my simple style goes more home to both feelings and conscience–'

'You ought to have told me of his crying before. You are so eloquent,' exclaimed Dolly Jenner. 'No one preaches like my man. I have never heard such sermons.'

Not many, we may be sure; for the good lady had not heard more than six from any other divine for the last twenty years.

The personages of Golden Friars talked Toby Crooke over on his return. Doctor Lincote said:

'He must have led a hard life; he had dried in so, and got a good deal of hard muscle; and he rather fancied he had been soldiering— he stood like a soldier; and the mark over his right eye looked like a gunshot.'

People might wonder how he could have survived a gunshot over the eye; but was not Lincote a doctor— and an army doctor to boot— when he was young; and who, in Golden Friars, could dispute with him on points of surgery? And I believe the truth is, that this mark had been really made by a pistol bullet.

Mr. Jarlcot, the attorney, would 'go bail' he had picked up some sense in his travels; and honest Turnbull, the host of the George and Dragon, said heartily:

'We must look out something for him to put his hand to. Now's the time to make a man of him.'

The end of it was that he became, among other things, the sexton of Golden Friars.

He was a punctual sexton. He meddled with no other person's business; but he was a silent man, and by no means popular. He was reserved in company; and he used to walk alone by the shore of the lake, while other fellows played at fives or skittles; and when he visited the kitchen of the George, he had his liquor to himself, and in the midst of the general talk was a saturnine listener. There was something sinister in this man's face; and when things went wrong with him, he could look dangerous enough.

There were whispered stories in Golden Friars about Toby Crooke. Nobody could say how they got there. Nothing is more mysterious than the spread of rumour. It is like a vial poured on the air. It travels, like an epidemic, on the sightless currents of the atmosphere, or by the laws of a telluric influence equally intangible. These stories treated, though darkly, of the long period of his absence from his native village; but they took no well‑defined shape, and no one could refer them to any authentic source.

The Vicar's charity was of the kind that thinketh no evil; and in such cases he always insisted on proof. Crooke was, of course, undisturbed in his office.

On the evening before the tragedy came to light— trifles are always remembered after the catastrophe— a boy, returning along the margin of the mere, passed him by seated on a prostrate trunk of a tree, under the 'bield' of a rock, counting silver money. His lean body and limbs were bent together, his knees were up to his chin, and his long fingers were telling the coins over hurriedly in the hollow of his other hand. He glanced at the boy, as the old English saying is, like 'the devil looking over Lincoln.' But a black and sour look from Mr. Crooke, who never had a smile for a child nor a greeting for a wayfarer, was nothing strange.

Toby Crooke lived in the grey stone house, cold and narrow, that stands near the church porch, with the window of its staircase looking out into the churchyard, where so much of his labour, for many a day, had been expended. The greater part of this house was untenanted.

The old woman who was in charge of it slept in a settle‑bed, among broken stools, old sacks, rotten chests and other rattle‑traps, in the small room at the rear of the house, floored with tiles.

At what time of the night she could not tell, she awoke, and saw a man, with his hat on, in her room. He had a candle in his hand, which he shaded with his coat from her eye; his back was towards her, and he was rummaging in the drawer in which she usually kept her money.

Having got her quarter's pension of two pounds that day, however, she had placed it, folded in a rag, in the corner of her tea caddy, and locked it up in the 'eat‑malison' or cupboard.

She was frightened when she saw the figure in her room, and she could not tell whether her visitor might not have made his entrance from the contiguous churchyard. So, sitting bolt upright in her bed, her grey hair almost lifting her kerchief off her head, and all over in 'a fit o' t' creepins,' as she expressed it, she demanded:

'In God's name, what want ye thar?'

'Whar's the peppermint ye used to hev by ye, woman? I'm bad wi' an inward pain.'

'It's all gane a month sin',' she answered; and offered to make him a 'het' drink if he'd get to his room.

But he said:

'Never mind, I'll try a mouthful o' gin.'

And, turning on his heel, he left her.

In the morning the sexton was gone. Not only in his lodging was there no account of him, but, when inquiry began to be extended, nowhere in the village of Golden Friars could he be found.

Still he might have gone off, on business of his own, to some distant village, before the town was stirring; and the sexton had no near kindred to trouble their heads about him. People, therefore, were willing to wait, and take his return ultimately for granted.

At three o'clock the good Vicar, standing at his hall door, looking across the lake towards the noble fells that rise, steep and furrowed, from that beautiful mere, saw two men approaching across the green, in a straight line, from a boat that was moored at the water's edge. They were carrying between them something which, though not very large, seemed ponderous.

'Ye'll ken this, sir,' said one of the boatmen as they set down, almost at his feet, a small church bell, such as in old‑fashioned chimes yields the treble notes.

'This won't be less nor five stean. I ween it's fra' the church steeple yon.'

'What! one of our church bells?' ejaculated the Vicar— for a moment lost in horrible amazement. 'Oh, no!— no , that can't possibly be! Where did you find it?'

He had found the boat, in the morning, moored about fifty yards from her moorings where he had left it the night before, and could not think how that came to pass; and now, as he and his partner were about to take their oars, they discovered this bell in the bottom of the boat, under a bit of canvas, also the sexton's pick and spade— 'tom‑spey'ad,' they termed that peculiar, broad‑bladed implement.

'Very extraordinary! We must try whether there is a bell missing from the tower,' said the Vicar, getting into a fuss. 'Has Crooke come back yet? Does anyone know where he is?'

The sexton had not yet turned up.

'That's odd— that's provoking,' said the Vicar. 'However, my key will let us in. Place the bell in the hall while I get it; and then we can see what all this means.'

To the church, accordingly, they went, the Vicar leading the way, with his own key in his hand. He turned it in the lock, and stood in the shadow of the ground porch, and shut the door.

A sack, half full, lay on the ground, with open mouth, a piece of cord lying beside it. Something clanked within it as one of the men shoved it aside with his clumsy shoe.

The Vicar opened the church door and peeped in. The dusky glow from the western sky, entering through a narrow window, illuminated the shafts and arches, the old oak carvings, and the discoloured monuments, with the melancholy glare of a dying fire.

The Vicar withdrew his head and closed the door. The gloom of the porch was deeper than ever as, stooping, he entered the narrow door that opened at the foot of the winding stair that leads to the first loft; from which a rude ladder‑stair of wood, some five and twenty feet in height, mounts through a trap to the ringers' loft.

Up the narrow stairs the Vicar climbed, followed by his attendants, to the first loft. It was very dark: a narrow bow‑slit in the thick wall admitted the only light they had to guide them. The ivy leaves, seen from the deep shadow, flashed and flickered redly, and the sparrows twittered among them.

'Will one of you be so good as to go up and count the bells, and see if they are all right?' said the Vicar. 'There should be—'

'Agoy! what's that?' exclaimed one of the men, recoiling from the foot of the ladder.

'By Jen!' ejaculated the other, in equal surprise.

'Good gracious!' gasped the Vicar, who, seeing indistinctly a dark mass lying on the floor, had stooped to examine it, and placed his hand upon a cold, dead face.

The men drew the body into the streak of light that traversed the floor.

It was the corpse of Toby Crooke! There was a frightful scar across his forehead.

The alarm was given. Doctor Lincote, and Mr. Jarlcot, and Turnbull, of the George and Dragon, were on the spot immediately; and many curious and horrified spectators of minor importance.

The first thing ascertained was that the man must have been many hours dead. The next was that his skull was fractured, across the forehead, by an awful blow. The next was that his neck was broken.

His hat was found on the floor, where he had probably laid it, with his handkerchief in it.

The mystery now began to clear a little; for a bell— one of the chime hung in the tower— was found where it had rolled to, against the wall, with blood and hair on the rim of it, which corresponded with the grizzly fracture across the front of his head.

The sack that lay in the vestibule was examined, and found to contain all the church plate; a silver salver that had disappeared, about a month before, from Dr. Lincote's store of valuables; the Vicar's gold pencil‑case, which he thought he had forgot in the vestry book; silver spoons, and various other contributions, levied from time to time off a dozen different households, the mysterious disappearance of which spoils had, of late years, begun to make the honest little community uncomfortable. Two bells had been taken down from the chime; and now the shrewd part of the assemblage, putting things together, began to comprehend the nefarious plans of the sexton, who lay mangled and dead on the floor of the tower, where only two days ago he had tolled the holy bell to call the good Christians of Golden Friars to worship.

The body was carried into the yard of the George and Dragon and laid in the old coach‑house; and the townsfolk came grouping in to have a peep at the corpse, and stood round, looking darkly, and talking as low as if they were in a church.

The Vicar, in gaiters and slightly shovel hat, stood erect, as one in a little circle of notables— the doctor, the attorney, Sir Geoffrey Mardykes, who happened to be in the town, and Turnbull, the host— in the centre of the paved yard, they having made an inspection of the body, at which troops of the village stragglers, to‑ing and fro‑ing, were gaping and frowning as they whispered their horrible conjectures.

'What d'ye think o' that?' said Tom Scales, the old hostler of the George, looking pale, with a stern, faint smile on his lips, as he and Dick Linklin sauntered out of the coach‑house together.

'The deaul will hev his ain noo,' answered Dick, in his friend's ear. 'T' sexton's got a craigthraw like he gav' the lass over the clints of Scarsdale; ye mind what the ald soger telt us when he hid his face in the kitchen of the George here? By Jen! I'll ne'er forget that story.'

'I ween 'twas all true enough,' replied the hostler; 'and the sizzup he gav' the sleepin' man wi' t' poker across the forehead. See whar the edge o' t' bell took him, and smashed his ain, the self‑same lids. By ma sang, I wonder the deaul did na carry awa' his corpse i' the night, as he did wi' Tam Lunder's at Mooltern Mill.'

'Hout, man, who ever sid t' deaul inside o' a church?'

'The corpse is ill‑faur'd enew to scare Satan himsel', for that matter; though it's true what you say. Ay, ye're reet tul a trippet, thar; for Beelzebub dar'n't show his snout inside the church, not the length o' the black o' my nail.'

While this discussion was going on, the gentlefolk who were talking the matter over in the centre of the yard had dispatched a message for the coroner all the way to the town of Hextan.

The last tint of sunset was fading from the sky by this time; so, of course, there was no thought of an inquest earlier than next day.

In the meantime it was horribly clear that the sexton had intended to rob the church of its plate, and had lost his life in the attempt to carry the second bell, as we have seen, down the worn ladder of the tower. He had tumbled backwards and broken his neck upon the floor of the loft; and the heavy bell, in its fall, descended with its edge across his forehead.

Never was a man more completely killed by a double catastrophe, in a moment.

The bells and the contents of the sack, it was surmised, he meant to have conveyed across the lake that night, and with the help of his spade and pick to have buried them in Clousted Forest, and returned, after an absence of but a few hours— as he easily might— before morning, unmissed and unobserved. He would no doubt, having secured his booty, have made such arrangements as would have made it appear that the church had been broken into. He would, of course, have taken all measures to divert suspicion from himself, and have watched a suitable opportunity to repossess himself of the buried treasure and dispose of it in safety.

And now came out, into sharp relief, all the stories that had, one way or other, stolen after him into the town. Old Mrs. Pullen fainted when she saw him, and told Doctor Lincote, after, that she thought he was the highwayman who fired the shot that killed the coachman the night they were robbed on Hounslow Heath. There were the stories also told by the wayfaring old soldier with the wooden leg, and fifty others, up to this more than half disregarded, but which now seized on the popular belief with a startling grasp.

The fleeting light soon expired, and twilight was succeeded by the early night.

The inn yard gradually became quiet; and the dead sexton lay alone, in the dark, on his back, locked up in the old coach‑house, the key of which was safe in the pocket of Tom Scales, the trusty old hostler of the George.

It was about eight o'clock, and the hostler, standing alone on the road in the front of the open door of the George and Dragon, had just smoked his pipe out. A bright moon hung in the frosty sky. The fells rose from the opposite edge of the lake like phantom mountains. The air was stirless. Through the boughs and sprays of the leafless elms no sigh or motion, however hushed, was audible. Not a ripple glimmered on the lake, which at one point only reflected the brilliant moon from its dark blue expanse like burnished steel. The road that runs by the inn door, along the margin of the lake, shone dazzlingly white.

White as ghosts, among the dark holly and juniper, stood the tall piers of the Vicar's gate, and their great stone balls, like heads, overlooking the same road, a few hundred yards up the lake, to the left. The early little town of Golden Friars was quiet by this time. Except for the townsfolk who were now collected in the kitchen of the inn itself, no inhabitant was now outside his own threshold.

Tom Scales was thinking of turning in. He was beginning to fill a little queer. He was thinking of the sexton, and could not get the fixed features of the dead man out of his head, when he heard the sharp though distant ring of a horse's hoof upon the frozen road. Tom's instinct apprized him of the approach of a guest to the George and Dragon. His experienced ear told him that the horseman was approaching by the Dardale road, which, after crossing that wide and dismal moss, passes the southern fells by Dunner Cleugh and finally enters the town of Golden Friars by joining the Mardykes road, at the edge of the lake, close to the gate of the Vicar's house.

A clump of tall trees stood at this point; but the moon shone full upon the road and cast their shadow backward.

The hoofs were plainly coming at a gallop, with a hollow rattle. The horseman was a long time in appearing. Tom wondered how he had heard the sound— so sharply frosty as the air was— so very far away.

He was right in his guess. The visitor was coming over the mountainous road from Dardale Moss; and he now saw a horseman, who must have turned the corner of the Vicar's house at the moment when his eye was wearied; for when he saw him for the first time he was advancing, in the hazy moonlight, like the shadow of a cavalier, at a gallop, upon the level strip of road that skirts the margin of the mere, between the George and the Vicar's piers.

The hostler had not long to wonder why the rider pushed his beast at so furious a pace, and how he came to have heard him, as he now calculated, at least three miles away. A very few moments sufficed to bring horse and rider to the inn door.

It was a powerful black horse, something like the great Irish hunter that figured a hundred years ago, and would carry sixteen stone with ease across country. It would have made a grand charger. Not a hair turned. It snorted, it pawed, it arched its neck; then threw back its ears and down its head, and looked ready to lash, and then to rear; and seemed impatient to be off again, and incapable of standing quiet for a moment.

The rider got down as light as shadow falls.

But he was a tall, sinewy figure. He wore a cape or short mantle, a cocked hat, and a pair of jack‑boots, such as held their ground in some primitive corners of England almost to the close of the last century.

'Take him, lad,' said he to old Scales. 'You need not walk or wisp him— he never sweats or tires. Give him his oats, and let him take his own time to eat them. House!' cried the stranger— in the old‑fashioned form of summons which still lingered, at that time, in out‑of‑the‑way places— in a deep and piercing voice.

As Tom Scales led the horse away to the stables it turned its head towards its master with a short, shill neigh.

'About your business, old gentleman— we must not go too fast,' the stranger cried back again to his horse, with a laugh as harsh and piercing; and he strode into the house.

The hostler led this horse into the inn yard. In passing, it sidled up to the coach‑house gate, within which lay the dead sexton— snorted, pawed and lowered its head suddenly, with ear close to the plank, as if listening for a sound from within; then uttered again the same short, piercing neigh.

The hostler was chilled at this mysterious coquetry with the dead. He liked the brute less and less every minute.

In the meantime, its master had proceeded.

'I'll go to the inn kitchen,' he said, in his startling bass, to the drawer who met him in the passage.

And on he went, as if he had known the place all his days: not seeming to hurry himself— stepping leisurely, the servant thought— but gliding on at such a rate, nevertheless, that he had passed his guide and was in the kitchen of the George before the drawer had got much more than half‑way to it.

A roaring fire of dry wood, peat and coal lighted up this snug but spacious apartment— flashing on pots and pans, and dressers high‑piled with pewter plates and dishes; and making the uncertain shadows of the long 'hanks' of onions and many a flitch and ham, depending from the ceiling, dance on its glowing surface.

The doctor and the attorney, even Sir Geoffrey Mardykes, did not disdain on this occasion to take chairs and smoke their pipes by the kitchen fire, where they were in the thick of the gossip and discussion excited by the terrible event.

The tall stranger entered uninvited.

He looked like a gaunt, athletic Spaniard of forty, burned half black in the sun, with a bony, flattened nose. A pair of fierce black eyes were just visible under the edge of his hat; and his mouth seemed divided, beneath the moustache, by the deep scar of a hare‑lip.

Sir Geoffrey Mardykes and the host of the George, aided by the doctor and the attorney, were discussing and arranging, for the third or fourth time, their theories about the death and the probable plans of Toby Crooke, when the stranger entered.

The new‑comer lifted his hat, with a sort of smile, for a moment from his black head.

'What do you call this place, gentlemen?' asked the stranger.

'The town of Golden Friars, sir,' answered the doctor politely.

'The George and Dragon, sir: Anthony Turnbull, at your service,' answered mine host, with a solemn bow, at the same moment— so that the two voices went together, as if the doctor and the innkeeper were singing a catch.

'The George and the Dragon,' repeated the horseman, expanding his long hands over the fire which he had approached. 'Saint George, King George, the Dragon, the Devil: it is a very grand idol, that outside your door, sir. You catch all sorts of worshippers— courtiers, fanatics, scamps: all's fish, eh? Everybody welcome, provided he drinks like one. Suppose you brew a bowl or two of punch. I'll stand it. How many are we? Here— count, and let us have enough. Gentlemen, I mean to spend the night here, and my horse is in the stable. What holiday, fun, or fair has got so many pleasant faces together? When I last called here— for, now I bethink me, I have seen the place before— you all looked sad. It was on a Sunday, that dismalest of holidays; and it would have been positively melancholy only that your sexton— that saint upon earth— Mr. Crooke, was here.' He was looking round, over his shoulder, and added: 'Ha! don't I see him there?'

Frightened a good deal were some of the company. All gaped in the direction in which, with a nod, he turned his eyes.

'He's not thar— he can't be thar— we see he's not thar,' said Turnbull, as dogmatically as old Joe Willet might have delivered himself— for he did not care that the George should earn the reputation of a haunted house. 'He's met an accident, sir: he's dead— he's elsewhere— and therefore can't be here.'

Upon this the company entertained the stranger with the narrative— which they made easy by a division of labour, two or three generally speaking at a time, and no one being permitted to finish a second sentence without finding himself corrected and supplanted.

'The man's in Heaven, so sure as you're not,' said the traveller so soon as the story was ended. 'What! he was fiddling with the church bell, was he, and d–d for that— eh? Landlord, get us some drink. A sexton d–d for pulling down a church bell he has been pulling at for ten years!'

'You came, sir, by the Dardale‑road, I believe?' said the doctor (village folk are curious). 'A dismal moss is Dardale Moss, sir; and a bleak clim' up the fells on t' other side.'

'I say “Yes” to all— from Dardale Moss, as black as pitch and as rotten as the grave, up that zigzag wall you call a road, that looks like chalk in the moonlight, through Dunner Cleugh, as dark as a coal‑pit, and down here to the George and the Dragon, where you have a roaring fire, wise men, good punch— here it is— and a corpse in your coach‑house. Where the carcase is, there will the eagles be gathered together. Come, landlord, ladle out the nectar. Drink, gentlemen— drink, all. Brew another bowl at the bar. How divinely it stinks of alcohol! I hope you like it, gentlemen: it smells all over of spices, like a mummy. Drink, friends. Ladle, landlord. Drink, all. Serve it out.'

The guest fumbled in his pocket, and produced three guineas, which he slipped into Turnbull's fat palm.

'Let punch flow till that's out. I'm an old friend of the house. I call here, back and forward. I know you well, Turnbull, though you don't recognize me.'

'You have the advantage of me, sir,' said Mr. Turnbull, looking hard on that dark and sinister countenance— which, or the like of which, he could have sworn he had never seen before in his life. But he liked the weight and colour of his guineas, as he dropped them into his pocket. 'I hope you will find yourself comfortable while you stay.'

'You have given me a bedroom?'

'Yes, sir— the cedar chamber.'

'I know it— the very thing. No— no punch for me. By and by, perhaps.'

The talk went on, but the stranger had grown silent. He had seated himself on an oak bench by the fire, towards which he extended his feet and hands with seeming enjoyment; his cocked hat being, however, a little over his face.

Gradually the company began to thin. Sir Geoffrey Mardykes was the first to go; then some of the humbler townsfolk. The last bowl of punch was on its last legs. The stranger walked into the passage and said to the drawer:

'Fetch me a lantern. I must see my nag. Light it— hey! That will do. No— you need not come.'

The gaunt traveller took it from the man's hand and strode along the passage to the door of the stable‑yard, which he opened and passed out.

Tom Scales, standing on the pavement, was looking through the stable window at the horses when the stranger plucked his shirtsleeve. With an inward shock the hostler found himself alone in presence of the very person he had been thinking of.

'I say— they tell me you have something to look at in there'— he pointed with his thumb at the old coach‑house door. 'Let us have a peep.'

Tom Scales happened to be at that moment in a state of mind highly favourable to anyone in search of a submissive instrument. He was in great perplexity, and even perturbation. He suffered the stranger to lead him to the coach‑house gate.

'You must come in and hold the lantern,' said he. 'I'll pay you handsomely.'

The old hostler applied his key and removed the padlock.

'What are you afraid of? Step in and throw the light on his face,' said the stranger grimly. 'Throw open the lantern: stand there . Stoop over him a little— he won't bite you. Steady, or you may pass the night with him!'

IN THE meantime the company at the George had dispersed; and, shortly after, Anthony Turnbull— who, like a good landlord, was always last in bed, and first up, in his house— was taking, alone, his last look round the kitchen before making his final visit to the stable‑yard, when Tom Scales tottered into the kitchen, looking like death, his hair standing upright; and he sat down on an oak chair, all in a tremble, wiped his forehead with his hand, and, instead of speaking, heaved a great sigh or two.

It was not till after he had swallowed a dram of brandy that he found his voice, and said:

'We've the deaul himsel' in t' house! By Jen! ye'd best send fo t' sir' (the clergyman). 'Happen he'll tak him in hand wi' holy writ, and send him elsewhidder deftly. Lord atween us and harm! I'm a sinfu' man. I tell ye, Mr. Turnbull, I dar' n't stop in t' George to‑night under the same roof wi' him.'

'Ye mean the ra‑beyoned, black‑feyaced lad, wi' the brocken neb? Why, that's a gentleman wi' a pocket ful o' guineas, man, and a horse worth fifty pounds!'

'That horse is no better nor his rider. The nags that were in the stable wi' him, they all tuk the creepins, and sweated like rain down a thack. I tuk them all out o' that, away from him, into the hack‑stable, and I thocht I cud never get them past him. But that's not all. When I was keekin inta t' winda at the nags, he comes behint me and claps his claw on ma shouther, and he gars me gang wi' him, and open the aad coach‑house door, and haad the cannle for him, till he pearked into the deed man't feyace; and, as God's my judge, I sid the corpse open its eyes and wark its mouth, like a man smoorin' and strivin' to talk. I cudna move or say a word, though I felt my hair rising on my heed; but at lang‑last I gev a yelloch, and say I, “La! what is that?” And he himsel' looked round on me, like the devil he is; and, wi' a skirl o' a laugh, he strikes the lantern out o' my hand. When I cum to myself we were outside the coach‑house door. The moon was shinin' in, and I cud see the corpse stretched on the table whar we left it; and he kicked the door to wi' a purr o' his foot. 'Lock it,' says he; and so I did. And here's the key for ye— tak it yoursel', sir. He offer'd me money: he said he'd mak me a rich man if I'd sell him the corpse, and help him awa' wi' it.'

'Hout, man! What cud he want o' t' corpse? He's not doctor, to do a' that lids. He was takin' a rise out o' ye, lad,' said Turnbull.

'Na, na— he wants the corpse. There's summat you a' me can't tell he wants to do wi' 't; and he'd liefer get it wi' sin and thievin', and the damage of my soul. He's one of them freytens a boo or a dobbies off Dardale Moss, that's always astir wi' the like after nightfall; unless— Lord save us!— he be the deaul himsel'.'

'Whar is he noo?' asked the landlord, who was growing uncomfortable.

'He spang'd up the back stair to his room. I wonder you didn't hear him trampin' like a wild horse; and he clapt his door that the house shook again— but Lord knows whar he is noo. Let us gang awa's up to the Vicar's, and gan him come down, and talk wi' him.'

'Hoity toity, man— you're too easy scared,' said the landlord, pale enough by this time. ''Twould be a fine thing, truly, to send abroad that the house was haunted by the deaul himsel'! Why, 'twould be the ruin o' the George. You're sure ye locked the door on the corpse?'

'Aye, sir— sartain.'

'Come wi' me, Tom— we'll gi' a last look round the yard.'

So, side by side, with many a jealous look right and left, and over their shoulders, they went in silence. On entering the old‑fashioned quadrangle, surrounded by stables and other offices— built in the antique cage‑work fashion— they stopped for a while under the shadow of the inn gable, and looked round the yard, and listened. All was silent— nothing stirring.

The stable lantern was lighted; and with it in his hand Tony Turnbull, holding Tom Scales by the shoulder, advanced. He hauled Tom after him for a step or two; then stood still and shoved him before him for a step or two more; and thus cautiously— as a pair of skirmishers under fire— they approached the coach‑house door.

'There, ye see— all safe,' whispered Tom, pointing to the lock, which hung— distinct in the moonlight— in its place. 'Cum back, I say!'

'Cum on, say I!' retorted the landlord valorously. 'It would never do to allow any tricks to be played with the chap in there'— he pointed to the coach‑house door.

'The coroner here in the morning, and never a corpse to sit on!' He unlocked the padlock with these words, having handed the lantern to Tom. 'Here, keck in, Tom,' he continued; 'ye hev the lantern— and see if all's as ye left it.'

'Not me— na, not for the George and a' that's in it!' said Tom, with a shudder, sternly, as he took a step backward.

'What the— what are ye afraid on? Gi' me the lantern— it is all one: I will.'

And cautiously, little by little, he opened the door; and, holding the lantern over his head in the narrow slit, he peeped in— frowning and pale— with one eye, as if he expected something to fly in his face. He closed the door without speaking, and locked it again.

'As safe as a thief in a mill,' he whispered with a nod to his companion. And at that moment a harsh laugh overhead broke the silence startlingly, and set all the poultry in the yard gabbling.

'Thar he be!' said Tom, clutching the landlord's arm— 'in the winda— see!'

The window of the cedar‑room, up two pair of stairs, was open; and in the shadow a darker outline was visible of a man, with his elbows on the window‑stone, looking down upon them.

'Look at his eyes— like two live coals!' gasped Tom.

The landlord could not see all this so sharply, being confused, and not so long‑sighted as Tom.

'Time, sir,' called Tony Turnbull, turning cold as he thought he saw a pair of eyes shining down redly at him— 'time for honest folk to be in their beds, and asleep!'

'As sound as your sexton!' said the jeering voice from above.

'Come out of this,' whispered the landlord fiercely to his hostler, plucking him hard by the sleeve.

They got into the house, and shut the door.

'I wish we were shot of him,' said the landlord, with something like a groan, as he leaned against the wall of the passage. 'I'll sit up, anyhow— and, Tom, you'll sit wi' me. Cum into the gun‑room. No one shall steal the dead man out of my yard while I can draw a trigger.'

The gun‑room in the George is about twelve feet square. It projects into the stable‑yard and commands a full view of the old coach‑house; and, through a narrow side window, a flanking view of the back door of the inn, through which the yard is reached.

Tony Turnbull took down the blunderbuss— which was the great ordnance of the house— and loaded it with a stiff charge of pistol bullets.

He put on a great‑coat which hung there, and was his covering when he went out at night, to shoot wild ducks. Tom made himself comfortable likewise. They then sat down at the window, which was open, looking into the yard, the opposite side of which was white in the brilliant moonlight.

The landlord laid the blunderbuss across his knees, and stared into the yard. His comrade stared also. The door of the gun‑room was locked; so they felt tolerably secure.

An hour passed; nothing had occurred. Another. The clock struck one. The shadows had shifted a little; but still the moon shone full on the old coach‑house, and the stable where the guest's horse stood.

Turnbull thought he heard a step on the back‑stair. Tom was watching the back‑door through the side window, with eyes glazing with the intensity of his stare. Anthony Turnbull, holding his breath, listened at the room door. It was a false alarm.

When he came back to the window looking into the yard:

'Hish! Look thar!' said he in a vehement whisper.

From the shadow at the left they saw the figure of the gaunt horseman, in short cloak and jack‑boots, emerge. He pushed open the stable door, and led out his powerful black horse. He walked it across the front of the building till he reached the old coach‑house door; and there, with its bridle on its neck, he left it standing, while he stalked to the yard gate; and, dealing it a kick with his heel, it sprang back with the rebound, shaking from top to bottom, and stood open. The stranger returned to the side of his horse; and the door which secured the corpse of the dead sexton seemed to swing slowly open of itself as he entered, and returned with the corpse in his arms, and swung it across the shoulders of the horse, and instantly sprang into the saddle.

'Fire!' shouted Tom, and bang went the blunderbuss with a stunning crack. A thousand sparrows' wings winnowed through the air from the thick ivy. The watch‑dog yelled a furious bark. There was a strange ring and whistle in the air. The blunderbuss had burst to shivers right down to the very breech. The recoil rolled the inn‑keeper upon his back on the floor, and Tom Scales was flung against the side of the recess of the window, which had saved him from a tumble as violent. In this position they heard the searing laugh of the departing horseman, and saw him ride out of the gate with his ghastly burden.

PERHAPS some of my readers, like myself, have heard this story told by Roger Turnbull, now host of the George and Dragon, the grandson of the very Tony who then swayed the spigot and keys of that inn, in the identical kitchen of which the fiend treated so many of the neighbours to punch.

WHAT infernal object was subserved by the possession of the dead villain's body, I have not learned. But a very curious story, in which a vampire resuscitation of Crooke the sexton figures, may throw a light upon this part of the tale.

The result of Turnbull's shot at the disappearing fiend certainly justifies old Andrew Moreton's dictum, which is thus expressed in his curious 'History of Apparitions': 'I warn rash brands who, pretending not to fear the devil, are for using the ordinary violences with him, which affect one man from another— or with an apparition, in which they may be sure to receive some mischief. I knew one fired a gun at an apparition and the gun burst in a hundred pieces in his hand; another struck at an apparition with a sword, and broke his sword in pieces and wounded his hand grievously; and 'tis next to madness for anyone to go that way to work with any spirit, be it angel or be it devil.'

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3: The Demon Spell

Hume Nisbet

1849-1923

I found this as a reprint; it was probably first published in the 1890s, but so far I haven't found the source. Hume Nisbet was a British/Australian author who published numerous novels and short stories. There is an enlightening Wikipedia entry about him. Some of his stories were on a horror theme, such as this one; but others were much more light-hearted, such as the oned which follows this.

IT WAS about the time when spiritualism was all the craze in England, and no party was reckoned complete without a spirit-rapping seance being included amongst the other entertainments.

One night I had been invited to the house of a friend, who was a great believer in the manifestations from the unseen world, and who had asked for my special edification a well-known trance medium. 'A pretty as well as heaven-gifted girl, whom you will be sure to like, I know,' he said as he asked me.

I did not believe in the return of spirits, yet, thinking to be amused, consented to attend at the hour appointed. At that time I had just returned from a long sojourn abroad, and was in a very delicate state of health, easily impressed by outward influences, and nervous to a most extraordinary extent.

To the hour appointed I found myself at my friend's house, and was then introduced to the sitters who had assembled to witness the phenomena. Some were strangers like myself to the rules of the table, others who were adepts took their places at once in the order to which they had in former meetings attended. The trance medium had not yet arrived, and while waiting upon her coming we sat down and opened the seance with a hymn.

We had just furnished the second verse when the door opened and the medium glided in, and took her place on a vacant set by my side, joining in with the others in the last verse, after which we all sat motionless with our hands resting upon the table, waiting upon the first manifestation from the unseen world.

Now, although I thought all this performance very ridiculous, there was something in the silence and the dim light, for the gas had been turned low down, and the room seemed filled with shadows; something about the fragile figure at my side, with her drooping head, which thrilled me with a curious sense of fear and icy horror such as I had never felt before.

I am not by nature imaginative or inclined to superstition, but, from the moment that young girl had entered the room, I felt as if a hand had been laid upon my heart, a cold iron hand, that was compressing it, and causing it to stop throbbing. My sense of hearing also had grown more acute and sensitive, so that the beating of the watch in my vest pocket sounded like the thumping of a quartz-crushing machine, and the measured breathing of those about me as loud and nerve-disturbing as the snorting of a steam engine.

Only when I turned to look upon the trance medium did I become soothed; then it seemed as if a cold-air wave had passed through my brain, subduing, for the time-being, those awful sounds.

'She is possessed,' whispered my host on the other side of me. 'Wait, and she will speak presently, and tell us whom we have got beside us.'

As we sat and waited the table moved several times under our hands, while knockings at intervals took place in the table and all round the room, a most weird and blood-curdling, yet ridiculous performance, which made me feel half inclined to run out with fear, and half inclined to sit still and laugh; on the whole, I think, however, that horror had the more complete possession of me.

Presently she raised her head and laid her hand upon mine, beginning to speak in a strange monotonous, far away voice, 'This is my first visit since I passed from earth-life, and you have called me here.'

I shivered as her hand touched mine, but had not strength to withdraw it from her light, soft grasp.

'I am what you would call a lost soul; that is, I am in the lowest sphere. Last week I was in the body, but met my death down Whitechapel way. I was what you call an unfortunate, aye, unfortunate enough. Shall I tell you how it happened?'

The medium's eyes were closed, and whether it was my distorted imagination or not, she appeared to have grown older and decidedly debauched-looking since she sat down, or rather as if a light, filmy mask of degrading and soddened vice had replaced the former delicate features.

No one spoke, and the trance medium continued: 'I had been out all that day and without any luck or food, so that I was dragging my wearied body along through the slush and mud for it had been wet all day, and I was drenched to the skin, and miserable, ah, ten thousand times more wretched than I am now, for the earth is a far worse hell for such as I than our hell here.

'I had importuned several passers by as I went along that night, but none of them spoke to me, for work had been scarce all this winter, and I suppose I did not look so tempting as I have been; only once a man answered me, a dark-faced, middle-sized man, with a soft voice, and much better dressed than my usual companions.

'He asked me where I was going, and then left me, putting a coin into my hand, for which I thanked him. Being just in time for the last public-house, I hurried up, but on going to the bar and looking at my hand, I found it to be a curious foreign coin, with outlandish figures on it, which the landlord would not take, so I went out again to the dark fog and rain without my drink after all.

'There was no use going any further that night. I turned up the court where my lodgings were, intending to go home and get a sleep, since I could get no food, when I felt something touch me softly from behind like as if someone had caught hold of my shawl; then I stopped and turned about to see who it was.

'I was alone, and with no one near me, nothing but fog and the half light from the court lamp. Yet I felt as if something had got hold of me, though I could not see what it was, and that it was gathering about me.

'I tried to scream out, but could not, as this unseen grasp closed upon my throat and choked me, and then I fell down and for a moment forgot everything.

'Next moment I woke up, outside my own poor mutilated body, and stood watching the fell work going on— as you see it now.'

Yes I saw it all as the medium ceased speaking, a mangled corpse lying on a muddy pavement, and a demoniac, dark, pock-marked face bending over it, with the lean claws outspread, and the dense fog instead of a body, like the half formed incarnation of muscles.

'That is what did it, and you will know it again.' she said, 'I have come for you to find it.'

'Is he an Englishman?' I gasped, as the vision faded away and the room once more became definite.

'It is neither man nor woman, but it lives as I do, it is with me now and may be with you to-night, still if you will have me instead of it, I can keep it back, only you must wish for me with all your might.'

The seance was now becoming too horrible, and by general consent our host turned up the gas, and then I saw for the first time the medium, now relieved from her evil possession, a beautiful girl of about nineteen, with I think the most glorious brown eyes I had ever before looked into.

'Do you believe what you have been speaking about?' I asked her as we were sitting talking together.

'What was that?'

'About the murdered woman.'

'I don't know anything at all. only that I have been sitting at the table. I never know what my trances are.' Was she speaking the truth? Her dark eyes looked truth, so that I could not doubt her. That night when I went to my lodgings I must confess that it was some time before I could make up my mind to go to bed. I was decidedly upset and nervous, and wished that I had never, gone to this spirit meeting, making a mental vow, as I threw off my clothes and hastily got into bed, that it was the last unholy gathering I would ever attend.

For the first time in my life I could not put out the gas, I felt as if the room was filled with ghosts, as if this pair of ghastly spectres, the murderer and his victim, had accompanied me home, and were at that moment disputing the possession of me, so instead, I pulled the bedclothes over my head, it being a cold night, and went that fashion off to sleep.

Twelve o'clock! and the anniversary of the day that Christ was born. Yes, I heard it striking from the street spire and counted the strokes, slowly tolled out, listening to the echoes from other steeples, after this one had ceased, as I lay awake in that gas-lit room, feeling as if I was not alone this Christmas morn.

Thus, while I was trying to think what had made me wake so suddenly, I seemed to hear a far off echo cry 'Come to me.' At the same time the bedclothes were slowly pulled from the bed, and left in a confused mass on the floor.

'Is that you, Polly?' I cried, remembering the spirit seance, and the name by which the spirit had announced herself when she took possession.

Three distinct knocks resounded on the bedpost at my ear, the signal for 'Yes.'

'Can you speak to me?'

'Yes,' an echo rather than a voice replied, while I felt my flesh creeping, yet strove to be brave.

'Can I see you?'

'No!'

'Feel you?'

Instantly the feeling of a light cold hand touched my brow and passed over my face.

'In God's name what do you want?'

'To save the girl I was in tonight. It is after her and will kill her if you do not come quickly.'

In an instant I was out of the bed, and tumbling my clothes on any way, horrified through it all, yet feeling as if Polly were helping me to dress. There was a Kandian dagger on my table which I had brought from Ceylon, an old dagger which I had bought for its antiquity and design, and this I snatched up as I left the room, with that light unseen hand leading me out of the house and along the deserted snow-covered streets.

I did not know where the trance medium lived, but I followed where that light grasp led me through the wild, blinding snow-drift, round corners and through short cuts, with my head down and the flakes falling thickly about me, until at last I arrived at a silent square and in front of a house which by some instinct, I knew that I must enter.

Over by the other side of the street I saw a man standing looking up to a dimly-lighted window, but I could not see him very distinctly and I did not pay much attention to him at the time, but rushed instead up the front steps and into the house, that unseen hand still pulling me forward.

How that door opened, or if it did open I could not say, I only know that I got in, as we get into places in a dream, and up the inner stairs, I passed into a bedroom where the light was burning dimly.

It was her bedroom, and she was struggling in the thug-like grasp of those same demon claws, and the rest of it drifting away to nothingness.

I saw it all at a glance, her half-naked form, with the disarranged bedclothes, as the unformed demon of muscles clutched that delicate throat, and then I was at it like a fury with my Kandian dagger, slashing crossways at those cruel claws and that evil face, while blood streaks followed the course of my knife, making ugly stains, until at last it ceased struggling and disappeared like a horrid nightmare, as the half-strangled girl, now released from that fell grip, woke up the house with her screams, while from her releasing hand dropped a strange coin, which I took possession of.

Thus I left her, feeling that my work was done, going downstairs as I had come up, without impediment or even seemingly, in the slightest degree, attracting the attention of the other inmates of the house, who rushed in their nightdresses towards the bedroom from whence the screams were issuing.

Into the street again, with that coin in one hand and my dagger in the other I rushed, and then I remembered the man whom I had seen looking up at the window. Was he there still? Yes, but on the ground in a confused black mass amongst the white snow as if he had been struck down.

I went over to where he lay and looked at him. Was he dead? Yes. I turned him round and saw that his throat was gashed from ear to ear, and all over his face— the same dark, pallid, pock-marked evil face, and claw-like hands, I saw the dark slashes of my Kandian dagger, while the soft white snow around him was stained with crimson life pools, and as I looked I heard the clock strike one, while from the distance sounded the chant of the coming waits, then I turned and fled blindly into the darkness.

________________

4: Romance of a Balloon

Hume Nisbet

Gympie Times (Qld) 21 Oct 1899

'ALL ready?'

'Yes, all ready!'

'Then let go!'

As the balloonist shouted the command, the men below loosed the ropes simultaneously, and the liberated air-vessel leapt with a sudden bound into space. Up, up, five hundred feet in less than the half of that number of seconds.

The professor gathered in his loose tackle, then occupied himself throwing out the sandbags as they reached the thinner air, while the solitary passenger sat silently watching him.

Above trees, houses, and church spires they shot, until the earth spread out like a map below them, and from the earth the balloon looked like a Chinese lantern. They had now reached the wind current wanted to sendthem in their required direction. They were sailing along swiftly, two thousand feet above the world, with no more to do at present than make each other's acquaintance, and watch the panorama they were driving over.

Professor Raimond had made a good number of these long aerial voyages with undeviating success. He never carried more than one passenger at a time, and charged such highpriced fares that only the wealthy could indulge in this novel mode of passage.

His terms were five hundred guineas each trip, and as his agent saw that this sum was paid before the passenger took his seat in the car, the aeronaut seldom troubled to examine his companion until they were afloat, as now.

The principal charm about this expensive pleasure trip was, that although a probable destination was announced in the papers before starting, no one knew where they would actually land. It might be Spain or Siberia, in the middle of the Mediterranean, or amongst the icebergs of the Arctic Ocean. The car was constructed for sailing as well as flying, with rudder, keel, oars, masts and sails, so that if they collapsed in mid-ocean they could float until picked up.

Professor Raimond was unmarried, and about thirty-three, gentlemanly and learned. He was well known for his scientific accomplishments and for his fearless love of adventure; therefore it was esteemed a high privilege to accompany him, even at the prohibitive rate he charged.

On the present occasion his agent had informed him that his companion would be a Captain Hammond, an officer who had distinguished himself in Egypt and Africa. He therefore felt no doubt but that they would get on well enough together.

The passenger had only entered the car a few moments before its ascent, so that the professor had just shaken hands with him hurriedly, without so much as looking at him, his full attention being concentrated in arranging the loosening off.  He expected to find a man of his own age, at least. Judge, then, his astonishment at finding himself confronted by a slenderly built lad of not more than nineteen or twenty, with smooth cheeks, fair hair, violet tinted eyes, and remarkably pretty features. He was dressed in light tweed knickerbockers, loose sac coat, and an Inverness waterproof.

The professor regarded the youth doubtfully for a moment, and then said: 'Captain Hammond, I understand?'

'Well, no,' replied the other, in a clear, silvery voice, smiling and exhibiting two rows of teeth like pearls. 'Captain Hammond met with a slight accident this afternoon; therefore I came in his place.'

'And may I ask who you are ?'

'l am the cousin of Captain Hammond, and my name is— Ethel.'

'A woman? Gracious heavens!' gasped Professor Raimond, sinking back in dismay, and feeling inclined to pitch himself over the car. Like many other, brave men who liked danger in the open, he had always fought very shy of the fair sex. Uncomfortable in their company when forced to meet them in society, he would far sooner, have let a train go without him than sit alone with a woman in a railway carriage, even for the shortest journey.

Yet here he was in the clouds, nearly half a mile from earth, and inthe very position that his whole being revolted against. It was dreadful.

'Keep your mind easy on the score of my courage, Professor Raimond,' said the dear, sweet voice. 'I am not easily scared, and I find this the most delightful sensation I have ever experienced. Biking isn't in it, I can assure you.'

'Excuse me, Miss Hammond, but do your friends know about this escapade of yours?' He tried to speak sternly, but his voice trembled with dire emotion.

The young lady laughed merrily. 'They must all know by this time, I expect. You see the accident that happened to Cousin Charley was that I locked him in, at the last moment, after stealing his ticket, and drove off as fast as a cab could take me to join you instead. I daresay at the present moment he is conducting himself like a maniac in the recreation grounds from where we started, while I am having the pleasure he was so sure of enjoying himself.'

The professor sprang up in a fury and looked over the car. Already England had almost disappeared, and beneath them lay the German Ocean. They were speeding as fast as a strong wind could carry them in the direction of Norway. It was appalling.

What had happened to him during the
time of his throwing out out the ladt sand-bag and his discovery of the sex of this all too reckless fellow voyager? Had he lost consciousness, without being aware of it, in the horror of this discovery and the thought of the scandal it would create? Men have been known to do so when overworked mentally, to lose hours, or commit actions during those long lapses of consciousness which they denied honestly, since they had no memory or self-knowledge of the lapse.

The last sand-bag he had cast out must have fallen within the recreation grounds before they caught the northward-bearing air-current. That air-current was a light one then, and would not carry them faster than twenty miles an hour. The revelation of this thoughtless madcap could not have exceeded five minutes at the most. And yet here they were, driving along at express speed before a gale of wind, with the flat coast of Norfolk a misty blur to the south, and the open ocean in front.

He pulled out his watch. It had been two o'clook when they started. It was now half-past seven. It had been a, warm, sunshiny afternoon, five minutes, as it seemed, before. It was now a chilly evening, with a cloudy gray sky and the drizzle of a Scotch mist damping and chilling him to the bone.

Shivering with cold and a torpid sensation of fear, he turned again and looked at the fair young girl, as he might have regarded an enchantress. She also was watching him with the same smile on her lips, but a curiously intent expression in her keen blue eyes.

'Well, sir; so you have woke up at last! I must say I did not think my communication was prosy enough to send you to sleep. I expected it to have the opposite effect.'

'Have l been asleep?' asked the professor, helplessly.

'Rather,' and for five mortal hours, the while I was wondering if we were going right. Are we?'

'No!' replied the professor, bitterly. 'Had I not been an idiot, we should have been back in London again.'

'A fortunate thing it is for me then that you took the sudden fit of coma, so apropoe, otherwise I'd have been the laugh of London. Now—'

'Your reputation is ruined, and I will be branded as a blackguard.'

'Nonsense! All the world knows you to be a gentleman, while those who know me know I can take care of myself— even amongst the clouds. Keep your mind easy. We are at the end of the nineteenth century, not the beginning of it, when women were regarded as weak fools, requiring she-dragons to guard them. I am one of the emancipated sex, and intend, with your kindly aid, to take full advantage of my freedom.'

She rose as she spoke, and stretching horself to her full height, spread out her arms as if embracing the gray clouds.

'I suppose you intend to proceed, now, and take me to Christiania?'

'We must, if this wind continues,' he replied, bracing himself up to the inevitable.

'That's splendid. How long do yon think it will take to reach that city?'

'Twenty hours; or less at this rate.'

'Good! Now, as I see you are dreadfully frightened about your charge, if yon will land me within reachable distance of Christiania, I'll trouble you no more with my unwelcome presence, and promise you to explain everything to the entire satisfaction of my friends. Now let's have something to eat, as I am positively starving.'

Her high spirits, and total indifference and unconsciousness of anything wrong about her present position, infected him, in spite of his nervous dread, and somewhat restored his presence of mind and calmness. They had a cold supper, with a few glasses of champagne, which made him genial and hopeful as to the outcome of. the adventure.

After supper they settled themselves down, he to attend to the airship, and she to watch and enjoy her novel surroundings.

As night advanced the clouds broke up aud the moon and stars shone down upon them with glorious lustre. It was impossible to sleep while sailing through those fleecy clouds and under that starry space.

Sometimes the professor threw out more ballast. Then as they shot up rapidly, she clapped her hands and laughed so joyously that he could not for the life of him give way to gloomy surmises and forebodings.

The balloon behaved as usual, as it was expected to behave, and the wind remained steadfast, as it does not often do; For an hour before breakfast the darkness became so intense that they lost sight of each other although her chatter still proved her to be awake.

During that hour of shadow, she had been making her toilet, for when she was once again visible, he saw her costumed in a charming travelling dress with hat and veil to match. Then he became once more shy and diffident, she also grew quiet and more subdued as they neared their destination.

IT was evening when tney dropped to earth on the outskirts of Norway's capital, and leaving the collapsed balloon in a field, together they walked towards the lights, he carrying her bag, which weighed heavy. At the hotel she parted with him in the same off-hand, comrade-like manner she had adopted to him throughout.

'Goodbye, Professor Raimond, I am more indebted to you than I can express, or you at present could understand. If  you ever do come to understand, then I hope you won't regret giving me this, pleasant trip from England.'

Her blue, eyes were a little moist as she held out her hand. The professor felt his heart beating faster than its wont.

'I shall meet you to-morrow at breakfast, shall I not?'

'Perhaps,' she said with a dreary little smile, still looking at him through: her moistened eyes.

'Then good-night!'

'Good-night!'

He was going to take her hand, but somehow found his arm about her neck instead, and his lips against hers. One quick; trembling embrace, and she was gone.

They did not meet at breakfast, for when the professor rose the landlord informed him that the lady had caught the Denmark packet hours before he was up.

Afterwards, when he discovered that he had assisted a notorious criminal to escape with over forty thousand pounds' worth of jewellery, somehow the recollection of their parting, embraces prevented him from feeling the regret that as an honest gentleman he ought to have felt.

Moral: Even the most rigid of us may have lapses of rectitude, as well as of memory.

_________________

5: A World Of Sound

Olaf Stapledon

1886-1950

Hotch Potch 1936

THE ROOM was overcrowded and stuffy. The music seemed to have no intelligible form. It was a mere jungle of noise. Now one instrument and now another blared out half a tune, but every one of these abortive musical creatures was killed before it had found its legs. Some other and hostile beast fell upon it and devoured it, or the whole jungle suffocated it.

The strain of following this struggle for existence wearied me. I closed my eyes, and must have fallen asleep; for suddenly I woke with a start. Or seemed to wake. Something queer had happened. The music was still going on, but I was paralysed. I could not open my eyes. I could not shout for help. I could not move my body, nor feel it. I had no body.

Something had happened to the music, too, and to my hearing. But what? The tissue of sounds seemed to have become incomparably more voluminous and involved. I am not musical; but suddenly I realized that this music had overflowed, so to speak, into all the intervals between the normal semitones, that it was using not merely quarter-tones but "centitones" and "millitones," with an effect that would surely have been a torture to the normal ear. To me, in my changed state, it gave a sense of richness, solidity, and vitality quite lacking in ordinary music. This queer music, moreover, had another source of wealth. It reached up and down over scores of octaves beyond the range of normal hearing. Yet I could hear it.

As I listened, I grew surprisingly accustomed to this new jargon. I found myself easily distinguishing all sorts of coherent musical forms in this world of sound. Against an obscure, exotic background of more or less constant chords and fluttering "leafage," so to speak, several prominent and ever-changing sound-figures were playing. Each was a persistent musical object, though fluctuating in detail of gesture and sometimes ranging bodily up or down the scale.

Suddenly I made a discovery which should have been incredible, yet it seemed to me at the time quite familiar and obvious. I found myself recognizing that these active sound-figures were alive, even intelligent. In the normal world, living things are perceived as changing patterns of visible and tangible characters. In this mad world, which was coming to seem to me quite homely, patterns not of colour and shape but of sound formed the perceptible bodies of living things. When it occurred to me that I had fallen into a land of "program music" I was momentarily disgusted. Here was a whole world that violated the true canons of musical art! Then I reminded myself that this music was not merely telling but actually living its story. In fact it was not art but life. So I gave rein to my interest.

Observing these creatures that disported themselves before me, I discovered, or rather rediscovered, that though this world had no true space, such as we perceive by sight and touch, yet it did have a sort of space. For in some sense these living things were moving in relation to me and in relation to one another. Apparently the "space" of this world consisted of two dimensions only, and these differed completely in quality. One was the obvious dimension of tonality, or pitch, on the subtle "keyboard" of this world. The other was perceived only indirectly. It corresponded to the heard nearness or remoteness of one and the same instrument in the normal world. Just as we see things as near and far through the signification of colour and perspective, so in this strange world, certain characters of timbre, of harmonics, of overtones, conveyed a sense of "nearness"; others a sense of "distance." A peculiar blatancy, often combined with loudness, meant "near"; a certain flatness, or ghostliness of timbre, generally combined with faintness, meant "far." An object receding in this "level" dimension (as I called it) would gradually lose its full-bodied timbre, and its detail and preciseness. At the same time it would become fainter, and at last inaudible.

I should add that each sound-object had also its own characteristic timbre, almost as though each thing in this world were a theme played by one and the same instrument. But I soon discovered that in the case of living things the timbre-range of each individual was very wide; for emotional changes might be accompanied by changes of timbre even greater than those which distinguish our instruments.

In contrast with the variegated but almost changeless background or landscape, the living things were in constant movement. Always preserving their individuality, their basic identity of tonal pattern, they would withdraw or approach in the "level" dimension or run up and down the scale. They also indulged in a ceaseless rippling play of musical gesture. Very often one of these creatures, travelling up or down the scale, would encounter another. Then either the two would simply interpenetrate and cross one another, as transverse trains of waves on a pond; or there would be some sort of mutual readjustment of form, apparently so as to enable them to squeeze past one another without "collision." And collision in this world seemed to be much like dissonance in our music. Sometimes, to avoid collision, a creature needed merely to effect a slight alteration in its tonal form, but sometimes it had to move far aside, so to speak, in the other dimension, which I have called the "level" dimension. Thus it became for a while inaudible.

Another discovery now flashed upon me, again with curious familiarity. I myself had a "body" in this world. This was the "nearest" of all the sound-objects. It was so "near" and so obvious that I never noticed it till it was brought into action. This happened unexpectedly. One of the moving creatures inadvertently came into collision with a minor part of my musical body. The slight violation of my substance stabbed me with a little sharp pain. Immediately, by reflex action and then purposefully, I readjusted my musical shape, so as to avoid further conflict. Thus it was that I discovered or rediscovered the power of voluntary action in this world.

I also emitted a loud coruscation of musical gesture, which I at once knew to be significant speech. In fact I said in the language of that world, "Damn you, that's my toe, that was." There came from the other an answering and apologetic murmur.

A newcomer now approached from the silent distance to join my frolicking companions. This being was extremely attractive to me, and poignantly familiar. Her lithe figure, her lyrical yet faintly satirical movement, turned the jungle into Arcadia. To my delight I found that I was not unknown to her, and not wholly unpleasing. With a gay gesture she beckoned me into the game.

For the first time I not only changed the posture of my musical limbs but moved bodily, both in the dimension of pitch and the "level" dimension. As soon as I approached, she slipped with laughter away from me. I followed her; but very soon she vanished into the jungle and into the remoteness of silence. Naturally I determined to pursue her. I could no longer live without her. And in the exquisite harmony of our two natures I imagined wonderful creative potentialities.

Let me explain briefly the method and experience of locomotion in this world. I found that, by reaching out a musical limb and knitting its extremity into the sound-pattern of some fixed object at a distance, in either dimension or both, I obtained a purchase on the object, and could draw my whole body toward it. I could then reach out another limb to a still farther point. Thus I was able to climb about the forest of sound with the speed and accuracy of a gibbon. Whenever I moved, in either dimension, I experienced my movement merely as a contrary movement of the world around me. Near objects became nearer, or less near; remote objects became less remote, or slipped further into the distance and vanished. Similarly my movement up or down the musical scale appeared to me as a deepening or heightening of the pitch of all other objects.

In locomotion I experienced no resistance from other objects save in the collision of dissonance, which I could generally avoid by altering my shape. I discovered that a certain degree of dissonance between myself and another offered only very slight resistance and no pain. Indeed, such contacts might be pleasurable. But harsh discords were a torture and could not be maintained.

I soon found that there was a limit to my possible movement up and down the scale. At a point many octaves below my normal situation I began to feel oppressed and sluggish. As I toiled downwards my discomfort increased, until, in a sort of swoon, I floated up again to my native musical plane. Ascending far above this plane, I felt at first exhilaration; but after many octaves a sort of light-headedness and vertigo overtook me, and presently I sank reeling to the few octaves of my normal habitat.

In the "level" dimension there seemed to be no limit to my power of locomotion, and it was in this dimension chiefly that I sought the vanished nymph. I pressed forward through ever-changing tonal landscapes. Sometimes they opened out into "level" vistas of remote, dim, musical objects, or into "tonal" vistas, deep and lofty, revealing hundreds of octaves above and below me. Sometimes the view narrowed, by reason of the dense musical "vegetation," to a mere tunnel, no more than a couple of octaves in height. Only with difficulty could I work my way along such a passage. Sometimes, in order to avoid impenetrable objects, I had to clamber far into the treble or the bass. Sometimes, in empty regions, I had to leap from perch to perch.

At last I began to weary. Movement became repugnant, perception uncertain. Moreover the very form of my body lost something of its pleasant fullness. Instinct now impelled me to an act which surprised my intellect though I performed it without hesitation. Approaching certain luscious little musical objects, certain very simple but vigorous little enduring patterns of timbre and harmony, I devoured them. That is, I broke down the sound-pattern of each one into simpler patterns; and these I incorporated into my own harmonious form. Then I passed on, refreshed.

Presently I was confronted by a crowd of the intelligent beings tumbling helter-skelter toward me and jostling one another in their haste. Their emotional timbre expressed such fear and horror that my own musical form was infected with it. Hastily moving myself several octaves toward the bass to avoid their frantic course, which was mostly in the treble, I shouted to them to tell me what was the matter. As they fled past I distinguished only a cry which might be translated, "The Big Bad Wolf."

My fear left me, for now I recognized that this was a flock of very young creatures. So I laughed reassuringly and asked if they had encountered the lovely being whom I was seeking. And I laughed to myself at the ease and sweetness with which her musical name came to me when I needed it. They answered only with an augmented scream of infantile grief, as they faded into the distance.

Disturbed, I pursued my journey. Presently I came into a great empty region where I could hear a very remote but ominous growl. I halted, to listen to the thing more clearly. It was approaching. Its form emerged from the distance and was heard in detail. Soon I recognized it as no mere childish bogey but a huge and ferocious brute. With lumbering motion in the bass, its limbs propelled it at a surprising speed. Its harsh tentacles of sound, flickering hither and thither far up into the treble, nosed in search of prey.

Realizing at last the fate that had probably befallen my dear companion, I turned sick with horror. My whole musical body trembled and wavered with faintness.

Before I had decided what to do, the brute caught sight of me, or rather sound of me, and came pounding toward me with the roar and scream of a train, or an approaching shell. I fled. But soon realizing that I was losing ground, I plunged into a thicket of chaotic sound, which I heard ahead of me and well up in the treble. Adapting my musical form and colour as best I could to the surrounding wilderness, I continued to climb. Thus I hoped both to conceal myself and escape from the reach of the creature's tentacles. Almost fainting from the altitude, I chose a perch, integrating my musical limbs with the pattern of the fixed objects in that locality. Thus anchored, I waited, motionless.

The brute was now moving more slowly, nosing in search of me as it approached. Presently it lay immediately below me, far down in the bass. Its body was now all too clearly heard as a grim cacophony of growling and belching. Its strident tentacles moved beneath me like the waving tops of trees beneath a man clinging to a cliff face. Still searching, it passed on beneath me. Such was my relief that I lost consciousness for a moment and slipped several octaves down before I could recover myself. The movement revealed my position. The beast of prey returned, and began clambering awkwardly toward me. Altitude soon checked its progress, but it reached me with one tentacle, one shrieking arpeggio. Desperately I tried to withdraw myself farther into the treble, but the monster's limb knit itself into the sound-pattern of my flesh. Frantically struggling, I was dragged down, down into the suffocating bass. There, fangs and talons of sound tore me agonizingly limb from limb.

Then suddenly I woke in the concert hall to a great confusion of scraping chairs. The audience was making ready to leave.

___________________

...sure enough there was a ship in the middle of his field, but such a ship as no man had seen on the water for three hundred years, let alone in the middle of a turnip-field. It was all painted black and covered with carvings, and there was a great bay window in the stern for all the world like the Squire's drawing-room...

6: The Ghost-Ship

Richard Middleton

1882-1911

The Century Magazine April 1912

FAIRFIELD is a little village lying near the Portsmouth Road about half-way between London and the sea. Strangers who find it by accident now and then, call it a pretty, old-fashioned place; we who live in it and call it home don't find anything very pretty about it, but we should be sorry to live anywhere else. Our minds have taken the shape of the inn and the church and the green, I suppose. At all events we never feel comfortable out of Fairfield.

Of course the Cockneys, with their vasty houses and noise-ridden streets, can call us rustics if they choose, but for all that Fairfield is a better place to live in than London. Doctor says that when he goes to London his mind is bruised with the weight of the houses, and he was a Cockney born. He had to live there himself when he was a little chap, but he knows better now. You gentlemen may laugh— perhaps some of you come from London way— but it seems to me that a witness like that is worth a gallon of arguments.

Dull? Well, you might find it dull, but I assure you that I've listened to all the London yarns you have spun tonight, and they're absolutely nothing to the things that happen at Fairfield. It's because of our way of thinking and minding our own business. If one of your Londoners were set down on the green of a Saturday night when the ghosts of the lads who died in the war keep tryst with the lasses who lie in the church-yard, he couldn't help being curious and interfering, and then the ghosts would go somewhere where it was quieter. But we just let them come and go and don't make any fuss, and in consequence Fairfield is the ghostiest place in all England. Why, I've seen a headless man sitting on the edge of the well in broad daylight, and the children playing about his feet as if he were their father. Take my word for it, spirits know when they are well off as much as human beings.

Still, I must admit that the thing I'm going to tell you about was queer even for our part of the world, where three packs of ghost-hounds hunt regularly during the season, and blacksmith's great-grandfather is busy all night shoeing the dead gentlemen's horses. Now that's a thing that wouldn't happen in London, because of their interfering ways, but blacksmith he lies up aloft and sleeps as quiet as a lamb. Once when he had a bad head he shouted down to them not to make so much noise, and in the morning he found an old guinea left on the anvil as an apology. He wears it on his watch-chain now. But I must get on with my story; if I start telling you about the queer happenings at Fairfield I'll never stop.

It all came of the great storm in the spring of '97, the year that we had two great storms. This was the first one, and I remember it very well, because I found in the morning that it had lifted the thatch of my pigsty into the widow's garden as clean as a boy's kite. When I looked over the hedge, widow— Tom Lamport's widow that was— was prodding for her nasturtiums with a daisy-grubber. After I had watched her for a little I went down to the "Fox and Grapes" to tell landlord what she had said to me. Landlord he laughed, being a married man and at ease with the sex. "Come to that," he said, "the tempest has blowed something into my field. A kind of a ship I think it would be."

I was surprised at that until he explained that it was only a ghost-ship and would do no hurt to the turnips. We argued that it had been blown up from the sea at Portsmouth, and then we talked of something else. There were two slates down at the parsonage and a big tree in Lumley's meadow. It was a rare storm.

I reckon the wind had blown our ghosts all over England. They were coming back for days afterwards with foundered horses and as footsore as possible, and they were so glad to get back to Fairfield that some of them walked up the street crying like little children. Squire said that his great-grandfather's great-grandfather hadn't looked so dead-beat since the battle of Naseby, and he's an educated man.

What with one thing and another, I should think it was a week before we got straight again, and then one afternoon I met the landlord on the green and he had a worried face. "I wish you'd come and have a look at that ship in my field," he said to me; "it seems to me it's leaning real hard on the turnips. I can't bear thinking what the missus will say when she sees it."

I walked down the lane with him, and sure enough there was a ship in the middle of his field, but such a ship as no man had seen on the water for three hundred years, let alone in the middle of a turnip-field. It was all painted black and covered with carvings, and there was a great bay window in the stern for all the world like the Squire's drawing-room. There was a crowd of little black cannon on deck and looking out of her port-holes, and she was anchored at each end to the hard ground. I have seen the wonders of the world on picture-postcards, but I have never seen anything to equal that.

"She seems very solid for a ghost-ship," I said, seeing the landlord was bothered.

"I should say it's a betwixt and between," he answered, puzzling it over, "but it's going to spoil a matter of fifty turnips, and missus she'll want it moved." We went up to her and touched the side, and it was as hard as a real ship. "Now there's folks in England would call that very curious," he said.

Now I don't know much about ships, but I should think that that ghost-ship weighed a solid two hundred tons, and it seemed to me that she had come to stay, so that I felt sorry for landlord, who was a married man. "All the horses in Fairfield won't move her out of my turnips," he said, frowning at her.

Just then we heard a noise on her deck, and we looked up and saw that a man had come out of her front cabin and was looking down at us very peaceably. He was dressed in a black uniform set out with rusty gold lace, and he had a great cutlass by his side in a brass sheath. "I'm Captain Bartholomew Roberts," he said, in a gentleman's voice, "put in for recruits. I seem to have brought her rather far up the harbour."

"Harbour!" cried landlord; "why, you're fifty miles from the sea."

Captain Roberts didn't turn a hair. "So much as that, is it?" he said coolly. "Well, it's of no consequence."

Landlord was a bit upset at this. "I don't want to be unneighbourly," he said, "but I wish you hadn't brought your ship into my field. You see, my wife sets great store on these turnips."

The captain took a pinch of snuff out of a fine gold box that he pulled out of his pocket, and dusted his fingers with a silk handkerchief in a very genteel fashion. "I'm only here for a few months," he said; "but if a testimony of my esteem would pacify your good lady I should be content," and with the words he loosed a great gold brooch from the neck of his coat and tossed it down to landlord.

Landlord blushed as red as a strawberry. "I'm not denying she's fond of jewellery," he said, "but it's too much for half a sackful of turnips." And indeed it was a handsome brooch.

The captain laughed. "Tut, man," he said, "it's a forced sale, and you deserve a good price. Say no more about it;" and nodding good-day to us, he turned on his heel and went into the cabin. Landlord walked back up the lane like a man with a weight off his mind. "That tempest has blowed me a bit of luck," he said; "the missus will be much pleased with that brooch. It's better than blacksmith's guinea, any day."

Ninety-seven was Jubilee year, the year of the second Jubilee, you remember, and we had great doings at Fairfield, so that we hadn't much time to bother about the ghost-ship though anyhow it isn't our way to meddle in things that don't concern us. Landlord, he saw his tenant once or twice when he was hoeing his turnips and passed the time of day, and landlord's wife wore her new brooch to church every Sunday. But we didn't mix much with the ghosts at any time, all except an idiot lad there was in the village, and he didn't know the difference between a man and a ghost, poor innocent! On Jubilee Day, however, somebody told Captain Roberts why the church bells were ringing, and he hoisted a flag and fired off his guns like a loyal Englishman. 'Tis true the guns were shotted, and one of the round shot knocked a hole in Farmer Johnstone's barn, but nobody thought much of that in such a season of rejoicing.

It wasn't till our celebrations were over that we noticed that anything was wrong in Fairfield. 'Twas shoemaker who told me first about it one morning at the "Fox and Grapes."

"You know my great great-uncle?" he said to me.

"You mean Joshua, the quiet lad," I answered, knowing him well.

"Quiet!" said shoemaker indignantly. "Quiet you call him, coming home at three o'clock every morning as drunk as a magistrate and waking up the whole house with his noise."

"Why, it can't be Joshua!" I said, for I knew him for one of the most respectable young ghosts in the village.

"Joshua it is," said shoemaker; "and one of these nights he'll find himself out in the street if he isn't careful."

This kind of talk shocked me, I can tell you, for I don't like to hear a man abusing his own family, and I could hardly believe that a steady youngster like Joshua had taken to drink. But just then in came butcher Aylwin in such a temper that he could hardly drink his beer. "The young puppy! the young puppy!" he kept on saying; and it was some time before shoemaker and I found out that he was talking about his ancestor that fell at Senlac.

"Drink?" said shoemaker hopefully, for we all like company in our misfortunes, and butcher nodded grimly.

"The young noodle," he said, emptying his tankard.

Well, after that I kept my ears open, and it was the same story all over the village. There was hardly a young man among all the ghosts of Fairfield who didn't roll home in the small hours of the morning the worse for liquor. I used to wake up in the night and hear them stumble past my house, singing outrageous songs. The worst of it was that we couldn't keep the scandal to ourselves and the folk at Greenhill began to talk of "sodden Fairfield" and taught their children to sing a song about us:

"Sodden Fairfield, sodden Fairfield, has no use for bread-and-butter, Rum for breakfast, rum for dinner, rum for tea, and rum for supper!"

We are easy-going in our village, but we didn't like that.

Of course we soon found out where the young fellows went to get the drink, and landlord was terribly cut up that his tenant should have turned out so badly, but his wife wouldn't hear of parting with the brooch, so that he couldn't give the Captain notice to quit. But as time went on, things grew from bad to worse, and at all hours of the day you would see those young reprobates sleeping it off on the village green. Nearly every afternoon a ghost-wagon used to jolt down to the ship with a lading of rum, and though the older ghosts seemed inclined to give the Captain's hospitality the go-by, the youngsters were neither to hold nor to bind.

So one afternoon when I was taking my nap I heard a knock at the door, and there was parson looking very serious, like a man with a job before him that he didn't altogether relish. "I'm going down to talk to the Captain about all this drunkenness in the village, and I want you to come with me," he said straight out.

I can't say that I fancied the visit much, myself, and I tried to hint to parson that as, after all, they were only a lot of ghosts it didn't very much matter.

"Dead or alive, I'm responsible for the good conduct," he said, "and I'm going to do my duty and put a stop to this continued disorder. And you are coming with me John Simmons." So I went, parson being a persuasive kind of man.

We went down to the ship, and as we approached her I could see the Captain tasting the air on deck. When he saw parson he took off his hat very politely and I can tell you that I was relieved to find that he had a proper respect for the cloth. Parson acknowledged his salute and spoke out stoutly enough. "Sir, I should be glad to have a word with you."

"Come on board, sir; come on board," said the Captain, and I could tell by his voice that he knew why we were there. Parson and I climbed up an uneasy kind of ladder, and the Captain took us into the great cabin at the back of the ship, where the bay-window was. It was the most wonderful place you ever saw in your life, all full of gold and silver plate, swords with jewelled scabbards, carved oak chairs, and great chests that look as though they were bursting with guineas. Even parson was surprised, and he did not shake his head very hard when the Captain took down some silver cups and poured us out a drink of rum. I tasted mine, and I don't mind saying that it changed my view of things entirely. There was nothing betwixt and between about that rum, and I felt that it was ridiculous to blame the lads for drinking too much of stuff like that. It seemed to fill my veins with honey and fire.

Parson put the case squarely to the Captain, but I didn't listen much to what he said; I was busy sipping my drink and looking through the window at the fishes swimming to and fro over landlord's turnips. Just then it seemed the most natural thing in the world that they should be there, though afterwards, of course, I could see that that proved it was a ghost-ship.

But even then I thought it was queer when I saw a drowned sailor float by in the thin air with his hair and beard all full of bubbles. It was the first time I had seen anything quite like that at Fairfield.

All the time I was regarding the wonders of the deep parson was telling Captain Roberts how there was no peace or rest in the village owing to the curse of drunkenness, and what a bad example the youngsters were setting to the older ghosts. The Captain listened very attentively, and only put in a word now and then about boys being boys and young men sowing their wild oats. But when parson had finished his speech he filled up our silver cups and said to parson, with a flourish, "I should be sorry to cause trouble anywhere where I have been made welcome, and you will be glad to hear that I put to sea tomorrow night. And now you must drink me a prosperous voyage." So we all stood up and drank the toast with honour, and that noble rum was like hot oil in my veins.

After that Captain showed us some of the curiosities he had brought back from foreign parts, and we were greatly amazed, though afterwards I couldn't clearly remember what they were. And then I found myself walking across the turnips with parson, and I was telling him of the glories of the deep that I had seen through the window of the ship. He turned on me severely. "If I were you, John Simmons," he said, "I should go straight home to bed." He has a way of putting things that wouldn't occur to an ordinary man, has parson, and I did as he told me.

Well, next day it came on to blow, and it blew harder and harder, till about eight o'clock at night I heard a noise and looked out into the garden. I dare say you won't believe me, it seems a bit tall even to me, but the wind had lifted the thatch of my pigsty into the widow's garden a second time. I thought I wouldn't wait to hear what widow had to say about it, so I went across the green to the "Fox and Grapes", and the wind was so strong that I danced along on tiptoe like a girl at the fair. When I got to the inn landlord had to help me shut the door; it seemed as though a dozen goats were pushing against it to come in out of the storm.

"It's a powerful tempest," he said, drawing the beer. "I hear there's a chimney down at Dickory End."

"It's a funny thing how these sailors know about the weather," I answered. "When Captain said he was going tonight, I was thinking it would take a capful of wind to carry the ship back to sea, but now here's more than a capful."

"Ah, yes," said landlord, "it's tonight he goes true enough, and, mind you, though he treated me handsome over the rent, I'm not sure it's a loss to the village. I don't hold with gentrice who fetch their drink from London instead of helping local traders to get their living."

"But you haven't got any rum like his," I said, to draw him out.

His neck grew red above his collar, and I was afraid I'd gone too far; but after a while he got his breath with a grunt.

"John Simmons," he said, "if you've come down here this windy night to talk a lot of fool's talk, you've wasted a journey."

Well, of course, then I had to smooth him down with praising his rum, and Heaven forgive me for swearing it was better than Captain's. For the like of that rum no living lips have tasted save mine and parson's. But somehow or other I brought landlord round, and presently we must have a glass of his best to prove its quality.

"Beat that if you can!" he cried, and we both raised our glasses to our mouths, only to stop half-way and look at each other in amaze. For the wind that had been howling outside like an outrageous dog had all of a sudden turned as melodious as the carol-boys of a Christmas Eve.

"Surely that's not my Martha," whispered landlord; Martha being his great-aunt that lived in the loft overhead.

We went to the door, and the wind burst it open so that the handle was driven clean into the plaster of the wall. But we didn't think about that at the time; for over our heads, sailing very comfortably through the windy stars, was the ship that had passed the summer in landlord's field. Her portholes and her bay-window were blazing with lights, and there was a noise of singing and fiddling on her decks.

"He's gone," shouted landlord above the storm, "and he's taken half the village with him!" I could only nod in answer, not having lungs like bellows of leather.

In the morning we were able to measure the strength of the storm, and over and above my pigsty there was damage enough wrought in the village to keep us busy. True it is that the children had to break down no branches for the firing that autumn, since the wind had strewn the woods with more than they could carry away. Many of our ghosts were scattered abroad, but this time very few came back, all the young men having sailed with Captain; and not only ghosts, for a poor half-witted lad was missing, and we reckoned that he had stowed himself away or perhaps shipped as cabin-boy, not knowing any better.

What with the lamentations of the ghost-girls and the grumbling of families who had lost an ancestor, the village was upset for a while, and the funny thing was that it was the folk who had complained most of the carryings-on of the youngsters, who made most noise now that they were gone. I hadn't any sympathy with shoemaker or butcher, who ran about saying how much they missed their lads, but it made me grieve to hear the poor bereaved girls calling their lovers by name on the village green at nightfall. It didn't seem fair to me that they should have lost their men a second time, after giving up life in order to join them, as like as not. Still, not even a spirit can be sorry for ever, and after a few months we made up our mind that the folk who had sailed in the ship were never coming back, and we didn't talk about it any more.

And then one day, I dare say it would be a couple of years after, when the whole business was quite forgotten, who should come trapesing along the road from Portsmouth but the daft lad who had gone away with the ship, without waiting till he was dead to become a ghost. You never saw such a boy as that in all your life. He had a great rusty cutlass hanging to a string at his waist, and he was tattooed all over in fine colours, so that even his face looked like a girl's sampler. He had a handkerchief in his hand full of foreign shells and old-fashioned pieces of small money, very curious, and he walked up to the well outside his mother's house and drew himself a drink as if he had been nowhere in particular.

The worst of it was that he had come back as soft-headed as he went, and try as we might we couldn't get anything reasonable out of him. He talked a lot of gibberish about keel-hauling and walking the plank and crimson murders— things which a decent sailor should know nothing about, so that it seemed to me that for all his manners Captain had been more of a pirate than a gentleman mariner. But to draw sense out of that boy was as hard as picking cherries off a crab-tree. One silly tale he had that he kept on drifting back to, and to hear him you would have thought that it was the only thing that happened to him in his life.

"We was at anchor," he would say, "off an island called the Basket of Flowers, and the sailors had caught a lot of parrots and we were teaching them to swear. Up and down the decks, up and down the decks, and the language they used was dreadful. Then we looked up and saw the masts of the Spanish ship outside the harbour. Outside the harbour they were, so we threw the parrots into the sea and sailed out to fight. And all the parrots were drownded in the sea and the language they used was dreadful." That's the sort of boy he was, nothing but silly talk of parrots when we asked him about the fighting. And we never had a chance of teaching him better, for two days after he ran away again, and hasn't been seen since.

That's my story, and I assure you that things like that are happening at Fairfield all the time. The ship has never come back, but somehow as people grow older they seem to think that one of these windy nights she'll come sailing in over the hedges with all the lost ghosts on board. Well, when she comes, she'll be welcome. There's one ghost-lass that has never grown tired of waiting for her lad to return. Every night you'll see her out on the green, straining her poor eyes with looking for the mast-lights among the stars. A faithful lass you'd call her, and I'm thinking you'd be right.

Landlord's field wasn't a penny the worse for the visit, but they do say that since then the turnips that have been grown in it have tasted of rum.

___________________

7: The Red Raid

Clarence Herbert New

1862-1933

Blue Book Nov 1931

IN a small but luxuriously furnished London house out Kensington way a strikingly handsome woman— who owed her youthful appearance to a famous specialist in Vienna— walked slowly up and down a large room on the second floor with the noiseless, ceaseless tread of a leopardess in a cage. Occasionally she glanced out of the front window. Presently, when she saw a man strolling up the opposite side of the street, she smiled rather contemptuously. She had noticed him once before— had watched him from behind her curtains until he- entered a ouse farther up the block. She doubted that he lived there; when a woman has aroused police interest in all of the larger Continental cities, she gets suspicious about men she sees too frequently. This presumable neighbor had none of the Foreign Office earmarks— so she assumed that he was either a Scotland Yard man or else a bona-fide resident on that block. Her suspicions were strongly in the direction of the C.I.D.— which did not trouble her in the least, because she was fairly certain that none of the Government people had the slightest evidence against her.

At the rear of the house was a garden, and a mews— entered through an alley from a side street. Where there had been a score of horses in private stables thirty years before, there were now but four park cobs, and a dozen cars, including three taxies owned by their drivers.

A humble, rather battered car now came up the alley, dropped a fare in the mews, and drove on out through the other end on a second street. The man, whose clothes were decent enough but whose head was bound in gauze bandages, opened the Countess' gate in the brick wall, closed it securely, crossed the garden, and entered the service-hall. He went up to the second floor without happening to meet any of the servants, and knocked at the door of the large front room. As he entered, the Countess was lounging comfortably in a tilting swivel-chair at her desk in one corner.

"Mais qu' — You attend some entertainment, Dimitri? Oui?"

"It was supposed to be a mass-meeting— last night, in the East End. But apparently the wrong kind of 'mass'— that's all! I cannot understand these English. They claim to be of the Workers' party— affiliated with the Third Internationale— yet they will not listen to us when we say we are ready to assist by blow up the factories— kill all the capitalists! They say that if we blow up factories, where can they work? If we kill the capitalists, who iss to pay wages— or anything at all? We tell them they mus' seize all the manufacturing works they need for themselves, an' produce cooperatively. They say they haf seen cooperative production work in Russia an' it iss not good enough. They want pianos— wireless — motorcars or bikes— electric light and steam heat in winter— and say that even with low wages from capitalists they get those here, and will not change until they see something better. Mind you, Countess— it iss but half of them say that, but they haf most influence. And when some of us jump on the platform to demand 'direct action,' they strike with the fist or the club. It is not conclusive— it iss brutal, but one recovers. The knife or pistol iss far more effective. We slip knife Into a dozen or more when nobody sees— there will be no more trouble from them! You spread much propaganda— it will show effect soon. And you get valuable information. Anything new?"

"Yes— confirmation of certain suspicions. But I'm in doubt as to your coming here again for some weeks— or any of the others. Government men appear to be watching me— soon they'll watch the alley and the mews, and discover I have respectable visitors calling in front and less respectable ones at the rear. You see, I am supposed to be a Hungarian widow belonging to the aristocracy— nothing to do with people of your sort. The moment I am really suspected, it will hamper me badly. However, I think I may take you down into Devon again very soon. I am convinced there is something big down there which we can't get at by ordinary means. Here! Look at these! "— pulling a number of cable and wireless messages from a pigeon-hole in her desk. "From Horta in the Azores, Maryland, New York, San Francisco, Hongkong, Singapore, Port Said and Marseilles. From our agents, in answer to cables I send out to them. You recall, of course, the dull-silver plane .we chased down to the Bay of Biscay from Devon? I supposed my plane the faster of the two because I was using heavy oil with Diesels. It was in my mind to send out an S.O.S.; then it occurred to me that if Viscount Salcombe was in that plane he would claim that he was not standing watch with his wireless at the time, and so missed it altogether. That man is no fool!.... He certainly wouldn't bring his plane down on the water, where we could riddle him with the machine-gun we had and then take his bus where we pleased for examination. You'll remember that we suddenly noticed he was farther away from us— and opened our throttles wide. Still he walked away from us, and changed his course, heading for Gib. We cut across the canal-level of France and around Spain, hoping to intercept him, but had our trouble for nothing— he had simply faded out of sight and must have been going better than two hundred when he did it! Some streak of intuition made me send a wireless to our Portuguese agent in Horta, on Fayal. He replies that on the date mentioned a dull-silver plane came over the new flying-field on Pico— across the little strait,— exchanged a code-message with the wireless station— and flew westward without coming down at all! I cabled Bermuda— but they saw nothing. New York reported that such a plane had flown over Roosevelt Field at the time specified, without coming down, and had gone on westward. From San Francisco and all these other ports, I get the same story for the dates I mentioned: a dull-silver plane, passing without stopping, and exchanging code-messages with the wireless stations. On the morning of the sixth day, a plane of that description came down at Trevor Hall. Now this is all the corroborative evidence I need that the plane we chased that day has a speed over two hundred miles, and motors burning some kind of fuel that carried it twenty-one thousand miles without a fresh supply. Briefly— there are now at Trevor Hall and in the Royal Flying Corps planes which simply laugh at any owned by other governments — if my deductions and information are correct. Well— we must have all the secrets connected with those planes, together with a lot of other information as to what they have down there in Devon— and we must have them at once!"

"Yess— of course! But how to do? That iss not so easy! For twenty years Earl Trevor— now Marquess of Lyonesse, Earl Lammerford, Prince Abdool Mohammed Khan, and one or two others have been suspected of dabbling in underground politics, thwarting many coups very carefully planned. They haf been captured— tortured upon one occasion, many year' ago — but the suspicions nefer haf been verified— there has been no bit of sure proof. Political agents most sure of what they think they know have had to admit being mistaken. Much of what you say, Countess, may be true— but I theenk it haf been overestimated. Anyhow— you cannot get into the Trevor Hall estate. Ground recently purchased and added to it on the north and west has more than doubled the size of the property— one of the county turnpikes now runs through the center of it, but closed by eighteen-foot concrete walls protected by high-tension current along the top— similar walls surrounding the entire estate excepting along the edge of Scabbacombe Cliffs. Owing to experiments conducted there for the Admiralty, the place has the status of a Naval station— flies the white ensign— and is legally authorized to shoot and kill anyone attempting to get inside. That iss what you are up against when you think of prying into the secrets of the place. So! "

"Don't forget, Dimitri, that there are several other methods besides trying to force an entrance into that place. You remember the girl who wouldn't get into my car to run into Dartmouth with us— the one you chased over the wall, and who almost smashed your head with a stone? You still owe her something, I think. That girl is at least the constant companion of Viscount Salcombe, if not something more than that to him. If we can get her in our power and take her somewhere on the Continent in my plane— we can make that smart young man tell us a good deal more than if only he himself was to be considered. And he's the Marquess' only son— up to his neck in every experiment they try out. Another is Viscount Aylesworth, the clever metallurgist who married the Marquess' only daughter and lives in Earl Lammerford's castle on the Cornish cliffs near St. Ives— a thoroughly isolated spot with not a very large force of retainers to protect it. Also, there is a child of nearly three years— the Marquess' only grandson. It seems to me that child or his mother— or both— would be excellent levers for the extraction of information such as we require. Eh?"

"Nom d'un nom! We all admit your intelligence and cleverness in such matters, Countess. Odd that all of us should have concentrated upon the principals without considering the persons they are fondest of. Suppose, in a few days— when I get these bandages off— I please myself with a walking-trip through Cornwall and South Devon I see the lay of the proposition— I observe— I sit in bar-parlors and taprooms of inns and listen to what is said by the inhabitants. Yess?"

"I think I approve of that. But first, a little visit in South Devon. My friends the Benjamins, where were before, are leaving for a two months' trip on the Continent, I shall write them that their estate is ideal for aviation experiments, and that I would like to spend a month there with two of my flying friends and their wives. I offer to take their place for two months at a rental which must be attractive to them. Or in one hour, I can get through on the telephone and see how this strikes them. As you may remember, their land adjoins that of Earl Falknyss at the rear— it should be not too difficult to catch his young daughter all alone some day and keep her locked up until we can take her away in the plane, at night."

A WEEK later, the Honorable Jean Wattlington started out of the house one morning with his big police-dog Brutus, for a walk through the woods on the Falknyss estate. Their neighbors, the Stranleigh-Benjamins, had left the day before for a two-months' absence on the Continent— and it was under stood in the neighborhood that a friend of the family had leased the place until their return. Who this might happen to be, Jean didn't know— but naturally assumed that some of the London or county people wanted to be of the hot town in the summer. When Lord Ivo had cautioned her, a month before, against accepting any invitation whatever from a stranger, she had supposed him to be joking in a rather possessive way— and having a strong personality of her own, had told him to "pipe down." But he soon convinced her that he was in earnest, explaining why. After that, she had one narrow escape from trouble— a close enough one to suggest carrying about, concealed on her, a small but deadly automatic and half a dozen little implements which might prove valuable in an emergency. Women's clothes in these days are a bit scanty for the concealment of such objects— but Jean rigged up a very thin leather harness which held the articles under her dress, where she could get at them in a hurry and where nobody would attempt to search for them.

Presently she noticed that Brutus did not act as usual. Instead of ranging through the underbrush after rabbits, he kept close against her legs as she walked, occasionally looking up into her face with a low whimper. And when they were in the depths of the woods, he sagged down and rolled over on his side with moans of pain. He tried to drag himself along with his forepaws— tried to stagger up on his feet again. Then, though Jean could see that he was suffering intensely, he stiffened with a hoarse growl of rage and turned toward some of the thicker underbrush. A moment later three men, whom at first she supposed to be gamekeepers or poachers, stepped out into the little clearing.

One of these men Jean recognized as a foreigner she had seen somewhere, but couldn't place. All three were apparently men of some education, and they spoke courteously, so that it took her a full moment to grasp the force of what they said.

"Sorry about the dog, Miss Wallington— but we had to render him harmless just before you started out, or he would have raised a row which might have brought people out from the house— "

"You mean— that you poisoned poor Brutus! Oh, you contemptible, cowardly scoundrels! Oh— "

She knelt down and petted the dying animal, who whimpered once— looked up into her face with love in his soft brown eyes— then fell back, motionless. She was thinking furiously. The three husky brutes were surrounding her. If she managed to get her gun out, there was no possible chance for her killing more than one of them before the others grabbed her. Later on, the gun and other small articles might be used with much greater effect— provided they had no suspicion of her having them. Her voice was cold as she spoke— she had herself perfectly in hand.

"Let me impress one thing upon your minds before we go into other matters! Sooner or later— unless you kill me first— I will make you pay for this brutal thing, until you'll wish you were dead! That's a promise.... Well — get on with it! What's the next move?"

The brutes laughed.

"Why— nothing difficult or really unpleasant, Miss Wallington. We'll take your word to come with us quietly. It would be almost impossible for anyone at the house to hear you if you screamed— but of course we'd immediately stuff a handkerchief into your pretty mouth. You can save yourself that by coming along quietly."

"I see! Coming along where? Are you the lot who have leased the Stranleigh-Benjamin place?"

"A lady who is under pretty heavy obligations to us took the lease and invited us down— knowing nothing of what we had in mind— "

"What a liar you are— and how little intelligence you must suppose I have! The only woman who knows the Benjamins and could possibly be associated with scum like you is that Hungarian adventuress who calls herself countess Bozanjy— who was visiting here a month ago and did a good bit of flying— doubtless has her bus here."

"Very well— I know about what to expect. Come along— the short-cut is by way of the Benjamins' little summerhouse at their edge of the woods."

Her tongue-lashing hadn't failed to get under their skins— particularly that of Dimitri, whose last name she never heard at any time but whom she judged correctly as the actual poisoner of Brutus. They were, however, forced to admire her nerve and acceptance of a situation she couldn't cope with. When the big manor-house was reached she was taken in by a small side door when nobody appeared to be about— and up to a room on the top floor which evidently had been hastily prepared to hold her until she was removed elsewhere. The single dormer window was barred with iron rods an inch thick. The door was a massive affair of Tudor oak, fitting snugly into its casing, and had a heavy lock with a tongue which projected two inches into the jamb-slot. An attempt had been made to screw a couple of heavy bolts upon the outside of the door— but the oak was too well seasoned for wood-screws unless holes had been drilled for them, and the massive lock seemed quite sufficient to prevent anyone from getting out.

When they left the girl there, after promising that something in the way of food would be sent up in an hour or so, Jean made a careful examination of the door and window— then sat down in a comfortable chair to figure out what such a collection of secret agents was most likely to do with her. She knew she could get through that barred window with not more than two hours' work— and the door inside of ten minutes if nobody was on guard outside. As the day was clear and a full moon would be up by ten o'clock, she knew the Countess could take off easily with her plane from the level field she had used before, and be across the Channel by morning. They must get her out of England as soon as possible to be safe from the thorough search which most certainly would be made when her disappearance was discovered. So it looked as though she wasn't likely to be visited by anyone except the person bringing her food until the moon came up in the evening and all their preparations to fly had been made. As daylight lasts rather late during an English summer evening, she would be cutting her leeway of time pretty short if she waited until dark before making a move— probably, after fetching up her lunch, they would not disturb her until tea or dinner. After making somewhat of a meal from thin bread-slices, scones and cakes— carefully avoiding the tea, potted ham and marmalade, which she figured were probably drugged— she decided to see what might be done. When the men came up with the tray, she was standing where she got a side-glimpse of the hall, and when they went out, she got a glimpse in the other direction. There were no chairs in sight— therefore, probably, no guard in the hall.

After an hour's wait, she took from the harness under her dress a piece of tough steel, narrow enough to turn in the lock, and with an upturned end of over an inch. At the other end was a disk which she clamped with a small pair of steel pliers— one gets a good deal of leverage by using pliers to turn an obstinate key. After gently feeling around inside the lock with the bent steel, she soon located the ward-slots— and began gently turning. As she supposed, the lock had been thoroughly oiled. When the tongue slid smoothly and silently back, she opened the door a crack and looked out. Nobody was in sight or apparently anywhere near that part of the big house. Her captors evidently were confident that she was lying in a drugged sleep by this time. She assumed that the Benjamin servants must have been given temporary leave.

After investigating that entire floor, she located two narrow stairways at the other end which she knew from previous acquaintance with the lower floors must go down to the service part of the house. With this line of retreat in reserve, she went back and very carefully locked the door of her room from the outside— which, later, so completely puzzled her captors that it made her final escape much easier.

Jean was sorely tempted to hide herself about the house and see if she couldn't pick up information as to her captors' further plans— but she recalled the Marquess' very serious warning to her after she had done that a month before. In this case, she was not a free agent. So she went silently down the service-stairs to a rear door from which, watching her chance, she dashed to a thick hedge separating the grounds around the house from the field where the Countess' plane was parked. Squeezing through a gap in this, she ran swiftly along the other side until she reached the woods— then, by paths she had known from childhood, she hurried through to the Falknyss side and into their own house, where she found the Earl in his study.

She gave him a detailed account of what had been done to her— and asked that he have the chief constable down at once to arrest the outfit in the Benjamin house. The story hit one of Lord Falknyss' most violent prejudices — the abduction of his daughter and the poisoning of a prize dog cn his own grounds. The whole county was hot with it before morning. Meanwhile— the Honorable Jean, in flying-helmet and goggles by way of disguise— was driving her car madly along the road to the gates of Trevor Hall. There she lost no time in hunting up Viscount Salcombe in his underground machine-shop, where he had just successfully finished a delicate experiment. He sat companionably with her on the edge of the long work-bench while he lighted his pipe and listened to the story.

For a moment, when she had finished, he hugged her tightly— but the frown deepened between his eyes.

"Jean— before very long, one or both of us is going to commit deliberate murder! It's all very well for that type of vermin to claim that they are waging warfare against the entire capitalistic class and are excusable for war methods in doing it— but that is simply rot! If I catch the Countess Bozanjy up in the air I'm going to crash her if I can. With that high-frequency ray we tried out against those planes outside of Moscow, I can put her motors out of business in the air at any time! Do you know, I've had a hunch these last few days that some disaster was approaching— an' I'm by no means sure that this outrage upon you is the end of it. In spite of all our Governm'nt protestations, the Muscovites claim that they have no power to curtail the activities of the Third Internationale. It seems to me we are approaching a flare-up of some kind. We're not going to stand this incessant Communist propaganda in the United Kingdom and the dumping of convict goods upon our markets— it has shut down dozens of our factories already. Well, Moscow isn't going to declare war, openly, against any nation— they aren't quite such fools just at present. But they'll use murder under the surface to accomplish what they're after — an' I'm wondering if they aren't about ready to attempt something extreme. Of course it's not going to do them the least good— just more nails in the coffin of Communism— but a lot of mighty decent people are going to be hurt just the same. Somehow I'm uneasy about Byl, an' Jimmy— an' 'Lammy'— over there in Cornwall. They're in a pretty isolated spot as far as prompt assistance goes. The castle is fairly well protected against any probable sort of attack— but nothing like as well as our digs, here. Jimmy's mine is protected by a thick concrete inclosure, with two batteries of the Royal Artillery, usin' it as a field-battery experimental station. Two batteries, however, isn't so much of a force at close quarters."

JEAN'S escape had been discovered when they took up her tea at four o'clock. The moment the men saw she wasn't in the room, apparently, they sent down for the Countess— unlocked the door in her presence to show just how they had found it— then asked where she thought the girl could be.

For a moment the Countess gave way to an outburst of fury. Leveling an automatic at her crestfallen fellow-conspirators, she said vehemently:

"If I thought any one of you had the slightest object in aiding that girl to escape, I'd shoot him as I would a dog! You've certainly botched this affair irremediably.... But no use blackguarding each other about this— she's gone! Evidently that infant is far more clever than we had any reason to suppose— she figured out just what part of the food was likely to be drugged and avoided it. The one thing certain is that she'll make trouble about this at once! She didn't see me at all, has no proof of any connection with the rest of you— so I shall remain here. It's the best base for airplane work I could find in the county. But you others will have to be away from here at once— clear away! I'd suggest your running over to Penzance as tourists— so that you'll be available for whatever we do at Lammerford Castle. I'll phone those I left waiting in Exeter to come down here as servants— supposed to run this place while I stay."

So it came about that when the chief constable for South Devon came to the Benjamin estate with Earl Falknyss, — himself a magistrate,— they were received by a remarkably handsome woman who said she had just returned from procuring a house-staff in Exeter and knew nothing whatever of what might have been going on in her absence. The Honorable Jean had explained the status of the Countess as a Muscovite secret agent, but had to admit that she hadn't seen her while a prisoner in the house and had no proof beyond a conversation overheard near the summerhouse a month before. There was no trace of her captors anywhere— nothing the county police could get hold of— but they warned the woman that she and the house would be kept under observation indefinitely....

At the end of the week, Wilkins, the major-domo at Lammerford Castle, came to Viscount Aylesworth,— who lived on the upper floors of the south wing with his family, — to confer with him in the Earl's absence about certain matters down in the little fishing-town of St. Ives six miles away.

"It's this way, m'Lud. I'd not trouble you with ord'n'ry matters— but, as you know, the Earl is most particular about anything of unusual appearance in this neighborhood being reported to him at once. I fancy it's because, with his very wide commercial int'rests an' political associations, there would be here an' there some person rather ill-disposed against him, an' he prefers not bein' taken unawares, as it were. Havin' you an' Her Ladyship an' the young marster livin' here would be another reason, he told me, for knowin' whatever may be goin' on. Well — it'll be this way, sir, d'ye see. One of my under-gard'ners— a steady young chap who is walkin' out with one of the town girls— likes to 'ave 'is glass an' bit of something to eat, occasionally, at the Tregenna Castle. Now there'll be tourist people about the village almost any day except in midwinter, so one pays little attention to 'em— but for several days three foreigners who are stoppin' at the Porthminster, near the station, 'ave been askin' a lot of questions about all the old castles in the neighborhood, especially this place— the nearest road to it, and whether it is open to visitors. They've been told that some of the family are almost always in residence an' that no visitors are received at any time of the year, an' they've been passin' remarks about it— sayin' it's known that there are wonderful Norman an' Tudor carvings an' windows in the castle an' there must be some way of gettin' permission to see them. Broderick told 'em they could save their breath an' time. It was 'is opinion, m'Lud, that the three of 'em were up to no good— so he came to me at once for instructions."

"What did you tell him, Wilkins?"

"I said the castle would appreciate it, sir, if the townsfolk would keep an eye upon 'em, or on any other suspicious persons in the neighborhood. There was another thing Broderick mentioned, sir. 'E was out on the moor east of here, an' noticed a place where the gorse an' heather 'ad been crushed down as if heavy tires 'ad passed over 'em. 'E showed the spot to our lads at our take-off runway an' hangars, yon— they said a heavy French plane had come down an' landed there recently, but couldn't recall havin' heard it any night or seen it in the daytime. I fancy they get a bit slack at night when none of our own planes is expected."

Viscount Aylesworth's expression was thoughtful, as he said slowly:

"Hmph!... I don't altogether like this! Though, come to think of it, it's a lot better to be forewarned of outside attention being directed this way. Otherwise, we might be caught napping. Well, I don't need to caution you, Wilkins, about havin' the household staff keep an eye out for strangers prowlin' about the neighborhood."

UPON the following Tuesday morning Lady Sibyl, Viscountess Aylesworth, went out to the enclosed gardens adjoining the south wing, to read in the rustic stone pavilion on the edge of the cliff while the three-year-old Honorable Francis George James Aylesworth and his inseparable playmate— a large black cat, "Peter," of the royal castle lineage— busied themselves with important affairs in which a large rubber ball was used according to their own ideas. Sarah Cummings, the boy's nurse, sat stitching a bit of lingerie in the pavilion with his mother. The Honorable Francis and Pete had many surreptitious activities which they supposed were unknown to the family. One of these was an occasional excursion to the outside moors through a thin spot in the almost impenetrable box-hedge surrounding the big garden. There was also a ditch to be negotiated. But the youngster managed this without too much difficulty, while his companion took it in a couple of powerful leaps. Once out among the gorse bushes they struck places where the boy's head frequently disappeared from view. Left to himself, he might have become lost— but Pete invariably led him back to the thin spot in the hedge.

Upon this occasion, they hadn't gone far when they came upon a smiling man sitting among the bushes and smoking a cigarette. He nodded pleasantly— asked a few questions about the castle— and offered the boy some toffee, which Francis barely had the strength to refuse on the ground that he had given "muvver" his "pawole" not to eat sweets until they were offered to him after dinner. Then the man— foiled on the drugged-toffee proposition— suggested that they walk on a bit farther and talk with a man who had apparently stopped his motorcar to look at the magnificent view. But here again, it seemed that the Honorable Francis had given his "pawole" that he would not go anywhere with strangers. Upon this the man picked him up and started running for the car, his hand over the struggling boy's mouth.

Pete's fur had risen from the moment they met the stranger. Pete was a gentleman— but somehow he just didn't like that man, and the moment the fellow grabbed up the boy and started to run, a clawing, spitting mass of jet-black fur soared through the air and landed on the man's shoulders. Big black paws with the claws out, reached around and ripped the skin of his face to shreds, badly injuring one eye. Seizing one of the black forelegs, as he was forced to drop the boy, the man tore the cat loose with such brutal force that he snapped the bones of the animal's leg as he hurled the cat away. With the castle tower in sight, the boy ran for it as fast as his chubby legs could go. Seeing this, the second man jumped from the car and came running to head him off. The Honorable Francis was being most carefully trained not to call out or cry when he was hurt— but as he approached the hedge he cried loudly in desperation, "Muv-ver! . . . Muv-ver!"

It was more instinct than actual hearing, possibly— but the two women in the pavilion dropped what they were doing and were out of it like a shot, running toward that low thin spot in the hedge which they knew all about. Confident that the boy wouldn't go far and that Pete would be sure to fetch him back, they hadn't interfered before.

Lady Sibyl was first through the hedge. As she came out of the ditch, the boy was within a hundred feet of her with poor Pete loping along on three legs behind him, and the running man possibly fifty feet away. Producing an automatic from somewhere, the Viscountess sent a bullet past the man's ear, and when he reached for a weapon, she smashed his wrist. The other scoundrel was busy mopping his bleeding face and hands. Carefully estimating the distance, she raised the muzzle of the pistol to give the bullet a higher trajectory, and fired. In two seconds, the brute's hat spun off his head and landed on the ground several feet away. As both of them knew she must have four shots left in her magazine, each of which meant sudden death if she so willed it, they ran for their car and drove away over the moor as fast as it would go.

In round-eyed excitement, the boy stumblingly told his mother and Sarah what had happened. His mother tenderly picked up the suffering cat and carried him back to the castle, where Lord Aylesworth set Pete's leg in plaster splints while hearing the boy's adventure. Then he telephoned for the best surgeon in St. Ives to run out and look the job over as soon as possible; after which his wife took the phone— which had one private connection with Trevor Hall in South Devon and another with the Trevor mansion in Park Lane— asking her brother to fetch over Dr. Gordon Smith, one of the biggest elementary chemists in Europe, within the hour if possible, for a conference; and when Salcombe and Dr. Smith, accompanied by the Honorable Jean Wallington came down in one of the Trevor planes, a consultation took place in the library.

LORD IVO presently got down to the meat of the thing:

"Fancy we've all got the wind up a bit! What's your idea, Byl?"

"Taking Jean's experience with ours, it looks to me like a campaign against the Trevor family and everyone associated with them. Of course that has happened before to a limited degree— and then dropped off from absence of proof that we're mixing in politics to any extent. Just at present, I think that Trevor Hall is being credited with inventions and developments which put England where no other nation can safely attack her— and this seems to be a determined effort to alter that condition."

"As a starter, I fancy you're quite right, Byl— we'll have to go into the matter a bit. But I've a vague sort of hunch that something worse than that is likely to happen any day. The Finns aren't bein' fooled by any sense of fancied security— not for a second! They're buildin' gas-proof rooms in their houses— gasproof underground chambers— gasproof wards in the hospitals. In every European capital, I fancy, there's a growin' dread of annihilation by lethal gas— which of course is sheer moonshine, but you can't make the people believe that."

"You say the gas-bogy is moonshine, Ivo. What's the defense?"

"Gas-masks ready for instant use is the most obvious one— as a preliminary measure— "

"You'll notice that everyone in this castle is now carrying one about— I gave that order an hour ago. As a starter, that measure is all right— for those who can obtain or buy one. But how about those who won't or can't?"

"Scatter for open country— no enemy will bomb individuals or small groups with lethal gas over wide-open spaces, because he simply hasn't gas enough or money enough to do it. The center of Hyde Park, Battersea Park, Regent's Park, Victoria Park, Hampstead Heath or Black Heath would be reasonably safe in any bombing-attack because the plane would go after the congested streets and Governm'nt buildings, an' not waste gas on the open spaces. The tops of high buildings would be much less deadly than the street levels. Any wind strong enough to blow the gas away is a protection. Motor-trucks running through the streets like fire-engines, with six-foot fans blowing ahead of them would clear any street from most of the gas."

"How about that reported deadly gas, so powerful that a teaspoonful of the producing powder would kill everybody in London?"

"Metropolitan London has an area of seven hundred square miles. Figure a teaspoonful of anything known to man bein' sufficiently expansive to do any damage over such an area! Bally rot! "

"Is there any gas that will go through the best mask yet developed?"

"No chemist in France, England or the States knows of such a thing— an' the War Departm'nts of all three are constantly tryin' to work out something of the sort."

"Well, that brings us pretty close to the problem I have in mind— which is a sort of blanket gas-mask which can be used in bulk over large areas. Doctor, you must know what chemicals are used as a filter in the gas-masks. Can they be produced in bulk?"

"Why not? Carbon in the form of powdered charcoal is one of them. Then there's a solution of sodium-thiosulphate. Other chemicals have been used— it's simple enough to get the most effective by experimentin'."

"Good— so far! Now then, Ivo! You and Tommy Dalton recently developed a mist-screen which hangs about a fixed position for several hours,— or can be stratified at any level in the air,— and used it most successfully at Barrow and Spithead. Can the filter-chemicals of the best gas-masks be combined with your mist-screen so that a blanket of it laid down in the city streets would neutralize lethal gas?"

"Ah! .... Now you're getting into something else again, Byl! It took me long weeks of experimentation to get that mist so that it would stick in one spot for hours without disappearing. It took Tommy other weeks to get the stuff so that it would stratify at any level. When we start in combinin' gas-filter chemicals with it, there'll be no tellin' what reactions we'll get. As a general proposition, I fancy it might be done— but even Gordon Smith, here, wouldn't guarantee it offhand, an' he's forgotten more than the rest of us know. However, I fancy you're quite right as to something of the sort bein' the greatest need of the moment. He and I will go back to the labs as soon as we've had a spot of tiffin, dig Tommy Dalton out of his hole, an' concentrate upon this proposition until we strike something. Then we'll wing over here an' let you see a try-out. While we're working on it, we'll send over a bus to patrol over the castle every night and send down any suspicious plane that comes bargin' around."

"Fine! But you can't work it out any too soon, Ivo!"

MERELY as a matter of precaution, Lord Aylesworth had Wilkins set four-hour watches with two of his men in the great hall— with orders to ring the bell in the Norman tower if they got the slightest whiff of anything like gas or heard any disturbance— but the night passed without anything happening, the patrolling plane evidently having a wholesome influence.

During that day and the following night, everything went on about the castle with no indication of anything unusual— but they couldn't get rid of the vague apprehension that the Reds were merely watching for their chance. In the afternoon, Lord Ivo, Gordon Smith, Dalton, and Jean came down out of the air— asked if a couple of St. Ives' fishermen were waiting for them in a motor-truck with a couple of large boxes— and had one of them taken some distance out on the moor.

"We didn't get precisely what we went after, Byl— but we struck something which may prove even better. Combinin' the filter-chemicals with Tommy's gravity ones worked perfectly. We didn't test out the higher strata, but the stuff lies thirty feet thick along the ground an' stays there for several hours. When we came to add my mist-screen stuff, we got a most amazin' reaction, an' supposed all our work had gone for nothing. All appearance of vapor or mist dissolved into transparent air so quickly that it looked like blotting it out. We'd been testing the stuff at the edge of the cliffs with masks on— an' partly in disgust, we chucked a thin container of lethal gas into it. The cloud of gas from the explosion instantly-precipitated in a very fine whitish-yellow rain, a little of which remained upon the ground in what looked like lichen-patches. I took a bit of risk— chucked my mask an' walked over toward it, ready to back out at the first whiff. A very faint, rather aromatic odor in the air from the filter-stuff— but no gas. Now— in that largest box on the truck is a decrepit old dog. We're going to leave him out there on the moor with a bone to gnaw, an' drop an aerial torpedo near by. He won't suffer a full minute. We've got to know, ourselves— an' show you— just how deadly the gas is."

The test was over five minutes after their plane dropped the torpedo. The dog's resistance was probably low from his weakened condition— but as the gas drifted over him they could see him drop in about ten seconds. In thirty he was unquestionably dead. The fishermen shivered.

Then a crate containing six healthy sea-gulls was set down on the moor at some distance from the gassed spot. The truck was driven back to the spectators— and Lord Ivo's plane came silently diving down with a thin stream of feathery vapor spurting with compressed air from a nozzle under its fuselage. This dissolved as it touched the ground, leaving apparently nothing but pure open air around it. Then the plane returned to drop an aerial torpedo, with its curious "wibble-wibble" noise, so that it exploded a hundred feet from the crate. The cloud of expanding lethal gas could be seen spreading until it overwhelmed and blanketed the crate with the gulls in it. But as it got within fifty feet of the crate it began to thin out in a rain of fine yellow dust. Some of the gas thrown up a hundred feet by the explosion drifted on the light breeze for perhaps five hundred feet; then it was gone. The gulls had been frightened and were flying about in the crate squawking— yet they showed no sign of discomfort from gas. Two hours later, another torpedo was dropped— but apparently the filter-chemicals were as effective as before, for the gulls were still unharmed. The fishermen were given a hundred pounds each, and pledged to keep their mouths shut concerning what they had seen.

Lord Ivo said, as the party returned to the castle:

"Of course we can't tell as yet whether this neutralizing vapor is in any way injurious to human lungs or property— but as the chemicals in the cans of the gas-masks are not, I see no reason why they should be. After dinner, we'll spray the whole castle and grounds with enough of the stuff to penetrate every room— if you'll open all the windows, and close them an hour later. At midnight, we'll do it again— which should make you quite safe until well into tomorrow. We'll come back again every night for a week or so until those scoundrels try something— an' see what happens."

IT seemed as though the Muscovites had been closely watching the arrival and departure of planes from the castle— for about two in the morning three aerial torpedoes exploded, one after the other, close to the landward sides of the building. Broderick, who was on watch, had been told not to give an alarm unless he smelled enough gas to put on his mask— so none was given. The plane which bombed the place heard no sound and saw no lights flashing up; it flew back into Devon, its crew convinced they had converted the castle into a mausoleum.

But at ten o'clock a telephone message from their men in St. Ives reported that Viscount Aylesworth, with the Honorable Jean Wallington and the Chief Constable, had just driven in and stopped at the Tregenna Castle— also that several of the Lammerford servants had been in for the usual marketing that morning and had said nothing of any gas-bomb attack. The Muscovites couldn't understand this at all— for they had used a lethal gas which their chemists assured them was more deadly than any other in existence.

As the Viscount came walking down through the town with his two companions, Jean's eyes began to blaze— she said in a low voice to the Chief Constable:

"Major, one of those men talking with the fishermen on the beach is the brute who poisoned my dog and abducted me, last week! The one with the strips of surgical plaster on his face must be the bounder who tried to carry off Frankie. We've plenty of evidence to arrest and hold them— but I want you to do something for me first, will you, please? Quietly call for three or four constables, here, and surround them so they can't get away— then leave that thick-set dark one to me for about ten minutes— will you?"

Major Robertson had been fairly boiling at the outrages committed in his county.

"On condition that you don't kill the brute, Miss Jean, it'll be a pleasure— though you'd best watch out! He's tough— an' slippery!"

AS there had been nothing to warn the scoundrels of what was coming, four constables unobtrusively joined the gossiping crowd around the boats drawn up on the beach and had taken positions next to them when Jean returned from a brief visit to a harness-shop with a braided-leather dog-whip five feet long.

The Major and Lord Aylesworth nodded— the constables suddenly closed in, grabbed the arms of the three scoundrels and removed several weapons from their clothes. Then Jean— who was well known, from her frequent visits to the village— spoke to the astonished fishermen:

"Men, last week, this fat brute poisoned my best dog, so that he died, suffering frightfully. Then he carried me off to a room in a house where I was locked in for several hours— and would have taken me out of England by plane if I hadn't managed to escape. Will you just shove him out here where I can get at him?"

Dimitri was violently pushed forward on the hard sand— and received a fearful slash across the face. He sprang for the girl— but before anyone could jump to her assistance she had caught his right arm in a peculiar ju-jitsu twist, recently taught her by the Marquess— and rendered it helpless. Again he sprang— nd had his other arm put out of business. Then she began a systematic flogging, until the man finally dropped on the sand, shrieking with pain. As the girl tossed aside the whip there was a roar of approval from the crowd:

"Fair giv' 'im what-for— didn't she? An' 'e desarved more 'n' 'e got— so 'e did! "

Lord Aylesworth now stepped forward.

"I also have a little account to settle, men. This bounder with the plastered face is the one who tried to carry off my little lad— would have carried him off if it hadn't been for our blessed cat! He looks fairly well set-up— and he has stated here in the village that he is an expert boxer. Just strip his coat off an' shove him out here!"

They grinned delightedly and did it. This looked like a proper mill!

The Red thought himself much the better of the two, and came in with a rush— which Lord James sidestepped, planting a terrific blow on the side of the jawbone. The fellow staggered but didn't fall— and came rushing in again. Again the Viscount lightly sidestepped, and landed on his ribs with a force which left the fellow gasping. Well-built though anyone could see Aylesworth was, there was nothing to indicate the terrific force synchronized in his shoulder and arm muscles. Then he got down to systematic work. He closed one of the Muscovite's eyes after the other— smashed his nose— hammered him until the final knock-out was an actual relief.

Then Aylesworth put on his waistcoat and coat again. "These three are undoubtedly some of the same lot who bombed the castle last night with enough lethal gas to kill everyone in it," he said. "But we are always well-protected against anything of that sort, so we paid no attention to it. If war should be declared at any time, you may feel entirely easy in mind— we'll protect this town as well. Meanwhile— we've enough evidence against these three rascals to send them down for several years— and I hope some of you men here may be on the jury!"

____________________________

8: Seaweed

Elia W Peattie

1862-1935

The Red Book, Sep 1903

THE LITTLE HOUSE stood fairly on the rocks, where the sea in storms beat against its stone foundations. The space was enough— the low basement, which had been used by the first occupant for fishing tackle and such paraphernalia; the second story containing two airy rooms, one of which looked seaward; and the loft, which was good for lumber if nothing else.

Mrs. Oliphant and her daughter Anne, dusty and fretted from a long hot journey in the cars, looked over the cool, simple dwelling with manifest approval.

"You shall sleep in the landward room, mother," said Miss Anne, ‘and you will be less likely to be disturbed by the roaring of the breakers."

"But the trees thrust their heads fairly in the windows of that room," said Mrs. Oliphant. "If I am liable to be disturbed by the sounds of nature— and I confess that they have never yet disturbed me— I shall be in as bad a case in one room as the other."

"Nevertheless,’’ said Anne, with smiling decisiveness, "‘it is my opinion that it will be better for you to have the landward room."

Mrs. Oliphant bowed her head submissively. She knew the proper attitude of an American parent toward her child; and moreover, she had not forgotten that when one is eighteen, one has one’s own reasons for soliciting dreams. And of all things in the created world, nothing yields up more dreams than the sea

"The hotel is only three blocks distant," commented Anne. "Going to meals will give you just the proper amount of exercise, dear mother. As for me, I shall walk a great distance each day."

Mrs. Oliphant permitted herself a quizzical expression. Asa matter of fact, she was quite as good a pedestrian as her daughter; but it suited Anne to be protecting, and she knew that her daughter had need, just then, of lavishing her devotion upon some one.

The reason of this was that Anne had just divested herself of a burden and that burden was a young man’s love. Miss Anne had ideals, and had slain a very comfortable affection because it did not conform to them. She desired, as do most young persons of her years and sex to love consumingly, unquestioningly, through sorrow, shame and death— and to darker deaths beyond death. But— well, she had not succeeded. Therefore an amiable and honorable young gentleman, who would have served her in all faith for the days of her life, went his melancholy ways, and Miss Anne paced the bare floor of her seaward-looking room and rejoiced— or tried to rejoice— that two hundred miles lay between him and her.

The ladies had dined on the car, and no necessity of any sort was upon them that evening, save that of unpacking their trunks, which Miss Anne did with commendable energy, insisting that her mother should sit near her while she worked, and talk to her. She was much too proud to admit why her mother’s voice sounded so profoundly grateful to her as it did that evening, and perhaps, indeed, she did not more than half suspect the nature of the discomfort which made her crave maternal sympathy. But whether she confessed the cause of her loneliness or not, it is certain that the hour was late before she indicated that they would better retire— an idea which Mrs. Oliphant was incapable of suggesting, so long as she perceived any need, however occult, that her daughter might have for her.

Anne lit the candle in her mother’s room, turned down the bed covers, adjusted the windows and curtains, and kissed her mother three times with a sort of melancholy ardor; and Mrs. Oliphant, correctly interpreting the meaning of this sad passion, longed to whisper in that pretty ear:

"You hoped to look Love in the face, but behold, he has brushed you with his wing! Be grateful for so much, for Life offers us not perfection, but the longing for it. Which is a mystery. Send for your lover and leave the mysteries to themselves. There are enough of them in all goodness, to take care of each other." But she refrained, because she surmised that every woman must taste of the cup of love’s sorrow before she can appreciate the flavor of love’s joy.

Anne, in the gray room, without her light, sat down by the window, and breathed the immeasurable solitariness of the sea into her soul. She let its voices comfort her— because they were despairing and she required to be sistered in her gloom. The winds had their way in her silent chamber, and she diverted herself with mournful presages, forecasting that she would always live alone, that none would answer her when she cried out, or hold her in love-keeping away from the vastness and loneliness of the world.

Almost every one at eighteen has thought these thoughts.

There were cold tears on her cheeks when she closed her window, and chill dew was in her brown hair and a shiver of pain in her heart. She lit her candle— for the town was a simple one and old customs held there— and longed for a fire on her hearth.

There was wood lying by the wide, rude fireplace, but no kindling or paper had been provided and she was forced to give up the idea of building a fire. She stood on the bare hearth with a sense of desolateness growing upon her; and then, without her knowing why, a little spasm of sobbing seized her and shook her breast with its futile storm.

She shut out the gray vision of the sea, and undressed, and so crept into bed, prayerless, saying to herself that the world was a very much more difficult place than she had known or guessed, and taking passionate oaths as lonely lovers do, that she would live to her sad self all her days— an unsung martyr, an unhabited nun. She would walk the world softly, serving the needy and never hope for happiness herself. Love was, indeed, a mirage! Nursing these tenebrous fancies, she slept, the sea wind blowing in upon her from the most remote of the three windows.

Even those who are learning the meaning of the word "farewell" have happy dreams, and one came to Anne in her sleep, so that she sat up suddenly, stung into wakefulness by a warm trembling kiss upon her lips— the kiss of the lover whom she had declared she did not love.

She blushed hotly with vexation at herself; and perhaps, too, with anger at the man whose dream-self, even, would dare venture on the taking of such liberties. Then, opening her eyes to assure herself that in verity this was a vision of the night, she discovered with a strange horror, that she was no longer alone.

Two figures stood on the hearth, and seemed to be warming themselves before an eldricht fire, such as gleams out, blue and fitful, from the burning of ancient wrecks and drift of the sea. The intruders were silent, and their regards were fixed upon each other with thrilling intensity. One was a man, a sailor, young, with wide shoulders and strong limbs. His arms, bared to the elbow, revealed great muscles, and on his hand, Anne caught the gleam of a silver ring. She noticed, moreover, and had an indefinable repugnance at the discovery, that he was dripping from his dark curling locks to his feet.

This fact in no way discomfitted his companion, a young girl frocked in white, who stood looking at him with worshipful eyes. Her brown hair hung in braids down her back; her eyes were blue and trusting, and humid with some emotion. As Anne watched her she lifted up her slender arms and put them about the wet neck of the sailor, with the abandon of a loving woman; and he stooped with a gesture of passion and sorrow as if he would place his lips, blue with the chill, upon her glowing ones, but even as he neared the girl’s trembling rosy mouth, the glow of the goblin fire died; the transparent darkness revealed the fact that the hearth was vacant; and the lamentation of the sea filled the room.

Anne would have cried out for mere relief at hearing her own voice, but she remembered her mother’s weariness, and she turned her face to the wall in a white fear, and after a time slept heavily.

When she awoke, lo, her bare floor was as a golden pavement, and the gleam of dancing waters was on her wall! The morning had come joyously, mocking yesterday’s regrets. She sprang from her bed with asense of anticipation, and ran to lift the curtains, and as she did so, noticed something shining on the hearth.

"Strange!" said she aloud. "Last night the stone was bare. I observed that nothing, not even ashes lay on it. It had been swept clean.'

She stooped and lifted the object cautiously. It was a bunch of seaweed, unlike any she had ever seen before. Its enormously long leaves gleamed with metallic colorings, and as she held the thing, its prehensile fronds clung to her fingers and her wrist with a chill, yet familiar tenacity.

She stared at it with a sort of incredulity, and at the wet, dark spot on the stone where it had lain— the same spot surely, where the dripping sailor had stood the night before, near the window that stood open to the sea. Anne Oliphant, the sunlight streaming about her and the good sound of the breakfast horn ringing in her ears, gave an impatient and disbelieving toss to her head.

"Quite amusing!" she said, jauntily. "At any rate, it comes in very well, for it has given me a notion of how to spend my time. I'll make a collection of seaweed."

And so she did, and became learned in the matter of conjugations and Zoösporangia, or Macrocystis and Chlorosperemz. She put her dried plants in a book, and classified them somewhat lamely according to Lindley and Harvey and Burmeister. It helped to anesthetize an aching, foolish heart, till one day, without having the least premonition that she was going to do it, Anne sent a message— ah, blessed be telegraphy— and the next day she was no longer alone. The sea was no more the symbol of man’s solitude. Its voice ceased to be funebrious. The wind no longer mocked her with her loneliness. Instead, the moon, at its full, transfigured the wild world of water and wind and wonder, and by the shore walked Anne and another, knowing themselves for immortals.

She told him of the night when she went to sleep weeping for sorrow at their parting, and, in a voice that quaked a little in spite of all her efforts, she related the incident of the intruders who had stood on her hearth, there in the night, by the elf fire, and tried to kiss, and had vanished even in the act.

"A dream’s frustration," he said. "Even in a dream a true lover ought not to be cheated like that."

And being no believer in inaptitudes, he achieved what the sailor had failed in— he kissed his true love.

It happened that Anne remembered with more distinctness than any actuality of her life, this pathetic vision of the night. Often as she sank to sleep in the happy days that preceded hermarriage, there flashed before her eyes these two figures, young, piteous, looking at each other with "a madness of farewells"— the girl lithe, glowing, sorrowful, the man drenched, with blue lips. A sort of horror hung over that night, emphasized by her own unformulated grief.

Then came the days of her wedding and honeymoon, the homemaking in the gracious town of Baltimore, and the acquiring of new friends. Among these was a certain elderly and learned gentleman who held the chair of biology at Johns Hopkins. He, being a solitary man, yet of sociable inclination, came often to the fair new home and basked him in its happiness. Anne babbled to him about her enthusiasms, and one day she chanced to confess that she had once diverted herself by making a collection of sea-weed.

"I should like very much to see it," said the professor. "Perhaps you have read my little work on the rockweeds of Argentina."

"l confess—" began Anne.

"It is no matter, my dear," said the professor. "Pray bring me your specimens."

He looked them over with interest, pursing his lips and shaking his head.

"Quite intelligent, my child, for an amateur—quite intelligent and— and picturesque, if I may use the word. But in some respects your classification is obsolete. For example, you have altogether underestimated the extent of the Phoeosporeoe; with your permission I should like to discourse to you some evening on the demonstrations of the Thalassiophytoe—" as he stopped abruptly, and stared at the leaf he had turned.

Anne bent over his shoulder. He was pointing with his delicate, nervous index finger to that page on which she had fastened a long leaf of the weed she had picked up dank and shining, from her cold hearth-stone.

"My dear lady," he said, with a certain quaver in his voice,  "not many are so fortunate— or so unfortunate— as to possess a specimen of this curious branch of the Alge family. If it would not pain you too much, I should like to hear how you came by this. Really you make me, an old collector, quite envious."

Anne looked back at him with startled eyes.

"I— I— really, professor,— it is a story I never tell."

"Hah, I feared so," sighed the professor. "Forgive me. I should not have inquired concerning so gruesome a possession."

"Gruesome?" She felt her heart beating uncomfortably fast.

"What should I call it but that," said the professor, irritably, adjusting his glasses upon his thin nose, "when this is found nowhere but upon dead bodies that have come up out of the deep sea?"

_________________________

9: The Jerusalem Express

William J. Makin

1894-1944

Blue Book, Dec 1933

A BELL clanged loudly in the darkness of the desert.

"Take your seats, gentlemen, please. For Jerusalem. Yes, sair. Your seats, gentlemen, if you please,"

The uniformed man with the mixed blood of four nationalities in him— part English, Arab, Ethiopian and low-caste Indian— pleaded desperately in six languages with the passengers who seemed loath to board the train for Jerusalem. He was a ticket-collector. He moaned in despair as he realized from one preliminary glimpse of his cosmopolitan crew that he would spend most of the night haggling with Arabs and Syrians and Egyptians, all of whom would do their best to cheat him of the legitimate fare.

"Imshi, you misbegotten child of doubtful parents!"

He fell back upon Arabic, the most eloquent of all his six languages, and bestowed an unofficial kick upon one lingering passenger.

The Arab youth, in white burnous, let a brown hand steal toward the curved knife at his belt. Then thinking better of it, he pulled the hood of the burnous over his head and slid away into the darkness.

It wanted twenty minutes to midnight.

A sizzling arc lamp showed a gray sea which was really the desert beyond. A hissing, oil-smeared monster in the darkness was the locomotive. This strip of sand-strewn planking was the station El Kantara East from which the train bound for Jerusalem started at a quarter to twelve every night. The Suez Canal, a broad black ribbon in the gray sand, gurgled softly a few yards away.

"For Jerusalem? By all the jinn of Arabia, I have told you so a thousand times!"

Once again the ticket-collector lost his temper in a spate of Arabic. In the flickering gleam of oil lamps, groups of shrouded figures trailed past him to the train. With dirty white robes swathing their brown bodies they resembled at this time of night a procession of ghouls:

A match flared in the darkness, A man was lighting a cigarette. For a second there was revealed a thin, keen face which regarded the scene about him with quiet enjoyment. Then a flip of his fingers and the match was trailing into the darkness.

"Oh, and I was just going to ask you for a light!"

The feminine voice startled him. He swung round. Dimly he discerned a slim white figure standing near to him. A cigarette, unlighted, was between her lips.

"So sorry! Allow me."

He struck another match. As the flame flared at the touch of her cigarette he saw a face of cool, white beauty such as always catches the breath, east of Suez. The whiteness of her skin was almost unearthly. But the dark somber eyes, the full red lips and the nose told her nationality at once: a Jewess.

A beautiful woman. As the match was tossed aside and a breath of smoke masked her face, the man was left with the impression that some modern Sheba was traveling to dazzle a Solomon in the ancient city. For in the brief glimpse he had of her he sensed that she was garbed and scented in the most expensive Rue de la Paix manner.

"YOU are going to Jerusalem?" he asked indolently, and she nodded.

"Yes. When do we start?"

"In three minutes."

"Then I must find my compartment. I booked a sleeping-berth."

"It ees all right, quite O. K., lady," suddenly burst in the harassed voice of the ticket-collector, "I 'ave seen your baggage placed aboard myself. And the compartment, it ees all to yourself."

She laughed, a low attractive laugh with a passionate virility in it, She gave a few piasters to the ticket-collector which he accepted with magnificent dignity. Then he turned away to harry a little group of Syrians who seemed helplessly lost.

"As your baggage and compartment are settled, may. I suggest a drink in the restaurant-car?" said the man with the thin keen face.

She flashed a smile at him.

"I should love it."

THEY walked a few yards along the platform. Just before they reached the restaurant-car the young Arab in the hooded burnous passed them. It seemed to the man who was accompanying the Jewess that a brown hand stretched out for a moment from the burnous and caught hers. But the dim light might have deceived him. Then the young Arab glided silently toward the rear of the train.

The Jewess climbed aboard, revealing high-heeled shoes of an expensive character and shapely ankles that justified them. The man followed her, and they seated themselves at one of the tables.

Only then did the man remove his soft felt hat. He revealed a carefully brushed head of bright red hair. The Jewess settled herself with a contented sigh and placing her elbows on the table, stared into his gray quizzical eyes.

"I've been wanting to meet you for ever so long a time—Paul Rodgers, Red Wolf of Arabia!" she murmured.

The man betrayed no surprise. He smiled imperturbably.

"I'm charmed," he replied.

And then a series of shrill, hysterical whistles sounded. There was a shouting and babble of voices. The locomotive spurted with steam. The dim oil lamps began to flicker past and, in a few seconds, were replaced by the desert. The Jerusalem Express had started on its nightly run.

"Then let us say, to our better acquaintance!" smiled Rodgers, raising his glass.

She smiled back eagerly at him,

"Till this moment," she said, "you have always been a legend to me. I had heard of your adventures— who has not?— of your strange wanderings and your equally strange disguises. Is it true that you were once a leader of Arab brigands?"

"Do not believe any story you hear of me," said the Intelligence officer, lighting another cigarette.

"Oh, but why?" Her rich red lips pouted delightfully.

"Because most of them are untrue, some are quite improbable, and, of course, all are wildly exaggerated."

"Well," she said, her beautiful face provocatively near to him, "you have at least proved this evening that one of the stories I heard about you is untrue."

"And that is?"

"That you had left the desert and gone back to civilization in Europe."

He laughed, and drained his glass.

"It was partly true, I have been in Europe. But let us say that I have now left civilization and am going back to the desert."

Instinctively his eyes sought the window where the black emptiness beyond told of the Arabian Desert. In his unflinching gray eyes was the suspiciously sentimental gleam of a man who is nearing his real home.

"So you didn't like the lands that lie beyond the desert?" she asked.

Still in a reverie, Paul Rodgers shook his head.—

"I heard good music, but also bad," he murmured. "I couldn't understand what was wrong with me until, one day in Berlin, I heard a very modern piece of cacophony by a very modern composer. It was a parma tin-can symphony. Then I suddenly realized it was right. Modern civilization is a racketing, tin-can affair. That composer had captured its robot soul, And I discovered at the same time that I didn't belong, I was as alien as an Arab. I was homesick for the desert. I went and hired a room and a piano. I played Chopin for four hours on end just to myself. It was no use. I had to come back."

"What a strange orgy," she said, "playing Chopin for four hours."

"Yes," he nodded. "But it was my own funeral march. I died that day in Berlin and my soul has carried me back here. This is my first night in the desert."

"And still a civilized one," she murmured, looking round at the comfortable restaurant-car with its electric lights and shining tables. "May I have another drink ?"

"I was about to suggest one," he said. He nodded to the waiter, and then turned toward her. She faced the keen gaze of his gray eyes smilingly.

"Incidentally," he went on, "I'm curious about one thing."

"Yes?"

"Who told you I was Paul Rodgers?"

'She was startled for a moment.

"Oh, an Arab," she faltered.

He waited.

Her tone gained confidence.

"An Arab porter who placed my baggage aboard the ferry across the canal pointed you out."

"I see. I'm sorry about that."

"Sorry! Why?"

"Because otherwise we might have been introduced and I should know your name."

She laughed softly at this.

"My name is Kober—Judith Kober. You may have heard of my father, Sholom Kober."

"Who has not?" replied Rodgers.

In the Near East, the name of Sholom Kober was one to conjure with. A great Jewish commercial magnate, he lived in Cairo in the style of a pasha while his ramifications extended from the Mediterranean to Bagdad. It was admitted openly that Sholom Kober and his millions had done more for the Zionist movement in Palestine than any other Jew. He believed passionately in the destiny of the Jewish race, and perhaps because of that hated the Arabs with an unreasoning hereditary impulse which caused him to spurn all those with whom he came in contact.

"Yes, my father is a queer mixture of likes and dislikes," nodded the Jewess, as though sensing the thoughts that flashed through the mind of the Intelligence officer. For the moment her expression seemed troubled. She turned her face toward the desert that was flashing past.

"But he does believe that the Jews can transform Palestine."

Rodgers nodded.

"And so you go to Jerusalem at the hottest and most uncomfortable time of the year," he said slowly.

"There is always work for Jews in Jerusalem," she replied simply.

But as she said it she shivered slightly despite the hot wind that came in from the desert. Then, abruptly, she rose.

"I think I'll go along to my. compartment now," she said. She gave a final glance at the window. "I hate this desert which you seem to like."

Rodgers shrugged his shoulders.

"The Arabs call this the Country of Mirages— Fata Morgana," he said. "I think I shall turn in, too."

They passed out of the dining-car, crossed the swaying steel plates through which came pellets of sand whipped by the passing of the train, and entered the sleeping-car. The coaches swayed and jolted over a narrow track. The Jewess stumbled and would have fallen had not Rodgers caught her arm. For a moment her cool arm rested in his hand.

"Thank you," she smiled. They had reached her compartment. "I suppose we shall meet again in the morning."

"Sure to," smiled Rodgers in return, "For I also have work to do in Jerusalem."

"Good night, then."

"Good night."

He was left alone in the corridor of the sleeping-car.

"A queer woman," he mused, lighting another cigarette, and swaying slightly as he stood in the corridor. "Very sure of herself. Yet she managed that lie about the Arab servant very badly."

Then he stiffened to attention. Cautiously, ever so cautiously, the door of the next compartment was sliding open, A brown hand appeared. It was followed by a brown, wrinkled and bearded face surmounted with the Arab head-dress. As soon as the peering face caught sight of Rodgers, it drew away and quickly the door slid to again. Yet in the brief glimpse he had, the Intelligence officer saw terror stamped on the face. The old Arab was haunted by some fear.

RODGERS stepped forward. But only a blank wooden door and windows with blinds carefully drawn confronted him. He heard a slight click within as the latch was let down.

"Queer!" he muttered once again, and passed on to his own sleeping-compartment, which was the next one along the corridor. There he found that his bed was already prepared for the night.

He considered it for a moment, and sat down. He did not feel sleepy. This was his return to the desert, and a strange excitement possessed this queer adventurer whom the natives called the Red Wolf of Arabia. He flicked up the blind and stared out of the window at the empty, sand-strewn expanse through which the train was churning a rapid progress. But the darkness revealed nothing. A medley of stars glittered in the sky and a few pellets of sand were thrown against his face.

The kiss of the desert! To the Red Wolf it was more alluring than any woman. The call had never left him, even in the closest confines of the cities. And now he was back. The Jerusalem Express was thundering along a desert route that had known history, Moses had led the children of Israel along this path. Not many years ago another great general, Allenby, had led a victorious British army.

THE road to Jerusalem! The words of the old Hebrew prophet came to Rodgers: "And in Jerusalem shall ye be comforted." He gave a little sigh of contentment and pressed the button of the electric bell...

"Oh, yes sair, a very strange sheik."

The uniformed ticket-collector of four nationalities swayed in the compartment and gosiped to Rodgers of the old Arab whom only a thin partition of wood divided from them.

"What is his tribe?" asked Rodgers, lapsing into Arabic.

The ticket-collector responded loquaciously in the same language.

"I would say he was a hillman, one of the Druses."

One of the Druses! Rodgers knew that fighting tribe well. So did the authorities in Palestine, and the French in Syria. They were Arabs who refused to be conquered. Even tanks and machine-guns had failed to drive them from their mountain fastnesses. They hated the white men, whom they regarded as interlopers. Above all, they hated the Jews whom they regarded as their enemies from the historic past.

"You have seen him before?"

"Often," replied the ticket-collector. "He comes and goes between Cairo and Jerusalem. He has business, much business in Jerusalem."

Apparently there were many aboard the Jerusalem Express who had business in the holiest of holy cities.

"A wealthy man, then," suggested the Intelligence officer, "of many camels and herds?"

"It would seem so," was the reply. "For always he travels first-class, And he must be a holy sheik, one descended from Mahomet, the greatest of all—Allah O Akbar— for he insists and pays for the compartment to himself."

Paul Rodgers shook his head.

"Holy— but unlike an Arab," he commented. "And is the Koran his only companion of voyage?"

"That, and a tin box, tied with rope, and a phonograph."

"A phonograph!"

The ticket-collector nodded,

"Often I hear him on the journey, playing the phonograph. He has many sad songs of the desert. Arab songs."

Red Rodgers yawned. He had begun to lose interest in the train-traveling Sheik. The ticket-collector took the hint and edged toward the door.

"Well, I go, sair," he said, lapsing once again into English. "I must fight that scum of the third-class who would cheat their way even into Paradise. Perhaps tomorrow morning when at half-past six we change at Lydda, I will have the honor of introducing you to the Sheik Sonieda."

"Maybe," nodded Rodgers.

"For the Jewish lady, Miss Kober, is also interested in the Sheik Sonieda, and has asked that she might meet him in the morning.... Good night, sair!"

And the door of the compartment slid to, leaving the Red Wolf alone... He shrugged his shoulders and prepared himself for a few hours of sleep.

An hour went by, and the train rushed along the track that led through the desert known as the Country of Mirages. It must have been three o'clock in the morning when the Red Wolf stirred. His head jerked itself from the pillow in an attitude of listening.

A strange sound, or series of sounds came from the next compartment. Above the rumble of the train he could hear it. The shrill singing of an Arab woman. The musical sense of Paul Rodgers began to follow its queer leveling rhythm in quarter-tones. It was a song of love and passion in the desert.

A MOMENT'S silence; then the same song again, Of course— the phonograph. Rodgers glanced at his watch and muttered a curse upon this Sheik who amused himself by playing the phonograph in the Jerusalem Express at three o'clock in the morning.

Fifteen minutes of it. Cursing again, Rodgers slid out of his bunk. He was determined to visit the musically inclined Sheik and insist upon silence for the remainder of the night. He flicked on the electric light. The windows merely reflected his own compartment. A strange, unreal interior for a man used to sleeping in the desert beneath the stars. He slid open the door and stepped into the corridor. Despite the rumble of the wheels on the track, the infernal phonograph persisted above all noises. But in that moment Rodgers stopped suddenly. He had glimpsed a slim form in a white satin dressing-gown stealing along the corridor, away from the Sheik's compartment.

He knew even before she slid back the door of her own compartment and stepped inside who it was. That jet-black hair cascading down the back of the dressing- gown told him. Judith Kober. What business had the daughter of a Jewish millionaire with a holy sheik of the Druses?

The record churned on with maddening persistence. He stood, a slim wiry figure in pajamas, before the door of the Sheik's compartment. Gently he knocked.

There was no response. The music continued. He knocked loudly, peremptorily. Still no voice in Arabic begged him to enter. He put his hand to the door, turned the handle but found it locked,

Even as he was about to knock for the third time, the music ceased. Or rather, there was a slurring noise that was lost in the rumble of the train. Rodgers stood there for a minute, waiting to hear the record been again. But it did not. The Sheik had apparently sated himself on that song for the night.

Slowly the Red Wolf paced the corridor and regained his compartment. Now that the phonograph had ceased, the silence seemed to be a queer hiatus in that symphonic progress of the Jerusalem Express. But as he closed his door and slipped into his bunk, his mind was pondering that queer vision of a Jewish girl in a white satin dressing-gown, stealing away from the Sheik's ompartment.

The gray eyes had narrowed. The jaw was set. It was in the attitude of thought that he at last fell into slumber.

AT six o'clock next morning, when the Jerusalem Express, steaming through a countryside of orange plantations, was approaching the junction at Lydda, a scared and hysterical ticket-collector burst in upon Paul Rodgers.

"Sair! The Sheik Sonieda!"

"Yes?"

Rodgers had completed his toilet and was smoothing that rebellious red hair.

"The Sheik is dead. He is hanging. Horrible—"

With a few swift strides Red Rodgers was in the corridor and standing in the doorway of the next compartment. It was a ghastly spectacle upon which he narrowed his keen eyes.

The Sheik Sonieda, an elderly bearded man, dangled with a rope at his neck from the baggage-rack near the roof. As the train sped on toward Lydda and the engine hooted warningly, the body swayed like a dangling puppet in the progress. Blackened by strangulation, the face was not nice to look upon. The sandaled feet pointed down toward the floor.

Rodgers heard gasping noises behind him; the ticket-collector was almost in a state of collapse. But already Rodgers had produced a sharp knife, climbed a bunk, and cut the rope. His strong brown hand lowered the body to the floor.

"Quick! Get me some water!" he commanded the ticket-collector.

With a sob of relief at being ordered to do something, the ticket-collector padded along the corridor. He did not hear Paul Rodgers slide the door to and ignore the body for a swift examination of the compartment. The phonograph was there, the needle buried in the record. It had played itself to a finish. It must have been playing while the Sheik was gasping his life away at the end of the rope. Had he played that song of desert love in a last sentimentality before taking his life? Had he, while the phonograph churned its sad music, looped the rope, inserted his powerful neck and launched himself to death?

There was the tin box of which the ticket-collector had spoken, and the rope of course had been used—

Rodgers' jaw squared. Instinctively his hand stroked the back of his fiery crop. Something was wrong. When the ticket-collector returned with a glass of water in his hand, the Intelligence officer was bending over the body of the Sheik.

"No use," he said briefly. '"He's been dead some hours."

"It is suicide, sair?"

Rodgers hesitated.

"It seems so," he said then. "You will advise the station police as soon as the train arrives at Lydda."

"Certainly, sair."

Instinctively the ticket-collector accepted the commands of this slim figure whose brown face and gray eyes were concentrated in thought.

"Keep the door closed, and don't let anyone in until you advise the police."

"Yes sair."

Rodgers stopped in the doorway.

"Was the door of this compartment locked when you came to call the Sheik this morning?"

"Yes sair. I had to use my key."

"I see."

And with an unconcerned nod Rodgers strolled away.

He walked along the corridor, passing the next compartment. The door was open, and the Jewess, Judith Kober, was seated fully dressed on her bunk. She looked up, and he stopped. The face of cool, white beauty which he had admired in that chance meeting of the night was now drawn and haggard. The dark eyes had a gleam of fear in them.

"Is— is anything the matter?" she asked; her vibrant voice seemed hushed.

"Anything the matter!" His eyebrows were raised in surprise. " should there be? We shall be at Lydda in five minutes. We change there for Jerusalem."

There was all the nostalgia of centuries of exile in her sigh. When she looked up again, Rodgers had disappeared.

The next moment the mud huts and white walls of Lydda began to flit past the window like a jerky cinematograph film. The engine shrieked demoniacally....

Few people realized, in the confusion and hustle of changing trains at Lydda, that a tragedy had occurred in the first-class sleeping-car. White Arabs and Jews scrambled and cursed among their baggage, while the engine panted like an exhausted steel beast, four native policemen and two British officers in khaki supervised the unloading from the train of what appeared to be a bundle of soiled linen. The bundle was placed on a truck and trundled away through a doorway marked Stationmaster.

For a quarter of an hour, Paul Rodgers was seen there talking diffidently to the two British officers who seemed to regard him with considerable respect. He was seen there by Judith Kober, who stood apparently waiting for Rodgers to take pity on her helplessness.

But he seemed to have forgotten her. It was the whitish-brown ticket-collector who helped her aboard the sleeping-car again which had been shunted on to the train bound for Jerusalem.

"Are all the passengers going through to Jerusalem?" she asked.

The ticket-collector nodded.

"Yes, lady."

"And the Sheik, whom you promised me I should meet?"

His face went a shade paler. He fell back upon the usual Levantine gesture of despair with his hands.

"Alas, lady, he is the one passenger who has decided not to go on to Jerusalem, Everything O. K., lady."

And then he turned in relief to curse that Arab youth who was slouching indolently toward the third-class compartment of the new train.

Judith Kober was left to herself. And half an hour later, when the Jerusalem Express began to puff importantly out of Lydda station, she stood at a window of the coach seeking in vain for the romantic figure known as the Red Wolf of Arabia, the man of the desert. That gleam of fear in her dark eyes deepened.

IN the third-class compartments of the train a smelly, coffee-colored mixture of humanity began to perspire in the growing heat of the morning. Arabs, Levantines, Egyptians, and even a group of Polish Jews spat and chewed and talked and smoked. Half-veiled Syrian women with kohl-smeared eyes stared insolently over their black veils at the completely veiled Arab women. Yellow-skinned babies crawled the thumping floor of the train amidst refuse of date-stones, banana- and orange-skins and shells of nuts. Brown arms stretched possessively about tied bundles. Tin boxes tied with rope were sat upon. Occasionally the slanting rays of the sun touched the glittering ornaments of the women, the pendants from their ears, the rings on their fingers. It also glinted upon the hafts of the curved knives worn by the men. One Arab, in a dirty blue burnous, stumbled from seat to seat. He was restless. Occasionally he sat on the floor and played. with the crawling children. But the shrill commands of women brought the children back to their mothers' skirts.

"In two hours, brother, we shall be in the holy city," sighed one Jewish immigrant who had come from the ghetto in Warsaw to endure poverty in Palestine.

TWO hours— the restless Arab seemed to hear the words and his brown hands clutched the dirty burnous closer about him. He stepped between the corded bundles of the passengers and almost stumbled over a tin box.

"May the curse of Allah fall upon you," snarled a bearded Arab in his face. "Sit you down and rest, jackal of the desert."

But the dirty blue burnous slipped past him and with bent back the Arab interloper delved deeper into that sweating, coffee-colored crowd.

The train was puffing and snorting and twisting its way among the hills. In these wild defiles Samson was born to slaughter with his strength the old enemies, the Philistines. But only the Jewish immigrants knew that story, The Arabs looked out on a landscape over which Mahomet had ridden his camels seeking trade for the widow whom he afterward married.

One hour to Jerusalem.

The Arab in the dirty blue burnous had found a seat at last. With his legs crossed beneath him he squatted on the floor beside an Arab youth in a white burnous. A bundle tied with rope was between them.

"These cursed trains are worse than our camels," he grumbled to the youth, and spat his disgust on the floor.

"Aiee!" grunted the youth.

He was disinclined to talk. But the Arab in the blue burnous was in a garrulous mood. He went on:

"But these steel beasts of the desert carry more than our camels. These bags, by Allah, would need a hundred camels to carry them."

And his brown hand caressed the bundle that was between them.

"Aiee!" nodded the youth indolently. He turned his young beardless face toward the window and gazed out upon the wild landscape.

"I see, brother," went on the garrulous Arab, "that you have been spending money in the delectable bazaars of Cairo."

The young man swung round.

"You have an inquisitive tongue," he grunted.

"And a keen eye, brother," smiled the Arab imperturbably. "For I can see that you recently walked the Street of Ropes."

"The Street of Ropes!" There was a startled gleam in the surly dark eyes. "How came you to know that?"

The brown hand of the Arab in the blue burhous was toying with the roped bundle at his side.

"Who among us who travel the desert does not know of the Street of Ropes in the Mouski? And who but the traveler of great knowledge would deal with anyone but Sorek, the maker of the best ropes in Cairo? I know only too well the cactus fiber he braids into his rope, and that black twine which is the mark of a master-craftsman."

"By the camels of my father, but you speak like a police spy."

The young Arab's lips were trembling.

"And why should you fear a police spy?" demanded the man in the blue burnous.

The young Arab held out his palms.

"I have nothing to fear." There was a forced laugh from his throat. "Allah himself protects the innocent."

"But not the murderer who hangs a true Moslem like a dog, so that he is denied paradise," whispered the man in the blue burnous fiercely.

The hand of the young Arab stole toward the knife at his belt.

"Slinking jackals should keep out of the way of dangerous men," he said.

BUT the fierceness of his tone subsided as the Arab in the blue burnous twitched a piece of rope from his robes, a rope of cactus fiber with a streak of black twine.

"Better, my brother, to have used that knife than a rope to kill a holy Sheik! This rope I took from the neck of a dead man just an hour ago. You are the only one on this train with the same rope on his baggage."

The young Arab moaned, closed his eyes and leaned back against the bundle. Silence seemed to fall ee the motley crowd, broken only by the thumping of the wheels. The train was entering the savage and rocky gorge, the Wady Ismain, which forms the pass to the highlands near Jeruselam

"Why did you kill him?" quietly asked the Arab in the blue burnous.

The reply was startling:

"He was my father."

"Your father!"

It was the other's turn to be startled. He recovered himself and went on:

"The Holy Koran lays down that a son who kills his father shall suffer eternal damnation."

"Aiee!" The young Arab nodded wearily. "But the holy Sheik my father was going to Jerusalem with murder in his heart."

"I know," nodded the other.

"You know!"

"In the tin box that was in his compartment were papers that told of a secret society of Druses who were to sally forth this Friday and slit the throats of Jews who lamented against the Wailing Wall."

"Then you are thief, as well as interloper," said the young man, turning upon him savagely.

The Arab in the blue burnous shook his head. "I am a solver of riddles," he said simply.

"A jackal hunting for the lions," sneered the young man.

"Let us say," went on the other imperturbably, "a friend of that beautiful Jewess Judith Kober."

A hiss of surprise came from the young man.

"Then you know everything," he said. "Your riddle is solved."

The squatting figure nodded.

"In thirty minutes," he went on, quickly, "this steel monster will enter into the city of Jerusalem."

"Jerusalem!"

"The city of Jews and Arabs, races who hate each other. And Mahomet has warned the believer who dares to marry the unbeliever. Arab and Jew never mate."

"A curse upon you and the Koran!" muttered the young man.

"In Jerusalem," went on the other, "there are men who will take you and hang you like a dog, as you did that holy father of yours, A dog's death fora Moslem. It is not nice, brother."

"Aiee. I understand."

SLOWLY the young Arab rose, gathering his robe about him. Through the window he could glimpse those black rocks and the precipice of the defile. He shivered slightly. Then he drew himself up, and turned a face with a sad smile upon it to the squatting figure in the blue burnous.

"I thank you, brother. Will you tell her that my love transcends the belief of my fathers, even of all mankind?"

And with a casual gesture of the Arab who is going on a short journey he picked his way through the sprawling children, the veiled women, and the Jewish immigrants toward the door at the end of the coach.

The Arab in the blue burnous sat and waited.

Three minutes later there was a loud shriek. A Syrian woman, her veil dangling, swayed into their midst.

"He threw himself from the train— over the precipice—" she gabbled.

Pandemonium was let loose. Orders were shouted. Bells rang. The Jerusalem Express snorted to a standstill. Passengers scrambled onto the track.

"Who was it? Tell me, I beg of you."

Judith Kober clutched at the sleeve of the ticket-collector as he scurried past.

"A young Arab, lady. He gone mad. Flung himself down the rocks. Smashed to death!"

Her dark eyes scanned the crowd at the back of the train. She searched for a young man in a white burnous. He was not there. A dirty Arab in a blue burnous passed her. She suddenly was aware that this Arab was speaking English to her.

"He asked me to tell you that his love transcends the belief of his fathers, even of all mankind."

She swayed, and leaned out a hand to save herself from falling. The Arab in the blue burnous had spoken in the voice of the Red Wolf.

"NO, you need not anticipate trouble today, sir," said Paul Rodgers, as he spoke to the Governor of Palestine in the palace at Jerusalem.

"The Arabs were ready. And today, Friday, was to be the day," said the Governor. "Don't you think we ought to post a few troops in the vicinity?"

Paul Rodgers shook his head.

"Not necessary, sir. The Arabs were ready. They waited for their leader. Their leader was murdered. That, in itself, has frightened them. And they know also that certain documents relating to their secret activities are in the hands of the police."

"Thanks to you, Rodgers," nodded the Governor.

"No. The real thanks should go to the Jewish girl, Judith Kober. Her father had heard of the premeditated massacre. He determined to prevent it. It was the beautiful Jewess who offered to do the job. And she did it in feminine fashion."

"How?"

"By emulating the Judith of the Bible. You remember the story? The people of the beleaguered city besought Judith to go to the tent of the conquering general, Holofernes, and give herself for the sake of the starving men, women and children. She did, and returned with the head of Holofernes."

"And Judith Kober—"

"She went among the Arabs in Cairo, the enemies of the Jews in Palestine. There she captivated, not the leader but his son. And when the Sheik Sonieda set out in the Jerusalem Express to lead the massacre this Friday at the Wailing Wall, Judith Kober was also aboard the train. And secretly, so was the son of the Sheik."

"How did you guess the murderer?"

RED RODGERS smiled slightly. "At first I suspected the Jewess. But then the rope and the phonograph gave the murderer away, I was puzzled at first to understand how the murderer had entered the compartment when the Sheik, in fear of his life, always kept the door locked. That again made me suspect the woman.

"But when I found the youth with the rope and he told me that he was the son of the Sheik, I realized how he had entered. He had only to knock, and reveal himself to the astonished father who believed his son was at home in Cairo, to be instantly admitted. The youth must have been helplessly infatuated with the Jewess to attempt the crime he did. He deliberately kept the phonograph playing so no one would hear the strangulated gurgles of the old man. He did not use his knife because of the difficulty of avoiding blood-stains on his white burnous."

"But your report states that the door of the compartment was locked when the body was discovered by the ticket-collector," the Governor pointed out.

Rodgers nodded.

"The youth did not wish the crime to be discovered too soon. So he left the compartment by the window and made his way along the footboard of the train as it sped through the night— a simple operation for an agile Arab."

"And afterward you persuaded the young Arab to walk to his death."

"I saved your hangman an unpleasant and disturbing job," murmured the Intelligence officer.

"And the Jewess?"

A strange gleam came into the eyes of Red Rodgers.

"She has done her work, but at a great cost. She thought hers was only make-believe love. Too late she discovered that she was helplessly in love with the Arab youth. That is the heavy price she has to pay for saving her people."

"I wonder if Judith was in love with Holofernes," mused the Governor.

"Alas, the Apocrypha does not tell us," replied Rodgers.

The Governor eyed him.

"You lead queer lives, you Intelligence fellows," he murmured.

"Queer, but exciting," added Rodgers,

"Well, you've saved us from what might have been a series of street battles in Jerusalem," said the Governor.

"My day's work," smiled the Intelligence officer, and took his departure.

Later, Paul Rodgers walked slowly along the street that tumbles its surface of rough stones alongside the sacred mosque of Omar.

He came to the south of the wall that cuts off the mosque square from the city of Jerusalem. There were the few yards of black and gray stones known to. the Jews as the Wailing Wall. A hundred men and women were standing there in attitudes suggesting devout despair. They were grieving for the loss of the city of their fathers.

A strangely mixed crowd. The newer immigrant Jews wore the cheap modern suits of civilization. They clutched Hebrew prayer-books in their roughened hands. And in sober, workaday skirts, their women stood at their side.

But there were others among the men who wore the traditional curls and the long gaberdines. Some had fur caps and heavy plush coats. And the women had gayer clothes, with the mark of the Oriental on them.

All moaned and sobbed in hysterical grief. They were wailing the persecution of centuries, and their tears were for dark and bloody deeds done to their race throughout history.

Slowly Red Rodgers passed this line of sobbing figures. His gaze lighted upon one Jewish girl, garbed in the traditional fashion. Big tears coursed from her dark eyes and trickled down a face that was stamped with grief.

It was Judith Kober.

SHE moaned with the others that she was an exile in their own land. But more than that, Judith Kober was shaken by the grief of a young lover who was dead. Those rich red lips kissed dusty stones and not the quick responding lips of a young Arab. Judith had once again saved her people in their despair. But her heart was dead within.

With a sigh, the man known as the Red Wolf of Arabia passed on. Perhaps, somewhere deep within her she had desired the rumored massacre. By killing her body, they would at least ease her of this terrible ache of something dead within her.

But the peace of Jerusalem was not broken. The sobbing continued.

_____________________

10: Good Graft

Ellis Parker Butler

1869-1937

Cosmopolitan July 1929

ABOUT seven o’clock in the evening, on February fifth, which was election day in Camville, Mr. Roscoe Critz was sitting in his cane rocking-chair in front of the sheet-iron stove in his dining room.

On a hard chair at the other side of the stove Professor Plato Hammond, principal of the Camville Public School, who had reached the venerable age of seventy-six, was repeating for the thousandth time why he had not been able to take part in the Civil War, being then but nine years old, and Mr. Critz had momentarily fallen asleep.

His totally bald head fell forward and he had just uttered the first “G-r-r-r!” of a snore, when his nephew Sammy burst into the room.

“Uncle Roscoe! Uncle Roscoe!” Sammy cried excitedly. “You won! Your whole ticket was elected!”

Mr. Critz came awake with a jerk. For a moment he blinked, trying to remember who, what and where he was, and then a look of consternation came upon his pinkly cherubic countenance.

“My goodness gracious, Samuel! That’s dreadful! Ain’t you foolin’ me?” Mr. Critz exclaimed, pulling at his little white goatee nervously.

Behind Sammy now appeared Mr. Ira Binzer, whose occupation was practically nothing but who sang bass in the choir. He was excited, too.

“No, sir, by hecky!” he declared. “You carried the town by a mee-jority of six votes as slick as a whistle, Roscoe, and no foolin’ about it. They just got the ballots all counted and it’s a landslide— mayor and council and town clerk all elected.”

“Well, land’s sakes!” said Mr. Critz with irritation. “You don’t have to be so cheerful about it— it’s bad enough as itis. Plato,” he shouted at Professor Hammond, “you’re elected mayor!”

“What say?” asked Professor Hammond, putting a hand behind his ear. “Whose mare?”

“You’ve been elected mayor,” shouted Mr. Critz. “Mayor! Elected, I say. Mayor!”

“May Irwin? Yes, I’ve heard she was a good actress, too,” said Professor Hammond, nodding his head. “I never saw her, but folks say so.”

“My goodness gracious!” exclaimed Mr. Critz. “He ain’t ever goin’ to hear anythin’; I’m goin’ to have a terrible time. Ira, how is Emmy takin’ it?”

“Grand!” said Mr. Binzer. “Just grand! The ladies are gettin’ up a perade right now, and Mis’ Critz is headin’ of them.”

“Land sakes!” Mr. Critz ejaculated.

He was undoubtedly greatly perturbed by this unexpected electoral triumph which had made him the political boss of Camville. For twelve years Obert Duff, Camville’s only barber, had been elected mayor almost unanimously and there had been no reason to think he would not continue to be so elected forever. If Mr. Critz had thought anything else he would not have gone into politics.

To be boss of Camville, or of any other place, was the last thing the gentle and plump little man desired, but his wife, Mrs. Emma Critz, had pestered him until he got up an opposition ticket, hoping it would be deeply snowed under.

Mrs. Emma Critz had succumbed to the prevailing hair style and had had her hair bobbed, and her first experience in Obert Duff’s barber shop had aroused her ire. Obert Duff had succeeded his father, Orlando Duff, as Camville’s barber, and back in 1888 Orlando Duff had decorated his ceiling with pictures cut from the Police Gazette. Some of these were portraits of John L. Sullivan but most of them were pictures of chorus ladies of the plump variety then prevalent.

“It was all well enough, I dare say, Roscoe,” Mrs. Critz had said, “when there was just men lyin’ there in the barber chair and lookin’ up at all them ladies’ legs, but it’s real embarrassin’ when a lady has to go there to get a hair cut or a facial massidge. And he wun’t scrape them off. He was real sassy when I asked him to.”

“I don’t see whut I can do about it, Emmy,” Mr. Critz said.

“You can get an ord’nance passed forbiddin’ ladies’ legs on barber-shop ceilin’s, I should think.”

“Now, Emmy, not whilst Obe Duff is mayor and’s got the city council with him,” Mr. Critz told her.

“Well and indeed!” exclaimed Mrs. Critz. “Then it’s about time you up and elected a new mayor, Roscoe Critz, and I wun’t give you a mite of peace till you do.”

Nor did she, and Mr. Critz, for the sake of the peace he loved so well, went through the motions of bringing forward a Reform Party ticket. He was going to make the campaign on the slogan,

“No legs on barber-shop ceilings,” but Mrs. Critz objected that that slogan would alienate the entire male vote, and said the anti-leg effort should be a whispering campaign among the ladies of Camville and that Professor Plato Hammond— who had told Mr. Critz he was willing to be defeated for the office of mayor— should run on the platform of “A Bigger and Better Camville.”

And now not only was Professor Plato Hammond elected but the three aldermen and the city clerk had gone in with him. By this unexpected and undesired success Mr. Critz had become the boss of Camville and it was now his duty to make Camville “bigger” and “better” as promised.

The interest of Mr. Ira Binzer in all this was because Mr. Critz had promised him the appointment to the position of chief of police if the ticket won, and a few evenings later when the three new councilmen, the new mayor and Mr. Critz met in the dining room to consider a program, Mr. Binzer was present.

Now that he had been elected mayor Professor Hammond had assumed an air of dignity and had had his long beard trimmed, but even so he was not much help. As he heard practically nothing that was said, he confined himself to placing the tips of the fingers of his two hands together, looking gravely at the ceiling, and repeating, “Most reasonable! Most reasonable!” whenever he was appealed to. It was evident that as a mayor Professor Hammond was going to be a total loss, and it made Mr. Critz perspire to discover that he was not only to be boss but mayor as well.

“My goodness gracious!” Mr. Critz exclaimed when the talk had gone on for half an hour and nothing had been accomplished. “We ain’t gettin’ nowheres. Gentlemen, we told these folks we’d give them a bigger and better Camville, and seems as if we ought to do it, but I declare I don’t know how we’re to go about it.”

“What we're up against, it looks like,” said Mr. Binzer, who had a face like a horse, “is a proposition. That’s what I say it looks like. I may be wrong but that’s what I say.”

FOR a moment Mr. Critz became red in the face. F “Proposition!” he cried. “If you can’t say nothin’ better’n that, you might as well say nothin’ at all. My gracious! Here we elected Plato and the town’s lookin’ to us to do somethin’ and there ain’t no way to do it, far as I can see, and all you got to say to it is ‘proposition.’ ”

“Uncle Roscoe!” called a boy’s voice from the next room.

“Yes, Sammy; whut is it?” asked Mr. Critz patiently.

“Why, now, Uncle Roscoe,” said Sammy, appearing in the doorway. “Now Willie Lunk and me, we were talking about how you said you were going to make Camville bigger and better, and Willie Lunk he has been in Chicago and New York and everywhere, and he says the trouble with this town is there ain’t any graft in it.”

“T don’t know whut you mean, Sammy,” said Mr. Critz. “We’re busy about politics, Sammy, and you hadn’t ought to interrupt us.”

“Yes, I know, Uncle Roscoe,” Sammy said, “but that’s what I mean. Willie, he says you can’t expect this town to be bigger and better like New York and all those places, because the first thing those places do is to get graft in the government, because that’s how to get things done, Uncle Roscoe. Willie says that’s almost all you read about in the city papers—how the grafters are doing things and buying parks and making sewers and everything to make the place bigger and better, and—”

“Well, my goodness gracious, Sammy,” Mr. Critz said, wiping his spectacles, “I guess I know that as well as Willie Lunk knows it. I’m able to read the newspapers as well as the next person, I should think. Trouble is, I ain’t had no experience in that sort of thing and I don’t know just how to go about it.”

Ira Binzer got up and opened the stove door to spit into the fire. He slammed the stove door.

“From what I read in the papers a police force ain’t much account, seems as if, if it ain’t all permegated with corruption and one thing and another. I’m willin’ to be permegated that way if you say so, Roscoe. We got to do the best we can for the town, all of us.”

“Most reasonable! Most reasonable!” said Mayor Hammond, tapping his finger tips together.

“Sammy most generally talks sense, Roscoe,” came from Mrs. Critz in the next room.

"WELL, I got myself into this job of boss of politics,” Mr. Critz said, “and I aim to do the best I can at it. I sort of hate to rob folks the way these grafters have to do.”

“Oh, pshaw, Uncle Roscoe!” Sammy said. “You don’t rob nobody but the taxpayers, and Willie Lunk says they never care. They expect it, Uncle Roscoe. They like it, Willie. says.”

“Well, I guess maybe they do, the way they put up with it,” agreed Mr. Critz placidly. “I guess maybe, men, we'll have to start in.graftin’ and see whut we can do that way for a bigger and better Camville. I'll do the best I can at it and I guess maybe Willie Lunk can help us out some, Knowin’ about it like he does. You councilmen has got to come in on it the same as me and Plato and Ira.”

“Yes, if you say so, Roscoe,” said Mr. Wulk, whose sudden elevation from odd jobs and cordwood sawing seemed to have stunned him, and the other two councilmen, Mr. Teversham and Mr. Gollick, agreed.

“All right, fellows,” said Mr. Critz. “I guess Emmy has some cider and cookies she’s waitin’ to pass round, and afore we meet next I’ll try to think up some sort of graftin’ to start things agoin’. If you see Willie Lunk tomorrow, Sammy, you might ask him to sort of drop round and talk things over.”

Willie Lunk, whose knowledge of graft had so impressed Sammy Critz, was not a citizen of Camville. He was temporarily making his home in the cheapest room at the Camville Hotel, and he had never been in Chicago or New York. He was not much of a crook but he liked to think he was a hard-boiled tough of the deadliest character.

As a matter of fact Willie Lunk was the misguided son of a wealthy widowed mother in Riverbank, Iowa, and he had begun his career of crime in Davenport. Here he had seen a mother leave her baby outside a store in a baby carriage, and she had left her hand bag for the baby to play with, and Willie Lunk had robbed the baby.

In the hand bag Willie Lunk had found only seven cents, a nursing bottle, three hairpins and a recipe for prune whip, but the mother had come from the store in time to see Willie making off with the hand bag and that was why he was now in hiding. No one was hunting for him but he imagined that all the police forces of America were on his trail.

Willie’s devilishness consisted in pulling his cap over one eye, letting a cigaret hang listlessly from his lip and spitting through his teeth. With this he sported an attitude of world-weary cynicism which he expressed by saying of everyone whose name was mentioned, “Aw, rats, bo! Take it from me, that guy’s nothin’ but a dirty crook!”

“Well, now, Mr. Lunk,” Mr. Critz said when Willie came to the house, “I guess Sammy told you whut I wanted to see you about; we’ve got to get started at this graftin’ business before the folks begin to get impatient over nothin’ bein’ done, seems as though, and me and Ira Binzer thought maybe you could help us some.”

“Yeah? Is that so!” said Willie Lunk sarcastically. “Well, I'll tell you about that Binzer guy; you take it from me, that guy’s nothin’ but a dirty crook. See?”

“You don’t say!” said Mr. Critz. “I’m real glad to hear you say so, knowin’ about such things like you do. I guess maybe if he is we can do some first-class graftin’ when we get goin’ right. Now—”

“Roscoe Critz,” came the voice of Mrs. Critz from the next room, “don’t you go and forget them chorus-girls on Obert Duff’s ceilin’ with all your graftin’ and stuff.”

“No, I wun’t, Emmy,” said Mr. Critz.

“Say! What about them chorus-girl legs?” asked Willie. “What’s the dame peepin’ about? What’s that ceilin’ to her?”

“It’s sort of why I come to be the Boss Tweed of this town,” Mr. Critz explained. “Emmy, she’s sort of disgusted with that ceilin’ of Obe’s and that’s why we threw Obe out of the mayor’s chair. But I reckon we ain’t goin’ to have much trouble about that ceilin’, Willie. Soon as town council meets I aim to pass an ord’nance forbiddin’ legs on ceilin’s.”

“Yeah? Well, you take it from me,” said Willie, “them councilmen ain’t nothin’ but a bunch of dirty crooks.”

“I hope they be,” said Mr. Critz, “but to get down to this graftin’ business—”

"What's the matter with the ceilin’?” asked Willie Lunk.

“Hey?” queried Mr. Critz. “The ceilin’?”

“The ceilin’,” repeated Willie. “Listen, bo! if you’re goin’ to graft you’ve got to graft, haven’t you? Aw, wake up! Go on and tell Obe Duff you’re goin’ to pass an ordinance to chase them pictures off his ceilin’, see? What’s he? He ain’t nothin’ but a dirty crook. Tell him you’re goin’ to put through an ordinance, and then I go around to him and—”

Willie rubbed his thumb against his forefinger in the sign that means “Money! Come across!”

“I say, ‘Come across, and old Critz will forget it,’ ” Willie explained. “There’s your graft if you ain’t just talkin’ through your hat. Leave him have his legs on his ceilin’ if he comes across right, see?”

“Roscoe!” came the voice of Mrs. Critz from the next room. “Roscoe Critz, you wun’t do nothin’ of the kind! Them legs has got to come down.”

“Now, Emmy,” said Mr. Critz pleadingly, “don’t you interfere in this.”

“I will, too, interfere,” said Mrs. Critz, coming to the door with her sewing in her hand. She was a large plump woman and she quite filled the doorway, and her usually placid face showed her disapprobation. “Roscoe,” she said, “us women elected Plato Hammond to get them pictures off Obe Duff’s ceilin’, and off they’ve got to come! That’s my word, and it’s a word with the bark on it.”

“Now, Emmy,” said Mr. Critz patiently, “whut we promised when election was goin’ on is one thing, and whut we have to do to get this graftin’ business under way is quite another. Folks has got to put up with disappointments when election is over: Willie has give us a real good idea and it’s the only one we’ve got so far, so I guess we'll go right ahead with it. Folks has got to put up with one thing and another if they want to have crooks in gov’ment offices. I guess, Emmy, you and the ladies can keep your eyes shut when you go to get your hair trimmed off.”

“Well, of all things!” exclaimed Mrs. Critz. “I’m goin’ to go and get Mrs. Keech and go down and tell Obert Duff this very minute!”

MR. CRITZ waited until he heard the front door slam, and then he heaved a sigh.

“That’s how politics is,” he said sadly; “bustin’ families wide apart. Now we got Emmy against us. Howsoever, a man’s got to do his duty; women don’t seem to understand these things.”

“Say, listen!” said Willie from the depths of his cynicism. “Women, they’re nothin’ but a bunch of dumb-bells; you got to treat ’em rough, see?”

“Well, I don’t know as Emmy is as dumb as some,” Mr. Critz said, for he was not a little worried.

“Aw, forget it!” said Willie Lunk. “You give me a pain! What I want to know is what I get out of this.”

“The’ ain’t so many offices to hand out, Willie,” Mr. Critz told him. “I was talkin’ to Ira Binzer and he thought maybe he could put you onto the police force— dog police or somethin’— but seems as if law requires a policeman has got to be a citizen of the town. I sort of figure the best job would be to make you watchman to the fire house. It don’t pay much but when we get to graftin’ in good shape your share ought to be right considerable.”

The fire house of Rescue Volunteer Hose Company No. 1 (and only) was a two-story building and in front of it hung an old locomotive drivewheel tire and a sledge hammer for sounding fire alarms. The fire house was heated, and was used by the members of the company as a place in which to play pinochle and poker. A door at the side opened on the stairs that led to the second story, which was used as a town hall. Here was one room used as a council room, and three other smaller rooms, one for the town clerk, one for the mayor, and one for the chief of police.

AS MR. CRITZ explained to Willie, the duties of the watchman were neither arduous nor difficult. He could have a bed in the fire house, need sweep out only once or twice a week, must keep up the fires and, unless someone beat him to it, clang the fire alarm when a fire broke out. As Mr. Critz, as boss of Camville, meant to make his headquarters in the mayor’s office, it would be handy to have Willie, as advisory grafter, right in the building, particularly as Mrs. Critz now threatened to be antagonistic.

When Friday came the Camville Weekly Eagle gave the result of the election the headline display deserved by such an event, and the leading editorial of Editor G. W. Jones bore the title, “A Bigger and Better Camville.”

“The election of Professor Plato Hammond as mayor carries with it, ye Editor understands, a circumstance of much greater importance to our little city. We hear that Mr. Roscoe Critz, having managed the campaign for a Bigger and Better Camville, becomes the political boss of our town and has already begun work in that important position. Mr. Critz promises to drag Camville out of the stagnation in which it has so long floundered, and to introduce here the same up-to-date grafting methods that have made New York, Philadelphia and Chicago huge and prosperous.

“We have it on good authority that Mayor Hammond and the three newly elected members of the council are thoroughly in sympathy with Mr. Critz in this praiseworthy effort, and that Chief of Police Ira Binzer will do his share by assuring us a corrupt police force. Mr. William Lunk has been appointed watchman of the fire house and graft adviser to the new administration. Mr. Lunk is known in metropolitan underworld circles as Willie the Rat.”

On an inside page was a brief item to the effect that an ordinance would be adopted at the next council meeting prohibiting the exhibition of chorus-girl and other female legs on barber-shop ceilings under penalty of five hundred dollars fine, sixty days in jail, or both.

“Thus already,” added the Eagle, “we find Boss Critz and his henchmen busy in the interest of a Bigger and Better Camville.”

All day Saturday Mr. Critz sat in his cane rocker in the mayor’s office over the fire house waiting for Obert Duff to come and ask for terms, but Mr. Duff did not come, and about five o’clock Mr. Critz walked across the hall to the office of Chief of Police Binzer.

“Ira,” he said, “I don’t know whut’s the matter with Obert Duff. It don’t seem likely he’s as dumb as it looks like.”

“What’s the matter, Roscoe? Ain’t he been up to talk graft yet?”

“He ain’t been nigh me,” Mr. Critz said. “Land knows that piece George Wash’n’ton Jones had in the paper ought to be plain enough of a hint to him.”

“Well, Satid’y is sort of a bad day for him, Roscoe,” Mr. Binzer suggested. “Busiest day Obert’s got, everybody gettin’ shaved for Sunday.”

“Don’t look right, somehow, Ira,” Mr. Critz said. “Wouldn’t doubt a mite that Emmy and that Keech woman has gone and put him up to somethin’. I guess maybe you’d better go down and tell Obert whut’s whut.”

“How much graft do you figure we’d ought to ask him to have that ord’nance sidetracked?” Mr. Binzer asked.

“There’s ten of us ought to get a share out of it, countin’ Willie Lunk,” Mr. Critz said, pulling at his goatee. “A dollar apiece ain’t a mite too much, the way I look at it. You tell Obert right out clear and plain he’s got to hand over ten dollars if he wants to keep them pink papers on his ceilin’.”

Mr. Binzer hesitated. “I sort of feel like we hadn’t ought to splurge out too heavy right at the start,” he said. “Dollar is a lot of money, Roscoe. Seems like fifty cents would be. sort of more reasonable till we get folks used to it.”

“I don’t know but whut that’s good sense,” Mr. Critz agreed, “but you tell Obert I ain’t goin’ to put up with no nonsense; he’s got to graft us five dollars or peel off them pictures, or take the consequences when council meets.”

Mr. Binzer departed on his errand but in half an hour he was back, and he did not look any too well pleased. Mr. Duff had received him with anything but cordiality. He had stated flatly that he was not going to pay any graft whatever.

“He wun’t, wun’t he?” snapped Mr. Critz. “That’s how he talks, is it? You go on back and tell him the price has gone up to ten dollars, Ira Binzer! And if I’ve got to wait till Monday it’s goin’ to be twenty. I ain’t goin’ to be trifled with, I tell you whut!”

“Well, now, maybe ’tain’t as simple as all that,” said the chief of police. “Seems like there’s a nigger into the woodpile.”

“Nigger?” inquired Mr. Critz.

“Aunt Emmy,” explained Mr. Binzer. “She’s been down there. She told him not to give no graft to nobody. ‘Don’t you do it,’ she said to him. ‘Things has come to a nice pass if folks has to give graft to Roscoe Critz when his own lawful wife is against it.’ That’s what she told him, boss.”

“My goodness gracious!” exclaimed Mr. Critz. ‘Well, for land’s sake!. A man can’t understand a woman nohow. They don’t know their minds one minute after another. First nothin’ would do but I elect Obert out of office te get them legs off his ceilin’, and now she’s goin’ to leave them on it just to upset plans I went and made. Whut else did she say?”

“She said you was a well-meanin’ old codger, or words to that effect, but that electin’ an old fossil like Plato Hammond had gone to your head and made you think you amounted to more than you was,” Mr. Binzer told him. “She said, if it came right down to it, it was the female vote licked Obert, and she did not expect to live to see the day when the ladies of Camville couldn’t handle you like a hen handles a worm.

“She told Obert that her and Mrs. Keech and the Ladies’ Garden and Poetry Club was takin’ a firm stand against graft and corruption in any and all forms, and would stand back of him if he’d fight you.”

“Whut did he say to that?”

“He said he’d fight you,” said Mr. Binzer, and Mr. Critz was silent.

He had no false ideas regarding his wife’s influence with the ladies of Camville. On the other hand he was of the opinion that women had no business meddling in politics— after election was over. He went over his forces in his mind.

Of Mr. Binzer and Mayor Hammond he had no doubt. The city council consisted of six members, and three had been elected on his ticket. Mr. Wulk, the odd-jobs man, Mr. Critz was sure of. Mr. Teversham ran the cigar store and no ladies of Camville yet smoked cigarets, which should make the female influence negligible with him. Mr. Gollick, whose profession was whitewashing and paper-hanging, was the only doubtful man, and Mr. Critz resolved to make sure of him beyond any doubt. Of the three holdover members of the council Mr. Critz believed he could count on the vote of Mr. Vidder because Obert Duff had once cut off a piece of his ear while cutting his hair and Mr. Vidder had never forgiven Mr. Duff for that.

But even without the vote of Mr. Vidder, if Mr. Gollick remained faithful, the ordinance prohibiting unclad chorus ladies’ limbs on barber-shop ceilings could be carried, for in case of a three-to-three vote the mayor cast the deciding vote.

“Whut did Obe say about scrapin’ off them pictures?” Mr. Critz asked.

“I asked him that, too,” Mr. Binzer replied, “and he said he’d be durned if he would.”

“Well, we’d better go home and get our food,” Mr. Critz said. “You stop in and tell Obert the price of graft has gone up to ten dollars. I don’t hardly know whut to make of it.”

At home neither Mr. nor Mrs. Critz said anything about the matter, but Mrs. Critz kept her lips firmly set. Mr. Critz wondered if she had not become an anti-graft and anti-pink-picture fanatic, willing to deceive Obert Duff into thinking she was more powerful than she was, thus lulling him into inaction until the ordinance was passed, and thus at one blow defeating her husband’s graft and making sure of the removal of the pictures from Obert Duff's ceiling.

An annoying thought came to Mr. Critz as he ate his pie that Mr. Gollick might be the key to the situation in some way not clear. Mr. Gollick was a paper-hanger and his would be the job of scraping the barber-shop ceiling and putting new paper on it if it came to that, but Mr. Critz could not see how an enlightened self-interest would lead Mr. Gollick to do anything but vote for the ordinance and get the job, or forgo the job and take the graft money. He decided to see Mr. Gollick that evening.

AS MR. Critz got up from the table someone knocked on the kitchen door.

Mrs. Critz got hastily out of her chair.

“ 'Tain’t for you— I’ll go,” she said, and a moment later Mr. Critz heard the fresh young voice of Essie Keech.

“It’s all right, Aunt Emmy,” the daughter of Mrs. Critz’ right-hand woman said. “It’s fixed, and—”

“My goodness, hush!” exclaimed Mrs. Critz, "Roscoe is in there, listenin’.”

“Come in, Essie; let a person have a look at you,” Mr. Critz called, and when she came to the door he beamed upon her. “My! My!” he exclaimed. “If you ain’t gettin’ better-lookin’ every day that goes by! Whut was it you was sayin’ was all right, Essie?”

In what he said about Essie growing prettier Mr. Critz was right. Simple and sweet, Essie Keech would have been a find for any motion-picture producer.

“Oh, I couldn’t tell you what I was talking about, Uncle Roscoe!” she said. “Mother wouldn’t like me to. It’s politics, Uncle Roscoe.”

“Well, if it’s politics you might as well speak right out,” said Mr. Critz. “I’m the political boss of this town and the sooner folks knows it the better it’ll be for ’em. It’s goin’ to be a pretty serious thing for folks to get the town-hall ring down on ’em, I can tell you! We ain’t goin’ to have no pity for them that oppose us, and you can tell your ma so. It don’t do no good for you to keep back no secrets, Essie; we’ve got underhand methods to find out everythin’.”

“Don’t you tell him a word!” snapped Mrs. Critz. ‘Find out everything! Why, Roscoe Critz, you can’t even find a clean undershirt unless I come and put it right in your hand, not if it’s right under your nose, and you know it!”

“Things get so mixed up in my bureau drawers, seems as if,” said Mr. Critz mildly, and he went forth to converse with Arthur Gollick and to brace him up if he seemed to be weakening.

On the way he stopped to get Chief of Police Binzer and found him in the fire house.

“I'll go ‘long with you in a couple of minutes, soon as Willie Lunk gets back,” Mr. Binzer said. ‘“He just run over to the drug store to buy him one of them pound boxes of Dainty Lady nut chocolate candies, twelve varieties into each box, special sale marked down to eighty-five cents for this week only.”

“Whut’s he buyin’ chocolates for?” asked Mr. Critz suspiciously. “Whut did he say about it?”

“I guess maybe he’s got his eye on some girl,” said Mr. Binzer, “but he didn’t say much. All he said was that in his opinion Druggist Colson was a dirty crook but eighty-five cents was cheap for them Dainty Lady nut chocolates, twelve varieties in—”

“Never mind about that now,” said Mr. Critz. “You said it once already,” and as Willie Lunk now appeared, the boss grafter and the promoter of a corrupt police force went to see Mr. Gollick.

Mr. Gollick was not a little surprised by the visit. He assured Mr. Critz that he had not swayed an inch from the crooked path and that he had no thought of doing anything except vote exactly as Mr. Critz ordered when the council had its first meeting on Monday evening.

With Mr. Binzer, Mr. Critz proceeded to visit Councilmen Wulk and Teversham. They found them equally stanch for graft and a Bigger and Better Camville. In addition, one of the hold-over aldermen told Mr. Critz he was to be counted on as a recruit to the graft ring, and Mr. Critz would have been well pleased, if he had not found his wife, when he reached home, seemingly equally satisfied with the outlook.

Sunday passed uneventfully but on Monday Mr. Critz felt a tingle of menace in the air. Mrs. Critz hummed as she worked, and was too cheerful to please Mr. Critz, and when he visited Obert Duff’s shop he found Obert stretched out in his barber chair snoring placidly.

A final check-up in the afternoon showed that the four aldermen— out of the total of six— were still true to the graft ring, and Plato Hammond could always be depended upon.

At dinner Mr. Critz asked Mrs. Critz if she meant to attend the council meeting but she said she wouldn’t.

“I dare say there’ll be enough folks at council  meetin’ without me,” she told him.

“We got it all tied up,” Mr. Critz informed her. “Wun’t be nothin’ to it but jammin’ the ord’nance through if Obert Duff don’t come across with the graft money. I guess we got you beat, Emmy.”

“Well, it’s a good thing to know when it’s no use fightin’. Things mostly turns out one way or another, no matter whut folks does. If I’m asleep when you come in wake me up and let me know how it come out,” said Mrs. Critz, and Mr. Critz said he would do so.

The council room had never held such a crowd as was jammed into it when Mr. Critz arrived there. Obert Duff had come early and had secured a good seat far up front. Mr. Binzer, his new star gleaming on his coat, met Mr. Critz.

“He ain’t come across, Roscoe,” he said. “I been goin’ up to him every minute or two but he don’t shell out. And I guess you'll have to set alongside of Plato and sort of run things.”

Mr. Critz advised Mr. Binzer to stand around where Mr. Duff could see him in case he decided to come across with the graft money at the last minute, when he saw that the ring meant business.

The meeting began stormily with cheers and hisses as Mr. Critz took a chair beside Mayor Hammond, and by the time Mr. Critz asked, “Mr. Town Clerk, is there any ord’nances to take up?” the confusion was most annoying.

“Hammer on the table with that mallet,” Mr. Critz shouted in Plato’s ear, and when Mayor Hammond said, “Hey?” Mr. Critz himself took the gavel and beat upon the table violently.

“Folks,” he said in the moment of silence, “we got an ord’nance here regardin’ pictures on barber-shop ceilin’s—”

But before he could say more his nephew Sammy came squirming through the crowd to the table.

“Uncle Roscoe! Uncle Roscoe!” he cried in great excitement. “Aunt Emma and a lot of ladies have got out the fire pump and they’re pumping the attic over Obert Duff’s barber shop full of water.”

“My goodness gracious!” exclaimed Mr. Critz. “Is that whut them women is up to? Folks, council meetin’ is adjourned. Obert, the ladies is wreckin’ your shop,”

Nothing more he said was heard, being lost as the crowd emptied itself into the street. They found Mrs. Critz, Mrs. Keech and a dozen other ladies of the Camville Garden and Poetry Club working the handles of the fire pump, while Essie Keech and Willie Lunk, on the roof of the shed back of the barber shop, poured a stream of water into the attic

When Obert Duff unlocked the barber shop he found that not only the offending pink pictures but the ceiling itself had fallen. There was no longer any sense in passing an ordinance; the first graft scheme of Mr. Critz was ruined.

“For the land’s sake, Emmy!” Mr. Critz said when he was at home again. “Town’ll have to pay for a new ceilin’ for Obert, seein’ Willie is a town employee and went and took the fire pump out. It’s goin’ to cost the town thirty or forty dollars. That’s no way to do.”

"Well, Roscoe, we got them legs off that ceilin' and we put a stop to your graftin’ off of Obert Duff,” said Mrs. Critz, “and I guess us ladies is satisfied, if you ain’t. I dare say the Camville Garden and Poetry Club can give an oyster supper and raise enough to buy Obert Duff a new ceilin’, even if whut we had to pay Willie Lunk did about empty our treasury.”

Mr. Critz looked at Mrs. Critz sharply.

“Whut say?” he demanded. “Whut did you pay Willie Lunk?”

“Well, Roscoe,” said Mrs. Critz, “we sent Essie Keech around to sort of get on the good side of him, and when she had him buyin’ candy for her, we had her give him ten dollars to let us take out the fire pump.”

“My goodness!” exclaimed Mr. Critz. “Just think of that! Why, he ain’t nothin’ but a dirty crook!”

There was a knock on the door, and Willie the Rat entered. His cap was pulled over one eye and a cigaret hung from his lower lip. He turned his head toward the stove and spat through his teeth, at the same time tossing a small roll of one-dollar bills to Mr. Critz.

“Say, boss, there’s your graft,” he said. “If it wasn’t for me you wouldn’t get nowhere, see? I shook ’em down, see? But, say, you listen to me! You look out for the dames, see? They ain’t nothin’ but a lot of crooks!”

Mr. Critz counted the money and put it in his vest pocket. Mrs. Critz uttered a snort of anger. Then Mr. Critz took the money from his pocket again and handed Willie a one-dollar bill.

“There’s your split, Willie,” he said in his gentle kindly voice. “It cheers a man up to find out a young feller like you is honest. You keep right on this way, Willie, and some day you’ll be mayor or somethin’.”

Then he went down-cellar for a pitcher of cider.

___________________

11: The Hunting of the Haggis

Guy Gilpatric

1896-1950

The Saturday Evening Post, 14 January 1939

CAPTAIN BALL smiled paternally as he watched his officers take their places at the supper table, but the smile was a trifle tremulous at the edges. In his throat— he ker-huffed, unresultfully— he could feel that same lump that was always there when he came down the lane to Kozey Kottage after a long voyage and saw Missus B. standing in the doorway beneath the mail-order trumpet vine, which they loved just as much as though it hadn't turned out to be a peculiarly repulsive sort of warty climbing squash. Ten years. Captain Ball was thinking. Yes, tomorrow'll make the tenth Christmas this very same crowd of us has been together in the Inchcliffe Castle. M'm—well, all of us is older now than we was then, but particularly me. Yes, most damned particularly me. He reminded himself that this was only because he'd had a head start of years on the rest of them, but there was scant consolation in the thought.

The steward brought in a covered dish and placed it on the table before him. "Ker-hem!" Captain Ball recalled himself brusquely. "Good evening, gentlemen, good evening!" He shook the crumbs and fragments of the noontime curry from his napkin. "Well, I s'pose we might as well learn the worst!" With the air of a coroner lifting a coffin lid at an overdue exhumation, he uncovered the dish and peered within. "Bwah!" he recoiled. "Curry! Again!" He sat back shuddering, and from the depths of his considerable paunch came murmurs and complaints, like the voices of a rebellious mob heard dimly in the distance. For some seconds he and the company hearkened to this ventriloquial tour de force; then, when the tumult and the shouting died, "Well, there you are, and I won't say 'pardon me'!" Captain Ball spread his hands. "You heard it, gentlemen, you heard my innermost sentiments, and I'm not ashamed to state I stand behind my stomach exactly 100 percent!"

"Bravvio!" applauded Mr. Glencannon, the chief engineer. "Yere spirit o' solidarity does ye proud, sir— e'en though I suspect ye're feeling as hollow as the rest o' us." He dragged the dish toward him, spooned out a heaping portion of curried rice and codfish, and fell to stowing it away in the hatchlike orifice beneath his walrus mustache.

"Hollow?" repeated Captain Ball. "Indeed, Mr. Glencannon, my stomach's as hollow as a cargo of bass drums! But my heart— ah, my heart is full to overflowing, both with joy and sadness!" He paused lamely and smiled that same tremulous smile. "Maybe you'll say I'm a sentimental old fool, gentlemen, but, you see, I was just figuring that this is the eve of our tenth Christmas together. Well, here we ought to be gloating over the bang-up dinner we ought to be having tomorrow and singing carols about good cheer and yew logs and what not and et cetera and so on— instead of which— ker-huff— where are we? Well,"— he turned to the mate— "literally, of course, I s'pose such sticklers for accuracy as you, Mr. Montgomery, would say we was right here in Aden harbor, anchored in five fathoms and a little over, and the chart would back you up. But what I really mean to say is— er— er— well, here it is the tenth anniversary of our happy family, as it were, but instead of looking forward to a fine old feed to celebrate it, our very constitutions is roaring riot and rebellion!"

"Yus!" agreed Mr. Montgomery, sourly, "and orl on account of the curry. Curry, curry, curry, day in, day out, and the nasty stuff is only a sort of lowgrade dandruff they comb out of 'orses anyway! Welp, I wish a very curry Christmas to the rest of yer! Myself, I'll eat my dinner ashore tomorrer or my name's not Chauncey Montgomery!"

"Eh? Ah, now, see here! You don't really mean that, do you?" demanded Captain Ball in dismay. "Oh, come, come, Mr. Montgomery; surely you wouldn't, you couldn't break up our regular Christmas family party on our tenth anniversary, will you? Maybe I'm silly, maybe I'm superstitious, but it's so unusual for the same old crowd to stick together so long in one ship and always get along so free from friction!"

"Per'aps," grunted Mr. Montgomery. "Orl I know is that I've got barnacles on my stomach from the fodder, and blisters on my soul from the friction." He glanced sidewise at Mr. Glencannon, who, from the shelter of his napkin, thumbed his nose in return. "No, captain, I've choked down all the curry and the hinsults I can stand! I'm going ashore tonight, I'm going to arsk Shapiro, the ship chandler, for the name of the least worst 'otel in Aden, and then I'm going to order a dinner for myself for tomorrow. I know I won't get turkey, I 'ope I won't get ptomaine poisoning, but damned if I'll get curry!"

"No, no, of course you won't!" sighed Captain Ball. "I s'pose it was really pretty selfish of me to try to dissuade you. But— ha-ha!— there's no fool like an old fool, eh? H'm'm. Ten years!" He essayed a forkful of the curry, but either it or the lump in his throat choked him, so he gave it up. "Well, let's change the subject and talk about something pleasant! Turkey, you said?" The sounds from within him soared to the wild crescendo of hunger marchers chanting the "International," then died on a gurgle of utter despair. "Ah, turkey! All roasted to a nice, rich tobacco-juice brown, with its abdomen stuffed with chestnuts and sausages and thyme and bread crumbs, like Missus B. always stuffs hers at home— though damme if I can ever remember whether the accent is on the 'ab' or the 'do.' She always makes a lovely, thick gravy out of the giblets."

"Lawks, 'ow delicious! The thought of it fair makes my teeth water!" declared Mr. Montgomery. "If we could only 'ave turkey with giblet gravy tomorrer, even watching Mr. Glencannon eat it couldn't spoil my happetite! But look,"— he pointed through the open doorway toward the black rock mountains which reared above the lights on Steamer Point— "Look! Why, blyme, yer'd find gold coins in the streets o' Glasgow before yer'd find a turkey in Aden!"

"A-weel," said Mr. Glencannon, "oot o' respect for the captain's vurra evident distress at yere decision, I'll owerlook for the moment the crude pairsonal slurs ye've just noo cast at me. And noturally, I willna attempt to dispute the fact that the turkey is a vurra noble and palatable bird. But all the talk o' stoomachs has reminded me that for great ceremoonial occasions— birthdays, bonquets, brawls and e'en such sacred, sentimental gatherings as Captain Ball was plonning for tomorrow— there's another dish fully as deleecious as the turkey. I refair, o' coorse, to the haggis. Noo, look ye, Muster Montgomery; I'll give ye a chonce to be decent for once in yere life, e'en though it sprains ye! If I guarontee to cook up a nice, ploomp haggis for our little party, will ye no' accede to the captain's cherished wishes and eat yere Christmas meal with him and the rest o' us?"

"M'm, well, that depends," said Mr. Montgomery, loftily. "Just wot the 'ell's a 'aggis?"

Mr. Glencannon gazed at him in astonishment mingled with pity. "The haggis," he explained with a spacious gesture, "the haggis, Muster Mate, is the fruit o' a romance o' lang, lang ago, involving the humble pudding and the lordly sossage. It is the culinary triumph o' Scotland, which is to say, o' the entire world! Oh, surely, my puir fellow, e'en in all yere pewling ignorance, ye dinna mean to say ye've ne're thrilled to the deathless lines o' Robert Burns in his Address to a Haggis? Er—

"Great chieftain o' the pudding race,

Aboon them a' ye tak' your place!

His knife see rustic Labour dight

And cut ye up w' ready sleight.

Trenching your gushing entrails bright

Lik' any ditch.

And then, oh what a glorious sight,

Warm-reekin', rich!"

"H'mph, it sounds ruddy nausyeating to me," said Mr. Montgomery. "Besides, leaving out the silly tupenny poetry, you've only 'arf answered the question I arsked yer in the first place—to wit, wot the 'ell's a 'aggis?"

"Yes, yes, tell him!" urged Captain Ball, eagerly. "Explain him the full modus operanda of how you prepare this— er— delicious Highland titbit, Mr. Glencannon!"

Mr. Glencannon squinted a fishy eye at the gnats which swarmed around the polished brass lamp above the table. "Weel, making the haggis is rideeculously sumple," he declared. "Ye merely need a certain amoont o' oatmeal, some onions, and a five-gallon bucket. Er"— he turned to the second engineer— "what else wud ye say was needed for a haggis, Muster MacQuayle?"

"Pepper," said Mr. MacQuayle. "Ye must have plenty of pepper. Losh, I can see my auld Aunty Meg in Killiecrankie making a haggis noo!"

"Oatmeal, onions and pepper— is that orl there is to it?" sneered Mr. Montgomery.

"Weel, proctically," said Mr. Glencannon, placidly filling his pipe, "though in enumerating the ingredients, ye left oot the five-gallon bucket. But once ye've got those four succulent essentials ready at hond, yere haggis is as guid as made. All that remains to do, then, is slaughter an ox, cut his hoofs off, skin him, rip his insides oot and—"

"Not an ox— a sheep!" Mr. MacQuayle objected. "Ye commence by chopping his head off. My Aunty Meg in Killiecrankie always did the job with an auld claymore whuch belanged to my great-grand father, Piper Jaimie McTooth, o' Stronachlachar. He went oot to India with the Argyll and Dumbartons in 1857 and won a bronze medal for getting shot in half at Lucknow. Aunty Meg cud fetch a sheep's head off with that auld claymore in one lock— squirp!— till the rheumatism cromped her style. After that, she'd sneak up on him through the heather and bosh him ower the head with a rock. While the sheep would be laying there groggy, she'd sit hersel' astroddle o' him with a cross-cut saw and—"

Mr. Glencannon frowned and raised a hand for silence. "Pairdon me, Muster MacQuayle," he said, "ox! Ye hong up yere ox and ye let his blud drain into the five-gallon bucket. His stoomach, his liver, his heart and all his heavier machinery ye put carefully to one side where the collies canna snotch them. His other, or auxiliary, mechanism is vurra useful to mak' glue oot of, so ye mustna throw any o' it awa'. Ah, losh, gentlemen"— Mr. Glencannon smacked his lips— "as ye can readily judge for yersels, the haggis is a vurritable feast for the gods!"

Mr. Montgomery shook his fists toward heaven. "But now, see 'ere," he fumed. "Never mind the collies and the glue— it's the 'aggis, the 'aggis I want to know about!"

"Haw, listen to him, captain!" chuckled Mr. Glencannon. "His eagerness betrays his oppetite, and I dinna blame him! Oh, he'll be here with us tomorrow with a fork in each hond, mark my wurrds!" He struck a match, applied it to his pipe and puffed thoughtfully before continuing. "Ye tak' the heart o' yere ox—"

"Sheep," said Mr. MacQuayle.

"Ox! Great swith, Muster MacQuayle, if—"

"Oh, my eye!" snapped Mr. Montgomery. "Get a'ead with it, can't yer?"

"Aye, glodly, if ye'll only stop interrupting! Ye tak' all the parts ye dinna plon to use for glue except the stoomach. Ye hash them up. Ye mix them with yere oatmeal, yere onions and yere pepper. Then ye throw the whole business into the five-gallon bucket, soshing it aroond with a broom hondle or a guid, stoot walking stick until it gives off a scupping sound, lik' when ye wade through the ooze in the bottom o' a dry dock. At this point, if ye care to, ye can add a sprig o' pursely and a few leaves o' rosemary, gently crushed betwixt the finger and the thumb, although discriminating haggis eaters o' the auld school maintain that this detrocts from the soobtile and deelicate flavor o' the whole."

"Ugh! Me, I'd add some disinfectant an 'eave the 'ole mess overboard!" declared Mr. Montgomery. "Yus, gorblyme, and I'd 'eave the bucket arfter it!"

Mr. Glencannon raised his eyebrows. "Muster Montgomery," he said, "pairmit me to obsairve that I think ye're vurra uncouth."

"Yes, shush, shush— softly, Mister Mate," Captain Ball admonished, pacifically. "So far, the haggis is raw, don't you see?... But— ker-hem— I mean to say, how do you cook it, Mr. Glencannon?"

"Ye cook it to a turn, sir," said the engineer. "For that, incidentally, ye must use a fire. But feerst ye pick up the ox's stoomach in yere left hond, grosping it firmly around the waistline, as in the auld-fashioned Viennese waltz. Then, with yere richt, ye stoof it full o' the stoof ye fish oot o' the five gallon bucket.... Do ye check wi' me, Muster MacQuayle?"

"Dom, no by no means!" blurted Mr. MacQuayle. "Ye dinna stoof the stoofing into an ox's stoomach at all; ye stoof it into a sheep's liver! My auld Aunty Meg in Killiecrankie—"

"Foosh to yere auld Aunty Meg in Killiecrankie!" Mr. Glencannon banged on the table and stamped on Mr. Montgomery's foot. "Come, mon, come; dinna let us bicker and quibble ower details! Instead, let us combine our talents in making a haggis for the captain's Christmas party and a treat for Muster Montgomery whuch I doot he'll have the guid taste to appreciate!"

"Now, never you mind about my taste!" said Mr. Montgomery, tartly. "I don't think either of you two Scotch cannibals 'ave got the foggiest notion of 'ow to make yer 'orrid 'aggis, and I wouldn't eat it anyway. Besides that, where'll you get the ox, the sheep or wotever else you need to make it with? The only animals I've seen in Aden is camels, and I could 'ardly see them for the ticks."

"Ticks dinna matter, but camels willna sairve," said Mr. MacQuayle, sullenly. "To mak' a proper haggis, ye must have a shee—"

"Oh, blosh and fuddlesticks!" shouted Mr. Glencannon, springing to his feet. "I'm at the end o' my patience!... Captain Ball, sir!" He turned to the shipmaster. "Here and noo I give ye my solemn promise to provide a Christmas dinner worthy o' our tenth anniversurra under your commond, and in spicht o' heel, I'll do it!" With a farewell snort at Mr. Montgomery, he stalked from the room, went over the side to the dinghy and rowed away into the night.

When the sound of the oars had died away in the distance, "Welp!" the mate leered sardonically. "That settles that—wotever it was! Now I'll just nip back to my room, put on a fresh suit o' whites, 'ail a bumboat and go ashore myself.... Sure you wouldn't like to 'ave a proper 'otel meal with me tomorrer, Captain Ball and the rest o' yer? Er"— he squirmed— "I mean, I don't suppose it could cost you more than about five bob apiece."

For a moment there was silence; then Captain Ball spoke for the crowd in a voice that quavered more than a little. "Why, no," he said, "no, thank you! I fancy we'd all rather eat together, here on the ship, like we've done for the past nine years, and— and as I was hoping you would, too, Mr. Montgomery! Tradition, sentiment, superstition— see what I mean? Damned silly of me, what? But— uh— well, anyway, m'boy, I really do hope you'll enjoy your Christmas dinner."

ii

AS Mr. Montgomery had remarked, Aden and its environs are anything but pastoral; lowing herds, bleating flocks and all else bucolic and edible are there as scarce as in the more arid purlieus of Hades. Instead of heading for this sterile shore, Mr. Glencannon rowed down the inner harbor toward the oil-bunkering berths, where, near the terminal buoy of the pipe line, a great gray vessel lay pale in the moonlight. She was the refrigerator ship Northern Princess, on her regular run from Majunga, Madagascar, to Marseilles with frozen meat. The still air around her throbbed to the muffled, monotonous pulsation of pumps, some of them handling the fuel oil, others driving through her complex metal arteries the chemicals which proofed her cargo against even such withering heat as there was that night in Aden.

"Losh!" murmured Mr. Glencannon, resting on his oars and measuring her bulk. "She's carrying enough dead oxen to mak' a haggis the size o' the Rock o' Gibraltar! Noo, if only Wee Wully Anstruther is still her engineer—"

From somewhere aft came thuds, shouted oaths and peals of ribald laughter. A bottle whizzed through the moonlight and plunged into the water like a three-inch shell.

"Haw!" chuckled Mr. Glencannon, "Wee Wully Anstruther's still in her, beyant the shadow o' a doot! I only hope he's not in one o' his tontrums, because I forgot to bring my bross knuckles."

He made fast the dinghy to the platform of the ladder, ascended to the deck and strode aft toward the sounds of disturbance. In the open doorway of the engineer's saloon he halted, amazed at the strange rite in progress within. Around the table at the center of the smoke-filled room stood a number of lumpy, ruddy-faced gentlemen, as well as a number of others slightly less lumpy and ruddy, but obviously equally tough. Mr. Glencannon identified the former as butchers and refrigeration engineers and the rest as the engine-room staff of the Northern Princess. All were shouting advice and encouragement to a diminutive four-striped officer who, blindfolded and with his hands bound behind him, was kneeling on the table apparently endeavoring to drown himself in a dish of consommé.

"He looks lik' Wee Wully," muttered Mr. Glencannon. "He is Wee Wully. But what in the world is he doing?"

Moving closer, he perceived that the diminutive one was lapping up the consommé with the thirst of the worn hart that panteth after the water brooks. At length, strangling but triumphant, he straightened up, a silver coin between his teeth.

"Four minutes, thirteen seconds!" announced somebody.

Amidst hoarse cheers, bonds and blindfold were stripped from the hero and he was assisted to the floor. Swaying slightly, he acknowledged the plaudits of the multitude and wrung out his sodden necktie.

"Anstruther!" exclaimed Mr. Glencannon, hurrying forward and shaking his hand. "How are ye, Wee Wulliam, how are ye?"

The little man blinked up at him uncertainly; then, "Colin Colcollin!" he proclaimed, raspingly. "Merry Chrishmash, Crolin, Mrerry Chrishmash!... Come, fill up the plate again, ladsh, and let my auld friend Grencrarron have a gro at it!"

"Oh, thonk ye, Wully; ye're really too kind!" Mr. Glencannon demurred. "I'd dearly love to tak' part in yere innocent little game, espeecially as I obsairve that the prize is a half crown. But to tell ye the honest truth, Wully, I sumply canna drink clear soup."

"Who osked ye to drink clear soup?" demanded Mr. Anstruther, truculently. "Who osked ye to drink thick soup? Who osked ye to drink green-turtle soup, pink-turtle soup, purtle-turtle soup or mocking-turtle soup? Thash no' soup in yon plate, ye gowk; it's whishky!"

"Eh?" Mr. Glencannon vaulted to the table, knelt before the dish and sniffed a magical aroma. "Why, it's Duggan's Dew o' Kirkintilloch!" he cried. "Come, blindfold me, gentlemen! Tie my honds!... There, noo! Ready, timekeeper? Go!"

He found the pastime distinctly to his taste, especially as his walrus mustache, acting like a sponge, augmented his natural prowess. So rapidly did he lower the level of the plate's contents that Mr. Anstruther, fearing for his own record, approached on tiptoe and restored it from a fresh bottle. Sensing despite his blindfold that he was the victim of sharp practice, Mr. Glencannon redoubled his efforts, emptied the plate and retrieved the half crown in the phenomenal time of four minutes flat.

The plaudits which acclaimed his exploit were perfunctory, and in them he sensed a vaguely hostile note. Moreover, his teeth were so firmly embedded in the half crown that he suspected it was lead.

"Dom!" rasped Mr. Anstruther, making a wry face. "Why, ye've qualified for the finals with yere vurra feerst try! But then, Glencannon, ye auld snake, ye always were a dangerous mon at parlor games and parties!"

"True," admitted Mr. Glencannon, disengaging the coin from his lower incisors and tossing it through the porthole. "As a matter o' fact," he raised his voice to make himself heard above the considerable din— "as a matter o' fact, Wully, it's precisely because o' a party that I've come aboord to consult ye. Ye see, I've promised to mak' a Christmas haggis."

"A haggis?" repeated Mr. Anstruther. "Ye mean a guid, auld, steaming, peppery, juicy, Heeland haggis? Weel, weel, weel, let's drink a drink to it! The only trooble is, where are ye going to get the billy goat's blodder?"

"A-weel," said Mr. Glencannon, "if I hoppened to want a billy goat's blodder, one o' the feerst places I'd look for it wud be in the neighborhood o' a billy goat. But why shud I want it?"

"Because, dom it, ye canna mix it, stoof it, cook it, have it or eat it withoot it!" asserted Mr. Anstruther. "I can't, eh? Who says I can't?" He arose, bit a crescent-shaped fragment out of the visor of his cap and sat down again. "Yes, yes, precisely! I've followed ye to a T, so noo ye can follow me to a whusky."

"Glodly!" said Mr. Glencannon. "However, Wully, I fear we dinna quite understond each other. I cudna use a billy goat's bladder, because I dinna want to mak' a futball, a bagpipe or a hot-water bottle. What I told ye I wanted to mak' was a haggis."

"A haggis?" Mr. Anstruther repeated again. "Ye mean a guid, auld, steaming, peppery, juicy, Heeland haggis? Weel, weel, weel, let's drink a drink to it! The only trooble is— er— er —Trooble? Ho! If it's trooble ye're looking for, ye ugly brute, ye've only to—"

"Noo, wait, Wee Wulliam!" Mr. Glencannon restrained him. "You and I are auld friends and ye're Bura Misteri Sahab o' the Northern Princess, the which is a vurritable Noah's Ark full o' frozen cattle. Weel, I was thinking that if ye could see yer way clear to lending me the loan o' a nice, tender dead ox oot o' yere cargo, I—"

Mr. Anstruther yawned, removed his trousers, pulled them over his head as though they were a nightshirt, thrust his arms through the legs and buttoned the fly snugly around his neck. Then he looked down at his bare, gnarled knees. "Why, look!" he bawled. "Look! There's somebody aroond here, there's some skulking thief aroond here, that has stole the vurra troosies off my breech!" He lurched forward and leveled an accusing finger at Mr. Glencannon. "There he is, lads!" he shouted. "Let's heave the scoondrel overboard!"

With a menacing growl they made for him. Mr. Glencannon snatched up a full whiskey bottle from the sideboard and, wielding it clubwise, fought his way to the door. He fled along the deck toward the ladder, the pack at his heels, but so hotly were they pressing him when he reached it that he dared not attempt to descend to his dinghy. Through alleyways, up and down companions, round and about the ship they sped, the decks drumming to their footfalls and the night made hideous with the sounds of hue and cry.

Turning a corner and momentarily out of sight of his pursuers, Mr. Glencannon slid halfway down a steep iron ladder and fell the remainder of the distance. Thanks to his presence of mind in clutching the bottle to his breast, there were only personal casualties. He found himself in a narrow, dimly lit passage at one end of which was a door marked Keep Out; This Means You! "Aye, but it doesna mean me!" he gasped, turning the knob. It was not, as he had surmised, a collision door, for despite its considerable thickness it was surprisingly light in weight. He stepped over the high sill, slammed the portal after him, and was in Stygian darkness. Instantly, miraculously, the sounds of pursuit were stilled; in fact, as he stood there straining his eyes and ears, he felt that the blackness was palpable, that it was packed in around him under pressure and that it shut him off from all the world. Here, at last, was sanctuary!

He lit his pocket flash. Its beam licked an ebonite panel upon which were various switches and instruments and a brass plate, engraved Handling Chamber, No. 3 Hold. "'Let there be licht!'" he quoted, closing several switches at once. Suddenly dazzled, he saw that he was in a spacious, white-enameled room. There were banks of pipes on the bulkheads, and from the deckhead above, chain hoists hung on curving steel tracks. The tracks ran from doors in the port and starboard sides of the vessel, converging amidships at the entrance to the hold.

"H'm, weel, it's all vurra tronquil and commendably saniturra," he remarked. "I'll mak' mysel' comfortable till yon murderers get tired o' sairching for me, and then I'll sneak oot. Whoosheroo, it's a job to mak' a haggis!" He sat with his back against the pipes and broached his bottle. The silence was broken by a liquid, gurgling sound. This was natural enough in the circumstances, but when he had recorked the bottle, the gurgling continued.

"Strange!" he mused. "Uncanny! Weel, they're peculiar craft, these great floating ice chests! Noo, evidently this so-called Hondling Chamber is insulated, so that frozen meat can be unloaded through it withoot opening the hatches and raising the temperature in the hold proper. They sumply open yon door amidships, hook their oxen on the chain hoists and drog them ower to the door on whichever side they hoppen to be discharging from. I wonder— noo, I wonder— if a mon cud steal an ox oot o' here singlehonded? O' coorse, if Wee Wully Anstruther and his butchers and his bondits shud catch him at it— brhh!"

The very thought made his blood run cold, so he fortified himself with a few thermal units from the bottle. Feeling no reaction, he consumed a few more. As he did so, the neck of the bottle rattled dismally against his teeth, and vice versa. "Why, guid losh, mon, yere hond is treembling lik' a leaf! Ye're— ye're treembling all ower! Can it be ye're in for a bout o' fever?" He felt a dull ache across his shoulder blades and another farther down. "Spinal meningitus!" he gasped, endeavoring to rise. "But, heavens! I canna stond up! Paralysis! Help!" he bawled. "Anstruther! Somebody! Help!"

He realized with a surge of horror that no voice, no human sound, could penetrate those insulated walls.

"Aloss!" he moaned. "They'll unload my puir cadaver at Marseels with the rest o' the meat! Christmas Eve— ah, what a nicht to die!"

Resignedly, he bowed his head and buried his face in his hands. Soon he was conscious of a painful constriction in his armpits and across the chest. His first diagnosis was pleurisy; then he discovered that he was leaning forward into the slack of his jacket like a papoose in a blanket, and that the back and shoulders, crusted with hoarfrost, were firmly frozen to the pipes.

"Ah, come!" he growled, his breath turning to steam in the icy air. "What silly horseplay is this?" He undid the buttons and squirmed out of the garment, which hung rigid as a knightly panoply on the wall. "Ho, I see it all, noo! Anstruther has turned on the freezing system— that explains the gurgling! He intends to freeze me to death alive!" With difficulty he unstuck his jacket from the brine pipes, stamped upon it until it regained some measure of flexibility, and donned it. Skidding across the frosty floor, he made for the instrument panel. A dial, marked Fahrenheit Temperature, Handling Chamber, registered 26 degrees. Even as he scanned it, the needle dropped to 24, then to 22, and so continued downward. "Och, horrors!" croaked Mr. Glencannon, holding his bottle to the light, gauging its contents and taking a mammoth sowp of them. "If I'm no rescued soon, I'll have to put mysel' on half rations! Where are the Soviet ice-breakers? Where are the Yonkee planes? Where are the Alaskan dog teams, the Canadian Quintriplets and the doughty Odmiral Byrd? Am I to be abondoned here to freeze?"

Very cautiously he unlatched the door by which he had entered and pressed his ear to the crack. "Noo, two o' ye wait richt here," he heard Mr. Anstruther's rasping voice. "If he comes down this way, clout him ower the head and—"

Mr. Glencannon let the latch click back into place. He crossed to the door of the hold and swung it open. From the shadowy spaces beyond came a gust like the polar breath of Antarctica.

"Ah, foosh!" he cringed, fumblingly uncorking the bottle. "Grim death confronts me where'er I turn! I'd better drink up this whuskey before it freezes, for my teeth are chottering so I cudna chew it!"

He was about to close the door when he discerned within the hold a level expanse of beef carcasses so vast that its limits were lost in the gloom. It was the top layer of the cargo; the legs of the beasts, hewn off to stumps in precise conformity to market specifications, jutted up in ranks as orderly and rigid as the Grenadier Guards on parade. Here, dead, frozen and far from their lush native pastures, was a whole Malagasy herd! Here was meat to feed a multitude! Here, to a quester after haggis, was El Dorado!

For a moment, Mr. Glencannon stood gnawing at the frozen fringe of his mustache and expelling the brittle fragments. Then he dragged the fall of one of the chain hoists into the hold, fixed the hook in the nearest carcass and hoisted it clear. Pulling, hauling and butting it with his shoulders, he slid it along the overhead conveyor rail to the starboard side. He swung open the insulating panel which covered the loading door in the hull and unscrewed the dozen iron dogs which secured the clamps.

"Noo, then!" he panted. "All I've got to do is open it, let my ox doon into the water and climb doon the chain mysel'. It'll be a short swim forward to the dinghy; I'll row it back, tak' my ox in tow and return in triumph to the Inchcliffe Castle. But I'd best turn oot the lichts, lest Anstruther and his thugs shud spot me."

One by one he flipped the switches; the lights went out and simultaneously the liquid gurgling ceased. "Shish-shish!" he simpered, blushing in the darkness. "Weel, wud ye believe it? It must have been I, mysel', that turned on all the winter weather in the feerst place!"

Slowly, soundlessly, he swung back the hull door and stood gratefully in the flood of tropic air which wafted through the opening. But though the heat was a benison to his body, it had a strange effect upon his brain.

"Whoe!" He swayed dizzily. "Hold hard, Glencannon, hold hard! You've had only a little ower a bottle and a half o' whusky, but anybody'd think ye'd had a drap too much!"

Not without difficulty he slung the carcass clear of the side and lowered it until the slack in the chain indicated that it was afloat. It lay on its back with its stump legs in the air. He clambered down the chain and, still grasping it, stood on the buoyant beef while he took stock of the situation. He could see his dinghy bobbing at the ladder foot with Wee Wully Anstruther drowsing in the stern of it. Due to the manner in which he was wearing his trousers, Mr. Anstruther had a sinister, hunchbacked look about him. Even more sinister, however, was the twelve-inch Stillson wrench which lay ready to his hand on the thwart.

"Ho, dearie me!" groaned Mr. Glencannon. "What's to be done the noo?" He moved a trifle aft along the beef and sat down to lower its metacenter and increase its stability. This brought its neck out of water like a clipper's bow, but caused the after portion to float almost awash. To avoid wetting his feet, Mr. Glencannon stepped down into the vent in the belly as though it were a cockpit and seated himself in the stern sheets. "Haw, vurra snoog," he murmured, conning the little craft with an appreciative eye. "Vurra tidy and vurra shipshape. If only it had a bit more sheer and another strake o' freeboard, it wud be the most seaworthy ox in all the Gulf o' Aden. What more cud an auld sailor osk?" He squinted across the harbor and distinguished the lights of the Inchcliffe Castle. "Foosh to the dinghy, they'll bring it back when they've sobered up. I'll novigate hame in my ain haggis!" He unhooked the chain hoist and, paddling with his hands, made off into the night.

"Ah, but it's grond to be at sea again." He sniffed the breezes gratefully. "Although come to think o' it, I havena been ashore since we left Mombasa." He raised his voice in a rollicking blue water chantey. He was putting his whole soul into the chorus of "yo heave ho's!" when he realized that his lingual mechanism was actually giving off the words and music of a sentimental ballad that he recalled as "Sweet Mary of Argyll."

Weel, weel, let it have its ain way; he thought, tolerantly. After all, Sweet Mary is a beautiful auld song. Listen. But he listened vainly, for now, despite himself, he was reciting Burns' "Address to a Haggis."

"Ah, swith!" he growled, when the poem ended. "'Tis all vurra oggrovating! I suspect there must have been a certain amoont o' alcohol in Wee Wully's whusky!"

Whether or not the suspicion was justified, he found it increasingly difficult to hold to his course or even to remember where the course lay. From time to time he paused in his splashing to take a star sight, but the stars were swooping and dipping in the celestial vault, playing tag with the lights on shore and generally behaving in a scandalous manner.

"Peerplexing!" he said, lifting his hands out of the water and raising them smartly on high in the Toss Oars position prescribed in the Royal Navy. "I almost wish I had Montgomery aboord to novigate this craft for me. But, no, on second thocht, no! Though I'm forced to associate with him on the Inchcliffe Castle, domned if I'd tolerate him on my ain private yacht! But where, oh, where is the Inchcliffe Castle?" He strained his eyes into the night and descried Djebel Ishan and its brood of lesser peaks looming black against the sky. His view of them was somewhat obstructed by a row of tree trunks rising out of the water in the near foreground. "Tut, tut!" he objected. "There's no forest in the middle o' Aden harbor, and therefore I doot if I see one. There's some sort of a swundle, here, or pairhops it's a mirage. But"— he reached out and touched the nearest trunk— "but no; it's solid!"

There was a soft swish, a gleam of phosphorescence on the starboard beam. Something struck his frail craft amidships, causing it to tremble from brisket to rump. The sea gushed onto his lap through a gaping puncture just below the water line.

"Torpedoed!" he cried. "We're holed in the tenderloin! All honds abandon ship!"

He scrambled to his feet. The beef rolled gunwales-under. To prevent it capsizing, Mr. Glencannon threw his arms around the tree trunk. There was a second shock, a ripping, rending sound and lo, the carcass was dragged from under him by an eight-foot shark! Clinging to the tree with everything but his eyelashes, he saw the great fish tearing at the meat, saw it joined by another and another, and watched in horror as they churned the water to foam a scant yard beneath his wincing coattails.

"Quick!" he urged himself. "Get higher, mon, get higher! Pull yersel' up onto a limb!"

He groped overhead and grasped a heavy, square-hewn timber. Ho realized, then, that he was not on a tree at all, but on one of the supporting piles of a wharf. He hoisted himself to the moonbathed planking and sank down in a state of collapse.

"Whurra!" he panted. "'Tis a sorra, thonkless tosk to mak' a haggis! Why, noo that I come to think o' it, e'en yon ox had all o' his machinery removed and so was useless anyway! If it wasna for my promise to guid auld Captain Ball and my loathing for that snipe o' a Montgomery, I'd say foosh to the whole domned party! But noo, let's see, let's see!"

iii

MESSRS. Raoul and Cyril Shapiro (Shapiro Brothers, Ltd., Shipping Suppliers to H.M. Navy, Contractors to Leading Mail, Passenger and Freight S.S. Lines, General Chandlers, Furnishers and Direct Importers of Fresh Provisions. Shapiros' Prices Please and Shapiros' Service Satisfies) were just about to close up the office in their premises on the Aden Crescent when they were visited by Mr. Montgomery.

"Good evening, gempmen," said the mate. "I'm orff the Inchcliffe Castle, that C. & C. ship that's laying out there by the Fairway buoy. You'll remember us, of course; our steward got drunk and bought a 'undredweight of curry powder off yer on the voyage out. That's why I've just stopped in to arsk yer if yer could direct me to a 'arfway decent 'otel in this 'ere town where a chap could eat 'is Christmas dinner tomorrer without choking on it."

"Well," said Mr. Raoul Shapiro, "if I may express myself candidly, sir—although, for obvious reasons, I must beg of you not to quote me— the hotels of Aden are uniformly of a distinctly inferior order."

"They are, indeed, lousy," agreed Mr. Cyril Shapiro. "But, why, sir, if I may venture to ask, are you thinking of eating your Christmas repast in Aden when such a magnificent meal will be served aboard your own ship?"

"Eh?" said Mr. Montgomery. "Magnificent meal? On the ruddy Inchcliffe Castle? 'Ere, now, don't make me weep!"

"Yes, yes, on the Inchcliffe Castle," affirmed the other, referring to a ledger on the table. "The gentleman, our valued client, said he was giving a party for his colleagues and insisted on everything being of the very best. Er— two tinned Gold Seal Royal Banquet Roasting Turkeys, three tinned The Chef of Windsor Castle's Own Recipe Plum Puddings, five tins of Extra Selected Imported French Asparagus, four boxes of The London Jockey Club's Private Brand Havana Cigars, three cases of— er— yes, pepper, four cases of Duggan's Dew of Kirkintilloch Whisky—"

"Duggan's Dew? Four cases? Lawks!" gasped Mr. Montgomery. "Why, it must 'ave been the chief hengineer! And you say he bought all that stuff for—for the party 'e's giving tomorrer? Think of it! Well, I always did say 'e was a decent sort, bless 'is dear old soul!"

"Yes, quite," said Mr. Shapiro. "He came in here a trifle— er— under the weather, if I may say so, sir. Gave us to understand that he was looking for an ox's— er— stomach. But when he saw the vast assortment of fancy high-grade delicacies on our shelves, he favored us with his most valued order."

"Turkey! Sparrowgrass! Plum pudding!" Mr. Montgomery was rolling his eyes. "Of course I know 'e can afford it, but orl the same, I must say it's right down jolly noble of 'im! Wot a meal! Wot a Christmas! And— yus, wot a pal!"

When he had gone, "Phooey!" said Mr. Raoul Shapiro. "Am I glad to hear what he said about that Scotchman being able to afford it! After all, you know, he only signed a personal chit for it, so I was worrying maybe we was stuck. What was his name again?"

Mr. Cyril Shapiro consulted the sprawling signature in the chit book. "Chauncey Montgomery," he read.

________________

12: Climbing Death

Raoul Whitfield

1896-1945

Black Mask July 1932,

ALWIN THREADED his way slowly between the table-crowded Pasig Café; his stubby fingers were moving the thin stem of a palm fan and his fat face was beaded with perspiration. Jo Gar looked up from his tall claret and widened his blue-gray eyes slightly. It was seldom anyone in Manila saw Alwin frown; the big man was exceedingly good-natured. Yet he was frowning now.

He turned sidewise and his bulk rocked a table as he squeezed between two of them. An empty glass crashed to the polished floor of the café, but Alwin did not even turn to look at it. He came on slowly until he reached the table at which Jo Gar sat. With his eyes on Jo he pulled out the other chair; it creaked under his weight.

The Island detective smiled faintly. “It is the curry that you eat that gives you such weight,” he said.

Alwin paid no attention to him. He lighted what was left of the cold, twisted cigar between his thick lips His stubby fingers took it away from his teeth and he leaned towards Gar.

“I have just had a telegram from Rooder,” he said. “Jack Branders is dead.”

Jo Gar’s eyes became less almond shaped as he widened them on the black ones of Roger Alwin.

“Branders dead,” he said very slowly. “It was an— accident?”

Alwin’s eyes grew hard. “He crashed in his airplane,” he said softly and in a strange tone. “He was taking off from that field near his plantation house, if you want to call that fruit place of his a plantation. Something went wrong. The plane went over on a wing, crashed. Perhaps only one hundred feet. Branders was dead when Carter and Tate got to the ship, after hearing the crash. They were in the house taking a siesta. That’s all that was in the telegram.”

Jo Gar shook his head slowly. Alwin wiped perspiration from his face with a large handkerchief. The ceiling fans made faint tinkling sounds and from the Calle Diaz came the shrill cries of the native nut sellers. Heat came into the café in waves, and the ceiling fans distributed them.

The Island detective said: “It is too bad— I had heard that Branders intended to stop flying.”

Alwin’s black eyes seemed very small. “He called me this morning at ten o’clock and asked me to find a buyer for the plane,” he said grimly. “He said he would never fly again. He wanted me to find a buyer quietly, and he said he didn’t intend to tell anyone on the plantation that he was going to quit.”

Jo Gar whistled very softly. His eyes read the thought back of Alwin’s. That thought was that Branders was known as a man of decision. He took time in making decisions, but once made there was never any change. Drink had almost beaten him before he had decided never to touch liquor again. He had decided one evening at the Manila Club. So far as anyone the Island detective knew was concerned, he had never been seen to drink liquor again. His house-boy had stolen from him, after five years of service. Branders liked the house-boy, but he told him that if he ever stole again, he would send him to Bilibid. He caught the house-boy, almost a year later, in the act of stealing some small silver change. He had sent him to Bilibid— the boy was still in prison. There were other cases.

The Island detective spoke very softly: “Did he tell you why he intended never to fly again?”

The fat man nodded; his eyes were very grim. “He has wanted to marry a woman in England— for several years. She has refused again and again. This morning in his mail there was a letter saying she would marry him. He intended to take no more risk— lately he has had several narrow escapes. The country out there is not good for flying.”

Jo Gar said steadily. “He did not say anything about having one last flight?”

Alwin pounded a fist on the wood of the table, and glasses jumped about. He got his big head nearer Jo’s.

“Damn it— I tell you he said he was through! ‘I’ll never fly again!’ he said. And he said it that way. I tell you he meant he was through.” Jo nodded and ran browned fingers through his graying hair. He shifted his small, slender body a little, and reached into a pocket of his duck suit for a loose, brown-paper cigarette. He did not speak.

The big man said: “I want you to go up there, Señor Gar. When can you start?”

The Island detective looked thoughtfully at the big clock on a bare wall of the café. It was almost four o’clock. He said:

“I can go by train to Carejo— and I think there is a train at six. I will be there almost at midnight, and someone from the plantation can meet me and drive me over.”

Alwin nodded. “There are three white men there,” he said very carefully. “Erich Rooder, the German, and Bill Carter and Harry Tate, both Americans. Know any of them?”

Jo Gar shook his head. “I’ve seen Rooder and Tate, at the Manila Hotel, but not for months.”

Alwin spoke softly. “They haven’t come in from the plantation for months. The last time Branders came in he didn’t speak of them, or of Carter. Never mentioned them.”

The Island detective lighted the cigarette he had placed between his thin lips.

“It is your idea that Branders did not intend to fly again, yet that he did fly. You think he might have been forced to fly?”

Alwin frowned. “Branders was a good business friend of mine. I think something went wrong at the plantation. Something that made him change his mind. I want to know what it was.”

Jo Gar spread his browned hands in a gesture of acceptance. He smiled just a little.

“It is my business,” he said quietly. “I shall be at the plantation by midnight. It is called Plantation Rosita, I believe.”

Alwin nodded, his eyes still grim. “The woman he loved was named Rosita,” he said. “He was mad about her. I know. And I know that when he said he would never fly again, I understood why. And I know he didn’t intend to fly again.”

Jo Gar looked narrowly at the glowing tip of his cigarette. He said nothing.

The big man frowned. “What do you think, from what I have told you?” he asked.

The Island detective shrugged. “It is strange,” he said. “Yet, except for one thing I would say that Branders had changed his mind, had gone up for one I last flight. And had crashed.”

Alwin spoke very quietly. “And what is the one thing?”

The Island detective raised his eyes and watched a ceiling fan as it slowly circled.

“It is the worst time of the hot season,” he replied. “Since Branders called you at ten, and since you have already heard from Herr Rooder that he is dead, he must have made the flight at the worst time of day. Greater heat and more difficult air. And the ones who heard the crash were taking their siesta. It is very strange that Branders was not taking his, too. He is a veteran and should not be foolish.”

Alwin said: “I can afford to pay a good fee, Señor Gar. But if I were you— I would not go up there unarmed. Personally— I think he was trying to escape from something—”

Jo Gar shrugged. “A crash while trying to escape from something— that is not murder,” he said gently. “And it would be very difficult to prove.”

Alwin swore thickly. “It might not be difficult to prove it to me,” he muttered. “I’ll handle it in my own way.”

The Island detective looked at the big clock again. He rose slowly from the chair.

“I will telegraph you from Carejo, as soon as I learn something of importance,” he said. “If I think it was an accident—I will wire that it was an accident.”

Alwin muttered to himself, then said more clearly: “Take a gun along—there might be another accident.”

Jo Gar’s eyes were very almond-shaped and small. “It is one of the simple reasons for carrying a gun,” he said tonelessly. “The chance of an accident.”

Erich Rooder was a tall, lean man with blond hair and a blond mustache. His eyes were blue and his face round for his build. The sun had burned him brown; he wore a soiled khaki shirt, khaki trousers and a khaki sun helmet. He shook hands with Jo, after the Island detective had descended from the train. His face was serious.

“Hello, Señor Gar,” he said. “I’ve seen you around Manila, of course. This is a bad business.”

Jo Gar smiled a little. “Death is always bad,” he said. “It has the feeling of finality.”

Rooder’s blue eyes narrowed a little. He led the way towards a battered flivver, behind the wheel of which sat a Filipino of middle age. He opened a rear door and Jo got in. The sky was cloudless and there was a crescent moon. It was very hot.

When the flivver jerked forward along the dirt road that led from the station Rooder spoke thoughtfully.

“I was a bit puzzled by Alwin’s wire saying you were coming out here. Of course, Alwin was a good friend of Brander’s. But I didn’t know you were an expert on airplanes.”

Jo Gar smiled. “I’m interested in them,” he replied. “Alwin thought I might learn something from the wreckage.”

Rooder’s eyes remained half closed. He looked ahead, and not at Jo Gar. The headlights showed the white dirt of the road, and thick, tropic foliage on each side. The country was hilly, and the road rough. They traveled at fair speed.

“My idea is that the heat got Jack,” Rooder said steadily. His voice had a faint, guttural quality. “The thing that beats me is why he went up when he did— a half hour after noon. The hottest time of the day.”

Jo Gar frowned. “Has he ever done it before?” he asked.

Rooder shook his head. “Not that I know of,” he replied. “Bill and Harry were doing siesta. I was taking a shower, and with the water making racket coming down, and a lot of it in my ears— I didn’t hear the crash. The Filipinos were in their quarters, but a Chinese cook for the hands was getting some water outside, and saw the plane go up. It seemed to bank and fall sidewise, on a wing. The nose dropped and then the crash came. The engine was running all the time, apparently— that’s why I think Jack fainted at the controls.”

Jo Gar nodded. “He wasn’t ill?” he asked.

Rooder said: “He had a touch of fever— dengue. But he was pretty strong, you know. He hadn’t said anything about taking the ship up. I thought he was taking siesta— so did Bill and Harry. It was a bad smash and he was dead when they got him out of the wreckage. The plane didn’t burn.”

“The Chinese who saw the plane fall—what did he do?” Jo Gar asked.

Rooder frowned deeply. “He got scared, of course—and ran towards the plantation house. Harry and Bill met him, and the three of them went out to the wreck. Jack was pretty badly smashed up.”

Jo offered Rooder one of his brown-paper cigarettes, and they both lighted up.

“No urgent business, or anything that would have caused Branders to fly anywhere in a hurry?” the Island detective asked.

Rooder shrugged. “Not that I know of— and I probably would have known. Personally, I think he had a stronger touch of the fever than he thought. Maybe he went a little off his head and thought he wanted to fly. He might have fainted, or the ship might have just hit a bad spot and side-slipped down.”

Jo nodded. The flivver bumped along over the rough road, made a turn and started up a fairly steep grade. Rooder said slowly:

“We’re all pretty upset about it, naturally. And we can’t help thinking that Alwin seems to feel there is more to it than just an accident.”

Jo Gar’s gray-blue eyes stared blankly ahead. “Why?” he asked softly.

Rooder made a gesture with his lean hands. “You’re a private detective,” he said. “He sent you up here.”

The Island detective smiled. “It is because of my knowledge of planes,” he replied. “Naturally, Alwin would like to know what caused the accident, if possible.”

Rooder looked straight ahead. “Naturally,” he agreed. “He was a good friend. But I doubt that you’ll learn anything more than I’ve told you.”

Jo Gar continued to smile slightly. “It is quite certain that I will not,” he said very slowly, “if there is nothing more than that to learn.”

Carter and Tate were about the same size— tall, well-built Americans. Carter was dark and thin faced, with a good chin. Tate had brown hair and eyes; he walked with a slight limp. They sat now, in wicker chairs in the living-room of the rambling plantation house. Tate spoke in a flat, almost toneless voice.

“The last I saw of Jack was about twenty minutes before the crash. He was going into his room, and said he was going to try to get some sleep. The heat has been fierce— he had a touch of dengue. Not much of one. Bill saw him about ten minutes before I did. Neither of us heard him leave the house, though he must have gone within five minutes or so after I saw him. The field is about ten minutes away. The ship is kept under a canvas hangar, but she was always ready for the air— that is, loaded with gas and oil.”

Jo Gar said slowly: “Always ready— why was that?”

Bill Carter spoke in his rather heavy tone. “Jack liked to feel he could always work the electric starter and get right off the ground. If he was out on a long flight he always fixed her for the air, before he left the hangar.”

Jo Gar looked at the low ceiling of the room. “Why do you suppose he felt the ship must always be ready for flight?” he asked steadily.

Carter and Tate exchanged glances, with little expression in the eyes of either. Erich Rooder shrugged.

“There was no reason, Gar,” he said a little sharply.

“It was just a habit with him. Time didn’t mean anything— and no one was after him, if that’s what you think.”

Jo Gar smiled with his lips. “I do not think,” he said pleasantly. “I ask questions.”

There was a little silence. Then Jo said quietly:

“So far as you three men know Branders had no enemies.”

Carter and Tate shook their heads. Rooder said in his guttural voice:

“Not an enemy. Everyone liked him.”

Jo Gar nodded. “Yet he always kept his plane ready for the air, and today he flew at the worst possible time.”

Carter stood up abruptly, his face twisted. “Look here, Señor Gar—” he started, but Rooder interrupted.

“Take it easy, Bill. Alwin has sent Gar up here to find out what happened. Gar is a detective, and he approaches death with the idea that it couldn’t very well be caused by an accident— ever.”

Jo Gar’s eyes held little expression. “At the moment I am more curious about Branders’ motive for the sudden flight, at such a time, than in the cause of the ship crash,” he said calmly.

Tate said: “My theory is that he felt like flying— the fever made him restless. He went out and flew. There was an accident. You’ve seen his body— no bullet holes in it, are there?”

Jo shook his head. “No bullet holes,” he agreed. “His head was badly battered and there are bones broken. I think he was killed instantly.”

Rooder nodded. “We had Doctor Cordozo over from his place.

He said death was instantaneous.”

Jo Gar looked at his wristwatch. It was almost three o’clock.

“I think I shall sleep in the room you have so kindly had prepared for me,” he stated as he stood up. “In the morning, as soon as it is light, I shall want to see the plane wreckage. It has not been touched?” Tate spoke nastily. “Certainly it’s been touched— we had to pull things apart to get him out of the wreck.” Jo Gar nodded. “Naturally,” he agreed.

Rooder spoke grimly. “But if there any bullet holes in the wings or wood—they’ll still be there for you, Señor.”

The Island detective let his eyes move from one face to another.

He was smiling almost pleasantly.

“I do not expect to find any bullet holes,” he said quietly. “That would be too much of a piece of luck.”

Tate’s eyes were very small and hard.

“Just what do you mean by that?” he demanded.

Jo Gar bowed slightly. “Nothing,” he said very precisely. “Very often I mean nothing by what I say.”

Rooder led the way from the room, and there was silence except for footfalls. Tate and Carter remained behind. At the room that had been prepared for the Island detective, Rooder stood aside.

“I am older than Bill and Harry,” he said. “I’ve been in the Islands longer. The fact that Alwin sent a detective out here doesn’t bother me so much. My feeling is that the crash was an accident.”

Jo Gar smiled. “It would seem that way,” he agreed. “Branders was a wealthy man?”

Rooder shrugged. “He wasn’t poor,” he replied.

A kerosene lamp gave wavering light to the room. Night tropical sounds reached the two men. A lizard moved across the ceiling, making a sound at intervals like soft kissing.

“There was a will?” Jo said slowly.

Rooder’s voice was toneless. “Yes,” he said. “I happen to know about it. Branders had only a few relatives, distant. He didn’t care anything about them. He left most of his money— a couple of hundred thousand— to Roger Alwin. The plantation here was left to us.”

Jo Gar said very quietly: “Us?”

Rooder said: “A half interest to me— and a quarter each to Harry and Bill. We got along very well together— Jack liked us enough to do that. He knew we’d keep things going.”

Jo Gar said: “The fruit is good?”

He could hear Rooder breathing heavily. “Fine,” the German replied. “About the best yield we’ve ever had.”

The Island detective looked towards the screened windows of the room.

“How much would you say the plantation was worth— counting the fruit, of course?”

Rooder said instantly: “Around a hundred thousand— probably more than that.”

There was silence, then the German spoke slowly: “And now you have your motive for this murder, Señor Gar.”

The Island detective smiled and shook his head. He said in a gentle tone:

“No— now I have a possible motive for a possible murder.”

Rooder bowed his head slightly. “Good night, Señor Gar,” he said.

Jo stood very still.

“Good night, Herr Rooder,” he said pleasantly.

Rooder went along the corridor; his sandals made faint slap sound. Jo Gar inspected his automatic, removed his duck coat and stretched out beneath the mosquito netting on the bed. He did not undress. At intervals he heard the murmur of voices in the living-room. Then he heard them no more. A door slammed, somewhere in the house. Jo Gar breathed very softly:

“Alwin gains several hundred thousand. Rooder fifty thousand. Tate and Carter twenty-five thousand apiece. Because there was an accident, and Branders was killed.”

His gray-blue eyes were half closed in an ironical smile. He said very slowly:

“Branders might have lived many years— if there had been no accident.”

After that he dozed for a while. At four o’clock he rose, pushed the mosquito netting aside, and got his small flashlight from a bag. He changed to duel trousers that were black and put on a black shirt. Then he removed a screen noiselessly from a window, waited a short time, climbed outside. The room was on the level with the patio. The crescent moon made light, and there were the stars. He moved very quietly away from the house, in the direction that Rooder had told him the field and the wrecked plane were. He moved slowly, carefully. He was less than five hundred yards from the house, in a fairly thick palm grove, when he noticed a red glow ahead. He moved more rapidly up a slope. The crackling sound reached his ears before he was at the crest of it. The glow was becoming steadily brighter. There was a sudden roar.

Jo Gar broke into a trot. When he reached the crest of the palm studded slope he got to his knees and crawled along. There was another explosion, and then he was looking down at the small, level field. At the far end of it the wreckage of the plane was making a bright blaze. Pieces of it, sections, had been flung some distance by the explosion. The sky was reflecting the glow. In the direction of the house, behind him, he heard shouts.

He smiled grimly, lying motionless and watching the plane burn. After a few minutes he parted his thin, colorless lips and said softly: “So often when there is one accident— there is very quickly another.

Dawn light and the first heat that came with it was in the living-room when Jo Gar entered it. Rooder sat staring at the waxed floor; he looked up quickly when the Island detective came into the room.

“We were looking for you,” he said sharply. “We went to your room, but you weren’t there.”

Jo Gar smiled slightly. “All three of you?” he asked pleasantly.

Rooder frowned. “As it happened, the three of us did go to your room together,” he said. “The plane burned— I suppose you know that?”

The Island detective nodded. “I was restless— couldn’t sleep. So I thought I’d go along and have a look at the wreckage. Cooler at night.” He watched a flickering expression in the German’s blue eyes.

Rooder said tonelessly.

“You get there before she burned?”

The Island detective shook his head. “I was on my way when the fire started,” he replied. “What do you suppose caused it?”

Rooder swore. “I suppose the crash crossed up the electric system in some way. Short circuit— something burned out and the doped material went up. Takes some time for that to happen— a wire might have been sizzling since the crash.”

The Island detective nodded. “It might have,” he agreed quietly.

Rooder drew a deep breath. “You left your room through a window, Señor Gar. You didn’t want any of us to know where you were going. And then the plane burned. I suppose you think she was set off, so that you couldn’t find the bullet holes in the fabric?”

Jo Gar shook his head. “But all three of you came to my room to tell me that the plane was burning,” he pointed out pleasantly. “I could hardly suspect any of you.”

Rooder’s blue eyes smiled coldly. He stretched out in the wicker chair and watched the detective. After a short silence Jo said:

“How about a woman, Rooder? Could there have been one interested in Branders— or could he have been interested in one?”

Rooder shrugged, then shook his head. “I never knew of one,” he replied. “He never spoke of one— to any of us.”

The Island detective sighed slowly “He had a touch of dengue,” he said tonelessly. “He felt like flying— and he took off. The worst time of the day. Something went wrong, and he crashed and was killed. A short circuit caused delayed fire, and the plane was destroyed.”

Rooder shrugged. “That is what I think,” he stated. “And Alwin simply meant that an investigation should be made— which I understand. He— and the three of us here gain material things by Branders’ death, of course.”

Jo Gar nodded. Tate came into the room, wiping his face with a handkerchief. He was frowning.

“Going to be another scorcher, as usual,” he said. “Where’s that damned Chink cook, Erich? I want something to eat, and I can’t find him.”

Rooder widened his eyes. Jo Gar inspected the brown-paper of a cigarette. Carter entered the room and sat down. He looked narrowly at Jo, but he did not speak.

Rooder said: “Won should be around— he’s usually up at this time. Come to think of it— I didn’t see him near the plane, when it was burning. Most of the Filipinos were there.”

Tate said slowly: “He’s a heavy sleeper. I’ll send one of the boys over to his shack.”

He turned towards the door that led out to the patio at the side of the living-room. But he stopped suddenly. There were shrill shouts and the sounds of someone running swiftly. A screen door slammed and a half naked Filipino boy came into the room. He spoke several words in his native tongue, then said rapidly:

“Tony Won— I find him— him dead—”

There was silence in the room, except for the rapid breathing of the Filipino boy. Rooder stood up. Carter stiffened in his chair, but did not speak. Tate broke the silence.

“Dead?” he said heavily. “Are you— sure?”

The Filipino boy’s eyes were very wide and black. He nodded. “Me sure— very much cut with knife,” he jerked.

Jo Gar lighted the cigarette he had been inspecting. Carter swore very slowly. The Island detective spoke in a soft voice:

“That is too bad. I was thinking, just a few minutes ago, of talking to him. It was he who saw the airplane fall.”

Rooder said sharply. “Take us to where you found him, Juan. You coming, Señor Gar?”

The Island detective nodded. “Yes,” he said quietly. “It may be that the knifing was not an accident.”

Tate swung around so that he faced Gar. His eyes were very small and the fingers of his hands, at his sides, were moving.

“Listen here, Gar—”

Rooder said sharply: “Stop that, Harry— it won’t do any good.

Señor Gar has been paid to make an investigation.” Jo smiled very faintly. “It is so,” he said simply.

Tate turned away from him. “Go on,” he ordered the boy.

They went from the room, crossed the patio, went around to the rear of the plantation house. The Filipino boy led them away from it, towards a single shack, small and dirty, near thick palm foliage. No other shacks were close to this one, which was the nearest one to the house.

The door of the shack was open; the Filipino boy stood aside. Rooder went in and Jo followed him. Carter and Tate came in slowly.

The Chinese cook was lying on his back. He was short and fat and his eyes stared at the ceiling of the shack. There was blood on his throat and face, and his hands were covered with it. He was naked.

Jo Gar moved close to the body, looked down. Rooder said in his slightly guttural voice:

“His hands are slashed; he put up a fight. Got him in the throat.

Probably he couldn’t scream much.”

The Island detective moved around the body; his eyes narrowed and expressionless. Tate stood near the opened door, breathing heavily. Carter said:

“Doesn’t look as if he’s been dead very long. I’d better send for Doc Cordozo again.”

Rooder’s blue eyes were watching the small figure of Jo Gar. He spoke softly:

“Yes— get Cordozo here. And get all the servants outside. I think I know why this happened.”

Jo Gar looked at the German. “Why did it happen?” he asked quietly.

Rooder shrugged. “Won didn’t get along too well with the hands. There have been complaints. He’s allowed so much for food, and it was complained that he has been putting some of the money aside for himself, cutting down the food.”

The Island detective smiled just a little. “And for that reason he was murdered,” he said.

Rooder frowned. “Men have been murdered for a less logical reason than that— in the Islands,” he stated.

Jo nodded.

“And for a more logical reason,” he said simply.

There was silence except for Carter, outside, calling several names, giving orders. Jo Gar moved about the shack, searching with his eyes. He touched nothing. Tate said:

“If we could find the knife—”

Rooder swore. “We won’t,” he interrupted. “A knife is too easy to hide, out here.”

Jo Gar walked past both men, went through the doorway of the shack. There had been no rain for months— the ground was hard. He moved over it for a short distance, circled the shack. It was growing steadily hotter. Erich Rooder came from the shack and stopped close to him.

“I can see your side of it, Señor Gar,” he said easily. “You think one of us shot down Branders, and then, when you arrived, got worried. The plane was burned by one of us, before you could see the bullet holes. Won murdered by one of us because one of us thought he might have seen something.”

Jo Gar looked thoughtful. Rooder said: “You think the three of us are protecting each other— or the guilty one.”

The Island detective frowned. “I think the plane crash was an accident,” he said slowly. “I think the fire was caused by a short circuit. I think Won was knifed because he did not give so much food to the hands. Does that please you?”

Rooder’s eyes held a hard expression. “It would please me, if I didn’t think you were lying,” he said sharply.

Jo Gar bowed very slightly. “I shall be glad to hear what the servants say, and what the doctor says,” he replied. “I do not think you will find the knife.”

He turned away, towards the plantation house, and Rooder spoke in a puzzled voice.

“Where can we get you—”

The Island detective stopped and faced Rooder. He was smiling with his lips, but his eyes held no expression.

“I am going to my room and sleep,” he said. “Sleep allows me to think more clearly, when I awake. Perhaps there is something I have not thought about.”

Rooder’s lips parted, and Jo waited for him to speak. But he said nothing. The Island detective turned away and went slowly back to the house. In his room he undressed and lay naked on the bed, on his back, his eyes staring at the ceiling. At intervals he could hear shouts, and after a half hour or so he heard the sounds of a car arriving. It was apparently an ancient car—it made a great rattle and wheeze.

The Island detective dozed for a half hour or so, rose and dressed. The Colt he inspected fully, slipped into a hip pocket of his trousers. He adjusted his pith helmet carefully, went outside and towards the flying field and the wreckage. He was soaked with perspiration when he reached the house again, almost an hour later. Cordozo, Tate and Rooder were in the living-room, sipping cool drinks. Rooder clapped his hands and ordered one for Jo.

“Been to the field again?” he asked pleasantly.

Jo Gar nodded. He seated himself in a wicker chair, wiped his face with a handkerchief.

“Again,” he agreed.

Rooder remained seated but gestured towards the doctor.

“Doctor Cordozo— Señor Gar,” he said.

They both nodded. Cordozo was short and thick-set; he had a browned face with a spatulate nose. His eyes were very small and his arms long. He spoke thickly but decisively.

“I can report to you, Señor Gar, that Branders was instantly killed in the plane crash. The cook was knifed to death, and it is doubtful that he was able to cry out. He died more slowly, but he was quickly unconscious. I should say he had been dead several hours when discovered.”

Jo nodded and said nothing. Rooder said:

“Carter’s out seeing that the work goes on— it’s got to, you know.” Jo nodded again.

After a short silence Rooder spoke very slowly:

“We got nothing from any of the servants. None of them knew a thing, and they all protested that Won had given them very good food. They all say that they loved him like a brother.”

The Island detective smiled a little. “Naturally,” he said.

Rooder frowned at the waxed floor of the living-room. “It is what happened,” he muttered. “They wanted a new cook— and they knew their complaints had caused no change. So they murdered Won— that is the way it is done out here.”

Jo Gar looked at the ceiling. “I might agree with you, except for one thing,” he said. “With Branders alive and not paying any attention to their complaints— they might have killed Won. But with Branders dead— they would wait. When things quieted down they would speak to you. If you refused they might kill. But they could not know that you would refuse.”

Rooder smiled with his lips; his eyes were hard. “They did know,” he contradicted. “They knew last night, before you arrived.”

Jo Gar lighted a brown-paper cigarette. “They came to you, and you refused to let Won go?” he asked.

Rooder’s smile went away. He shook his head.

“No, Won came to me,” he said slowly. “He demanded more money for the commissary. He said that some of the hands were threatening him, and he was afraid. He refused to name those who threatened. I suspected that he had been stealing, and I refused to give him more. He undoubtedly told the hands.”

The Island detective said: “Branders was already dead.”

Rooder nodded. “Of course,” he said.

Jo Gar inhaled and removed the cigarette from his lips. “And now Won is dead,” he said quietly. “You would think that he would have told the hands the food would be better in the future, and would have stopped stealing for a while.”

Rooder smiled grimly. “He was a fool,” he said.

Jo Gar drew a deep breath, sighed. The doctor yawned and apologized.

“I will make my report to the Constabulary,” he said. “It is murder, and they will be here soon. It will do no good.”

Rooder shook his head. His eyes were on Jo’s. “No good,” he agreed. “Natives are natives.”

Jo rose and smiled towards Rooder. “I shall not be here for lunch,” he said. “Perhaps not for dinner. Do not wait for me, please. I hope to return before midnight.”

He watched the flicker of expression in Rooder’s eyes. The doctor yawned again. Rooder said:

“Would you like the flivver, Señor Gar?”

The Island detective shook his head. “You are kind,” he replied. “I shall not need it.”

He smiled and went from the room, conscious that the eyes of Rooder and Tate were following him. Outside he met Carter, coming towards the screened porch. Carter was frowning.

“They won’t work the way they should,” he breathed. “And they all know who knifed Won. Not that it’ll do any good—we couldn’t even beat it out of them. And the Constabulary won’t try to do that.”

The Island detective said: “The Constabulary is wise.”

He went around the house and towards the flying field. When he reached the slope and the thick foliage he picked a spot which held less insects than most spots, and crouched down. After a few minutes he heard faint sounds that grew louder. He did not see the figure that passed on towards the field and the wreckage. When the sounds had died away he changed his original direction, walked northward for several miles until he reached a small, bamboo shack that held an ant-eaten cot and a chair. The shack was for the field hands, but it had evidently not been used for weeks. It was hot inside. There were insects. Jo Gar swore several times.

He searched the shack thoroughly. He found nothing, left the place and walked northward again, avoiding natives who were working. In a half hour he found a cool spot on the slope of a hill. He was tired. He lay on his back, smoked two cigarettes, slept. When he awoke the heat of the afternoon was reaching the shade, and he dozed for several hours more. Then he left the spot and walked slowly in a wide circle. It was after dark when he reached the plantation house. He was soaked with perspiration and very tired.

Tate and Rooder were seated in the living room when he entered; Carter stood near the corridor that led to Jo’s room. No one spoke for several seconds and then the Island detective said:

“The Constabulary have arrived?”

Rooder and Tate watched him narrowly. Carter spoke in a low tone.

“Two of them were here, but they’re gone into Carejo for the night.”

Jo nodded. Rooder said: “You’ve been moving around, Señor Gar.”

The Island detective smiled a little. “Moving around,” he agreed.

Rooder looked at the ceiling. “We’ve held dinner up— such as it is,” he said. “Learn anything?”

Jo continued to smile.

“Good of you,” he replied. “I shall have a swift shower. I have learned something.”

Tate drew a quick breath. Rooder said: “What?”

Jo shrugged and went from the room. As he passed Carter the American said:

“The Constabulary members didn’t find a thing.”

Jo spoke without turning his head. “It does not matter.”

He went along the corridor to his room. The shower was a crude affair, but the water made noise when it fell from the tank. He waited several minutes before turning it on, but did not change his clothes. He took off his shoes, got his Colt in the right pocket of his duck coat. When he went from the room and along the corridor the sound of the shower water drowned other noises in the house.

He walked into the living-room silently. Rooder stood near a kerosene lamp, inspecting something he held in his left hand. Jo Gar stopped ten feet from him. He was inspecting a gun. Tate and Carter had their backs turned; Tate was saying:

“It’s the only— sure way—”

The Island detective stood motionless, his right hand in the right pocket, and the coat cloth slightly away from his side. Carter said grimly:

“If we knew what he’s been doing—”

Rooder looked up from the gun; his body stiffened. Jo Gar smiled with his blue-gray eyes half closed. The two Americans swung around. Carter sucked in his breath sharply. Jo looked at Rooder’s gun.

“Please place the gun on the table,” he said quietly. Rooder stared at him.

“What the hell do you mean—” he started, but the Island detective interrupted.

“On the table,” he repeated.

Rooder’s lean body relaxed. He shrugged, moved a foot or so and placed the gun on the table. Jo looked at the hands of the two Americans. He was still smiling a little.

“Which one of you murdered Won?” he asked calmly.

There was a little silence, then Rooder made chuckling sound that was not very pleasant.

“You mean which one of us murdered Branders,” he said mockingly.

Jo Gar shook his head slowly. “No,” he said softly. “I do not mean that. The Chinese cook murdered Branders.”

Tate’s breath made harsh sound. Carter swore hoarsely and swung his body towards Rooder. Rooder’s teeth were clenched and his lips were parted. He kept his blue eyes on Jo’s almond-shaped ones. The Island detective said:

“There were things you did not know. And there were things you did know. You did not know that Branders called Alwin a few hours before the plane crashed— and swore that he would never fly again. You did know that there was a woman in his life, and that he was going to her, that she would marry him. That meant that you three would have to stay on here, run the plantation— and wait. Wait until he died. It meant something else— the will would probably be changed. So Won murdered him.”

Rooder said slowly and in his guttural voice: “God— what rot!”

Jo Gar shook his head. “Then one of you murdered Won—making it look like a native knifing. That was because I was here—you were becoming frightened. One of you burned the plane, but not because you were afraid I’d find bullet holes. There were none.”

Rooder said: “Of course not— it was an accident.”

The Island detective shook his head. “It was murder,” he said quietly. “Branders was knocked unconscious on the field or near the hangar. He was put in the plane and the stick was fastened back against his body. The engine was opened up. The plane took off— and climbed. A few hundred feet in the air, perhaps more— it fell off on a wing. It crashed. Branders was killed. It was murder.”

Tate swung his body away and moved blindly a few feet. He had a hand pressed over his mouth— the back of his right hand. His face was twisted. Carter stood motionless. Rooder was breathing heavily; his eyes went to the right pocket of Jo’s duck coat.

The Island detective said: “You burned the plane because you wanted me to believe Branders might have been shot down, if I refused to believe it an accident. I had no proof that there were no bullet holes. You paid Won to knock Branders unconscious. Which of you murdered the Chinese?”

Tate stopped moving blindly towards a shuttered window and faced the Island detective. His eyes were wide. Carter was silent. Rooder said huskily:

“It’s— damned rot— you can’t talk that—”

Jo Gar said in a sharp tone: “You do not have to answer. I know.” His eyes went to those of Tate. “You murdered Won, Tate.”

Tate’s lips parted. “No—” he breathed in a whisper. “That’s— a lie! A lie!”

Jo Gar slipped his left hand into the left pocket of his coat. He drew out a knife. He held it so that Tate’s staring eyes could see it, then bent downward, slid it across the waxed floor towards the American.

“That’s the knife used on Won. I found it in your room. In the dirt of that plant pot. Rooder told me it was yours.”

Tate turned his head towards Rooder. His face was twisted and his fingers were working jerkily. Rooder said:

“I never—”

Tate swore fiercely. He twisted his head, stared at the knife. When he reached for it Rooder said hoarsely:

“For God’s sake, Harry—”

Tate screamed above Rooder’s voice: “You tried to— frame me. You put the knife in my room. You dirty— killer—”

His hand went upward and backward. Rooder leaped towards the table and the gun he had placed there. The thrown knife missed his moving body and battered against a wall. Jo Gar said:

“Stop— Rooder!”

Rooder’s right hand was lifting the gun when he squeezed the trigger of the Colt. Crash sound filled the room. Rooder half turned and fired one shot as Tate rushed at him. Tate’s body doubled forward; he went down heavily. Jo squeezed the trigger the second time. Rooder let his gun slip from his fingers. He stumbled several feet, half fell into a wicker chair. Carter stood motionless, watching Jo’s gun hand.

The Island detective said: “Look at Tate, Carter.”

Carter moved towards the body. Jo Gar picked up the gun Rooder had used on the American. Carter straightened.

“He’s dead,” he said tonelessly.

Jo walked towards the chair in which Rooder was slumped. He kept Carter ahead of him, motioning him back with the Colt. Rooder looked up at him dully.

“I picked— the wrong, man,” he said thickly, weakly. “I might have had better luck— with Carter.”

Carter shook his head. “You wouldn’t have,” he said grimly. “I wouldn’t have helped. I suspected you, Rooder— but I thought you were too strong to be caught. Too sure of what you were doing.”

Rooder smiled wearily at Jo Gar. “The knife trick— that got him, Gar,” he said softly. “You picked the weakest of the three—and worked on him. But you’d never have found the knife I used on Won.”

Jo Gar was silent. Rooder breathed slowly. “You were— wrong about Won knocking out Branders. I did that. I got him in the plane and used a strap to hold the stick back. After the crash I found only— part of the strap. That’s why I burned her. And I thought Won might have seen me. So I— knifed him. I knew Branders was going back— to England. I wanted— the plantation share. I told Tate— he kept Carter— out of the way— we were sure it would seem an—accident—”

He closed his eyes, and his body slipped forward. When Jo Gar leaned down and looked at him his eyes were open again, and he was dead. He straightened up and looked at Carter. Carter said:

“Tate was losing his nerve all day. You were away, and he didn’t know where. He was nearly crazy by dark. He was even saying strange things in front of me— something about— it being the only sure way. I think they meant to kill you, Señor Gar.”

“I think so,” Jo agreed. “And I had no proof. I spent the day walking— and sleeping. And thinking.”

Carter drew a deep breath. “And Branders was strapped in the plane— she climbed until she fell off on a wing, crashed.”

Jo Gar nodded his head. “Things like that are much more successfully done during a war,” he said softly. “I must telephone Señor Alwin.”

Carter wiped his browned face with a handkerchief. “I can drive you to Carejo— I suppose everything will be all right—here.

The Island detective looked at the two figures that were motionless in the room.

“I think so,” he agreed tonelessly.

__________________

13: Soaked in Seaweed: or,

Upset in the Ocean

(An Old-fashioned Sea Story.)

Stephen Leacock

1869-1944

Nonsense Novels, 1911

IT WAS IN August in 1867 that I stepped on board the deck of the Saucy Sally, lying in dock at Gravesend, to fill the berth of second mate.

Let me first say a word about myself.

I was a tall, handsome young fellow, squarely and powerfully built, bronzed by the sun and the moon (and even copper-coloured in spots from the effect of the stars), and with a face in which honesty, intelligence, and exceptional brain power were combined with Christianity, simplicity, and modesty.

As I stepped on the deck I could not help a slight feeling of triumph, as I caught sight of my sailor-like features reflected in a tar-barrel that stood beside the mast, while a little later I could scarcely repress a sense of gratification as I noticed them reflected again in a bucket of bilge water.

"Welcome on board, Mr. Blowhard," called out Captain Bilge, stepping out of the binnacle and shaking hands across the taffrail.

I saw before me a fine sailor-like man of from thirty to sixty, clean-shaven, except for an enormous pair of whiskers, a heavy beard, and a thick moustache, powerful in build, and carrying his beam well aft, in a pair of broad duck trousers across the back of which there would have been room to write a history of the British Navy.

Beside him were the first and third mates, both of them being quiet men of poor stature, who looked at Captain Bilge with what seemed to me an apprehensive expression in their eyes.

The vessel was on the eve of departure. Her deck presented that scene of bustle and alacrity dear to the sailor's heart. Men were busy nailing up the masts, hanging the bowsprit over the side, varnishing the lee-scuppers and pouring hot tar down the companion-way.

Captain Bilge, with a megaphone to his lips, kept calling out to the men in his rough sailor fashion:

"Now, then, don't over-exert yourselves, gentlemen. Remember, please, that we have plenty of time. Keep out of the sun as much as you can. Step carefully in the rigging there, Jones; I fear it's just a little high for you. Tut, tut, Williams, don't get yourself so dirty with that tar, you won't look fit to be seen."

I stood leaning over the gaff of the mainsail and thinking-yes, thinking, dear reader, of my mother. I hope that you will think none the less of me for that. Whenever things look dark, I lean up against something and think of mother. If they get positively black, I stand on one leg and think of father. After that I can face anything.

Did I think, too, of another, younger than mother and fairer than father? Yes, I did. "Bear up, darling," I had whispered as she nestled her head beneath my oilskins and kicked out backward with one heel in the agony of her girlish grief, "in five years the voyage will be over, and after three more like it, I shall come back with money enough to buy a second-hand fishing-net and settle down on shore."

Meantime the ship's preparations were complete. The masts were all in position, the sails nailed up, and men with axes were busily chopping away the gangway.

"All ready?" called the Captain.

"Aye, aye, sir."

"Then hoist the anchor in board and send a man down with the key to open the bar."

Opening the bar! the last sad rite of departure. How often in my voyages have I seen it; the little group of men soon to be exiled from their home, standing about with saddened faces, waiting to see the man with the key open the bar— held there by some strange fascination.

NEXT MORNING with a fair wind astern we had buzzed around the corner of England and were running down the Channel.

I know no finer sight, for those who have never seen it, than the English Channel. It is the highway of the world. Ships of all nations are passing up and down, Dutch, Scotch, Venezuelan, and even American.

Chinese junks rush to and fro. Warships, motor yachts, icebergs, and lumber rafts are everywhere. If I add to this fact that so thick a fog hangs over it that it is entirely hidden from sight, my readers can form some idea of the majesty of the scene.

WE HAD now been three days at sea. My first sea-sickness was wearing off, and I thought less of father.

On the third morning Captain Bilge descended to my cabin.

"Mr. Blowhard," he said, "I must ask you to stand double watches."

"What is the matter?" I inquired.

"The two other mates have fallen overboard," he said uneasily, and avoiding my eye.

I contented myself with saying "Very good, sir," but I could not help thinking it a trifle odd that both the mates should have fallen overboard in the same night.

Surely there was some mystery in this.

Two mornings later the Captain appeared at the breakfast-table with the same shifting and uneasy look in his eye.

"Anything wrong, sir?" I asked.

"Yes," he answered, trying to appear at ease and twisting a fried egg to and fro between his fingers with such nervous force as almost to break it in two-"I regret to say that we have lost the bosun."

"The bosun!" I cried.

"Yes," said Captain Bilge more quietly, "he is overboard. I blame myself for it, partly. It was early this morning. I was holding him up in my arms to look at an iceberg and, quite accidentally I assure you— I dropped him overboard."

"Captain Bilge," I asked, "have you taken any steps to recover him?"

"Not as yet," he replied uneasily.

I looked at him fixedly, but said nothing.

Ten days passed.

The mystery thickened. On Thursday two men of the starboard watch were reported missing. On Friday the carpenter's assistant disappeared. On the night of Saturday a circumstance occurred which, slight as it was, gave me some clue as to what was happening.

As I stood at the wheel about midnight, I saw the Captain approach in the darkness carrying the cabin-boy by the hind leg. The lad was a bright little fellow, whose merry disposition had already endeared him to me, and I watched with some interest to see what the Captain would do to him. Arrived at the stern of the vessel, Captain Bilge looked cautiously around a moment and then dropped the boy into the sea. For a brief instant the lad's head appeared in the phosphorus of the waves. The Captain threw a boot at him, sighed deeply, and went below.

Here then was the key to the mystery! The Captain was throwing the crew overboard. Next morning we met at breakfast as usual.

"Poor little Williams has fallen overboard," said the Captain, seizing a strip of ship's bacon and tearing at it with his teeth as if he almost meant to eat it.

"Captain," I said, greatly excited, stabbing at a ship's loaf in my agitation with such ferocity as almost to drive my knife into it— "You threw that boy overboard!"

"I did," said Captain Bilge, grown suddenly quiet, "I threw them all over and intend to throw the rest. Listen, Blowhard, you are young, ambitious, and trustworthy. I will confide in you."

Perfectly calm now, he stepped to a locker, rummaged in it a moment, and drew out a faded piece of yellow parchment, which he spread on the table. It was a map or chart. In the centre of it was a circle. In the middle of the circle was a small dot and a letter T, while at one side of the map was a letter N, and against it on the other side a letter S.

"What is this?" I asked.

"Can you not guess?" queried Captain Bilge. "It is a desert island."

"Ah!" I rejoined with a sudden flash of intuition, "and N is for North and S is for South."

"Blowhard," said the Captain, striking the table with such force as to cause a loaf of ship's bread to bounce up and down three or four times, "you've struck it. That part of it had not yet occurred to me."

"And the letter T?" I asked.

"The treasure, the buried treasure," said the Captain, and turning the map over he read from the back of it-"The point T indicates the spot where the treasure is buried under the sand; it consists of half a million Spanish dollars, and is buried in a brown leather dress-suit case."

"And where is the island?" I inquired, mad with excitement.

"That I do not know," said the Captain. "I intend to sail up and down the parallels of latitude until I find it."

"And meantime?"

"Meantime, the first thing to do is to reduce the number of the crew so as to have fewer hands to divide among. Come, come," he added in a burst of frankness which made me love the man in spite of his shortcomings, "will you join me in this? We'll throw them all over, keeping the cook to the last, dig up the treasure, and be rich for the rest of our lives."

Reader, do you blame me if I said yes? I was young, ardent, ambitious, full of bright hopes and boyish enthusiasm.

"Captain Bilge," I said, putting my hand in his, "I am yours."

"Good," he said, "now go forward to the forecastle and get an idea what the men are thinking."

I went forward to the men's quarters— a plain room in the front of the ship, with only a rough carpet on the floor, a few simple arm-chairs, writing-desks, spittoons of a plain pattern, and small brass beds with blue-and-green screens. It was Sunday morning, and the men were mostly sitting about in their dressing-gowns.

They rose as I entered and curtseyed.

"Sir," said Tompkins, the bosun's mate, "I think it my duty to tell you that there is a great deal of dissatisfaction among the men."

Several of the men nodded.

"They don't like the way the men keep going overboard," he continued, his voice rising to a tone of uncontrolled passion. "It is positively absurd, sir, and if you will allow me to say so, the men are far from pleased."

"Tompkins," I said sternly, "you must understand that my position will not allow me to listen to mutinous language of this sort."

I returned to the Captain. "I think the men mean mutiny," I said.

"Good," said Captain Bilge, rubbing his hands, "that will get rid of a lot of them, and of course," he added musingly, looking out of the broad old-fashioned port-hole at the stern of the cabin, at the heaving waves of the South Atlantic, "I am expecting pirates at any time, and that will take out quite a few of them. However"— and here he pressed the bell for a cabin-boy— "kindly ask Mr. Tompkins to step this way."

"Tompkins," said the Captain as the bosun's mate entered, "be good enough to stand on the locker and stick your head through the stern port-hole, and tell me what you think of the weather."

"Aye, aye, sir," replied the tar with a simplicity which caused us to exchange a quiet smile.

Tompkins stood on the locker and put his head and shoulders out of the port.

Taking a leg each we pushed him through. We heard him plump into the sea.

"Tompkins was easy," said Captain Bilge. "Excuse me as I enter his death in the log."

"Yes," he continued presently, "it will be a great help if they mutiny. I suppose they will, sooner or later. It's customary to do so. But I shall take no step to precipitate it until we have first fallen in with pirates. I am expecting them in these latitudes at any time. Meantime, Mr. Blowhard," he said, rising, "if you can continue to drop overboard one or two more each week, I shall feel extremely grateful."

Three days later we rounded the Cape of Good Hope and entered upon the inky waters of the Indian Ocean. Our course lay now in zigzags and, the weather being favourable, we sailed up and down at a furious rate over a sea as calm as glass.

On the fourth day a pirate ship appeared. Reader, I do not know if you have ever seen a pirate ship. The sight was one to appal the stoutest heart. The entire ship was painted black, a black flag hung at the masthead, the sails were black, and on the deck people dressed all in black walked up and down arm-in-arm. The words "Pirate Ship" were painted in white letters on the bow. At the sight of it our crew were visibly cowed. It was a spectacle that would have cowed a dog.

The two ships were brought side by side. They were then lashed tightly together with bag string and binder twine, and a gang plank laid between them. In a moment the pirates swarmed upon our deck, rolling their eyes, gnashing their teeth and filing their nails.

Then the fight began. It lasted two hours-with fifteen minutes off for lunch. It was awful. The men grappled with one another, kicked one another from behind, slapped one another across the face, and in many cases completely lost their temper and tried to bite one another. I noticed one gigantic fellow brandishing a knotted towel, and striking right and left among our men, until Captain Bilge rushed at him and struck him flat across the mouth with a banana skin.

At the end of two hours, by mutual consent, the fight was declared a draw. The points standing at sixty-one and a half against sixty-two.

The ships were unlashed, and with three cheers from each crew, were headed on their way.

"Now, then," said the Captain to me aside, "let us see how many of the crew are sufficiently exhausted to be thrown overboard."

He went below. In a few minutes he re-appeared, his face deadly pale. "Blowhard," he said, "the ship is sinking. One of the pirates (sheer accident, of course, I blame no one) has kicked a hole in the side. Let us sound the well."

We put our ear to the ship's well. It sounded like water.

The men were put to the pumps and worked with the frenzied effort which only those who have been drowned in a sinking ship can understand.

At six p.m. the well marked one half an inch of water, at nightfall three-quarters of an inch, and at daybreak, after a night of unremitting toil, seven-eighths of an inch.

By noon of the next day the water had risen to fifteen-sixteenths of an inch, and on the next night the sounding showed thirty-one thirty-seconds of an inch of water in the hold. The situation was desperate. At this rate of increase few, if any, could tell where it would rise to in a few days.

That night the Captain called me to his cabin. He had a book of mathematical tables in front of him, and great sheets of vulgar fractions littered the floor on all sides.

"The ship is bound to sink," he said, "in fact, Blowhard, she is sinking. I can prove it. It may be six months or it may take years, but if she goes on like this, sink she must. There is nothing for it but to abandon her."

That night, in the dead of darkness, while the crew were busy at the pumps, the Captain and I built a raft.

Unobserved we cut down the masts, chopped them into suitable lengths, laid them crosswise in a pile and lashed them tightly together with bootlaces.

Hastily we threw on board a couple of boxes of food and bottles of drinking fluid, a sextant, a cronometer, a gas-meter, a bicycle pump and a few other scientific instruments. Then taking advantage of a roll in the motion of the ship, we launched the raft, lowered ourselves upon a line, and under cover of the heavy dark of a tropical night, we paddled away from the doomed vessel.

The break of day found us a tiny speck on the Indian Ocean. We looked about as big as this (.).

In the morning, after dressing, and shaving as best we could, we opened our box of food and drink.

Then came the awful horror of our situation.

One by one the Captain took from the box the square blue tins of canned beef which it contained. We counted fifty-two in all. Anxiously and with drawn faces we watched until the last can was lifted from the box. A single thought was in our minds. When the end came the Captain stood up on the raft with wild eyes staring at the sky.

"The can-opener!" he shrieked, "just Heaven, the can-opener." He fell prostrate.

Meantime, with trembling hands, I opened the box of bottles. It contained lager beer bottles, each with a patent tin top. One by one I took them out. There were fifty-two in all. As I withdrew the last one and saw the empty box before me, I shroke out— "The thing! the thing! oh, merciful Heaven! The thing you open them with!"

I fell prostrate upon the Captain.

We awoke to find ourselves still a mere speck upon the ocean. We felt even smaller than before.

Over us was the burnished copper sky of the tropics. The heavy, leaden sea lapped the sides of the raft. All about us was a litter of corn beef cans and lager beer bottles. Our sufferings in the ensuing days were indescribable. We beat and thumped at the cans with our fists. Even at the risk of spoiling the tins for ever we hammered them fiercely against the raft. We stamped on them, bit at them and swore at them. We pulled and clawed at the bottles with our hands, and chipped and knocked them against the cans, regardless even of breaking the glass and ruining the bottles.

It was futile.

Then day after day we sat in moody silence, gnawed with hunger, with nothing to read, nothing to smoke, and practically nothing to talk about.

On the tenth day the Captain broke silence.

"Get ready the lots, Blowhard," he said. "It's got to come to that."

"Yes," I answered drearily, "we're getting thinner every day."

Then, with the awful prospect of cannibalism before us, we drew lots.

I prepared the lots and held them to the Captain. He drew the longer one.

"Which does that mean," he asked, trembling between hope and despair. "Do I win?"

"No, Bilge," I said sadly, "you lose."

BUT I MUSTN'T dwell on the days that followed-the long quiet days of lazy dreaming on the raft, during which I slowly built up my strength, which had been shattered by privation. They were days, dear reader, of deep and quiet peace, and yet I cannot recall them without shedding a tear for the brave man who made them what they were.

It was on the fifth day after that I was awakened from a sound sleep by the bumping of the raft against the shore. I had eaten perhaps overheartily, and had not observed the vicinity of land.

Before me was an island, the circular shape of which, with its low, sandy shore, recalled at once its identity.

"The treasure island," I cried, "at last I am rewarded for all my heroism."

In a fever of haste I rushed to the centre of the island. What was the sight that confronted me? A great hollow scooped in the sand, an empty dress-suit case lying beside it, and on a ship's plank driven deep into the sand, the legend, "Saucy Sally, October, 1867." So! the miscreants had made good the vessel, headed it for the island of whose existence they must have learned from the chart we so carelessly left upon the cabin table, and had plundered poor Bilge and me of our well-earned treasure!

Sick with the sense of human ingratitude I sank upon the sand.

The island became my home.

There I eked out a miserable existence, feeding on sand and gravel and dressing myself in cactus plants. Years passed. Eating sand and mud slowly undermined my robust constitution. I fell ill. I died. I buried myself.

Would that others who write sea stories would do as much.

____________

14: Captain Cut-Throat

Albert Richard Wetjen

1900-1948

Action Stories, June 1940

TYPHOON BRADLEY broke one of the written laws of the islands when he interfered. It was at Funafuti, toward the close of the pearling season. A score of ships were anchored in the lagoon. Half a hundred canoes and whaleboats dotted the surface of the limpid water. On the beach was a small city of tents, shacks, huts and lean-tos, such as always sprang up when a lagoon was being worked. Native women and children were scattered along the sand. White men sprawled here and there on the hastily built verandas. Pearl buyers from all the world rested in the shade and sipped their drinks. Typhoon Bradley was sitting with Chang, the Chinese pearl buyer, when it began.

First of all a slender native, or rather a half-caste from the look of him, came hurtling out of the bar door. He fell heavily on the sand and the next moment there was standing over him a burly, tall man with a ragged black beard and thick hairy arms.

"I'll teach you, you nigger swine!'' he roared, and the whip rose and fell. The half-caste writhed, tried to crawl away, was kicked back and at last resigned himself to whimpering and crying out, his head buried in his arms.

A small crowd gathered. No one said anything. A man had a right to punish his own natives. The Islands were not being tamed by prayers and good wishes. The South was raw and a man's crew might at any time turn and rip him to shreds if they thought him soft enough.

Typhoon Bradley drew on his cheroot and frowned a little.

"Who is he?' he asked quietly. Chang shrugged.

"The bearded one? A Captain Tench. Came in two days ago with that rakish bark over there. No one seems to know much about him. The thin, pock-marked man standing by him is his mate, I believe."

The whip rose and fell, the beared man swore viciously. The half-caste's back was cut and raw, beginning to bleed. Soon his writhing and screaming ceased. He had fainted. Still no one said anything and no one moved. But the whip lifted and fell with sickening soft sounds and blood spattered the crowd.

TYPHOON BRADLEY got up, shook off Chang's detaining arm and tossed away his cheroot.

"Don't you think that's enough?" he asked mildly. Captain Tench paused for a moment and glared at him.

"You mind your own damned business!" he grated. "The damned swine stole a belt out of my cargo!"

Bradley looked and saw the unconscious half-caste was still clutching a cheap, patent leather belt such as was used for trade in the outer islands, a thing worth, perhaps, two cents.

"Stealing's bad when it gets started in a crew," Bradley agreed, "but you don't need to kill the man."

"Shut up!" snarled the other and brought the whip down again with a vicious swish upon the unconscious man's back. Typhoon's gray eyes hardened and his six feet of lean muscle tightened a little.

"I said that's enough!" he snapped. He caught the arm that held the whip, wrenched the weapon away and flung the owner aside. There was a silence that could almost be felt. Men stared. Captain Tench choked with wrath. The veins corded in his bull neck and the blood ran red in his face.

"You!... damn you!" he choked. Someone caught his arm.

"Careful there. That's Bradley!"

Captain Tench hurled the cautioning hand aside.

"I don't give a damn who he is! can't tell me what to do!"

"Listen—"

"Get out of my blasted way!" roared Tench, and he charged, his great fists flailing and his head lowered. Someone laughed. Typhoon Bradley was reputed to be the strongest man in the South and no one but a stranger would have been as big a fool as Tench.

There was a hard smacking noise and the bearded captain went sidewise and to the sand, sprawling a good six feet before he lighted. Typhoon Bradley rubbed his knuckles and waited.

Tench got up, shaking his head, undoubtedly surprised and sobered. He whipped round, cooler now, his eyes slits.

"Tough, eh?" he sneered and came in with the weaving gait of a practiced fighter. Bradley was no boxing man but he knew the rough-and-ready fighting of the outlands as few other men did. Even first-rate boxers are not always good fighters outside the ring, and champions have been known to be knocked out in a rough-house by men they could cut to pieces in a squared circle and under rules. But Tench was good. There could be no mistake about that.

He ducked Typhoon's right hook and landed with a stinging left jab that would have sent most men to their knees. Typhoon took half a step back and smack! Tench staggered, almost fell and covered up by instinct. He made the mistake then of going into a clinch and Bradley got him under the heart with a right hook that nearly broke Tench's ribs.

Tench was game. He came back, landed a right jab, crossed with a hard left and left himself open. Typhoon laughed and put his body behind his blow. Tench's feet left the sand and he was hurled twice his own length before crashing into the crowd and falling. He was out before his body hit the sand and his left ear was all but torn off.

"WELL," someone drawled, ''he's pretty good. He hit Typhoon three times. That's one above the record."

Someone else laughed. Typhoon stared at his inert foe for a moment and thoughtfully rubbed his knuckles.

"You ain't heard the last of this," a voice said beside him and he turned sharply to see the thin, pock-marked man who was Tench's mate. The man was snarling and obviously savage and his right hand kept clawing at his gun butt, as if he had a hard time to control himself. But you can't shoot another man on Funafuti beach without giving him an even draw, and Typhoon's gunbelt hung over the back of his chair near Chang.

"Are you proposing to fight too?" inquired Typhoon mildly. The other licked his lips, breathed hard and then shook his head.

"Not now, Bradley. But I'm Tench's mate and I know him. He'll get back at you some way. We've heard of you! Big guy in the Islands, eh? You won't be for long."

Bradley shrugged.

"You'd better pick up the wreck," he said indifferently, jerking his head toward Tench who was still unconscious. The other glared at him, cooling off.

"I suppose you don't object if I take our man along too?" he asked sarcastically. Bradley glanced down at the now groaning half-caste and shook his head.

"If he's your man he's yours. But I wouldn't beat him up any more."

"No?"

"That's what I said."

"And what would you do, big guy? Board our packet?"

"I don't know just what I'd do but it wouldn't be pleasant."

"You're not the damned magistrate here!"

Someone snickered and Typhoon smiled grimly.

"That happens to be exactly what I am. Appointed for the duration of the season."

THE other's jaw dropped. He mumbled something, backed off, then, calling sharply to several of his crew he saw standing about, he had the half-caste and Captain Tench carried down to the water's edge and taken on board the bark.

The crowd broke up, some few men congratulating Typhoon. He merely shrugged and returned to his seat beside Chang. It had been the first time that season he had ever had to interfere as a magistrate and then he had handled the matter outside of officialdom. When Typhoon Bradley held authority no one cared to cause trouble.

"He's bad, that Captain Tench," said Chang quietly.

Typhoon nodded. "Damned bad. I wonder what his game is?"

"I have been wondering too," said Chang dryly. "I heard a short while ago that he has Gentleman Harry on board."

"What?" Bradley ripped out, turning to stare at the Chinaman. "Gentleman Harry?"

For a moment he was tense and motionless. If there was one name that could jar the habitual calm of the man it was that of his old enemy Gentleman Harry of Singapore. They had clashed a dozen times. They had wounded and all but killed each other. It had been a blow of Typhoon's fist one night on Balata Beach that had ruined the Gentleman's then handsome features. He had, before that night, been called Gentleman as a term of admiration for his looks as well as his immaculate clothing. But after that night the term of Gentleman was used as a jest, and for that Gentleman Harry hated Typhoon Bradley with an intenseness that at times sent him almost insane. If Gentleman Harry was at Funafuti that meant trouble.

"I'll look into this," promised Typhoon grimly. "I'm responsible for the beach this season and no one's going to pull anything if I can help it.... Come on in and let's feed."

They both got up and went into Boston Charlie's for a drink and some food. Outside the night fell swiftly over the vast expanse of the great lagoon and the lights began to twinkle out on the ships. Bonfires flickered on the beach. The Kanakas shouted and boasted and strutted up and down telling of their day's diving. A tinny piano began to play in Boston Charlie's, and native women slipped quietly in and out while the rattle of dice and the harsh voices of the game dealers cut across the smoke-filled air.

ii

IT must have been two or three hours after sunset when Typhoon finally left the poker game he had been sitting in, and after a few words to Chang went outside into the cool night air. He paused for a moment to stare up and down the line of shacks and then hitching up his cartridge belt he pushed his way through the throng and made for the water's edge.

He was frankly puzzled at learning that Gentleman Harry was at Funafuti, and more than puzzled that though the man had been there two days he had made no attempt to come ashore. That meant he wanted to keep under cover. No one else in the lagoon seemed to know the Gentleman was present, and how Chang had found out Typhoon couldn't guess. The Chinaman, however, usually knew a good many things others didn't. When Typhoon had bluntly asked him how he was aware of the Gentleman's presence on Tench's ship, Chang had merely shrugged, smiled inscrutably and said:

"It is my business to know everything. That is why I buy pearls for Cartier's and Tiffany. That is why I have been in the Islands twenty years and am still alive."

Bradley shook his head. He knew Chang too well to doubt that his information was correct. Then what did the Gentleman plan on doing? The season was closing in two days. Most of the pearls had been bought or were contracted for; so had the shell.

Tench hadn't brought any supplies to sell... Typhoon had ascertained that. Nor had he claimed to be in need of supplies or water. He appeared to be some sea bully from northern waters who offered neither explanations nor courtesy. Typhoon suspected something was going to break and it had worried him so much he had not been able to attend to his poker. He was magistrate for the season and he intended it should close with a clean slate for him.

He picked out a dinghy when he reached the water's edge—as magistrate he could commandeer any boat he felt like, though for that matter no one would have argued with him—and getting in he pushed off and rowed himself out to Tench's bark, the Wanderer. There seemed to him to be a curious air of tension hanging over the night, a sense of something going to happen. He swore to himself and put his weight on the oars. He must be getting old to let such feelings bother him.

He reached the Wanderer at last and was surprised by several things. In the first place he could see in the starlight that she was riding to a short cable, almost up and down in fact, which was a curious thing for a vessel at anchor in a lagoon twenty miles long and with plenty of room to swing in. Second, her sails, which he would have sworn that afternoon were harbor stowed, were now loosened. Thirdly, there seemed to be an unusual number of men on board... and she carried a white crew Chang had said.

At night at Funafuti most if not all of the shipping save the anchor watches went ashore for a brawl. Typhoon hesitated. The Wanderer had all the earmarks of a ship set for a quick getaway. Should he go back and gather a crowd to help him investigate or shouldn't he? But investigate what? Nothing had happened so far. And apart from that he, Typhoon, had a reputation to consider. He wasn't accustomed to going back for help. The strongest man in the South and the best shot in the Islands... excepting only Stinger Seave... did not rely on other men. Bradley cursed and forced the dinghy alongside, catching hold of the pilot ladder and making fast.

SOMEONE leaned over the bulwarks. "Who the hell's that?"

"We'll talk about that later,' Bradley said irritably. "Is Captain Tench on board?"

"Maybe. But he ain't receiving visitors. Come back tomorrow."

Typhoon was already halfway up the ladder.

"You ain't boarding us warned the speaker above.

Typhoon reached the top of the ladder and a heavily built seaman in worn blue dungarees laid a rough hand against his chest. Bradley swore and pushed and the seaman went staggering. Before he could recover himself Typhoon was on deck. The seaman got up, swearing, and Typhoon saw he was wearing a gun belt, a strange thing for a common seaman.

"You gotta get out!" snarled the man, jerking out his weapon. "Orders is 'no one boards'...."

He gave a yelp of pain as a hard fist smacked him under the jaw. Bradley took his gun from him as he fell and contemptuously tossed it overside. He was immediately surrounded by a half dozen armed men, threatening and surly.

"I'm the magistrate for Funafuti," he said coldly. "Do you all want me to arrest you?"

Someone laughed.

"What a chance!"

Another voice spoke up and a man in a peaked cap, evidently the second mate, pushed forward.

"Never mind the guff, fellers. This is Typhoon Bradley, ain't it?"

"Correct!" said Typhoon stiffly. other gave a mocking bow.

"An' you want to see Cap'n Tench, eh?"

"I do."

"You're quite sure you wouldn't rather get back into th' dinghy?"

Something warned Bradley but he hitched forward his holsters and set his jaw.

"You heard what I wanted."

The other hesitated.

"You're sticking your nose into something," he warned. "What you doing out here anyway this time of night?"

Typhoon wasted no further words. He strode forward. A man tried to check him and went reeling from a backhand blow. The second mate sprang forward to receive the flat of Bradley's hand full in the face. There was an ugly under-current of oaths and Typhoon spun around, his gun out and his eyes slits. They were drawing on him, but the second mate's snarling voice checked that.

"Let 'im go, fellers. The Old Man'll be glad t' see 'im anyway after what happened this afternoon."

THEY drew back then and after a pause Typhoon holstered his gun, turned and proceeded aft. He was angry, coldly angry. He was not used to being treated like that.

He strode up to the poop, approached the main cabin scuttle and dropped down the companion, his eyes like ice.

There were four men seated around the table and drinking, three of whom he recognized. One was Captain Tench, his head swathed in bandages. One was the pock-marked mate. The .third, Gentleman Harry, calm and smiling and malevolent as usual, in immaculate white, his hair glossy black, a blue silk cummerbund about his slim waist and his terrible scarred face lemon-colored in the lamplight. The fourth man, a nervous, pimply-faced youth, Bradley did not know.

He faced the four, his face grim and his thumbs in his cartridge belt. Tench glared at him. The pock-marked mate swore sibilantly. The pimply-faced youth crouched lower in his chair and looked like a snake about to strike. Only Gentleman Harry seemed unmoved, unless the faint nervous twitching beneath his ears could be called apprehension.

"You see," he said smoothly, waving a well-manicured hand."You see, Tench. I told you he would probably be along if he heard I was aboard."

He smiled craftily.

The bearded captain struck the table with his clenched fist and ripped out a scalding oath.

"Damn you, Bradley! I never thought you'd have th' nerve to board a ship of mine!"

"I'll board any damned ship in Funafuti I choose," said Bradley coldly. "I'm a magistrate and I've got that right."

Tench got up, choking, and made a move for his gun. The rest got up, excepting the Gentleman. Bradley stared at Tench.

"I wouldn't draw if I were you, unless you can shoot a lot better than you can fight."

The Gentleman smiled.

"For what are we indebted to this little visit, my friend?"

Tench kept his hand on his gun but did not draw. The rest watched. Bradley stared at his old enemy, his face like iron.

"You're the reason, Gentleman," said Bradley coldly. "I don't want you around. This ship will sail at once, with you on board. The wind's fair. The tide'll be right by the time you reach the channel. So get out."

"We are getting out," the Gentleman assured him, smiling. "In fact, we are getting out tonight as you suggest. But we did not expect to have the honor of your company, although I did warn Tench you might take a notion in your head to come along."

"Yeah, you warned me but I never thought he'd be damned fool enough to come here alone. Anyway we'll handle him."

Typhoon glanced swiftly about. He sensed that if he had not actually walked into a trap they were prepared for the eventuality of his coming. The Gentleman knew him and his ways; probably the Gentleman even knew that Typhoon knew of his presence on board the Wanderer. If not that, the Gentleman was certainly aware that when Typhoon Bradley was around it was always best to take precautions.

'"What's the game?" said Bradley suddenly. The Gentleman smiled.

"A very sweet little game, my friend. But perhaps you had better throw your gun away first. There are four of us here. The second mate on deck had orders that if you should happen to arrive and be alone and insisted upon coming aft, you should. But right now there are two men covering the scuttle up above so you can't get out. And there are two more covering you with Winchesters from the skylight."

BRADLEY did not turn his head to look. It was an old trick to distract attention though he believed the Gentleman was telling the truth.

"Fair enough," he said quietly. "But you ought to know me better, Gentleman. If you want me— come and take me."

He jumped back against the bulkhead, out of line of the skylight fire, and his draw was fast as the strike of a rattler. They had him trapped perhaps, had him cornered, but he never surrendered. He would go down fighting like all the Island pioneers went down, his back to the wall and his gun spouting flame.

It would be a battle to the finish.

The Gentleman dived for the deck and missed death by the sixteenth of an inch. Captain Tench had drawn and was firing. Bradley's gun ranged the cabin and the pimply-faced youth went down with a hole between his eyes. It was nothing but sheer bad luck that Typhoon did not get every man present. But he only had time for three shots and then a bullet from the pock-marked mate's gun, wide of the mark, ricocheted off one of the brass hanging lamps and grazed Bradley across the back of the head, stunning him as neatly as a blackjack could have done.

He pitched forward and lay still and there was a silence in the main cabin save for the hard-drawn breathing of Captain Tench and the harsh whistling noise that his mate made between his teeth.

"Gawd, I never saw a man draw as fast as that afore," said Tench, choking a little. "He's killed the supercargo."

Gentleman Harry got up from the deck and brushed his clothes. He was a little shaken.

"I never thought the fool would fight," he said harshly. "It's bad enough if he gives you an even break but when he jumps you first it's time to duck."

A respectful fear showed in his eyes.

"So I noticed," sneered Tench. The Gentleman's dark eyes glittered.

"Tench!" he said crisply. "There are just three men in the Islands who can draw faster and shoot straighter than I can. Those three men are Larsen of Singapore, Stinger Seave, and Typhoon Bradley. Would you care to dispute the fact ?"

Tench stared at him for a moment and then wilted. He had seen the Gentleman shoot.

"Well, you did duck," he said sullenly. The Gentleman nodded.

"That was common sense with Bradley shooting."

The pock-marked mate swore.

"Aw, what th' hell are you arguing about? We plugged th' lousy swine, didn't we?"

GENTLEMAN HARRY, his own gun drawn now, gingerly approached Typhoon's prostrate body as a man might approach a wounded grizzly bear. He would not even stoop to see if Bradley was dead but made the mate do it. The Gentleman knew Bradley and once before he had shammed dead to advantage.

"Hell," he ain't croaked," said the mate disgustedly after a brief examination. "Just creased, that's all."

"Better finish him anyway," grunted Tench, cocking the hammer of his gun. "Th' swine butted into my business this afternoon and damned near knocked my ear off."

"We won't kill him," said the Gentleman decisively. "At least not yet. He's given me more grief than you'll ever have, Tench, and I'll get rid of him in my own way. Tie his hands and feet and chuck him into a spare room."

The other looked puzzled.

"I don't see why we don't —— croak him now," swore Tench.

"Because I say not!" rasped the Gentleman. "This is my deal and I'll play it as I see best. The thing you want to worry about is if anyone in th' lagoon has heard the shooting and wants to come over and look-see."

"Another thing," suggested the pock-marked mate sourly. "Th' boats oughta be back."

Gentleman Harry consulted his watch.

His head nodded in agreement.

"That's right. We've got to get out of the lagoon before the tide turns. I told that fool Limpy not to wait and clean up if time got too short."

Tench went upon the poop grumbling to himself and ordered two men below to bring up the supercargo's body. The Gentleman saw personally that Bradley's bonds were sound and aided to drag him into a cabin and lock him in. After that he, too, went on the poop.

iii

ASHORE things were happening, also, but so smoothly they passed unnoticed. Perhaps half an hour after Bradley had left him, Chang, still sitting at the poker table, felt a touch on his shoulder. He looked around to discover a hawk-faced man in worn dungarees standing beside him.

"What is it?" he asked calmly.

"Captain Bradley wants to see you," said the man, his voice curt and businesslike. "He's waiting down by the pandanus grove."

"What..." Chang began but the man abruptly turned on his heel and vanished in the milling crowd that was arguing, drinking and gambling in Boston Charlie's that night. Chang frowned a little, stared at his cards, absently raised a bet and when the hand was done politely excused himself and went out.

He wondered about the odd request.

The beach was dark save for the starlight, the glows from several bonfires and the shafts of light from the windows and doors of the pearling city. It was a place of dense shadows that shifted and moved as men came and went. Chang strode thoughtfully along until the last of the shacks had been left behind and he met no one save an occasional Kanaka hurrying from the village. Typhoon must have learned something, possibly discovered the reason for Gentleman Harry's presence at Funafuti. But why send for him to come to this out-of-the-way place?

Chang approached the pandanus palms suspiciously, his hand on his gun. He had thirty thousand dollars' worth of pearls in the canvas belt around his waist, and men had been killed for less than thirty dollars on the pearling beaches. Funafuti had been singularly free from that sort of thing since Bradley had taken over, otherwise Chang would never have ventured into the shadows without at least half a dozen of his men at his back.

He reached the first palm, peered into the blackness of the grove and called:

"You there, Typhoon?"

He sensed the danger even as it caught him. Something swished through the air. Chang ducked, drew and fired, the sound of the shot muffled by the wind-noise in the palms and the shouting and laughter back along the beach. A noose settled over the Chinaman's shoulders, jerked tight. He lost his feet, crashed down and several men fell on him. Something crashed on his head and he lost consciousness.

"That's one, Limpy," someone grunted. There was a short laugh.

"All right. Drag him back a ways and tie him up."

FIFTEEN minutes later Jack Cummings, buyer for Lascelle's of Paris, busy examining four large pearls in a back room of Lascar Pete's store, was interrupted by a hawk-faced man.

"Chang says he'd like to see you if you can get away," said the hawk-faced man. "He's waiting down by the pandanus grove."

"Chang?" said Cummings, surprised. He swept the pearls into a wash-leather bag and looked at the stalwart native diver who faced him across the table. He finished his business hastily.

"I'll take them, Kinoo. One thousand dollars cash. You're in debt for supplies four hundred. I'll pay the balance in the morning."

"Ai," said Kinoo with a flash of betel-stained teeth. He lifted a hand in a sort of half-salute and went out. Cummings looked around for the hawk-faced man but he had disappeared. He got up, went out into Lascar Pete's main room and beckoned to Peira, buyer for a Papeete syndicate.

"Come along with me, Peira," he said. "Chang wants to see me. Sounds like something's up." They left the place together and walked down the deserted beach to the pandanus grove where sundry things happened to them with amazing swiftness.

"He brought Peira along," chuckled a voice as the unconscious men were examined. "That's a stroke of luck."

Altogether that night seven of the most famous buyers in the South were deftly knocked out and robbed, and in the riotous whirl of the pearling beach their absence passed almost unnoticed.

OUT in the lagoon the rakish and fast bark Wanderer slipped her cable and began to move, silent as a ghost, away from the rest of the shipping. Two whale-boats, filled with men ahead of her, were towing her. Two miles out the canvas was set and before the urge of a gentle wind she moved toward the channel.

Behind her a stab of red flame suddenly spurted up from Chang's schooner, the Lotus Bud, followed almost at once by a similar red flame from Cumming's brig, the Hyacinth. On the poop of the Wanderer Gentleman Harry chuckled.

"Neat work," he boasted. "That'll keep the whole beach busy for a while saving the ships."

Tench growled something in his beard and felt tenderly of his torn ear. The pock-marked mate hitched at his cartridge belt and swore sourly.

"It'll be a devilish near thing if they get after us in whaleboats," he stated.

Gentleman Harry lighted a cheroot and laughed.

"I've got it figured pretty well. All we needed was a fair wind and we've got that. The tide won't bother us yet and we ought to get out before it turns. Once it turns not even the magistrate's launch'll be able to buck it and no ship can clear the channel. By daylight we'll be at sea, with twelve hours' start anyway."

Funafuti Lagoon, which is one of the largest in the Islands, runs twenty miles from the pearling beach near the native village to the only channel practical for deep-water vessels, and that channel is only practical at high water. An hour after high water is reached the passage is dangerous; two hours afterwards it is useless even for small boats.

Gentleman Harry had calculated things to a nicety, except he had not planned to make his clean-up until the following night. The presence of Typhoon Bradley and the fact that that night there was a favorable wind had induced him to act sooner than he had expected. At the three or four knot speed the Wanderer was making she would be several hours reaching the channel and clearing for the open sea. And she would just have time to scrape through before the tide turned. If pursuit could be delayed for only an hour after that the Gentleman was reasonably safe.

HE rubbed his hands together and walked up and down the poop with Tench. He was highly elated. He had pulled off one of the most spectacular raids in the history of the islands; had made a laughing stock of Typhoon Bradley and was in a position to dispose of his old enemy for good. He could not resist the temptation to tell him so and he and Tench went down to the main cabin.

Bradley was conscious now, his head and one side of his face covered with dried blood and his limbs cramped from his bonds. He blinked in the sudden flood of light when Gentleman Harry opened the door of his prison and with Tench's aid hauled him into the main cabin and sat him in a chair.

"Well," he said coolly, although his head was throbbing as if it would burst. "You seem to have pulled off something."

The Gentleman lighted a cheroot and blew smoke into Bradley's eyes.

"I have," he boasted. 'I've cleaned out the beach."

Typhoon stared at the little pile of canvas belts and chamois leather bags that lay on the table. He recognized Chang's belt by the ornate embroidery. He recognized Cummings' chamois sack, and Peira's initials showed he had been cleaned, too. The Gentleman laughed.

"Seven of 'em," he sneered. "Two-thirds of the season's output and the cream of the lot."

"Clever," admitted Typhoon evenly. "How did you manage it? Kill them?"

"Not at all. No need for that. Merely had 'em knocked out and tied up. Limpy Smith knew all the buyers by sight so I brought him along with me to handle the deal."

Bradley nodded. Limpy Smith was a vicious little rat of a man, one of the worst characters of the pearling grounds, but one who gained his ends by cunning rather than by force. Bradley had wondered why he hadn't shown up this season but this accounted for it. The Gentleman had got hold of him and used him.

The beach was all but cleaned, no doubt of it, and all the verandas of the Islands would tell the tale how Gentleman Harry had finally bested Typhoon Bradley. Bradley swore under his breath.

"You can't get away with it," he stated harshly. "There'll be a dozen ships on your track."

The other shrugged. Captain Tench poured a drink and tossed it down with relish.

"We ain't fools," he growled. "We set fire to two packets so the others would be kept busy. And we'll be at sea just ahead of the tide turn. That'll shut 'em in for a while."

IT was true. Bradley thought hard. From the looks of things the Gentleman would get away with it. If he wasn't stopped this side of the channel there wouldn't be a chance in a hundred of catching him. He had a big crew also, nearly all white men, and heavily armed. There'd be a bloody fight even if the pearling ships did overtake him by some miracle. Typhoon groaned and the Gentleman laughed.

"I suppose you wonder why I'm keeping you?" he jeered. He leaned forward and with savageness struck Bradley's face with his open hand, struck him again and again, his features convulsed and his eyes burning fire.

"Damn you, Bradley! I've got you now. You've had a long run, over ten years, and you've got in my way too many times. You remember the first time, eh? On Balata Beach. You smashed my face there. You're going to pay for that, savvy?"

Bradley shrugged though he was white and tense.

"Seems like you're talking too much," he said calmly. "Why not get it over?"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" the Gentleman sneered. "Yes, you'd like a bullet through your damned head, a quick death! But that's too easy. I owe you too much. I'm going to watch you die slowly, see? Dying for days and days.

"When we're at sea I'm going to tie you in a boat and trail you along astern. I'll strip you so the sun can get at you. I'll watch you go mad with thirst and hunger, watch you try to break free to throw yourself overside and drown. I'll enjoy all that. Maybe now and then I'll bring you alongside and dribble a little cold water on your chest, just where you can't reach it. There'll be a good many in the Islands who'll thank me for all that. And maybe some time some skipper'll pick up a ship's boat with a dried-up mummy in it that was once a man called Typhoon Bradley."

He was insane, working himself into a fury. Even Tench stared at him with some amazement. Tench had no liking at all for their captive but he was rather appalled at the sheer ferocity the Gentleman was exhibiting.

"Bah!" snapped the Gentleman at last. "Let's pitch him back in the cabin to think it over." He flung a glass of gin and water into Bradley's face, so the shattered fragments cut his cheek and the fiery spirit made his eyes run.

"I'll kill you for that!" he said between his teeth. The Gentleman laughed, recovering his calmness.

"Your killing days are over," he sneered. "Give me a hand with him, Tench."

THEY dragged Typhoon back into the cabin again, flung him inside, kicked him half unconscious and then left him to stare at the round circle of the open port where the stars shone big and flickering. The Wanderer slipped along, the wind humming in her rigging, the level water of the great lagoon lap-lapping along her hull, and Typhoon's eyes grew hard as flint in his drawn face.

A fine end it would be all right, a fine end for Typhoon Bradley who had dominated the South for over a decade now. His friends would revenge him, of course. Stinger Seave would scour the seas. Cassidy of Apia would set in motion all his vast interests. Jack Barrett would oil up his guns and lurk around Singapore.

Some time, somehow, Gentleman Harry would drop before hot lead to pay for this night's work. He might, of course, fly to Europe with his winnings, but it was not impossible that death would follow him there.

Yet, for all that comforting thought, Bradley was bitter. To go out lashed in an open boat, to go mad with thirst and hunger while his old enemy watched and laughed and gloated. Bradley swore through tight teeth and struggled furiously with his bonds. In a few hours there would be no hope. Once the Wanderer cleared the channel and the tide turned he was done.

iv

AN hour passed and then another. Typhoon gave up struggling with his bonds and lay panting and sweating on the cabin deck. He could hear the shoes of men on the poop above and sometimes caught the sound of their voices and a mutter of laughter as the wind blew into the open port. They were walking on the opposite side of the ship, which was the windward side, and that fact was fortunate for Bradley. Occasionally two of the men would drop below and there would follow the clink of classes in the main cabin. But Bradley was not disturbed any more.

He was just struggling to his feet with the idea of hoisting himself to the bunk for comfort's sake, when a dark shadow appeared in the open port and there came a sibilant hiss. Bradley grew rigid.

"Who is it?" he said cautiously. The shadow in the port— it was a man's head— spoke rapidly in a combination of beche-de-mer English and Samoan.

"Ai, this is the man who was whipped today. I learned you had fought for me. I learned also you were here and I came as soon as I was able."

Bradley suppressed an exclamation. He remembered the half-caste Tench had flogged over the theft of a cheap belt. He had completely forgotten the man was a member of the Wanderer's crew.

"How'd you get out there?" he demanded swiftly. "What are you on board?"

"I am the steward," the other whispered. "Be still. If you turn your back to me I will cut the ropes."

Typhoon heaved himself to the bunk with a tremendous effort, rolled over and inched toward the bulkhead. He felt a hand touch him, searchingly, and then a keen knife sawed through his bonds. His wrists fell apart and he was free. A few moments he spent bringing some life back to his numbed fingers and then seizing the proffered knife he cut his legs clear. That done he took a deep breath and wiped sweat from his forehead.

"I am grateful, my friend," he said simply. "You have given me a chance to die like a man... and perhaps to do even more."

The other gave a little grating laugh.

"Keep the knife, mister. I will unlock the door, for I have stolen a key. And then you will kill Captain Tench for me."

"I wouldn't be surprised," said Bradley grimly and the head vanished. He hefted the keen knife for a moment, grinned and thrust it in his belt. He wasn't a knife man but if no other weapon came to hand this blade would serve.

He thrust his head out of the port and discovered how the half-caste had reached him. Along the hull of the Wanderer ran a narrow beading about four feet below the scupper edge. By holding on to the scupper edge and resting the toes on the beading an active man could inch along and go right around the ship if he chose. Had the Wanderer been at sea, or heeling much to leeward the feat would have been impossible. As it was, however, she was on an almost level keel and there was little pitch or roll to her.

BRADLEY waited. He heard the Gentleman and Tench come below and take a drink. The Gentleman came to the cabin door and hammered on it, obviously in a jovial mood.

"Think of the open boat, Bradley! It'll be a long, thirsty time before you croak."

He laughed and returned to the bottle.

After a few minutes the two men went on deck again. Bradley breathed hard and pressed his ear to the door. He heard a faint foot pad on the companion, and then a key slid into the lock, turned and was withdrawn. The door opened the merest crack.

"I was ordered not to come below while you were prisoner here," muttered the half-caste. "And I am afraid. I go now."

Bradley opened the door swiftly and grasped the man's arm as he was about to make for the companion and get away. He gripped his hand.

"You're not quitting on me now,' he said shortly but quietly. "You have been a man tonight."

The half-caste struggled for a moment, fearful that one of those above would come below, and then something about the white man's steady gray eyes and strong jaw gave him courage. He drew himself up.

"I will fight with you," he agreed reluctantly and Typhoon nodded. The man's spirit was almost broken but some trace of his fighting Samoan ancestors remained in him.

There was the sound of someone at the scuttle above and the half-caste gave a gasp and almost wilted. Bradley gripped him by the shoulder and dragged him back into the cabin. They waited, crouched by the door. It was the pock-marked mate coming down and they could hear him discussing something with another man Bradley presently identified as Limpy Smith, who had evidently engineered the shore-ward end of the raid. They had several drinks before going on deck again but made no attempt to approach the cabin.

It was evident those on the poop were taking it in turns to hit the bottle. Limpy Smith and the mate went up at last and the main cabin was still save for the creakings of the hull and muffled water noises. Bradley came out of hiding and listened. Up above they were idly walking the weather deck. Bradley slipped toward the companion and went up, silent as a ghost, the trembling half-caste at his heels.

The poop was in darkness, and as the scuttle faced for'ard it was no task for Typhoon to crawl to the lee rail and then aft along the scupper. The main cabin scuttle, the skylights and a long locker that reached almost to the binnacle shielded him from possible discovery by those across the deck. The half-caste came fearfully with him, his teeth chattering but by now more afraid to go back than to go on.

BRADLEY hesitated when he could see the loom of the helmsman against the stars and the glow of the binnacle against the man's white shirt.

He braced himself and waited. Gentleman Harry and Tench came to view, the tips of their cheroots glowing cherry red in the dark. They were laughing at something as they paused together near the binnacle to look at the compass.

"We'll have to alter the course in twenty minutes," said the Gentleman. Tench agreed.

"It's not two miles to the channel. There's an ugly shoal to the sou'west. We'd better make a big swing to clear it."

"I guess west b' north ought to do it," observed the Gentleman. "We'll wait until Becke's Point before swinging."

They turned and paced for'ard. Bradley heard them halt to speak with the pock-marked mate and Limpy Smith.

"We're going below for a snort," Tench growled. 'Give us a shout when you're abreast of Becke's Point."

"Aye, aye," said the mate gruffly.

The Gentleman and Tench went below. Limpy Smith and the mate came slowly aft. Bradley waited. They turned and went for'ard again and then Bradley leaped, silent as a panther making its kill. His iron fist took the astonished helmsman on the jaw and the man fell on the wheel with a grunt. Bradley lowered him to the deck, searched him and cursed. While steering the man had evidently laid his cartridge belt aside, for he was unarmed. The sails began to shiver and Bradley caught the wheel as it started to run. He checked the ship, then reached down to haul the shaking half-caste to him.

"Can you steer?" he whispered fiercely. The man nodded dumbly. Bradley thrust the spokes into his hands.

"Keep her as she goes!" he ordered. "And stop rattling your teeth!"

THE mate and Limpy Smith had turned and were coming aft again. They reached the end of the skylight and then the mate, glancing at the wheel, halted with an astonished oath. The half-caste steward's sweat-dewed face was plain in the binnacle glow, convulsed with utter terror.

"What in hell..." began the mate, and then something hit him and he went over and rolled into the scuppers. Limpy Smith, wizened, vicious and rat-like, gave a sudden snarl and went into action with surprising suddenness. That is, he dived instinctively for Typhoon's legs. Bradley was a little off balance after swinging at the mate and he went down with a jar. Limpy Smith clawed for his gun and then he thought he had wandered into the middle of a cyclone. Steel fingers choked back his breath. His right wrist snapped and then he was flung the length of the poop to bring up against the for'ard taffrail with sufficient force to topple him over it. Most men would have been killed but Limpy Smith had all the uncanny vitality of a cat. He landed on his feet, reeled, choked for air and then let out a yell.

Typhoon stooped over the pock-marked mate, secured his gun, hefted it with a little laugh and waited. He had teeth now and he was not known as one of the best shots in the Islands for nothing. There was a pounding of shoes on the main cabin companion. Limpy Smith was screaming and shouting for the crew to gather. Gentleman Harry and Tench burst on the poop, bewildered at the noise and confusion. Tench leaned over the for'ard taffrail.

"What th' hell's wrong, you fool?" he roared. ''What's happened?"

"Aft there!" screeched Limpy Smith, holding his broken wrist and hopping with pain and viciousness. "Aft there. Typhoon Bradley!"

"He got loose?" choked the Gentleman incredulously and he whipped round to face aft, his gun leaping to his hand.

"Stay where you are!" snapped Typhoon crisply. "I..."

The Gentleman sent a stream of lead into the shadows by the wheel and then ducked behind the scuttle. Tench opened up. Men came running from for'ard and the night grew vivid with orange splashes. The half-caste slipped a bowline over the wheel and dropped to the deck, quaking with awful fear. Typhoon shot three times, wounding two men, and then held his fire. The noise died away as Gentleman Harry shouted:

"Get overside, Bradley. We'll let you swim clear!"

But Typhoon laughed. He knew what was in Gentleman's mind. The Wanderer was abeam of Becke's Point and it was time to change the course.

He crawled cautiously to the unconscious mate and relieved him of his cartridge belt and then reloaded his gun. The Gentleman was swearing thickly. Tench was cursing in his beard. The stars were beginning to pale and the dawn would soon be upon them. The Wanderer had to get through the channel right away. If she were delayed she would be trapped for another tide and pursuit would catch her. Bradley set his jaw as he heard the Gentleman's voice grow calmer. Orders rapped out. Men moved swiftly.

"I'll give you just thirty seconds to clear out, Bradley," said the Gentleman from behind the cover of the scuttle. Bradley's only answer was to take a snapshot at the loom of a head. He missed and the next instant the firing was general.

NEVER before nor after was Typhoon Bradley in exactly the bad jam he was in then. The helmsman he had stunned was reviving and sitting up. The pock-marked mate was beginning to move. The night was fast disappearing and he had only his one gun to stand off a heavily armed crew of some two dozen men. They were already climbing up into the rigging to get shots at him. A veritable hail of lead swept the poop waist high so he could not rise. He only grinned. He was fighting and he was glad. The old wolf was at bay.

The Wanderer was yawing badly but under the urge of the wind still going forward. Becke's Point was well past the beam. Ahead there was the roaring of breakers, muffled and dim as yet. To port were ugly shoals and the channel twisted between them.

Bradley turned his head and saw that the half-caste was entirely useless, gray from fear and crouched, whimpering, to the deck. Typhoon picked another man out of the rigging and then wriggled to the wheel. The stars were all but gone. The sky was a vast dome of opal white, steadily growing clearer. Bradley glanced at the sails, glanced to windward and chuckled. He threw clear the bowline from the wheel, let it spin, checked it, let it spin again, all while he was lying almost flat beneath the leaden hail, protected only by the low poop houses. Tench's harsh voice roared out an oath.

And in the midst of all this the Wanderer struck. Under the full press of her canvas she rammed into the soft, sandy shoal Bradley had aimed her at, jarred once or twice and then slowly heeled to port and was still, the main topmast going by the board with a crash of rigging and spars.

On the poop Gentleman Harry had taken hold of himself with a tremendous effort.

"Lower the boats," he said harshly.

"We'll have to chance it. Water and provisions."

"Jump to it!" Tench roared, because now the full day had come they could see, far down the lagoon, the white topsails of a dozen racing ships.

The men were milling in a panic. Their losses had been fearful. Tench, the Gentleman and the pock-marked mate plunged into the midst of them and hammered and kicked some sense into them. They slopped one boat in the water and the three leaders piled in, together with four men. The rest fought and quarrelled among themselves to get the other boat lowered and panic swept them again. It was every man for himself.

Typhoon sensed what was going on and hesitated. He was sick and weak but there was still something to be done. The poop was deserted save for the dead. The survivors of the crew were laboring mid-ships, striking each other and cursing. The Gentleman's boat was half a cable's length away, pulling for the channel, and Bradley swore. Then he acted.

He swept against those left on board like the typhoon for which he was named. He knocked down two men with the barrels of his guns, shot another who drew on him and drove the rest to the boat falls in some semblance of order. They made no more resistance. Covered with blood, his eyes like ice and his tight-lipped mouth roaring at them, they were quelled.

He drove them into the boat when it was overside, jumped into the stern sheets, shipped the tiller and jammed it over with one knee while he glared at the frightened men. Few of them had weapons now. They had discarded their Winchesters and what revolvers they had were empty from the fierce fighting on the poop. As in a mad daze they found themselves pulling at the oars. The mast was stepped and the sail hoisted. Heeling stiffly, the boat with a madman at her tiller, roared along after Gentleman Harry.

v

TENCH looked around and swore.

"He's gaining on us. He's a devil. He ought to be dead and he's chasing us instead, in our own boat with our own men pulling for him."

Typhoon balanced himself and fired. The range was long and the lunging of the boat made aim difficult but Typhoon could shoot. His first bullet whickered by the Gentleman's head. His second splashed the water alongside. His third nicked the shaft of an oar but his fourth, fired as the boat steadied for a moment, blew in the back of the mate's head.

The mate moaned through dead lips.

He fell forward, letting go the tiller, and the boat yawed wide, came up into the wind. Tench cursed hysterically and jumped for the stern sheets. The oars brought the boat to the wind again but they had lost too much distance.

"We can't make the channel now snarled the Gentleman. "Head for the beach. There's fifty miles of brush and palms to hide in and anything can happen."

Both boats turned for the beach, two miles distant, but with the changed slant of the wind the more lightly loaded craft was hard to manage under sail while Typhoon's packet lay down to it and surged steadily forward. He gained, inch by inch, and he withheld his fire when he saw this.

DRIVING with wind and oars, the Gentleman's boat rammed into the shelving sand of the beach so hard it ploughed half ashore before stopping. The mast snapped off and fell, stunning one of the seamen. Tench and the Gentleman and the other two stumbled over the gunnels and started for the fringe of the palms fifty yards away, where they might temporarily at least find breathing space and shelter.

Scarce half a. minute behind them, Typhoon's boat beached with a jarring crash and Typhoon himself, with a flying leap, was in the shallows and ploughing for the sand. None of the men he had cowed attempted to follow him. They remained in the boat, looking stupidly at each other, as in a dream, and watching the racing pearling fleet coming down the lagoon. They felt as if they had tangled with a buzz-saw and they had had enough.

A bullet runs faster than a man and Typhoon fired as he ran. He dropped one of the seamen with a bullet in the left leg. Tench stumbled and fell over a fragment of coral rock and the others left him. The bearded captain turned, snarling, to face Typhoon, his eyes wide with terror and desperation. Bradley killed him as he passed, ignoring Tench's shot in his thigh.

The race was nearly done then. The last seaman, winded, abandoned himself to fate, threw his gun away and cowered on his knees. Typhoon struck down at him with a gun barrel and went on. He spun the Gentleman half around with a bullet through the left shoulder blade, and the Gentleman almost fell. He turned, his face convulsed with fury and pain, and he flung something almost at Bradley's feet before he turned and ran again, wobbling badly.

Typhoon checked. A large bag lay on the sand. He picked it up, hefted it and laughed. The Gentleman had flung him the pearl loot in an effort to stop him. And it had stopped him.

Typhoon thrust the heavy bag into his shirt, tried to start running again and found his legs were trembling so much he dared not attempt a step. He lifted his gun at the fleeing Gentleman's back but his eyes were misty and he could not see. He had gone through too much. He had used up all he had. He cursed, pressed the trigger, but the bullet went into the sand not twenty feet ahead of him.

He heard the Gentleman's final bitter curse as that worthy vanished into the shelter of the palms and then, staggering, Typhoon turned to see the pearling fleet swinging up one by one and dropping anchor off the beach while the whaleboats were flung overside and raced toward him.

"All right, fellers," he said wearily. "It's all right. Nothing missing, I guess. I may be a hell of a magistrate but I figure the slate's clean!"

They could not hear him, of course, and when they came running up the sand toward him they found him lying unconscious on his face, his guns still gripped in his hands, and the loot of Funafuti Lagoon safe inside his shirt.

__________________

15: An Error in Equation

Ernest M Poate

1884-1935

Detective Story Magazine  21 May 1921

THIS is not properly a tale, but an unfinished problem in algebra— unfinished because of an error in the terms of the equation, The reactions of X can never be determined.

Here is our problem: If C cancels A, what relation will B bear to X? Now the unknown quantity, especially since it remains unknown to the end, must naturally be a woman. We will name her: Diana Winthrop. But of her you shall learn no more than this, because our problem is stated in the terms of John Braisted who conceived it. Our knowledge can be no more than this.

Mr. John Braisted considered himself an eminently practical man and prided himself on that practicality, as upon any number of other things. He was a man of about forty, reasonably well-to-do, and therefore at last pondering the advantages of marriage. He was one of the amazing products of that modern school whose fundamental tenet is the power of the human will—rightful descendant of yesterday's correspondence courses in hypnotism. An extraordinarily literal-minded person he set about the business of courtship as whole-heartedly, as twenty years before he had set about the amassing a competence. Being as impractical are most "practical" men, he selected as his future wife one Diana Winthrop.

That she was scarcely more than half his age and reputed to be held back from marriage only by a difficulty of decision between two faithful cavaliers, troubled Mr. Braisted not at all. By the conditions of his rise in life he was not even an amateur of women; and, by the somewhat egotistical trend of his instruction, he was naturally led to assume that his selection of a wife necessarily implied the lady's grateful acquiescence therein.

None the less, before formally entering the lists, Braisted had the wisdom to examine into the situation somewhat. As has been said, Miss Winthrop had two cavaliers, both devoted, between whom she held the scales quite evenly.

Braisted understood men— or believed that he did, which comes to much the same in the end— and he studied these two with the keenness of one who has risen by the weaknesses of others. He made friends with both, encouraged both to confidences, and, having obtained their trust, scorned both impartially. Armitage, burly and blond and obvious, slow, rich,  unintelligently amiable; Carmichael, small and dark and shrinking, a mystic, half a poet and wholly a failure— neither seemed to John Braisted a formidable rival.

Yet both were far advanced in Miss Winthrop's good graces, while he, their superior in every way, remained an unconsidered acquaintance. It was puzzling, annoying— worse; for it tended to upset those theories upon which his success had been built. As I have said, Mr. Braisted was quite unskilled in women; he had not discovered that they require other virtues than efficiency. Behold him, then, in the full grip of such an infatuation as takes lonely men in middle life; fixed in the unreasoning determination of his type upon the obtaining of one woman; sitting before his fire in somber thought. That day he had been told that Miss Winthrop was surely engaged to Philip Armitage. True, yesterday's rumor had made Carmichael the lucky man; but everyone agreed that it must be one or the other. Braisted despaired of the application of his diplomacy in this new field. He was almost ready for the consideration of violence—provided, of course, it could be applied without risk

The futility of his reflections maddened him. To escape from them he picked up a book. It was an instructive book, naturally— an account of travel in Persia

His indifferent eye met a strange name: 'Hassan ben Sabah'. According to his unvarying practice John Braisted reached methodically for his encyclopedia and was presently reading for the first time of that Sheike Jobeltz, whom Occidentals call "The Old Man of the Mountains," and of how he built a religious cult and almost a world empire upon the foundation of a single drug. Assassination being quite in the spirit of his mood, John Braisted warmed to the methods of the father of all assassins and was soon reading the encyclopedia's article on the drug hasheesh.

Of its usual psychological effects— exaltation, the sense of infinite enlargement in time and space— he read uninterestedly enough, as became an unimaginative man. And then he came to more pertinent matter; to an account of the unreasoning fury of slaughter which sometimes seizes Oriental addicts of the drug and drives them forth, weapon in hand, with that terrifying cry of "Amok! Amok!" (kill! Kill!) which has been taken as a name for their mental state, so that one speaks of "running amuck."

As he read a strange and exciting idea came into John Braisted's mind. While his fire died, and the chill of midnight crept into the room, he sat silent in his study, the forgotten book open in his lap, plotting out that equation whose statement began our narrative.

The dawn was gray in the east before his problem was at last clearly in his mind; then with a long suspiration he rose, stretched his cramped limbs, and retired.

The next morning he began with methodical care to set his plan into motion. First he made a trip to another city, where he purchased half an ounce of crude cannabis indica, giving a false name for the druggist's poison register.

On his return home he concealed his purchase in a safe place and set about his next which was to ingratiate himself Noel Carmichael. Carmichael he chose as the unconscious instrument of his design, because of the man's dreamy, mystical temperament, which, so Braisted shrewdly judged, might bring him into the class of those Orientals whom hasheesh sometimes fired with murderous fury.

With cautious tact he sought Carmichael's company; suffered the man's long silence in apparent sympathy, and encouraged his rare, shyly ventured remarks with cordial appreciation.

Carmichael expanded slowly in this friendly atmosphere. By the defects of his man's acquaintances were few enough; and he had no intimates. But, now that he had found what seemed a kindred soul, his shyness slowly melted. He formed the habit of dropping into Braisted's comfortable rooms for a quiet evening's smoke and chat. This habit Braisted encouraged thankfully; discovering that the other had a nice taste in tobaccos, he combed the city for rare imported Russian and Turkish cigarettes upon which to ask his friend's opinion.

Gradually the intimacy between these two unlikely persons deepened, until Carmichael's speech began to hint shyly at his love for Diana Winthrop.  Inwardly writhing with cold hatred, Braisted listened and encouraged; obtained little by little his victim's complete heart history— his hopes and fears and adoration; his moments of optimism, inspired by a word or look; his weeks of despair based on a foundation no more secure. And all the time, by sly, veiled hints and innuendos, Braisted sought to implant in the other's mind a personal animosity toward his known rival, Philip Armitage.

Toward Armitage Braisted preserved an attitude of cool friendliness. He had no desire for this man's intimacy, but merely endeavored to keep upon such terms with him as would justify that later invitation to his rooms. Armitage's acceptance would mark the beginning of his plan's culmination.

All this, of course, occupied weeks. At times Braisted woke at night, restless with fear lest, after all, he might be too late, and Diana Winthrop might be engaged— even married— before his rivals should have eliminated each other.

Once he deemed his influence upon Carmichael fully established, he made haste to set the stage for that last scene which was to make of his play a tragedy.

From a little East Side shop he obtained a package of rare Russian cigarette tobacco. This he brought home and mingled judiciously with finely broken cannabis indica, until he had produced a mixture which he considered not unlike bhang, or smoking hasheesh, which is used in the Far East.

Using a special device for the purpose, Braisted filled a dozen long, quill-ended Russian cigarette tubes with his mixture and then invited Noel Carmichael to come that evening to sample a new and exotic brand of cigarettes, When Carmichael accepted, he telephoned Philip Armitage.

"Hello! That you, Armitage? Are you engaged for this evening?... Oh, of course! Vincent's dinner dance. No, I'm not going. Wish you'd drop in at my rooms afterward if you can. Two o'clock, say; can you make it?... Fine! I have a very important matter to talk over with you... What? No, I can't tell you over the phone. Two o'clock?... All right; good-by."

That night Carmichael appeared at Braisted's rooms in a state of black depression. He scarcely spoke in reply to his host's greeting, but huddled into a chair facing the fire and glowered balefully, gnawing his finger ends. He ignored Braisted's attempts at conversation, but accepted a cigarette and smoked moodily.

Outwardly indifferent, Braisted watched his guest narrowly. Carmichael smoked in silence until his cigarette was burned right down to its pasteboard tube. Gradually a pungent, heady odor pervaded the room— a strange, bizarre odor, which seemed to hint of incense burned not in any wholesome rite, but before some obscene idol. Unimaginative though he was, John Braisted's skin prickled oddly.

Carmichael accepted a second cigarette, lit it, and inhaled deeply. Now his sullen, black stare began to lighten; his face changed subtly, relaxing as from some inner contentment. His tight lips loosened; he began to speak slowly, dreamily.

"Queer, isn't it, how a man's moods change? When I came in, I was in despair; life didn't seem worth living. Now the whole situation is unchanged, but I feel light and free and happy—" His voice trailed away; he smiled abstractedly into the fire.

"What was troubling you, old man?" asked Braisted sympathetically. "Have another cigarette; what do you think of them?"

"Thanks; I will. They have an odd flavor, but I rather like them."

Carmichael lit his third cigarette and smoked it slowly in evident enjoyment. His black eyes grew glassily bright, his lips moved soundlessly.

"She hardly spoke to me to-day, Braisted. Phil took her out in his car, and she seemed glad to get away. It upset me dreadfully; but now I look at it differently. I believe I've got a show, Braisted! I believe I've got a sporting chance, even yet!" His voice rose excitedly; he gestured with slender, nervous hands.

John Braisted smiled to himself. Things seemed to be moving well enough.

"I am sure you have, old man," he encouraged. "If you had a fair chance, I believe you'd win out."

The other turned sharply. "What do you mean?" he demanded.

"Why, nothing—" Braisted began to suggest deftly with half-spoken hints and veiled implications that Philip Armitage held some unfair advantage over his rival.

Carmichael listened in seeming indifference. His widening eyes regarded the fire; he seemed lost in a maze of happy thoughts. His rare movements grew slower, more measured. When he knocked the ash from his fourth cigarette, his hand sought the smoking stand in a gesture of exaggerated precision, as though consciously calculating its distance. He said nothing.

The other watched him carefully, dropping barbed suggestions between long intervals of silence, hinting that Armitage might hold Diana Winthrop's favor by coercion.

And still his guest sat mute, smoking drugged cigarettes one after another. His expression did not change; he showed no sign of hearing, save that his eyes slowly reddened.

The hours slipped by. As midnight passed and the time of Armitage's arrival neared, Braisted grew first irritated and then desperate. He rose and walked nervously about the room, fidgeting with books and papers. From his desk he took a paper knife— a wicked thing, ebony-handled, with a narrow, eight-inch blade of tempered steel. With the knife in his hand he paced the floor for a few moments; then he subsided into his chair and laid the weapon down upon the smoking stand in Carmichael's easy reach,

In growing inner tension he glanced again at the mantel clock. It lacked fifteen minutes of two. Disgustedly he viewed the inert, semi-somnolent figure of his guest. Carmichael lay relaxed in the big chair, hands idle in his lap. His eyes were half closed and set in a fixed stare, but they glowed as from some evil, inward fire.

The evil glow did not escape his host. "Noel," he declared earnestly, "if I were in your place I'd do something about this!"

The other stirred very slightly. His reddened eyes still regarded the dying fire. "About what?" he asked vaguely. His voice was faint and husky, and he spoke as from some vast distance.

"Why, about Phil Armitage!" Braisted's harried glance sought the clock once more. Only five minutes.

"It's not fair to Miss Winthrop to let things go on like this. He's annoying her; he has some secret hold upon her; she's afraid of him, I tell you! Oh, I've seen it— I've known for a long time. The onlooker sees most of the game. But I hated to speak of it, until you brought the subject up yourself."

Carmichael, of course, had not spoken of it, but his host trusted that the man's befuddled mind would overlook this detail. "If I were you—"

A pregnant pause, broken by a sharp, assured knock, followed. "If I were you I'd— kill Philip Armitage!"

Carmichael's dreamy eyes opened wide; he sprang erect, moving with a sudden, deadly speed in sharp contrast to his former deliberation. He half crouched; instinctively his tensed, claw-like fingers groped for the paper cutter near him— groped and found it and settled lovingly about its haft.

"Come in!" Braisted shouted, but his heart was pounding fast.

The door opened; Philip Armitage entered nonchalantly in evening dress, a smile upon his handsome face.

"There he is now!" said Braisted.

The three stood still in a tableaux which, to its director's painfully alert senses, seemed interminably prolonged. In the doorway stood Armitage, puzzled and a little irritated at his lack of greeting, but stalwart, handsome, assured— a figure to fill any woman's eye, John Braisted thought  enviously. Braisted himself stood withdrawn at one side, so that his two instruments might face each other; on his face was a hint of irritated puzzlement, but his heart throbbed in great, sickening leaps, half of deadly fear and half of savage joy. Carmichael still crouched, facing his rival in the doorway. His face was a demoniac mask; his red eyes blazed with lust of slaughter; his right hand, holding that glittering, deadly toy, crept slowly up and out.

Quivering, Braisted waited. The tense seconds stretched themselves into eternities; gradually the builder of this climax lost the creator's sense of power, felt himself no longer the moving power of the impending tragedy, but, like its two chief actors, a helpless puppet awaiting the jerk of a hidden hand upon his strings.

Then suddenly the static unreality of the scene flashed into dynamic action, Noel Carmichael screeched aloud, horribly, inhumanly, as a wild beast roars for his kill. Moving with the effortless speed of some great cat, he leaped and struck! Then all was very still, and at once the three men froze into their several positions.

John Braisted blinked stupidly. Carmichael with his instrument had dealt the fatal blow; surely all must be well. But what was this— this numb paralysis — this growing faintness? Through a reddish mist he saw Philip Armitage still standing in the doorway— shocked, but unhurt. His wavering gaze dropped and fastened upon a black knob which had suddenly appeared beside his chin, He traced it downward and identified the familiar outline of his own paper knife. Its haft stood straight up beside his neck; its blade he could not see.

While he still wondered at this portent, his knees buckled slowly, and he sank to the floor.

Philip Armitage leaped forward and gripped his unresisting friend. "Noel! Noel!" he exclaimed. "What have you done?"

The other passed a dazed hand across eyes whose congestion was slowly fading. "I— I don't know. I must have been— crazy for a minute. He kept talking— talking— slandering you and Diana— and I struck him."

John Braisted looked dimly up. "I— I must have made some mistake," he whispered in a last dying gasp.

Thus was John Braisted's equation invalidated; what would have been its result no man can say. Further, Carmichael having cancelled Braisted instead of Armitage, the relation of Armitage to Diana remained to be determined.

But what the relation might be John Braisted never knew— and neither shall you.

__________________

A Doctor Bentiron case

16: False Teeth

Ernest M. Poate

Detective Story Magazine  23 Sep 1919

1: A Search.

DOCTOR BENTIRON was one of those men to whom adventure seems to gravitate. He never sought it; he sat all day his big, bare office, untidily clad, slouched down in his great reclining chair, and smoked idly, brooding upon vacancy. But to him came all manner of persons, telling strange tales; grim tragedies that underlie the decorous surface of civilized life, such as none since the old Greeks have dared to speak of openly. And he sat listening, with the utter indifference of some sculptured Egyptian god, rolling and smoking his endless succession of cigarettes.

All day he lay back in his great chair, so that one might think him half asleep; and one after another stood at his feet and spoke such things as men fear to admit even to themselves; for the alienist is as one standing in the power house of life, who sees in the making that vital current which drives men forth upon their diverse ways. And the doctor blinked and listened, making no sign, save when, now and again, he reached out a lean arm to alter the texture of some life. I shall never know the hundredth part of the stories told in that bare room; only when one of them moved the doctor to action did I hear of it.

At such times he would summon me, perhaps merely to watch and listen, perhaps to carry out some astounding order, drawled in that weary, lifeless voice of his; or he would descend, yawning, from his chair between the two huge revolving bookcases, and clamber into his blue limousine, groaning. Following, I would straightway find myself meshed in bizarre affairs, rubbing shoulders with desperate criminals— for many a strange patient passed through the chief's consulting room.

It was so with the curious affair of the false teeth. Departing on a perfectly innocent errand, I found myself caught in a coil of arson, murder and fraud.

It was eleven o'clock of a hot August night. Doctor Bentiron had spent the evening with Milly and me in our rooms at the front of his big Madison Avenue house. It had become his habit to drop in on us so, sitting silent for hours in his own particular corner chair, or breaking out into whimsically contradictory philosophies. This evening, I remember, he had been discussing civilization.

"Civilization begins," he declared, "with the invention of two names for the same thing. First come the intimate facts of life; a second name is applied to certain physiological functions. Straightway the original name becomes 'nasty'; thus modesty is developed. And so the process spreads, until we shudder at the mere names of realities. We no longer die; we 'pass on.' Our friends are not dead ; they have 'entered another plane.' Umphf. Also, it is the name, not the thing itself, which appals. We can discuss without emotion the whole-sale murder of those whom we choose to consider 'unfit;? but we must first call it euthanasia. Killing would become a polite sport if some one started the fashion of calling it 'translation,' for instance. Some one gets in my way; I beef that intruding person. An uncouth, bourgeois policeman pinches me. 'Why'd yuh kill that guy?" he demands coarsely. I draw myself up in patrician dignity. 'I did not,' I declare haughtily. 'He has gone to another plane; I merely translated him!' Whereupon that vulgar cop takes his diminished head away from there, quite abashed. Umphf. Yes."

"He would if you told him to, Daddy Bentiron," maintained my wife stoutly; and I think she was right.

"Umphf," grunted the doctor with the ghost of a chuckle. "The will-to-power. Exactly."

With his thin length sprawled wearily in an armchair he looked like anything but the superman. Every line of his emaciated frame drooped; his bearded face was as empty of energy as a still lake. His long, dull eyes were blank, expressionless.

"Umphf," he yawned, and began to heave himself up. It was a matter of minutes for the doctor to rise, though he could move swiftly enough upon occasion. He was no more than halfway out of his chair when a nurse knocked at the open door.

"It's Mrs. Moran, doctor," she apologized.

"Umphf," groaned Doctor Bentiron. "Charlie's gone on the loose again, I suppose. Oh, well."

He drooped languidly toward the door, moving like one about to die and looking as if he were rather relieved at the idea. Also, he walked as silently as if already a ghost.

In the hall he stopped and turned about. Thumbs in belt, head cocked to one side, he regarded the ceiling through a veil of cigarette smoke. His bearded lips were twisted in grim amusement.

"Blakely," he drawled tonelessly. "You are too fat and beefy. Come down, my son; I'll put you to work. It's hot, I know; but what's the use of having an assistant if he doesn't assist?"

Milly thrust out an irreverent pink tongue at him. She looked like an impish little schoolgirl.

"You're horrid, Daddy Bentiron," she averred. "You just like to drag my Freddie out in the middle of this hot night. And him so nice and pink, too!"

I grew pinker. It is quite true that I am beefy and florid. I am a big man, but not fat; I deny it! So I picked my wife up and shook her gently —she was very little— and strode out with my best air of injured dignity. A silvery giggle warned me that it had failed to register; but I went on.

A silent gray shadow the chief drifted down the wide stairs to his office. At its door stood Mrs. Moran, shifting her huge weight from one broad foot to the other. At intervals she sniffed mechanically. Her face was wide; her shoulders were wide, and both were well cushioned. Her hands were the wide, red, fissured hands of the washer-woman. Her black bombazine dress of state must have been frightfully hot on that airless night, but she bore its discomfort stoically.

Seeing us, she burst at once into voluble speech. She talked while the doctor led her into the office; she talked while I brought her a chair; she was still talking when the chief had climbed into his seat of state and settled into his accustomed pose, knees almost as high as his head. She told us the story of her dingy life, and Doctor Bentiron listened courteously and let her flow on unchecked ; he, who would have cut off the president of the biggest city bank in the middle of a word— yes, and sent him home like a schoolboy, without even troubling to look away from his blank wall. But Mrs. Moran was one of the doctor's pets.

And so she talked; and gradually her present difficulty took shape from the mist of words. It was Charlie again, it appeared, her only son, and the pride of her life. "A good boy when he was at himself, but a bit wildlike, betimes." His latest "wildlike" act had been to steal his mother's washing money and invest it in very bad whisky. In that day, whisky was still plentiful and cheap enough, too; but Charlie's thirst had not been satisfied. "The boy gets a terrible drouth when he's that way," explained Mrs. Moran. "Me man, Michael— Heaven rest him!—was the same. Liquor into him was like pouring water down the kitchen sink." With the "drouth" upon him, Charlie had therefore returned to the maternal roof. Finding no more money there, he smashed three of his mother's "rale Irish chiney tea cups," made an inadequate collection of small pawnable articles, and sallied forth once more, with the darkly expressed intent to "stick up some guy for the price of a regular bun."

"Small chance!" intoned Doctor Bentiron lethargically; from which I gathered that he thought little of Charlie's abilities in the strong-arm way.

But the tearfully garrulous flood was unchecked. He was so bold, was Charlie; likely he'd do something disprit bad. Didn't her Mike mess up that dago with a brick? Sure, she had a fine rest while he was on the Island; but Charlie was different.

"He's a dilicate lad, sorr," she protested. "Likely somebody might hurrt him!" All this —and so much more—she poured into the doctor's wearily sympathetic calm, sniffing vigorously the while. It is pathetic, that the grief of fat old women should be so ludicrous; yet Doctor Bentiron did not smile.

"All right, Bridget,'' he cut her short at last. "Be easy. I'll go find the boy for you." And he heaved himself up.

Now Doctor Bentiron was admittedly the greatest alienist in this country. His fees were fabulous ; he refused to make calls. "Let 'em come to me," he would yawn. And when they came he saw them— if he so minded. But he set out at midnight to hunt through slum saloons for the weakly vicious son of an indigent washer-woman.

It was quite in character; if any one had expressed amazement, "I am Bentiron," he would have murmured, yawning. "I do as I please."

He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of baggy homespun trousers.

"Come along, Blakely," he ordered. "We'll take you home first, Bridget." The big blue limousine was already waiting. As we emerged, the footman bit off a yawn in the middle and snapped rigidly to attention. The chief helped Mrs. Moran in, and settled her in his own accustomed corner. Even in that wide seat, she bulked tremendous; with one sad look at the inadequate space remaining, Doctor Bentiron hunched himself uncomfortably on one folding seat while I cramped into the other.

"All night, Jenkins," he groaned.

"Yes, sir," said the footman, saluting, and closed the door.

And so our oddly assorted trio set forth upon the search for the errant Charlie.

2: Fire

NEW YORK is a thousand cities in one; a whole solar system. The incoming stranger, like an asteroid, whirls about aimlessly for a time and then gravitates surely to his own place, settling into a fixed orbit whose axes are home and working-place. Soon he will boast that he knows New York— for here old residents are made overnight — but it is only his own city that he knows.

There is the New York of the business man, far downtown. The New York of that curious creature, the "man-about-town" lies along a great X whose arms are Broadway and Fifth Avenue. The taxicab chauffeur's city is an arithmetical checkerboard of streets rough and smooth, wherein houses become mere arbitrary numbers, so many to the block on this avenue or that. The street-car man has his own New York, and the policeman his. There is a New York of housekeepers, made up of groceries, delicatessen shops and department stores. My own city was the New York of the hospital interne, which is bounded on the west by Hudson Street Hospital, and on the east by Blackwell's Island; a city of the sick, of long hospital wards and the smell of mingled iodoform and ether, enlivened only by swift, erratic rushes into the dark, teeming tenements, also inhabited—for me—by sick and suffering humanity which invariably dwells on the sixth floor back and must be carried in stretchers down narrow black staircases with cramped corners at each landing.

There is also the New York of the alienist, whose centers are at Ward's Island, Flatbush and Central Islip, and whose inhabitants are lunatics—"locked up and still loose."

To Doctor Bentiron all these were one; he knew the city as few men ever come to know it; and I verily believe that he could call by name a third of the population of the greater city.

Mrs. Moran lived on East One Hundred and Fifteenth Street, near First Avenue; wherefore our course plunged us into still another city; the New York of the upper East Side—Little Italy. It lies between Ninety-sixth Street and the Harlem River, east of Third Avenue, and here dwell persons of divers and curious sorts, respectable and otherwise. It is— or was in that day— a paradise of gangsters. Here shootings and stabbings are routine, and opposing factions battle joyously among themselves, to the injury of the innocent bystanders —if any such there be.

We dropped Mrs. Moran at her home; the doctor accompanied her ceremoniously to the fifth floor; and sent the car to wait at Lexington Avenue.

"I go to wander through noxious dumps," murmured the chief wearily. "Park the car and stick around till I get there."

It was already past midnight, but neither chauffeur nor footman looked aggrieved. "Yes, sorr!" they chorused cheerfully. The doctor's people accorded him willing and loyal service.

"Umphf," intoned Doctor Bentiron as the car rolled away. "I wish somebody would 'translate' Charlie into all foreign languages, including the Scandinavian. Euthanasia would be the very best thing for that one. But his mother is fond of him, and I am weak enough to be fond of the old lady. Wherefore we shall drift through a dozen or so of cheap barrooms until we find him. What? Stick anybody up? Umphf. He hasn't the guts of a panhandler. Come along."

But he stopped at the corner. 'We'll split here," he decided. "You go back down One Hundred and Fifteenth Street ; I'll take One Hundred and Sixteenth, and we'll meet at Pleasant Avenue. Ask in all the saloons for Charlie Moran." And he slouched off, hands in pockets.

I made a faithful round; but I was too big and broad, too high-colored. Bartenders and bar loafers were surly and uncommunicative. No. Unanimously, they had seen nothing of Charlie Moran for weeks. Likely he was home in bed; and they glanced furtively at my feet. I could read their thought: Here was a big, beefy stranger asking for Charlie Moran. Charlie was wanted; far be it from them to aid the police!

So, after a series of such blanks, I met the chief at Pleasant Avenue and One Hundred and Sixteenth Street. He was chatting with the policeman on peg post at that corner.

"Sure, sorr," the officer was saying. "Sure, doctor, I seen him. Round nine o'clock it was, coming out of the cafty yonder, with Owly Weinstein and Pete Stratzo. Crying, he was, 'cause his pappy was dead—ten years ago. He started off west."

"Umphf," yawned Doctor Bentiron. "Thank you, Gleason," and drifted up the street, one eyebrow cocked at me.

I shook my head. "They don't seem to like me up here," I confessed.

I received a brief up-and-down glance from the very corner of the chief's long, narrow eye. "Umphf," he intoned, chuckling faintly. "So I should have thought. They took you for a plain-clothes cop who had conceived the brilliant idea of changing his shoes. It would be a good disguise, at that. Umphf. Oh, well, come along."

Now the attitude of the natives was wonderfully changed. The doctor would lounge into a saloon or a soda fountain— for these also have their place in the half-world— perhaps nodding a greeting to some Tony or Mike who always responded with Latin effusiveness. He would glance over the crowd, put his question 'in a dull, indifferent drawl, and invariably receive willing and voluble replies. Everyone seemed to know Doctor Bentiron; no one hesitated to answer him. My appearance no longer evoked suspicion; was I not with "the doctor?"

So we traced Charlie Moran's erratic progress through barrooms and all-night restaurants until we came to Pastolozzi's place. This was an exact replica of half a dozen other saloons we had already seen; the same swinging half-doors, set diagonally to the corner; the same bar on one side and free-lunch counter on the other; the same unclean mosaic floor; the same glimpse of an untidy back room where unkempt men drooped over half-emptied glasses. Its proprietor, a mountainous Italian, whose huge gray mustache gave him rather the appearance of an amiable walrus, was about to close up, for one o'clock was very near. He hailed Doctor Bentiron by name.

"Charlee Moran? Sure, doctor, I see-a heem—drunk. Si!' He nodded vigorously. "In here, he give-a da alarm clock for dreenk. Si!"

Afterward Charlie had been ejected. "Too much-a da seeng," explained Mr. Pastolozzi, virtuously reproving. He kept a respectable place, did Pietro Pastolozzi. Si! That had been about ten o'clock.

Outside, on Lexington Avenue, we got our latest clew. The patrolman on that beat had seen Charlie thrown out of Pastolozzi's.

"Down One Hundred and Fourteenth Street he went," reported the officer. "Dhrunk? Sure, but quiet, sorr. 'Tis a fine hot night for walking, doctor."

And so we started down One Hundred and Fourteenth Street, at this hour silent and dark. It was the pattern of a hundred other streets; we walked between twin rows of old brownstone houses, alike as peas in the same pod save here and there where a ground floor had been debased to the uses of some small grocer, confectioner, or tailor. The shops were all dark; the doors all closed; the street was deserted. My footsteps echoed hollowly, as in a cavern; the doctor's were noiseless, as always.

Midway of the block, the chief halted me with a sudden grip. I glanced about; one of that long row of closed doors was opening slowly, stealthily. We stood in the shadow of the high stoop while it swung wider until a vaguely defined head was thrust forth. Its owner peered both ways; then, seeing the street apparently empty, he bolted down the steps— and into Doctor Bentiron's arms.

"Umphf," said the doctor, and turned him to the light. This was a man of middle age; it could not be Charlie Moran. "Umphf. What's the big idea, dear friend?"

The fellow twisted frantically against that viselike grip. But the doctor's lean hands were tremendously strong, and presently the man ceased to struggle. The face he turned to us was abjectly terrified. His cheeks were sunken ; his lips writhed back to show twin lines of bluish gum, quite innocent of teeth. So much I made out by the uncertain street light.

"Fire!" he mumbled thickly. "Fire in there. Leggo!"

Doctor Bentiron's grip slackened.

His prisoner twisted free and ran with awkward swiftness toward Lexington Avenue. While we stood watching, he whipped around the corner, going at speed.

"Umphf," drawled the chief, and began to retrace his steps. "Umphf. That looks rather odd." He quickened his pace toward the corner.

We reached Lexington Avenue and looked both ways. The object of our interest was racing wildly south. Still running, he turned his head and saw us standing there.

"He's passed the fire-box," noted Doctor Bentiron.

So the man must have seen, for he slacked his pace, hesitated a moment, glancing back at us, then turned about and hurried toward the red light. We heard the clang of the gong as he turned in an alarm.

He did not wait for the engines, but dashed on, running faster than ever.

"Umphf," repeated Doctor Bentiron. "Curious. Yes. I suppose I ought to— but I'm too old to run, and you're too fat, Blakely, and the car is two blocks away." He stood uncertainly for a moment, rolling a cigarette.

"Umphf," he said again. "We got a good look at him, anyhow. Can you remember that face, Blakely? A man of about forty, middle height and weight. Brachycephalic head; facial angle very obtuse— almost dish-faced. Clean-shaven; brown eyes; lobeless ears with defective anthelix." The doctor's absent stare, apparently vague enough, had really an almost photographic exactness.

"He had a queer way of talking, too," I added.

"Umphf," intoned the doctor in dull disdain. "He hadn't any teeth."

A policeman was running toward us from the north; people began to gather, drawn by that mysterious attraction which makes street crowds. Windows went up here and there; heads thrust out; neighbors shrilled queries across the street: "Where is it?"

Doctor Bentiron stood still, thumbs in belt, stooping from the waist according to his habit. His bearded lips were twisted to one side to keep the smoke of his cigarette from his eyes; it gave him a comical look of perplexity.

"Blakely, my son," he said, "this matter interests me." To prove it he yawned vastly. "The actions of that yonder." He waggled a languid thumb in the direction in which the stranger had vanished. "The conduct of that one was not normal to the honest house-holder, agitated by the discovery of fire in his home. Umphf. Terror, certainly; but not the sort one would expect. The night is young." It was almost two o'clock. "I am going back. Moreover, we have still to find Charlie Moran— drat him."

He swung about, and I followed around the corner. Lexington Avenue was rousing to the thrill of a fire alarm, but One Hundred and Fourteenth Street was still quiet and deserted. We saw no stir on our way back to the house of that hurried exit. In front of it the doctor stopped, standing with head cocked to one side. Presently he threw away his cigarette and sniffed portentously.

"Umphf," he drawled; and again, "Umphf. I thought as much. Something told me that our friend's agitation was unusual. Exactly. Blakely, my son, there's been dirty work at the crossroads this night."

His manner was unutterably weary; his dull voice dragged more listlessly than usual, whereby I knew that he expected excitement. The doctor showed interest in a purely negative fashion. Sniffing once more he began to labor up the steps. The door stood ajar; he pushed it back, and we entered.

3: Murder!

THE chief stepped surely in; his eyes were like a cat's. But I blundered about in the Stygian blackness of that vestibule until I fell over something that clanged hollowly under my feet. While I cursed it silently, Doctor Bentiron lighted a match and stooped down. My stumbling block had been a five-gallon oil can. The doctor sniffed once more.

"Umphf," said he. "Gasoline— and empty. Exhibit A." And he opened the inner door.

At once I became conscious of a rank, pungent, nauseating stench—a dreadful odor, that evoked in me horrid memories of the Triangle Waist Company fire, of the burning of the General Slocum, seen when I was little more than a boy. It was the scent of scorched human flesh, which Doctor Bentiron's keener senses had picked up, even from the street.

We pressed on through the narrow hall and lighted a gas jet. At once the dingy scene sprang boldly out; a battered old walnut hat rack, a weak-legged haircloth chair or two, leaning decrepitly against stained, marred wall paper. Beneath our feet the faded carpet was dusty and tattered, gaping with holes to ensnare the feet of the unwary.

"Umphf," commented the chief. "Rotten housekeeping," and followed his nose.

That dank, terrifying smell led us through the double doors of the "front parlor." Again the chief lit a gas jet, and again: the surroundings leaped suddenly out of blackness as though new-created. I stood at gaze; it was a shocking sight.

The furniture had been moved back against the wall. In the center of a charred circle on the floor lay a corpse. It was the body of a man; so much I could see; but he was quite beyond recognition. The broad feet, wearing old-fashioned congress gaiters, the legs clad in trousers of shepherd's plaid— these were untouched. But from the waist up the body was scorched and blackened; burnt so horribly that one could not even guess what manner of man this had been. The head was scarcely more than a skull, to which clung shreds of burnt flesh. From between the shriveled, blackened fragments of lips a set of false teeth leered drunkenly, so that I shuddered involuntarily at that ghastly mockery of a smile. And then my eye caught something else. From behind the man's left collar-bone the charred handle of a knife thrust out. It must have been driven through the hollow of the shoulder, straight down into the heart.

"Why, this is murder!" I cried.

"Umphf," yawned Doctor Bentiron, and hooked a chair forward with his toe. Dropping wearily into it, he began to roll a fresh cigarette, blinking at the tarnished chandelier the while with an expression of complete detachment. In spite of the horror of the scene I smiled to myself, for I knew that the doctor was enjoying himself. He had a veritable passion for criminal investigation.

"This is interesting—very interesting," he droned, each word accompanied by a little puff of tobacco smoke. "Look about, Blakely. Look about you, my son, and note the many curious features."

I looked about obediently and hopelessly, quite unable to-pick out what he meant. I have no flair for deduction.

The floor about the upper part of the body was charred, the carpet quite burned away in a rough circle.

Here and there a spot still smoldered, but the danger of fire was over. Indeed, the edges of the carpet and the man's clothes seemed wet. A smell of burning gasoline mingled with that other, more sinister, odor. I shook my head.

"Umphf," said the chief. 'Oh, well." He heaved himself up and lounged over to the body. "Ordinary kitchen knife," he commented. 'Came from the five-and-ten, no doubt. Must have cut the arch of the aorta; a nice, clean stab, Exactly. A man of the middle size; one can't say much more now.

But—" He stooped closer. "But here is the most singular thing of all, my son. The man's face is burned quite away; even the bone is scorched here and there. But these false teeth are quite uninjured. Umphf. Now, the plates of false teeth are made from gutta percha; and gutta percha melts at low temperatures and burns like rubber. These teeth are not even blackened. Umphf."

Gingerly he lifted the shriveled fragment of lip. "They don't seem to fit very well," he murmured abstractedly, and ran an investigating finger along the line of scorched gum.

"Umphf," said he then imperturbably and rose. "No wonder." He dropped back into his chair, holding his soiled hands stiffly away from his body, like a surgeon ready to operate.

"Blakely, my son," he drawled, "give me one of your tailored cigarettes. My hands are dirty; light it for me. Umphf. Thanks." He exhaled a great cloud of smoke. "Vile stuff," he complained. "They taste like punk-sticks. Why can't you smoke good American tobacco?" Doctor Bentiron habitually used a tobacco reported to be manufactured chiefly from alfalfa.

"Go forth, my son," he ordered. "Go out and call a cop. Invoke the powerful hand of the law, and all that sort of rot. You'll probably find enough running around looking for our friend who pulled that alarm. Send the engines back and fetch me a cop here.  I'll wait."

He slid far down in his chair, arms dropped straight at his sides, and contemplated the ceiling with a veiled and somnolent eye. He did not look again at the body.

Once on the street, I began to hear the hoarse wailing of steam sirens, the clang and rattle of hook-and-ladder trucks. I had forgotten that a dozen pieces of fire apparatus would be milling about the alarm-box, looking for a conflagration. So I hurried round the corner, conscience-smitten. An ex-ambulance man knows how to sympathize with those whose rest of nights is rudely broken by any alarm.

Lexington Avenue was full of snorting, unmuffled motors, stamping horses, steaming, puffing monsters decked with brass and nickel and vermilion paint, while blue-coated firemen quested like hounds for the source of the alarm that had routed them from bed. Three or four uniformed policemen were pushing back the crowd that can always be raised in ten minutes, day or night, in New York. It is an unsolved mystery of the city: whence they come, and upon what subtle telepathic summons.

I shoved my way through, and up to one of the officers. He was a patrolman of the new, civil-service school, slender and athletic where his predecessors had been beefy and ponderous, but Irish. It will take more than civil-service reform to keep the Irish off the metropolitan police force.

Touching his arm, "The fire was over here on One Hundred and Fourteenth Street," said I. "It's out, but—"

"And who are you, that knows so much about it?" demanded the perspiring officer, irritably. To manage a brainless, shoving, gaping street crowd is worse work than driving hogs; and in that district crowds are of especially irritating nature, if one speaks only English. "I've a mind to run ye in," he grumbled, "keepin' us all here— oh, is it yerself?" His tone was suddenly apologetic. "You was with the doctor, wasn't you?"

Then I recognized him; not twenty minutes ago we had inquired of him regarding the errant Charlie, and he had known the doctor, as most people seemed to. I marveled afresh at this man's vast acquaintance. And to all of them, as to me, he was "the doctor."

"All right, sir. Yez can let the engines go, cap," he shouted to the grizzled fire-fighter in charge. " 'Tis out."

The other nodded, calling a hoarse order. Immediately a babel of clattering hoofs and barking motors began, as half a dozen pieces of fire-fighting apparatus backed and maneuvered to turn around for the homeward trip. The crowd began to melt, as such crowds do; no man can say whence they come or where they go. They evanesce.

Presently the street was empty, save for the fire chief's red runabout. The chief himself came toward us, "I will go along for my report," said he. "Drive after us slow, Bill!"

The patrolman turned to me. "Come along," he invited.

I stopped him. "I waited," said I in a lowered voice, "to let the crowd go. You see, Doctor Bentiron and I found a murdered man in that house— burnt to a crisp!"

"What?" cried my companions, together. "Where?"

"Down here on One Hundred and Fourteenth Street ; Number — "

"Number —" repeated the officer. " 'Tis old Henderson's place. Come on!" And he started off at a trot.

At the corner he stopped beside a patrol-box. "I will call the station," he panted and unlocked it. "Harrigan," announced he. "Fire at No.—  East One Hundred and Fourteenth Street. Reported out; engines gone. Fire Chief with me. Going to investigate ; they say there's a dead man there. What?— All right, sergeant." He hung up and locked the box. "They'll send the wagon," he said, and we hurried on.

Presently the three of us pounded up the steps of No. — and burst into the hall. The old fireman sniffed, as had Doctor Bentiron.

"I know that stink," said he.

So we came into the parlor to find the doctor drooping in his chair, hat tilted over his eyes, apparently asleep. He did not look about at our entrance, but grunted noncommittally.

After one glance at the gruesome scene, Harrigan turned to Doctor Bentiron and touched his cap.

" 'Tis a bad mess, entirely, sorr," he declared, shaking his head. "I will touch nothing. I'm just after calling the house; they'll be a man here presently— Burke or somebody."

Meanwhile the fireman was questing through the building, sniffing for smoke. He went out into the hall; we heard his steps in the rooms overhead. At last he clattered back down the stairs. "Nothing anywheres else," he reported. "Bare, dirty old barracks it is, too. 'Tis all in this room." He stooped over the body and examined it keenly.

Doctor Bentiron opened his eyes and sat forward a little, glancing at him side-long, one heavy eyebrow raised a bit.

The fire captain straightened and removed his cap to scratch a dubious head.

"Well, chief," drawled the doctor, and the cigarette between his bearded lips waggled as he spoke. "How about it?"

The other thrust both hands into his pockets, so that the red lining of his long coat showed on either side. His face was puzzled.

"A queer mess, entirely," he declared. "Here's gasoline used, and an old house like tinder— and no damage done, only to him there." A broad thumb indicated the corpse. "And here's places is wet, too."

He stooped again, to touch the dead man's clothing. "Yes; sprinkled with water, like somebody tried to put him out. Huh! Well, Harrigan, that's up to you fellers. The fire's out; I'll go make my report." He turned away, and presently we heard the clanging gong of his little car from without.

The doctor spat out the cigarette I had given him, and yawned mightily, still holding his soiled hands stiffly out. "I suppose we ought to go hunt up Charlie Moran," he sighed. "Young blighter! If I catch him, Ill take him home and do a little chemical discipline." He grinned maliciously, for the doctor could accomplish miracles of moral suasion with a tenth of a grain or so of apomorphine.

He made as though to rise, then dropped back as another gong sounded from the street. This was a patrol wagon; at Bellevue one soon learns to read the messages of the different gongs. Ambulance, fire-truck, patrol wagon—each has its individual timbre. So old boatmen can tell each tug by its whistle.

"No," decided the doctor. "I am interested." He yawned again to prove it. "And I don't believe this is a private murder; they'll probably let me sit in. Let Charlie go for a while; he's sleeping it off by now, anyway. I shall watch this."

He slid still farther back in his chair, so that his long, out-thrust legs almost touched the charred body before him; his vague, sleepy gaze sought the ceiling once more. "Mr. Burke approaches," he murmured. "I shall follow his lucubrations with heartless delight. Umphf. Yes."

4: Charlie Moran

HEAVY feet sounded in the hall; a stout, pompous man bustled in, breathing stertorously. At his back I saw two uniformed officers.

"Now then, Harrigan," cried the fat man importantly. "What's all this?" His derby hat was pushed far back; on his forehead beads of perspiration glistened in the gas light. His bulging eyes ran over the room and came to rest upon me, standing behind the doctor's chair. "Who's them?' he  bellowed. "Whaddya let 'em in here for, huh?'

Doctor Bentiron yawned wearily, his eyes still fixed upon the ceiling. "I think you know me, Burke," he drawled.

The fat detective flushed. "Is it yerself then? Yes, doctor,' he answered, with a sort of grudging respect. "And what about all this, now?"

The doctor blinked at the ceiling. "Blakely and I were passing," he droned, ineffably bored. "A man ran down the steps— clean-shaved, age forty, height five feet seven, weight one hundred and fifty, blue serge sack suit, no teeth. He rang in an alarm, and then ran away. So we came in." He seemed to be addressing the chandelier; not even a fugitive glance strayed toward the detective.

"Huh!" said Burke and squatted by the dead man, grunting with the effort. "Huh! Somebody croaked this guy," he announced.

"Remarkable," drawled Doctor Bentiron parenthetically.

"Yeh. Somebody croaked him an' then framed up a fire to hide the evidence. Huh! An' the fire went out on him."

"Exactly," agreed the doctor placidly. "The fire went out." His tone was peculiar.

Burke gave him a puzzled glance. "It went out," he repeated. "He must've used gasoline; they 's a empty can out here. He was rattled, belike, an' didn't prime it enough." He touched the dead man's trousers. "Water!" he cried triumphantly. "Somebody come in an' tried to put him out. That must of been the man you saw, doctor!"

"Umphf," remarked Doctor Bentiron.

The detective snorted, glaring at him for a moment, then turned away.

"Watch here, Harrigan,' he ordered. "Levy"—turning to the officers who had accompanied him—"down cellar. Schwartz, back way. We'll frisk this place good."

The policemen started out, and Burke's heavy, flat feet began to clump up the stairs.

While I stood listening to the footsteps of the searchers, the doctor lay back in his chair, immobile, his hands still held away from his body.

"Umphf," said he finally. "Wish they'd get through; I want to wash. But far be it from me to move carelessly until that highly efficient officer, Detective Sergeant Burke, has completed his search. He might pinch us both, you know. Umphf." A faintly satirical grin twitched at his bearded lips.

We waited for fifteen minutes or so; then Burke stamped downstairs again. "Nothing stirring up there," he announced loudly. "Huh?"

A faint voice drifted up from below: "Basement window open."

"Stay there," bawled the sergeant and clumped down the stairs. I followed his noisy tread, picturing his course in my mind, for all these houses are built exactly alike; having seen one, you know the geography of all.

Burke was in the lower hall; he stamped through the dining room, the kitchen, and back again. "Nobody here," he called, and his voice thundered up the stair well. Sergeant Burke's speech had but one volume, and that fortissimo. Presently he made himself heard again.

"Hold on, here— what's this closet?"

A rattling doorknob— a sound of wrenching— the squeak of— protesting hinges; and then a triumphant roar:

"Ah-h-h! Come out, ye scut!"

There was a confused sound of scuffling; I heard Levy and Schwartz running. Harrigan started, then decided to keep his station.

"Come outa that, youse!" shouted Burke once more.

"You le' me be, now!" a high-pitched, whining voice protested.

At the sound of it, Doctor Bentiron stirred and uncrossed his legs. "We have found Charlie Moran," he drawled dully and yawned until his jaws cracked. '"Umphf."

I heard heavy feet mounting the steep stairs. With them came the shuffle of an unwilling form urged briskly on, and a bitter wail of complaint, rising louder and louder as it neared the double doors of the parlor.

Then Burke emerged into the room, shoving before him a limply resistant figure. Harrigan took a step forward. " 'Tis Charlie right enough," he confirmed.

Charlie was an undersized youth of eighteen or twenty, with a rat's sharp, chinless face. He looked both bewildered and sick.

"I ain't done nothing," he whined. "I didn't take nothing, honest, cap. I was just— just sleepin' it off down there."

Then he caught sight of that silent, grisly shape on the floor. With a shrill scream, he jerked sharply back, almost breaking the burly detective's hold.

"Oh, murder!" he yelled. "Oh, murder! Le' me go, le' me go!" He began to patter a prayer, but stopped in the middle; evidently he had forgotten the rest. I fear that Charlie was not used to praying.

"Y' ought to be able to stand it, seeing ye done it yerself," sneered Burke, pulling the boy's hands down from his face. He twisted the thin wrists together, snapped handcuffs upon them, and spun young Moran roughly into the waiting arms of a patrolman.

"Catch, Schwartz," he ordered. "And I guess that settles this little murder!" Sergeant Burke was quite evidently pleased with himself.

"Umphf," 'remarked Doctor Bentiron once more; and the big detective flinched at the mordant irony of that monosyllabic grunt. His inflated chest caved perceptibly; he glanced from the doctor to his prisoner and back again, palpably unsettled in his mind.

"Well, what else can I do?" he muttered, half to himself and half in answer to the doctor's tone. ''He was right here, anyway." Then, with a sudden change of voice: "No we'll see about this thing. Who was this guy you croaked, huh?" he roared fiercely at the cowering boy.

But Charlie Moran only covered his face and sobbed weakly.

"I don't know nothing about it," he whined, still half dazed. "I was asleep in there because I didn't dast to go home. I must've been drunk, I guess."

"I guess you were," snarled Burke, disgusted. "Know this guy, Harrigan?" He indicated the corpse with a spatulate thumb.

"Why," hesitated that officer, "he's burned awful. But I guess it's Henderson, all right. I seen them pants on him many's the time."

"Henderson?" snapped the detective. "'Who's Henderson?" His manner was irritable and worried; he kept darting uneasy glances at Doctor Bentiron, who still sprawled languidly in his chair and regarded the ceiling with half-closed eyes.

"He lives here," explained the patrolman. "John Henderson. He's got a little printing shop over on One Hundred and Sixteenth. Lived here all alone with an old housekeeper."

"Housekeeper, huh? Where is that housekeeper?" demanded Burke.

"Out," replied Harrigan laconically. The detective's bullying manner seemed to displease him. "I seen her go when I come on duty, 'round eight o'clock."

"What did this here Henderson look like?" pursued his inquisitor.

His attitude suggested that Harrigan also must clear himself of complicity in this affair, and the patrolman bridled. I did not think that Sergeant Burke could be a very popular officer, but Harrigan answered smoothly enough, albeit with a rather red face:

"Middle-aged man, with a great big mustache; and he had false teeth, too. Always wore kinda loud clothes. Yeh, them's his pants all right— and this guy's got false teeth, too. I guess it must be him, all right."

"Huh!" grunted Burke, and wheeled upon poor, shrinking Charlie Moran. "Here, youse! What'd yuh croak him for?" he bellowed.

The boy gave him a bewildered stare; the meaning of the question did not seem to have penetrated his drink- dulled brain. "I wanna go home," he wailed. "You le' me be! I never took nothing— an' old Cooley always let me sleep it off here, anyway."

5: A Housekeeper

FROM the doorway a shrill, belligerent voice cut across Charlie's whine, so that we jumped and spun about— all, that is, save Doctor Bentiron. He sat immobile, seemingly brooding upon vacancy, but I make no doubt that he alone of us all had perceived the approach of this newcomer.

"Who's fouling me honest name?" she demanded, while we all goggled at her. "What you dirty cops doing here, anyway— busting into decent people's houses in the middle of the night? Get yerselves outa here, the whole kit and boodle of ye!"

It was a tremendously fat old woman, all in rusty black; the bedraggled feather in her hat bobbed violently to her emphatic periods. Her face, in sharp contrast to her monstrous body, was thin and sunken, and seamed with vicious lines.

"Yah! she sneered, her narrowed, beady black eyes roving balefully over our little group. "An' a dick, too!" She spat noisily and went on, her utterance blurred with alcoholic rage. "You take your flat feet out of here, the lot of you, before I clean house!"

She bared a brawny arm, and her vast bulk advanced threateningly until her gin-laden breath struck across our faces. We all stood mute, scarcely daring to brave the anger of this virago. "You, Harrigan!" she shrilled, the brogue broadening on her tongue. "Shpake, ye mullet-headed bull! Phwat do yez in me house?"

"Now, now, Mrs. Cooley," mollified the policeman, shifting his feet uneasily. "Don't get excited, Mrs. Cooley, ma'am. 'Tis just a little matter here. Ye see, Henderson is dead. She's a bad one when she gets going," he informed us, sotto voce, "more especial when she's touched with the liquor a bit."

The woman set her great arms akimbo, blinking red-rimmed, vicious eyes for a moment. "Dead, is ut?" she demanded. "And who's to pay me the three weeks he owes? Will ye, ye fat, lobster-eyed sow?" fixing Burke with a wrathful glare. "Eighteen dollars it is— an' divil the cent have I had for a dhrop of gin this fortni't if I didn't have good friends to help out. I'll have an attachment of the furnichure befure I move me fut from this room!"

Nettled by her reflections upon his appearance, Burke shouldered pompously forward. With his bulging eyes and rotund figure, the man did somewhat resemble the zoological monstrosity of Mrs. Cooley's unbridled metaphor.

"Now, then, Mrs. Cooley— if that's your name—" he began. But he got no further.

"Bad cess to you, and all the likes of yez," screamed the angry woman, her redundant bosom heaving. Her incongruously thin face was distorted venomously. "If that's me name, is ut? It was me name before you was spawned, ye bloody " But the rest was quite unprintable. Even Burke's self-sufficiency quailed before the storm, and the other officers regarded him with covert smiles, gloating upon his discomfiture.

The poor man attempted a question or two, and then gave up, deluged with vituperation.

"You ask her, Harrigan," he begged and backed away, defeated.

But Mrs. Cooley would have none of Harrigan, either. Mrs. Cooley was roused. She stood upon her rights, she did. She would be bullied by no unmentionable sons of evil mothers, though they wore brass buttons all over them. And for two cents she would clean house with the whole stinking crew of blandhandering bulls, so she would.

"Stink, you do," she averred, "like the devil's own brimstone. Augh-r-r-r!"

And then Doctor Bentiron, who had drooped unnoticed in his corner during all of this hot colloquy, stirred, yawned, and heaved himself up with a weary sigh.

"The police force appears to be in difficulties," he drawled indifferently. "I will therefore assume charge of this affair."

There was an absolute finality in his dry tones. Straightway he became the center of the group— as always, when he chose.

Mrs. Cooley wheeled upon him, glaring. "You will," she sneered. "You will! An' who are you, ye skinny old gray-whiskered—" Her gin-roughened voice faded into half-frightened silence before the direct gaze of the doctor's dominating eye; her head dropped, and she began twisting a fold of her dress.

"It's an old woman I am," she muttered in half-apology. "Belike I say more than I mean."

The doctor yawned phlegmatically, quite unmoved by his wordless victory. "One side, you men," he droned.

The officers fell back, so that for the first time Mrs. Cooley saw what lay upon the parlor floor.

"Ah-h-h-h!" she screamed, crossing herself. "Ochone! Hiven save us all! 'Tis Henderson himself— bad scran to the scum what did ut!" And she betook herself to alcoholic tears.

"Umphf," said the doctor. "Be quiet. How do you know that's John Henderson?"

"Sure, wouldn't I know the pants of him, sorr, when it's meself pressed them out only last night?"

"Exactly. Would you know if it weren't for his trouser?"

"Sure, the poor man's burned to a crisp, ain't he? But a body can see the false teeth of him."

"Umphf," commented Doctor Bentiron cryptically. "Where have you been?"

"Up in the Bronx, sorr, to me sister's place," answered the woman, now affable enough. "At eight o'clock I went, sorr, leaving the work done up nice, and all."

Burke snorted derisively, for the house was filthy. She glared at him, but the doctor checked her hot retort.

"Where was Henderson then?" he asked.

"Right in here, sorr. In the parlor he was, with his friend Mr. Ruggles."

"Umphf," said the doctor. '"Ruggles?"

"Yes, sorr," replied the old woman. "Talking loud they was over a bottle. He kept it locked up, that bottle, Henderson did— the stingy scut!" interjected

"Was they quarreling?" interjected Burke from the rear.

"Yah!" snarled Mrs Cooley. "Couldn't two gentlemen be talking over their bottle without fool questions from the likes of you?"

Doctor Bentiron silenced her with a languid hand. "What does this Ruggles look like?" he drawled, idly.

"Just an ordinary man, sorr— just like anybody."

The doctor blinked patiently ; he was used to the extraction of information.

"Wear a beard?" he inquired languidly.

"No, sorr. Smooth face, sorr."

"Umphf. Any teeth?"

"Oh, yes, sorr! He's a mouthful of beautiful gold teeth, like a rich man."

"Umphf," said the doctor and dragged wearily back to his seat. Apparently he had no more questions to ask.

Sergeant Burke made an effort to resume control of the situation. "Go up to your room now, Mrs. Cooley," he ordered.

She bridled, snapping her snaky eyes at him. "Indeed, and I'll not," she proclaimed emphatically. "To my room, is it? Divil the foot of me stays in this house to-night!" And then she caught sight of Charlie Moran, who had been shielding himself behind the burly figure of his guard, Schwartz. "Who's that ye have there, wid the handcuffs? Was it him did ut? Let me at the spalpeen!"

She made a waddling rush forward, while poor Charlie strove to hide behind his grinning captors. "I ain't done nothing, honest I ain't, Mrs. Cooley," he wailed earnestly.

Once more the doctor's dry, toneless voice cut across her clamor."Go get your things, Mrs. Cooley," he drawled, and the woman turned submissively away. When he chose, Doctor Bentiron had an extraordinarily masterful way with him.

As the housekeeper labored asthmatically up the stairs and disappeared, Sergeant Burke raised his diminished head. Mrs. Cooley might rout him, but here was a victim more amenable; he wheeled upon Charlie Moran.

"Take him beyant to the back room, Schwartz," he ordered, "'till I tear into him. Come awn, youse!" And the three started away, Charlie pulling weakly back.

"Harrigan, call the coroner's office," directed Burke over his shoulder as they disappeared. "Levy, stay there."

As Harrigan, too, set out on his errand, the doctor heaved himself out of his chair, yawning. "Since Mr. Burke has finished his search, I may as well go and wash," he announced, looking with distaste at his soiled hands; and he lounged out into the hall.

I stood in my corner, awaiting the doctor's return. The third officer, Levy, drew a little closer to me, regarding the charred body on the floor with some distaste. I think he was not sorry to have company. Indeed, I should not greatly have 'desired to be left alone with that gruesome companion and the noisome, penetrating odor of the close, silent room. My nerves are fairly well hardened: but it was two o'clock in the morning, and the dreadful smile of those false teeth, leering from burned, blackened lips, disquieted me. Levy and I drew together involuntarily; I offered him a cigarette, and we both smoked furiously, striving with good tobacco to cover that other, more pungent odor that would not be disguised.

Through the closed double doors of the back parlor we could hear Burke's bullying voice, young Moran's whining replies; now and again sounds as of a sharp slap, followed by yelping. Somewhere in the hall the doctor was rummaging about. My sharpened ears heard running water, the clink of metal, a satisfied "Umphf!"

The voices from the back parlor rose and fell; presently the doctor returned, drying his hands upon a huge saffron silk handkerchief. Under one arm he held a small, newspaper-wrapped parcel.

Wordlessly he subsided into a chair and sat there, smoking and ruminating.

After a time I heard Mrs. Cooley creaking down the stairway. Simultaneously, Burke emerged from the back room, pushing poor, feeble Charlie Moran ahead of him.

Then another voice sounded from the vestibule ; a quavering, anxious voice:

"Is my Charlie here? Oh, has anybody seen my Charlie?"

"Umphf," said Doctor Bentiron and rose swiftly. I followed him into the hall,

6: Another Suspect

WITH her broad, tear-streaked face working pathetically, Bridget Moran was peering into the dimly lighted hall. As she entered, Mrs. Cooley, bandbox and bundle in hand, finished her descent of the stairs. At their foot the two women almost collided, and stood at gaze for a moment, we all watching. Then the old housekeeper opened her thin lips.

"Woman," she grated, "phwat do ye here, in this house o' death? Is it yer wastrel son ye wud have? Look beyant, where he stands, handcuffed. Sure, it's a murderer he is, bad cess to him, an' the likes of you, too!"

At the words, a new Mrs. Moran appeared through the haze of tears. No longer meekly anxious, she leaned portentously forward, the light of battle upon her craggy features. She bulked almost as large as the woman on the stairs, and her honest indignation over-topped the other's spite.

"A murdherer, is it, ye hussy?" she inquired, and her voice was like a steam siren. "Divil the chance of any honest Moran doing murder, when there's a black Fenian Cooley about. Ye scum of Kerry, I'll tear the face off'n yez for that word!"

And I think she would have done it, if the doctor had not intervened to save the shrinking housekeeper.

"Be quiet, Bridget," he drawled languidly; and forthwith the clamor ceased.

"Oh, doctor, dear,' sobbed Mrs.

Moran, turning a tear-wet face to him. "I couldn't sleep for worrying about my Charlie—an' there he is beyant. 'Tis like yerself, sorr, to be here to help. But that Cooley woman says my Charlie is a murderer. 'Tis herself did ut, if there's murder done here. I see ut in the wicked pig's eyes of her!"

"Huh!" grunted Burke, losing his captive. "Mebbe so, too. When was this guy croaked, doctor?"

It was significant of the doctor's authoritative bearing that no one ever addressed him as "doc."

"How long's he dead, doctor?"

The chief yawned. "Can't say," he murmured. "Maybe two hours—maybe six or eight. He's burned too much to make sure."

"She might've done it, at that," deliberated the detective. "Mebbe she went out at eight, like she says; but she could've come back twenty times, and nobody the wiser. Huh! And she's better able than this rat here." A contemptuous thumb indicated his shrinking prisoner. "Ye-ah. We'll take her along. Ye're pinched, madam. Tell it to the judge, now!"

To do him justice, the man's reluctance had vanished. Now that he saw a duty, Mrs. Cooley's flood of invective failed to move him. Boldly enough he seized the woman's arm, and she submitted, suddenly tearful and frightened.

And so a lugubrious procession descended the steps of No. —— East One Hundred and Fourteenth Street, bound for the station house; the slight, weakly youth and the huge, venomous old woman, safeguarded by the hand of the law. The doctor gently restrained Mrs. Moran, who would have ridden to jail with her beloved Charlie.

"He's safe enough," soothed Doctor Bentiron. "Sit here in the hall a minute, Bridget, and we'll take you home."

Schwartz and Levy went with the wagon; Harrigan returned to his beat. But Burke reascended the steps; he must wait for a representative of the coroner's office.

As he strutted back into the parlor Doctor Bentiron regarded him sidelong, with an expression of languid curiosity.

"What do you make of it," he asked.

The detective shook his head. "I donno," he replied heavily. "It was him or her. He was right here, an' drunk as Davy's sow. But—'tis a shiftless rat, that Moran. I misdoubt he'd have the nerve. An' he swears he don't know nothing about it. Belike it was her; she's a ugly old—— 'Twas one or the other."

"Umphf,"' said Doctor Bentiron dully. "How about Ruggles, Burke?"

Burke flapped an impatient hand.

"Home in bed," he declared. "He couldn't have been the fellow you met. That one had no teeth, you told me. But we'll look him up in the morning."

"And the man we met outside here?"

"Some neighbor run in," decided the detective, after a moment's cogitation. "Saw the body and got rattled— sprinkled that water about, belike, and ran to call the engines."

"And kept on running," supplemented Doctor Bentiron. "Odd calling hours, at one in the morning. Oh, well. No doubt you are right. It's your business. But look for Burke, dear friend; look for Ruggles. When you find him"— he stressed the first word curiously — "when you find him, see what he has to say about this affair; and about these."

He unrolled the paper parcel which he had been holding all this time, and showed the amazed detective a pair of automobile pliers and one tooth; an incisor, newly extracted, for a shred of gum tissue still clung to it, and the tooth was crowned with gold!

"When these are explained, your murder will be solved," stated the doctor, calmly, and made to hand over his curious find.

"Phwat foolishness is this?" yelped the exasperated detective, thrusting aside the doctor's hand so that the tooth fell to the floor. "Sure, sorr, I beg yer pardon," he apologized to the chief's unmoved indifference. "But it has no sense to it at all, at all."

"Exactly," droned Doctor Bentiron, stooping to retrieve the tooth. He wrapped it up again with the pliers, and thrust the package into a capacious pocket. "Oh, well. It's not my business; it's your business." This was a favorite word of his; it expressed exactly his usual detached attitude.

"Come along, Blakely, my son. Charlie is safe, for the present, at least. We'll just see Mrs. Moran home, and then I shall go to bed." He stretched until his joints cracked and slouched wearily out to where poor, tear-sodden Bridget Moran awaited us.

8: Investigation

THE next morning I rose with an aching head, and set dispiritedly about my work. When I brought in the morning reports, I found Mrs. Moran with the doctor. Her bulk overflowed a big chair; a special mark of favor, this, for Doctor Bentiron kept' no chairs in his office. The ordinary visitor stood at his feet. "They don't stay so long, standing," he would explain.

Poor Bridget was weeping copiously. "Oh, doctor, dear," she begged as I came in. "Tell me true, now. Was it my Charlie done that? It's worrited to death I am. Sure, he carried off a knife outa my kitchen last night, just like the one they say kilt Henderson."

"No, Bridget. I don't believe he had anything to do with it. I'm afraid Charlie isn't up to anything more strenuous than gypping the wash-money. As for the knife, he probably left it at Pastolozzi's along with your clock."

The drawn face cleared wonderfully. "Oh, doctor," she sighed, her gnarled, reddened hands clasped ecstatically. "Then it was her after all, the black Irish hag! But, sorr'— and her face darkened again— "my Charlie was into Grogan's place, late last night, an' he had money. The wash-money was all gone before I come to see you. Now phwere did he get that, sorr?" she finished anxiously.

"Umphf," said Doctor Bentiron. "I don't know, Bridget. It looks odd. Oh, well. I'll look into it a little."

"Then you'll get my Charlie safe home to me?" she begged. "You'll look after him, sorr? Sure, he's a fine good boy— when he's at himself, sorr."

"Exactly," agreed the doctor. "Go home, Bridget, and don't worry. Nothing will happen to the boy. He's all right where he is for the present. It'll sober him up and perhaps it will scare him into good behavior—for a while. I'll run down and see him."

And the poor woman dropped on her knees to thank him.

When she had gone, the doctor glanced over my reports, then laid them aside and slid far down in his chair, eyes vacant. He smoked one cigarette to the butt, and rolled another, while I stood waiting his pleasure.

"Sit down there in Bridget's chair," he ordered at last. "I am moved to speech. There are four very curious things about this case, Blakely, my son— four extraordinary features. Let me run them over for you, thus:

"First, the man who ran out into my arms last night. We haven't succeeded in placing him. He doesn't answer to the vague description we have of Ruggles, for he hadn't any teeth.

"Second, the upper part of that body was burned to a crisp; the lips, and even the gums, were charred, but its false teeth were not even blackened. Umphf.

"Then, although plenty of gasoline had been used, the house didn't catch fire. The body was not completely burned up— and water had been sprinkled over it. Which points to the presence of some one after the crime had been completed— the toothless stranger, no doubt.

"And last of all, those pliers, and a fresh-drawn tooth. Explain these things, my son, and I will read you the whole riddle."

I pondered a moment. "Perhaps Ruggles killed Henderson," I suggested, "and then pulled his own teeth to disguise himself."

"Umphf," commented the doctor. "Lacedaemonian papers please copy. The classic boy with the fox hadn't anything on Ruggles. Oh, well— it's possibility, no doubt. It would be a considerable disguise."

He yawned and pushed one of the battery of buttons on the arm of his great chair.

"How many waiting, Miss Gallagher?" he drawled to the nurse who presently responded.

"Nine, doctor," said she.

"Umphf. Time?"

"Ten-five, doctor."

"Umphf. It's too hot to work, anyway. Send 'em all home. I am taking the day off. Order my car, please. Blakely and I are going forth upon an errand of mercy to the sick and afflicted. Umphf."

He labored up out of his chair.

And so the doctor and I drove to the station house of the —th precinct, to visit Charlie Moran.

He was being held there as a suspicious character, the captain explained. There was nothing against him except his presence on the scene of the crime— so far!— with emphasis. Later, they would probably "vag" him, and send him to the Island for ninety days.

"Twill be a fine rest for his mother," the captain averred.

"Umphf," agreed Doctor Bentiron, "if she sees it that way. I'd like to talk with the boy, captain."

They brought Charlie out of his cell, very weak and shaken after the tragic climax of his debauch, and left him with us.

"Well, my son," drawled the chief, "how about it?"

The boy buried a white face in his hands, and burst into feeble tears. "Oh, doctor, doctor!' he sobbed. What with drink, shock and Burke's inquisition, his weak wits were quite muddled. "It's just awful! What have I done? I don't know. I was drunk. I don't know. Will they send me to the chair for it, when I was drunk and didn't know?"

"Umphf," answered Doctor Bentiron noncommittally. "What's the last you do remember ?"

Charlie raised a sick head, frowning in concentration. "Why— why, I was in Pastolozzi's—about ten o'clock, I guess it was. And I got a drink, and Pete put me out. Then I went down the street and— and I had a little money His watery eyes shifted. "I had some money," he went on, "and I stopped in Grogan' s place and bought a drink. And then I went back up One Hundred and Fourteenth Street to Henderson's, I was drunk; too drunk to go home. So I opened a window— it wasn't latched. Old Cooley used to let me sleep in there sometimes, 'cause I'd run out and get gin for her. The house was all dark, and I thought everybody was gone. Cooley's always pickled by that time of night, anyhow. So I sneaked in and hid in that basement hall and went to sleep—and I don't know anything more. I was drunk, I tell you! Do you think I could 'a' did it while I was drunk and not know?"

"Umphf," repeated the chief meditatively. "You went into Grogan's and you had money. Where did you get that money, Charles, my son?"

The boy flinched and threw up an arm as if to guard a blow. "Oh, it was just money— just some money I had," he protested weakly. His eyes were unsteady

"Umphf," said the doctor. "Charlie, you are a liar— and not a very good liar, either. However, we'll let that pass for the present. Now settle down and stop your yelping"— the boy was sobbing pitifully— "and see if you can't remember anything that happened after you went to sleep in Henderson's basement hall."

Charlie's sloping brow furrowed with painful thought. "Why," he muttered, "I went to sleep. I come in that window, and I laid down on the floor. Oh, yes! I thought maybe it was a dream. I laid there and I thought I heard somebody coming  downstairs. I says to myself  Henderson come home!' And I sneaked into the closet and hid under the stairs there. He was a hard, ugly old geezer; I was afraid he'd have me pinched. So I hid in the stair closet. And somebody come down and went to the kitchen. I heard him fussing round out there, and then he come back again and started upstairs. He was carrying something, I mind; I heard it bang on the steps like a tin pail. 'That's that gasoline can,' thinks I—'"

"Umphf," interrupted Doctor Bentiron. "Why did you think that?"

Charlie stuttered a moment. "Oh— oh, I just thought maybe it was a oil can or something," he whined. "My head aches; I can't remember good. And anyway, That's Henderson,' I thinks. 'And whatever he's carrying, he'll bring it back down in a minute.' Maybe it wasn't Henderson at all— maybe it was old Cooley. I was too drunk to know, and it's all like a dream anyway. Well, I waited for whoever it was to come back down, and I went off to sleep. And that's all I know till Burke came and woke me up."

He shuddered, and I noticed the faint mark of a fresh bruise over one cheekbone. "He says I done it," sobbed the boy, "and he's beat me and yelled at me till I don't know. Maybe I did; I was too drunk to know. Do you suppose I could of done it, doctor?"

"Umphf," replied the chief. "You're a liar, anyway, Charlie. So, if they send you to the chair for this, don't blame me."

The boy broke into frenzied protestations, which Doctor Bentiron cut very short. "Be quiet," he drawled. "You're a worthless young pup. I wonder why I bother with you at all."

"But, doctor," whined poor Charlie. "They got me so muddled and all, I don't dare tell anything."

"Umphf," said the chief and walked wearily out.

8: The Morgue

"DRIVE to the morgue," ordered the doctor and climbed into his car.

He drooped wearily in his accustomed corner, staring abstractedly at nothing, while we rolled downtown. Once he spoke.

"Mrs. Cooley might have been in it, at that," he drawled. "I wouldn't put it past her."

So we swung into East Twenty-sixth Street, and rode past Bellevue Hospital and the Loomis Laboratory to where the city morgue straddled the river on stilt-like piles.

Here George, the old morgue-keeper, sat in the doorway, sunning himself. At sight of the doctor he rose, leaning on his crooked cane, and gave us a gap-toothed smile, settling the rubber apron which was his badge of office with gnarled, thread-scarred fingers. As always, two or three of them were bound up with dirty bits of rag.

"Hello, George," greeted the chief, "Still sewing 'em up?"

George bobbed a delighted head.

"I want a look at the Henderson body," pursued Doctor  Bentiron. "Who's doing the autopsy?"

"Doctor Bernstein, sorr," replied George, still bobbing his grizzled head in an ecstasy of greeting. "He's inside with it now, doctor."

So we went in, between the marble-floored rotunda and the little chapel, and entered the autopsy room, into whose high windows the nose of the steamer Fidelity peered with an air of bland curiosity.

On one of the grim, slate-topped tables lay the charred body we had found the night before, five miles away. Over it stooped the thick-set, blue-cheeked coroner's physician, his heavy eyebrows set in a scowl as he probed and measured the knife wound.

"Umphf, Bernstein," grunted the doctor.

The other looked up with his characteristic fulsome, sneering smile. He was furtively jealous of Doctor Bentiron.

"Come to help out the coroner's office again, doctor?" he inquired. "You didn't get much out of the last case."

"Umphf," answered the chief, unperturbed. As I knew, he had solved that case and kept his solution to himself. Doctor Bentiron held his own opinions as to the relation of law and justice. "When I choose," he would drawl, "I can compound a felony as cheerfully as any man living."

"Umphf," he repeated now. "Identified the body yet, Bernstein?"

The other looked up again, a surprised quirk to his thick eyebrows.

"Identified?" he queried on a high note. "Oh! Legally, you mean. Yes, practically. Head and face were burned beyond recognition, of course; but the housekeeper and several others have identified his clothes. And we're looking up his dentist now to verify the teeth."

"Umphf," intoned Doctor Bentiron. "His false teeth. Exactly."

Just then Sergeant Burke panted in, mopping his heated brow. He carried the said teeth in one pudgy hand.

"Found him, all right, doc," he wheezed to Bernstein, then, "Good day, doctor," to the chief. " 'Twas Doctor Zwick," he went on, "up on West One Hundred and Seventeenth Street. He both them plates five years ago. Says he can swear to 'em; they're Henderson's."

"So that's settled," declared Bernstein.

"Umphf," commented Doctor Bentiron, stretching out a languid hand for the teeth. "'Complete set," he drawled. "Upper and lower plates. Exactly. Odd that they weren't destroyed. Without them you'd have had trouble identifying the body."

Turning to the cadaver on the table, he slipped the twin plates between its fleshless jaws. "Zwick did a poor job," he droned. "They don't seem to fit." His dull voice was dryer, more expressionless than ever.

"Of course not," answered Bernstein impatiently. "How could they? The man's gums are all burned away."

The chief gave him a curious, sidelong glance. "Exactly," he approved, quite without embarrassment. "How stupid of me! Any further developments, Burke?"

The detective shook his head perplexedly. "Too many," he declared. "It's mixed up worse than ever. Young Moran bought a gallon of gasoline over to Schultz's garage last night."

"Umphf," answered the doctor, with a note of enlightenment. '"That's how he got the money," he murmured to himself.

I did not follow his process of reasoning; they do not often give gasoline away with a bonus, and Charlie had had enough left to buy a drink. But I held my peace, knowing better than to question Doctor Bentiron now.

"Anything more?" he inquired.

"Yes, sorr," said Burke. "That knife, now. Moran stole his mother's kitchen knife last night; but Harrigan found it over to Pastolozzi's where he'd pawned it for drink. 'Tis a kitchen knife did it, ye see, sorr. There's no peeing knife at Henderson's house, but old Cooley won't say if there was one. An old harridan, she is!"

His face grew redder. "Belike she did it herself!"

"Umphf," commented Doctor Bentiron. "And Mr. Ruggles? You found him at home, of course?"

The detective turned a rich plum color. "Why, sorr, that's the last thing," he confessed. "He's cut his stick— beat it— made a clean get-away, and with upwards of four thousand dollars on him. Bond salesman, he was. Hadn't settled with his office for a week. He's in Canada now, belike. So you see there's three of 'em," he finished.

Doctor Bentiron yawned; he did not seem in the least surprised. "You'll have to look for a motive," he suggested.

"Motive?" blustered Burke. "Why should this Ruggles do it at all, at all? It wasn't Henderson's money ?"

"Exactly," agreed the doctor. "Why should any of them do it? But Ruggles has disappeared, you say. Better look him up, Burke, dear friend, and put him through, as you did poor Charlie."

" 'Tis beyond me," admitted Burke reluctantly. "Belike they had a scrap, and Ruggles beefed him. The old lady says they was talking loud. Belike she done it herself. I donno."

"Umphf," said the chief dully. "And how about Charlie Moran? He bought some gasoline."

"Huh!" sneered the detective. "That rat? Naw. I grilled him, an' he come clean."

"Exactly," murmured Doctor Bentiron.

"Just drunk, I guess. And for what he wanted that gasoline for I donno, Anyways, the doc here says Henderson must've been croaked around nine o'clock, and Moran was in Pastolozzi's till ten, and to Grogan's after that."

Bernstein nodded. 'Stomach still full of undigested food," he explained. "He had supper at six-thirty, house-keeper says. He must have been killed within three hours after that."

"Exactly," agreed the doctor. "And there's still another person to be located. How about the man Blakely and I saw last night? The man who rang in the alarm?"

Burke threw up his hands, exasperated. Doctor Bernstein stooped over his work, and made no comment. The doctor glanced indifferently at them both and yawned. "You are a very exact pathologist, Bernstein," he drawled sluggishly. "But, dear old friend, you lack imagination. Yes. A fatal lack: and Mr. Burke here is scarcely able to supply your deficiencies." He grinned faintly at the others' injured looks. "Oh, well. This is your business. I will merely say that you'd better get after the evanescent Mr. Ruggles. Until you find him, you will get no further with this little murder. Umphf. Good morning!"

And he slouched languidly out.

In the car, I leaned eagerly forward. "So it was Ruggles did it, and not the old lady?" I demanded. I could not conceive that this had been the work of Charlie Moran.

Doctor Bentiron smoked placidly, staring out of the car window with dull, sleepy eyes.

"Umphf," he demurred. "Cultivate your attention, my son; study the exact meanings of words. I did not even suggest that Ruggles was the criminal. What I said was, the thing will not be cleared up until Mr. Ruggles is located. I suggested nothing further to Doctor Bernstein; he is too self-sufficient. He doesn't welcome assistance. But to you I will say further that the whole case turns on those false teeth. Now I will go to sleep; I am too old for late hours."

He leaned back in his corner, blinking dully, and would say no more. I knew it was useless to urge him; I must wait with what patience I could muster for his mood of speech. Then the whole affair would be explained; for I made no doubt that the chief had already found its solution.

9: The Newspapers

I BOUGHT all the afternoon papers, to see what they had made of our mystery, but with some disappointment. The varied accounts added but little to my knowledge. Several featured it as the deed of a drunken thug. Poor, weakly Charlie Moran was pictured as a desperate gunman; a murderer for carfare— for a glass of whisky. One story hinted that he had been hired for the deed by some secret enemy of Henderson's. The latter had been on the verge of sensational disclosures regarding a proposed merger of pulp-paper companies— he was a printer. Parallels were drawn from the Rosenthal case. Several accounts carried high-colored pen sketches of old Mrs. Cooley, comparing her with that Mrs. Guinness who used to feed her superfluous husbands to the hogs, to save grain.

Most of the papers, however, seemed inclined to place the onus of guilt upon Mr. Stephen Ruggles of West End Avenue. He was a bond salesman, I read, in the employ of Braun & Seemann, the brokers. He had collected some forty-five hundred dollars during the week before the murder, and had called on Henderson for five hundred dollars more, due on a recent purchase of Anglo-French bonds. It was presumed that he had collected this also, and doubtless he had cleaned the house of all valuables after murdering his host. Certainly nothing worth stealing had been left. Then he had set fire to the place to conceal his crime, and perhaps also to give the impression that he himself had perished in the flames.

None of the newspapers offered any explanation for the failure of his attempt at arson. The mysterious stranger whom the doctor and I had seen coming out of that house of death was barely mentioned; no one seemed to see how he could be fitted in. I was in no better case.

On the whole, opinion inclined toward the vanished Mr. Ruggles as the criminal, but no very satisfactory motive was assigned. It seemed unlikely that he would murder Henderson for a mere five hundred dollars, when he had already stole nine times as much, without bloodshed. Indeed, his employers stated that he might easily have made away with a snug fortune. He had been fully trusted.

Moreover, the Recorder pointed out another flaw. Henderson's printing business had been virtually bankrupt; his account at the Thirty-Second National was overdrawn, and his note for one thousand dollars had gone to protest upon the day of his death. The man could scarcely have had five hundred dollars to pay for his bonds, it seemed.

I went about my work abstractedly, pondering the mystery without being able to find any rational explanation. Moran— Mrs. Cooley— Ruggles— our mysterious stranger; all four, or none? I could not say. John Henderson was dead; that was as far as my reasoning took me.

And so afternoon passed, and evening drew near.

When I brought the evening reports in to the doctor, I received a shock. He had shut himself in his office, refusing admittance to everyone. Now I found him slouched down in his great chair, quite as usual; but his lap was littered with newspapers. They were strewn on the floor about him, and he was so intent upon an extra that the cigarette drooping from his lips was dead. It was an unheard-of thing: that Doctor Bentiron should be reading the newspapers! And almost as strange that he should let his cigarette go out. The man smoked incessantly.

"Are you as interested in the Henderson murder as all that?" I asked, amazed.

"Umphf," grunted the chief abstractedly, dropping his paper. "Henderson's murder? Is he dead? Oh, yes. I'd forgotten all about it."

Relighting his cigarette, he reached a long arm after the latest extra and riffled its pages a moment. In a breath he had absorbed the whole column concerning the Henderson case.

"Umphf," he remarked. "Here's something new. Henderson had just taken out a policy with the Manchester, Queenstown and Universe Company; a policy for one hundred thousand dollars, straight life. Umphf. They didn't get his first premium until the morning after the murder. Umphf. Yes. Exactly. That explains."

To me it explained nothing; it only muddled things more. Or could his housekeeper be the beneficiary? I took the paper from Doctor Bentiron's languid grasp. No. The policy was made out in favor of a cousin, Wilfrid Jones of Rochester, N. Y.

"I don't see how that makes things any plainer," I protested.

But the doctor offered no explanation; he merely regarded my bewilderment with mild amusement and pushed one of his battery of buttons.

"We have only to wait now," he asserted, "until we are invited to draw cards. Burke and Bernstein would like to make this a private game, after all; but the M. Q. and U. Life Insurance Company has bought chips— one hundred thousand dollars' worth. And I also am among those present— with a pat hand, now. Umphf." Then, to the waiting stenographer: "Miss Burns, is the mail in?"

"Yes, doctor. I have it here." And the pretty stenographer handed over a sheaf of letters, the end of each envelope cut neatly across with shears,

The doctor shuffled them swiftly and dropped all but one—a long, official-looking envelope with a foreign postmark.

"Umphf," said he, on a satisfied note, and reached in for its contents. The letter stuck briefly; with an uncharacteristic impatience, he tore the wrapper and jerked it out.

"Umphf," he said again. "Good!" The weary voice was suddenly young, warm, alive, so that we both looked at him in wonder. It was surprising to see the chief show frank pleasure at anything.

"Answer these, Blakely," he ordered swiftly, gathering up the stack of unopened letters from his lap. "I am going out. My car, Miss Burns!"

As she vanished, Doctor Bentiron rose alertly. He actually sprang from his chair, instead of laboring up as though the effort were almost too much. His step as he hurried out was so brisk and buoyant, so utterly in contrast to his usual weary shuffle, that I could only stand staring after him, open-mouthed.

10: Life Insurance

DAYS passed into weeks, and the doctor consistently refused to discuss the Henderson case. "Don't bother me, I'm busy," he drawled. "Wait till they come to me."

He was away a great deal; he neglected his appointments with more than his usual abrupt indifference. Abandoning his customary comfortable shabbiness, he wore formal afternoon dress daily ; once I even saw him in evening dress—and very distinguished he looked. But I gaped at him dumbly, for in all the time I had known him, Doctor Bentiron had never before donned evening clothes. They bored him, he declared.

He no longer spent long, silent evenings in my rooms; Milly and I scarcely saw him. Some strange and powerful influence had the doctor in its grip. His eyes were brighter; he spoke more briskly. In spite of his efforts to maintain his characteristically indifferent, listless mask, a new interest shone in his face, and I wondered thereat, taking counsel with my wife.

"Maybe the doctor's going to get married," suggested Milly. But I shook my head. Only once had I heard the chief refer to his wife, dead these thirty years; but I knew that he would never marry again. His old housekeeper had told me of that locked room in his own quarters, which none but the doctor had entered for thirty years. No, it was not that.

During his rare appearances, the doctor manifested no further interest in the Henderson case. The newspapers had practically dropped it; the police were at a standstill. Through my good friend, Detective Sergeant O'Malley of the homicide bureau, I was kept informed of what went on.

Burke, it appeared, had given up hope fastening the crime on Charlie Moran, That young man declined gradually from his dangerous eminence as a suspect. He was held as a material witness; but he stubbornly refused to explain his purchase of gasoline on that fateful night. He was drunk, he maintained; maybe he had bought gasoline— he couldn't remember. If he'd had money, he would have spent it for drink, not gasoline. It was found that he had not been out of sight of some one for more than ten or fifteen minutes up to ten o'clock that night; and the gasoline had been bought an hour or more after the murder must have been done. Wherefore Burke had decided, reluctantly enough, that Charlie was innocent; but in the futile exasperation of his failure, he insisted that the boy be committed as a vagrant.

Here, at the tearful solicitation of Mrs. Moran, the doctor intervened. He took time enough from his mysterious preoccupations to exert his powerful influence in certain quarters; and the errant Charlie was returned to the bosom of his family. I suspect that the doctor paid his fine.

The next day— three weeks after the murder— Miss Burns' brought a stranger into my little office. I was struggling, as best I might, with the doctor's tremendous consulting practice. "Look wise, listen, and say nothing," had been his advice; "and you'll get away with it as well as anybody." I strove to carry out his directions.

My visitor was a keen-faced, inconspicuous-looking person of middle age, who introduced himself as Mr. Quievas, of the Manchester, Queenstown and Universe Life Insurance Company.

"I'm a sort of special agent," he explained briskly. "Not an adjuster; you might call me a confidential investigator. I am looking into the Henderson case for our company. I am told that Doctor Bentiron discovered the body?"

I nodded. "I was with him," said I. "He seemed to think it a very unusual affair ; but he's lost interest in it lately."

"I should like very much to talk with the doctor," pursued my guest. "I understand that he pointed out some peculiar features of the case to Sergeant Burke and the coroner's physician, though neither of them would tell me very much. But I have a very high regard for the doctor's opinion in such matters. I know of his work in the Siegwaldt case— and in many others.

"You see, Doctor Blakely," he went on, in answer to my dubious look, "Mr. Henderson had just been insured in our company for one hundred thousand dollars. It is a very large-sum; and while our company has no desire to evade its obligations, the circumstances of this affair were such that our local manager directed me to make a very careful inquiry before he approved the payment of this loss."

I remembered the chief's saying, that the M. Q. & U. had "bought a hundred thousand dollars' worth of chips," and its meaning came home to me. No doubt he had expected just this development.

"The doctor is in his rooms," I told my guest. "I don't know whether he will see you or not. He is very busy just now, but I think he expected you to call. I'll tell him you are here."

So I climbed the wide stairs to Doctor Bentiron's own quarters, a forbidden territory wherein I had never set foot in all the months I had been his assistant.

From behind the closed door came sounds as of something being dragged about, and soft thuds of dropped clothing; then the doctor's dry voice broke out in song—a tuneless, wailing, raucous chant:

"O-ne night when the wind it blew cold,

Blew bit-ter a-cross the wild moor-es

"Umphf. Where the devil are all my pajamas?" Prolonged mutterings, and the banging of bureau drawers. Then the lugubrious dirge, full-throated:

"And poor Ma-a-ry perished and died

From the wind that blew 'cross the wild moor!"

I smiled to myself, knowing that the chief was happy. It was proof of rare jubilation when he burst into song; and the climax of his joy was always registered by this doleful ditty.

I knocked gently. The noise stopped. A brief pause, then:

"Get out. I'm busy."

"But doctor," I protested, "it's a man from the insurance company— the Manchester, Queenstown and Universe— about the Henderson affair."

"Umphf," came through the door. "T rather expected him. All right; I'm coming."

So I went downstairs again, and led my visitor into the chief's big, bare office. He entered almost with us, and labored into his great reclining chair, yawning. All his new animation was gone; he was as languid and bored as ever.

After rolling and lighting a cigarette, "Umphf?" said he. It was the grunt interrogative.

Mr. Quievas opened his precise mouth, but the doctor, after a vague glance in his direction, had pushed a button.

"Chairs, Hanrahan," he directed, and presently we were both seated.

"Sorry to trouble you, doctor," began our visitor, "but I'm investigating the Henderson case before the company pays its loss. You see, Henderson was practically bankrupt, as we now find; but only a week before his death, he took out a straight life policy with our company for one hundred thousand dollars. In fact the first premium reached us the morning after his death. It was an express money order and had been purchased at an express office near the Grand Central station that is open nights. The clerk there remembers that it was bought by a man who kept his features pretty well concealed. He couldn't get a good look at the fellow at all. The envelope was post-marked five a.m., September fourth, so that it must have been mailed after the murder, for the last collection in that district is at ten-thirty p.m. It looks very strange, you see, and Ruggles, the alleged murderer, has disappeared entirely. There's no trace of him anywhere."

"Umphf," intoned Doctor Bentiron. "I can find Ruggles."

The other looked at him, startled. "I know of your interest in detective work," said he. "If our company could induce you to act for us—" He paused tentatively, too wise to suggest payment.

The doctor blinked sleepily at his bare wall. He seemed to be revolving his reply.

A knock at the door checked what I began to fear would be a refusal. Miss Morgan thrust in her sleek, black head, an apologetic smile upon her pretty face.

"It's Mrs. Moran, doctor," said she, "and Charlie. She insists on seeing you at once. Says it's about the Henderson case."

"Umphf," conceded the doctor. "One more chair." Charlie might stand up; so much was plain.

So Bridget Moran waddled in, Charlie dragging reluctantly behind her. She dropped Doctor Bentiron an excited curtsey, ignoring us others.

"I'll not be taking your time, sorr," she panted, her broad red face crimson with suppressed importance. "'Tis a terrible thing I've found out, entirely. This odmadhaun here"— she turned on the shrinking boy—"this scamp's lied to you, sorr,' saying he never brung no gasoline. Ah-h-h! 'Tis meself will learn him better. Speak up, ye limb o' Satan; fer who did ye buy the gas?"

"Ow, mother, stop!" whined her son; she was shaking him vigorously. "It was old Henderson himself. He gimme thirty cents to get it an' sat on his front steps until I fetched it there."

Mrs. Moran nodded portentously. "An' this was ten o'clock, sorr," she reminded us, "an hour after the old ruffian was dead, doctor!"

The doctor smiled indulgently, and she hurried on. "It set me thinking, sorr. An' they was a man from the insurance company round, to get people to look at his clothes and see if it was really him before they paid out any money. Sure, I went meself, this very day, to look at them clothes. Why wouldn't I? Isn't me Charlie still mixed up wid it all, the young blatherskite! And indeed, doctor, yer honor, them's not his clothes at all, at all! Didn't I do the man's washing every week, this ten years and more? The pants was his, yes, sorr— but them drawers! Doctor, I know them balbriggan drawers of John Henderson's like I know the inside of me hand. Balbriggan he wore, sorr, summer and winter—and them was little, dinky athaletic underpants on that corpse, sorr! Now phwat kind of a corrpse is that, sorr, that's alive an hour after he's dead and wears another man's underpants? Sure, 'twas not John Henderson at all, at all!"

"Umphf," commented the chief, unmoved. "Maybe he changed his underclothes, Bridget. Men do, you know. Never mind, it was very kind of you to come and tell me. I thank you."

"Sure," said she. " 'Twas little enough, after you getting Charlie home tome. 'Tis a better life he'll be leading from now on, sorr. I'll see to that! Come on home, ye limb!"

And she plowed grandly out, sweeping Charlie in her wake. I could see that the Moran family had elected a new commander; Charlie would be unlikely to steal the washing-money again, I felt sure.

Doctor Bentiron turned back to his blank wall, yawning. "Umphf," said he presently. "I will take up this case for you, Mr. Quievas, upon one condition. My fee will be ten per cent of the face of the policy— ten thousand dollars to be paid to the American Red Cross."

Quievas looked rather taken aback; ten thousand dollars is quite a sum of money,

Still staring fixedly at nothing at all, "You'll be saving just ninety thousand," drawled the doctor. "That is, unless Ruggles wore false teeth. That's my condition."

"His description mentions several gold crowns," replied the insurance man, rather bewildered at this stipulation.

"Exactly. But some people have gold put on their plates. It's a far chance. Unless Ruggles wore his own teeth, I can't guarantee anything."

Quievas rose, resolved. "I accept for the company," he declared. "I'll find out about Ruggles' teeth to-day." And he went out.

11: Teeth— And Sockets.

TRUE to his word, Quievas returned in the late afternoon. The doctor saw him at once.

"I've seen Ruggles' dentist," he reported. "He had thirty-one teeth, counting crowns and bridgework. One molar missing; no plates."

"Exactly," agreed the chief. "I will now trace Mr. Ruggles' movements from the moment of the crime. He remained in the Henderson house until next morning—"

"But—but—" Quievas and I interrupted, almost together— "the house was searched!"

"Umphf. Don't interrupt," ordered Doctor Bentiron. "In the morning he entered an automobile and was driven—" He paused, grinning satirically at our amazed faces.

"Where?" we demanded.

"To the morgue. And at present he is reposing comfortably in the grave of the putative John Henderson. Umphf. Yes."

"Impossible!" cried Quievas. "Then where's Henderson?"

"No, not impossible," corrected Doctor Bentiron. "Even Mrs. Moran discovered the mistake. As for Henderson—" The doctor shrugged one shoulder, ever so slightly; his left eyebrow went up. "How should I know where he is?" he asked. "If he's kept up the speed he was making when I saw him last, he's a long way off by now."

We begged him to explain. Stretching vastly, the doctor stilled our clamor with a languid hand, slid still farther down in his chair and rolled another cigarette. When it was burning satisfactorily, he spoke:

"I will elucidate," he murmured. "I know you've been bursting with curiosity for three weeks, my son; but I have been busy.

"You will remember my pointing out a number of curious things that night. The most important concerned teeth, real and false. Take the man who ran out into my arms. He was clean-shaven, like Ruggles and of Ruggles' general appearances. He wore such clothes as Ruggles is said to have worn that night; but he had no teeth. And since Mr. Ruggles wore his own teeth, it could not be Ruggles— unless he pulled them all out himself, as Blakely once suggested. Umphf. Further, when we went in, I observed that the false teeth in the dead man's mouth were uninjured by heat. Naturally, I wonder:d at that, for his lips were burned quite away. So I felt in his mouth; and there I found the ragged edges of tooth-sockets.

"Now, when a man's teeth are drawn, the alveolar process of the jaw-bone is gradually absorbed. In a few months the tooth sockets have entirely disappeared, leaving only a thin, straight line of bone. Wherefore I knew that this man could not be accustomed to false teeth. Later, I verified this at the morgue. The body's gums were burned away, leaving the empty sockets plainly to be seen— if one looked. But our friend Bernstein didn't look; he has no imagination. There were false teeth in the mouth of this corpse; therefore they must belong there, he reasoned. Umphf.

"What must have happened that night was something like this. After stabbing Ruggles to death for his own reasons, Henderson pulled out all his teeth with the pliers I found. I also found one tooth on the floor ; and it was capped with gold. Remember how irritated Burke was when I showed him that tooth, Blakely? Well, Henderson changed clothes with the murdered man; and then he found his oil can was empty. He didn't dare leave; so he hailed Charlie Moran, and sent him for more. Then he poured gasoline over the upper part of the body, and set it alight. When Ruggles was quite unrecognizable, he put out the flames with water, stuck his own false teeth in the dead man's mouth, and started away from there.

"Unfortunately, he met us, and got panicky. Fire was on his mind— so fire was the excuse he made; also, it justified speed. When he saw that we were watching him, he did actually ring in an alarm— and then he beat it.

"You can see his plan, which was really well thought out. He. meant to suggest that Ruggles had killed him and then set fire to the house; arson to conceal murder. His clothes and false teeth would identify the body. Ruggles would have disappeared; but naturally a murderer would go into hiding. He did succeed in putting it over on the coroner's office. Only his ignorance of bone-physiology, and my own habit of investigation betrayed him at last.

"Umphf. So much for that side of it. Now for the motive. Mr. Henderson was badly involved; bankrupt, as soon as anybody dropped on him. But he took out a hundred thousand dollar insurance policy, though he hadn't even money enough to pay the first premium. Perhaps he had this plan in mind at the time ; perhaps he evolved it later to meet his needs. At any rate, he planned to disappear— to be reported dead, and to collect his life insurance by proxy. But he hadn't cash for the premium, wherefore Mr. Ruggles' visit was very opportune. It may even be that Henderson subscribed to those bonds with the intention of bringing a collector to him.

"Well, Ruggles dropped in, and incautiously admitted that he had several thousand dollars on him. Here was a wonderful opportunity; it would be enough for his first quarter's premium— and that would make the policy binding. They were alone in the house. Mr. Henderson sought the kitchen, got a knife, and beefed his visitor, without more ado. Then, perhaps, he decided to burn the house and make it appear that he had died in the flames. The objection to that would be Ruggles' subsequent disappearance. And so the big idea struck him. Ruggles was of his own general build; he would leave an identifiable body to satisfy the insurance company. So he went to work to that end. Umphf. Have I earned that ten thousand?"

"You surely have!" declared Quievas. "If you can prove all this, the Red Cross will get its check to-morrow."

"Prove it?" repeated the chief, dully surprised. "Dig up the body. If there are open tooth-sockets in the jaws— and there are— it can't be Henderson. That's all you need to know, isn't it?"

"Yes," agreed the insurance man.

"But where is Henderson?" His manner suggested that the doctor could doubtless materialize him out of thin air, there in the office. "We'd like to make an example of him. This defrauding of insurance companies is too common."

"Umphf,"  drawled the doctor. "There's the little matter of a murder against him, too, you know. Oh, well. It wasn't in the bargain, but—who's the beneficiary?"

"Wilfrid Jones, a cousin, according to the policy. He lives in Rochester. He's been writing us every day about his money, too."

"Well," said the chief, "a hundred thousand dollars rather runs into money, you know, even in these days. I think Henderson will be quite unlikely to lose touch with Mr. Jones until the money is paid over. Exactly. I suggest that you put a watch on Mr. Jones. Get him up in the morning and put him to bed at night; let him lead you to Henderson. Or The doctor lapsed into smoky silence. At last he stirred and yawned.

"Umphf. Yes," he declared. "It's possible. Mr. Henderson appears to be a rather clever individual. Write this man Jones, Quievas. Tell him to call at your New York office on Tuesday to get his money. Tell him it's the custom to pay such big losses to the beneficiary in person. Then I will come down and give him the once over. Now get out."

"But that's pretty short notice," demurred the insurance man. "This is Saturday, you know."

"Tuesday— at eleven," repeated Doctor Bentiron, unmoved. "I have other business on Wednesday. Telegraph; Jones will come fast enough for a hundred thousand dollars. Go get him, if necessary; but Tuesday it must be."

He yawned, slid still farther down in his chair, uncrossed his legs and crossed the left over the right, and appeared to go to sleep. From out a smoky dream came his dull, listless voice:

"Get out, do. I am very busy."

12: The Beneficiary

ON Monday night Quievas telephoned in; Wilfrid Jones would be at the offices of the Manchester, Queenstown and Universe at eleven the next day, to receive his hundred thousand dollars. I told Doctor Bentiron, and he ordered his car for ten o'clock. "We'll stop at police headquarters on the way down," he explained. "I have a hunch — and there's something there I want to get."

So half past ten Tuesday morning found me waiting in the doctor's big blue limousine, while the chief went about some mysterious errand which concerned the police department. He was gone for fifteen minutes or so. When he returned, something bulged in the pockets of his loose coat. He clambered in and slid far down in his accustomed corner, sighing.

"I have a hunch," he repeated. "A perfectly irrational hunch, but I'm ready to play it now."

We rolled smoothly through crowded streets to the great office building which housed the Manchester, Queenstown and Universe Life Insurance Company. Doctor Bentiron labored out of the car and dragged himself wearily in to an express elevator. Here he draped himself in a corner for the trip to the twenty-fourth floor, apparently quite too exhausted to stand alone.

Mr. Quievas was waiting in the corridor; he led us directly to a commodious office whose ground-glass door was lettered "Private." Here the chief glanced dully about. Seeing that the padded swivel-chair was the most comfortable in the room, he calmly seated himself behind the great, flat-topped desk and leaned far back.

"Bring on your beneficiary," he directed, busy with the fabrication of a fresh cigarette.

"He's out in the waiting room; he's been there two hours," said Quievas and went to fetch him.

Presently he returned, accompanied by a gray-haired man who wore huge amber-colored goggles. There were short sideburns on his sunken cheeks; he might have been sixty years old.

Without waiting for an introduction the stranger stalked up to the big desk.

"I come after my money," he announced firmly, "and I don't want no more monkey business about it, neither. I know all about you life insurance people, if I be from the country." His thin lips curled back in a mirthless grin, exposing twin lines of bluish gums; he had no teeth.

"Umphf," commented Doctor iron, blinking sleepily. "From country, are you?"

Indeed, the man looked it, with his striped collar and shiny, threadbare coat— a scant, short-tailed cutaway, such as one sees only in the movies, nowadays.

"Yep," declared Mr. Jones, "I'm from the country. Just sold my farm and moved into Rochester, last week. I used to live to Scio— but I ain't got to farm it no more, once you fellers do what's right by me."

The doctor yawned. "Scio?" he repeated idly. "That's a dairy country."

"Yep," confirmed Mr. Jones. "Used to milk thirty cows, me and the woman."

"Umphf," commented Doctor Bentiron, blinking. "With those hands?" Still gazing vaguely at the ceiling, he half-rose, reached across the big desk and caught the man's wrist. The palm which he exposed was soft and flabby.

"Umphf," drawled the chief. "Where are your milking callouses?'

Jones snarled, jerking his hand away.

"None of your dum business!' he snapped. "I ain't a-goin' to be made a monkey of by you city smart Alecks. I come after my money. You give me my money, now!"

"All in good time, Mr. Jones," answered Doctor Bentiron calmly. "But it looks as if 'the woman' did most of the milking— now, doesn't it?"

The other showed toothless gums once more in a sneering grin; but he seemed uneasy. "She was a pritty good woman," he averred. "Dead now."

"Umphf," replied the doctor. "'Living in Scio, you must have known the Stemwinders, out on R. F. D. Number Two."

The countryman pulled at his striped collar as though it irked him. "Ah— ugh, yes," he declared. "Of course I knew 'em. Used to hay it fer old Bill Stemwinder every summer!"

"Umphf," commented Doctor Bentiron approvingly. "So you know the Stemwinders? Curious— seeing that I invented them this minute. But you do it quite well; you really do it rather well, dear friend." The doctor transferred his dull stare from the ceiling to Mr. Jones' sunken cheeks. "Where are your false teeth?" he inquired idly.

The other started back, lips drawn up into a frightened snarl. "You mind your business!' he yelped, and his voice was unsteady. "I never wore no store teeth— don't need 'em. I can gum it."

"Umphf," said the doctor. "Gum it. You must have lived in the country —some time. But—"

Slowly, reflectively, he fumbled in one pocket, then another. Presently he brought out two small packages, unwrapped them, and laid a double set of false teeth on the desk-top before him. He made no comment, showed no interest; his dull gray eyes blinked abstractedly at a corner of the ceiling.

As I may have said, the doctor had a terrible power of silence. Most men dread long pauses; silence makes them uneasy, and they hurry into unconsidered speech, merely to break it. Not so with Doctor Bentiron; he could sit for hours, blinking lethargically at nothing, mute as the Sphinx.

And so the stillness grew and spread and wrapped about me, watching, until I could have cried out with the unbearable tension of it. Through the walls came the humming of elevators, the pad of passing feet, scraps of conversation from the corridor.

"It caught him," declared a passing voice, with a light laugh. The words rang in my ears, repeating themselves over and over. I started, looking at Quievas; but he had not spoken. He was watching Jones, fascinated.

The man's uncouth, farmerish stoop was gone, and with it his look of age. He crouched where he stood, bulging eyes riveted on those false teeth in a look of angry fear, while his face turned white, then bluish. Mottled patches of red came out on his sunken cheeks; the breath wheezed audibly in his lungs. His lips curled back, showing the bare gums to their very roots; without realizing its significance, I saw upon them a faint depression, a vaguely defined rim, as though long-continued pressure had molded them. He swallowed with an audible clicking sound; he could support the silence no longer.

"I ain't goin' to stand fer this foolishness," he blustered, but his voice rang hollow and unconvincing. "You give me my money!"

The doctor leaned still farther back in his swivel-chair and yawned unguardedly.

"Very pretty," he approved. "Nicely done. Your get-up is really immense, dear friend. But it won't work. Those are very nice teeth; try them on. I think they'll fit you— Mr. Henderson."

Suddenly galvanized by that word, the other leaped into action. One clutching hand whipped under the grotesquely inadequate tail of his cutaway coat and came forth with a squat, ugly pistol.

"Umphf," grunted the chief, midway of a yawn, and moved like a flash of light.

His right hand caught up the heavy glass inkstand before him. With a curious backhanded jerk, he tossed it into his antagonist's writhing face, so that the ink sprayed out, smearing it fantastically.

It was all done before I could move. With the same motion, the doctor dropped and dived under the desk through the wide foot-space between its rows of drawers, catching Jones' feet.

The man flung up his arms and staggered backward, dropping his pistol. Before he struck the floor, I was upon him, pinning him down. He struggled ineffectually in my grasp; for I am strong.

Doctor Bentiron rose languidly and dusted off his baggy trousers. "Better speak to your scrubwoman, Quievas," he drawled. "Your floor is not clean. Umphf. Now, Mr. Henderson—" He picked up the set of false teeth.

Walking around the big desk, he stooped over the man who still writhed frenziedly in my grip and inserted the thumb and finger of his left hand in the hollows of the sunken cheeks.

Perforce, the fellow gaped, and the chief deftly inserted the twin plates. They fitted his toothless jaws to a nicety. The thin lips were no longer sunken; the cheeks were filled out, the jaw squared. The man's whole face was changed surprisingly and made younger.

"Every man his own beneficiary," announced Doctor Bentiron, wiping his fingers. "You behold before you the late John Henderson, in his habit as he lived. Umphf. Yes. You will note that those brief side-whiskers are just about three weeks old. Oxalic acid gives an excellent shade of gray. Few people use it, of course; not every one desires to grow old overnight, like our friend here. But it's good—isn't it? His hair is darker at the roots, you will perceive. Umphf. Have somebody take it away, Quievas."

And presently John Henderson, alias Wilfrid Jones, murderer, incendiary and defrauder of insurance companies, left the presence of free men once and for all.

"Send that check to the Red Cross," directed Doctor Bentiron. "Come along, Blakely; I've a boat to catch."

We drove home. In the hall, Hanrahan, the big orderly, waited beside a strapped steamer trunk and a little pile of hand luggage.

"Umphf, Hanrahan," said the doctor; and orderly and footman began to carry baggage out to the waiting car.

"I am sailing on the Saint Paul tonight," announced Doctor Bentiron, turning to me. "You will stay here and run the house." The doctor kept a private sanatorium for the insane, "Norris will help you with my practice, Your salary will be doubled till I return."

I was utterly taken aback. I could not envisage No. 500 Madison Avenue without Doctor Bentiron.

"But— but doctor," I "Where are you going?"

"Umphf," said he. "To London." And he labored up the stairs.

My wife, Milly, was in our little sitting room, waiting for us to come to lunch.

"Good-by, Milly," droned the chief, patting her cheek. "I'm going away for a while."

He turned away, his manner as casual as if he were going to Bronx Park for the afternoon. Scarcely realizing what he meant, we stood watching as he slouched down the stairs and disappeared. Then, with a little cry, Milly darted after him.

But he was gone. We saw the back of his big car just swinging around the corner into Thirty-fourth Street. In the hall, still scented with the smoke of the doctor's last cigarette, Miss Burns stood, crying; and I felt rather like joining her.

It was so that Doctor Bentiron left us; not until the following week did I learn— from the newspapers— that he had been appointed head of the British Commission on Military Psychiatry.

It was like him to go without a word of this.

__________________

Index to "Past Masters" stories, by author.

Issues 31-51

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".

____________

Cleve F. Adams

Frame For a Lady 38

George Ade

Loafer's Lullaby  49

Hervey Allen

Report to Major Roberts  47

Lewis Allen

Pinched  39

Robert L. Ahern

Murder Needs No Motive 34

Mark Allerton

The Wrong 'Un 44

Frederick Irving Anderson

The Phantom Alibi 50

The Van Duersen Haze 50

Anonymous

The Lady Detective's Story 32

F. Anstey

The Talking Horse  34

Alice and Claude Askew

The Mystery of Chenholt 42

Phyllis in the Wood  40

Stacy Aumonier

Mrs. Huggins's Hun  41

The Perfect Murder  41

Lillian Bamburg

The Missing Pearls  39

Robert Barr

The Doom of London   39

J. M. Barrie

The Inconsiderate Waiter  51

Charles Beadle

The Double Scoop 39

Wolcott LeClear Beard

A Ledge of Safety 33

Frederick R. Bechdolt

The Case of Mimbres  37

Jimmy Riley's "Turn"  42

Randolph Bedford

Filamena's Hula 39

The Man Who Held the Wires  39

H Bedford-Jones

Apache Gold 31

The Arizona Callahan  37

Breakfast at the Savoy 49

The Devil's Fire 31

The Devil is Dead 31

The Fog at Fiddler's Green 31

From the Dark 49

The King's Pipe 34

Lady of the Evil Eye 31

Sons of Kalewa 31

Stormalong  48

The Temple of the Ten 48

J. J. Bell

Blue Blood, or, The Pride of Lady Ambrosia 44

The Message on the Sun-Dial  42

Stephen Vincent Benét

Silver Jemmy 50

E F Benson

The Bed By The Window  48

Ralph Wilhelm Bergengren

Mr Chubb's Burglar 44

J. D. Beresford

The Sceptical Poltergeist  45

Leslie Beresford

Eastern Guile 35

M. McDonnell Bodkin

The Murder on the Golf Links  41

Charles G. Booth

Not According to Text 44

Christopher B. Booth

In His Brother's Job  40

Jimmy the Lug 42

Mr Clackworthy and the Auto Rim  40

Mr Clackworthy Goes to Jail 40

Mr Clackworthy's Pipe Dream  41

Mr. Clackworthy's Return  41

Mr. Clackworthy Revives a Town 47

The Sealed Envelope 43

The Sparrow  40

Tardy, but on Time (as by John J. Chichester)  41

Jack Boyle

Ann of Satan-Town  46

George Bronson-Howard

The Steerage Passenger 44

Miles J. Breuer

Millions for Defense  47

The Stone Cat   47

Ellis Parker Butler

An Experiment in Gyro-Hats  37

Beating The Law 43

Eliph' Hewlitt on the Millinery Problem  44

Good Graft 51

Hats and Lilies 37

The Heckby Hill Murder 38

Mr. Marston's Chauffeurette  40

"Pigs is Pigs" 50

Scott Campbell

Rings of Dust 43

Hayden Carruth

Active Colorado Real Estate  46

Casper Carson

Wizard or Crook   48

Egerton Castle

The Baron's Quarry 42

The Closed Door  35

Robert W Chambers

As You Choose 44

Anna Alice Chapin

By Way of Experience 40

G. K. Chesterton

The White Pillars Murder 41

Richard Washburn Child

The Screen 45

C. Langton Clarke

The Detective for the Defense 33

Sylvanus Cobb Jr

A Footlight Flash 43

Desmond Coke

The Ghost That Failed  46

Richard Connell

The Grim House  41

Dorothea Conyers

Lord Hillayton's Settlement 35

Ted Copp

Blackmail Moll 36

Oswald Crawfurd

Our Mr. Smith  45

James Oliver Curwood

The Civilizing of Swift Lightning 46

Frederic Van Rensselaer Dey

The Bigelow Murder Mystery  40

Charles Dickens

To be Taken with a Grain of Salt  39

Captain Dingle

Homeward Bound 33

Deferred 33

Jack Donahue

The Last Letters of a Hoofer 49

Dick Donovan

A Dying Confession 49

A Night of Horror  49

George Allan England

Buzzards   38

Drugged  38

George Manville Fenn

Lady Florry's Gems  34

Francis Flagg

The Blue Dimension 33

By the Hands of the Dead 45

The Heads of Apex 33

The Picture 45

The Smell 45

J. S. Fletcher

The Manor House Mystery  41

Elliott Flower

The Elusive Ten Dollar Bill 36

A Bundle of Banknotes  43

R. E. Francillon

11: Touch-And-Go With a Great Estate

J. M. Fry

The Ring  38

Jacques Futrelle

Mr. John Smith in Paris  47

Emile Gaboriau

The Little Old Man of Batignolles 34

Charles Garvice

The Two Uncles 44

Théophile Gautier

The Vampire 50

Lady Gilbert

Aurora's Treasure 35

Guy Gilpatric

An Affair of Honour  46

The Crafty Jerko-Slovaks 32

The Ladies of Catsmeat Yard  37

One Good Tern  35

The Hunting of the Haggis 51

Mutiny on the Inchcliffe Castle  49

The Pearl of Panama 42

The Rolling Stone  41

The Toad Men of Tumbaroo  46

Westward, How!  46

The Yogi of West Ninth Street  50

Susan Glaspell

A Jury of Her Peers 44

Winifred Graham

Pan   39

C. J. Hamilton

The Luck of Barney Costello 44

Arthur P Hankins

Eyes of Blue   43

Arthur Sherburne Hardy

Peter  47

Percie W. Hart

Ye Ghoste of ye Olde Bowerie Roade 49

William Fryer Harvey

The Beast with Five Fingers 50

Beatrice Heron-Maxwell

The Dancer's Mascot  35

Lewen Hewitt

Gold-Bricked 42

Headon Hill

Rogue's Legacy 32

William Crawford Honeyman

The Chinese Chessmen  42

Seward W. Hopkins

Dickerson's Bag of Gold 44

J. L. Hornibrook

Captain Cronhelm's Blunder 35

Oliver Madox Hueffer

Mistrusted Sight 41

S. B. H. Hurst

The Brightest Jewel of Them All  32

Washington Irving

The Story of a Young Robber 47

W. W. Jacobs

In Borrowed Plumes 49

M. R. James

Casting the Runes 50

Burke Jenkins

The Anti-Climax of a Bad Man 44

His Christmas Orchid 44

Twenty-Four Hours Start 44

Wimple's Fog-Piercer 44

Jerome K Jerome

The Dancing Partner 50

The Ghost of the Marchioness of Appleford 50

The Man of Science  43

Marianne Kent

A Black Diamond  35

Otis Adelbert Kline

The Dragoman's Slave Girl 35

Servant of Satan  50

George L. Knapp

The Family Compact  37

Thomas H. Knight

Old City of Jade  36

Alexander Kuprin

Menagerie 45

Henry Lawson

The Loaded Dog 50

Stephen Leacock

Soaked in Seaweed  51

Sheridan Le Fanu

The Dead Sexton  51

Henry Leverage

The Petermen of Providence  46

Alun Lewis

Private Jones 39

Sumner Locke

Ragtime 44

William J Locke

Ladies In Lavender 36

F. G. Loring

The Tomb of Sarah 50

Marie Belloc Lowndes

Popeau Intervenes  41

Maarten Maartens

A Comedy of Crime 47

Newton MacTavish

An Unposted Letter 47

William J. Makin

The Jerusalem Express 51

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

Florence Marryat

The Box With the Iron Clamps  46

Richard Marsh

The Pipe  48

Mrs. L. T. Meade

Beauty Dear 32

The Yellow Dragon Vases 32

Mrs L. T. Meade and Dr Clifford Halifax, M.D.

The Seventh Step  48

The Strange Case of Captain Gascoigne 31

The Small House on Steven's Heath 33

"To Every one His Own Fear"  34

With the Eternal Fires 32

Gustav Meyrink

Bal Macabre  45

James M'Govan

The Captain's Chronometer 49

Richard Middleton

The Ghost-Ship  51

Alice Duer Miller

A Lot of Money  46

C S Montanye

Prey  40

The Strength of the Meek  47

Trapped 43

Jacque Morgan

The lnternational Electro-Galvanic

Undertaking Corporation  48

William Morris

Lindenborg Pool  48

Arthur Morrison

A Lucifo Match 36

William Chambers Morrow

The Monster-Maker 42

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 Red Raid  51

The Secret of Banda Sea 34

Hume Nisbet

The Demon Spell  51

Romance of a Balloon 51

James Jeffreys O'Brien

Queen of the Beggars 44

Owen Oliver

The Cape Conspiracy  35

A Pretty Woman 31

A Rapid Conveyance  36

Success 40

E Phillips Oppenheim

Blackman's Wood 43

Frederick C. Painton

Narcotic Man  36

What! No Imagination? 38

Elia W Peattie

Seaweed  51

Max Pemberton

The Cripple at the Mill  34

Last Across 39

The Lepers Guest   37

G. G. Pendarves

The Black Monk 48

The Eighth Green Man  35

Hugh Pendexter

It Might Have Happened Otherwise  32

Kingbird 33

A New Keeper of the Wampum  39

The Raven Mocker 33

Wolf Medicine 41

Ernest M. Poate

Adjudged Incompetent  43

Doctor Bentiron's Addict Case 40

An Error in Equation 51

False Teeth 51

Honest John's Millions 42

Plain Soda 40

The Stolen Story 42

The Third Pinprick 42

Three Alike 40

Through the Looking Glass 40

Vials of Wrath 40

Well Done  40

K. & Hesketh Prichard

The Parole of Gevil-Hay  47

Arthur T. Quiller-Couch

The Lady of the Red Admirals 49

Lewis Ramsden

Désirée 32

C. S. Raymond

The Wireless Death 36

Robert Reeves

Alcoholics  Calamitous 39

Bail Bait  39

Dance Macabre 39

Morley Roberts

The Hut by the Lachlan 44

Morgan Robertson

The Subconscious Finnegan 36

Arthur Somers Roche

The Dayless Diamonds 32

A Flutter in Finance 32

After the Fact 46

"Illimore!" 31

Lady Dick 46

The Premiere Danseuse 32

Riches Can Take Wings  46

Road House 46

The Robbery at the Café Ravasan 31

The Victim of Amnesia 31

William Merriam Rouse

The Nitwit 36

Victor Rowan

Four Wooden Stakes  38

Leroy Scott

The Langdon Mystery  44

Mary Sharon

The Cat of Chiltern Castle  43

George Bernard Shaw

The Miraculous Revenge  43

Perley Poore Sheehan

Dead Men Talk  38

Helen Simpson

A Posteriori   41

George R. Sims

The Mystery of a Midsummer Night  42

Olaf Stapledon

A World of Sound 51

Christopher St. John Sprigg

Death at 8.30  42

F St Mars

The Green Devil 43

Bram Stoker

The Judge's House 50

Annie S. Swan

The Diplomat  38

Booth Tarkington

The Old Red Barn   49

William Alexander Taylor

Intermere 33

Guy Thorne

Sir Patrick Armagh's Knife  39

E Charles Vivian

The House Among the Pines 44

Locked In 44

Hugh Walpole

The Twisted Inn 42

Harold Ward

The House in the Forest 49

House of the Living Dead 49

Florence Warden

Grimgriffenhoof  39

Cy Warman

"Sycamore": A Ghost Story 44

F A M Webster

According to Law  49

The Double Problem  49

The Owl 45

Towards Morning 33

Carolyn Wells

The Mystery of the Jade Buddha 40

A Point of Testimony 43

The Stolen Gems 43

H. G. Wells

The Hammerpond Park Burglary  47

Albert Richard Wetjen

Captain Cut-Throat 51

The Madness of Captain Jonas 44

Ethel Lina White

The Scarecrow  42

Henry S. Whitehead

Black Terror 45

Cassius 46

The Fireplace 45

Jumbee 37

The Left Eye 45

Mrs. Lorriquer 45

The Napier Limousine 45

The Projection of Armand Dubois 45

The Trap 45

The Tree-Man 45

Raoul Whitfield

The Black Sampan  50

The Caleso Murders 32

China Man 46

Climbing Death  51

Diamonds of Dread  38

Inside Job 36

The Javanese Mask 42

Rivals of the Clouds 31

Shooting Gallery  41

The Siamese Cat 49

Silence House 36

Sinners' Paradise 33

Valentine Williams

The Briar 50

H. C. Witwer

The Barber of Seville, Ill.   46

Not So Big  47

William Tells  47

Leonora Wodehouse

Inquest  42

William Alron Wolff

Bait, Hook and Sinker  34

May Wynne

The Tiara  44

Arthur Leo Zagat

Girl of the Goat-God  43

___________

Table of Contents

- 1: The Inconsiderate Waiter / J. M. Barrie
- 2: The Dead Sexton / Sheridan Le Fanu
- 3: The Demon Spell / Hume Nisbet
- 4: Romance of a Balloon / Hume Nisbet
- 5: A World of Sound / Olaf Stapledon
- 6: The Ghost-Ship / Richard Middleton
- 7: The Red Raid / Clarence Herbert New
- 8: Seaweed / Elia W Peattie
- 9: The Jerusalem Express / William J. Makin
- 10: Good Graft / Ellis Parker Butler

- 11: The Hunting of the Haggis / Guy Gilpatric

- 12: Climbing Death / Raoul Whitfield

- 13: Soaked in Seaweed / Stephen Leacock

- 14: Captain Cut-Throat / Albert Richard Wetjen

- 15: An Error in Equation / Ernest M Poate
- 16: False Teeth / Ernest M. Poate
- Cumulative Index