A Strange Drum Sounds and other stories
Author: F A M Webster
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: F. A. M. Webster was a noted British athlete (javelin), a soldier in WW 1, an athletics coach, and a prolific author of fiction and non-fiction. Much of his non-fiction was devoted to sports and sport training, and his numerous books on the subject are still in print and still considered valid. His fiction is largely forgotten. He wrote many short detective stories featuring "Old Ebbie", an elderly scientific detective, which were published in a series of books long out of print and very hard to find; short stories of animals in the wild; and adventure short stories set in colonial Africa and

A STRANGE DRUM

SOUNDS

and other stories

F. A. M. Webster

Frederick Annesley Michael Webster 1886-1949

Contents

Malakindu Stories

1: Golden Eggs

2: Natives Will Talk

3: Deceivers Ever

4: Blue Blood

5:  Very Still Waters

Other stories

6: A Strange Drum Sounds

7: Floating Bones

8: The Double Problem

9: According to Law

10: The Secret of the Singular Cipher

11: The Schimmel Sets the Pace

12: Towards Morning

13: The Owl

14: This Little Pig

15: Korongo the Arrogant

16: Not To The Strong

17: The Call of his Kind

18: Eyes in the Air

19: Let There Be Light

20: Trial By Combat

21: Power Comes to Pesembeli

22: Nature Hits Back

23: Possession

24: Devil's Parody

25: There Are More Things

26: Pride Goeth

27: Elephants Apilin' Teak

___________________

Malakindu Stories

1: Golden Eggs

World's News (Sydney) 6 April 1940

SANDY FENTON walked slowly from the bungalow to the Home Paddock and thereafter stood staring solemnly through the railings. But so preoccupied was the small boy that he took no notice of Old Bill, the tame sheep, who came trotting up in pleasurable anticipation of having his ears playfully pulled.

The sheep gave a pathetic baa, but that did not attract young Sandy's attention. From a distance, however, Claude Eustace, the great, grey English goose, who was the boy's particular pet, observed that Old Bill was trying to curry a bit of extra special favor on the quiet. Claude did not trouble to take the air, but came up the paddock in a sort of queer, scuttering rush which carried him over the ground at amazing speed.

Normally, Bill would have made an incontinent bolt for safety at the sight of the living fury tearing towards him with wings widespread, neck outstretched and paddling, webbed-feet barely touching the ground. But Bill was not quite the fool that most people took him for.

The sheep knew from past experience that the grey gander would have to put the brakes on presently and could only do that in one way. Wherefore, when Claude backed his wings and raised his long neck, Old Bin met him with a head-on charge which bowled the astounded bird over in a squawking back somersault.

The uproar brought Enid from the nesting hut to ascertain what on earth was happening to her somewhat masterful mate. This was perhaps as well, for Claude Eustace had baited and bullied Old Bill so often that the sheep would quite likely have taken it out of his tormentor pretty severely but for Enid's timely intervention.

As it was, the grey goose adopted her mate's usual tactics and, taking to the air, drove Bill to the far end of the paddock with her strong wings beating blindingly about his head.

On any other day Sandy would have danced from one foot to the other, shrieking with delight at the amusing antics of his pets. To-day, not even the comic spectacle of Claude Eustace picking himself up and solemnly going over every inch of his body with his beak, while he preened his plumage and chattered indignantly, had the power to bring a smile to the small boy's lips.

He knew all about the fabulous offers his father had received from film companies, circus proprietors and eccentric collectors, for the purchase of the Malakindu geese after the newspapers had spread the fame of the two queer birds, and that day he had heard his mother reproach Paul Fenton for not having sold Claude and Enid.

His father had looked sad and terribly worried, and he thought his mother had been crying. That was why Sandy had come down to the paddock. He had suddenly got a fixed idea into his head that his pets would be sold, after all, and had wanted to make quite sure that they had not already gone.

The Fentons did not know that Sandy had heard them discussing what was to be done to save the shamba at Malakindu after a disastrous year, in which a plague of locusts had destroyed the crops and an outbreak of rinderpest had almost ruined the farm stock.

When Sandy returned to the bungalow his mother and father were standing in the verandah. There were tears on Jessica Fenton's cheeks and Paul's arm was laid lovingly across his wife's shoulders. Their eyes were fixed on a tiny dark dot moving steadily across the plains and rapidly dwindling into the distance.

That dot represented Kipkirin, on his way to despatch a telegram which would summon from Nairobi a famous animal dealer, at that time in Kenya, who had already made a substantial offer for Claude and Enid.

The voice of Sandy aroused his parents from their sad and silent contemplation.

"I've been to say good-bye to me pets," he announced, and the tears started afresh to Jessica's eyes. Paul Fenton swore softly beneath his breath, for they had meant to keep the bad news from Sandy until the last possible moment, knowing full well how greatly the lonely little boy loved his dumb playmates.

"For the love of Mike, old man—" Fenton began, but Jessica broke in hastily,

"Leave it to me, Paul," she pleaded, and, picking up Sandy, went into the bungalow.

It was while she was bathing the child that she explained to him as simply as possible how necessary it was for them to raise some money if they were to go on living at Malakindu, and that the only way they could do this was by selling Claude and Enid.

"Couldn't Daddy go off an' shoot some more elephants, same as he did ve time we vos hard up?" queried Sandy, knuckling a soap-sud out of one eye.

"But, darling, shooting elephants is terribly dangerous, and, besides, the herds are fearfully hard to find," Jessica explained.

"Vell, of course, I vouldn't like my Daddy to get hurted," said Sandy thoughtfully, "but I'll be dre'ful lonely vivout C'aude Eust'ce."

"You'll still have Old Bill, Sandy, and Claude and Enid won't be going for a long time yet," Mrs. Fenton soothed her son.

Sandy said his prayers, determined to make the best of a bad job; but his barely whispered "P'ease God, take care of Claude an' Enid an' make vem happy ven vey go avay," sent Jessica in search of her husband to see if something could not be done to save the grey geese from being sold.

Native hunters were sent out next day to look for elephant tracks, for, as Sandy had said, on a previous occasion Paul Fenton had collected sufficient ivory to tide himself over a difficult time. The trackers set out dubiously and returned dejected. As they had anticipated. they had found no trace of elephants at that season in the Malakindu country.

Meanwhile, there was an entirely new state of affairs in the Home Paddock.

There, hitherto, the great, grey gander had ruled his mate with a rod of iron, harrying her off her nest to take exercise with him daily and, when he felt like enjoying a little quiet amusement, had been in the habit of chasing the tame sheep round and round the paddock very much at his own sweet will.

Now everything was changed, and changed for the worse from the point of view of Claude Eustace. Old Bill, once having proved himself the better man, would no longer allow Claude to bustle and bully him. If the goose charged with that queer, scuttering run, Old Bill , promptly bowled him over; if Claude came sweeping downwind on widespread wings, the sheep waited until his tormentor landed and again gave him what-for.

Worse still, Claude, who had been accustomed to sleeping close to Bill when Enid was nesting and inclined to be unapproachable, now found that the sheep rejected all his friendly advances and moved off to a fresh lying-down place when Claude came sidling up to him at sunset.

Finally, there was Enid's obnoxious behavior. She, having extricated her erstwhile lord and master from an awkward fix the first time Bill laid him out, would no longer allow herself to be driven off her nest at night and morning and made to go for long flights. In fact, she sat so tight on her latest clutch of eggs and hissed so savagely when Claude went anywhere near her that, after a while, he gave up trying to enforce that authority which he had wielded with such admirable sangfroid in days now unhappily gone by.

Little Sandy, too, seldom visited his pets nowadays, for he could not bear the thought of the coming parting. Claude, however, was not to know this and attributed the apparent neglect to the fact that" his little master had witnessed his disgrace in being worsted by that scoundrelly Old Bill, who, Claude felt, had taken him unfairly by surprise.

Not unnaturally, the grey, gander brooded upon his fall from power and grace. He took to flying further and further afield, for even that secret lake in the mountains which he and Enid had found together now failed to satisfy his craving for solitude, although his mate no longer accompanied him upon, his morning and evening flights.

At last there dawned an important day when a telegram reached Malakindu, stating that Harry Martin, the animal collector, was on his way upcountry to inspect the famous geese.

Nothing was said to Sandy about that message, but Paul went down to the Home Paddock to make sure that the geese were safe.

Paul found Enid placidly sitting on her eggs and did not disturb her. Of Claude, however, there was no sign.

"Do not worry, Bwana," said Kombobin-Mbwana, the native foreman, who had accompanied his master, "the batala-bukini always flies away at dawn and sunset, but he will return before noon."

Kombo, however, was wrong in his prognostication, for Claude, at last completely fed up with the way he was treated by Old Bill and Enid, and neglected by his beloved Sandy, had winged his way further afield than ever before, and was even then exploring the waters of an entirely new river he had discovered.

That day passed, and the next, and still Claude Eustace did not return. Sandy dissolved in tears, for he was sure some wandering native hunter had brought down the great, grey gander with a well-aimed arrow. Paul, for his part, was frantic, for it was really Claude and his mad antics that had created the history of the geese of Malakindu and the young farmer knew quite well that Enid, without her mate, was valueless.

In vain Kombo, Kathuka, Hamesi and Kipkirin hunted the countryside. There was no trace of Claude and no native, apparently, had seen him.

Meanwhile, Harry Martin was due to arrive shortly, and if Claude Eustace was still absent when the animal dealer reached Malakindu that would put paid to Paul Fenton's last hope of retrieving his fallen fortunes and of saving the shamba.

Of course, Martin, having heard such amazing stories of the Malakindu geese, might be prepared to buy Enid alone, but somehow Paul did not think that he could bring himself to sail the dealer a bird that would be practically valueless without her mate.

In any case, he was not to be forced to face that temptation, because Kombo came hurrying one morning with the news that Enid had flown away in the direction of the mountains just after dawn.

Paul hurried down to the paddock even more worried than before. If Enid had gone off in search of her mate, goodness alone knew when she would return. Meantime the deserted eggs would grow cold; that meant that no goslings would be hatched out and the breed of English grey geese, which Paul had taken such pains to introduce into East Africa, would finish with the sale of Claude and Enid to Harry Martin— If they were ever caught.

Panic always spreads like wildfire. Sandy appeared upon the verandah and, with a shout, followed Paul. Jessica ran out at the child's cry and set off after the others, while Hamesi, Kipkirin and Kathuka eventuated mysteriously from various parts of the shamba.

Six people stood staring at the deserted nest with mingled feelings, but  little Sandy, outside the hut, was anxiously searching the heavens.

"Here she comes!" he cried presently, and the others, tumbling into the open, detected the tiny speck to which the child was pointing.

A few minutes later they realised that it was not Enid, but Claude, who was winging speedily homewards.

Old Bill came cantering up to Join the party. It was evident, however, that Claude had benefited by his solitary holiday. Putting his body, which glistened strangely in the sunlight, into a crafty side-slip, the artful bird effected a landing in the last place expected and, in an instant, had seized Old Bill by the wool of his rump.

After Bill, having broken free, had made a hurried departure, Claude entered the lasting hut and walked solemnly round the nest, chattering sibilantly and scolding angrily. With head turned sideways and questing beak he examined the eggs, and finally settled down to cover them until such time as Enid should see fit to return and take what was coming to her.

The grey goose returned at sunset, and her squawks and squeals as her mate administered punishment brought everyone running once more to the paddock.

They found Claude beating Enid all round the paddock with his wings, while Old Bill trotted behind— an interested spectator.

It was Jessica, looking into the nesting hut to make sure that none of the eggs had been broken, who saw how strangely some of them glittered, as the last rays of the setting sun streamed redly through the open door.

Paul, faintly amused by his wife's excitement, examined an egg with idle curiosity, but suddenly a great shout burst from his lips. "Good heavens, it's gold-dust!"

Claude and Enid were quickly caught and, sure enough, there were grains of virgin gold embedded in the clay that had stuck to the feathers of the grey gander's lower body. This clay, drying while he sat on the clutch, had deposited a fine powdering of gold-dust on some of the eggs.

For the best part of a week, aided by Martin upon his arrival, they hunted, while every native in the neighborhood was warned to keep watch and report on Claude's flights.

In this way the secret river flowing through a mountain gorge was found, and in its bed raw nuggets of gold that more than served to tide Paul Fenton over his temporary troubles and saved him from the necessity of selling the Malakindu geese.

________________

2: Natives Will Talk

World's News (Sydney) 16 March 1940

THREE people sat staring at a lump of raw gold which glittered in the yellow lamp-light at such places as the blade of a knife had scraped away the dirt from the surface of the big nugget.

"Gosh, Fenton!" said Harry Martin, the wild animal collector. "You ought to be grateful to those geese of yours. If Claude Eustace hadn't flown back with the gold dust sticking to his feathers we should never have found the river of alluvial gold."

"Dear Claude," broke in Jessica Fenton, "we wouldn't sell him now for all the gold in the world."

"You won't need to," smiled Martin; "you'll all be as rich as Croesus, but I've lost the best deal I've struck for a long time. The Malakindu geese are famous, and would fetch big money in Europe or America."

Paul Fenton, who had been thinking deeply, took his pipe from his mouth.

"I don't see what's biting you, Harry," he said. "Claude Eustace may have guided us to the river, but it was you who actually found the gold."

"Do you mean that I'm to stand in on the discovery?"

"Of course."

"Well, I call that mighty handsome. What do we do next?"

"That's just what is bothering me. I don't know the first thing about mining law. For all we can tell, every ounce of the gold we've found may belong to the government."

"In that case," interposed Jessica, "I think we ought to send a note to Captain D'Arcy, the District Commissioner at Kanduli."

"Yes, that's what well do," agreed her husband.

That night the letter was written, and at daybreak Kipkirin started on the two days journey to Kanduli. He was a Nandi tribesman and justly famous for his speed and endurance. He had, however, this fault, that he never could resist the temptation to stop and swop yarns with any fellow native he might meet by the way. This circumstance sometimes delayed considerably the delivery of messages entrusted to him. But upon this occasion Paul Fenton had impressed upon his Nandi servant the need for haste.

Throughout the first day, therefore, Kipkirin trotted steadily along, carrying Benton's letter to Captain D'Arcy in the split top of a slim wand, in accordance with East African custom.

Towards evening a native he had never seen before gave Kipkirin the conventional word of greeting, "Jambo," and the Nandi, having replied equally politely. "Sijambo," they agreed to camp together.

For best part of an hour Kipkirin managed to content himself with general conversation, but this man, Majelua, with whom he had fallen in, seemed such a friendly chap, and, withal, so well disposed, that, at last, having bound his companion to secrecy by fearful oaths, the Nandi imparted the news that gold had been discovered near the shamba (farm) at Malakindu, so that his master, Bwana Fenton, would soon be one of the richest men in Africa.

Majelua said very little, but took his departure before his companion of a night awakened in the morning. He found , his master, Raymon Saumarez, angrily awaiting his return to camp.

"Bwana," pleaded Majelua, "hear what I have to say before you beat me."

"Speak, then," invited the Portuguese half-caste.

"Last night," said Majelua, "I fell in with a native who was not at Malakindu when you, Bwana, ruled over the shamba in Bwana Fenton's absence. Kipkirin, the Nandi, with whom I camped, told a wonderful tale of how gold has been discovered near Malakindu."

"How many people know of their discovery?" snapped Saumarez;

"Only those who made it, Bwana; Kipkirin goes now with a barau (letter) to the District Commissioner."

"Good," said the half-caste, "we will go to Malakindu, but we must find a means of silencing those infernal geese."

Majelua smiled sourly. He had not forgotten how roughly both he and his master had been treated upon a previous occasion by Claude Eustace, the Fentons' redoubtable grey gander.

"The Wandorobo are clever with their bows and arrows," he suggested hopefully.

"No," said Saumarez, "the Malakindu geese are far too valuable to be killed by an Ndorabo hunter; besides, such a happening would start a hue and cry."

"Bwana, why must we go to Malakindu? Why not make straight for the River of Gold?" asked Majelua.

"And carry off only the nuggets we might chance to find lying about— if Fenton and his friends have not collected them all by this time? No, Majelua, this is a white man's shauri, and must be directed by a white man's brain."

That night, Claude Eustace, winging homeward from his usual flight at sundown, saw nothing to arouse his suspicions as, with wings widespread, he volplaned to his paddock.

From a distance, Bill, the tame sheep, watched with a wary eye while the great, grey gander made his landing. Presently Claude would come over to sleep beside the old sheep, but meanwhile he had entered the nesting hut to make sure that Enid, his mate, was sitting dutifully upon her latest clutch of eggs.

Majelua, peering through a screen of scrub just outside the paddock, pulled gently on the rope he held, and the door of the nesting hut was closed. The native slipped through the railings and made it fast upon the outside.

Then Majelua rejoined his master, and, for some hours, they remained in their hiding place without moving or speaking. Towards midnight they crept steadily towards the bungalow, every sense alert and ready to run or flight, as circumstances might dictate, at the first hint of danger.

Every inch of the bungalow was known to them, since Saumarez had once acted for three months as overseer of the farm at Malakindu, while the Fentons were absent in England.

Very cautiously the two scoundrels forced the window of little Sandy Fenton's bedroom, and the cry the small boy uttered on awakening was smothered in the bag that Majelua slipped over his head.

Saumarez waited, revolver in hand, while his henchman escaped through the window with the struggling child in his arms.

WHEN Jessica came in the morning to dress her little son, the bed was empty, but there was a note pinned to the pillow. Her cry of alarm brought her husband and Harry Martin on the scene.

"My God!" cried Paul, when he had Perused the note. "Some scoundrel has kidnapped Sandy. He will give the boy back in return for a half share in the gold we have discovered. If we agree, We are to send Kombo to the Valley of Lilies, bearing a white reed spear."

"Oh, Paul, you'll send him at once, won't you?" pleaded Jessica, well nigh distracted at the thought of her little in the hands of some unscrupulous scoundrel.

"Sure he'll send him, won't you, Paul?" Harry Martin interposed soothingly.

But Paul's blue eyes were blazing, and there was a lighting" set to his craggy jaw.

"Yes, I'll send Kombo," he agreed, "but, by heck, I'm going to be close at hand. Kidnapping may get past in America, but we don't want that type of swine at large in Africa."

"Count me in on this shauri, Paul," Harry Martin said, with quiet determination.

The men meant every word they said, but that day the weather broke, and the spring rains descended in fetch upon fetch of lukewarm water. Trickling streams quickly became raging torrents, and, with the rivers in flood, it was impossible to cross to the hills among which the Valley of Lilies lay.

Three times they faced the foaming deluge, in which Paul Fenton would have lost his life but for the steadfast courage of Harry Martin and Kombo. It was no good, they could not cross the river, which, long after the rain had ceased, remained an impassable barrier, feet deep in foaming water.

Sandy, meanwhile, had been taken to a dwelling hidden deep in the mountains, the secret of which was known only to Saumarez and his servant, for the half-caste used it as a trading post for his illicit traffic across the border into Abyssinia.

For precisely a week Majelua kept watch upon the Valley of Lilies, but somehow it never entered his head that the non-appearance of Paul Fenton's messenger was due to the coming of the spring rains and the consequent flooded state of the rivers.

The suggestion he carried back to Saumarez was, therefore, that the white men from Malakindu and their native followers were out scouring the countryside in the hope of catching and killing the kidnappers.

So definite was Majelua in his belief in this theory that he half persuaded the Portuguese half-caste that the best thing they could do would be to kill little Sandy and make their escape while the going was still good.

Saumarez, however, having almost agreed to this plan, changed his mind at the last moment, and together they set out to see if they could catch a glimpse of the hunters.

At sunset, when they were upon the point of turning homewards, they caught sight of a khaki-clad figure, followed by a train of natives, trudging slowly through the foothills far below their eyrie.

"That settles it," said Saumarez, "we've got to kill the kid, for he knows us both."

The quick, tropical darkness had fallen by the time they reached .the hidden dwelling, and Sandy had gone to bed. The little boy had not dared to run away in the absence of his captors, for he had no idea to what part of the country they had brought him, but knew by the sounds he had heard night after night that those mountains were infested with leopards.

Neither Saumarez nor Majelua attempted to kindle a light. They knew where their little victim was to be found, and, hardened criminals though they were, preferred to do in darkness the foul deed they intended.

Majelua was barefooted, Saumarez slipped off his boots and drew a heavy hunting knife from the sheath at his belt. The gold he might not get, but, at least, he would take his revenge upon the Fentons for unforgotten affronts.

Quietly he slid through the open door of the room where the child was sleeping, softly he stole towards the bed. But suddenly pandemonium broke loose.

Majelua screamed with the eerie shrillness of a badly frightened horse as a huge body hit him full in the face, bowling him clean-over and hurling him through the door. Something sharp prodded him painfully in the back of the neck, and then he was out in the open and running for his life.

Saumarez was not so lucky. As he turned to escape he was buffeted and beaten back. A cry burst from his lips as sharp talons tore at his face. That cry was instantly stilled by the beating of mighty wings and a raucous crying.

There was worse to come, for when Raymon Saumarez finally fled into the darkness with groping hands stretched out before him, it would have made no difference if the night had been bright as day, for his sight had been destroyed.

NEXT DAY the rivers fell as quickly as they had risen, and Paul, crossing over with Martin and Kombo, met Captain D'Arcy marching up from Randuli, whom Saumarez had sighted among the foothills overnight.

Now it is a fact that tidings travel fast and equally mysteriously in the black heart of Central Africa, and presently a native presented himself to the Englishmen where they stood in consultation.

"Last night," said this native, "a bad man died of whom we have lived in much dread. Come, I will show you."

They found the body of Raymon Saumarez at the foot of the cliff over which he had fallen.

"The vultures have been at him already," said D'Arcy. "for, see, his eyes have been pecked out."

Paul Fenton, leaning closer, uttered a low whistle. There were downy feathers from the breast of a grey goose in the dead man's hair.

__________________

3: Deceivers Ever

World's News (Sydney) 9 Dec 1939

THE Malakindu geese were in the limelight for, somehow or other, the story had got into the East African papers of how Claude Eustace and his mate, Enid, had beaten and baffled the hostile natives, who would have captured little Sandy Fenton before attacking his father's shamba (farm).

Not did the matter end there, for the oddity of the incident and rumors of other exploits by the great, grey, English gander, caught the fancy of the public and gained world-wide notoriety through the Press. Thereafter, to Paul Fenton's amazement, his mail, which usually comprised perhaps one letter and a dozen or more circulars each month, began to assume the most formidable proportions.

The secretary of a Film Corporation at Hollywood submitted a most attractive offer for the purchase of the two grey geese; the proprietor of the biggest circus-show in Europe was equally anxious to buy them, while the rest of the correspondence ranged from letters written by tender-hearted old ladies, who hoped that the birds were well-fed and kindly treated, to lengthy treatises on the taming of wild creatures, and earnest requests for information as to the methods' employed by Mr. Fenton in developing the intelligence of his geese, so that they might' make good guardians.

Several firms of publishers also offered him contracts for various kinds of books, either anecdotal, reminiscent, or frankly scientific.

At least three literary agents cabled their willingness to handle his work.

Paul, who had been brought up to the strict code that all letters must be answered, swore without restraint, for his entire interest was centred in his shamba, and all he asked was leave to lead a peaceful life in the bosom of his family.

But the more annoyed her husband became, the greater grew Jessica Fenton's amusement; until Paul suggested that, as she seemed to be getting all the fun out of that particular fair, she might find it even more enjoyable to answer the huge pile of correspondence on his behalf.

Jessica stopped laughing, but pleaded house-duties as an excuse for not complying with her husband's wishes. Finally, a compromise was reached, by turning Miss Stibbs, Sandy's new governess, into a private secretary, pro tem.

That just suited little Sandy, who had found his liberty far too restricted by lessons for his liking of late.

Now he could wander off to the paddock whenever he liked, to count Enid's new brood of grey goslings, and to watch the absurd aerobatics of Claude Eustace as he chased Old Bill, the tame sheep, all round the place.

Kembo, Kathuka, and Hamesi, Paul Fenton's staunch native henchmen, were equally amused for, ait that time, Claude Eustace seemed to be in one of his most impish moods, and poor Old Bill found life barely worth living. Enid, however, brought up her brood and preserved her matronly dignity, for Claude knew better than to try any fancy tricks upon his spouse.

At length-the last letter was answered. Sandy glowered when he heard that lessons would be resumed upon the morrow, but Paul Fenton smiled contentedly as he watched Talishi, the native postman, go trudging down the track with the unusually heavy mail bag slung across his shoulders.

"Satisfied?" smiled Jessica, and slipped her hand through her husband's arm.

"Quite," said Paul, as he stuffed his pipe. "I think those replies should make it plain that we don't mean to part with Claude and Enid. Thank goodness, the whole show is over."

But if Paul fancied that he could escape the penalties of fame thus lightly, he was not left long in the enjoyment of his fool's paradise. Talishi, returning from the railway, brought an even larger consignment of letters.

Paul was willing to hand the whole of the correspondence over to Miss Stibbs without bothering to read a single communication, but Jessica was fair more curious.

When he returned from his farm duties towards dusk, Jessica was waiting in the verandah, a letter in her hand, with which she began waving the moment he came in sight.

"Oh, Paul," she cried, "you simply must read this."

"Don't want to, what's it all about?" he growled.

"Some dear old lady," die laughed, "has written to say that, having read of your wonderful power over animals, she is sending us her peacock, Wilfrid, who has been very naughty lately. She hopes that you will be firm but kind with him, and when you send him back to England, will you please let her have a note of your fees. Isn't it too priceless?"

"Here, where's Miss Stibbs, she must cable to say that I won't have the damn bird at any price."

"Too late, old boy. Wilfrid came in the same boat as the letter, and now awaits collection at Magosa Station."

Paul bit back the angry exclamation which rose to his lips, and a slow smile spread itself across his mahogany features. "Won't Claude Eustace just give him Wilfrid?" he grinned.

"Good heavens! I hadn't thought of that," gasped Jessica.

Meanwhile, Claude was pompously and with many quackings and scoldings, supervising the putting to bed of his goslings, but he performed his parental duties from a safe distance, since hardly-bought experience had taught him that Enid would stand no interference. Then he waddled a few steps, broke into a run with wings widespread and neck outstretched before he knew the large air again and went speeding on his final night flight over the shamba.

Old Bill patched with a jaundiced eye as the great, grey gander came hurtling homewards down wind. Bill could never be sure what mad antics that idiot Claude would be up to next. But Claude was now ready for bed, and hustled the sheep along to the small grass shelter which they invariably shared from dusk to sun-up in comradely contentment.

Claude did not fly up to the bungalow next morning to give young Sandy his usual greeting. He had an idea that the goslings were almost ready to try their wings, and had no intention of allowing Enid to take all the credit of having taught the new brood to fly.

Accompanied by Old Bill, the solemn bird waddled importantly up the paddock. Whereupon, Enid emerged from the nesting hut looking none too peaceable. Claude discreetly placed the sheep between himself and his mate. Then the 12 little goslings appeared, and, sure enough, the biggest of them essayed a short flight.

Before Enid could make up her mind to leave the rest, Claude was on the wing and showing his son just exactly how an English grey goose should really take the air.

The gosling's effort, however, was short-lived, and its fluttering wings soon failed to sustain its weight. Claude, however, was well pleased with the performance, and was busily trumpeting his satisfaction, when a most strange sound came tearing through the hush of the morning.

When an angry vixen with cubs to guard screams her displeasure, men are apt to turn pale as they think of ghosts and haunted woods; when the ass gives vent to. his hideous, sickening cry, other animals shudder and turn away from their food.

All of which was as nothing to the effect upon Claude Eustace of that shrill, harsh scream, which had suddenly made morning hideous.

For a moment he stood silent, while a positive shudder ran through him. Some bird was making that obscene and hideous outcry, and that was a circumstance which called for immediate investigation. The din, moreover, had come from the direction of the bungalow. That circumstance decided Claude Eustace. Too often in the past had some sudden cry or equally certain instinct summoned him to the assistance of his little master for him to hesitate now.

Claude rose with a harsh Honk! Honk! and the echoes gave back the pulsation of his powerful pinions.

But when he came gliding to ground by the buildings, not a single person had even a glance to spare for his graceful landing. Every eye was fastened upon the queerest creature that Claude had ever seen.

No native upon the shamba at Malakindu had seen its like before, nor had little Sandy, and so fascinated was the child that he took no notice of the plaintive, pathetic squawk wherewith Claude Eustace tried to attract his attention.

The grey goose could hardly believe the evidence of his own senses. That Sandy, whose own particular pet he had been ever since Paul Fenton had carried him home, a half-dead gosling, with a broken leg, should thus ignore him, was almost as inconceivable as it was intolerable. And all for the sake of that unspeakable scarecrow with the iridescent breast, pimple of a head absurdly tufted, and carpet-sweeper of a tail dragging in the dust as it pecked finically at the grain which Jessica Fenton had thrown down in front of the bungalow.

Even the natives who, with the possible exception of Kombo, Kathuka, and Hamesi, were usually pretty diffident in his presence, were acting as if the grey goose was of no more importance than one of the miserable hens that roamed about the shamba, scratching a living as best they could.

This state of things, Claude decided, must not be allowed to continue. Very  cautiously he stole towards fat and unsuspecting Hamesi, whose broad beam presented a tempting point of attack, for the man was bending forward, with hands on widespread knees, as he stared at the peacock.

Paul Fenton was the first to spot what was happening, but his shout of warning came a second too late and was immediately echoed by Hamesi's howl of anguish. Claude, with a waddling run and a final hop, which would have looked absurd had it not been so infernally effective, had launched his attack, and now Hamesi was leaping from foot to foot and shouting blue murder and sudden death, because the goose had nipped him a tergo, and was hanging on with the tenacity of a bulldog or a badger.

The problem was finally solved by the native falling over backwards, which forced Claude to release his hold, otherwise he would have been crushed under the man's mountainous weight.

The Fentons, and Miss Stibbs, looking down from the verandah, could not restrain their laughter as Hamesi picked himself up and took to his heels, followed by shouts of derision from the other natives who, meanwhile, had taken advantage of his discomfiture to withdraw themselves to places of safety.

The grey gander and the peacock, therefore, held the centre of a deserted stage.

Wilfrid ceased pecking at the last grains of corn that lay in the dust, cocked his cunning head sideways as he regarded the newcomer out of a knowing, beady eye, then uttered an ear-splitting scream of defiance, which caused Miss Stibbs to clap her hands over her ears and set every sensitive nerve in the gander's strong body quivering.

With head sunk low, neck outstretched, and hissing with rage, Claude Eustace moved to the attack. That devil could scream if it liked, but let him get at it and it would jolly soon be shouting to a different tune.

Paul Fenton's outstretched hand prevented little Sandy from interfering. Wilfrid remained unperturbed; he might know himself as no fighter, but still fancied that he could find a means of putting one over on his truculent opponent. In which assumption he was correct, for when Wilfrid spread his tail in its pride he seemed suddenly to treble his size, and Claude, seeming to see a hundred peacock-blue, gold-rimmed eyes staring menacingly at him, stopped so short that he fell over backwards.

Little Sandy shouted and clapped his hands in delighted surprise, and that circumstance, perhaps, caused Claude Eustace more pain than any part of his discomfiture.

Without a second glance at his new enemy, the grey goose took off and flew back to his own paddock. He did not go near the bungalow all that week, and presently Sandy grew tired of the beautiful but entirely unintelligent peacock. He went down to the paddock to see what had become of his old pet, but was met with a stony stare and the total rejection of all his advances, for Claude would brook no rival in the affections of his little master. This was a circumstance which Enid had learned very soon after her arrival at Malakindu.

She might bustle her mate out of the nesting hut, which was their home, as often as she pleased; she might even take his share of the mess of meal which Kathuka brought to the paddock each evening; or chase him away from their goslings, but let Claude catch her being petted by little Sandy, and she would very soon learn what was what!

Usually, Sandy had only to approach the nesting hut to bring Claude tearing up the paddock to act as his close attendant, but upon this occasion the grey gander held aloof, and did not even stage his usual exciting chase of Old Bill for the boy's amusement.

Sandy went back to the bungalow, with the tears not far from his eyes, and although the peacock fanned out its once so fascinating tail, he was not in the least bit interested. He wanted Claude Eustace, but that wise old bird would not come near the bungalow while Wilfrid remained in possession. The sight of that bird's tail, with its hundred eyes, had given Claude a shock that he was not likely to forget.

In due course, however, the mating season came round, and Wilfrid began to move abroad in search of a mate. His peregrinations brought him presently to the paddock where Old Bill and the grey geese lived.

Claude witnessed the arrival of his enemy, but neither flew to the attack nor even screamed a challenge. Old Bill looked on with interest. Then Wilfrid spotted the nesting hut, and made a bee-line for it.

Enid came out and stood staring at the peacock, but she did not apparently resent his presence; it seemed, in fact, that the appearance of his gorgeous, outspread tail was no new spectacle to her.

That evening she deposited in the nest, that Claude had helped to build, the first egg of a new clutch.

What devil of mischief moved Hamesi Ali I cannot tell, unless it be that he was still smarting from the memory of the pinching Claude had given him, and sought revenge. The fact remains that while Claude was performing his unvarying duty of flying with Enid to the lake in the mountains which they visited each night and morning, the fat native crawled into the nesting hut during their absence, and painted that solitary egg every shade of the rainbow.

Claude did not see it until the next morning, and then, with Enid, whom he had come to fetch for her morning flight, stood staring at the strange phenomenon. Old Bill, peering in through the doorway, was possibly equally puzzled.

That morning the grey geese did not fly to the lake in the mountains. Instead, Claude winged his way to the bungalow of Malakindu.

Wilfrid was strutting up and down in the sunshine, very pleased with the picture he made with his gorgeous tail fanned out as background to his brilliant breast.

To-day, however, the hundred eyes held no terrors for the angry goose. Claude Eustace swooped furiously to the attack and, at the last second, Wilfrid folded his tail and scuttled away for his life, with the gander in hot pursuit.

Right round the bungalow they raced, and out of sight, with Sandy dancing and yelling at the school-room window, despite Miss Stibbs's stern admonition to him to return to his lessons at once.

When the creatures reappeared, Wilfrid was squawking dismally, but Claude was deadly silent, for he had got a good grip of the peacock's trailing tail, and he did not mean to let go until he had pulled out the last gorgeous feather.

In the end, Paul Fenton, hastily summoned, beat him off, but it was a sadly depressed and depreciated peacock which he sent back to England some months later, accompanied by a note to the effect that he hoped Wilfrid was now cured of his naughtiness, and, in any case, he was returning the bird, to whose constitution he did not think East Africa was entirely suited, as peacocks were apparently less hardy than the grey geese he had succeeded in rearing, and seemed more liable to excessive moulting.

Claude, before he would be reconciled with Sandy, got home one good nip by way of punishment, but Hamesi went in fear and trembling for many days, until, in fact, Enid had completed her normal clutch, with the proper complement of unadorned, whitish-green eggs.

It didn't pay to play tricks on Claude Eustace, and the fat native knew it.

________________________

4: Blue Blood

World's News (Sydney) 25 Nov 1939

THE continuance of the ostrich section of the shamba at Malakindu was, in the opinion of Claude Eustace, not only an insult to himself, but a positive reflection upon the egg-producing capabilities of Enid, his mate.

The great, grey gander was quite prepared to admit that he was native-born; but, nevertheless, he came of English stock and the pinions of his ancestors had feathered the arrows of the archers whose shooting had enabled England to secure such a notable victory over the chivalry of Prance at the great and glorious battle of Agincourt. Enid, of course, had been imported into Central Africa direct from England, and was essentially a lady of blue blood and ancient lineage.

Ostriches he regarded as mere parvenus— ungainly brutes indigenous to Africa, and therefore as little to be compared with an English grey goose as were the black shamba-boys with their master, Paul Fenton.

In the matter of courage, too, there could be no possible comparison. Had not he, Claude Eustace, at the cost of considerable personal injury, brought to justice the great golden eagle which had broken the neck of The Kicker, as the first cock-ostrich brought to the farm by Paul Fenton had been called? Now there were nearly half a hundred of the ungainly brutes at Malakindu, and their paddock had recently been enlarged.

Where eggs were concerned, however, Claude could not deny that the ostrich hens had certainly put one over on his mate. In that respect, he considered that Enid had fallen far short of her duty and badly let him down.

In vain he had taken her day by day to inspect the clutches of enormous eggs laid regularly by the ostrich hens. In vain he had urged her to make a real effort: all she did was to produce with sickening regularity exactly the normal number of eggs to comprise a clutch, neither more nor less, and not one of them above the ordinary, average size of a goose's egg.

Claude wondered if it was a matter of feeding, and for nearly a month studied the nutritive habits of hen ostriches. That also proved unavailing, for poor Enid simply could not swallow such strange delicacies as stones and steel nails which the ostriches seemed to find both palatable and easily digested.

Enid, from being at first merely indifferent to what she regarded as another of Claude's fads, began presently to take a really healthy interest in this matter of egg-production. From that it was no long step to the development of a positive desire to lay just one really worthwhile egg.

Much thinking led at last to the belief that she could do it if she tried hard enough. Self-hypnotism has been known before to produce surprising results. But, suddenly, to her intense horror, and the extreme anxiety of Claude Eustace, she stopped laying completely.

Never before had such a thing happened, and both the grey geese felt the disgrace keenly. Year in, year out, Enid had always laid her eggs and hatched off her goslings at the appropriate seasons. Now egg-laying time had come round once more, but the nest the geese had built so nicely was absolutely empty.

To make matters worse, Paul Fenton, with his wife, Jessica, and Sandy, his small son, came to study the phenomenon, and so did a number of the native shamba boys.

Upon the occasion of such visits being made previously, Claude had always made a point of running his razor-sharp beak playfully up and down the calves of Sandy's chubby little legs, to the accompaniment of a chattering, scolding sound, or he would give one of the natives a sharp, sly nip, which would set the recipient howling with pain and little Sandy roaring with laughter.

Nowadays, when anyone approached the paddock in which the grey geese lived, Claude would stalk away, with his head held very high, to emphasise the fact that he must, in common decency, entirely disassociate himself from what could only be regarded as Enid's deplorable failure to do her obvious duty.

At first Fenton was merely amused by the clownish aloofness of Claude Eustace, but as time went on and still no eggs appeared, he began to consider the advisability of giving Enid a dose of medicine, to be followed by a course of special feeding of the kind that is supposed to make poultry lay prolifically.

Before the special laying meal that was ordered could arrive from Nairobi, Kombo-bin-M'Bwana, Paul Fenton's native overseer, decided to take action upon his own authority.

At that time the Malakindu geese were not only famous in Central Africa, but throughout the world, for many tales had been published in. various tongues concerning the antics and the adventures of Claude Eustace and his mate.

Every gosling raised at Malakindu had been sold and was now domiciled in some part of Kenya. Wherefore, if Enid was really going to stop laying, the stock of English grey geese would be bound to die out at their original home in Central Africa.

Kombo said nothing of his intentions to Paul Fenton, but took his problem one evening to an ancient witch-doctor who occupied a cave in the adjacent foothills.

Kanjero, the witch-doctor, listened to Kombo's tale in silence, while a portentous frown gathered upon his dusky brow. Then, after collecting a substantial fee, he cast five knuckle bones upon the floor of the cave and studied them intently for so long a time that Kombo almost asphyxiated himself by trying to hold his breath, lest he should upset the seer's vision.

At last Kanjero spoke.

"There shall be a great and wonderful magic," he said, "a magic so marvellous that it will surprise the world, an event so staggering, Kombo, that my spells must be put at once upon this strange bata-la-bukini. To that end, Kombo, you shall pay me forthwith a further three rupees."

The overseer, who up to that point had listened spellbound, sighed vexedly as he untied the corner of his loin-cloth in which he kept his money.

His interest in the proceedings did not revive fully until they reached the shamba, and the witch-doctor, with strange words and mystic passes, had quietened Claude, who normally would have raised the countryside at the approach of a stranger. Next, Enid was caught and a mess of evil-smelling herbs forced down her throat.

Claude walked round and round quacking with contentment, but became exceedingly vociferous when Kombo stayed behind to prevent him from following the departing witch-doctor.

That outcry was unfortunate, for it fetched Paul Fenton from his bed in time to catch Kanjero, who, as a doubtful character, had been forbidden to trespass on the shamba. Paul had an intense dislike to having his slumbers disturbed, and if his heart were far from pure at the moment, that did not in any way lessen the strength of his arm. The cane he carried as a safeguard against snakes was exceedingly pliant, as Kanjero learned to his cost.

"White man, "said the witch-doctor, wiggling his tingling shoulders, "you have put shame upon me, and for that you shall pay to the smallest sumoni (little coin)."

Fenton went back to the bungalow rather worried lest the witch-doctor should choose to wreak his spite upon little Sandy. Next morning the threat was banished from Fenton's mind by the arrival of a bag of evil-smelling poultry meal from Nairobi, and the special feeding of Enid was begun.

Now, whether the herbal mess supplied by Kanjero or the laying meal purchased by Paul was responsible for the miracle, no one can tell. The fact remains that within forty-eight hours Enid began to lay again. She continued so doing daily until but one more egg was wanted to complete the clutch. During the week that followed, Enid went round making weird noises and casting longing glances at the eggs upon which she would not settle down until the clutch was complete.

In desperation Kombo again visited the cave in the hills, and by straining his resources to the utmost, induced Kanjero again to visit the farm.

Next day Enid laid an egg that was destined to become first a legend and later on a myth in that part of the world. It was at least three times as large as any goose's egg that had ever been known, and almost spherical in shape. Enid loved it. Exhausted by her supreme effort, but yet triumphant, she settled down upon the nest, from which wild horses could not have dragged her.

Each day she attended to her eggs with meticulous care, but that huge egg, the very apple of her eye, she turned with a caressing touch which was wonderful to behold.

During the month that elapsed before the goslings were due to hatch out, the fame of Enid's egg spread far and wide. Kanjero saw to that, and through the story thus disseminated ran a thread of prophecy that the egg would contain a strange gosling of a unique color. That, the witch-doctor hinted, would be a sign for the natives to rise and throw off the white man's yoke.

Fenton knew nothing of what was being planned, but was frankly uneasy. He remembered Kanjero's threat, and did not at all like the look of the shenzies (strange natives), who seemed always to be hanging about the farm, nor did he like their savage, resentful glances and the way they fingered their weapons when he ordered his own shamba boys to turn them off the premises.

During the last night of the month of waiting, and when the moon was at the full, the shell of the huge egg cracked, and a tiny head on the top of a snaky neck appeared.

Enid straightway deserted the rest of her clutch; and even Claude Eustace himself dared not attempt to drive her back to her nest. But perhaps his apparent cowardice was due to the stupefying effects of a certain herb, the smell of which all geese find most attractive, but to eat which is to drug their senses hopelessly.

Claude, in fact, felt so stupid that he allowed a great concourse of natives, strangers and some he knew, to assemble in his paddock without uttering even one squawk of indignant protest.

The natives, breathless with excitement, awaited the coming of the dawn, which would enable them to see the color of the newly-hatched gosling. Kanjero had said it would be blue. If it was blue, the witch-doctor's prophecy would be fulfilled and they would be at liberty, by special favor of their own gods, to kill the white people and to sack their dwelling.

Kanjero waited with the utmost confidence, for he knew well the peculiar properties for producing strange blood pigmentation of the mess of herbs upon which, by his orders, Kombo had fed Enid in secret daily.

At the first peep of day an inquisitive little head popped out from beneath the mother goose's wing. The shout that greeted its appearance frightened even Enid from her nest.

"A blue goose! A blue goose!" the people shouted, and then fell silent.

That shout startled little Sandy, who had wakened early and was wandering in his father's garden. As fast as his chubby legs could take him he tore x through the garden and raced down towards the paddock. His coming was greeted with another mighty shout and the rattling of spear-shafts against cowhide shields.

Kanjero sprang forward and flung out his hand.

"Behold the first sacrifice to the blue goose," he shrieked.

"Behold the sacrifice," the people echoed solemnly.

The witch-doctor drew a knife and tested point and edge significantly with the ball of his thumb. Sandy Fenton, young as he was, knew that he was very near to death, but he neither gave ground nor cried out, for his father had taught him that a white man, for the honor of his whole race, must never show fear before a native.

Meanwhile the mists were clearing from the fuddled brain of Claude Eustace.

The first thing he realised was that Enid was appropriating far too much of the limelight, the second that his beloved little master was among the amazing number of people present, and, the third that there was still a faint trace in the morning air of the delightful aroma of those most delectable herbs which had intoxicated him.

Slowly, but as sedately as possible, the great, grey English gander waddled forward, followed by Enid and the blue gosling between living walls of natives which opened out before him.

At the end of the human corridor stood Sandy, and almost within hand's touch of him, Kanjero whetting the edge of his knife.

Claude recognised in the witch-doctor the man who carried those most delectable herbs, and made straight for him. Having arrived, he ran his beak, sharp as the man's own knife, up and down the witch-doctor's spindly legs, while he chattered beseechingly.

Such supplication failing to achieve its purpose, he gave Kanjero a sharp nip which produced a surprised "Ouch!" The next nip, much harder than the first, sent the witch-doctor leaping into the air. Somewhere in the crowd a native laughed.

Kanjero feeling no need to placate the grey gander, who had served his purpose, aimed a savage blow at Claude Eustace. Instantly the knife was struck from his hand while the beak prodded savagely into his stomach produced a howl of pain.

Again a, native laughed; and another, springing forward, would have trodden on the blue gosling had not Sandy snatched it up.

Enid, screaming with fury, flung herself to the aid of her mate. Next moment Kanjero and the man who would have helped him were running for their lives while the grey geese buffeted them and the laughter of their friends came echoing down the wind.

"Truly," said a wise old native, "the Kanjero is both a fool and a fraud, and the geese he is supposed to have blessed will have none of him. Come, let us be going also, lest worse befall us when the white man comes."

Ten minutes later Paul and Jessica arrived, but all they found was their son, Sandy, holding a strange gosling whose downy covering was of a blueish tinge, while Claude and Enid looked on with pathetically anxious eyes.

____________

5: Very Still Waters

World's News (Sydney) 27 April 1940

"OH! What a dirty little boy!"

Sandy Fenton turned from the congenial task of constructing a dam of clay across the brook which flowed through the home paddock at Malakindu and ultimately irrigated the shamba garden.

"Vos you speaking to me?" the child queried, with a polite smile.

"You should say 'Vere you speaking to me?' " said the sour-faced spinster, whose stern features were set in a mask of disapproval.

"I fink," volunteered Sandy, "you must be my Aunt 'Scilla, vot Mummy said vos coming to stay. Have you brought your bruver, Mr. Carry B. Dis, wiv you? Daddy says you are bofe dangerous."

"Faugh! I'll talk to your father, young man. Come out of that muddy water at once," snapped Miss Priscilla Hunt.

"But I'm 'lowed to be here, Aunt 'Scilla," Sandy protested.

"Do as you are told, child."

The order, barked harshly, brought an indignant "Baa!" from Old Bill, the tame sheep, who had been watching the construction of the dam through the rails of the fence that surrounded the home paddock.

Old Bill seemed to realise that his little master was in trouble of some kind, but he was powerless to do more than utter a bleating protest. The bars, however, had not been made that could keep in Claude Eustace, the great grey gander, who was the fattier of the breed of English geese which Paul Fenton had introduced into East Africa.

Miss Hunt, annoyed by what she regarded as little Sandy's naughty and disrespectful obstinacy, went gingerly down the bank, stretched out a bony hand and gripped the small boy firmly by the collar of his wet, khaki bush blouse.

Sandy, unused to such summary treatment, let out a bellow of indignation which might well have awakened the Seven Sleepers. That cry of protest was answered by a harsh, honking call from the far end of the paddock, where Claude and Enid, his mate, had been dozing contentedly in the shade of a giant mahogany tree.

The great grey gander took off with a scuttering run, circled in air to gain altitude, and then came racing down wind with the speed and fury of a fighting plane.

Sandy saw his friend hurtling to the rescue and smiled secretly. Old Bill, never sure of what antics that idiot Claude Eustace would be up to next, retired discreetly to the sanctuary of his own shed.

Miss Hunt alone was serenely unconscious of the approach of the avenger. Sandy, walking docilely at the side of his aunt, who held his small, grubby hand in a firm grip, continued to smile. Bill, peeping out of his shed, would have smiled, also, had the facility for facial expression been granted to sheep.

Claude, not a dozen yards away, gave vent to a harsh triumphant cry and Miss Hunt, catching sight of the big, grey bird, held up her parasol to ward him off. The fragile affair was swept from her hand by the beat of his powerful wings, her sun-helmet followed suit and it was only by diving into a tangle of exceedingly thorny bushes that she succeeded in saving her face from the beak and claws of the angry bird.

Sandy, who had succeeded so far in suppressing his very natural inclination to shriek with laughter, moved quickly away, for the sight of his hectoring great aunt crawling on her hands and knees into the undergrowth in a most undignified manner must, he felt, destroy his last vestige of polite gravity.

A moment later the child was hopping from foot to foot and hooting with mirth, for Claude had landed, had inspected as much of Miss Hunt's anatomy as was still visible and, after a chattering, scolding expression of warning, had administered a jab with his sharp beak which was instantly answered with a shriek of pained surprise.

Claude, still chattering and scolding, cocked his head on one side the better to study the khaki-clad curve before him. The object was moving slowly; Claude got in another jab, the object disappeared as Miss Hunt dived forward and the branches held apart by the passage of her body sprang together whipping Claude Eustace sharply over the head.

The pain maddened him and he dashed into the undergrowth like a young tornado. That bush might well have been tenanted by a hundred evil spirits to judge by the sounds that emerged from it, for Claude Eustace was screaming with rage and Priscilla Hunt vas shrieking for help.

Sandy, running as fast as his fat little legs would take him, reached the other side of the thicket just in time to witness the reappearance of his great-aunt. That lady did not wait to collect her nephew, but, kilting up her skirt, set off for the shelter of the bungalow at an amazing pace. Claude, however, was determined not to lose ms victim, who, he believed, was evilly disposed towards his beloved little master.

But, fast as Miss Hart scuttled along, the grey gander travelled faster and was seen hastening her progress with a succession of savage digs, each of which was received with an agonised "Ouch!" or a louder shriek of dismay. It was the arrival of Paul Fenton, accompanied by his wife. Jessica, that put a period to the painful farce.

After Jessica had led her aunt away to the bungalow and Kathuka and Hamesi, two of Paul's natives, had removed Claude Eustace to the home paddock, Fenton turned to his son.

"Well, you young rip, and what have you been up to?" he demanded,

"Please, Farver, I was making a pool for Claude and Enid to swim, like you said I might, ven Auntie 'Scilla said I was a dirty little boy and pulled me up ve bank I fink C'aude saw her and vat made him angry."

"Hum! Well, we've got a nice mantelpiece!"

"Vot for, Farver?"

"For your mother's Aunt 'Scilla to have breakfast off, son," grinned Paul Fenton.

Unfortunately, Sandy had a long memory. That night, after the small boy had said his prayers and was safely tucked up in bed, he began to wonder if it had not been rather unkind of him to laugh at poor Great-Aunt 'Scilla. Next morning, he got up earlier than usual, and the family, coming to breakfast, found three places laid at the table and one on the wide mantel-shelf.

"What on earth has your native servant been thinking about, Jessica?" Miss Hunt demanded pompously.

"I done vat for you, Aunt 'Scilla," volunteered Sandy, pointing proudly to the mantelpiece. "I fink Daddy fought you might be more comfortable standing up."

A horrified silence fell upon Sandy's parents, but was broken devastatingly by Miss Hunt, from whom Jessica had considerable expectations.

"Paul, how dare you!" she exploded. "It is monstrously indelicate to put such ideas into the child's head. You have had that wretched gander's neck wrung, of course?"

Jessica dropped her hand on to Sandy's shoulder just in time to prevent his voicing his feelings.

"Well, not exactly, Aunt Priscilla," Paul Fenton temporised. "You see, Claude Eustace is a pretty valuable stock bird, but I'll promise that he shall not molest you again."

Miss Hunt settled herself comfortably at table in anticipation of a good solid breakfast. A moment later she sprang to her feet and bolted to the far side of the room, as Claude Eustace, quacking solemnly, pushed his lean, grey head round the door-post. At the sight of his enemy, he gave vent to a harsh, triumphant honk!

Fortunately, two of the house boys secured the grey gander before he could enter the bungalow and transferred him screaming and struggling to the home paddock.

"After breakfast, I'll fix him myself," promised Paul.

Sandy accompanied his father to the home paddock, where Kathuda and Hamesi Ali quickly finished the damming of the brook to provide Claude Eustace with a grand pool in which to disport himself. The nesting hut in which Enid was sitting was moved bodily to the new enclosure, which was then roofed over with wire netting.

Claude loved the swimming pool, but, otherwise hated his new quarters, since the enforced confinement prevented him from taking his accustomed flights at night and morning.

Paul knew these things and sympathised with the old bird but, on the other hand, it was necessary to placate Aunt Priscilla, since his wife Jessica was heiress to the sharp-tongued old woman.

Claude and Sandy did not see eye to eye with Paul Fenton in this matter and whenever Miss Hunt came near the home paddock, where Sandy spent most of his time consoling his pet, the little boy would scowl glumly, while the grey gander hissed and screamed with rage.

No one knew how long Aunt Priscilla proposed prolonging her stay at Malakindu but, as things turned out, it proved fortunate that she had not taken herself off in high dudgeon after being attacked by Claude Eustace.

Jessica Fenton, like most people who live in East Africa, had had her vitality lowered by repeated attacks of malaria and, not unnaturally, fell victim to a bad bout of Blackwater fever in due course.

Now, Blackwater is always dangerous and not infrequently fatal. The doctor, however, who travelled more than a hundred miles to see the patient, assured Paul Fenton that his wife was in capable hands, since Aunt Priscilla had served as a V.A.D. during the Great War and was an extremely efficient nurse.

Paul and Sandy went about white-faced silent in those days, for the wings of the Dark Angel seemed to shadow the bungalow. It is to their credit that they bore patiently the overbearing arrogance of the masterful old woman who saw fit to assume the entire management of Paul Fenton's household.

Trouble came, however, when the weather broke and the autumn rains arrived. A few days previously Enid hatched off her latest clutch of goslings and Sandy, aided and abetted by his father, spent every moment of the day at the small brook-side enclosure to the home paddock.

Miss Hunt considered that her great-nephew should be at his lessons, not wasting time over heathen creatures. She resented his invariable lateness for meals and the grubby state in which he came to them, and would have meted out condign punishment had not Paul put his foot down.

A heritage, Paul felt, could be secured at too great a price. Jessica was, now, out of danger to all intents and purposes and, anyway, he was not going to allow Sandy to be made unhappy and his spirit broken, perhaps.

The coming of the rains, however, took Paul to a very distant part of the huge shamba (farm), where a landslide had damaged crops and threatened destruction to valuable stock.

Sandy, frantically anxious for the safety of his beloved geese penned into that tiny enclosure on the edge of the babbling brook which would soon become a raging torrent, stole quietly away to the home paddock after his father had departed.

That day he did not go back to the bungalow for dinner, but worked manfully with his little hands trying vainly to pull down the dam, against which the waters were rising and threatening to flood out Enid's hut. Claude, from time to time, encouraged his little master with raucous cries. Sandy would have enlisted the help of the natives, but for the fact that all the shamba boys had gone with his father to repair the damage done by the landslide.

Towards sunset Aunt Priscilla came to the home paddock completely clad in sou'-wester, oilskins and gum-boots. Sandy did not at all like the look of the pliant cane she carried in her hand and Claude Eustace fairly chattered with rage when he caught sight of her.

That was the first time in his life that Sandy had been beaten and, to add to his unhappiness, he was sent supperless to bed.

His father was still away, and Jessica did not discover what had happened to her little son until she asked why he had not come to bid her goodnight as usual.

Aunt Priscilla explained the situation in her most unpleasant prunes and prisms manner and saw fit to add a lecture on the upbringing of children. Then the floodgates burst and Jessica, weak though she was, spoke her mind.

"Very well," snapped Miss Priscilla Hunt, "you can look after yourself, you ungrateful girl. I shall go to bed and to-morrow I shall leave this impossibly conducted establishment."

Jessica lay back on her "pillows, crying with vexation. She longed to go to little Sandy and to comfort him, but found herself too weak to get out of bed unaided. Meanwhile, the brook running through the home paddock had been steadily rising, and Paul Fenton and his natives were battling their way homewards against the fury of the lashing rain. The howling wind had torn Miss Hunt's bedroom window from its fastenings and had extinguished the lamp.

For awhile after leaving Jessica the old woman sat in the dining-room, her hands folded in her lap and on her features the satisfied expression of some pious Abigail, who has spoken her mind and is content to sit, smugly satisfied, among the wreckage she has made.

Presently there came a lull in the storm. The wind, which had shrieked so furiously, dropped to an eerie wailing and the rain, that had beaten against the windows like machine-gun bullets, seemed to tap insistently with light, ghostly fingers.

Priscilla Hunt rose, smoothed down her skirt precisely and sailed serenely towards her room. An impatient "Tcha!" broke from her lips as she stared into semi-darkness. Then her blood seemed to freeze. There was a persistent hissing and long snaky, dimly seen objects rose up at her from every part of the room.

Clinging to the door-post she screamed and screamed. Paul, approaching the bungalow, caught the sound and spurred his jaded horse to a final effort. He flung himself from the saddle and dashed Into the bungalow, an electric torch in one hand, a revolver ready in the other But helpless laughter overtook him as the bright beam stabbed into the darkness of Aunt Priscilla's room.

Claude Eustace and Enid shared the old maid's bed, and a dozen dripping, wet goslings were perched on chairs, boxes and piles of underclothing.

"The dam must have burst and these devils have swum down the stream! Well, they say that still waters run deep—" gasped Paul between gusts of uncontrollable laughter.

"I shall leave in the morning," snapped Miss Hunt.

"I'm sorry about that," grinned Paul Fenton, "for you will have to sleep on the sofa to-night, Aunt Priscilla, and it's most infernally hard."

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Other stories

6: A Strange Drum Sounds

World's News (Sydney) 30 March 1940

DOKA FADEMULA, the Soudanese, had probably seen 50 or more native fights of varying dimensions from the indecisive five minute scraps with stock-raiders to the full-dress affairs of the war when guns and motor transport were employed. He was a dependable fellow, as brave as a lion, and in due course he became a full bashouish, or sergeant-major.

That exalted rank did not prevent him from preparing my mess-kit on my first night with the regiment. It is true I was a very callow subaltern, but Doka had served with my father, which made a difference. They had been through many strange adventures together, and Doka and I continued the association for several years. No man could have had a more faithful friend nor a sturdier fighter in a tight corner than I had in the battle-scarred Soudanese, with his thick lips and flat nose, and his deep, guttural voice.

But there came a day when a life made up chiefly of fighting and feasting told even Doka's iron constitution, and it became known in camp that the grand old warrior had not long to live. Life and death are frequent acquaintances in African native life, and Doka's end was no more than the subject of casual comment, perhaps only, I felt that I was losing a guide, philosopher and friend.

Doka had only one wife, Shabaka, a woman who, according to regimental gossip, possessed strange powers and a peculiar beauty which had not altogether faded with old age. In a country where slavery was common within living memory, she may have had Arab, Hindu or Portuguese blood in her veins.

One evening Shabaka appeared suddenly at the doorway of my sleeping quarters. The native orderly, who was preparing my bath, took one look at her and fled. I do not blame him. Shabaka possessed, as I have said, a reputation which bordered on the uncanny realms of witchcraft, and as she stood in the slanting rays of the sinking sun her great brown gazelle-like eyes were blazing with a strange intensity.

"Bimbashi Effendi," she said, "in the Sura of the Camel it is written that in the hour of death all men are equal. Come, then, my lord, for the night is waiting to receive the spirit of Doka Fademula."

I pulled on my mosquito boots and returned with her to the scrupulously clean and tidy hut where the old Soudanese lay upon a native bed gazing contentedly through the low door at the riot of color in the west.

"The daylight dies, Effendi, and my work is done. Soon I go to my rest."

The words were spoken dreamily, and even the guttural Arabic sounded unusually soft. Doka was not at all afraid. That was an emotion with which he was quite unfamiliar, and he bad seen death too often to be greatly impressed by what no man can avoid.

"The peace of Allah be with you, my brother," I murmured as I sat upon a low stool by the bedside.

"You do me great honor; Bimbashi Effendi."

"In the hour of death all men are equal'," I borrowed Shakaba's quotation from the Koran, and Doka smiled.

"Honor may yet be repaid with service, Effendi; I have served with thy father and with thee. My son may yet serve in my stead. Woman, make ready."

Shabaka, who had been squatting on her heels at the foot of the bed, rose and brought from a corner of the hut a calabash bowl full of a dark liquid. From the folds of her clothing she drew a small drum.

"It is the hour," cried Doka.

What he meant or the significance of the bowl and the drum, I knew not. But Shabaka, whose beautiful eyes seemed to fee going strangely blank and sightless, took the drum upon her lap and began slowly to rub the skin-covered top.

The glory had faded from the heavens and suddenly the swift tropical night descended, leaving the black velvet sky ablaze with stars. I could just distinguish the humped outline of the crouching woman, against the slightly less dark square hut which was the open doorway of the hut. The whisper of sound that came from the drum ceased; It was a tiny noise, yet it had filled the hut, and while I waited in the black silence it came again. Or was that an answer? I could not be sure, for suddenly Shabaka's fingers rapped half a dozen times sharply and insistently, and again there was an echoing reply.

Then Shabaka moved and scattered into the calabash bowl something which fizzed not unlike fruit salts when water is added to them. Slowly the liquid became redly luminous, so that I could see the woman's head bent over the bowl and her features lit up in bold relief. The bed creaked as Doka stirred and the whites of his eyes showed strangely clear as he stared the queer scene.

For a few minutes the red effulgence waxed and waned. Shabaka's hand rummaged in her garments again and she threw a small object into the bowl, it plopped like a jumping fish in the quietness of a summer night, and the red liquid splashed in fiery drops upon the floor of the hut, where they gleamed brightly for a moment and died. Then the hairs on the back of my neck stiffened for as the liquid grew calm again I saw a tiny mummified hand floating amidst the red glow with the index finger extended.

I leaned forward watching while the grisly object swung as uncertainly as an agitated compass needle until presently became stationary with, the index finger pointing with the south-west. Again Shabaka's fingers moved across t the drum-top, conjuring up strange noises which had the insistent rustling sound of leaves in the wind. Presently she began to speak in a dialect which was strange to me.

Then the words and the noise of the drum ceased, the red glow from the calabash bowl faded and went out. We waited in the intense darkness until once more there came that faint whisper which may have been either echo or reply. But this time there was something else, something which caused me acute uneasiness.

Absolute silence reigned, save for the occasional yapping bark of a jackal, or the eerie whine of a prowling hyena. Nature seemed to be waiting on tiptoe. Suddenly, with that peculiar sense of warning possessed by most people who have lived much in dangerous places, I became aware that there was a fourth presence in that pitch-black hut. I could feel another being near me, although in that inky darkness it was impossible for human eyes to see anything. Yet the presence was there; of that I was certain.

The feeling lasted for perhaps five minutes, until a camel roared stridently upon the outskirts of the camp and the uncanny feeling passed. I do not think I was frightened. Rather I was alert and interested. The hut remained dark and I heard no movement from Shabaka. Neither she nor Doka, whose quiet breathing I could hear by my side, offered to explain what had happened. Probably, for all our confidence in each other, the Soudanese considered the matter outside a white man's province, something which it was impossible to discuss or explain to me. For my part I had been long enough in Africa to know that there are some things which cannot be explained, which baffle even the scientific mind usually so ready to advance prosaic theories about the most improbable matters.

Half-way through the night Doka's feeble hand found mine.

"Have no fear, Effendi," he whispered. "Henceforth your ways will be guarded. There is no God but God and Mahomet is His Prophet."

He did not speak again, and when his hand grew cold with the coming of the dawn I knew that another brave fighter had passed into the Warriors' Valhalla.

But as the pale, clear light of a new day crept through the doorway of the hut I saw that he had not travelled that journey alone, for Shabaka lay stretched upon her side with her fingers still clasped about the little drum. The calabash bowl was overturned and the ever-thirsty sand had swallowed its contents. Of the mummified hand there was no trace.

I KEPT silent about the strange happenings in Doka's hut on the night of his death. Occurrences like that shake a man, and perhaps I was lucky in that I was left with little time for brooding. For within a week Ntoki Mbili, the fanatical leader of the Nabingi secret society, which is sworn to drive all white people from Africa, had resumed his activities in the Ruanda area.

In the ordinary way the deliberate movements of Authority, as personified at Government House, are a source of irritation to its allies and of mirth to its enemies. But Ntoki had evaded capture during many years of sporadic rebellion, and had proved himself repeatedly as cunning and dangerous a leader in guerrilla warfare as Rashed or even Tippo Tib. Thus in less than a week we began our march southward, and I was kept so busy that the incidents which had attended Doka's passing were swept from my mind; for advance guards, rearguards, flankers, scouts and reconnoitering patrols needed constant attention.

After a fortnight we came upon evidence of Ntoki's activity, for many villages through which we passed were burned to the ground, and the decayed bodies of men, women and children were hanging from crudely-fashioned crosses, or their white skeletons lay pegged down above the heaps of the killer ants which had devoured the flesh while the unfortunate victims were still alive.

These sights had no effect upon our stolid Soudanese soldiers, but they did not make the white men feel exactly friendly towards Ntoki. Yet, although we became exasperated with his elusiveness, we could not help admiring from a military point of view the manner in which he lured us along false trails by means of carefully-spread rumors and incorrect information.

Day after day passed. We could never get to grips, but our small patrols were ruthlessly butchered, and any man who left the line of march, or quitted a camp alone, was never seen again. This was bad both for our morale and our prestige, and so, when a native arrived in the camp one evening with a yarn that for a suitable reward he would lead us to a spot where Ntoki was due to hold a meeting in a few hours' time, our intelligence officer rather snatched at the opportunity. The native stood up well to questions, and finally our C.O. decided to take a sporting chance.

I would hate to suggest that it seemed attractive to him because he was able to remain in camp while I led a company of Soudanese through the forest. Nevertheless, that is what happened, and just in case our native thought of betraying us, a noose was put round his neck and the other end of the rope was fastened to my left wrist. Not that betrayal was likely. For, according to my sergeant, Absura bin Selim, who spoke the fellow's dialect, most of his relations had been tortured to death by Ntoki, and he was burning for revenge.

There was sufficient star-shine to guide us along the twisting forest paths, but from time to time a trailing vine would brush my face and the feeling was like that of being touched by cold, stiff fingers. Fungi, crushed beneath my boots, flung up a foetid stench of death, and this may have been responsible for the presentiment which soon took hold of me, a presentiment which warned me that I should not see another sunrise.

Though I strove to banish it the feeling increased, and not until a tiny pinpoint of light showed through the closely-packed tree trunks was I able to forget it. Our guide explained that this was Ntoki's meeting; place, and suggested that I should go forward with him to reconnoitre. Not wishing to alarm a comparatively large body of men, I agreed, though Absura bin Selim insisted on accompanying me.

Treading delicately as Agag, the three of us advanced until we were able to see a circle of men squatting round a fire which gleamed brightly upon their burnished brown bodies. At each man's back a spear was thrust point downwards into the ground.

This much I had observed when suddenly there was a queer, protracted sibilant sigh from in front of me, and the rope attached to my wrist tautened. At the same instant something wet and warm splashed on my bare arms and knees. Then the rope went slack and a dim visage, which bore a startling resemblance to Doka Fademula, appeared to the darkness. The lips moved soundlessly but I knew their meaning. In silence I turned, for even a whisper might have been heard by the men about the fire.

When we reached my Soudanese there was still only Absura bin Selim and myself. The man who had killed our guide, for there was blood on my clothing, and cut the rope, had vanished. We waited, and then out of the forest came a big, upstanding fellow.

"Effendi, it is a trap. I heard their talk and though I have hastened I feared I would not reach you in time."

I looked at him closely but did not recognise him.

"You stabbed our guide." Yet even as he shook his head I saw that the blade of his spear was clean.

I questioned the man closely and then sent a messenger back to the C.O., for I had an idea we might be able to hoist Ntoki with his own petard.

And so it proved. A successful enveloping movement was carried out before the rebels could slip away, and in all the bitter fighting that followed before Ntoki died, the strange native stuck close to my side. Afterwards he returned with me to camp and I was able to question him further.

"Who are you and whence do you come?"

"Effendi, I am Hamesi bin Fademula." he replied. "A moon ago I was summoned by my parents while my father lay dying, to enter your service and save you from danger. Since then I have travelled from the Great River to reach your side."

A short calculation told me that it was exactly a month ago that Doka Fademula had spoken the words I had almost forgotten.

"My son may yet serve thee in my stead."

"You arrived at a good time, Hamesi," I said.

"There is no God but God," replied the son of Doka Fademula, sententiously.

_________________

7: Floating Bones

World's News (Sydney) 11 May 1940

JIM CHALMERS waited, tense and expectant. Kathuka had said that there was a pride of lions in the forests, but the biggest beast, to judge by his pugs, had left his companions and his tracks had led the hunters, who had been out since sun-up, in a wide half-circle which had brought them back to the vicinity of the big-game hunter's own camp.

Jim had despatched a porter to his wife, asking her to enforce silence upon the Safari servants. Now he waited at the edge of the bush from which echoed alarming shouts, the thunder of drums and the sound of stones being rattled in tin cans as a young army of native beaters moved slowly forward, driving old Simba, the king of beasts, relentlessly before them through the thick undergrowth.

Behind Jim and a little to the right crouched Kipkirin, the gun-bearer, his master's second rifle ready to pass forward upon the instant. Other natives, trembling with scarcely suppressed excitement, waited further in the rear; over all brooded the strange hush of the sultry African noontide.

Suddenly Kipkirin snapped his fingers, but a long moment passed before Chalmers's eyes, grown blurred by intent staring, picked out the black points of a big mane in contrast with the dead-grey hue of dense vegetation. But once having picked up those black points it was surprising, even to an experienced hunter like Jim, how quickly the details of the huge head of a really big lion seemed to take shape, feature by feature, against the neutral-tinted background of bush, with which the general golden color of the animal blended so perfectly.

"Piga, bwana, piga! (Shoot, master, shoot!)" came from Kipkirin's scarcely moving lips in a barely audible whisper, and Chalmers, having now identified the quarry, raised his heavy sporting rifle with what seemed like painfully slow deliberation until the gold bead of the fore-sight covered that portion of the lion's head in which he thought a bullet might usefully be placed.

Relentlessly thumb and forefinger closed with increasing pressure upon the trigger, but even as the crash of the report shattered the silence, the lion moved. The beast was wounded, but it did not charge at once. The great golden head, made enormous in appearance by the mane, rose majestically above the bush. Jim found himself staring into round eyes that blazed with anger and noted, subconsciously, the small, black-tipped ears laid back and the great fangs in the snarling red mouth.

Kipkirin, admirably cool, despite the thrill of the situation, pushed the second rifle into his master's right hand, and took and reloaded the weapon that had been fired.

Jim's second shot checked the lion in mid-spring, for the force of the impact of a bullet fired from a modern, high-velocity rifle is simply tremendous, but that shot did not give the animal its quietus, although it raked his body lengthwise and partly paralysed his hindquarters.

That did not mean that old Simba was by any means done with, and would wait pathetically, as other and lesser beasts will do, for the hunter to finish him off. Far from it. The lion, in fact, came on, squirming with his body as best he could, dragging himself forward with the help of his powerful forelegs, roaring, snarling, pausing to tear at the ground with his teeth as he fought against Nature to get at the hated human being who had laid him low.

Jim would have finished the business with a merciful shot, but a badly made cartridge had jammed in the chamber of his rifle and Kipkirin was having trouble with the breech action of the other weapon.

There was, however, no particularly grave element of danger until Jim Chalmers's little daughter, Mirrabelle, attracted by the shouts and the firing, came running from the camp and planted herself midway between the wounded lion and her now thoroughly alarmed father.

Her position was such, that even when his rifle was ready, Jim could not fire at the lion without the almost certain chance of hitting his own daughter. In vain he shouted to her to get out of the way. Mirrabelle seemed to be obsessed by the great pity she felt for the sorely wounded creature.

"Oh, you naughty daddy." she cried, with a reproachful glance flung over her shoulder at her agonised parent. And well might Jim Chalmers experience the very acme of anguished anticipation, for every instant the snarling Bon was dragging itself nearer to the fearless child. The man, moreover, realised that by no possible chance could he either fire or reach his little one in time to save her from the fangs and claws of the animal whose state had aroused her baby pity.

The shadow of impending tragedy had fallen suddenly upon what, up to that moment, had been a plain, straightforward hunting incident.

Nearer and nearer 'writhed the lion, and still the child -did not give ground, while the spectators stared in frightful fascination. Then in the last split second which divided eternity from life, a strange figure appeared at the edge of the bush from which the lion had emerged and Karamanga, the witch doctor, went leaping to the rescue.

Brave to a fault, the native was only just in time, for as he swept Mirrabelle into the crook of one arm and flung himself sideways, the lion, rearing up its body with a tremendous effort, sent in a smashing blow of a taloned forepaw, which would have beaten the child flat to the earth.

Then Jim's rifle spoke and pandemonium broke loose as the; natives saw the lion sag sideways with a bullet in its brain.

Reaction from acute anxiety made Chalmers feel physically sick for a moment, and his one immediate desire was to bundle Mirrabelle into his arms and take her back to her mother in the camp. Despite the beauty of the big brute's pelt, he would be quite content to leave his porters to skin that lion anyway they liked.

As yet, however, no one had given a thought to commencing skinning operations, since every single native present and a number of others who had appeared from the camp were already taking part in the traditional lion-dance with the greatest zest. Mirrabelle was inside the ring of prancing, shouting and singing natives and still quite close to the corpse of old Simba.

Suddenly, Karamanga's harsh voice cut like a whip-lash across the turmoil.

"Nutaki miupa-mogolcao!" (I want the floating-bone!) he cried.

The dance stopped abruptly and his fellow-natives stood staring at Karamanga with an air of puzzled questioning. Why had he cried out like that so sharply, they wondered, for was not he the most important medicine man in all those parts, and, by virtue of his status, entitled to receive that particularly lucky charm, which the white hunter so seldom secures, the floating-bone that is to be found in front of a lion's shoulder blade.

This being so, why had Karamanga cried out his order so sharply?

While the dancers still stood hesitating, the witch doctor strode through the ranks, and Jim took the opportunity of following him. But when the white hunter would have picked up his little daughter, the witch doctor denied him with a gesture as peremptory as the words he had previously spoken.

Karamanga produced a skinning knife from his loin-cloth, made an incision in the lion's shoulder and drew apart the cleanly-cut edges of the pelt.  Bloody fat dripped from his fingers as he withdrew them from the wound and dropped to his knees in front of Mirrabelle.

Jim had heard of, but never witnessed, the ceremony which he believed was about to be enacted. It never occurred to him to interfere, for he had lived long enough in Africa to have learned that spells pronounced by a genuine witch doctor have a way of proving amazingly potent, while neither the curses they pronounce nor the protections they occasionally give can be lightly ignored.

And so Jim watched curiously while Karamanga anointed Mirrabelle's breast and brow with the gory mess, as he muttered:

"May the Great Muungu make you brave and cunning like my lord, the lion, little maid."

It was not until two days later that Karamanga presented himself at the Chalmers's encampment and asked to be allowed to see Mirrabelle. Mrs. Chalmers demurred at first, but was finally persuaded by the wisdom of her husband.

From a pouch he carried, Karamanga produced a native necklace from which was suspended the tiniest, most perfectly embroidered leather satchel. When the witch doctor had slipped the necklace over Mirrabelle's head, he turned to her father.

"Bwana," said he, "I have wrought spells with many wonderful incantations before I placed my lord the lion's lucky bone within the little mfuko that has been made for it. I have produced a great protection," he added proudly, "and so long as the little maid wears that talisman, she may walk unharmed with my lord, the lion, and do what she will with all his kind."

Jim thanked Karamanga courteously for his good will, but was too wise to offer him any reward, even for his initial service in saving Mirrabelle's life. He believed, moreover, that the protection would prove true in its fulfilment, for never before had he known any native, least of all a witch doctor, to surrender one of the almost sacred floating-bones to a white person.

Many a time, in fact, when some beast he had shot was being skinned, he had given orders that the lucky bones were to be brought to him, but, although he had watched the skinning process with the utmost vigilance upon each such occasion, the natives had always succeeded in appropriating those small bones without his being able to detect either the theft or the thief.

Mrs. Chalmers, upon the other hand, was disposed to treat the whole business as mere native mumbo-jumbo, but even she was forced to reconsider her opinion as the years went by and Mirabelle, growing up in wildest Africa, walked unharmed through many perils and, not infrequently, encountered lions in the way when she was utterly defenceless find yet passed by them, totally unscathed.

Mirrabelle, for her part, often hunted with her father, but nothing would induce her ever to shoot at a lion or lioness, and even when the family made one of their rare visits to Nairobi, and she wore evening dress for a dance or dinner party, the girl would not discard her native necklace with its tiny pouch containing the lucky lion's bone, in favor of more fashionable adornments.

When her parents died during an epidemic of influenza, she went home to England. She did not, however, hit it off with the narrow-minded old maid, her father's aunt, who was her only living relative. And since she was one and  twenty years of age and a peculiarly independent young person, Mirrabelle left the home of her great aunt and set forth to seek her own living. She discovered that it was far harder to secure employment than she could have believed possible, for she had had none other than African experience of life, and had seen that girls arriving in East Africa from England in search of posts do not have very far to look before they are suited.

In truth the dice were loaded against Mirrabelle from the first; she had courage and common sense in plenty, but the assets of an open air life led in uncivilised Africa, are not as valuable as the School Certificate and a secretarial training in England.

London frightened her at first; the never ceasing noise, endless movement and teeming millions of people, all rubbing shoulders in the streets, but all leading essentially private lives, were factors which produced a kind of claustrophobia that finally drove her out of town.

That in her desperation, Mirrabelle, like a wild thing, should seek open country, was perfectly natural and equally fortunate, for by both birth and upbringing, she was a child of the wilderness, and in the English country areas alone, was likely to find anyone with a use for her peculiar talents.

Through the Labor Exchange at Easthampton, she obtained a post as nursery governess, but though the vicar's children adored her and their parents had no fault to find with her personality, it did not take them long to discover that the children, already, possessed a good deal more scholastic knowledge than their governess.

After that first appointment, Mirrabelle became in turn shop assistant, milkmaid, land girl and finally general help on a chicken farm. The owner of the chicken farm, however, went bankrupt and then Mirrabelle discovered that she was really up against it. Her wages had not been paid for weeks, the financial ruin of the chicken farmer was complete and she left his premises without a single penny in her pocket.

That night it seemed as though she would be faced with the choice of entering a work house, or going to bed supperless under some hedgerow or haystack. As luck would have it, however, she took a road which led her presently to a brightly lit field in which a huge tent had been pitched.

She knew, of course, that it was a circus, and would have loved dearly to witness the performance, but what chance had a penniless beggar-girl of gratifying such an absurd wish?

With head drooping she turned away, almost resigned at last to go to the work house. Then suddenly her heart seemed to miss a beat, while memories and a mixture of the most strange emotions flooded through her being. Prom somewhere among those tents there had echoed the peculiar, coughing grunt she had heard so often in Africa, when some old lion had thus signified his intention of setting out upon his nightly prowl in search of food.

That sound was all Africa to Mirrabelle; it stood for all she had loved and lost and everything in life that she had cherished. Slowly, as though drawn by some invisible magnet, she made her way to the tents and when asked by a big blowsy woman what she was snooping round for, answered softly that she wanted to look at the lions. She had to admit, however, that she had no money wherewith to pay for the privilege of gratifying her wish.

And then it all came out, for Mrs. Simmons, whose husband owned the circus, was a kindly old soul, to whom Mirrabelle found it a great relief to confide her troubles.

As the outcome of that conversation, Mrs. Simmons provided supper and that night Mirrabelle slept in one of the caravans with two other girls. When the circus moved on next day, she went with it and thereafter managed to earn her keep, at first by selling programmes, but later, for she was of an ambitious nature, she learned various acrobatic stunts and even little tricks on horseback, while she was building up a little shooting act of her own, to offer to Joe Simmons when it should be fully rehearsed.

Taking things on the whole it was a happy life, but, of course, there was bound to be a fly of some sort in the amber. Minnie Hales, alias La Belle Equestrienne, took a violent dislike to Mirrabelle from the very start. The girl's attempts to emulate her own feats of bare-back riding annoyed the circus star, but the real secret of Minnie's hatred lay in the fact that Dick Gaunt, the famous Demon of the Air trapeze artist, soon began to offer to the young girl those attentions which he had previously paid only to Minnie Hales.

One afternoon, when the circus was completely deserted, it came to a showdown. The whole troupe had gone down to the sea to bathe, taking the elephants and horses with them. Mrs. Simmons, who had a headache, was asleep in her caravan where Mirrabelle had sat until the old woman who had befriended her had fallen asleep.

Mirrabelle was sad, for only that morning Joe Simmons had seen the little shooting act she had for so long been rehearsing privately, and had told her, kindly, but candidly, that it might be all right as a music hall turn, but was no good as a circus spectacle.

And so, she supposed, she would just have to make the best of life selling programmes until she could, by practice, become as good an equestrienne as Minnie Hales.

Without conscious thought, she had turned her footsteps towards the menagerie and, again, some invisible magnet seemed to be drawing her for, often, when she was tired or troubled, she would stand for a long time gazing at the five big lions, the sight and smell of which brought back so poignantly happy memories of childhood, spent in her beloved Africa.

That afternoon all the lions seemed to be asleep in their inner cage, and it looked as though Constanides, the Greek trainer, had closed the dividing door.

Mirrabelle was about to turn away, disappointed, when a shrill, unpleasant voice questioned her querulously.

"Here, what's all this I hear about you offering the boss a new act?"

Mirrabelle turned to confront Minnie Hales, whose eyes were blazing with an almost insane fury.

"Come on, you've got to tell me," she threatened.

"I— it was only a sort of fancy shooting stunt," stammered Mirrabelle.

"Sez you," sneered Minnie, "more likely it's a riding act, think I don't know that you're after my job?"

"If you don't believe me," Mirrabelle blazed back, "you can ask Dick Gaunt, he's watched me practising."

"Yes, and that's another thing," stormed the circus woman, "you keep away from Dick Gaunt. He was my beau before ever you came along."

"Oh, leave me alone," cried Mirrabelle, and gave Minnie a push. Unfortunately Minnie tripped over a rope and fell flat on her back. As she lay there she used frightful words and dragging up her skirt snatched a stiletto from the garter above her knee.

Mirrabelle read murder in the half-mad woman's eyes, sprang up the steps and slipped into the empty cage banging behind her the door that could not again be opened until Constanides should return with the keys.

Minnie, screaming abuse at her rival, seized the bars and shook them furiously. Suddenly she stopped shouting and stood for a moment quite still. Then peal upon peal of hysterical laughter burst from her lips as she pointed past Mirrabelle with a hand that trembled.

The girl turned and a gasp broke from her lips. The dividing door was opening slowly. Prince, the largest and most uncertain tempered of Constanides's five famous lions, was coming into the outer cage. The four others followed, and even Minnie Hales fell silent and experienced a sensation of pity as the great brutes stood blinking sleepily at the intruder.

When Prince, with a slow, rumbling growl, stole a sly step nearer, all Minnie's hate evaporated and turning she ran in search of help.

Mirrabelle, whose heart felt like a lump of ice in her bosom, remembered that Constanides had once said that half the secret of taming lions was always to adopt an aggressive policy. Somehow she beat down the fear that was almost making her swoon.

"Back, Prince!" she ordered sharply, and followed him step by step as he gave way before her, snarling horribly.

The other lions seemed disinclined to interfere, but Mirrabelle, holding the will of the mighty Prince in subjection by the power of her eyes, which never left his, finally penned him into a corner.

A strange sense of mastery, of magnificent power, stole into her blood, and as the circus people led by Minnie and Constanides came swarming into the menagerie, she seized Prince by the mane and made that huge lion walk with her to the front of the cage. Her left hand rested upon the little amulet given to her by Karamanga, the witch doctor, so many years ago.

Mirrabelle Chalmers had found her job in life, for Constanides took her into partnership; but he knew, from the first, that she was going to be a greater trainer of lions than the world had ever known before.

__________________

8: The Double Problem

The Blue Magazine, April 1922.

IN RECORDING the criminal investigations of my friend, Ebenezer Entwistle, the old Pimlico chemist of gentle birth, who, unable to fulfil his early desire of becoming a doctor, had adopted this humbler branch of the science of Æsculapius I find so much that is terrible and horrific, as in the Secret of the Smaller Stain, that it is at times a relief to turn to some lighter phase of his researches.

"We are about to move among important people, my dear Hicks," was the remark with which one evening he greeted my arrival at the little shop which stands at the corner of Tolnody Street.

"Indeed," I answered; "if this is another investigation you will have seriously to consider the question of engaging an assistant, since criminology and not chemistry seems now to occupy the major portion of your time."

As I made this remark, I noticed that he held in his hand a copy of "The Sportsman," a paper it was his habit sometimes to peruse.

"I learn from this newspaper," he said, holding it up, "that a young man who hurls a sixteen pound hammer a matter of between one hundred and seventy and one hundred and eighty feet, is regarded by the sporting public of this country as something of a genius?"

"Yes, indeed," I answered, "especially when a Freshman, in his first year of open competition, breaks British record and bids fair to eclipse the World's Champion, whose performance has stood unchallenged since 1913; for I assume that your remark relates to the Oxonian, J. C. McLaglan, who is attaining fame so rapidly in the world of sport. He seems, also, to have courted a quite unnecessary degree of notoriety by growing a beard. The papers have been full of his pictures."

"I gather, further," said Old Ebbie, following his original train of thought, "that the taste of the British public is gradually changing. Football furnishes an absorbing interest for two-thirds of the year; cricket, which has fallen into disfavour with the uneducated and unintelligent, has small claims to general attention during the summer months, so that the more exciting, but no less scientifically practised sport of athletics proper bids fair to provide the popular spectacle from April to September."

"Yes," I answered, "but it is not a matter of satisfaction to the best class of amateur athlete."

"Indeed, and why is that?" asked Ebbie.

"Because the growing popularity of the pastime has attracted the attention of the bookmakers. For example, there is almost as much betting this year upon the result of the Inter-University Sports at Queen's Club as on the Boat Race."

"Ha!" ejaculated Old Ebbie, and not another word did he speak for upwards of half-an-hour.

"Well," he said at last, "I have here a letter from the Dean of St. Luke's College, Oxford. There has been some trouble about a cheque which he asks me to investigate privately. It appears that some person, posing as an undergraduate and wearing the St. Luke's College colours, purchased certain goods from a local tradesman, for which he paid with a cheque; this, upon presentation at the London bank upon which it was drawn, was returned and marked 'no account'; and neither the name of the drawer nor his handwriting in any way resembles those of any undergraduate of the college in question. Not unnaturally the dean would prefer to have the problem solved privately, and in the meantime he has reimbursed the tradesman out of his own pocket."

"And has the origin of the cheque form been ascertained?" I queried.

"Yes," answered Old Ebbie, "it was torn, with its counterfoil, from Lord Rockpool's private cheque book."

"Hum," I said, "I know young Rockpool slightly, having served on the staff of his father, the Earl of Hartland, for a short time."

I MET Ebbie at Paddington pretty early next morning, and together we journeyed down to Oxford, where the courteous old dean entertained us to lunch at his college, refusing to say one word concerning the case until we had eaten.

After lunch he took us to his study and placed the returned cheque, signed "James Vivian," in Old Ebbie's hands. There was absolutely nothing which he could tell us personally about the affair, but I could see that my friend was keenly interested from the manner in which he scrutinised the pink, engraved slip of paper.

"The hand is disguised, and will tell us nothing more than that the cheque was drawn by a well educated man who used a fountain pen," he said; "the name of 'James Vivian' has been assumed by someone who, having written the first letter, hesitated a moment before choosing the nom de plume he would employ. He is either an American or one who has lived in the United States long enough to have become accustomed to American business methods."

"Dear me," exclaimed the dean, "how do you deduce these circumstances?"

"It is simple enough," answered Old Ebbie with a slight smile. "You will observe that the writing is fine and well formed; the broadening of the letters shows that they have been written slowly, which would hardly be the case with an educated man, unless he was giving to those letters an unfamiliar or seldom employed shape. If you will look at the writing you will notice a certain hardness of outline and also a degree of blackness, which proves that no blotting paper has been employed; now a shop-keeper almost invariably offers a customer who writes a cheque the use of a sheet of blotting paper, unless, as in this case, the writing dries at once, as is the way with some fountain pen ink. There is a slight, but none the less significant, thickening at the termination of the final up-stroke of the initial 'J,' where the man paused an instant before inscribing the next letter. On the whole, I should say that he was used to writing the 'J,' but not the 'a' which follows it. Finally, you will observe that in dating the cheque he has placed the number representing the month first, the number representing the day of the month second, and the number representing the year last, as is the American custom."

"It all sounds very simple as you explain it," said the dean, "but I must confess that I had overlooked all those little details which you make to appear so painfully simple and obvious."

"Ah," said Old Ebbie, "d'you remember what Stevenson said? 'There is nothing more disenchanting to man than to be shown the springs and mechanism of any art.'"

"Surely this is a very slight affair with which you occupy your valuable time, my dear Ebbie," I remarked as, having said good-bye to the dean, we strolled down the High to the small jeweller's shop at which the cheque had been given in payment for goods to the extent of some fifty pounds.

"There is nothing macabre about it, certainly," he answered, "but there are some unusual circumstances which raise this case above the category of commonplace crimes. We shall see."

"Well," said Ebbie to the jeweller, whose shop was small and dark, "the dean of St. Luke's has sent us to see you about this bad cheque."

"Yes, sir, I shall be pleased to answer your questions," said the man.

"Have you a list of the things purchased?"

"There was only one purchase, sir; a ring comprising a single large diamond held in a woman's hand."

"But surely that was an extraordinary piece of jewellery for an undergraduate to acquire?"

"So I thought, but the gentleman seemed much taken with it, and quite turned up his nose at a stone of the first water in a simple setting, which I offered, and even recommended, in preference to the other. But he said it was for his own use and he preferred it."

"Hum! Had you ever seen this customer before?"

"No."

"Would you know him again?"

"I'm afraid not; I was just closing the shop and most of the lights were out; moreover, he wore a heavy ulster with the collar turned up and had a scarf of St. Luke's colours wrapped right up round his chin."

"Did you notice anything peculiar about him?"

"Nothing, except his arms, sir, which were abnormally long."

"Come," said Ebbie, "that is at least something to go upon. Had he any accent?"

"Not an accent, sir; but, now that you mention it, I remember that he seemed to choose his words with some care. But a great many young gentlemen do that nowadays in their first term."

"By the way," said Ebbie, as we were leaving the shop, "he wrote the cheque with a fountain pen, didn't he?"

"Why, yes, sir," replied the man in some surprise.

"It is always something to have one's deductions confirmed as one goes along," said Ebbie, when we found ourselves once more upon the pavement. "It would appear that despite a certain degree of education our man is not quite a gentleman."

"Because he chooses his words carefully?" I asked.

"No, but because he buys a ring better suited to the hand of a professional boxer than to that of an Oxford undergraduate."

From the terse manner in which the answer was given I gathered that my companion did not wish to converse, and so I remained silent as we walked to "Green Lawns," a large house standing in its own grounds, at which we had been informed that Lord Rockpool was staying. It was a low, prepossessing building, well sheltered by trees, the front facing the road and the back looking across a stretch of smooth lawn, which ran almost up to the wall, towards St. Cuthbert's College, from which, also, it was screened by a row of trees.

The rooms occupied by Lord Rockpool were immediately over the dining-room and drawing-room, which opened straight on to the lawn by way of French windows, set in three-sided bays, which projected from the main structure, the windows being protected by shutters at night. We ascertained later, that these shutters were always closed at tea-time, that is to say, before it was quite dark, during the winter months. These twin bays were covered with lead, their flat roofs being some ten and a half feet above the ground.

The manservant who answered the door informed us that his lordship was at present attending a committee meeting of the Oxford University Athletic Club, of which he was at that time President, but that he would most certainly be in at six o'clock.

Leaving our names and a message that we had been asked to call upon Lord Rockpool by the dean of St. Luke's, we made our way to the Randolph Hotel, whither our baggage had preceded us, and where we now ordered tea.

At six o'clock precisely we presented ourselves again at "Green Lawns," where the door was answered by the same manservant, who informed us that his lordship was in and would see us. I noticed at the moment that the man was perturbed, if not actually agitated.

I was behind my companion as we entered Rockpool's room, and was amused to observe the slight start of surprise caused by the somewhat bizarre appearance of the old chemist, who was clad, as usual, in square-tailed morning coat, with large flap pockets, Gladstone collar, and crossover bird's-eye cravat. A moment later Rockpool caught sight of me, and came quickly forward.

"How d'you do, Captain Hicks?" he said. "We have not met since you stayed at Hartland more than a year ago."

"The last time I saw you was at Queen's last March, when you won the Mile," I answered; "but upon that occasion I had no opportunity of speaking to you."

To my intense surprise a shadow crossed his face upon my mentioning his victory against Cambridge. And then I noticed that the window was wide open; another surprising circumstance, for the evening was cold, even for early March.

Before anything further could be said, Lord Rockpool turned to Old Ebbie.

"And you," he said, holding out his hand, "are the famous Mr. Ebenezer Entwistle, whose brain is said to be one of the acutest at present employed in criminal research. Well, sir, I am delighted to make you welcome, for you come at a most opportune moment."

"You, my lord, are interested then in this affair of the false cheque which has been uttered?" asked Old Ebbie in his quiet, cultured voice, which seemed always to place him at once upon a friendly footing with those with whom he was brought into contact, no matter what their station in life might be.

"But very indifferently, I fear," answered Rockpool. "The affair is trivial, after all: the tradesman has been paid and the dean can afford the money, so it seems the only loser is the poor devil who allowed himself to be tempted to the commission of such a petty and pitiful felony."

"But how do you suppose the person in question was afforded the opportunity of extracting a cheque from your book?" asked Ebbie.

"Nothing could be easier," answered Rockpool. "I have several banking accounts, and usually carry a book in the pocket of whatever coat I happen to be wearing. Why, it was only the other day that the ground man at the Iffley Road track returned to me a cheque-book which he had found in the breast-pocket of an old blazer I had given him to throw away, and which had been hanging on a peg in the dressing-room for months."

"And was it from that particular book that the cheque-form was purloined?"

"No, but from another, with which I am afraid that I was equally negligent. I shall be more careful in future, since this unsavoury episode has aroused my sense of responsibility and I now realise that my carelessness has in some measure led another man into crime. So strongly have I felt this, indeed, that I asked the dean to allow me to reimburse the silversmith the 'pair of ponies' of which he was defrauded, but Dr. Seaton would not hear of it, a circumstance which has annoyed me greatly."

"I see," said Ebbie; "but have you no idea as to the approximate date upon which this cheque-form was purloined?"

"Not the least in the world, for I had not used the book myself for more than three months; so you see that it is no use for us to discuss that matter any further; and, meantime, I have a much more extraordinary problem to offer you, if you would care to undertake the investigation?"

"I must first hear the nature of the case before I can say whether I will undertake it or not," my friend answered guardedly.

"Very well," said Rockpool, "I will relate the circumstances; but whether you undertake the case or not, what I am about to say must, of course, be treated in the strictest confidence. I ask for this assurance, since the matter affects the University as a whole. If I alone were concerned, I should be perfectly content to rely upon your discretion."

"You may do so in any case, my lord," said Old Ebbie, with equal formality.

For some moments Rockpool sat at the table considering the situation before committing it to speech.

"I wonder," he said at length, "if either of you is sufficiently interested in sport generally to have observed that the exaggeration of professionalism is gradually killing the public interest in Association football, which, for many years, has been a sort of fetish with the masses. The professionals, by eliminating the charge, have deprived the game of a feature of robustness which was, at one time, closely allied to the art of tackling, which still keeps the Rugby game healthy. Furthermore, the finicking exactness of the professional player has robbed the game of its goal-getting possibilities, and, therefore, the public are looking around for some other form of sport upon which to fasten their affections. Athletics, a branch of sport which has hitherto been almost entirely free from professionalism and the betting evil, has, in consequence, come in for a quite unpleasant boom."

"So I have already gathered," interrupted Old Ebbie.

"Not unnaturally," continued Rockpool, "both here and at Cambridge we have been pestered to death by newspaper people and Press photographers, since the daily papers are concentrating upon the approaching Oxford and Cambridge sports in a most unprecedented manner."

"In fact," I interposed, "the sports this year are creating just as much public interest as the Boat Race?"

"Yes," answered Rockpool, "and I am afraid that people are betting equally freely upon both events. And then, of course, that infernal fellow McLaglan growing a beard gave the Press photographers an excellent opportunity of exploiting us."

"But surely it is unusual for a Fresher thus to go against the wishes of his associates?" I said.

"An ordinary Fresher, yes," replied Rockpool, "but McLaglan has come up late and must be nearly thirty years of age. I should think he has been abroad a good deal. He is very independent."

"I see," I answered.

"We had a meeting with the C.U.A.C. Committee a week ago," he continued, "when it was agreed that we should do all in our power to support the Amateur Athletic Association in its endeavour to combat the betting evil, for which reason it was decided that, contrary to previous custom, we should not this year publish the selected teams until the eve of the contest. You must quite understand," he added impressively, "that we do not object to publicity or to providing sport for the genuine sport-loving public, but we do resent being exploited for the benefit of those people who follow sport purely and simply for what they can get out of it."

"Yes, the point is quite clear," answered Ebbie.

"This afternoon," continued Rockpool, "the committee of the O.U.A.C. met to award Blues; a point of contention arose, and it was some considerable time before we finally selected the team which will meet Cambridge at Queen's, at the end of the month. Even so, those who are to have their Blues will not be told yet, but everyone who has been training has been requested to continue work at Iffley Road."

"And what was the particular point of contention?" asked Ebbie.

"As to whether McLaglan should be given his Blue," answered Rockpool.

"What!" I exclaimed, "exclude the British record holder from the team, impossible! Besides, my dear fellow, it seems to me that Oxford and Cambridge are so evenly matched this year that McLaglan's hammer throwing is the one thing which may prevent the sports from resulting in an inconclusive tie."

"That was what the majority of the committee thought," said Rockpool drily, "but McLaglan has not the right outlook in relation to sport. This is not snobbishness," he added, "for a board-school boy would be equally as welcome in the team as an Etonian, if he was a sportsman, which McLaglan is not. He is boastful and a bad loser, and has already done a number of things well calculated to bring University athletics into bad repute."

"Such as growing a beard?" queried Old Ebbie, with a sly smile.

"Yes, that amongst other things."

"Such as?"

"A suspicion of shadiness in money matters."

"But what made him grow a beard?" I interposed.

"Heaven alone knows," replied Rockpool. "But we are getting away from the main issue. I returned here from the committee meeting a few minutes after you had called, and immediately sent Smithers, my man, out to get an evening paper. I placed the list of Blues who will compete against Cambridge upon my desk, and then it suddenly occurred to me that some of those infernal newspaper fellows would be along at any moment, pestering me for information. I ran downstairs to give the parlour-maid instructions to tell them, should they call, that I had nothing to communicate. I found the girl laying my landlady's dinner table.

"As I was giving my instructions in the dining-room, which is immediately beneath this study, I heard a slight thud overhead, and asked the girl what it could be.

"'I'm sure I don't know, sir,' she answered, 'for there is no one else in the house, except you and me and cook, who is down in the basement.'

"I ran upstairs immediately and found the window wide open and the list of Blues vanished from my desk.

"You will observe that this room is approached by a long passage, from which the bathroom and lavatory open; there was no one in either of those rooms, and no one could have got downstairs, for the parlour-maid, seeing my excitement, had followed me to the foot of the staircase. A moment later Smithers returned, and together we searched every inch of the house, while Helen remained on guard at the foot of the stairs."

"One moment," interrupted Ebbie, "did your man know that you had the list!"

"No!"

"Did you look out of the window?"

"Yes, but there was no sign of anyone upon the lead flat of the dining-room window below, nor could I see any means by which anyone could have mounted to my window from beneath."

"And were the blinds drawn in the dining-room when you were speaking to the parlour-maid?"

"Yes, the blinds were down and the shutters closed and fastened."

"Good! and what did you do next?"

"I decided to await your arrival, since the matter was far more in your province than in mine."

"Good again," said Ebbie; "if you have a strong electric torch we will examine first the lead flat and then the garden."

"I can give you something better than a torch, for I have one of those petrol-gas storm lanterns; it gives a tremendous light."

While the lamp was being fetched, Old Ebbie examined the room minutely, but apparently without result. This inspection finished, he slipped off his boots and stepped out on to the lead flat in his stockinged feet.

"There are numerous indentations in the lead," he said, after a momentary inspection, "but it is impossible to say whether they are new."

He got down on to his knees and I peered over the edge of the flat roof, holding the lantern out before him.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed, "the lead guttering has been completely crushed right in the centre of the bay, and yet the break is a single one and not very wide, so that it can hardly have been made by a ladder, and yet it is too broad for the imprint of a rope. Well, well! let us go below and see if the ground has any secrets to reveal."

Outside the dining-room window we found a single deep impression in the ground, circular and about nine inches in circumference; from the imprint upon the frosty grass it appeared as if a stout rope had been dragged back perpendicularly some fifteen feet from the hole. Closer inspection of the circular impression in the turf revealed three slightly deeper holes, breaking the circumference triangularly. A mat having been fetched, Old Ebbie lay down to make a more minute examination by the aid of a magnifying-glass and the concentrated beam of a power-torch, which Smithers procured. Presently he passed the torch to me and took out his knife. From the triangular area enclosed by the three slightly deeper holes he delicately extracted a very thin layer of hard earth, in which were embedded infinitesimally small white flecks; in two places the edge of this dry crust was broken as if it had been pierced.

"I do not think there is anything else to be learned here," said Old Ebbie, standing up and putting the thin layer of earth carefully away in his pocket case. "Have you ever been in the fen country, my lord? No? Ah, well, it is an interesting district. I was brought up there."

Rockpool, Smithers and I regarded Entwistle with frank amazement, for to us it appeared that he was drivelling.

"By the way," he added, as if to change the conversation, "could you tell me when Mr. McLaglan began to grow a beard?"

"Yes," said Rockpool, "it was some weeks before Christmas. I remember, because he came to ask me about the Rhodes scholars coming over from the United States, and I told him he had at least nothing to fear from the American hammer-throwers, who would be up this term."

"Is he a heavy man?"

"Oh yes; he has need of weight, you know, as a hammer-thrower."

"Thank you," said Ebbie, "and now have you such a thing as a tape, I want to measure the height of that lead flat from the ground."

Smithers having procured a tape, the measurement was made and the height found to be exactly ten feet six inches.

"Hum!" said Ebbie, "now how the deuce d'you think that anyone got up there so quickly without the aid of a ladder?"

"I'm sure I don't know," answered Rockpool. "But I'm quite certain it was one of those damned journalists, and that the composition of the team will appear in one of the papers tomorrow morning."

"Ah, well, we shall see," said Ebbie, and with that we walked back to the Randolph Hotel, where we stayed the night.

Rockpool was wrong in his surmise; at least, none of the daily papers published a list of Blues next morning.

At breakfast, Ebbie was quite cheerful.

"You were sports officer to your battalion at one time, weren't you?" he asked.

"Yes," I answered.

"Very well then," he said, "let us walk out to Iffley Road today, where, I understand, that the Blues and the problematical Blues will be training, and you shall explain to me some of the mysteries of athletics, about which, I must confess, that I know but little. I want, moreover, to see this wonderful hammer-thrower. I have been thinking a lot about his performances and have worked out a few most interesting mathematical calculations; the strength and skill which enable him to throw a sixteen pound ball nearly one hundred and eighty feet must be simply phenomenal, as you will see for yourself if you work out in foot-pounds the resistance of the whirling hammer-head to the body while the thrower is turning. It would be interesting to know his weight and measurements."

"As it happens, I can tell you his weight and height," I answered; "he stands just six feet and weighs two hundred and thirty-five pounds; his reach, I believe, is abnormal."

"Well, I should much like to see him," said Ebbie.

This wish, however, was not to be gratified. Rockpool was just leaving the track after a training spin, when we arrived at Iffley Road; as we stood chatting, I asked him if McLaglan had been down that morning.

"No," he replied, "he is most particular about his training, and will only throw at that time each day which most nearly corresponds with the hour at which he will have to compete at Queen's, thus he ensures being at his best at the same hour each day."

"By the way," asked Ebbie, "at what school was McLaglan educated?"

"I do not know," Rockpool replied; "he always appears in the programme as 'Privately and St. Luke's College.'"

That afternoon we returned to Iffley Road, but the hammer-thrower did not put in an appearance. Ebbie was disappointed, but still I could see that he was enchanted with the evolutions of the hurdlers and high jumpers. Also we stood for a long time watching the pole-vaulters at work, and it was with difficulty that I was able to make the old chemist believe that more than one American had beaten thirteen feet in this event.

"Really, that seems quite incredible, but what height can these men accomplish?" he said, as we stood beside the sawdust-filled pit into which the vaulters were landing over the high bar after flinging back their spiked poles.

I turned to an undergraduate standing by to get the information.

"Oh, I don't know," he said; "Washburn Thorne, the Rhodes fellow from Cuthbert's, will do something better than twelve feet, I believe, but we've no one else who can reach ten feet; but neither have the Cantabs, for that matter."

Over tea Old Ebbie remained silent, except for such muttered soliloquies as I had learned to regard as an infallible sign that he was rapidly arriving at his final conclusions, although, for the life of me, I was unable to see how he could have fixed upon one single circumstance in this present case.

The "dottle" fell from his third pipe, as he knocked it against the mantelpiece before rising with assured determination.

"Let us go to see Lord Rockpool," he said, "there is someone to whom I wish him to present me."

Rockpool, as mystified as myself, took us round to St. Cuthbert's, where we found that Washburn Thorne had sported his oak, but since Old Ebbie had said that the matter was urgent, the O.U.A.C. president did not hesitate to hammer upon the door, which was opened presently by a typical American of the best type, a youth whose high cheek bones, aquiline features and sensitive hands attested his nationality. He stood about five feet eight inches, and must, I should say, have weighed all of a hundred and fifty pounds, since his arms and shoulders bulked big through his clothes.

"Sorry to bother you, Thorne," said Rockpool, "but this gentleman, Mr. Ebenezer Entwistle, wants to see you on a matter which is most urgent."

"Sure! Won't you all come right in?" answered the young American, in pleasant, well assured tones. I must admit that I took to him at once.

"Well, what can I do for you, Mr. Entwistle?" he asked, when we were all seated.

Old Ebbie looked around the room until his eyes rested upon a couple of bamboo, tape-bound vaulting poles in one corner.

"I believe that you have reduced pole-vaulting to a fine art, Mr. Thorne," said Ebbie.

"Why yes, sir, I reckon to get over the bar with the least margin of waste each time."

"And you can fall from considerable heights without sustaining the least injury?"

At this question the American fidgeted a little and a strange look came into his eyes.

"Yes," he said, more curtly, "if you land anyhow you tire yourself out long before the competition is over."

"And you use a pole with three spikes set triangularly at the point?"

"See here!" exclaimed Thorne, springing up, "I don't mind answering your question; but what is there back of all this?"

"Nothing; except that Lord Rockpool would be interested to know why you entered his rooms last evening and extracted the list of those athletes who will represent your University against Cambridge at the end of the month."

"Eh?" interrupted Rockpool, "how the deuce could Thorne have entered my rooms?"

"The thud you heard overhead, my lord, when you were in the dining-room was caused by Mr. Thorne alighting on the lead flat which he reached by means of his vaulting-pole. I saw the place where it touched the soft lead guttering; we all saw the small circular indentation in the turf pierced triangularly, and I, being a fen-man, knew that it was made by the point of a spiked vaulting-pole, the imprint of which was left on the grass where it fell, and which you and Hicks mistook for the mark made by a rope. The thin layer of dried earth fell from between the spikes when the pole was planted, but I'll admit the white flecks puzzled me until I saw the sawdust in the pit at Iffley Road today."

"But why do you fasten this affair on to Thorne with such certitude?" asked Rockpool.

"Because the height of the lead-flat from the ground is ten feet six inches, and Mr. Thorne is the only man at either Oxford or Cambridge who can beat ten feet at present."

Washburn Thorne was about to speak, but Old Ebbie held up his hand.

"Lord Rockpool," he said, "was anxious to ascribe the business to some too enterprising journalist; I, personally, suspected that the betting fraternity had bribed someone to obtain early and accurate information for them, but since I have seen Mr. Thorne the matter admits of a different significance, and I think McLaglan, too, may play a part, conscious or otherwise, in this affair.

"You, my lord, have told us that the controversy was somewhat hot as to whether he should be given his Blue, and I have wondered if he knew of this and had been anxious to satisfy himself, hence my question concerning his weight. The fact that he weighs nearly two hundred and forty pounds put him out of court as a pole-vaulter, but I still have a feeling that Mr. Thorne knows something about McLaglan and wanted to see the list of Blues on that account.

"It struck me as odd that McLaglan, a man of thirty, should be so foolish as to antagonise his associates by growing a beard, but you will remember that you, my lord, told us he was not quite a gentleman and had been much abroad, and that he did not begin to grow his objectionable beard until he knew the names of the Rhodes scholars expected from America. In other words, I wondered if anyone coming over had knowledge of his previous career which would be detrimental, and if for that reason he was growing a beard.

"Mixed up with all this is a fantastic second, or perhaps I should say first, problem— that of the false cheque.

"The man who wrote that cheque was an American, or had lived in America, as witness the method of dating it; the silversmith says his customer had abnormally long arms, by which, in common with other hammer-throwers, Captain Hicks tells me McLaglan is distinguished; the shop-keeper tells me, moreover, that his customer chose his words carefully, as, I told myself, one might do who wished to conceal his American accent. You must remember, too, that McLaglan had been educated privately, and that nothing is known as to his antecedents. Finally, Lord Rockpool has told us that some suspicion attaches to the man of being not quite straight in money matters. I have no proof of his guilt in the matter of the cheque.

"And now, Mr. Thorne, what have you to say to all this?"

Washburn Thorne, who had been regarding Old Ebbie with ever-growing amazement, laughed nervously.

"I admit entering Lord Rockpool's rooms in the manner you have mentioned," he said, "but not from any evil motive. I was at Cornell before I came to Oxford, and I went with the U.S.A. Olympic team to the last celebration of the Olympic Games. There was a hammer-thrower aboard the U.S.A. ship who made himself pretty obnoxious, and who, after the Games, turned professional and then disappeared. This was the so-called J. C. McLaglan, and once I spotted him I was determined he should not bring discredit upon Oxford University by representing us against Cambridge; but all the time I did not like to speak in case he should be trying to get a good education for honest ends; but I knew I'd have to tell Rockpool if the Committee had given him his Blue. I only meant to look at the list, but I heard Rockpool running upstairs, and so I grabbed the paper, slipped through the window, and jumped down from the lead flat. I played 'possum in the bushes awhile, and then slipped over the wall back to College."

"Ah!" said Old Ebbie, "then McLaglan's beard didn't deceive you?"

"It did absolutely."

"Then how did you recognise him?"

"In the strangest possible way," answered Thorne, smiling. "On board the boat bearing the U.S.A. Olympic team the hammer-thrower in question used to recite a poem he himself had written all about a man called James Vivian, and here in Oxford I heard McLaglan recite the same puerile verses, and spotted him at once."

"Well, now, that is most extraordinary," exclaimed Old Ebbie with a dry chuckle, "for we have solved the double problem. The false cheque given to the silversmith was signed 'James Vivian'; McLaglan has borrowed the name of his invented hero."

"I think we had better go and call on McLaglan," interposed Lord Rockpool. "As a professional he is, of course, altogether outside the pale, but I wonder what has been his object in this masquerade."

"I fancy he was brought over by a bunch of bookmakers who wanted to make sure of an Oxford victory," said Washburn Thorne, "but I'm afraid you won't find him. I warned him last night that he must not dare to represent the 'Varsity at Queen's Club or I would show him up, and I believe he quitted Oxford early this morning."

In this assumption the Rhodes scholar was correct, nor did the pseudo-amateur hammer-thrower again put in an appearance at that ancient seat of learning.

__________________________

9: According to Law

Adventure 30 Jan 1922

HALF a dozen men were sitting in the back room of Benjamin's bar in Johannesburg, wishing that something would turn up. They had finished playing poker a couple of hours ago, the remittance man's last instalment from home being by that time completely exhausted.

A native boy had just brought in the eighth instalment of whisky and water; and the little room was so thick with smoke and so stuffy with the horrid, pungent fumes of Boer tobacco that the average man would not have been able either to see or breathe. To the six inmates of the room the foul and foggy atmosphere seemed to make no difference at all.

The doctor had just finished a long yam about the killing of a big sable antelope and a subsequent startling adventure with vultures when his hunting partner had left him to guard the carcass against their depredations.

"I was pretty green in those days," he concluded, "and I shall always think that Schmidt knew the danger and left me to it, as a means of paying off a grudge he held against me; for a little plain speaking I had been forced to earlier in the day, as to his right to the use of my personal property."

An old prospector leaned forward across the table, spreading his sinewy arms carefully among the glasses, and stared through the smoke in the doctor's direction.

The prospector was not prepossessing. He was a man of over sixty years of age, whose countenance the African sun had scorched and dried to the yellowness of old parchment. His chin and cheeks were thatched with a straggling growth of thin, iron-gray hair; a big, soft hat flopped untidily over his eyes. The ragged shirt he wore was glazed with dirt; the sleeves, rolled back to the elbows, disclosed arms extraordinarily muscular and well formed for a man of his age.

"What was Schmidt, a back-veld Boer?" he queried.

In answer to the doctor's affirmation the prospector laughed softly. A peculiarly mirthless laugh.

"I thought so," he said; "they're all the same— dirty-white, with a yellow streak. Some of the things that go on in those back-veld farms would turn a Kaffir sick and send a white man, with any morals, mad. But I'll say for them, they're good haters."

"Hate," said the remittance man softly, "and the yellow streak; they are not confined entirely to the Boers."

The bank manager coughed discreetly, for he knew the story of Wainwright, who had spoken.

"I have often thought," continued Wainwright, "that the smallest offenses breed the biggest enmities."

"I don't agree with you there," said the doctor. "A man must have a pretty good cause for offense, before he works up what I should call a real 'killing' hate. Of course,
with the Latin races it is different. They are so infernally touchy and excitable that one can never tell how to deal with them. Look at their vendettas, for example. A man treads on another man's toes and their descendants, for untold generations, magnify the incident into cause for an unending blood feud."

"But surely the same state of things appertains in England, to a less dangerous degree," interposed the bank manager. "Otherwise how do you account for those extraordinary lawsuits, in the long course of which a prosperous man will beggar himself for the sake of an unimportant right of way?"

"Law," said the old prospector, spitting contemptuously. "I don't think much of your civilized laws, that send a poor devil of a starving woman to jail for stealing a loaf, and yet let one of these-slave-driving, gold-grubbing company-promoters, who have ruined Africa, skin widows and half-witted children bare of every bean they possess."

"But, my friend," replied the bank manager, "laws are made by civilized peoples for the greater comfort of the whole community. Without them society could not exist."

"And you think that laws, which are so involved as to supply plenty of loopholes for clever thieves, wife-stealers and murderers to slip through are good laws, do you?" asked the prospector bitterly.

"I tell you," he went on, banging his fist down, so that the glasses leaped upon the table, "that there is no law in the world so just as the law of the wild. 'First blood is hunters' meat.' What could be fairer than that. For it saves all dispute as to who fired the fatal shot. In the wilds we are governed by nature, we kill the man who carries off our women and we wipe out a deadly insult in blood. Primitive law if you like, but it is Bible law, none the less. 'An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, and a life for a life.' "

A long silence followed this apparently irrefutable contention; and it seemed that a fruitful source of argument must lie fallow, for want of further material upon which to feed.

Suddenly Benjamin, the barkeeper, pushed open the door and shuffled forward to the table.

" 'Red Jake's' dead!" he said, and paused expectantly for the rain of questions which he knew must follow; for a death always excites interest, in any community.

In this particular case only Benjamin and the old prospector, Jim Lyall, had been long enough in the country to remember the wild days which had provided an adequate setting for Red Jake's hectic career.

"How'd it happen?" asked the prospector, fanning the smoke away from his face.

"An old native, named Umpomba, went out with him hunting lion and got him with an assegai, while he was asleep. The Mounted Police have just brought the "boy" in. You remember him, Jim; he was the fellow who gave evidence against Jake at the trial, and, after it was over, swore that he'd revenge his sister if he had to wait a lifetime. Well, he's waited thirty years, and now he's done it."

"There you are," said Lyall, to the company at large. "There are two cases of hate, which ought to settle your arguments."

"What's the story, Jim?" asked the doctor. "I've heard of this man, Red Jake, as a dangerous character, and I know that he was tried for murder a good many years ago; but it was so long before my time that I never heard any details of the case."

"Well, it's a pretty complicated tale," said Lyall, "but I'll do my best to tell it, unless Benjamin here would rather spin the yam."

"Not me," said Benjamin. "I'm no good at the talking— besides I've got to keep my eye on the bar; but I'll stay and listen, for old times' sake.

ii

THINGS weren't as orderly out here in the early nineties, as they are now (Lyall commenced). Southern Rhodesia was the frontier, as far as South Africa was concerned, and Fort Victoria was the first settlement founded in Mashonaland, by the Pioneer Column of the Chartered Company. Speaking generally, it was a quiet, well-ordered little settlement; but on Saturday nights things were apt to get a bit complicated.

Most days if you wandered into the main street you'd find a dog making things unpleasant for his insect friends, and, probably a couple of native women taking snuff outside the little store; the company's maps showed a township of six streets, seven avenues, a market square, a church and a museum; as a matter of fact there was one street, comprising four or five shanties, and some tin-roofed out-buildings, running from the Drift to the Thatched House.

Some men had offices, which they used mostly as lumber rooms; if they wanted to do business they went to the Thatched House, which was our one hotel, where everybody fed and where the whole life of the town centered.

In Victoria we did everything collectively, from celebrating a birthday to burying a member of the community.

Under the circumstances you may be sure we were none too pleased when Red Jake arrived, and ran up a shack for himself just outside the town. He was neither congenial nor desirable; in fact, he was a "mean-white" of the worst order. He was a holy terror to the natives and soon began to terrorize the white population as well.

He was a great, big brute, six-feet-two high, as thick as an oak tree and as strong as an ox. He would stamp into the Thatched House, order drinks round and stop all business and gambling, while he was there. After two or three drinks he'd get most infernally offensive. We all tackled him in turn, but he just made mince-meat of us; which is saying a lot, for we were a pretty hard-bitten crowd.

After this state of things had lasted best part of two months a youngster toned up fresh from home, with an unspoiled complexion and the red of sappy British beef still showing in his cheeks. I fancy he'd got into some sort of bother at one of the universities, and had been sent abroad to save trouble. He was a fine, cleanly built lad, though not over big. His name was Mercer. He seemed to realize that he was new to our life, and would learn most from the overseas men by keeping a still tongue in his head and not asserting himself. Red Jake was away when he arrived and did not show up until he'd been settled in best part of a month.

One night when I was standing by the bar, talking to Mercer, Red Jake staggered in.

"Drinks on me," he shouts, then he catches sight of Mercer.

"Who the-are you," he says.

"My name is Mercer," the boy replied.

"Oh, it is, is it?" says Jake, then turning to the barman he adds, "Bring a bottle for the baby, Joe."

"Can't get no bottles, Jake," says Joe nervously.

"Then bring him a glass of milk," Jake answered.

"I don't think I particularly want to drink with you," chips in young Mercer, looking his man up and down.

At that Jake flares up and turns to Joe.

"Bring the milk, and be sharp about it," he orders.

When it was brought he goes up close to Mercer.

"Are you going to drink this?" he says.

"No," answers the boy.

"Then I'll wash your face with it," says Jake; and, with that, he chucks the lot smack into Mercer's face.

Mercer didn't hesitate a minute. He hit out like a kicking mule and Jake went down with a crash. I was mighty sorry for the boy, for I'd seen Jake fight; but I might have saved my sympathy.

Jake got up and the Thatched House emptied into the street, for we wanted to see the fight.

Jake was in his shirt sleeves and didn't need to peel. Young Mercer stripped off his coat, and shirt too, and chucked them to me to hold. It was then we began to wonder if he'd got a sporting chance after all, for he stripped like a fighting man. His head was well set on, and his chest deeper than we had imagined. He was thin on the flanks, but his arm and shoulder muscles were what amazed us, for they rolled and rippled like steel springs under the smooth, white flesh, which had not yet been tanned by our African sun. Jake seemed to realize something of the same sort, for I saw him eyeing his opponent critically.

I wish I could do that fight justice, for it was the most beautiful exhibition of brains and skill against brute force I've ever seen.

Jake stood square on his huge legs. He looked like a monument, and you couldn't imagine him being knocked down. We knew from past experience that despite his weight he could move quickly enough when he wanted. He looked so much bigger than his opponent, however, and his massive, ugly face looked so menacing that I, for one, began to fear afresh for young Mercer. He, for his part, did not seem in the least anxious. Stripped to the waist, he stepped forward ready and looked toward the sergeant of police, who, for formality's sake, held a watch in the palm of his hand.

"Time!" called the sergeant.

Mercer faced his man with little weaving, intricate steps, breaking to left and right in a way which bespoke a previous knowledge of ring-craft. He was feeling his way, while Jake, with a watchful eye, pivoted slowly upon his right leg, his left arm partly extended, his right held low to guard the mark. This was different from his usual mad-bull, overbearing rush and showed that he appreciated something of his opponent's value.

Suddenly he rushed in, hitting with all his might; but each time Mercer was just beyond the range of the great fist, watching his man and waiting for an opening. Almost immediately after he led lightly with his left, and then led again, getting home each time; but there seemed to be no power behind the blows. Then it was "Time." Mercer was quite fresh, but Jake's great, hairy chest was laboring stormily.

Jake opened the second round with a sudden rush, but Mercer slipped sidewise and avoided him, then sprang in and delivered a stinging punch to the ribs which set Jake gasping for his breath. Elated by his slight success, the boy led for the face, but got a swinging counter on the jaw, which shook him sadly. Instantly Jake rushed in to complete his work, but Mercer, with his better knowledge of the art, kept out of harm's way until the end of the round.

As the boy rested upon my knee I offered him a sup from my flask, but he waved it aside.

"I may need it later," he said.

He was on his feet in a flash at the call of time and went straight for his man, his fist getting home with two clean smacks, one to the ribs and one flush between the eyes. That second punch would have fetched most men off their feet, but it didn't seem to do more than daze Jake for a second.

Mercer must have felt that he was winning then, for he mixed it up proper; but he got into a clinch with Jake, which was very nearly the end of him, for the big man smashed in a terrible uppercut which he only just broke with his guard. Jake tried another, Mercer dodged it; but got a swinging blow on the ear as he broke away. Then it was time again. He came back to me with a bloody head, but still quite fit and able to take a lot more punishment.

For a couple of rounds more they fought guardedly, feeling for openings and not finding them. Jake's hitting was the harder, but the boy was quicker on his feet, and he had learned his lesson; and so kept out of another clinch. There was no cheering in those rounds; nothing but the quick patter of the men's feet, the thud of blows and the quick intake of hissing breath.

In the eighth round Mercer seemed to see an opening, for he leaped in like a leopard. There was a crack like a pistol shot; his head went back, his arms flew wide, and there he was on his back in the road, with his neck half-broken. Jake stepped forward with his right held ready, but half a dozen men dragged him back as the police sergeant began to count. At the count of five Mercer struggled to his knees, at seven he was on his feet. Jake rushed in, but the boy stumbled to the side, again and yet again, getting instinctively out of harm's way until the end of the round.

He sagged heavily on my knee that time, but just before the minute was up he snatched the flask from my hand and emptied it. Jake saw the action and grinned, but he did not feel the boy's body thrill and stiffen to the raw spirit as I did.

For two minutes they sparred cautiously, then Jake tried another of his mad rushes. That cost him the fight. Mercer had counted on it. As Jake closed in the boy's left shot out with all the weight of his body behind it. It was a beautiful blow, fair on the point of the scrubby, unshaven chin. Jake went down like a felled tree that the ax-men have wedged. He lay on his back, his chest rising and falling and his limbs twitching. He struggled spasmodically once or twice, but he couldn't rise and the sergeant counted him out. —how we cheered. Here was the great, hulking bully, who had terrorized us all, beaten by a boy barely out of his teens, whom he himself had called a baby not an hour ago.

JAKE went away after that. He was living pretty intimate with a native woman, named Usta, at the time, and we were mighty glad to see the last of him. Before he went he came into the Thatched House with his face all patched up and swore that he'd have Mercer's life before he'd finished; for, as I've said, he was a mean-white and couldn't take his licking like a man, although he'd brought the trouble on himself.

Shortly afterward Mercer took a farm eighty miles up country, after which we didn't see him more than about once in three months.

Months went by, and we didn't hear anything more of Red Jake. But he hadn't forgotten, he was only biding his time, and waiting for an opportunity to take his revenge.

One night when we were all sitting in the Thatched House playing a game of whisky poker which had been in progress best part of five weeks, we heard the beat of horses' hoofs, coming up the street from the Drift. I wasn't playing at the time, so went outside to see who it was. I got a pretty big surprise when I saw young Mercer roped and riding between two mounted policemen.

I asked what was the matter, and he told me he was under arrest on a charge of murdering a native woman. I asked the corporal of the escort for some more particulars, but he could only tell me that a man named Jake Jubert had laid an information at the dice post, that a native woman had been burned to death on Mercer's farm, and that he would be willing to give evidence at, the trial.

"Red Jake!" thinks I to myself. "This is the beginning of his revenge."

Next morning I went to see Mercer, who was locked up in a room adjoining the fort. He told me that he had been away when the woman, who was not one of his people, was burned, and had been on his way to inform the authorities when he had met the corporal and trooper of police, who had arrested him.

I knew that the assizes were not for another two months, and that morning I dug out for Mercer's place to find out what had happened.

All the "boys" were very frightened and at first would say nothing; but I did not need to bother for Mercer's Hottentot hunter, Mustard, had already got the story pieced together. I knew that I could rely upon his word, for he was mighty fond of his master, was Mustard.

"Baas," he said, "the 'boys' are afraid to tell you the truth, because of the red baas, who came here after we had gone hunting, but me they have told."

"Well, and what have they told you?" I asked.

"Do you remember the woman, Usta, who went away with the red baas, after my baas had beaten him?" he asked.

I told him yes.

"Well," said he, "he caught her trying to run away with one of his voorloers and told her he would punish her for it. Then he brought her here and shut her in one of our huts, while we were away; that night he set fire to the hut and burned her to death. He beat the farm boys next morning with the sjambok and told them if they did not say my baas did it he would come back and kill them as well.

"I got this evidence corroborated by the farm boys and also the evidence of the boys who had been hunting with Mercer, and took it in to the Magistrate. After that Mercer was released.

I never saw a man so angry in my life.

"The dirty, white-livered swine," he said. "To think that after being beaten in a fair fight, brought about by a quarrel of his own making, he should try to get back at me this way. Think of it, he burned that woman out of sheer deviltry, and then tried to fix the murder on to me. I know that after the fight he swore to have my blood, but I thought that was only his overheated temper at the time. In any case, I expected that he'd try to get me fairly and at the risk of his own dirty hide."

The next day a police patrol was ordered out to hunt for Jake on a charge of murder. When, the news reached us Mercer went straight to the fort and asked the police officer's permission to join in the hunt, but the official wouldn't hear of it.

Mercer came back to me cursing like a stevedore. Nothing would content him but he must set off on a private man-hunt of his own. I tried to dissuade him, but his mind was made up.

Seeing the sort of temper he was in, I decided to go along too to make sure that he did not get arrested on a second and better-founded charge of murder. There was a nasty, purposeful look in his eye which boded ill for Jake if we found him.

Just as we were starting out, a fine big Zulu who had been squatting on his heels in the road got up and stalked over majestically to where we were standing beside the horses.

Having given the usual form of greeting, he stood silent, waiting for one of us to speak. He was magnificently built, ever for a Zulu, and looked like a big, bronze statue standing there in the sun glare. A light dancing-shield was on his left arm and in his right hand he held a couple of throwing assagais and a knobkerrie. He wore a fringe of white buffalo tails below his right knee, and upon his head was the keshler, the black ring, which denotes manhood among the Zulu people.

"Well, what do you want?" I asked.

"Baas," he said, addressing Mercer, "you go to seek the Slaughterer"— "Bulalio" was the word he used:

"What is that to you?" asked Mercer.

"Baas," he replied, "I would go with you."

"Why?" asked Mercer.

"Because, baas, I am Umpomba, brother of Usta, whom Bulalio burned to death at your kraal."

"A valuable ally," said Mercer, in English, turning to me. "What do you think?'

"Take him by all means," I said. "He will find out far more from the natives than we can hope to do of where Red Jake is in hiding."

So Umpomba came with us. After we had been trekking best part of a week he brought the first definite news of the man we were after. Up to that time we had followed his trail by guesswork and hearsay.

"Baas," said Umpomba, coming up to our camp-fire one night, "I have found Bulalio and have watched his hiding-place all through the heat of the day."

"Where is he, then?" asked Mercer eagerly.

"Not ten miles from here," came the unexpected answer. "There is a kloof in the hills by the big mountains. It is deep and very narrow at the entering in, so that half a dozen men might hold it easily against an impi. And," he added after a pause, during which he took snuff, "Bulalio has five other white men and some 'bad' natives with him now."

That information fairly staggered us, for we had expected to catch our quarry alone with a few native servants and voorloopers.

We stayed where we were among the kopjes for awhile after that. Umpomba used to go out every morning before dawn and lay up in hiding during the day, watching the mouth of the kloof, where Red Jake and his friends were concealed. They didn't seem in a hurry to move on. That suited us very well, for we couldn't tackle the lot single-handed, and so had sent a boy back with a note to the police officer at Fort Victoria. We expected the police to arrive any time within a fortnight.

On the tenth day, when we were lying on our backs under the shade of a big ant heap, smoking our after-breakfast pipes, we heard some one approaching; sitting up, we saw old Umpomba, or rather young

Umpomba, as he was then, running toward us on swiftly moving feet, as strong and almost as fleet as a buck.

"Baas," he cried as soon as he was within speaking distance, "they have all gone except Bulalio, and he is only waiting to pack the last of the gear."

We jumped to our feet and ran quickly back to camp, shouting to the "boys" to saddle our horses. In less than five minutes we were galloping-for leather across the veld, Umpomba hanging on to my stirrup leather and running with long, untiring strides.

We dismounted about fifty yards from the kloof, approached quietly and, seeing no one, went in with a rush through the narrow opening. Red Jake heard us coming and, throwing up his revolver, fired twice as we came into view. I heard Umpomba gasp and, turning my head as I ran, saw him down on the ground with the blood flowing from a wound in his thigh. We were on to Jake before he could fire again. All three of us went down in a tearing, cursing, fighting, scratching bunch.

Then another man, whom Umpomba evidently had not seen, must have run out from one of the huts, for I got a kick in the ribs which made me fairly gasp. I rolled clear of Mercer and Jake and sprang to my feet facing this new antagonist. He was a short, thick-set fellow, strongly built and with terribly long arms. He held a knife in his right hand, but, luckily for me, had forgotten his gun in his. anxiety to see what all the row was about.

He came at me with a rush, but I'd dealt with knife-armed toughs before that day. As he threw back his arm to strike I kicked upward with all my might and caught him fairly on the elbow with the toe of my boot, so that the knife flew from his paralyzed fingers. Then we closed.

Gad, but that was a fight. This way and that we tugged and struggled, but neither of us could make much headway with the other, and all the time I could hear Mercer and Red Jake snarling, struggling and cursing on the ground. I felt the sweat soaking through my clothing and running down from under my hat into my eyes.

If the natives who were standing round watching had liked to lend a hand they could have finished us quick enough, but I fancy the treatment they had received from Red Jake and his mates hadn't made them any too anxious to interfere.

We should have stood there and struggled until the Day of Judgment, I believe, if my foot hadn't hit against a stone. I felt the rock turn under my boot and down I went with my opponent on top of me. As we lay on the ground hugging each other, he suddenly loosened his hold and reached out over my shoulder. Next time I saw his hand it held the rock that had tripped me. He held it high for a second and then bashed it down onto the side of my head.

I didn't know anything, else after that till I woke up to find Mercer splashing water in my face. Jake, looking pretty sick and shaky, was roped to a tree-trunk close by. Umpomba, who had managed to crawl up, was covering the hole in his leg with one hand and keeping the natives still with Mercer's revolver, which he held in the other.

Mercer didn't mean letting those boys go. He wanted them as evidence at Red Jake's trial.

As soon as I was fit to sit up Mercer went off and fetched the horses. I rode one and Umpomba the other. Mercer drove the natives before him with his revolver held ready. Jake was roped to my stirrup.

We didn't lose any time in setting out, for we didn't want my antagonist, who had got away, to find us there when he got back with his pals.

A fortnight later we reached Victoria. There was a pretty big celebration in the "Thatched House" that night after Jake and his boys were safely jugged.

Next morning Jake was brought before the magistrate, who committed him to the assizes, which were to be held a fortnight later.

EVERY one living within a thirty-five-mile radius was liable for jury service and every one was already summoned. It wouldn't have made any difference whether they were summoned or not, they'd all have been there, just the same; for, apart from the fact that a murder trial was not by any means a usual occurrence with us, the assizes were our annual festival when the twenty-odd traders, farmers and transport riders came into town from the outlying stations for a great reunion. I think I told you that we did things collectively in Victoria in those days?

The judge, who came down for the assizes, used to complain that he couldn't sleep for the noise; you can't wonder at that, because his room was in a sort of addition to the Thatched House. But he was the only man in the town who wanted to go to bed, so it didn't much matter.

On the afternoon before the trial half a dozen strangers rode into the town. Rough-looking customers they were, but they didn't make any trouble and kept sober through the evening— which was more than we expected of them. In fact, their very quietness and moderation made me uneasy.

Next morning the little room which did duty as a court-house was packed to suffocation, and I saw the six strangers scattered among the crowd. I remember thinking it funny that they had not stuck together. Two of them were posted on either side of the pathway through which the prisoner would be brought presently.

The judge came in and took his seat. Then they brought in Red Jake. His face was sullen and hopeless as he passed through the door; but I saw his eyes light up as he looked round the crowded room. As they led him in it seemed to me, who was standing near, that one of the strangers leaned forward and slipped something into Jake's pocket.

It took the best part of the morning to wade through the evidence, which was all given by natives. Jake's only defense was a complete denial of everything.

Then the judge summed up. He pointed out the motive of the crime, that of double revenge; first, against Mercer, and, secondly, against the girl Usta, for wishing to return to a man of her own color. He pointed out the brutal nature of the murder, and, altogether, it seemed a clear case of Jake for the long drop.

As the judge finished speaking I looked up and saw Umpomba, with his head half through the window, listening to every word.

The jury didn't need to retire to consider their verdict. For a minute or two they conferred together in whispers. The foreman was on his feet.

"My Lord—" he began, then stopped dead.

You could have heard a pin drop in the court-house, for each of those six strangers had a brace of revolvers in his fists, and Red Jake also held a gun in his hand. I had not been wrong about the stranger by the door slipping something into the prisoner's pocket.

"See here," said Jake, leaning forward and glaring fiercely at the foreman, "You find me 'not guilty,' else me, an' my pals will blow particler —— outer this community."

The judge half-rose from his seat and Jake's pistol swung round to cover him.

"Sit down," he yapped, and the judge sank back. Gad, but he was a brave man, that judge.

"You will gain nothing by this show of armed force," he said. "I shall do my duty and pass sentence in accordance with the finding, whatever happens after." Then he turned to the jury. "Gentlemen," he said. "I am waiting for your finding."

I saw the foreman look furtively around him as if seeking a way of escape. Seeing none, he hesitated a moment longer, looking appealingly at his fellow jurymen.

"Not guilty," he stammered, at last, flushing up to the roots of his' sandy hair as the words left his lips.

It was a day of unexpected happenings, but things weren't finished yet.

Umpomba thrust his head and shoulders right in through the window.

"White men," he shouted, "you would let go the Red Slaughterer, who burned my sister? Then for Usta's— my sister's— sake, I swear by the Inkoosizana-y-Zulu, the Mother of the Heavens, to be revenged; aye, even if I have to wait a life-time."

Then the strangers surged forward and surrounded Jake, before they all backed out of the door together, the muzzles of their revolvers covering us all the time. A moment later we heard their horses' hoofs upon the road and almost immediately after that a mighty splashing, as they dashed through the drift.

iii

LYALL slowly scraped out the bowl of his pipe and spat contemplatively upon die floor.

"Jake hated for no reason at all," he said, "and failed to get his revenge. Old Umpomba was a good hater, in a just cause, and has fulfilled his vow after thirty years. But what always beat me was why Jake was never recaptured and hanged after a fresh trial."

"I can tell you that," said the bank manager. "It is a point of English law, which would have been in force in Mashonaland in those days, that a man, once tried for an offense and acquitted, can not be tried again for the same offense, not even though he publicly confess his guilt."

"Ah!" said the prospector reflectively. "Civilized law's a rum thing. Personally I prefer the law of the wild— old Umpomba's brand, for instance."

_____________________

10: The Secret of the Singular Cipher

The Blue Magazine Sep 1924

Old Ebbie Returns, 1925

"MODERN MURDERS are merely disgusting." The exclamation burst involuntarily from my lips, as I threw down the morning paper.  I had been reading the account of a more than usually revolting case, in which the murderer, a married man, had killed a wretched girl, who had trusted to him and whose condition would have made it awkward for him to face the consequences of their infatuation without breaking up his normal home life.

Old Ebbie regarded me with a quizzical smile. It was evident that he had already studied the column which had attracted my interest.

"I fancy that case cuts deeper than you imagine," he said. "Later on it will undoubtedly transpire that the man was in financial difficulties and had exhausted the resources of the girl he killed. You may remember that he was already in touch with another young woman, who had money of her own, even before he had disposed of the body of his first victim."

"All that you say may be perfectly true," I argued, "but it does not alter the fact that those elements of mystery and unexpected motive, such as came to light in the case of The Man Who Sold Jewels, have been lacking from the affairs which have come our way of late."

Before my companion could answer, the telephone bell rang sharply from the hall. A moment later Jenkin entered the room. "Inspector Wilson would like to speak to you on the telephone, sir."

Old Ebbie's smile broadened as he left the room.

"Get your hat and coat, Hicks," he called presently; "there's a job for us in Mayfair."

At the entrance to Bulstrode Mansions a big constable received us.

"The inspector will be pleased if you will go up to No. 16, gentlemen," he said.

We found our old friend Wilson seated at a small table in the dining-room, tapping his teeth with the butt end of his pencil and staring at a queer assortment of odds and ends. A note-book was open before him. In the corner of the room was a sinister-looking shape covered with a sheet. A number of playing-cards was scat-tered across the dinner-table, and there was an empty glass beside a half -empty decanter of whisky.

"Good of you to come along so promptly," he greeted us. "I was just cataloguing the contents of the dead man's pockets."

"Anything interesting?" queried Old Ebbie.

"Oh, I don't know. At first sight the whole case looks clear enough. And yet there are one or two unusual features. The tenant of this flat is a fellow called Gilmour; he seems to have arrived from abroad a few months back, but nothing whatever is known of his antecedents or present business in England. Judging from his name, I should say the dead man, Christiernsson, was a Swede."

"If you know his name the Swedish Consulate ought to be able to help you."

"Yes, if Christiernsson really is his name."

"Why the doubt?"

Wilson stroked his chin reflectively. "Well, you see, the tenant of No. 17, across the landing, who called himself Humphries, committed suicide a week ago with a shot-gun; which, it is true, rendered his face pretty well unrecognisable, and now a dead man, who has not been dead more than twelve hours, turns up here in Gilmour's flat with a knife struck through his heart."

"But why the confusion about the names?" asked Ebbie.

"The caretaker is prepared to swear that the man over there under the sheet is Humphries, but just take a look at his visiting-cards."

He picked up a small silver card-case from among the odds and ends on the table and handed it to Ebbie. Each card bore the fantastic inscription, "Linka Dobrowolski Christiernsson."

Old Ebbie slipped one into his pocket before handing back the card-case.

"Well, let me hear your theory," he said.

The inspector indicated the whole room with a comprehensive gesture of his hand.

"You see the playing-cards," he said, "the empty glass and the half-empty decanter, the contents of which I will have analysed as soon as possible. Doesn't it occur to you that Gilmour lured Humphries, or Christiernsson, or whatever his name was, here, fleeced him— perhaps drugged him— and then made an end of him?"

"Humph, and where is the man with the many names supposed to have hidden himself during the week that has gone?"

"Ah, there you have me!" admitted Wilson.

"I rather thought as much," smiled Ebbie. "Well, let's have a look round the place, anyway."

"But won't you examine the dead man first?"

"No, I'd rather sense the atmosphere before I see the victim."

For the best part of half an hour Ebbie prowled about the flat. He looked into linen-baskets and drawers, examined bedding and furniture, and paid particular attention to the larder and kitchen. From time to time he shot out a trite sentence.

"Now why the deuce should a man use four sets of pyjamas and two pairs of sheets in a week?" he ejaculated, as he peered from the full linen-basket to the open laundry-book he had taken from a hook on the kitchen dresser. Or, again, "Doesn't it strike you, Wilson, that someone has been searching pretty hard for something in this flat? Surely Gilmour wouldn't be put to the necessity of ransacking his own place so thoroughly?"

"That's as may be," replied Wilson bluntly; "the fact remains that Gilmour has bolted."

"And since he is not here to excuse himself, he must, ipso facto, be held to accuse himself, eh?"

Ebbie crossed the room and pulled back the sheet which covered  the body. The countenance was serenely calm and there was not the slightest sign that a struggle had taken place. Ebbie opened the man's coat, vest, and shirt and scrutinised the wound.

"Whoever did this deed held the knife flat on the palm of his hand and thrust it forward," he said. "Englishmen never use a knife that way and seldom kill a man in cold blood with steel; any criminologist will tell you that."

He examined the dead man's features with close attention.

"This fellow," he said, "was neither Tcheco-Slovakian, Pole, nor Swede."

"Why the mix-up of nationalities?" asked Wilson.

Ebbie brought the visiting-card out of his pocket.

"All these three names are surnames," he said. "Linka is Tcheco-Slovakian, Dobrowolski is Polish, and, as you yourself pointed out, Christiernsson is Swedish. Now let us see if we can find what the murderer wanted so badly and which we can only hope he failed to secure."

Through and through that flat we hunted, long after the body had been removed. When every possible hiding place had been exhausted Old Ebbie turned his attention to the very food in the larder and there, in the centre of a loaf of bread which I would have sworn had never been tampered with, he discovered a tiny note-book. It was filled with a jumble of apparently incoherent phrases and meaningless words.

Wilson, after one glance through the pages, made no objection to Ebbie taking charge of the book for the time being.

Twice during that night I awakened and went through into the dining-room of our flat in Victoria. My comrade was still seated at the table, the little note-book, a pencil and writing-pad were before him and all the floor was littered with sheets of paper, upon which he had inscribed figures and characters which to me appeared to have no meaning.

Once he looked up and spoke to me.

"I reckon Humphries, or whatever his name was, knew that he was near his end when he hid his note-book in the loaf," he said, "and the careful way he did it proves that he wasn't hurried. I've been all night working on every sort of possible and impossible cipher. I fancy this case would come a whole lot clearer if we could imderstand what is written in the pages of this note-book."

"Perhaps Humphries had a drink and played patience with those cards we saw on the table, to help keep his nerves steady, while he waited," I suggested.

Ebbie turned that over in his mind for some moments before he spoke.

"No, I don't think Humphries drank the whisky," he said, at last; "but you've set me thinking about those cards. Did you notice there were no ash-trays on the table and no tobacco ash on the carpet or in the hearth? There was a cigarette-case in the dead man's pocket, and his nicotine-stained fingers testify that he was a heavy smoker. I fancy he'd have smoked had he played cards with Gilmour, or even by himself."

At breakfast-time Wilson arrived.

"By gad, Mr. Entwistle," he exclaimed; "this business is getting devilish deep and sinister. We have traced Gilmour to Paddington; he left there, dressed in rough clothing, by the five o'clock train yesterday morning. Last night he hid in a Portsmouth doss-house. When the police went there this morning, they learned that there had been a most unholy fight in the night, and that the man who had shared Gilmour's room was dead; they thought it was Gilmour at first; because, by some chance, he had changed beds with the other fellow, who was knifed."

"That strikes me as being very significant," said Old Ebbie.

"And what became of Gilmour?"

"He's vanished again. We don't think he could have got aboard a ship, but a motor-cycle has been stolen, and we are hoping to catch him somewhere out on the open moors."

"I'd dearly like a few words with him when he does turn up," said Old Ebbie. "In the meantime, I think you are barking up the wrong tree, Wilson, if you imagine that Gilmour did the murder. Everything I have seen so far points to the fact that he had probably given Humphries, alias Christiernsson, shelter since the night upon which the former is supposed to have committed suicide."

"But why on earth should the man wish to practise such a deception?" I interrupted.

"I fancy friend Humphries was pretty hard pressed; he probably had a secret that certain people were anxious to prevent him from passing on. Of course, the suicide w"ould provide a perfect blind. No doubt he hoped that his persecutors would believe they had scared him into doing it."

"But surely it would be very diflficult to arrange?"

"Difficult, yes, but not impossible. Have you forgotten the Bouverie Case, and our visit to the Surrey side of the Thames? I showed you then how easily a dead body can be procured, if you know how to go about it."

"Come out into the open, Mr. Entwhistle," invited the inspector. "What's at the back of your mind?"

"I hate to theorise," Old Ebbie answered, "but, for once in a way, I'm willing to humour you. My own feeling is that Humphries, or Christiernsson, was up against some secret force, and that, having arranged his own apparent death, he either went to Gilmour for shelter, or the latter stumbled into the business and offered him protection, or at any rate a hiding place. Gilmour, of course, continued to go out and about in the normal way, while his strange guest lay hid. One night, I fancy, Gilmour came home to his flat and found Humphries dead on the floor, and evident signs that the whole place had been pretty thoroughly searched. He must then have found himself in a remarkably awkward situation. He would see at once that, with all due deference to you, Wilson, no C.I.D. man would believe his fantastic story. He may, therefore, have cleared out to avoid arrest. On the other hand, I have a sort of feeling that he probably knew something of the causes that led up to Humphries' murder, and he would, equally of course, appreciate how dangerous was the knowledge he had acquired."

"And those playing-cards on the table, and the empty whisky glass?"

"I fancy Gilmour would have needed a peg to steady his nerves after the shock of finding the dead body; but I frankly admit that I do not at present see the significance of the cards scattered all over the table. I'm certain someone left them there for a specific purpose. What that purpose was we should probably know if we could find the key to the pages of that little note-book that was hidden in the loaf of bread."

Wilson hesitated a moment.

"I'm bound to admit," he said, "that the bottom has rather fallen out of the fleecing theory. I've got on to Gilmour 's bankers, through the owners of Bulstrode Mansions, and it seems that he is, comparatively speaking, a rich man."

"Good," answered Ebbie. "By the way, can you furnish me with a photograph of Humphries?"

"A post-mortem one," said Wilson; "we had it taken to compare with others in the Black Museum."

"And you could not find its counterpart, eh?"

"No; neither his features nor his finger-prints are recorded with us."

"Let me have a copy of the portrait," said Ebbie, "perhaps I may have better luck."

When the picture came he studied it for a long time.

"You'd hardly believe that chap was dead," he said at last. "Just look at those eyes. Hicks. Is it only my imagination, or is there in them the light of the certain knowledge of success? By heavens, there's something about this little fellow's face that appeals enormously to me."

Next morning, as we walked down to the Foreign Office, my companion dropped his hand on my arm.

"We're going to try a very long shot in the dark, my friend," he said; "but, as you ought to know by this time, no chance is so small that one can aflford to overlook it. I was up at Bulstrode Mansions again last night; the porter tells me some queer, foreign-looking customers have been trying to get permission to look over Gilmour's flat, and he is half inclined to think that an attempt was made to force the lock yesterday afternoon when he was off duty."

At the Foreign Office Lord Arlen of Ashurst granted us an immediate interview. He listened attentively to all that Old Ebbie had to say, then touched a bell.

"This is a bit out of my depth, Mr. Entwistle," he said, as we waited; "but I fancy the Permanent Secretary will be very glad to have a chat with you."

Sir Claude Ducane made no effort to conceal his interest. At the sight of the photograph which Ebbie laid down on the table a gasp escaped him.

"This man was one of the best of our Secret Service agents," he said. "You say he is dead? We had lost sight of him for months. His one bad fault was that he would always work alone. More often than not he found things out, but he never let us have a hint of what was going on until he had the whole thing cut and dried and ready to place before us complete in every detail. God alone knows what he was after this time; but, as you say, I very much doubt if Gilmour killed him."

"Do you happen to have the key to the cipher he used, Sir Claude?"

"No, that was another of his mysteries. He absolutely refused to employ any of the conventional ciphers, or to give us the key to the one he had himself invented."

"But surely he must have foreseen the possibility of just such a tragedy as has occurred?"

"He most certainly did. In fact, he told me more than once that if ever he was caught out before he could communicate with us he would leave a hint, that any clever man could read, as to the key to the cipher. But why do you ask?"

Old Ebbie produced the Kttle note-book and laid it on the table beside the photograph. For a while the Permanent Secretary turned over the pages before handing the book back with a hopeless gesture.

"I can make absolutely nothing of it," he said.

THAT NIGHT, as Old Ebbie sat pouring over the pages of the note-book, and covering sheet after sheet of notepaper with figures, I suddenly interrupted him.

"Do you know, Ebbie," I said, "I can't get out of my mind the picture of that poor devil sitting there in the silent flat, terrified to go outside to meet his fate, but yet man enough to play a game of patience while death stole nearer to him step by step."

"How the devil do you know he did play patience?" asked Old Ebbie, thoroughly irritated by my thoughtless interruption of his work.

"Well, what on earth else did he put the cards on the table for?" I answered with equal acerbity.

Old Ebbie got slowly to his feet, staring at me with fascinated eyes.

"What else did he put the cards on the table for?" he repeated very slowly, and his hand stole up to his waistcoat pocket, from which he withdrew Christiernsson's visiting-card. "Lord, what a bhnd fool I've been! And now, for goodness sake, Hicks, stop chattering. I've got some hard thinking and ciphering to do."

Upon this very pointed hint I left him and took myself off to bed. About four o'clock in the morning he awakened me. By the light of the candle he carried I saw that his eyes were blazing with excitement.

"Come into the dining-room," he said eagerly. "I've just about got this business straightened out at last."

"Do you mean that you've found the key to the cipher?" I asked eagerly.

"Well, I think you found it," he answered; "but I've worked it out. You kept on harping on about the playing-cards on the table, and that set me thinking of the visiting-cards in the silver case. I remembered what Sir Claude had told us about Humphries having promised to leave a clue that a clever man could follow; but, somehow, I couldn't envisage your picture of the poor chap playing patience. Then, again, the three names on the visiting-card neither hung together, because they are all surnames belonging to different nationalities, nor seemed to fit the dead man. We knew, indeed, from Sir Claude that they were not his. I began to wonder if they were the key to the cipher. It looked likely, but the letters in those three names number thirty, and there are only twenty-six letters in the English alphabet. On the other hand, it did not appear likely that so subtle a fellow as the dead Humphries would be satisfied with a simple, corresponding alphabetical-numerical cipher.

FOR HOURS on end I puzzled over the orthographical aspect of the business. I was pretty well sure that the grammar of letters wasn't going to help me very much; so 1 turned my attention to the grammar of sounds. It struck me quite suddenly that the vowels are five in number, and the consonants twenty-five, the latter divided roughly into eleven mutes and fourteen spirants. If you look at this paper, you will see how I have set out the three names which are engraved on the visiting card.

"It tok a bit of working out, but I finally got at it by grading the mutes into flat, sharp and nasal sounds. Even so, deciphering the writing in the notebooks was a terrible job, because the same letters occur several times in the code words; but the difficulty was not insuperable, only laborious; one had to leave blanks and try all corresponding letters to get the complete words.

So far his keen eyes had shone with the artist's joy of accomplishment, but now they took on a haunted, desperate look.

"These bolsheviks are at the back of this business, Hicks," he said. "There is a plot to wreck the big power station at Alton Heath, thereby creating more unemployment and stirring up further trouble among the labouring classes. There is also mention of a plan to dispose of the people's leader, in such a way that it must inevitable appear that the assassination was planned in a high quarter.

"You may quite well argue that the plant and the man can be protected, and that, in any case, no one would believe that MacReady had been deliberately put out of the way at the instigation of the leaders of the accredited government; but the notes make no mention of the dates upon which these tragedies are to occur. Nor is there any indication of the names or whereabouts of the real conspirators. We may save the power station and MacReady, but what guarantee is there that, even if we prevent these disasters, more serious measures will not be taken against us?"

"Yes, I see all that," I answered, "and you will, of course, hand over this information to Scotland Yard and the Foreign Office; but it still does not account for the disappearance of Gilmour."

"No," agreed Old Ebbie. "I'm very anxious to meet that young gentleman. I fancy he must be a pretty far-seeing sort of person. He may, as I suggested to Wilson, have bolted in a panic when he realised that, firstly, no police official would believe what, on the face of it, must have appeared a highly improbable story, and, secondly, he undoubtedly shared some of the dead Secret Service man's knowledge. He would, therefore, be well aware that his life is in danger at the hands of the men who did not hesitate to kill Humphries and who, I shrewdly suspect, tried to do away with Gilmour himself in the Portsmouth doss-house to which he fled.

"If we can find Gilmour I rather fancy we shall get those missing dates we want; and it's just possible he may be able also to tell us something about the people who are at the back of this hellish plot. Anyway, we'll lodge such information as we have in the right quarters and then get down to Portsmouth. We may be able to pick up his trail. If my deductions are correct he will not have left the country."

THE OWNER of the Portsmouth doss-house turned out to be an old chanty man, who had sailed the Seven Seas when wind-jammers were in fashion; and a very shrewd old fellow he proved himself to be.

"The man who was here the night of the big fight, when Jake was killed; what sort of a man was he, you ask? Well, I'd say just an or'nary sailorman, sir. A gentleman? No, not by any manner of means; just an or'nary fo'castle sort of fellow, such as I've sailed with hundreds an' hundreds o' voyages."

"Humph," growled Old Ebbie, "we're up against a pretty tough proposition. I'll bet you this chap Gilmour knows all about camouflage and has hunted big game more than half his life. According to what that old sailorman said he hasn't bothered to change his appearance, only his circumstances. He's literally faded into his new atmosphere, just as a wild creature fades into its natural background. If we do find him you'll see that he is not playing his assumed part, he'll be actually living it. Do you see what I mean? The real secret of disguise is not make-up or anything of that sort, but the abihty to convince yourself that you actually are, for the time being, what you wish other people to take you for. This chap won't slip up anywhere, and I can tell you that it is going to be devilish hard to find him. Personally I'm going to keep my eyes skinned for the opposition, they probably know more than we do and may lead us to our man."

FOR THE NEXT WEEK we hung around Portsmouth, hired a motor-car and journeyed farther afield; but had no luck at all. Then, by a strange chance, we heard of some curious happenings over Devon way. The whole story was so unusual that a local correspondent had sent it up to one of the London papers, and the editor had given it a paragraph and a catchy headline.

It appeared that a tramp had come to the back door of a moorland farm and had begged a night's shelter. He had, however, offered to pay for his supper. The farmer was away from home, but his wife had given the man a jug of cider, half a loaf and some cheese, and had told him that he might sleep in an empty hayloft. Half-way through the night the woman was awakened by a terrific explosion and had rushed to the window to discover the barn where the tramp had slept going up to the sky in lurid flames.

"It's another long shot," said Old Ebbie, as he handed me the paper, "but that reads to me remarkably as though our man had transferred himself to Devonshire."

The car we were using was a big, powerful Bentley, which would make short work of the distance. Before we started Ebbie sent a wire to Wilson.

At Moretonhampstead, close to the farm-house where the barn had been destroyed, it seemed to me that we were at last getting on to a fairly hot trail.

The landlord joined us in a glass of punch after supper and Old Ebbie handled him admirably.

"I see from the papers you've had quite a sensation in these parts," said my comrade.

"So a lot of volks seems to think," answered the old fellow, as he treated us to a shrewd stare.

"Um! Half the town's been out to see the farm, I suppose," said Ebbie.

"Oh that, that's nuthin'. It's the Kkes of you vurriners that comes pryin' an' questionin' that we'm don't like," said the landlord.

"We're not asking questions, my good man," said Ebbie indifferently. "I happened to read about the explosion in the morning paper and naturally thought the matter, being of a purely local nature, would interest you."

"Aye, an' a lot of other volks besides, seemin'ly," grumbled the innkeeper. "Girt big car cooms here to-day and a rare vine lot of questions I did have to answer before I could satisfy the gentlemen. Real vurriners they were, I raickon, an' no Englishmen at all, by that some token."

"I THINK," said Old Ebbie to me, as we sought our rooms that night, "that we will go to the high beacons to-morrow morning, taking with us our field-glasses. I wonder what sort of a car our host's 'vurriners' were driving."

"That should be easy enough to ascertain," I answered, and so it proved.

Soon after dawn Old Ebbie roused me out, and long before breakfast time we were hidden on a high hill, with our own car safe from observation in a sheltered glen. Our glasses paralleled the landscape; but for a long time no sign of human movement was to be seen. Then suddenly we sighted a solitary man moving, as much in cover as possible, across the moorland. Presently a row of widely-separated figures, spaced for all the world like game-beaters, appeared above the horizon of a far ridge, approaching also in our direction.

Old Ebbie shut his glasses with a snap.

"If that is our man and he follows his present route," he said, "he will reach us before the hunt overtakes him."

For myself, I lay flat on my stomach, with the binoculars screwed to my eyes and an ever-increasing thrill of excitement running through me. At last Old Ebbie dropped his hand on my shoulder.

"Slip down and get the engine running," he said. "Turn the car round ready to break for the open road as soon as I've got Gilmour."

Another quarter of an hour passed before I heard them stumbling down the hillside towards me. At the same moment a shout rang out from the crest of the tor, followed quickly by the sharp whip of a revolver shot, but the range was extreme, and no whine of a passing bullet followed.

For a second the rough-looking fellow clad in home-spun hesitated.

"You've got to take us on trust, Mr. Gilmour," said Old Ebbie. "If you won't do that, then your attentive friends on the sky-line are bound to get you, and I fancy the information you have is going to be pretty badly needed at Scotland Yard."

With a weary gesture the man climbed into the back seat, followed by Ebbie, and I opened up my throttle. The great car leaped forward, just as the pursuit came pouring down the hill.

NEXT DAY we found ourselves once more in Sir Claude Ducane's luxurious office, where Inspector Wilson and the Permanent Secretary were eagerly awaiting us, but long before that Gilmour had told us his story.

"I got your wires, Mr. Entwistle," the inspector greeted us; "the second one set things buzzing, and we caught the whole bunch as they were making for the coast. Bolsheviks they were, and I fancy that what Mr. Gilmour is going to tell us will serve to keep them out of mischief for some time to come. Can you tell us, sir, who actually committed the murder at your flat?"

"I'm afraid not," Gilmour answered. "Mr. Entwistle has told me his theories, and all I can do is to confirm them. It is true that I did shelter poor Humphries, but he told me very little of what was going on. I knew that he was in great danger; I had, moreover, caught a glimpse of the ruffians who were hanging around the mansions, and I knew that some terrible thing was planned for the end of the month.

"When I came home that night and found Humphries dead, and myself likely to be arrested for his murder, I made up my mind to get on the track of those fellows and to find out what was going forward. I found their headquarters in the very heart of the most desolate part of Devon. I got the fullest sort of proofs necessary. Here they are." He threw a wallet on the table. "But when I tried  to break back for London I found myself ringed in whichever way I tried to get out. and I'm convinced they'd have got me and settled me but for the luck of Mr. Entwistle being there to pull me out yesterday morning."

"Luck, eh?" muttered Wilson beneath his breath. "I only wish I'd got half his sort of luck!"

__________________

11: The Schimmel Sets the Pace

Australian Women's Weekly 2 June 1934

Hutchinson’s Magazine Jan 1922

BETTY HARTLAND heard a horse scream once in agony. Then she dropped the lilies that she and little Sylvia Dasent had been gathering, and went flying through the East African bush. The sight that met her eyes as she rounded a bend in the track brought her to a sudden halt.

In the centre of a forest clearing, Cyril Dasent, older than Sylvia by half a dozen years, was using a heavy hippo-hide kiboko to administer punishment to a great red stallion, which a crowd of natives held roped and helpless. The red schimmel's eyes were blazing, and the natives were hard put to it to hold him, but the scream he had uttered was more of fury than of fear. To one side lay a saddle with burst girths and the state of young Dasent's clothing showed clearly that the horse had thrown him.

Betty felt no pity for the discomfiture of the elder of her two pupils, only an intense indignation at what he was doing to the helpless animal. In a second she sprang forward, snatched the whip from his hand and laid it smartly across his shoulders, twice and again, before he could scramble out of her reach.

"Take the red schimmel back to the home paddock!" she told the chattering natives, who were looking curiously at the blubbering boy.

Ten-year-old Sylvia rejoined the governess a moment later.

"Oh, Betty," she panted, "I couldn't keep up with you, but I saw the end of what happened. Now Cyril has run home, and I'm afraid mother will be dreadfully angry with you."

"Never mind, darling," said Betty, "I've been used to horses, and I've loved them, all my life. Neither your mother nor your father would want Cyril to be cruel to animals, I'm sure."

But Mr. Dasent was away from the shamba at that time, and Sylvia's prophecy was amply fulfilled, for Mrs. Dasent was awaiting their arrival in
the verandah. Her face was flaming, and her voice shook with cold fury.

"You were engaged as governess to teach the children, Miss Hartland, not to beat them," she stormed. "You may have been a great hunting woman at home, before your people lost their money, but you're a paid servant here, and you'll kindly keep your place."

"But, Mrs. Dasent, Cyril was ill treating the schimmel shamefully."

"And quite right, too; it's a savage brute, and shall be destroyed the moment my husband gets back."

Betty went to her room, conscious of Cyril smiling triumphantly in the back-ground. She might have left the farm that day but for her love of Sylvia, who played a poor second string to her brother in the mother's affections. Presently the child came stealing in through the open window.

"I'm so sorry, Betty darling," she whispered, "but I expect it will be all right when Father comes back, it's only when he is away that Cyril behaves so badly, May I stay here? I've got such a funny sort of headache."

Betty drew the child into her arms and sat nursing her until she fell asleep. The little hand that rested trustingly in her own was very hot, and, as soon as she could, Betty went in search of Mrs. Dasent.

"I don't think Sylvia is very well," she volunteered.

"I expect she's been eating unripe fruit, when you were not watching her; better give her a dose of medicine when she goes to bed," the mother answered indifferently.

That night Betty lay long awake. Usually the incessant song of the mos-quitoes lulled her to sleep, but, that night, memory was stirring. Once in the far off, happy days, she had ridden a wild horse of her father's at Richmond Horse Show. He had taken all his jumps without a falter, until the big water jump in the centre of the arena had to be faced, and then he had refused twice and, at the third time of asking, had reared straight up. Betty, to teach him a lesson, had put her weight on the off-side rein and stirrup and had pulled him clean over backwards as she had flung herself clear.

For all the applause that had followed it had been a perilous feat, and now, again, she felt a premonition of danger.

At 4 o'clock she was awakened by Mrs. Dasent.

"Sylvia's raving, and I'm afraid its Blackwater Fever," said the frightened mother.

Betty pulled on a dressing gown over her pyjamas, and together the
two women stood looking down at the child's flushed face. Far out across the plains a lion roared, beating down the eerie call of predatory hyenas.

"She'll die if we don't get a doctor at once," whispered Mrs. Dasent, "but my husband has the only horse we've got, except the red schimmel, and I won't trust Cyril on that brute's back again. I don't want to lose both my children."

"What are we going to do then?"

"Send a native runner to Nairobi, I suppose, but there's hardly a hope that he'll make the journey fast enough for a doctor to get here in time."

For a moment Betty stood thinking, then bent quickly and pressed her lips to the child's burning brow. Next moment she was gone. In her own room she dressed quickly in riding kit, before going out to the stable to rouse a sleepy sais. The man watched curiously as she took down a worn bridle with a light snaffle bit and picked up a small polo saddle from its rest, but he took the harness and followed in silence at her word. But when they reached the home paddock the native stopped resolutely. He knew that red devil who stood tossing his mane at the other side of the rails would have none of him.

Betty felt the blood go coursing through her veins as she stared at the schimmel she had come out at the dawn to conquer. Red as a threatening day-break, seventeen hands in height, he stood there tossing his flowing mane. There was promise of tremendous power in barrel and haunches, which fined at neck and shoulder into lines of great breeding. But the thing the girl noted, as most important at the moment, was the fact that the bit and bridle Cyril had tried to use yesterday still adorned the schimmel's splendid head. That meant that fully half of Betty's first problem was solved, for if the horse was bitted and bridled she didn't mean to bother her head about saddling him.

Lithe and graceful the girl climbed to the topmost rail of the stockade and stood balanced like some diver about to enter the water. The red horse gave her one glance then swerved to follow the sais, who was running towards the bungalow on the far side of the fence. Then, as the horse tore past, Betty sprang straight and true to land, wide thighed, across that heaving back, and as her knees gripped faster hands closed upon the streaming reins.

The red horse propped and shivered at the sudden impact, then he reared up and up, as the snaffle bore down on the tender bars of his mouth. Mad-ness at the indignity possessed him, but, come what might, he meant to crush the life out of this presumptuous mortal who had dared to back him.

But even he, the untamed red schimmel, was not to be given his choice of when or how to fall. A slight, but irresistible pressure over-balanced him to the off at the psychological second, while the girl slipped away from under him to the near side, and then, as he surged angrily to his feet, she was across his back again, clamped more firmly to his ribs than before, and again the bit was bearing down upon his mouth.

Blind, frantic fury surged through the schimmel's brain, as he battled against those calm, restraining hands, and blind, frantic fury beat in his heart. Round and round the home-paddock he raced, propping, surging forward afresh, tossing his crest in wild anger against the indignity of the bit and fighting to get it between his teeth, but neither strength nor wile of his could shift the legs that gripped his sides like a vice, nor break him free from the give and take of those gentle hands that held a hint of steel in the velvet of their touch.

The red horse screamed with rage, ducked and swerved sideways; then, crowning indignity of all, the sharp prick-spurs fixed to the heels of Betty's boots scored his sides. That was too much. Mouth open, blood-gorged eyes blazing, he tore straight down the pad-dock and, like a buck in spring, soared high over the seven-foot stockade. Beyond lay the wide, sun-washed, wind-swept plains, and now the great red horse stretched himself, belly close to earth, as he spurned sod and floweret beneath his flying hoofs.

Time and again he swerved, ducked or ran bucking crab-fashion for half a hundred yards. Once he propped, reared, and swung clean round in a half-circle. But Betty clung on by a miracle, thighs clamped to the laboring sides, and hands steady upon the reins, for she was determined that he should neither swerve nor turn back from the road that would lead them to Nairobi. Swung round against his will, he raced onwards once more.

Mile after mile he strode on, following his own course, as he believed, and, all the while his great heart was well-nigh bursting with impotent rage. But let that puny rider wait. Soon there must come a chasm too wide to jump, a wall too high to clear— something, anything— against which he could smash himself and this fiendish rider into red oblivion.

But now the situation was changing. He would have eased his stride, but now the rider, who had sat so still, drove him on with goading spur, stinging palm and hateful, exultant voice. God, was he to have no rest?

Lightly he had galloped across the bitter-scented grass, but now his out-stretched neck was drooping, the proud head dropping towards the laboring breast. Then Betty gathered him under and drove him on in very truth. For perhaps the last mile she had allowed him to shape his own course over ground where the going was fast, for she wanted him to use up those last re-serves of speed, but now her weight shifted, and a back-drawn calf pressed against his side, and the steady pressure of that abomination be-tween his jaws, turned him towards the hills. When the lower slopes were reached he sought again to ease his pace, but the insistent goad of the spurs drove him on.

Caked with dust and sweat, nostrils distended, eyes wild, he breasted the slope, for, if this human persecutor desired it he would match her will with his own would prove that neither his speed, nor the courage of his great heart was done with yet.

At last, as they reached the sky-line he stumbled from sheer leg weariness, and he, the red schimmel, would have fallen had not that terrible rider held him together and saved him.

Wonder filled his untamed heart, and after resting a moment he sought to fight again, but Betty, bruised and well-nigh as weary as he was, would not be beaten. If it was all to do again, well, she would do it, and more, for the sake of the child who lay dying, back there at the Dasents' bungalow. She would do it for Sylvia, and for the glorious thrill that lay in the conquest of the great red stallion.

THE descent was short and steep. The wide plains lay below, but the way was treacherous. None the less, the red horse, as the spurs touched his sides, shot forward, like arrow from bow, and bounded down the slope, escaping disaster by a miracle. Then the goading spurs, the stinging palm, and the compelling voice, which would ring in his ears until his dying day drove him on until the scattered houses at the edge of the town were in sight, and, rocking with weariness, he answered at last to voice and rein, easing his pace, changing direction, or going on, just as the rider wished.

And thus it was that Dr. Paget saw come riding up the drive to his bun-galow a pale girl in sweat-drenched, dust-stained khaki, who bestrode a great red horse that had acquired a new docility.

"God in heaven, isn't that Tom Da-sent's red Schimmel you're riding, d'you mean to say that he's broken him in at last? We all said he'd be the death of anyone who tried to ride him," cried the doctor.

"Yes, it's the red schimmel." Betty answered with a weary smile. "Hurry, doctor. Sylvia Dasent is dying of black-water fever, and you've got to come with me. I'll rest a minute while you get your things ready, and, please, may one of your boys give the red schimmel a drink and a rub down?"

Dr. Paget fussed intentionally for the best part of half an hour to give Betty and the schimmel a chance of resting, but all the way back to the farm his eyes hardly left her, for the red schimmel had whickered a welcome as they had come down to the stables, and the old doctor well knew in his own mind who had been the conqueror of the great red horse that no man in the colony had been good enough horse-man to master, and whose splendid speed had served to bring Betty to Nairobi in time for him to get to the farm soon enough to save the life of little Sylvia.

_______________

12: Towards Morning

Mail (Adelaide) 13 July 1940

DETECTIVE Inspector Hollins brought into my study that breezy air of big spaces, beer, tobacco, and country inns which gives him the atmosphere of a prosperous farmer, whereas he is a peculiarly acute member of the C.I.D.

'Mornin', Mulholland,' he said, extracting the inevitable pipe and tobacco pouch from a capacious pocket. 'We've a case that's rather move in your line than ours. We at Scotland Yard don't take much truck in spirit, except the sort they sell in bottles, but you seem to thrive on psychic phenomena, so now's your chance.'

'What's the story, Bill?' I queried. 'Have you found a new fake medium inducing foolish people to put their small savings into wild-cat schemes, and can't you get yourself invited to one of the séances?'

'Séance, my foot!' growled Bill Hollins. 'This looked like a plain case of suicide— perhaps murder; but the house where it happened is said to be haunted. You're experienced in such matters, and may be able to spot the trick that induced an eminently sensible young woman to chuck herself over the fourth floor bannisters of a respectable residence in Ledbury Gardens. There's no case at present that would lie against Mr. Thomas Marston, the owner, so we couldn't prevent him from going abroad immediately after the tragedy.'

'What grounds have you for thinking there has been foul play, and why should you suspect this Mr. Marston?' was the obvious question that I put to Bill Hollins.

'The chap's got a bit of a reputation as a gay Lothario,' Bill grunted, 'and Annie Edwards was a darned pretty girl by all account, until she spoilt her beauty on the flagged paving of the hall of the house in Ledbury Gardens. She was the housemaid and her mother was the cook. They'd been left alone to look after the house, and the mother had gone to the pictures on the night when Marston dropped in unexpectedly on his way through London. Marston, by the way, is a bachelor.'

Hollins paused to relight his pipe, and I broke in with an impatient, 'Well, get on with it, man!'

He pressed down the glowing tobacco in the bowl of his pipe and looked up at me with exasperating deliberation.

'Marston states.' he continued, 'that he came up to London from his country place on the way to the Continent, and entered the house with his latchkey. It seems that it was a rough night, with rain, and a regular gale blowing, and the front door blew to with a bang that seemed to shake the house.

'He says all the lights were on, and he stood for a minute waiting, as it was yet early, and he did not anticipate that the two women he knew to be in the house had gone to bed— besides, he wanted some supper.'

'And then—?' I suggested, for Hollins had paused again to fiddle with his infernal pipe.

'Just as Marston was moving towards a bell-push beside the fireplace, a tremulous voice called down from above, "Who's there?" Marston says that he looked up and saw the housemaid  Annie Edwards, loaning over the fourth floor banister, that she appeared relieved when she recognised him, but slowly her features changed to a mask of the most awful horror. A second later, or so says Marston, she pitched head-first over the banisters and was smashed up on the flagstones almost at his feet.'

'A perfectly plain and straightforward statement, it seems to me.'  I commented. 'A simple case, in all probability, of sheer vertigo.'

'Half a minute.' broke in Hollins. 'Those banisters are exceptionally high, and thee girl was unusually short. It would have been necessary for her to jump to get her body sufficiently far on to the handrail to reach the point of overbalancing.'

'Very well, but still I don't see how Marston comes under suspicion.'

'I happened to be on duty at the Yard that night, when Marston telephoned, so I went along with the divisional surgeon to Ledbury Gardens. Mrs. Edwards returned from the pictures within a few minutes of our arrival. Putting aside the fact that she was quite demented to start with, and reproached herself bitterly for having left her daughter, a nervous, highly strung girl, alone in the big house while she was out on pleasure, I can't forget what happened later.

'What was that?'

'Within the week she came to Scotland Yard and asked for a personal interview. She wasn't satisfied that her daughter's death was entirely accidental. She made no suggestion that Marston had chucked the unfortunate girl down from the fourth floor, but said that she had seen him looking at Amie in a sort of way on several occasions. She admitted also that Amie had seemed rather more fond of her master than was altogether necessary.

'I gather that Mrs. Edwards was of the opinion that Marston had returned to the house earlier than he would admit, and finding Annie alone, had gone to the girl's bedroom.

'The woman suggested further that her daughter, being terrified at the thought of what was likely to happen to her, had got into a state of absolute panic and flung herself over the banisters.'

'Why didn't she bolt down the stairs, if the man was in her room?' I interrupted.

'That's exactly the question I wanted answered,' said Hollins. 'Mrs. Edwards thought that her daughter may have seen Marston coming up the final flight of stairs.'

'Then why not lock herself in her room?'

'There was no bolt on the door, and the key could not be found after the tragedy.'

'In other words, it is suggested that Marston returned to the house secretly, possibly while Mrs. Edwards and Annie were in the kitchen, extracted the key from the girl's bedroom door, and waited for the mother to go out. How did he know that Mrs. Edwards would leave the house?'

'It was her night off, and she had never been known to miss the pictures on a Wednesday evening.'

'Any other data?'

'Yes. That's why I've come to you. Mulholland. As I say. Marston has gone abroad on some secret business of his own, which he appears to be very set upon, and no case could possibly lie against him. Still, I'm worried. You know how all sorts of bits of odd information reach Scotland Yard?

'Well, that's how we've learned that probably half a dozen people have lost their lives through falling into the hall at 8 Ledbury Gardens during the past one hundred years or thereabouts. I don't, and I won't, believe in ghosts, spooks, spiritualism, or any other hocus-pocus that can't be explained logically, so there you are. Still— one never knows. There may be a logical explanation of such things.'

'The earth-bound spirits of evil men and so on, eh. Bill?' I smiled.

'Maybe.' he said doggedly. 'Anyway, you know more about such things than most men. That's why I want you to take the post of caretaker which is being advertised. No woman will even look at the job; and, with a police recommendation, you are bound to get it.'

A WEEK later I was installed as caretaker at 8 Ledbury Gardens, and occupying the bedroom next to the one in which the unfortunate Annie had spent her last hours on earth. The house was one of those really handsome London mansions built in the reign of Queen Anne, and since modernised, without being in any way spoilt. The flagged hall was spacious, in the centre of which hung a magnificent chandelier suspended from a great black hook let into the cross beam beneath a glass roof-light. When I touched the electric switch that lit up the chandelier it seemed to have a thousand sparkling eyes. The glittering, useful ornament, I fancied, was not quite as old as the house.

The staircase was splendid, but the dimly lit top flight was both steep and narrow. I should not have cared to try running down the fourth floor stairs in a hurry, and the banisters, as Bill had said, were exceptionally high.

About the house there was nothing sinister, or in the least unpleasant, such as  the scientific investigator of psychic phenomena expects to feel upon entering a dwelling that is really haunted. At first it seemed to be just a handsome, well-lived-in and well-looked-after London mansion. I say 'at first' advisedly, for sometimes in the still and lonely watches of the night, and especially towards morning, I had that awful sensation of not being alone in the house which I knew to be empty of all other human beings.

I read a lot and I smoked a lot, a great deal more than was good for me. in fact. I got up rather late each morning, but that was excusable, since I spent so much of the night waiting and watching.

The question of servants provided a bit of a problem. Marston had gone abroad immediately after the inquest, which was held before Bill Hollins brought me into the case, and had apparently made no arrangements for the care of his town house. Possibly he had believed that Mrs. Edwards, who had been a sort of cook-housekeeper, would stay on and get a new girl to take her daughter's place. Mrs. Edwards was an old family servant, and it was she, I fancy, who advertised for a caretaker. I managed, however, to get the help of a daily woman, who kept the place clean and cooked my breakfast. I had the rest of my meals out, as there seemed no need for me to be at the house in the daytime.

Night after night passed without a single disturbing happening. There were the usual rustlings and creakings and groanings one expects to hear in any old house. There was nothing abnormal in such phenomena. What caused me to return to the house each evening was an uncanny feeling, amounting almost to a certainty, that there was something more, something which was not of this world, and must be elucidated before whatever ghost there was could be laid to rest.

THE study of the six fatalities which Bill Hollins said had occurred proved intriguing but unprofitable. The details of each tragedy were almost identical, but not all the victims were women. In each case a person had either come out of a bedroom or gone upstairs and looked down into the hall for some minutes before falling over the banisters. In no previous instance had there been even the faintest suggestion of foul play.

By the end of the month for which I had taken the post as caretaker I was beginning to think there was nothing to discover, or if there was, I should not find it out. And yet that inexplicable urge kept nagging away at me to stick to my appallingly dull task for just a little longer, in the hope that Fate might relent.

None the less, as I walked back to Ledbury Gardens one Wednesday evening, considerably later than usual, a new thought came into my mind. Why it had not occurred to me before is hard to understand, for I had heard often enough of the extraordinary power of self-hypnotism which has caused people staring down from an upper floor of an old-fashioned house at a light in the hall to be so fascinated that they have given way to an irresistible desire to throw themselves over. I remembered also how the electric candles of the great chandelier, and the crystal pendants catching their light, seemed to wink at me with a thousand sparkling eyes.

Keen to test the matter further, I quickened by pace. The hall, when I entered the house, was in darkness, as usual; for the daily woman had gone some hours before. Even before my fingers pressed down the electric light switch I was aware of the strange aroma of an unfamiliar perfume. And then my eyes nearly started from their sockets, for, in the sudden blaze of light, I saw a dress sword with a jewelled hilt, such as the Regency bucks wore, resting upon the top of an old oak drawer chest.

I had never seen the weapon there before, and could hardly believe that it could have been found by the charwoman and placed in its present position. With systematic thoroughness I searched the whole house from basement to attic. I found nothing.

MORE than a little puzzled, I left the room and leaned upon the handrail of the banisters at the place from which Amie had fallen, as near as I could tell. For long minutes I gazed down fixedly upon the glittering chandelier, but, although I stared until my eyes ached and my head began to swim, I felt not the slightest temptation to throw myself over, as all those other unfortunate people had done. Grumbling to myself that so hardheaded a person as I am could hardly hope to be fascinated to the point of suicide by collection of Lights, especially when forewarned of the possible effect of staring at them, I went down to the kitchen and made some coffee. Shortly afterwards, despite the slightly unusual circumstances of the evening, I decided to go to bed.

In spite of my apprehensions, I must have slept heavily, for it was the sound a door banging, with a violence which seemed to shake the building, that awakened me towards morning. In an instant I was out of bed and across the room, for I could see through the crack of the door, which I had left ajar, that the lights I had extinguished before going to bed were now blazing in the hall. Creeping to the banisters and peering through the thick balustrades, I saw a strange sight.

In the hall four floors below me stood a handsome man and an amazingly beautiful woman, both dressed in the picturesque costume of the Regency period. They were laughing and seemed to be talking, but they must have been speaking in low tones, or their ghostly lips moved soundlessly, for no words reached my ears. And then the girl, still with a smile upon her lovely features, began to mount the stairs. The man switched on the electric candles at the wall brackets, presumably to give her more light. Then he picked up the sword and set it in the frog attached to the broad baldrick which crossed his chest.

By that time she had reached the third landing and was beginning to mount the fourth flight of stairs. Fascinated, I watched her as she entered the servant's bedroom next to mine. I saw the light go on, and a moment later she reappeared with a puzzled expression on her countenance. Then she crossed the landing and leaned over the handrail at almost the exact spot from which Amie Edwards had fallen.

Suddenly her body seemed to stiffen as she leaned farther and farther over; her hands gripped the rail, raising her slight frame until she stood on tip-toe, but I could do nothing, for some malevolent force seemed to hold me utterly spellbound.

It was the thunder of feet pounding on the stairs and an agonised shouting, 'Not there, my darling. Go back from those rails, I tell you,' that broke the spell and brought me to my senses.

I was only just in time, for she had actually overbalanced when my arms went round her rising legs in a sort of desperate rugby tackle. She screamed and struggled like a wild cat in my grasp, and the man seemed half inclined to thrust me through with the drawn sword which he held in his hand. This, however, was no time for lengthy explanations, for the girl was more than half hysterical and still inclined to struggle. I ordered her sharply to calm herself and the man to put up his sword. The girl, as we carried her downstairs, continued to mutter, 'that man, that dreadful man! Those awful eyes!'

It was not until after the doctor who was summoned had given her a sedative and left that Thomas Marston and I sat down for a heart to heart talk.

MY position was easily enough explained. He, it appeared, had gone quietly abroad to marry a lady with whom he had long been in love, but who had but recently become a widow. They had returned to England only that day, and had come to the house in Ledbury Gardens early in the evening to change into Regency costume for the purpose of attending a fancy dress ball. The day being Wednesday, and both of them knowing the habits of the cook-housekeeper, they had assumed that Mrs. Edwards had gone to the pictures, taking with her the new housemaid, who would probably object to being left alone in the house after the tragic fate of her predecessor.

Upon their return from the fancy dress ball, Mrs. Marston had gone up to the fourth floor to let Mrs. Edwards know that her master had returned -from abroad, bringing with him a wife. There was nothing unusual in this circumstance, for the new Mrs. Marston had known the cook-housekeeper during her own girlhood and previous marriage. Not unnaturally, the Marstons had assumed that the servants would be found asleep in their bedroom on the fourth floor.

That, however, did not clear up the mysterious happenings which had occurred, nor was Mrs. Marston sufficiently recovered until the next evening to accompany us to the fourth floor landing. From there, to my secret disappointment, she showed not the least desire to throw herself over, although, at my request, she stared hard at the chandelier. Then, quite suddenly, I realised the one circumstance that was different, and turned to Marston.

'Will you go down and switch on the lights of the wall brackets?' I requested, and, instinctively, moved nearer to his wife.

As the wall lights went on I felt her body stiffen and heard the stifled gasp of sheer horror that broke from her lips. In an instant my arm went round her shoulders. Then I saw what she saw, and shouted to Marston to put out the wall lights. For one instant I had seen staring up at us, from the panelled wall of the hall below, a fiendish face with the most compelling eyes it has ever been my misfortune to encounter.

Then the wall lights went out and the face, which had not been revealed by the illumination from the chandelier, vanished. I had felt the short hairs rising crisply at the back of my neck, sweat break cold and clammy on my forehead, and a most dreadful urge to hurl myself over the banisters. The strange thing was that when we rejoined Marston in the hall and studied the evil picture we could find nothing frightening or fascinating about it.

It was a portrait of a gentleman of the Regency period, with a full-lipped, sensual mouth and bold eyes, which the artist had given the appearance of staring into whatever corner of the room from which one viewed the painting. Looked at from the level of the hall, it seemed by no means sinister. But I knew for myself the way that picture was capable of changing. Gazed on from the fourth floor landing, the whole expression of the face altered, and the eyes exercised that strange, hypnotic power that had drawn a number of people down to a fearful death.

Further enlightenment came later, when Mrs. Marston had retired and her husband and I were alone.

'I never believed in ghosts, Mulholland,' said Tom Marston, 'but, all the same, I shall destroy that portrait before we go to bed.'

'Who was the man?' I asked curiously.

'An ancestor, but a bad lot, and a coward to boot,' came the answer. 'Morals, as you know, were pretty loose in his time, and he was, moreover, a great friend of the Prince Regent.

'One night, having sent the servants away, he enticed a young married woman to his house. When he became too importunate, she fled to the fourth floor, where he pursued her. The husband, luckily, got wind of the plot, and arrived in time to save his wife's honor. Not unnaturally he challenged my ancestor to a duel; but Claude Marston was a coward, as I have said, and, rather than meet the outraged husband, who was a famous swordsman, he hanged himself, just before dawn, from the great beam that now supports the chandelier.

'There is another thing. That sword with which I threatened you last night, and which I had not the slightest idea was in my hand, belonged to him.'

In silence Tom Marston fetched the portrait from the hall and cut the canvas out of its frame. Then he threw it on to the open fire. The paint blistered and blazed bravely as the flames took hold; but, to the very last, the malevolent features of Claude Marston seemed to leer at us from the heart or the fire, as the canvas crackled and writhed and twisted, and once again I felt the compelling horror of his hateful haunting eyes.

____________________

13: The Owl

Weird Tales Aug 1933

ALISON MERCER was one of the loveliest creatures ever created by the good God. In her case, moreover, beauty was more than merely skin-deep. One came to gasp at the sheer loveliness of her pale face, and the perfect proportions of her slim body, but stayed to wonder, as the days went by, and one came to realize the greater beauties of her stainless soul.

What a girl she was! Pure gold clean through, body and soul alike, all white-hot youth and innocence, unafraid and utterly unsoilable. That was Alison Mercer.

And, because she was what she was, her friends turned up their eyes in horror when they heard of her engagement to Simeon Stroud.

Why did she accept his proposal of marriage? You’ll have to ask her father about that. You see, no one knows what passed between old Tom Mercer and Alison, that time she came back from a ski-ing holiday in Scandinavia. All Alison saw was that the old man had aged greatly in less than thirty days, and her deep, sea-green eyes went wide with worry.

"Daddy, darling,” she expostulated, "you’ve been gambling again!”

"Nothing much, m’dear— bit of a flutter,” mumbled old Tom uncomfortably.

"At least, that’s what it looked like at first. Hell! How was I to know the durned stock was going to drop twenty points in twenty-four hours?” he exploded. “A fellow gave me a sure tip, I tell you. I can’t explain how the certainty came unstuck. All I know is that the chap who landed me in the cart is willing to do the right thing by me. He’s awfully anxious to meet you, Alison!”

"Is he, Daddy? Well, I’ll try to be extra nice to him, if he’s going to help you out of your troubles.”

Tom Mercer shot a queer, sidelong look at his daughter, and his eyes were very anxious.

"You’ll find Stroud a sound sort of fellow,” he suggested.

"What is he, Daddy, a financier, or a company promoter?”

"Neither, my dear. He’s by way of being a famous archeologist and is a great authority on ancient American civilizations. He’s only just back from a big exploration in Mexico. I thought he’d know what he was talking about, or I shouldn’t have put money into Chilean nitrates.”

"Ugh,” shuddered the girl, "those old Aztecs worshipped birds and wore cloaks of feathers. I can’t bear birds, so I hope we’ll be able to keep him off that subject.”

Strangely enough, Alison’s first impression of Simeon Stroud, when he came to Horley Grange and was presented by her father, awakened in her mind all the horrors of her secret, pet obsession. Some people can’t stay in the same room with a cat; others can’t stand the sight of snakes or spiders. Alison Mercer couldn’t abide the touch of a bird, and once, when a girl friend had caught a sparrow and placed it, fluttering, in Alison’s hand, she had fainted clean away. She loved all God’s creatures— don’t let there be any mistake about that— but there was something about the smoothness of a bird’s breast and the palpitation of a bird’s wings that made her physically sick.

And Simeon Stroud was like a bird— not a decent daylight warbler, but some beastly nocturnal fowl, that flew on silent wings and peered in through sleeping people’s windows, with horrible, luminous eyes. Such night-fowls live on flesh. But there was nothing predatory about Simeon Stroud’s appearance. On the other hand, one gathered the impression that this little man was abnormally wise; but one felt, also, that his knowledge was abysmally evil. Further than that he had a quick way of turning his head sharply from side to side, and of shooting furtive, inquiring glances all over the place, while he spoke in a queer, twittering voice. His nose, set between wide, staring eyes, descended almost straight from below his forehead and ended in a sharp, under-turned point. A soft, fluffy fringe of hair, which encircled his face from one ear to the other, did not improve his appearance.

IT took a long time for Alison to become accustomed to Stroud, but he called often at the Grange and she found that in spite of his unusual looks he could be a pleasant companion. And he was by no means a fool. He sensed that the girl had no great liking for him, and, in hunting parlance, he was careful not to rush his fences.

As the weeks went by the girl grew more and more friendly with him. Old Tom Mercer watched the progress of the romance with pleasure. Stroud would be an exceedingly useful son-in-law, and he reflected ruefully that his last flutter had been little short of disastrous.

It must not be thought that Alison was in love with Stroud, but her first feeling of revulsion had died away. Stroud was a past master in the art of working on people’s feelings, and for the moment she really thought she liked him. Besides, there was her father to consider. She knew his failings well enough, she knew that he was hard-pressed financially, and she was alive to the fact that Stroud would certainly help his father-in-law out of his present difficulties. And she loved her father. That was the deciding factor. After several weeks had passed she thought that, taking everything into consideration, she could live happily with Stroud; and, anyway, marriage was always a gamble. But she failed to include in her calculations the way in which Stroud had used his smooth, persuasive tongue.

Most people in Horley referred to the newly engaged couple as "Beauty and the Beast,” but there was one knowledgeable student of mythology who likened them, artfully enough, to Pallas Athene and her owl.

Alison feared a scene when a lighthearted friend disclosed the nature of their latest nickname, for she knew the violence of her fiance’s temper. But, far from being displeased, Stroud positively preened himself, smiling oddly all the time, and finally gave himself a quick shake, for all the world like a bird ruffling up its feathers to get the dust out of them.

"After all,” he said quietly, "Pallas Athene was one of the most beautiful and virtuous of the goddesses of ancient Greece, and it is generally conceded that the owl is the wisest of birds.”

"Well, let's hope you won’t develop its nocturnal habits, after you are married, Mr. Stroud,” teased the irresponsible visitor.

When they were alone that evening, Alison looked long and thoughtfully at her future husband. He had evidently found that the cap, supplied by the nickname, was a good fit, and was well content to wear it. He really was rather like an owl, she told herself, and, for the first time, out there in the half-dark of the veranda, she noted the queer, luminous quality of his tawny-gold eyes. Then, as she continued to study him, she saw that the tops of his ears were Puckishly pointed.

An involuntary shiver ran through her, but she allowed no sign of distress to escape her when he rose presently and came to kiss her good-night. When she was alone, however, her head dropped to her folded arms and her slim shoulders heaved spasmodically. They were to be married soon, and after that there would be no blessed hours of darkness and peace and solitude to follow after that detested evening embrace. She would be the property of Simeon Stroud, body and soul, and again she shuddered at the thought; for during the last few days she began to realize that she was not so confident of the future. There broke from her lips a pitiful little cry, "I am doing it all for you. Daddy; I am doing it all for you!”

A week before Alison’s wedding was due to take place, Hugh Davenant arrived home in England. He went straight from the boat to stay with his married sister at Exton, a small village a couple of miles beyond Horley. Next morning he drove into the town to make some much-needed additions to his wardrobe, for he had worn nothing but the thinnest of garments in the American tropics, and such European suits as he had brought home with him had been purchased ready-made, and were appallingly badly cut. He had something to tell his sister upon his return at lunchtime.

"They say that the world’s a small place,” he announced, as he unfolded his dinner napkin, "and I’m beginning to believe it.”

"Did you run across a pal in Horley, Hugh?” inquired Lambert, his brother-in-law.

"God forbid that I should ever call Simeon Stroud a pal of mine,” Davenant answered piously.

"So you know our local 'lion’, do you, dear?” queried his sister. "He settled among us about twelve months ago. You’ll meet his future wife this afternoon. She’s coming over for tennis.”

Hugh put down his knife and fork hurriedly, and there was a look of real concern on his clear-cut, handsome features.

"Do you mean to say that that man is going to be married?” he queried.

"Yes, dear, and to a most charming girl. But why do you ask? He’s supposed to be tremendously rich.”

"Listen, Claudia,” said Hugh, "Simeon Stroud may be as rich as Croesus, for all I know. That doesn’t alter the fact that he’s a most unutterable swine. The Mexican Indians could tell you queer tales of his cruelties. But, apart from that, I happen to know that he got mixed up with the followers of some horrible, filthy sect out in Mexico, people who claim to be descendants of the old Aztec priests. Between them they tried to revive some ancient form of bird-worship; but, when it came to a question of permitting the sacrifice of young girls to a heathen deity, even a corrupt government stuck in its toes, and wouldn’t stand for that sort of thing.”

"My Lord! Some one ought to warn Alison’s father," broke in Lambert.

"I think you’d find it a pretty thankless task,” responded his wife. "Most people imagine that Tom Mercer has sold Beauty to the Beast.”

"That’s bad,” commented Davenant. "Is she a nice sort of girl?”

A slow smile spread over Claudia Lambert’s features. "You just wait until you see her, my lad,” she answered.

When Alison arrived at the Lamberts’ place that afternoon, the party was in full swing and Hugh was giving an amazing display of agility on the tennis court.

The girl stood quite still, and her breath ceased for an instant, as she caught sight of the players; for that lean, bronzed man who bounded agilely about the court, with wonderful athletic ease, provided the very beau ideal of all her dreams; and she knew, instinctively, that his hand was of the right size to hold her heart.

"I wonder whether you are admiring my brother’s superabundant energy, or his personal appearance most?” said Claudia softly, and Alison came out of her reverie with a self-conscious start.

"He’s rather a dear,” went on Claudia, "and his fitness is perfectly amazing; for he was very badly gassed, to say nothing of being buried alive, when a land mine was blown up, during the war. By the way, Alison, he’s just come home from the part of Mexico where Mr. Stroud made all his discoveries. So you’ll have something in common to start with, when I introduce him to you presently.”

It was not, however, of Mexico that Hugh talked to Alison, when Claudia presented him at the conclusion of the ser. In point of fact he seemed, rather, to go out of his way to avoid touching upon that particular topic. When Alison asked him, point-blank, if he knew her fiancée, he replied shortly that he had met him.

AFTER that first meeting the affair developed with amazing rapidity. If one believed in the existence of such mysterious affinities as "soul-mates,” one would have said drat Alison Mercer had found hers, with her first sight of Hugh Davenant, playing tennis, like a lambent flame, on the Lamberts’ court. She fell head over heels in love with him right away. And because this was so, and because she was intensely loyal to her father and to the promise she had given to Simeon Stroud, she seemed, to Hugh, inexplicably cold at their next meeting.

It was the day after the Lamberts’ party, and Hugh had induced his sister to take him to call at Horley Grange, because he intended dropping a hint of warning in old Tom Mercer’s ear. It wasn’t an easy task to perform, for Alison’s father was most mysteriously "in funds;” wherefore, from that old reprobate’s point of view, "everything was for the best, in this best of all possible worlds.”

None-the-less, Hugh knew a great deal more about the activities in Mexico of Simeon Stroud than he had let fall at his sister’s luncheon table. He had heard tales of a temple, hidden away in the secret heart of the forest, where men made human sacrifice to a bird which, even allowing for the extravagance of native legends, must be something quite abnormal in the avian world. Once, on a hunting expedition, in that same forest, he had found the body of a young girl, frightfully and filthily mutilated, and with the eyes pecked out. On another occasion he had met a newly blinded man who ran screaming through the trees, with blood streaming from features which had been tom to ribbons by rending talons.

These things he had seen with his own eyes. And men said that it was Simeon Stroud, who had discovered the secrets of long-dead Aztec priests, selling his soul in exchange for those secrets, who had revived the awful rites attendant upon the worship of the Great Bird.

Tom Mercer laughed, but took no offense, when his young visitor hinted that he should, as a father, make further inquiries before permitting his daughter’s marriage to take place.

"You’re a sly dog, Davenant,” he chuckled, "and Alison is a wonderfully desirable girl, but I’m afraid you’re a bit too late in the field. We are under great obligations to Simeon Stroud.”

They had been pacing the terrace of Horley Grange as they talked, but now Hugh Davenant stopped suddenly in mid-stride.

Was he in love with this glorious girl who had come so suddenly into his life? Pity? Ah yes! He had pitied her from the bottom of his heart, ever since he had heard that she was destined to marry Simeon Stroud. But, even though pity is so close to love, as hate is akin to fear, the notion of loving her, himself, had never entered his head, until Tom Mercer had made his covert suggestion.

THEN, as they stood there, the girl came round the corner of the house and the man knew, recognizing the finger of Fate as clearly as the girl had done yesterday, when she had seen him for the first time upon the Lamberts’ tennis court, he loved Alison Mercer with all his soul.

The wonder and the glory of the revelation held him, however, for but the briefest instant. There was something woefully amiss with the present situation. Why were Alison’s cheeks wet with tears? What could have happened to bring to her eyes, which normally reflected nothing but the serenity of her soul, that look of sheer, naked terror that now informed them? Why was she trembling, and why came and went her breath in little frightened gasps?

Behind her stood Simeon Stroud, who might have answered all those questions.

At the sight of her parent, the last shreds of a tremendous determination, which had sustained her, deserted Alison Mercer. With a little stifled cry, half tears, half laughter, she ran to her father, drawing his protecting arms closely about her body and hiding her face upon his breast.

"Why, my precious, why now, what’s amiss?” he soothed her, and his voice was wonderfully tender.

"Oh, Daddy, it was awful, awful!” sobbed the girl. "We were watching the sunset, Simeon and I, and, although the light has not yet gone, a great white owl came flying silently out of the woods and settled on my shoulder. It was an owl, and yet it was different from any owl I have ever seen, and, oh Daddy, it was utterly evil!”

"There, there, little one, come along to old Nannie; she’ll stay with you while you lie down for a bit. Simeon, will you look after Davenant? I’ll be coming back with a shotgun shortly, for I’m not too fond of owls myself.”

"I am sorry,” Stroud answered, "but I have an important letter to write before the mail leaves. Perhaps Mr. Davenant will excuse me?”

When Mercer returned to the terrace a few minutes later he carried a loaded gun tucked under his arm, and his face was very grave.

"Davenant, my boy,” he volunteered, "I’m a bluff, John Bull sort of chap, without much imagination, probably, but I’m damned if I like this business!”

"Miss Mercer has told you what really happened, then?” Hugh asked sharply.

"Yes, it appears that Stroud got a bit amorous, round there at the back of the house. Alison swears that when she refused to allow him to kiss her in full view of the windows of the servants’ quarters, he lost his temper and uttered a most peculiar cry. Whereupon, or so she says, that great owl that scared her so badly came winging up from the woods. It may be only her imagination, of course, but she declares that the bird flew straight for her eyes, and only settled on her shoulder at a word from Stroud. I suppose you don’t think there is anything in all this business?”

Hugh did not reply. For long moments he remained, leaning against the balustrade, while he puffed thoughtfully at his pipe. Then he, in his turn, asked a question.

"One hates to work on hearsay, Mr. Mercer,” he stated apologetically, "but local gossip has it that Stroud has got you under his thumb. You can tell me to mind my own business if you like, of course; but, frankly, just how deeply are you in his debt?”

"I owe him £20,000.”

"Was the advance made after he became engaged to your daughter?”

"Yes,” said Mercer, speaking very low, and the red color which flushed his face was no reflection of the setting sun.

Hugh dropped a kindly hand upon the old fellow’s shoulder. "Transfer your debt to me,” he said. "I don’t pretend to be a millionaire, but I’d pay a good deal more than the money you owe Simeon Stroud to secure your daughter’s happiness.”

Tom Mercer looked this sudden savior in the eyes with startled delight. "Why, yes,” he breathed, "that would be one way of setting Alison free, wouldn’t it?”

The girl herself reacted strangely to the news of her release from the hateful engagement, to which she had committed herself for her father’s sake. Old Tom, who insisted upon acquainting her with the glad tidings, just as if her salvation was entirely of his own devising, wished to save her the painful task of giving her fiancé his conge in person. But to this plan she would not consent

"No, Daddy,” she said firmly, "we’re treating Simeon pretty badly, anyway. The least I can do, in common decency, is to see him and tell him how sorry I am if the breaking-off of our engagement should cause him any pain.”

"Spoken like my own brave little girl,” said her father heartily. "But at least you must let me be present at the interview.”

Alison smiled as she shook her head, but she was neither smiling nor feeling particularly courageous as she took her way to the dark house where Stroud lived, deep in the woods.

SHE found him seated in a deep chair in his gloomy, book-lined library. When he rose to greet her, and would have taken her in his arms, she pushed him gently away.

"Simeon,” she said, pausing just inside the door, "I am afraid I have come to hurt you. This engagement of ours has been all a dreadful mistake. I have never loved you; and Simeon, there is something about you—something bird-like— that terrifies me. I have tried to go through with it, for my father’s sake, but, oh Simeon, I just couldn’t face it all, when it came to the final pinch.”

Stroud returned to his seat without a word, and then the girl realized, with a half-stifled gasp of horror, that a great owl had fluttered silently out of the shadows and was perched upon the high back of its master’s chair. The fascination of the moment was frightful. Man’s and bird’s alike, the two pairs of eyes glowed luminous and golden in the half-dark. Man and bird alike seemed to brood, with heads sunk forward; and the girl saw, with a shudder, that each had sharply pointed ears; but whereas those of the great bird were feathered, those of the gross man were tip-pointed with tufts of hair.

"So,” sneered Simeon, "you do not find yourself able to love me, my fair Alison?”

"Oh, please. I’m so sorry,” she broke in.

The man silenced her with never a gesture, never a movement, but only by the luminous intensity of the stare he turned upon her. And, from close beside his head, the owl stared at her too.

"I was not thinking of you or me,” he answered, in his soft, bird-like voice; "I was only pitying your father, who must suffer for this sudden folly of yours.”

Something in the covert sneer aroused the girl’s anger.

"My father will pay you back the money with which you sought to buy me,” she flared back at him.

The man rose slowly to his feet and moved toward her down the length of the room, and as he came, the owl fluttered up from the back of the chair and floated forward, not a foot above his head. Bird and man together, they presented an awful picture of incarnate evil. Alison shrank back with a low moan of fear, for Simeon Stroud’s hand was rising, each moment his eyes seemed to grow larger, and his lips were framing the strange call which, she felt sure, would unloose that grim familiar, fluttering overhead to attack her eyes.

Then the unbearable tension was broken. A sharp rap echoed from the panels and the door was flung open.

"Mr. Davenant has called for Miss Mercer, sir!” announced the man-servant, and Alison ran past him into the well-lit hall where Hugh was waiting. One last frightened look she threw back into the gloomy library. Simeon Stroud still stood there, hand half raised and somber eyes smoldering in deep sockets, but of the owl that had fluttered above his head she could see no sign.

NEXT DAY Simeon Stroud received his £20,000 from old Tom Mercer’s solicitor and from that time onward the folks of Horley saw him no more. From that time, too, Alison Mercer became a changed woman. All the carefree happiness of girlhood returned to her; she had found love and she had no fear of taking between her two hands the best of all gifts the gods may bestow upon mortals. But summer had come and gone again before Hugh returned to Horley, to ask for her hand in marriage and to receive such a joyful assent as set his whole soul singing.

They were to be married just before Christmas, and Hugh had taken an old-fashioned, furnished house at Uleswood in the lake district for their honeymoon. The place was in wild country, not far from Ullswater. There was a distinct similarity between the two names, and it never occurred to Hugh that "ule” is the old English form for "owl,” and that "Uleswood” is, therefore, "Owlswood;” otherwise he might have chosen another locality for their honeymoon. But Stroud seemed to have vanished entirely from their lives, and it is doubtful if they even gave a thought to him, until Alison received, among the last of many wedding presents, four silver pepper-casters fashioned to represent owls. No card accompanied this gift, but she entertained no doubt as to whence it had come; and yet, for some reason, which she did not even attempt to explain to herself, she did not mention the matter to Hugh. Those four silver symbols filled her with a vague dread, and perhaps she feared that mention to Hugh of her former fiancé might cast some shadow upon the magic wonder of their honeymoon.

The house at Uleswood proved to be a perfect little gem of steep-gabled roofs, leaded and mullioned windows and oak-panelled rooms. The night they arrived was one of gorgeous moonlight, the bedroom was hot and close with the resinous reek of the pine logs blazing in the hearth, and Alison set the window wide open before she crept into bed.

MIDNIGHT was long past when a finger of moonlight stole softly across the floor, crept up the wall and travelled on until it rested upon two heads—one dark, the other golden—which lay so close to one another. Hugh stirred uneasily and murmured in his sleep.

"Twhitt! Twhoo!”

Hugh’s sleepy eyes opened, and he turned in search of that beauty of soul and body that the night had given entirely into his keeping.

"Twhitt! Twhoo!"

Faint and from far away the horned owl’s cry came echoing.

Hugh’s hand stretched out and touched the soft, warm curve of his bride’s breast that rose and fell so gently. The lovely warmth of living flesh comforted him, banished the vague fear which the owl’s cry had aroused in his half-wakened fancy. A small hand sought for and encircled his fingers. His head sank back upon the pillow. Sleep was returning.

"Twhitt! Twhoo!”

Louder, and nearer now. Great evil eyes, luminous and eerie, glared in through the leaded panes. Wide wings were spread and a vast form floated silently toward the open casement. Hugh Davenant turned restlessly and shuddered in his sleep. The moon was gone, swallowed up by a bank of black-bellied clouds. The white mystery circled slowly above the wedded lovers slumbering in that soft warm bed. Silence, abysmal darkness. Nothing save twin lamps of fear that floated through the gloom.

Hugh Davenant dreamed that he was back in a front-line trench in Flanders. Once more the blind night rocked to the awful roar of big guns; once more the trench-lights soared, green and ghastly, toward the storm-dark skies; and yet once more the dreaded northeast gas wind came blowing out of the blackness across No Man’s Land, with death enfolded beneath the silence of its wings— its wings silent as those of an owl.

"Twhitt! Twhoo!”

The claws of the gas cloud were searching for Davenant’s windpipe; its wings descended upon his face, tearing and rending his flesh. A catch at the back of his throat — fight it off! Kill those bloody swine in the helmets who were following up the foul veils of death they had let loose.

Something was striking at his eyes now. God! if they should blind him! Then, at last, his hands closed upon living flesh. Something human to battle with— something that couldn’t kill, as the poison gas killed— a soft human throat— the shrill whistle of life’s breath crushed out by merciless hands. Dear God, if he could only see! See and exult at the sight of starting eyeballs, glimpse the black tongue protruding through snarling lips! Curse this gas helmet that was blinding him!

He released his hands to snatch it off and felt his fingers sink into soft feathers, while something tore at his face with rending agony.

"Oh Christ! Jesu Christ, save me!”

Weak and agonized, the pitiful prayer echoed in his ears and he knew, as the mists of dream-madness cleared from his brain, that it was around her throat— his wife’s throat— that his hands had been locked in the awful death-grip.

His hand stretched out toward the lamp beside the bed, but before his fingers could find the switch, something soft and feathery struck him in the face again, and again a hooked beak pecked savagely at his eyes.

"Oh! Jesu Christ, save us both from the Power of the Beast!”

Again that feeble, piteous cry for aid; and, as if in answer from overhead, a terrifying scream of baffled rage:

"Twhitt! Twhoo!”

Hugh’s fumbling fingers found the switch, the room was flooded with light, and he saw a great owl, as big as an eagle it seemed, go circling round the room for the last time.

As it vanished through the window, Hugh, heedless of the blood streaming from his features, snatched up the revolver which long habit overseas had accustomed him to placing always upon a table beside his bed, and sprang to the open casement. As he reached the window the moon sailed into sight and he saw the great owl flying fast and low above the ground as it circled toward the house for a fresh attack.

The vastness of it seemed to fill all the space of night as it rushed upon him, but the man’s nerves were steady as chilled steel, as he fired again and again, aiming with deadly deliberation to send the heavy bullets smashing into the evil brain behind those luminously glowing eyes.

And then it was over. With a last wild shriek, the awful cry of some lost soul hurled down to face everlasting damnation, the great owl heeled over and fluttered slowly to the earth.

Alison crept shakily across the room, fingering her bruised throat with tender touch. She closed and barred the casement and turned to tend the man whose handsome features had been cut to ribbons by the cruel talons of the great bird.

IN the morning, a gardener coming early to his work found beneath the window of the honeymooning couple the dead body of a man with strangely pointed ears and a fringe of soft hair encircling his features. The rest of his face was unidentifiable, for heavy bullets had smashed their way through between the eyes, and the head was almost blown to pieces.

But to whom, save Simeon Stroud, could those pointed, hair-tipped ears and that strange fringe of feathery fluff about the chin have belonged?

_________________

14: This Little Pig

World's News (Sydney) 18 May 1940

A SOUNDER of swine came down a steep path in the containing wall of the Rift Valley and trotted sedately out across the open plain, where the fierce sun overhead set the heat haze dancing and an occasional dust-devil rose higher and higher and went whirling madly away.

The boar, who led the party, was as brave as he was hideous, and anyone acquainted with Phacochoerus Aethioplcus Masaicus could have told you that he would fight to the last gasp, if you happened to get his back up. By that same token the five sows, trotting along behind him, were not averse to a fight and they were no mean scrappers either.

At the moment, however, the half dozen wart-hogs were not thinking of war, murder or sudden death; they were, in fact, peacefully occupied in looking for a nice, empty burrow in which the sows might produce their litters when November should come along.

In these circumstances the wart-hogs, no doubt, had reasonable grounds for annoyance when a bobbery pack burst out from a screen of trees, followed by five horsemen, all armed with hog spears.

Two sows were speared in the first scamper, another was bayed by the lurchers who led the pack and was despatched with a long hunting knife after a bull terrier had pinned her by the ear. The fourth sow charged five times, took a spear each time and would have got away, but, in backing down the earth she had sighted, was summarily ejected by the tenant and so was forced to charge for the sixth time, when she fell to a revolver bullet.

Meanwhile, the boar and his sole remaining sow held straight on for a small hillock that seemed to offer prospects of providing a good burrow. As they were nearing the mound, however, an hysterical barking and the thunder of hoofs warned the boar that it was time to turn and fight. He was an ugly, clumsy looking brute, but the speed at which he moved, when he swung left-handed to lead the chase away from the line the sow was following, was simply incredible. The dogs streamed after him, and the men, who had seen his 15-inch tushes, sat down to some hard riding.

When the old boar judged that the leading rider was near enough, he did not wait for the spear, but came round like a flash and charged straight at the horseman, scattering the intervening dogs to right and left in his rush.

The spear point just grazed his flank and he was round and had charged again before the man was well clear. That time he got home with a jump and ripped the horse's belly.

The second man, riding hard, missed him altogether and the pig paused to take a look round. The. expression on his hideous features seemed to say, as plainly as any words: "If you want any more you can have it!" Then he trotted away with his absurd little corkscrew tail bolt upright.

The pig-stickers let him go, for that time, since they were busy attending to their friend, who had broken a leg when his pony fell before the boar's onslaught. The dogs, however, gave chase, after hesitating for a moment, and then, just as he seemed to be upon the point of diving head first into a black hole that loomed ahead, the big boar spun round and backed into the friendly orifice tail foremost, presenting a comical face, but a dangerous front, to the disappointed dogs.

From that same burrow, a few minutes earlier the sow had ejected a particularly angry family of hyenas, who had made no more than a half-hearted attempt to defend their tenancy.

In this burrow the two wart-hogs settled down, and there, in due season, Ungru was born, as one of a litter of half a dozen piglets. From the very beginning he was different to his brothers and sisters, for while they were nuzzling and fighting for their food he always seemed to get his rations without any fuss or bother and, moreover, without taking part in their unseemly broils. Perhaps his mother favored him, because he gave her less trouble than any of her other youngsters. His surly old father, too, grew fond of him, by reason of an endearing habit Ungru had of snuggling up against the old boar for warmth, when the sow was fully occupied with the rest of the squealing, squeaking, struggling litter. At such, times Ungru took good care to keep quiet and to lie very still for he knew his father's wish to be corrected  by the old boar's particularly sharp tushes.

Ungru admired those long curved ivories greatly; one of his earliest, never-to-be- forgotten recollections was the thrill he experienced when Fisi, the hyena, gathered a few boon companions one moonlight night with some idea of turning out the warthogs who had evicted his own family from the burrow, only to learn that it did not pay to try conclusions with the 15-inch tushes of a full grown boar.

Some time later, when the piglets were old enough to run on their sturdy little legs, and the sow took than abroad, Ungru derived intense amusement from the attacks made upon his family by the mongrel dogs belonging to the shamba (farm) on which the burrow was situated. It is true that one of his sisters came to an untimely end, but that in no way marred Ungru's enjoyment of the spectacle of his mother chasing the marauders and snapping off their tails

Where dogs were concerned the savage, lightning tactics of the sow usually saved her litter from coming to any harm; for once she had got the dogs on the run she never allowed them to stop running until they reached home, or she overtook one of them. When that happened she would sometimes rip him up, but more often she would teach him a summary lesson by biting off his tail.

With other enemies to little piglets, however, the sow's sheer impetuosity frequently brought disaster upon her family. Thus, when a regular pack of jackals would come tearing down upon the pig family out in the open, the sow, brave as her mate in defence of her little ones, but forgetful of their lack of speed, could be lured to the pursuit of a fleet-footed jackal, whose crafty companions were thus left free to deal with the helpless little pigs.

Upon such occasions Ungru always managed to find a safe hiding place; or, if they were caught right out in the open, he just dropped in his tracks and shammed dead, until the danger was over.

After two more of the family had been killed, however, Ungru completely deserted his mother and took to running with his father, Ngrui, who, he thought, was better qualified to protect him; for this little pig soon came to realise that while his father shared fully his mother's most excellent quality of courage, he was not equally afflicted by her insane inability to resist the temptation to read her enemies a lesson at any cost, and, usually, at the cost of a little pig's life.

It was shortly after this transfer of allegiance had been effected that Chui, a big, beautifully marked leopard, took up his residence in that part of the world. The first intimation the warthogs were given of his presence was strangely staged.

Perhaps the big beast had come to sun himself upon the dome-like top of the burrow after a night's hunting, or perhaps he knew the nature of the occupants; for the prey a leopard appreciates next best to a pet dog is a little pig. Anyway, Ungru's sole remaining brother squeaked to him soon after dawn had broken one morning, and they set off along the tunnel that led up to the open air.

Ungru, rather from caution than politeness, allowed his brother to precede him, but as that little pig emerged from the burrow something hit him on the side of the head with the force of a flail and, thereupon, he vanished from sight.

Ungru stood quite still for a moment, considering the phenomenon. Then he jumped quickly to one side as his mother came rushing up the passage.

A moment later a terrific uproar of grunting, screaming and snarling woke the morning echoes, and Ungru, the stiff bristles rising all along his spine, went cautiously forward to investigate.

Just beyond the mouth of the burrow a big leopard, tensely vigilant, stood with one paw resting possessively upon the piglet it had killed and round that leopard circled the old sow, seeking for a chance to rush in. The leopard, however, was sinking lower and lower upon his haunches, and Ungru, realising that the big brute was about to release its pent-up energy in a death-dealing spring, squealed an urgent warning. That squeal distracted Chui's attention, but failed to save the sow, for she, thinking her chance had come, charged home. A shattering blow from a heavily-taloned forepaw stopped her and, before she could recover, the leopard was on her back, with great fangs sinking into her shoulders and crushing her spine.

Ungru waited to see no more, but bolted into the burrow as fast as his legs would take him and there Ngrui found him when he returned from some all night expedition of his own.

After that, some months went by, while Ungru was getting his growth and cutting his tushes. During that time the old boar discovered where the leopard had his lair, and when Chui and his mate were out hunting together took a partial revenge by killing their cubs.

Thus a blood feud was firmly established, and Ngrui, who would not leave the district until he had had a full reckoning with his enemy, warned his offspring to keep close to the burrow, until he should be old enough and big enough to look after himself, and never, on any account, to go into the forest, since the leopards were in. the habit of lying out along the branches of trees, whence they could drop swiftly on to the back of an unsuspecting animal passing along title game trails.

Ungru took good notice of that warning, although it was scarcely needed, since he was mighty careful of his own skin; although, at the same time, he was just as keen as his father upon playing the leopards back in their own coin.

Thus the year passed and the mating season came round again, but the two male wart-hogs lived on in solitude in their burrow, for the lust of vengeance was stronger in both of them than the urge of the seasonal call to reproduce their species.

Meanwhile, the leopardess was due to bring forth a new litter, and the two boars were constantly in the vicinity of the lair, waiting to seize any opportunity that might offer of taking their revenge. The leopardess, however, lay close in her cave, at the mouth of which her mate usually kept guard. But when the cubs were born Chui was forced to be away a good deal, hunting for the mother and her litter. It was then the wart-hogs discovered the turn in the cave round which the sinuous body of a leopard could pass, but which was too narrow for their own more solid bulk.

Then they started following Chui; but twice, when they thought they had him cornered, he bounded clean over them and made his escape with almost contemptuous ease.

At last, however, they caught him actually on his kill at the end of a narrow ravine with high, perpendicular walls. The big, black-spotted beast turned at bay at once, but the old boar charged straight in, while Ungru took up his position at what he believed to be the extreme limit of a leopard's leap, so that he might deal with the brute if it strove to avoid Ngrui's attack by its usual method of jumping over him.

That day, however, Chui stood his ground, until the aggressor was barely a hand's breadth from him. Then he shot straight up into the air, turned miraculously in mid-spring and landed facing in the opposite direction. Almost as his four pads touched the rocky ground he launched himself again and landed right on the back of Ngrui, who had been carried forward by the force of his own rush.

Ungru, all thought of his own safety completely forgotten, charged at once; but, already, the leopard had bitten Ngrui clean through the backbone. That was one enemy disposed of, but Chui was a coward at heart and screamed terribly as the young boar's immature tushes scored his side. He struck out savagely with his forepaws but missed his stroke. Ungru whirled round like a well-trained polo pony and charged again, but the leopard had had enough and the way out of the ravine was open.

The young boar grunted with fierce disgust as he watched the lithe-bodied brute galloping away. Then, after nuzzling the carcase of his dead sire for a moment, Ungru trotted away to his now desolate burrow. On his way home he passed several sounders of wart-hogs; but, although there were unmated sows among them, they did not attract his attention.

It was shortly after the happenings that have just been related, that Jim Bolton, who farmed that section of the Rift Valley, began catching occasional glimpses of Ungru, whose exceptional growth and speed was bound to attract the attention of any keen pig-sticker. Bolton, however, had no time to devote to his favorite pastime at the moment, since the leopards, whose lair he had been unable to locate, had taken to raiding his sheep folds. The farmer had tethered goat, domestic pig, and even one of his dogs, and had sat up night after night, but the leopards had not been lured by his bait.

Ungru knew these things and watched events with a sort of tense interest, for he had seen Bolton shoot buck and realised dimly that the man who could take life thus miraculously, without ever going near his victim, could probably, if he was given the chance, take that revenge upon Chui and his mate, which Ungru, despite his ever-growing strength and his undoubtedly fierce courage, was unable to consummate.

Then friends came to stay with Jim Bolton, and they were as keen as their host upon putting a spear into a good hog. And, to serve his own ends, Ungru was willing to accommodate them— up to a point. First, however, he knew that it would be necessary for him to get the leopards away from their lair.

He might never have been able to carry out his plan, for he was just too big and a bit too dangerous for the leopards to be inclined to chase him for sport, and he was too old, and his flesh too highly tainted, for them to be tempted to hunt him for food.

Fate, however, favored Ungru, for Jim Bolton moved his flocks to the furthest part of his shamba, in the hope that distance would keep them safe from depredations. But, that same night, Chui picked up the trail of the sheep and his hunting call summoned his mate to his side. Ungru, also, heard that harsh cry and he was close behind the leopardess when she joined her lord and master.

The boar followed them to the sheepfold, although the distance was great; but at dawn he was back, rooting and grunting in the garden in front of Bolton's bungalow. The noise he made aroused the farmer, who, after one glance through the window, told his servant to have the ponies saddled quickly and went off to wake his friends. By the time they were dressed and mounted
the boar had left the damaged garden and was far enough away from the bungalow to be out of harm's way. The direction in which he was travelling, however, led straight to the line across the open plain which the leopards would take on the way back from the sheep folds to their lair, which he knew they could not reach until the sun was well up.

Presently he trotted to the top of a hillock, from which point of vantage he caught a glimpse of the returning marauders, still a long way off.

Meanwhile, Bolton and his two companions were galloping hard on the line the boar had taken. Ungru, from the top of the hillock, saw them coming and settled down to race for his life.

Running very fast, he made straight for a nullah that crossed the level plain. It was very deep, but not too wide for a horseman to jump. He had already decided that he could just about reach that refuge before a spear-point plunged home in his side and, meanwhile, he was counting upon the leopards stopping to drink, after their kill, at the stream which flowed between the high banks.

After a few moments, however, he began to feel not a little anxious, for the thunder of oncoming hooves sounded ever louder behind him, and the stunted mimosa trees, which marked the line of the river, still looked a long way off.

With his lungs laboring as they had never labored before, Ungru held straight on. There was no time for even one glance back over his humped shoulders to see how close the pursuit really was; but some instinct warned him and he jinked just in time to dodge the spear-thrust that was aimed at his flank. Next instant he tumbled over the edge of the nullah, which the mount of the leading horseman cleared in a superb leap. Bolton and his other friends managed to pull up their ponies in the nick of time.

The sudden arrival of Ungru, and the sight of the horseman shooting overhead, startled the leopards who were drinking and both of them bolted up the bank of the nullah, down which the boar had just slithered.

Bolton and his friend saw them, headed them off from turning back into the friendly shelter they had just left, and sat down to chase them.

Had the leopards stood their ground, prepared to spring at the right moment, the men, armed only with hog-spears and revolvers, might have stood but little chance against them. But Chui and his mate had their noses turned towards home and they both forgot that, Nature having endowed their species with exceedingly small throats, they could travel fast, but not very far, in one burst.

The leopardess flagged first and her heart was cleanly split by the point of her pursuer's spear. Chui, at the last moment, decided to stand and fight; but, as he turned, the racing pony bowled him over and Jim Bolton's spear drove home in the pit of his stomach.

Ungru, who had come up the bank to witness the killing, dropped down to the water and assuaged his thirst. Then he trotted quietly away along the course of the river and so regained his own burrow.

That night he chose for himself a mate, but by the next dawn he and his sow were far up the side of the Rift Valley, on passage to new pastures; for Ungru was no fool, and he knew that the men who had hunted him once would hunt him again, if he stayed in their vicinity; and so, although the season was already late for mating, he was seeking a new and distant home where his sow might rear her first litter in peace.

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15: Korongo the Arrogant

World's News (Sydney) 2 March 1940

KORONGO had shown a strain of arrogance in his character, even in his cub days, of which his mother, the great, sleek leopardess, who lived in the Chinyata Mountains, could not cure him.

The unpleasant trait first became apparent one bright morning, when the hot African sunlight streamed into the mouth of the cave, warming the rocks, and thus creating a sun bath such as leopards love. Korongo's brother, a chubby little fellow, lay still and purred with contentment, as the rough rasp of his mother's tongue tickled his ribs and set all his body tingling. But Korongo, when his turn came, did not take kindly to tickling, and he hated being washed by his mother, because he considered he was quite old enough to perform his own ablutions.

So when his mother dropped her tender muzzle over his lean spotted body, without warning he bit her hard and painfully upon the nose.

The punishing buffet which sent Korongo hurtling across the cave would have killed anything less hardy than a young leopard. He hit the wall with a sickening thud, and lay where he had fallen, his legs spreadeagled, his lips lilted in a wicked snarl. His mother blinked at him, pleased, that she had not hurt him, but nonetheless certain that her punishment was justified.

Her mate, stretched on his side on the rocky ledge outside the cave, glanced lazily over his shoulder, and then proceeded to lick a forepaw where the dust had lodged between the pads. He did not feel called upon to interfere. Korongo, he knew, was an awkward little beast, and probably deserved all he had got. In any case, he was far too comfortable in the warm sunlight to admonish his cubs so long as they did not disturb, him.

But the lesson had no effect upon Korongo, and it quickly became as plain as the markings on his handsome coat that he had no intention of changing the black spots in his nature. He bullied his chubby brother in a most shameful manner, and the frequent corrections administered by his parents only made him more defiant.

So soon as he began to explore the countryside round the cave he got into trouble. Some animals, like people, are fated to be like that. His first encounter with a porcupine, about whose peculiarities he had been duly warned, was disastrous, and he returned home with black and white quills embedded in his nose so that it resembled an ornamented pin-cushion. He received no sympathy, and-that evening, to ease his ruffled feelings, he quarrelled with his brother until his father, annoyed, by their squealing, cuffed them both. But Korongo's nose was sore for a week.

The only result of this adventure was that he nursed a grievance against all porcupines, and became more defiant to his parents than previously. Consequently, when a week or two later he encountered a bad-tempered old wart hog he did not hesitate to pick a quarrel.

The wart hog, possibly the ugliest of all four-footed creatures, was rooting about among the undergrowth, looking rather like a bottle-nosed colonel, who has become badly stuck in ,a bunker. At intervals, earth flew in all directions, but in spite of his apparent preoccupation, the wart hog was fully aware of Korongo's stealthy approach from behind. So that, when the leopard made his rush, the wart hog slipped nimbly aside, and only a sudden twist of Korongo's lean body saved him from being disembowelled by the sideways and upwards thrust of the pig's terrible tusks.

Korongo crouched, ready to spring, his lips curled in a vicious snarl. The wart hog, his little eyes twitching in fury, saw that his assailant was hardly more than a cub. Although he would not have tried conclusions with an adult leopard, he decided to teach this youngster a lesson in manners. It is highly probable that Korongo, in his arrogance, would have come off second best. He was conceited enough to believe he could defeat this ugly old gentleman, although he was totally inexperienced in his adversary's method of lighting. However, as the pig advanced warily, a black and yellow body shot out of the undergrowth, and knocked him off his short legs. Korongo's brother had come to his rescue, but for this altruistic action he received a severe gash in the flank from the wart hog's tusks, before that startled and indignant beast vanished in the undergrowth.

When Korongo was about the size of a whippet, and almost as lean and fleet of foot, he received a hiding from his father which made an impression, even on his perverse mind. One day he discovered, ascending a narrow game track through, the forest, a strange, white-faced animal, with an amazing skin, walking on its hind legs, and carrying a short stick. Korongo wrinkled up his muzzle, stepped out of the bushes, and barred the stranger's path.

The stranger halted. Korongo bared his teeth and crouched. Very slowly this curious, two-legged animal raised the short stick, keeping his eyes firmly fixed upon Korongo. As the stick reached shoulder-level, Korongo's father dropped from the bough of a tree above the stranger's head, knocking him senseless. At the same moment, there loud bang, and some unseen thing whistled eerily past Korongo. In a flash he disappeared Into the forest, followed by his father.

There was a painful interview when they reached the cave. Korongo was beaten and warned by his father and mother never, if he valued his life, to touch man, but always to keep out of his way. Korongo sulked for a week.

The time came, however, when his arrogance could no longer be kept within bounds. He quarrelled with his father over a monkey, and instead of submitting, as he had always done, he bared his teeth, and sprang at his parent. For three minutes there was a first-class fight, but Korongo, for all his self confidence, had not the necessary weight, strength, nor experience. He retreated, dazed and bleeding from half a dozen wounds, and he never returned to the cave.

After a few days' sullen convalescence in the forest, he moved south through the thick-growing trees, where he got some amusement from chasing the elusive jungle cocks whom he met, so that, not unnaturally, he paid a good deal of attention to the skinny fowls of the natives, when he entered the country where the Masai dwelt.

Drawing nearer to civilisation and the farms of the white men, Korongo met the domestic pig. Remembering the wart hog, he treated them with suspicion, but he soon realised that the pink and white brutes were practically defenceless, and they provided him with many a succulent meal.

This fondness for pork attracted the unwelcome attention of the settlers, and Korongo, who had gained some sense with his inches, and remembered the lessons of his youthful days, left the district.

After a week's leisurely journey, he found a comfortable lair, close to which was an admirable rock, where a leopard could sun himself. There, having defeated three other suitors in fair fight, Korongo brought his mate and, in due course, two yellow and black bundles of fur were playing in the entrance of the cave.

For a while, life was very placid. There was plenty of hunting, and three miles away was a farm, from which Korongo took an occasional pig or chicken. But he was careful not to make himself a nuisance. One evening, however, Korongo, bent upon a pig, was lying in the last rays of the sun on the verge of the forest, waiting for darkness to fall, when a figure clad in white approached. Korongo recognised it as the female of the man species, and so well did his spotted coat blend with his surroundings that the woman was within ten yards of him before she saw him.

She halted immediately, but Korongo's conceit did not allow him to be disturbed. He blinked at her with lazily contemptuous eyes and yawned. Unfortunately, the woman's fox-terrier discovered him. An infuriated black and white demon launched itself at the leopard, snapping and barking. Thoroughly startled, Korongo sprang to his feet, made a vague dab with one paw, and bolted into the forest.

Korongo's pride was deeply injured. He did not forget the indignity, and a week later, while the woman, her husband, and their son were having tea on the verandah of their bungalow, he suddenly shot into sight, a swiftly-moving blur of black and yellow, snatched up the fox-terrier, and was gone with the speed of summer lightning.

Although he was not aware of it, that was a fatal action, for at once the white man awoke to the risk of having so dangerous and bold an animal in the vicinity. From dogs to children was but a short step, and the curly-headed boy of seven was the idol of his parents. Natives were employed to track Korongo, and presently his lair was discovered.

One afternoon, he returned from the forest, where he had been chasing monkeys, to find that his mate and cubs had vanished. For a time he was puzzled, until at last, sniffing anxiously about the cave. He smelled the scent of man.

Instantly, he crouched belly flat to the ground, his ears pressed back against his sloping skull, his yellow eyes narrowed. But his enemies had gone, as he learned by further investigation of their scent. Also, his mate and cubs had gone with them, a few yards outside the cave Korongo found a pool of blood. His red tongue touched it tentatively, and from the scent of the ground round about, he realised that his mate had lain there. He gave a peculiar whining cry of distress

For three days Korongo haunted the vicinity of the cave, though his instinct warned him not to enter, but neither his mate nor his cubs returned. Korongo, connecting their disappearance with the human scent, burned with the desire for vengeance. That night, he left the neighborhood of the cave, and made his way towards the nearest village. Outside it he found a native whom nightfall had overtaken.

Korongo launched his attack from the bough of a tree, copying the method by which his father had rescued him from the first white man he had ever seen. Only Korongo no longer heeded the advice he had received on that occasion. He had a wrong to avenge. He was no more able to forget the death of his mate and the disappearance of his cubs than he had been able to swallow the indignity of being scared by the fox-terrier.

The native went down under the weight of Korongo's hundred and forty pounds, and before he could cry out his skull had been smashed by a taloned paw. Korongo returned to the forest, having drunk his fill of blood.

Two days later he found an old woman sleeping beneath the shade of a roadside tree, until the heat of the midday sun had waned. By her side was a bundle of firewood, which she had collected. It is doubtful if she ever knew what it was that tore out her throat.

By this time Korongo was outlawed. Every man's hand was against him. Within a week he had been trailed, and a party of natives, with blankets wound round their left arms, and spears shortened in their right hands, caught him in an ever-narrowing circle. But before they could launch their attack, Korongo leapt over the ring of men and, striking backwards and downwards with a heavy forepaw, crushed a black skull as easily as a child crushes a sparrow's egg between its fingers.

Many an animal would have left the district. Not so Korongo. He was flushed with victories, and in his arrogant way he considered he had the measure of those who hunted him. A woman and a child were added to his victims, but the hunt was up in earnest, for he was terrorising the district, and there was a price on his head.

He was drinking from a water-hole a week later, when a strange sound came to his ears. He listened, the water dripping from his muzzle. There was a great noise of tin cans being beaten, much shouting, and the barking of dogs. A troop of monkeys swung past in the trees over his head, chattering noisily. Korongo snarled at them, and a buck running into the clearing vanished into the undergrowth at the sight of the bared teeth.

The noise angered the leopard, and, with that loose-limbed, loping trot, which covers the ground so easily, he strove to get away from the commotion. But he could not. The shouting and the barking hemmed him in on all sides, except one. For that one avenue of escape he ran.

Too late he realised that it led into a narrow ravine, the sides of which were too steep to climb. The din echoed off the rocks and dazed him with its volume. This was a form of warfare he did not understand. In desperation, he bolted into a cave at the end of the ravine, no longer arrogant, but a hunted, scared animal.

In a while, however, his boldness returned. He knew he would be the master of anything that passed the narrow entrance, and the noise had diminished. Perhaps his enemies would leave him alone. Then, when night fell and he could see better than they could, he would slip out unobserved to safety.

He had already relaxed his tense muscles, when into the mouth of the cave was thrust a blazing bush. Damp undergrowth was piled upon it. Strong, acrid, lung-scorching smoke began to fill the cave. Korongo sneezed and crept backwards until he could go no further. His eyes smarted. His lungs felt as if they were on fire. He could stand it no longer. With a harsh scream he dashed forward, leaping the blazing bush.

As he appeared, a magnificent sight for the daylight showed up the beautiful black markings on the yellow skin, two shots rang out. Korongo's snarl was choked In a sudden rush of blood. He seemed to check in mid-spring, fell heavily to the ground, kicked spasmodically, and lay still.

"Got him at last!" cried a voice. "Good shot of yours, Tom. Stop the natives from dancing on him; they'll spoil the skin."

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16: Not To The Strong

World's News (Sydney) 8 June 1940

THERE was a border of short, sweet grass on either side of the path from the home paddock at Malakindu to the Fenton's bungalow. Claude Eustace approved the care taken of this turf. When the apparition appeared, he was contentedly browsing towards the bungalow, followed by Enid and their latest family of goslings.

It was a quaint hissing which first attracted Claude's attention. He raised his long neck, cocked his wicked old head on one side, then expressed his feelings in a squawk of surprise, which was promptly echoed by his entire family.

The great grey gander stared, but could scarcely believe his eyes. What looked like the thick, dirty white body of a big snake was passing slowly along behind a palisade some six feet high. But the creature could not be a snake, unless it was walking balanced on the tip of its tail, for the amazing body was vertical. Added to which, Claude Eustace never had seen a snake with a bird-like beak.

After one long look at the monstrosity, Enid and the goslings had resumed grazing. But Claude was not so easily satisfied. The phenomenon had fired the old bird's insatiable curiosity, and he meant to find out all about it.

Previous adventures, however, had taught him caution. Instead of flapping idly over the high fence, he took off With a long run and mounted heavenwards in a series of wide spirals.

His first glance earthwards showed him two of the strange creatures in the newly-enclosed paddock. They had black bodies, with enormous necks, absurdly small heads and large feathery tails. They were stalking about on phenomenally long legs, but did not seem to possess wings.

Claude dropped earthwards on widespread wings. The awkward brutes had taken no notice of his honking challenge, but certainly merited a closer examination. He had almost decided that it would be worth while landing, in order to study them properly, when Kipkirin, a Nandi farm boy, came out of the shed in a corner of the new paddock.

The Nandi was carrying carefully in both hands an egg, six or seven times the size of any egg that Claude had ever seen. It was so large, in fact, that it made him feel ashamed of Enid's hitherto quite satisfactory efforts. Annoyed by the disturbing circumstances, Claude prepared to land. At the same moment Kipkirin commenced running, possibly because he was not without experience of the playful, but none the less painful, nips that the grey gander was all too fond of giving.

But if Kipkirin "kimbiaed" (ran) fast, an express train would have looked a perfect fool beside the creature which suddenly elected to pursue the Nandi. Obviously it could not fly, because the strangely small wings it flapped were totally inadequate for the task of lifting its big body.

But, holy smoke, how that bird could run! It overtook Kipkirin and. it gave him a flying kick in the seat, sending him half a dozen yards, to fall with his face on the eggs— which promptly disgorged its contents.

The feathered devil then proceeded to execute a war-dance upon the fallen native's back. Now, Claude Eustace had no particular affection for the Nandi, but Kipkirin did belong to the shamba at Malakindu, whereas that prancing, rampaging monstrosity was as evidently an intruder. He was a hefty proposition, of course, but so had been a certain peacock with a hundred glaring eyes in its beastly, wide-spread tail. That, however, is another story which, already, has been told.

Claude circled once and came hurtling down wind, neck at stretch like a lance and feathers whistling in the breeze with the scream of a six-inch shell.

The ostrich, dancing with rage, dodged the attack, but it could not kick high enough to hurt Claude, and round he swept to buffet its head and neck with powerfully beating wings.

Kipkirin, his race and chest yellow with yolk of egg, staggered through the gate to safety. Claude, honking triumphantly, flew back to Enid, who, he had decided, would in future have to do better in the matter of egg-production.

Enid, upon being taken to look at one of the enormous eggs some days later, was quite firm in her determination to make no attempt to emulate the feat of the ostrich-hen. Claude Eustace, unreasonably annoyed, refused to consort even with Sandy Fenton, his constant playmate, or Old Bill, the pet sheep, who was his life-long friend.

Again and again the grey gander cajoled or coerced his spouse into visiting the ostrich paddock.

The cock-bird resented their presence, and would have done murder with one terrible kick if he could have caught either of them on the ground. His speed and rushing tactics, however, were no match for the crafty subtlety of old Claude Eustace.

Time and again the grey gander would drive the ostrich hen off her nest, and then flee for his life, frantically pursued by the two furious, long-legged brutes. A diversion having been thus created, Enid would waddle into the shed to stand staring in sad and incredulous wonder at the daily increasing clutch of enormous eggs.

Once, in a fit of jealous anger, she sought to destroy her rival's proud products, but, hammer as Enid might' with her sharp beak, or dance she never so furiously on the nest, she could not smash those thick-shelled eggs.

On that occasion Enid's display of temper almost proved her undoing, for the ostriches, lured away by Claude, came racing back, and he was only able to sweep across their front on powerful pinions just in time to prevent them trapping his mate in the shed.

Numerically, the production of Enid's clutch kept pace with that of the ostrich hen; but, although Claude each night and morning studied Enid's latest effort with an optimistic eye, he was bound to admit that her very best endeavors fell far short of what he felt was to be desired.  With black murder in his heart, he decided to attack the ostrich hen on her nest, leaving Enid to entice the cock bird to the far end of the large paddock.

It was a well-thought-out scheme, and might have resulted in the unfortunate ostrich hen being seriously injured, if not actually killed, but for the fact that Paul Fenton, who owned the shamba at Malakindu, and Jessica, his wife, had arrived at an enthusiastic determination to add ostrich farming to their other industries.

For weeks past the Fentons had been both amused, and intrigued by the interests the English grey geese were evidently taking in the new ostriches, but that day Kombo, the native overseer, had dropped Paul a hint that the temper of Claude Eustace seemed to be wearing exceedingly thin. Wherefore, the farmer was not far off when the grey gander came sailing down to the paddock, his mind charged with fell intent.

Paul smiled at the comedy of Enid leading off the silly cock bird, but the uproar which issued from the shed an instant later struck the smile from the farmer's lips and set him running as fast as his legs could move. The shout he uttered brought Kombo, Kipkirin and Hamesi hurrying towards the scene.

When they arrived the ostrich hen was rampaging round the shed like a demented demon, and Paul, who had managed to grip Claude Eustace by the neck, was being blinded and beaten almost breathless by the buffeting of the gander's powerful wings. Claude was screaming with rage and clawing at Paul's thin clothing with taloned feet.

In the end they managed to get him back to the home paddock, scolding, writhing and fighting with almost the strength of a young python.

"Egad, well have to pen the beggar," said Paul Fenton. "It's either that or clipping one of his wings."

Claude Eustace suffered the indignity of imprisonment with an outward appearance of stoical calm, but, in reality each day of close confinement made his wicked temper worse.

What the grey gander missed most was the long flight at dawn and dusk far over the mountains, upon which Enid always accompanied him, whether she was sitting or not. Kipkirin, who looked after the geese, knew these things, and dreaded the day when the grey gander would again be set at liberty. Someone, the Nandi thought, would catch it pretty hot when Claude Eustace was first released.

Meanwhile, Claude, deprived of his usual activities, had found a new thine to engage his interest. Normally, as everywhere throughout uncivilised Africa, it was only necessary to cast one's eyes heavenwards to see certain black specks strung out across the sky, which represented vultures waiting patiently for something to die at Malakindu.

Nowadays there was but one black specks and that not always visible. The vultures had departed. So unprecedented was the circumstance that Claude Eustace puzzled and puzzled his brains as to what that dark dot, high up in the blue empyrean, could possibly represent. It could not be a vulture, for such sentinels of death keep their vigil in a chain of strung-out posts. It could not be a hawk, for such the vultures would have driven away at once. What else it could be was beyond the imagination of Claude Eustace, but its presence made him instinctively uneasy.

Enid and the ostrich hen hatched out their clutches of eggs simultaneously, and the next day Claude caught Kipkirin unawares, nipped him hard a tergo, and escaped through the open gate of the pen, while the indignant native was ruefully rubbing the painfully affected part

His grey gander bullied and hectored his mate for not having taken her usual and very necessary exercise during his enforced retirement, and finally insisted upon her accompanying him there and then upon a long flight to the mountains.

The English grey geese flew far and at tremendous speed. The sense of occupying again the large air, the beat of his own great pinions and the sheer exhilaration of the wind rushing past his stream-lined body went to Claude's head like strong wine, and as he flew he honked in harsh derision of all earth-bound mortals who had sought to hold him prisoner.

To the black speck, high and far higher up in the heavens than the line of his flight, he paid no heed in the scornful arrogance bred of his newfound freedom.

Pride, however, still precedes a fall, and perhaps it was the sound of firing Which brought Claude circling round to lead the way homewards, for the hearing of a goose is preternaturally acute.

As Claude and Enid approached Malakindu, they saw, far below them, an unusual spectacle. Something lay on the ground in the ostrich paddock, something that Death had flung down in grotesque disarray. Round the body were gathered a crowd of shamba natives, and Paul Fenton, armed with a rifle. All were gazing heavenwards, but not, as Claude imagined, watching for his return.

The dead thing on the ground was the cock ostrich, whom Claude had nicknamed "The Kicker," but what creature had broken its long neck and torn away half its back and one wing, he could not imagine. Nor did he care greatly, since an immediate investigation proved that his own grey goslings, although nearly rigid with fear, were safe in the nestling hut where Enid and he had left them.

Presently the Fentons strolled down to the home paddock to inspect the goslings, but this was not until they had spent a considerable time counting and recounting the ostrich chicks.

Maybe Claude noticed this circumstance, but he showed no temper. On the other hand, he had made none of his usual friendly advances by the time Paul and his wife determined their brief visit.

Little Sandy Fenton remained, and Claude, much mollified, preened his feathers and tickled the small boy's leg by running his beak up and down the chubby calf. But even Sandy, the gander, noticed, paused for a last look at the ostriches on his way to the bungalow.

Best part of a week passed peacefully, until the ostrich hen, strutting ahead of her absurd-looking brood all morning, set up an alarmed screaming as that same sinister dot appeared in the sky.

A moment later a shot was fired from the bungalow, and natives came running from every direction. Sandy reached the palisade of the new paddock and stood there, shouting and shaking the stick with which he had armed himself.

Claude Eustace, his curiosity aflame, flung himself into the air. High up in the mid-heavens he recognised at last the nature of that descending black dot. It was a great eagle, the most cruel, as it is the most dangerous, of all the birds of prey.

Too late, poor Claude considered the possibility of escape, too late he regretted, perhaps, the rash impulse of curiosity which had caused him to leave the ground, or, perhaps— who knows— his great-hearted, fighting spirit rose superior to all considerations of safety.

Honk! Honk! Honk!

He flung his challenge to the skies, and, turning, sped down wind. The eagle, its mind already fixed upon the screaming mother ostrich, checked its stoop at that strange, new cry, saw the bright body flashing beneath and away, and turned to the nobler quarry. The King of the Air turned on spread pinions then, wings clapped fast to his sides, the monarch rushed hurtling down, curved scimitar of beak held ready for the stroke.

Claude Eustace realised that danger; but it was, perhaps, the bullet which whistled past him— for Fenton was firing from the ground— that caused him to stall so suddenly.

In that instant the grey gander realised clearly that the death he had been striving to elude was hostile also to the interests of the folks at Malakindu. That sudden stalling in the gander's flight had made the eagle over-shoot his mark. Now Claude changed course and flew deliberately over the bungalow to bring his pursuer within range of Fenton's rifle.

It was a daring manoeuvre, but only successful in part. The eagle, mounting to a new point of vantage, fell like a bolt from the blue; the birds crabbed in a flurry of feathers, and then a great grey body, could be seen flapping slowly earthwards.

Paul Fenton ground out a curse and flung up his rifle, as the eagle circled to swoop afresh. Even as it swooped, the schooling bullet leapt between, and a big tawny body crashed to earth before the failing strength of Claude Eustace enabled him to land, with wings flapping so wearily that they would no longer support his weight.

He was picked up from beside the body of the marauder he had brought to justice, but weeks passed before he was fit to fly again. By that time there were nine or ten fairly well-grown ostriches in the new enclosure, while an almost grown-up family of goslings waited to greet the return of Claude Eustace, their sire, to the home paddock.

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17: The Call of his Kind

World's News (Sydney) 7 Jan 1939

SIMBA, the big, black-maned African lion, sat at the apex of the double stepladder waiting for his part of the performance to begin. He was indulging in a daydream of his own peculiar devising. His yellow eyes stared unseeingly at the faces of the people in the circus tent, and, save for a slight twitching of his tufted tail, he was as motionless but far more majestic than his stone exemplars in distant Trafalgar Square.

On the floor of the cage two tigers were jumping backwards and forwards through hoops held by the trainer. Shortly, when the Dalmatian dogs had leaped across the recumbent tigers, it would be Simba's turn to descend from his present position and walk delicately along a horizontal pole after the manner of a tight-rope expert.

Despite his sleepy appearance, Simba was well aware of what was taking place around him. Without shifting his eyes he could see the trainer, in the blue uniform of some unknown Hussar regiment, decorated flamboyantly with red and yellow facings, directing the tigers with his whip. Simba did not actually hate the trainer, nor did he go in fear of him. He was so accustomed to the man and to obeying his commands that he had never troubled to consider what would happen if one day he leapt upon him instead of walking the pole, or sat sullenly upon the stepladder and refused to move. That is, he had never thought about such things until recently.

But during the last few weeks a change had been taking place within him. Ever since the day when, enclosed in a stout iron cage, he had been swung off the steamer at Mombasa, life had been different. There had been much shouting and gesticulation by black, semi-naked men. Simba was used to white people who wore clothes, but for some reason which he could not understand these black men seemed familiar to him. .At first their smell was strange, but gradually, he had recognised it and had realised that at some period in his life it must have been quite common. For Simba, though he did not know it, was no stranger to Africa.

Several years' ago, in the foothills of the Aberdare Mountains beyond Nyasha, Simba had been taken from beside the dead body of his mother. He had been a young cub, not much larger than a good-sized dog, and he had spent the following night in a thing called a cage, which was to become only too familiar. He had howled dismally and a native had thrown stones at him out of the darkness.

Thereafter so many surprising things had. happened with bewildering rapidity that Simba's mind had become confused, and the first real recollection which his brain had retained was that of the man in the ornate Hussar uniform. Under the influence of that strong will, backed by the unflinching stare of the cold, blue eyes, Simba had learnt to walk up steps, jump through hoops, and accomplish all those varied tricks which performing animals must learn in order that humans may be amused..

Until he had come back to Africa Simba had never questioned the trainer's authority, but now. he felt less inclined to obey the sharp commands and the pistol-like crack of the whip. On the way up the escarpment from the coast queer scents had floated into the train, scents which were familiar, yet strange. They affected him in a manner which he had never before experienced and which he did not understand, and he had pounded with his great forefeet upon the door of his cage. Even the arrival of his trainer to calm him had made little difference. For the first time in his life, with those queer scents in his nostrils, he had ignored the stare of the cold, blue eyes.

Probably the semi-darkness of the travelling van had encouraged him, for at Nairobi he had performed his act without hesitation, though afterwards he had paced restlessly up and down his sleeping case and more than once had made a violent assault upon the door. Now that the circus had reached Nyasha he was restless, uneasy, and a trifle ill-tempered. As he sat motionless at the top of the steps he wanted to do nothing but wait for those scents which moved him so strangely.

The Dalmatians, had finished their jumping over the recumbent tigers and were new returning to sit on the square blocks at each side of the ladder. Simba turned his great head and looked disdainfully at them. They never gave any " trouble and wagged their tails stupidly when the trainer spoke to them. Simba moved his tail only when he was angry and then he lashed it violently to and fro. He heard the voice of the trainer calling him and deliberately ignored it. Instead, he slowly opened. his mouth and yawned.

The deep-throated "Augher" and the sight of the huge fangs gave the audience a thrill of pleasurable excitement. To the trainer, however, it was merely a gesture of contempt, which was exactly what Simba had intended,. for he had decided not to perform that evening. Again the word of command rang out, but the . lion studiously ignored the stare of. the blue eyes, and gazed languidly round the tent. The mobile upper lip twitched slightly and once more the onlookers caught the ivory-white gleam of pointed teeth.

A third time the trainer spoke, but, beyond a spasmodic movement of the hairy tip of his tail, Simba gave no sign of having heard. The dalmatians sat quietly on their wooden cubes wearing that peculiarly fatuous expression common to the breed, and the tigers on their pylons looked through half-closed eyes as if they were intolerably bored. Simba gazed stubbornly into the shadows at the back of the tent. There was a tense silence.

Suddenly a report like a pistol shot rang out and the lash of the trainer's whip fell across Simba's rump, stinging him sharply. With a movement so swift that human eyes could scarcely follow it, the lion was on his feet, balancing upon the narrow summit , of the ladder. His lips were drawn back in a wicked snarl, his tail projected stiffly behind him; the muscles of his loins and shoulders were bunched into hard knots; while his black mane stood out in a furious halo. A snarl of anger, which made many of the audience go cold with alarm, rattled in his tawny throat.

An attendant on the outside of the cage slipped a hand into his jacket pocket and grasped the revolver kept there for emergencies. The Dalmatians sat on as if nothing unusual had happened, but the tigers had woken up. Their cruel eyes were new wide open, their muzzles twitched uneasily and they were on their feet.

Again the whip-lash sang through the air. Simba, balancing on three legs, struck out savagely with a taloned paw capable of stripping the flesh from a man's skull. But he had already lost the battle. In turning upon the trainer he was forced to face the power of that cold gaze. The man grounded the butt of his whip and stood motionless. The small, blue eyes stared into the great golden orbs shot with- fierce lights by the violence of Simba's anger. Presently the ramrod tail was lowered, the great fangs vanished behind the enveloping lips, and the lion squatted down.

A few seconds later, in obedience to a quiet order, Simba descended the ladder and walked delicately along the pole, as composedly as he had done a thousand times before. For the trainer knew what the lion did not— that the will of man is far stronger than the win of any wild creature. But what neither of them realised was that, there existed an influence more powerful still..

Later that night, in the narrow confines of his travelling cage, Simba lay reflectively licking the pads of his right forepaw. He still failed to understand why he had submitted almost before he had realised what he was doing, to the trainer's command. The tent was in darkness, and the only sounds were ;the subdued rasp of the lion's tongue and the restless movements of the other animals. A native, one of the laborers attached to the circus, passed through the tent taking a short cut to where he expected to meet a certain dusky maiden, with a pot of beer. His scent came strongly to Simba's nostrils, but by this time the lion was accustomed to it and did no more than wrinkle his nose and sniff delicately. It was pure coincidence that a deep-toned coughing grunt should at that moment come echoing in from the stillness of the moonlit plains beyond the town, the warning that some free lion was about the set out upon his hunting.

The reverberating tones, in conjunction with the scent of the native, touched a responsive chord within Simba. He leapt to his feet and, lowering his massive head almost to the floor of his cage, roared in answer. The thunder of his voice was like the deep rumble of a mighty cathedral organ. The tigers crouched belly-flat, nervous and uneasy, the Dalmatians whimpered like frightened children, and the native took to his heels and dived under the wall of the tent with the agility of a lizard. He did not recover his nerve until he  had consumed the whole of the pot of beer.

The effort shook Simba. The broad bands of muscle beneath his tawny hide contracted, his body seemed to expand, and a power he had not previously known came to him. He roared again, and the trainer turned in his blankets and listened. Simba waited, with eyes searching the darkness, the hackles rising along his spine, but there was no answer to the challenge.

Nevertheless the incident had roused in the lion those restless instincts which the will of the trainer and the accustomed routine had subdued. He paced the floor of his cage and the soft pad pad of his feet on the heavy boards sounded peculiarly menacing. Except ; for that measured tread there was silence until a cry, too muted by distance to be heard by human ears, floated into the sleeping town.

In that cry was something stronger than any trainer's will, stronger than ' any threat or stare of human eye. Simba ceased his pacing. His tongue passed swiftly across .his lips, his lower jaw, half closed, trembled slightly, and curious unaccustomed shudders passed over his body. He purred loudly deep down in his throat. By sheer instinct he had recognised the mating call of a lioness.

Again the faint cry reached his ears. Again he shivered as if with cold. feelings which he had never known, but which, through generations of lions he had inherited, surged through him. His yellow eyes glanced quickly about the tent. No other beast stirred. Simba backed to the far side of the cage and crouched with hard, bunched muscles.

Then he shot forward , with all his strength and the full weight of his 600 pounds against the door.

Too often he had used those movable bars as a means of entering the cage in which he performed his undignified tricks. Now he intended to use them as an entrance to freedom. The lock, weakened by his numerous assaults upon it, gave way. The door clanged open and Simba dropped to the ground. A tiger growled warningly and was silent. The next instant, stealthily as a shadow, the lion glided from the tent.

Outside he was in an unknown world. There were strange scents— scents of black men and of white. He edged away from them, for they were not what he sought. Keeping in the shadows flung by the moon, he crept, belly to the ground, away from the circus. In the distance he saw the red gleam of a watch-fire, caught the odour of burning wood and of coarse tobacco. Against the gleam of fight he saw a man moving towards him. He crouched motionless in a patch of darkness, and the man, made curious by the sudden clang of the opening cage-do0r, passed within twelve feet of a painful death and remained ignorant of the fact.

Simba found this first experience of freedom perplexing and was at a loss to know which way to turn. If only that cry would come again to guide him! He avoided the town square, on the edge of which the circus was pitched, for it lay naked and exposed under the bright moon, and slunk along wide roads towards the plains. Behind him he heard shouts and saw the flashes of lamps, for the man who had passed him had discovered the empty cage.

Past bungalows, whose dogs whimpered in fear as they took his scent, Simba hurried on, no longer crouching, but moving with long, loping strides, until he came to the true open country. Here he halted and lifted his great head. A series of confused scents, half forgotten yet wholly exciting, were borne to his nostrils by the night wind, and presently the call for which he waited came again. Judged by human standards it was a harsh, unmelodious sound, but it stirred Simba as nothing else had ever done. He set off again purposefully and passed a herd of zebra without looking at them.

He found her lying in the shadow of a patch of waachte-embetche thorn, a beautiful fawn creature, light on the underpart of her body, with darker coloring along her back. She rose and walked into the moonlight as he approached, and the muscles rippled smoothly under the tawny skin. He halted, gazed at her for long moments and then came forward slowly, purring.

She stood motionless, her yellow eyes steady and watchful. The broad noses touched diffidently for an instant. Then Simba stepped forward and gently licked her neck. A deep purr came from the throat of the lioness. She turned and strolled away contentedly with the lion at her shoulder, and together they slid as silently as ghosts through the mimosa bushes.

Simba had returned home to claim his birthright.

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18: Eyes in the Air

World's News (Sydney) 4 Feb 1939

WHITE, silent; immense, a world of tumbled mountain-tops stretched away and away. The fields of virgin snow, where the foot of man had never trod, which the eyes of man had never seen, were broken here and there by dark patches of pine trees and gorges so deep that the shadows collected between their frowning walls looked like wedges of solid ebony.

There was no movement In earth or air, that world seemed utterly dead; and yet, high up in the blue empyrean, a single speck hung motionless; so high up, so still that it looked like some tiny insect, or one of those annoying "spots" that floats persistently before the vision of a bilious person.

Presently a snow hare loped out from the fringes of a pine forest and, instantly, that speck in the brooding heavens grew bigger, as an eagle came racing a mile down-wind in less than thirty seconds. In the appalling silence which prevailed the hare heard clearly the whistling of the wind as the great golden eagle hurtled earthwards. With never a glance thrown upwards, the creature raced for safety, but cruel talons closed upon, him before he could reach the shelter of the trees, and then his body went limp, as the talon of the eagle's strong hind toe bit clean through his backbone.

Aquila rose at once and flew at leisurely speed to a ledge of rock, fifteen hundred feet up the mountain, where he and his mate had started repairing their eyrie, some four months earlier, both birds battling home through the wintry gales with big pine branches gripped fast in their curved beaks. Seven weeks later two large, round, white eggs had been laid and now there were two hungry, week-old eaglets, clad in warm little coats of white down, eagerly waiting for food.

The mother, from a viewpoint close at hand, watched the return of her mate, but he did not remain long at the eyrie, and, within a few seconds of his taking wing, she sailed down to her nest, tore up the limp body of the white hare he had left behind and commenced feeding her noisy, hectoring daughter. The male eaglet got what was left, after his sister's voracious appetite had been satisfied. Even so, he was not allowed to enjoy his scanty meal in peace, for his bad-tempered sister chased him round and round the nest. The mother sat by, totally indifferent to the squabbling of her progeny. Her eyelids were open, but her sight was veiled by the winking membrane, which birds possess, drawn over the pupils of her eyes. She knew that her half-starved son's greater agility would save him from the attacks of his sister-and that, a month hence, when they would just be getting their first feathers, the two young eaglets would be living happily enough together!

Meanwhile, Aquila had mounted once more upon soaring pinions and now hung poised in the eye of the golden sun, while his gaze swept left and right, backwards and forwards, across his vast domain.

The eaglets had been fed; it still remained for him to find food for himself and his mate; but below him not a speck showed and nothing moved upon the stainless white. expanse of the virgin snow-field.

With wings beating slowly the great eagle mounted in a series of wide spirals to a yet greater altitude, which would give him a more extensive view of the land spread out beneath him. And still nothing moved in all that broad expanse of solitude.

Wings fluttering, the beautiful bird hung poised or, with sudden beat of powerful pinions, sailed majestically from side to side. At last his patience was rewarded by the appearance of a small herd of wild sheep, high up the side of one of the mountains.

Aquila watched them for a moment, then folded his wings and dived earthwards with the speed of a falling thunder-bolt. Lower and lower the gleaming, brown body hurtled and then, when it seemed inevitable that Aquila must crash to his death, the wings were partly opened, the disposition of the head was slightly altered and his headlong down-rush flattened out with the easy grace of an aeroplane making a perfect landing.

The sheep had scattered before ever the eagle's shadow fell upon them; but, as his body shot forward, travelling parallel to earth, his strong talons closed unerringly upon the well-grown lamb he had selected as his victim. But, although his claws bound fast, he did not kill the lamb outright and it struggled so violently with its hindquarters that he was forced to drop it before he had risen a couple of hundred feet.

The lamb fell upon rough, stony ground and was killed instantly, while Aquila, freed from its weight, shot upwards. The female eagle, who had seen her mate dropping like a stone from the heavens, had, meantime, left the eyrie to hover close at hand. Now, seeing the crushed body of the lamb resting upon the rocks, she pounced upon its flanks. Aquila joined her and in a moment both birds were tearing at the carcase.

Before their meal was finished, however, a most strange sound disturbed them, the like of which they had not heard before. It was like a low, vibrant humming at first, but the noise increased rapidly in volume, until a droning, intolerable hum seemed to fill the entire universe. Then a black shadow passed over them.

Terrified for the safety of her eaglets, the mother took off and sped away to her eyrie. Aquila rose also, and, flying as he had never flown before, strove to take the air of this strange, but rash, intruder. The bird, monster, or whatever the thing was, might be as big and as powerful as the fabulous Great Auk itself and, still, Aquila would allow no trespasser in his domain.

On and on the great eagle flew, mounting higher and ever higher, until he thought that he had reached the altitude from which to stoop and strike. But, as he-fell, with hooked beak and curved talons itching for action, fiercer heart beating madly, the thing, simply shot away from under him. By the time he had climbed to altitude again, it was no more than a dwindling speck in the distant heavens.

Aquila, poised upon fluttering, widespread wings, waited until the decreasing hum of the monster's passing had sunk into silence and the infinite blue of the heavens had absorbed the last vestige of that fast-diminishing speck. Then he flew back to his eyrie, a puzzled and an angry monarch.

Many years had gone by since any bird of prey had dared to fly in the skies which Aquila regarded as his own preserves, nor, indeed, was there room for many eagles in that part of the world, for the mountains were barren, desolate slopes, unable to support much life, beyond a few birds; rather like ptarmigan, some mountain sheep, and an assortment of foxes, hares, and other small creatures. But to-day this-strange monster had passed through Aquila's territory and now the great eagle sat on a lonely pinnacle of rock dreaming of the fight there was bound to be should the rash intruder dare to return.

Meanwhile, Ramon Nuanez had landed at San Fero and the town was en fete because he had flown .over the wide ranges of unexplored mountains that had never before been crossed in all the long history of man.

That night the intrepid young airman was made much of by his friends, while the local pressmen gave him no peace, because they wanted the story of his epoch-making flight across the mountains. But Nuanez gave the same laughing answer to both intimate friend and importunate reporter.

"Yes, I have mapped out an airway over the mountains which will enable future aviators to avoid the earth attractions and the air pockets," he stated, "but I'm not giving away a scrap of information, either as to the route I followed or any difficulties I may have experienced, until my chief has read my report."

"But, Senhor," protested the Pressmen, "dozens of other pilots have attempted the same flight without success; you alone have crossed the last land of mystery; surely you must have been very lucky. Will you not tell us your story?"

"No," answered Nuanez. "The land of mystery has kept its secret for thousands of years; what is one day, or one week, in all that space of time? Soon I shall fly back to Huane to make my report and then my chief can tell the world, or not, as he sees fit."

And that was all the information they were able to get out of him. Two days later, as the dawn was breaking, he stood at the side of his aeroplane, chatting with the Station Ground Officer.

"Do you think you will be able to find your way back safely?" queried the official.

Nuanez permitted himself to smile.

"I tell you that I have conquered the very spirit of that land of desolation," he boasted. Then he climbed into the cockpit of his machine and gave the order, "Contact."

More than two hundred miles away, Aquila had just flown back to the eyrie with a hare he had caught for the breakfast of his young eaglets. But one hare, as he well knew, would not satisfy their well-nigh insatiable appetites and so, once again, he took wing, while his mate came dropping down to the nest.

He was soon high up in the morning heavens, eyes in the air watching the earth for his lawful prey, when his sharp sense of hearing once again detected that faint distant drone, which sounded so much like the buzzing of an angry insect.

Aquila checked in the middle of a long, slanting glide and rose in a series if big spirals with wings beating-furiously. This time he had no intention of allowing the enemy to cheat him by the deceptive speed of his flight.

Louder and louder the vibrant hum of powerful engines echoed through the abysmal, silence, larger and larger grew the speck that had appeared suddenly in the sky to the north. Eyes in the air watched it take shape, but Nuanez did not see the golden eagle, for some instinct of the wild had warned the bird to poise himself in the eye of the sun.

Aquila waited until the on-coming aeroplane was flying perhaps three hundred feet below him. Then, backed by the sun, he tore down-wind, flying on a long slant to meet it. And still Nuanez did not see this fierce enemy until a mid-air impact seemed inevitable. In the last saving second, however, the glare of the sun, flung back from the whirling propeller blades, struck the eagle full in the eyes dazzling him and causing him to swerve instinctively to one side, otherwise man, bird and machine must have gone crashing earthwards.

As it was, Nuanez flung up his hands to protect his face, and the machine, momentarily out of control, slipped into a spinning nose dive. Aquila came round in a wide sweep, screaming with baffled rage. His harsh cries quickly brought his mate upon the scene and Nuanez, pulling his plane out of its dangerous dive just in time, found, not one but two great eagles circling overhead and waiting to renew the attack.

How the man longed,' in that moment, to feel the spade-grip of a machinegun nestling into his hand, but he was totally unarmed. Faster he flew, striving desperately to win free and climb again, but still the great birds flew above him, with one or other of them constantly rushing at his unprotected head, only to sheer to one side in the nick of time.

Nuanez was baffled; for, all the time, the birds were driving him down and. suddenly he realised that although he had found a route that had enabled him to avoid air-pockets and earth attractions he had yet to conquer the very spirit of the last land of mystery, which was impersonated by those two great golden eagles. They fascinated him; he could not take his eyes off them. Suddenly an icy blast struck him full in the face as a pass in the mountains opened up before him.

To enter that pass meant certain death, for flying between the frozen walls would be impossible. The man moved joy-stick and control bar, but the plane responded sluggishly. Nearer he drew to the frowning, merciless mountain tops and knew that he could not clear them. There was a rending crash, a sudden burst of flame and Aquila and his mate rose in soaring spirals to avoid the oily smoke that rose from the blazing aeroplane.

Next day, the Director of Civil Aviation ran a red line through "Proposed Route 13 Huane to San Fero," for Nuanez had not returned and too many good pilots had been lost in fruitless attempts to open that road.

Far off, on widespread wings, Aquila hovered, watching over the last land of mystery. Eyes in the air searching a white, silent, immense world of tumbled mountain tops for any sign of his lawful prey moving upon the virgin snow-fields. There was no movement in earth or air, that world seemed utterly dead.

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19: Let There Be Light

World's News (Sydney) 11 March 1939

JACK HUDSON leaned upon the verandah rail of his bougainvillea-covered bungalow. His eyes, curiously fixed in their expression, stared straight out across the sun-washed East African plains, where thousands of head of buck and zebra moved leisurely along as they cropped the short, sweet grass which, for the moment, was green as grass could be, since the rainy season was just over.

The man's whole attitude betrayed the fact that he was listening intently. He was tall and spare, lithe as a leopard, but the points about him which struck one first were the incongruity of china-blue eyes in a sun-bronzed face and his attitude of everlasting listening.

All the world was very silent, so quiet that the steady crop, crop, crop of the beasts feeding hundreds of yards away was distinctly audible to his sensitively attuned ears.

Presently a new sound impinged upon the silence. The man leaning upon the verandah rail straightened up immediately and slightly inclined his head, as if to aid his powers of hearing, but he did not shift the direction of his gaze as a safari of porters wound into sight out of a nullah, which hitherto had concealed their movements.

The apparently untiring legs of the black men bore them across the plain towards the bungalow, and as they marched they kept time by tapping the sixty pound loads, balanced upon their heads, with the safari-sticks which they carried. It was to this rhythmical tapping that Jack had been listening.

"Buko!" he called.

A moment later a Swahili servant, clad in flowing white khanzoo and delicately embroidered skullcap, stepped onto the verandah from the dining room, where he had been laying the table for supper.

"You called me, Bwana?" queried the house-boy.

"There is a safari approaching, Buko," said Jack. "See that preparations are made for the comfort of the white Bwana who is in charge of the caravan."

As the house-boy passed through into the dining room, Jack Hudson walked along the verandah and down the steps, his fingers resting lightly on the rail as he moved.

At the foot of the steps he paused, and stood listening a moment before moving off to meet the approaching safari. Within speaking distance he stopped again.

"How do you do, Sir?" he said.

At the answer, given in a female voice, Jack started violently.

"I beg your pardon," he said in some confusion. "I did not know that I was speaking to a lady."

Madge Saunders looked curiously at this white man with the strange blue eyes. She was clad in tunic, breeches and putties, it is true; but still, he should surely have been able to see that she was a woman. His next remark surprised her still more.

"Is it your husband, or your brother, following on?" he asked.

"I am alone with my porters," Madge answered. "It is too late to march further to-day. May we stay here for the night?"

"Surely!" he answered; "I have already told my house boy to make ready for you. The Nmpara will look after your porters. They can put their loads in one of the lock-up sheds. He will show them."

At the steps he drew aside to allow her to pass into the verandah before him.

Buko showed her to her room and fetched hot water. Half-an-hour later she reappeared in the dining room, her serviceable khaki safari kit replaced by a dainty muslin frock.

Jack stared at her so intently that a quick flush suffused the girl's cheek, but she noticed that his gaze, direct though it was, was absolutely devoid of interest. She was furious with herself for having shown signs of embarrassment at his rudeness, which she felt instinctively was more apparent than real.

Several times during the meal which followed she noticed his curious attitude of listening intentness, and was frankly puzzled thereby.

"Would it be indiscreet for one to inquire how it is that you are travelling in the wilderness alone?" Jack queried.

"Why, no," Madge answered, "but I expect you will think me quite mad when you hear the reason of my wanderings."

"Not at all," Jack murmured conventionally.

"Back in England," said the girl, "I am quite well known as an actress and a dancer. Our biggest impresario is staging an African play next autumn. He has offered me the principal part, and so I have come to Africa to learn the native dances at first hand."

"That is extraordinarily plucky of you," said Jack, "but do you find that you can manage a safari of natives easily alone.

"Oh, as to that, my brother was seconded for duty with the King's African Rifles at one time, and his old friends in Nairobi saw to the outfitting of my caravan, and got me a first-class Nmpara."

"I wonder your brother allowed you to come on such an expedition by yourself."

"My friend," said Madge, with a stern little laugh, "when I make up my mind to a thing, I do it; apart from that, my brother is in India with his Regiment, and so knew nothing about my plans until I had begun to give them effect."

To change the conversation she began to talk of the grandeur of the spacious East African scenery and the exotic beauty of the flamboyant blossoms. Much to her surprise her host replied in curt monosyllables.

While Buko was out of the room, about the duties of his office, the girl asked her host to fill her glass with water. He appeared not to hear her, but, upon the request being repeated, groped desperately before him, until his fingers closed upon the handle of the jug. He lifted the vessel and held it towards her; when she did not take it from his hand he leaned forward with a curious concentration and poured the stream of water right into the girl's lap, missing the glass by at least two feet.

At the involuntary exclamation of annoyance which came from Madge's lips he sprang to his feet, almost overturning the table, in acute embarrassment.

For a long moment the girl stood regarding the man as he moved his hands helplessly in front of him.

"Why," she said, "I believe you are blind. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I have been blind from birth," he answered. "I did not mention the affliction because I cannot bear to be pitied. My eyes are so natural in their appearance, I am told, and I move so naturally by sound, that people rarely realise my blindness until some such accident as that of the water jug occurs."

"I am sorry," the girl replied, in a low voice. "I would not have caused you pain or embarrassment for all the world."

"Are you happy?" the girl asked.

"Yes, now that I have left civilisation behind me. While my parents lived I had to remain at their farm, just outside Nairobi, and as a child I felt the disability of my blindness keenly. When an epidemic of fever carried off my relatives, Buko, who understands me better than did either of my parents, brought me here, where I farm my own lands and make enough for all my needs."

"But have you cut yourself off completely from the outside world?"

"Absolutely. Buko does all the trading, and it is the rarest thing possible for a safari to pass this way. If you did but know it, you have travelled a road through the hills, which, I believe, no white person beyond our two selves has ever trodden before."

MADGE appeared at breakfast in her safari kit, but it was the sound of the heavy boots, which had replaced the dainty slippers worn the night before, which notified Jack that his guest was prepared to continue her march that morning.

"Need you trek on to-day?" he asked, as they sat at breakfast.

"Why, no!" the girl answered. "I will willingly stay a day or two longer, if you wish it."

"It is not altogether a question of my wishes, but rather a matter of expediency," he said.

"I don't quite understand," Madge answered.

"It is this, then. I know this country, and I know the people, and I think you will encounter grave dangers if you seek to penetrate further into the interior for the purpose of probing the mysteries of their sacred dances, which are nearly all of religious significance to them."

"Do you mean that if I wait here a few days you will be able to procure for me some sort of safe conduct?"

"No, I am afraid that even my influence, great as it is, would hardly suffice for that."

"Then I must go as I had planned, and the sooner I get my safari on the move the better," said Madge, in very decided tones.

Once again Jack stood upon the verandah listening intently, straining his ears to catch the last sound of his guest's retreating safari.

All through the afternoon and evening of the day following that upon which

Madge led her safari away from Jack's shamba, the native drums had been speaking and calling incessantly. Jack had listened intensely; but, although he spoke the languages of the local tribes like any native, he had never been able to induce his people to teach him to interpret the messages sent by the speaking drums.

Towards ten o'clock he rose from his long teakwood chair, and, having snuffed the air with upraised nostrils several times, turned his face towards the moon.

Towards dawn Jack was awakened by Buko, who shook him roughly by the shoulder.

"Bwana," he said, "the drums have talked the night long. There is news."

"Well, what do they say? You know that I cannot read the drum language."

"The white bibi is with Kathuka, the witch doctor, Bwana. There is to be a great ngoma (dance) to-night."

"What of it, Buko? Speak plain words!"

"This of it, Bwana. I think they will let the white bibi witness the ngoma, as is her desire. I do not think they will let her depart to speak of their customs afterwards."

"Why do you tell me this, since Kathuka's medicine is very powerful, and you may suffer for betraying him?"

"Bwana, you who were once as my son, are now as my father. And, since there is love between us, it was not hard for me to see that already you love the white bibi; therefore. I say, let us go and try to save her while there is yet time."

"It is true," said Jack. "Let us go!"

Through all the long day they rode steadily forward across the plains. At nightfall they reached the foothills, where the great forest mass sweeps down to the rolling reaches of grass. There they were forced to leave their horses.

The insistent notes of the drums reverberated maddeningly among the trees, as Jack and his servant moved forward, fast as the branches and long encumbered ground would allow. Presently the sound of savage chanting reached their ears. It was a song which Jack had never heard before, but which started the sweat of stark fear upon Buko's trembling limbs. ,

Deeper into the forest they forced their way. Presently Jack caught the terrible sound of a woman sobbing hopelessly, in the clutches of dreadful fear. He could not see her, but he sensed her presence coming nearer, until she fell forward into his arms and lay still.

Together he and Buko lifted Madge in their arms and bore her back to where the horses were waiting.

As they carried her she chanted over and over again some phrase, incomprehensible to the white man, but which, at each fresh repetition, set Buko's teeth chattering audibly.

They got her back to the bungalow, and called in native women to put her to bed. In her sleep, and again when she wakened, she chanted the same interminable tune.

"Buko," said Jack, "what has happened? What has the white bibi seen?"

"Bwana," Buko answered, "she has seen the dance of human sacrifice. The words she sings are those sung by the witch doctor when he slays the victim."

"Will it pass?"

"I think not."

"Why?"

"Because I think that Kathuka has put a curse upon her. And, as you know, he is the master of mighty medicines."

"Go back to the hills, Buko, and find some means of persuading Kathuka, the witch doctor, to come here to me."

"Ho! Bwana Kipofu, why have you brought me so many miles?" asked the witch doctor, as he stood before Jack the next day, and addressed him by his native name, which means "The Blind Master."

"What have you done to the white bibi, Kathuka?" asked Jack, by way of reply.

"Bwana, she came to our great ngoma, of her own free will. When the throat of the goat was cut she rose and fled screaming into the forest. Perhaps a leopard took her; who knows?"

"That is strange," said Jack, "because she is here, and the words she sings are those used by the mchawi when he spills the blood of his human victim. This is a tale which would interest the Government, Kathuka! But I do not threaten you, I ask you, by the bond between us and the debt you owe me, to remove the curse from the white bibi."

Without another word the witch doctor stalked through into the room beyond. When he appeared again, the low chanting had ceased.

"Bwana Kipofu," he said, as he stood before Jack, "there is venom in the sting of snake and mosquito, there is death in this land; go quickly with your woman and return no more. There is death everywhere."

And because Jack knew his Africa well and knew the warning to be no idle one, he trekked south to Nairobi, as soon as Madge was well enough to travel.

In Nairobi he sold his shamba and booked a passage home on the boat by which Madge would travel; for, although no word of love had passed between them, he could not bear to be far from her for any length of time,

In England Jack's admirable patience began to desert him. He was not happy. Buko, who had refused to be separated from his beloved master, was in little better case. The cold, damp English climate seemed to paralyse him, both mentally and physically.

One day Madge came to Jack in his rooms, where he sat trying to amuse himself with a lump of modelling clay she had brought to him upon a former occasion.

"Jack!" she cried, as she burst into the room. "I've the very greatest news for you."

"Why, what do you mean? What news can there be for me?"

"Listen, dear," she said, as she seated herself at his side and took one of his hands" between her own. "It is no use disguising the fact that we love each other; but you will not ask me to marry you, because you are blind and think you would be a burden to me. Isn't that true?"

"True enough," Jack answered.

"Last night I was dining out," she continued. "I met a certain very famous optician, who had read of our adventures. He asked me about your blindness. When I told him that your eyes are perfectly natural in appearance he became quite excited, and asked me to persuade you to see him. I know you will do this to please me, and so I have made an appointment for this afternoon. You will come, won't you? It means so very much to me, Jack!"

"Why, yes, I'll come!" Jack-answered. "But don't build up false hopes in your breast, little woman, for I have none."

The great specialist spent a long time examining Jack's eyes, to which he applied many highly scientific tests. At last he was prepared to give his verdict.

"Yours is a most interesting case, Mr. Hudson," he said. "I have no doubt that if an operation had been performed when you were a child it would have been entirely successful. Now I am not so sure. There is no doubt that I can give you your sight, but how long you will retain the gift, I cannot say."

Madge, who was holding her lover's hand quite frankly, felt his fingers close convulsively upon her own.

"Just exactly what do you mean, Sir?" asked Jack, in a low, steady voice.

"Well," said the great man, "by means of a delicate operation I can enable you to see. But what will happen ' when the bandages are removed from your eyes I cannot say. The operation may be entirely successful, and the cure permanent. Upon the other hand, your sight may remain no more than a few hours, or a few weeks; it is impossible to say; but if it lasts for four and twenty hours, it is almost certain that the cure will be permanent."

"I'll have to take a chance on that," Jack answered.

At Jack's urgent request a bungalow had been taken for him out in the Surrey hills, and thither he was taken for the operation.

THE GREAT DAY came at last. The nurse stood by in watchful attendance as Madge carefully removed the bandages from her man's. eyes.

Madge led him out on to the verandah, and watched his face keenly as he caught his first sight of open country.

For a long time they sat and talked, as lovers always have done since the beginning of the world. At last Madge jumped to her feet.

"Buko promised to be back in time to get five o'clock tea ready," she said. "I don't know why, but I feel worried about him. Do you mind if I fetch my bicycle and ride over the hill towards the village to see if he is coming?"

She found Buko by the lonely roadside with a broken leg, and had to ride on to the village to fetch help for him.

Jack sat on alone, meanwhile, for the nurse had gone into town to make some purchases.

He lifted his eyes to the black pines which fringed the distant hills. He looked long and thoughtfully at that distant frieze; then a cold sweat dewed his limbs, for the trees were gradually growing blurred and indefinite. Presently they faded out completely; and now he noticed that objects in the foreground were growing less distinct.

"Madge!" he shouted in hoarse terror, and again, "Madge!"

No answer came, and every moment things he had seen were fading from his sight, until even the poles supporting the verandah had almost faded out.

"Oh, God," he prayed aloud, "send her back quickly, so that I may see her once again, and Carry her picture with me into the everlasting darkness."

Suddenly he heard a cheery voice hail him.

"Sorry I've been so long," called Madge, "but poor old Buko had a smash up; I had to go for a cart to take him into the village."

Now he knew for certain that he was blind, for, although he could hear her approaching, he could not see her.

"Quick, Madge," he called. "Come close. It has happened just as the doctor said it might. Come close so that I can see you once more."

He felt her arms go round him in a quick embrace, and her warm lips pressed upon his own; but all he actually saw was a dim, white blur before his eyes.

"Too late!" he cried hoarsely. "You have come too late. I cannot see you any more!"

Madge gave a little, inarticulate cry, midway between tears and laughter.

"Oh, you silly old boy!" she said. "But I suppose I ought to have warned you. This is only nightfall, you are not going back to blindness. Look over there to the left, where the lights are springing up in the villages across the valley—"

_____________________

20: Trial By Combat

World's News (Sydney) 25 March 1939

THE quick tropic night had shut down on Kisanguli. The flag had been hauled down at sunset in accordance with immemorial custom, and the District Commissioner was at dinner.

To-night John Doyle had elected to dine alone, although, at any time, every house, in the straggling township was open to him. Frobisher, the Assistant D.C.,  was down at the Dawson's bungalow.

The district was quiet. There had been no rumors of trouble for a very long time, and Doyle had every reason to be satisfied with the success of his administration.

The Walembi, across the border, had proved a constant menace to the peace of British East Africa for years past, and yet he had succeeded in subduing even their warlike spirit. The Walembi chief was satisfied to eke out his dwindling days in an atmosphere of peace, and Doyle did not anticipate trouble from his son, Mnyogi, despite the daring exploits which had characterised the boyhood of that bold young man.

Doyle pushed back his chair and lit his pipe as his native servant brought in the coffee.

"Bwana, there is a strange bwana waiting outside; he wishes to speak with you."

Doyle gazed thoughtfully at Kapamballa, his servant. There was something in the boy's tone which he did not quite understand. A hint, perhaps, of disrespect towards the white man who was paying this unexpected call.

"Place a chair for the bwana and ask him in, Kapamballa," he ordered sharply.

The District Commissioner's eyes narrowed at sight of the man who entered. There was excuse enough for the native's attitude, for "Jeldee" Jackson was a notorious character.

Years, ago, in India, Doyle had acted as "prisoner's friend" when Sergeant Jackson had stood his court-martial upon a charge of cowardice in face of the enemy. That was why he was nicknamed "Jeldee," for his feet had been ever-swift to carry him out of danger.

Boyle had had a good deal of faith in Jackson, but even his eloquence could not save the man dismissal from the Anny.

Since those days Doyle had come to the East African service, and Jackson had formed fresh associations in the new country, living precariously as transport rider, trader and, at times, it was whispered, as an ivory poacher.

For months he had been absent in the interior; now he was back:

As Doyle surveyed the big, blonde giant, standing so stiffly to attention, he wondered why on earth he had come to him.

"Take a chair," Jackson," he said, quietly, "and tell me what I can do for you."

He had not realised how utterly done the man was until he saw him slummock wearily into the seat. Doyle turned at once to Kapamballa.

"Bring brandy for the bwana," he ordered.

Jackson sipped the spirit gratefully before he spoke.

"The border's alight, sir, and there's going to be hell to pay," he volunteered.

Doyle leaned forward eagerly. Was this truth, or but some figment of a drink-sodden imagination, such as had brought about the downfall of Jackson in India?

"You mean Mnyogi and the Walembi?" 'he queried incredulously, and added, "I shall want proof of that."

Jackson's fair skin flushed, despite its deep tan.

"I never lied to you, sir," he said, reproachfully. "Maybe you can gaol me for what I've done. That can't be helped. I've been over in the Belgian Congo poaching ivory. I slipped across the border with the pursuit hot-foot behind me...I was just telling myself that I was well out of a bad scrape when I ran smack into a party of Walembi warriors.  Not one of them carried the bal on his spear to show that he came in peace, but every man's face was framed in feathers, and all had their limbs smeared with camwood."

"That certainly does mean war! Well, what did you do?"

"I didn't stop to ask any questions. I got out while the going was good, me being on high ground and them still in the valley. Oh, I was jeldee enough that time, sir."

"Well?"

"It is not well, sir. They were headed this way. Kisanguli is the first town on their line of march, and they'll be here by morning."

Captain Doyle thought hard for some moments, with his eyes fixed on the long, muscular limbs and huge torso of his ex-sergeant.

"Very well, Jackson," he said at length. "You had better go down to the Police Sergeant's headquarters and ask him to give you a meal, then send him up here to me."

By the time the Police Sergeant appeared. Harry Frobisher had returned in answer to the urgent summons of his chief.

There was little need to discuss plans. There was no hope of saving the township, even the defence of an overcrowded Residency would be difficult.

Throughout the night everyone in the place, labored ceaselessly, erecting breastworks, filling sandbags, and loopholing walls.

At dawn Doyle asked for "Jeldee" Jackson, and the Police Sergeant became confused.

"I expect the fellow has cleared out, sir," he volunteered contemptuously.

Again the Commissioner's lids drooped until the gleaming eyes showed like two specks of fire between lash-fringed slits of flesh.

"Why should Jackson clear out?" he asked sternly.

The Police Sergeant became even more uneasy. He scratched his head and coughed softly.

"Well, sir," he said desperately, "Jackson was right above himself with having brought the news from the border, and I put him in his place with a remark about his nickname, 'Jeldee.' I said it was useful sometimes to have feet that were quick to run from the prospects of a fight."

"Confound you, Sergeant," snapped Doyle, "don't you realise that we shall want every single man here who is capable of holding a rifle?"

DAWN came, crimson and. gold,, across the mountains, and many anxious eyes were turned towards the narrow gorge between the foothills. Through that defile the Walembi hordes must pass to reach the open plains upon which the straggling township of Kisanguli had grown up in the early days of British pioneering.

Hours passed, and still no twinkle of light from flashing spearheads, no line of fierce, feather-fringed, faces came into view.

Meanwhile, in the gut of the pass one lone man waited. A very giant of a fellow this, a veritable Viking, with huge limbs, long flaxen beard, and flowing flaxen hair. His head and breast were bare, and he held in his great hands a mighty felling axe. "Jeldee" Jackson had come forth to fight for his rights to the respect of people, like the Police Sergeant who had made game of him. In addition to the axe, he had a light dancing shield, which he had picked up outside some native's hut in Kisanguli.

In his own min d Jackson knew that he had not been afraid upon that far-off day in India. He had gone into the fight on the North-West frontier bemused by bad whisky, and he had simply not known what he was doing or which way he was running. That he had staggered away from the enemy instead of charging towards them was unfortunate, but not inexplicable; and, anyway, he had paid the price for that piece of folly.

It was ages now since he had touched spirits. He had, moreover, been out for months on safari in the wilds, and was as fighting fit as any man ever born of woman.

Presently the first scouts of the Walembi army appeared, stepping cautiously down the mountain-side towards the pass. At sight of Jackson they halted. Seeing him thus alone, they at once suspected a trap. Their reason told them that no one white man would attempt to stay the march of such an army as was theirs.

After a while the main body of the Walembi arrived, and the new chief, Mnyogi himself, moved forward to reconnoitre. He was a big, black bull of a fellow, fully as tall as Jackson, and that Nordic giant stood all of six feet in height. The native's ebon skin shone with oil, and beneath the flesh great muscles rippled and bunched themselves into fluid knots as the savage chief stepped imperiously along. A plume of ostrich feathers nodded upon his head, about his thick throat hung a necklace of lions' claws, and from his shoulders swung a magnificent cloak of leopard skin. A shield and bunch of throwing spears were clasped in his left hand, from his right wrist hung a battle-axe with a broad, half-moon shaped blade. His mien was haughty and his gaze stern.

Jackson drew himself up to his full height and looked the savage chieftain fair in the eyes.

"I see you. Mnyogi, and I know your purpose, but what do you hope to gain?" he shouted. "Behind me lies a poor town, where there is no plunder. Many of your men will fall before Kisanguli is captured, and beyond the town, but within sound of a battle, are many British Troops that you cannot break 'through."

"I hear you, white man, and I know you," Mnyogi answered. "But you talk like a fool. Are there any white soldiers in the world that can withstand my fine young warriors? Are there any warriors in the world as numerous as the Walembi?"

"Jeldee" Jackson looked his man in the eye. He smiled sardonically, and with studied but coarse contempt he spat upon the sun-baked earth.

"The poor fish," he muttered to himself; "now how the deuce am I going to convince him?" Aloud he said: "Oh, Mnyogi, you know the guns of the white people, which laugh ha! ha! ha! and with each laugh a man dies. Each of those guns is worth a hundred warriors, and we have many such weapons. A year ago you came to Kisanguli as a guest, and saw but one battalion of the King's African Rifles, and you knew them for fine fighting men. In Africa there are seven such regiments, all waiting to receive you, but for every black soldier our King has in Africa, he has one whole regiment elsewhere. Even if you conquered the K.A.R., K.A.R., those other regiments would cross across the seas and would not cease from fighting until they had stamped the Walembi flat. Answer me, chief, is this a good war upon which you would enter?"

Mnyogi stood still, biting his knuckles, "I know you for a speaker of truth, Bwana Tembo," he answered, "but I think that you are eaten up with pride of race. Your guns may check us for a little while, but, man for man, the Walembi are mightier warriors than the whites."

That was the cue for which "Jeldee" Jackson had been waiting.

"You believe that, Chief?" he queried. "Very well, you shall have the chance of proving your own words true— or false."

"You are the mightiest warrior of all your own hosts, Mnyogi," he continued, "but among we white men I am a man of no account— an outcast— yet I will fight you. Let the issue of our single combat stand for a sign. If you conquer me, march forward and take your chance of what follows after. But, if I conquer you, then your warriors shall be pledged to return in peace across their own borders. Is it agreed?"

For some time the native hesitated, as his eyes took in the huge proportions of this man who had challenged him to mortal combat. In point of physique there was nothing to choose between them; in skill at arms Mnyogi felt that he himself must certainly hold the advantage,

"Very well, Bwana Tembo, I will fight you," he agreed haughtily.

"Jeldee" Jackson smiled and a little sigh of sheer relief escaped his lips. Win or lose he knew that he would now have the opportunity to rehabilitate himself in the eyes of his own kind; but he did not think that he would lose.

"At your service, Chief," he said quietly, at the same time raising his axe in a gesture of salute. "But first, make it plain to your people that they must not interfere, and bind upon them the oath to obey your commands, whether you be living or dead at the end of this battle."

Mnyogi swung round again to his warriors. The words he said to them were fierce and swift. But when he had finished speaking such a roar arose from their throats as was heard a mile or more away in the township of Kisanguli.

JOHN DOYLE looked anxiously at Frobisher as he readjusted his binoculars.

"Sound as if we're in for it now, sir," commented the subaltern quietly.

But the Commissioner did not answer. The glasses were focussed now, and all his attention was centred upon the black mouth of the pass.

"Hullo!" he exclaimed ' presently, "here's someone coming now— Egad! it's a white man! He's got an axe in his hand, in the other he carries a shield— see, he lays them down! Now he starts semaphoring. Good heavens! Frobisher, it's 'Jeldee' Jackson. Quick! Take down the message as I read it off. Ready?"

"Yes."

" 'Message begins— Do not open fire unless I fall. Stop. Trying to settle matters personally with Mnyogi by trial by combat. Stop. Message ends. Stop."

"Gad, Frobisher, but I always said that the. fellow had pluck. Tell the men to hold their fire until they get further orders from me. Now focus your own glasses and let us watch what will happen."

Frobisher took up the tale.

"Jackson has taken up his axe and shield again. He turns back towards the mountains. The Walembi are coming out of the pass and on to the plain now. Look, there is Mnyogi marching at their head. Gad, what a magnificent animal he is!"

" 'The Black Leopard.' Yes, he is well named," commented Doyle. "But in physique, at any rate, is no finer figure of a man than Jackson."

OUT ON the plain "Jeldee" Jackson stepped slowly back as the Walembi hordes advanced from the open mouth of the pass. He had surveyed the land already, and had decided just where he would stand to make his fight. The spot was a small flat arena of extraordinarily smooth turf.

At last he halted. The Walembi were opening out now, creeping slowly along the fringe of the foothills like the two curves of a mighty pair of horns. Mnyogi was coming forward alone.

In the mind of Jackson something strange was stirring. Except for the black hue of the Walembi warriors there was to him nothing strange in that extraordinary scene and situation. Some inexplicable process' of his subconscious mentality made everything vaguely familiar. That there was Viking blood in the man's veins was proved by his appearance, and who shall say what faint memories of some former life of bloodshed and rapine and war were stirring dimly in the dark recesses of his brain?

At the approach of Mnyogi, Jackson's state of excitement increased to lever pitch.

Presently those two tremendous antagonists stood face to face. The rustle of shields and the rattle of spear-shafts sank into silence. Thousands of gleaming eyes were centred upon the waiting combatants.

Jackson struck first, a terrible whistling blow, but Mnyogi swayed out of reach of that flashing circle of steel, as willow bends before the wind. Then he savage struck back, and Jackson, not half so supple as his foe, turned aside the sickle blade with the face of his light shield.

At last they finished circling, and stood glaring at one another with perhaps ten paces separating them. They waited thus, regaining breath and gathering strength, until a low, mocking laugh was uttered by one of the watching Walembi warriors. At that sound a bellow of rage burst from the mouth of Mnyogi. Swift as lightning he leapt forward with axe upraised. Cool and collected Jackson awaited him; just as the axe was about to fall the English man sprang aside, heaved up his own weapon and brought down the flat of the blade with a resounding bang upon the back of his antagonist.

A shout of laughter rose from the lips of the watching warriors. That was what Jackson wanted. A turn of the wrists, to bring the cutting edge where the flat of the blade had fallen, and he could have finished the business out of hand. Such was not his purpose. He was out to prove the white man immeasurably superior to the black.

The effect upon Mnyogi was amazing. He felt as if his very heart must burst for the black shame of the blow that had been dealt him. Round he came, roaring like a lion, and, with the white flecked foam of fury flying from his lips, launched himself to a fresh attack. Mnyogi, undoubtedly, was the more finished master of his weapon, but to all his fury the Englishman opposed a perfect miracle of defence.

Jackson, for his part, was thinking furiously. Mnyogi's skill was far above his own. The man knew every stroke if axe-play. No matter from what angle the cutting blow might be aimed, the black man anticipated it and turned it aside.

Suddenly Jackson changed his tactics. Up to now he had sent in great slashing blows with the cutting edge. Now he turned the heavy falling axe in his hands, and began tapping at his foe with the flat, hammer back of the weapon.

This mode of attack was novel to the native, and he scarce knew how to meet it. Suddenly a smear of crimson showed beneath the ostrich plumes crowning his head, and a groan went up from the Walembi warriors.

Then an amazing thing happened. Stung to fresh fury by the pain and indignity of the wound he had sustained, the savage sprang forward, and "Jeldee" Jackson, with a cry of fear, turned and fled from before his face!

Again a shout of laughter rose from the Walembi warriors, and now it was the English watching from behind the breastworks of the distant Residency who groaned. "Jeldee" Jackson was proving only too true to his shameful nickname, the man's past history was repeating itself. Frobisher and the police sergeant cursed him, only John Doyle remained silent.

Fast before the feet of Mnyogi fled Jackson, heading straight for Kisanguli, and already the Walembi warriors had begun to surge forward in grim anticipation of their triumph.

Suddenly the big white man seemed to stumble. Even he could not hold that terrific pace. In that moment Mnyogi hurled himself forward with a wild shout of triumph; but Jackson, when he appeared to stumble, had in reality swerved to the left out of the path of his onrushing foe. At the same time he let fall his light dancing shield, full in the way of Mnyogi's flying feet.

As the oak tree falls at last before the breath of the gale, so did Mnyogi go crashing down to earth. Jackson saw and swooped upon him like an eagle stooping to its prey.

Mnyogi, all breathless as he was, flung up his shield to guard his head, but not even the toughest of ox-hide, reinforced by cane sticks, could stay the terrible, smashing blow that whirled downwards.

There was a horrible crunching sound as the black back of the axe descended. Then silence. The fight was over.

Roar after roar of cheering rose up from the British breast-works as six of the Walembi warriors walked forward, laid their sorely-wounded chief upon a litter of shields, and slowly bore him up the pass, through which the last of their comrades were already tramping back towards their own border.

The township of Kisanguli was saved, and "Jeldee" Jackson had vindicated himself at long last.

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21: Power Comes to Pesembeli

World's News (Sydney) 13 May

PESEMBELI was of the blood-royal; but, despite that fact, the people of his tribe would have put out his eyes and left him alone in the forest, to fall victim to claw and tooth, or to die of starvation, for they deemed him mad, and madness is regarded as a disgraceful and disgusting thing in the Territories, where the people are nothing if they are not eugenic.

The Old King, however, loved his only son, and so, when Pesembeli was born, the tribal witch-doctor, since dead, had made a taboo that no man should lift a hand against the child to harm him.

And so Pesembeli grew up and followed his gentle way through life, a dreamer of dreams, the friend of all furred and feathered things, and yet the scorned and rejected of his own people; because, as they said, "his spear was blunt-pointed and his arrows flew backwards." In other words, Pesembeli was no warrior and no hunter.

In truth, the boy hated bloodshed, which was a surprising thing, since he came of a blood-thirsty race, which, from time immemorial, had practised cannibalism, until the establishment of white rule in the Territories had put a period to their horrid orgies. Even now. it was whispered that a strong section of the Walembi favored the cult of the Leopard and were secret worshippers of forbidden things.

This rumor may, or may not, have been true; the fact remains that, while the Old King lived, the malcontents and the would-be devil-worshippers among his subjects were held in stern subjection and friendly relations between British administrators and the Walembi tribe were maintained.

In due course, however, the Old King went the way of all flesh, and Pesembeli, who had watched alone beside his father's deathbed, uttered the conventional wail of mourning, which went echoing through the village and brought the people to the doors of their huts because a king was dead.

Then the boy picked up the battleaxe of office and draped about his shoulders the royal robe of monkey tails. But as he left the hut the axe was snatched from his hand and the cloak torn from his body.

Pesembeli turned to stare into the blood-gorged eyes of his uncle, Takona. His own eyes were quite fearless, although the axe was already swung back for a sweeping stroke.

"You may not strike, my uncle," he said calmly, "for is it not taboo to slay me?"

Takona let the axe fall, for he could not meet that steady, compelling gaze, but when the council met that evening he so worked upon the feelings of the people that they agreed to take him for their chief. Pesembeli, with blows and bitter words, they banished to the forest.

Now had the heir-apparent to the stool of chieftainship been an ordinary native youth he would either have hurried away to British Administrative Headquarters, to lay his case before the Commissioner, or he would have wandered in the forest until some beast of prey took him.

Pesembeli did neither of these things. Instead, he built himself a hut beside a pool where the beasts of the forest came down to drink at dawn and dusk, and after they had made their kill. He did not interfere with them, nor they with him. But, gradually, the lesser creatures came to regard Pesembeli's place as a certain sanctuary and, at times., he might have been found sharing his hut with deer or wild pig that had been hunted by the greater carnivora, with whom, at present, he maintained a sort of armed neutrality.

Time passed, and the fame of Pesembeli, as a friend of animals and one who was granted immunity by even, the most savage beasts of prey, became known throughout all that land. Since the accession of Takona to the stool of the Old King, however, there were beasts far more dangerous, than lion or leopard moving and having, their, stealthy, being in that Central African forest.

MR. COMMISSIONER Dawson had been told that both the Old 'King and. his son were dead, and, all the Walembi subscribing to that lie, he had hung about Takona's bull neck the medal which confirmed him in his office. After the installation, the Commissioner had returned to his headquarters, after adjuring the new ruler of the Walembi to keep the peace and to be faithful to the British Government in all things.

Takona, however, was old enough to remember and long for the former days of unlicensed liberty, when there had been no white people in the land; and so, in secret at first, but ever more openly as: his enterprise passed undetected, he revived the worship of the Leopard, with all its grisly rites.

Pesembeli knew these things, for there were times when he saw shadowy forms flitting along the forest aisles, the forms of men with the pelts of leopards bound to their backs, great fanged-jaws adorning their heads and steel-taloned, leopard-skin gloves covering their hands. And once, by the bank, of a shallow river, where the women came to wash their clothes, he found the body of a young girl, which bore all the marks of having been mauled by a leopard, but there were no traces of velvet-soft, taloned pads-in the mud; only the tracks of human feet. By that circumstance the youth knew that the Leopard Men had resumed their killings in accordance. with the ancient ritual.

It was nearly half a year later before his spies brought word to Mr.  Commissioner Dawson of what was taking place in the Walembi forest. He was a very angry man that day and, upon the morrow, set out with an escort of native police to call Takona to account.

The Walembi village was a little more than two days' march from Administrative Headquarters and, on the second evening, the safari camped inside a strong boma, within striking distance of its objective. Despite the height and thickness of the thorn fence, however, some beast of prey entered the boma during the night and carried off one of the porters.

Dawson knew that nothing but a lion could have jumped that eight-foot stockade, with its victim slung over its shoulder, and decided to exterminate the man-eater, if possible, before going on to deal with Takona. The chief, however, had been warned of the presence of the Commissioner in that district, and presented himself, accompanied by an impressive army of warriors, at the boma just as Dawson was setting out, and he decided to employ these reinforcements as beaters.

The lion, made bold by previous successful depredations, had not gone far, and they flushed him out of a grass pan where he had gone to sleep after making a meal off the wretched porter. Dawson bowled the brute over with his first shot, and was calmly inspecting his kill when the beast's mate charged home. Before anyone could interfere, or Dawson had time to fire, the lioness had knocked him over. Then, seizing his arm between her powerful jaws, she slung his body over her shoulder and bounded away into thick bush.

At that precise moment Pesembeli walked into the clearing, and the shouting of the excited natives was instantly stilled. Takona, it is true, took a quick step forward, but, before the chief could lay a finger on him, Pesembeli, who bore no weapons, had vanished in the same direction the lioness had taken.

Meanwhile, Dawson was being carried through thick, thorn-barbed, bush which lacerated his face, and the exposed flesh of his arms and knees, the sharper pain of the constant scratches, acting, curiously enough, as a sort of antidote to the dull aching of his mangled arm, which, the lioness still gripped in her strong jaws.

Presently the cool darkness of a deep cave replaced the chequered sunlight and the constant laceration of the passage of the bush. Then Dawson was laid upon the rocky floor and the lioness couched herself with one heavy forepaw pressed upon his chest. She was neither a man-eater nor hungry, but the Commissioner knew that the slightest movement upon his part would probably set her playing with him as a cat plays with a half-dead mouse.

And so, Giles Dawson lay very still, but the silence was becoming unbearable and the stench of the beast's breath made the man feel physically sick. Presently she yawned, a long, deep-throated "Augrh!" stretched every one of her supple muscles, then dropped her chin on to his chest and appeared to go to sleep. Nor did she reopen her eyes, as a shadow fell across the mouth of the cave without quite reaching her.

Next moment Pesembeli had slipped off his loin cloth and was crawling, as naked as ever he was born, in through the dark entry.

Dawson, who dared not turn his head by the fraction of an inch, witnessed this amazing advent out of the extreme comer of his eye, the bridge of his nose preventing his other optic from coming into action. So far as he could see, the native was totally unarmed and, therefore, seemed to be courting certain death, and if this was so, the Commissioner felt that he, too, would pay the price in the imbroglio which would be precipitated by the fellow's foolhardiness. Yet Dawson dared neither stir nor speak, for already the very slight tensing of his muscles, as he strove cautiously to see what the native was up to, had caused the lioness to move and mutter a low, menacing growl in the midst of her sleep.

Pesembeli, for his part, was anything but unaware of his peril. He had proved his power with the lesser creatures of the forest, but had let the bigger beasts go their way, as they allowed him to go his. Now he was going to attempt the subjection of a savage lioness, whom he purposed depriving of the prey she had carried off. Inch by inch, as Dawson lay and sweated, Pesembeli crawled closer. The boy was flat on his belly now and working his way slowly forward with sinuous, snake-like movements.

Again the lioness stirred and growled as if she sensed some alien presence, but the intruder froze to a state of immobility in which his body seemed to be one with the living rock upon which it rested. Dawson felt the lioness relax again and, as if he had sensed the same thing, Pesembeli wriggled half a foot nearer.

At last the native was within hand's touch of the sleeping animal, and slowly rolled over, until he touched her, and she could feel the warmth of his naked body through the thickness of her fur, just as if it had been the body of one a litter of cubs.

And now a strange, soft purring welled up from Pesembeli's throat, as he pressed more firmly against the lioness's flank. After what seemed an eternity of waiting, her purring answered his, and she rolled on to her side, just as she would have done if she was nursing a little of cubs.

Very slowly Pesembeli's hand stole up her side until his supple, sympathetic fingers could caress her ears, with that peculiar stroking action which he had learned, long since, is found so irresistibly soothing to all animals. The lioness drew in her legs and purred more loudly. Pesembeli, purring and stroking for his very life, pushed Dawson firmly with his foot, and the Commissioner crawled out of the cave, dragging along his mangled arm as best he could.

A dozen yards beyond the cave-mouth, however, the Englishman collapsed, and there the native, who had left the lioness sleeping contentedly, found him an hour later and, having hidden him securely, went off to the camp in search of help. The Commissioner had regained consciousness by the time the rescue party arrived, and gave orders to his servant, Doka Fademula, that the strange native was not to be allowed to depart until he had been questioned. Takona, firmly believing that the Commissioner was dead, had already returned to his village highly elated, and that night the drums sounded to summon the Leopard People to a great sacrificial dance in celebration of the event.

AT DAWN, Dawson awakened. He had no symptoms of fever and his wound seemed healthy, but the news Doka gave him of what had been going on in the Walembi village caused him to have himself dressed. Then the native! who had saved him from the lioness was brought to his hut.

"How are you called?" queried the Commissioner. "I would know your name that I may thank you for my rescue."

"Bwana, I am Pesembeli, son of the Old King and rightful ruler of the Walembi People," came the answer.

"That I see," said the Commissioner, "for there is power in your hands, and power will I place in your hands when we come to the village of your father."

Pesembeli dropped to his knees and touched the Commissioner's feet with his. hands.

"Bwana, I am your dog," said he.

And hour later Giles Dawson, his left arm in a sling and his right hand resting lightly upon the holster of his revolver, walked into the Walembi village, followed by a police escort with fixed bayonets. The place presented a horrible appearance, for while some of the revellers were sleeping off the results of their orgy, out in the open, there were bodies lying among them that looked as if they had been mauled by leopards; and when they dragged Takona out of his hut he was still wearing the full regalia of a Leopard Man, while the leopard-skin gloves upon his hands were still sodden with human blood.

Giles Dawson looked round him, until his eyes lit upon a tall tree, with a straight, strong branch, which would serve his purpose. But, before they hanged Takona, the Commissioner took from his neck the medal of the chiefship and slipped the cord over Pesembeli's head.

"Rule men as you have ruled the beasts of the forest, Pesembeli," he said, "and your people shall love you and prosper, and the power that you have found shall grow from year to year."

But Pesembeli did not answer, for his eyes were watching the shadow of the old evil order that kicked and gyrated, so that the sun high overhead threw strange shadows upon the ground.

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22: Nature Hits Back

World's News (Sydney) 3 June 1939

"BLACK" Mercer was the worst of a bad breed, and that is putting the case pretty high, where the men of the great white wastes of the Frozen North are concerned. At the same time it is not putting this particular case too high, for, even in Klondike City, the unbridled brutes who had shared in the gold rush had shunned this man on account of his ruthless cruelty, his lust for gold and his ungovernable temper.

That which his heart desired Saul Mercer was not in the habit of withholding from his eyes. On the Klondike he made his pile and lie spent his pile then, some devil of restlessness driving him forth to seek fresh fields to conquer, he harnessed up his dog team and mushed farther and ever farther north. Rumor had it that there were yet newer goldfields awaiting discovery in those virgin wilds where the foot of the white man had seldom, if ever, left its print upon the snows.

But Mercer found no gold and trapping and shooting interested him only in so far as it was necessary for him to provide himself with food. How he managed to cross the tundra will never be known; for there no people live and birds and beasts are seldom seen. Maybe he managed to kill an occasional musk-ox, perhaps he trapped a silver fox now and again. I do not know. He had a kind of cold, ruthless courage, which caused women, children and small defenceless creatures to steer well clear of him, and barred him from the society of men more humanely natured than himself; but which, at the same time, was matched with the sort of chilled steel determination that had brought him through troubles and dangers such as would have left most fellows flat, or finished them off.

He was quite alone and did not even make friends with the Malamutes which dragged his sledge. This was all the more strange, because, when he was among human beings, he was a man who forced his company upon others, whether they wanted it or not; but up there in the Great Silence he was well content to, be alone.

And yet his solitude was not destined to endure until such time as he should return to the fringes "of the comparative civilisation of the far north, for the day he completed the crossing of the tundra he caught sight of a cluster of igloos and knew that he had lit upon an Eskimo village.

Now it is doubtful if that particular brand of Eskimos had ever seen a white man before. They were certainly unacquainted with the fiery hooch which Mercer produced after he had unloaded his sledge and had transferred its contents to the igloo they built for him.

It was in no spirit of generosity that Mercer made the innocent Eskimos drink with him. It was merely that the man felt an urge towards conviviality and what he wanted, that Saul Mercer saw that he got. The party that followed was not a pretty one, for the Eskimos, squatting interestedly round a blubber stove, while the northern lights shone weirdly through a clear ice window in the thickness of the ice and snow walls, quickly succumbed to the heady intoxicant that was served out to them. Those who went frankly sleep, or were violently sick, according to their natures, were the lucky ones. The rest soon fell to fighting, while Mercer looked on and roared with laughter. Soon, however, he tired of the sport and cleared his guests out of the igloo with the toe of his heavy boot. The dead and the dazed he threw after the living and there were soon many sinister scarlet patches to be seen welling from under the bodies that were left stretched out upon the hitherto white purity of the snow.

The white man fitted ice blocks into the oval opening of the igloo and rolled himself in his blankets, still chuckling with evil amusement. He was in nowise ashamed of the debauch, for it was his boast that he feared neither gods, men nor devils, and that he knew no such thing as a distinction between right and wrong. A man was master of his own fate, was Saul Mercer's creed and he helped himself with both hands to whatever life had to offer.

But if the judgment of God had failed to grip him by the heel within the narrow confines of civilisation, and if the hand of the Lord had been withheld in the milder wildernesses where-white men go more or less regularly, some people say that the Old Gods still hold their sway in the northland, and it was to the farthest fringes of that northland that Mercer now had come.

The Eskimos were a sick and sorry people when they crept out of their dwellings after sleeping off the effects of their unusual potations, and even the dour ferocity of their strange guest could not induce any of the men to take him hunting. So Mercer went off on his own and was away for a couple of days. When he came back the Eskimos were a sadder people than ever, for the wife of their chief had been missing since the preceding morning.

This information did not interest Mercer, for he was quite callous to the sufferings of others; nor did he deem it necessary to reveal the fact that he had been responsible for the woman's death. One Eskimo more or less meant nothing to him, and, anyway, her death had been accidental, since a slight blizzard had been blowing at the time when he had been making his way to the seal-holes in the ice, and it was for a seal that he had mistaken the woman, whose form he had seen but dimly through the whirling snowflakes, as she crouched immobile above one of the blowholes.

She had been quite dead when he had reached her, for Mercer was not the man to miss his mark, and he had dropped her body into the cold black water, so that there did not seem much chance that anyone would ever find out the truth of that tragic incident. But, still, old Mother Nature was only biding her time, for she is a queer old dame and has a way of her own of looking after her unspoiled children who dwell in the last lost lands, to which that not unmixed blessing, our so-called civilisation, has not yet penetrated.

Upon the night of his return to the igloos, Mercer was compelled to drink his hooch alone, for Aiut had imposed a period of mourning upon the tribe and none of them dared break the taboo he had placed upon them.

In this way a week went by and, meantime, the ice was breaking up; great lanes of water showed where previously there had been nothing but a glittering, glassy surface, and already more than one huge iceberg was sailing slowly towards the open sea.

Mercer was well pleased, for he had been told that the gold reefs would be found in the living rock which lay beneath the surface of the ice, which in some places was melting rapidly. This time when he asked Aiut to accompany him upon his hunting the Eskimo did not refuse.

It was not possible to take along the dog team, on account of the way the ice was breaking up; but, good pioneer as Mercer was, he could not but marvel at the manner in which Aiut found his way unerringly among the water-lanes and over the still frozen hummocks.

That day they saw several polar bears, and Mercer shot the only cub they came across, out of sheer wantonness. Aiut was terrified, both by the noise of the report and the result of the deafening explosion. He looked strangely at the white man, for the Eskimos ha.ve this much of sporting instinct, that they do not kill the cub that a mother is nursing. It
was obvious that he did not approve of what had been done; but, none the less, when the mother, after nuzzling the warm,bloody little body of her offspring for a moment, plunged from the iceberg, upon which she had been floating seawards, and swam strongly for the solid ice-pack which supported  her persecutor, he managed to get Mercer out of harm's way before the infuriated monster could come at him.

Later on they came to a. small section of virgin rock, from which the ice-cap had withdrawn, and Mercer grew wildly excited, for by certain indications which told their own tale to such experienced mining prospectors, he believed that he had stumbled upon the thin outcrop of what might well prove to be a rich gold reef. He would have investigated the matter there and then but for the fact that Aiut, who kept casting anxious glances in all directions, would not tarry. Nor was that the only way in which the Eskimo showed signs of an unsuspected, but none the less stern, determination. For when Mercer, who was forced to follow the chief, since he knew that he could not find his way back to the igloos alone, now that the ice was breaking up, would have assembled the tribe for another hooch party, Aiut spoke far too quickly to his people for the white man to follow what was being said, and thereafter every man and woman of them crept into the igloos and built ice-blocks into the openings. All, that is, except Aiut. Mercer caught him by the leg just as he was disappearing from sight, yanked him out into the open, and beat him unmercifully.

That night Mercer found small pleasure in his own company, for he was mad to get at the gold which, he believed, lay ready to his hand; the thought of all that wealth which he might win made him intolerably restless; but, in the end, and hardened sinner though he was, he succeeded in drinking himself into a maudlin slumber. He never heard the feet that went padding round his igloo all through the night.

Mercer awakened, feeling none too good, pushed away the ice-block, and went out into the biting cold for a breath of fresh air. He yawned and stretched himself, then stared around him in bewilderment, for the door of every igloo was open and yet there was not a single soul in sight. The whole tribe had departed while he slept.

That the Eskimos had taken nothing of their guest's was obvious, for, even now, the barking of the dog team echoed from the ice-building in which they were kennelled. Mercer went along and fed them, for he had an idea that he might be needing their services, pretty badly later on, but not yet. First, he was determined to find, by hook or by crook, the rock in which he believed that he had located a gold reef. It was not easy going; in fact, he would never have succeeded but- for the fact that he had taken pretty careful bearings as he had followed Aiut back to the igloos upon the preceding day. As it was, he packed his way carefully from one ice-floe to the next, until he gained the solid pack from which the mainland, where stood the igloos, was cut off by a number of waterways, which were continually increasing in number and altering in appearance.

No life seemed to be stirring and he caught no glimpse of the Eskimos, nor did he, even see their tracks. Hours went by, sometimes in fruitless wanderings, at others in long waits while the bergs moved by and made it impossible for him to cross the waterways. In the end, however, he won to his objective, leaned his rifle against the cliff face, drew his knife, and began picking away methodically at the tinted vein in the rock upon which his hopes were centred. Nor were those hopes false, for soon soft, dull red gold showed clearly upon the point of the steel blade.

A big she-bear appeared from the green shadows of a deep crevasse in a floating berg. She stood quite still for a moment, listening, testing the wind daintily with twitching nostrils; then she slid into the icy flood-water without a sound and swam strongly towards the cliff, with only the black tip of her nose showing above the flowing tide.

From the top of the cliff yet other eyes looked down, a great number of black, beady eyes, as the Eskimos watched interestedly to see what the strange white man would be up to next.

It was Aiut, raising his head as a sudden thought came to him, who first saw the bear, and, telling his people to stay where they were, he scrambled down the back slope of the cliff and hurried round its base. Yesterday he had seen the white man use his amazing weapon, and he believed that all that was needed was a word of warning, which would enable Mercer to save himself. Aiut might not approve of the white man, but instinct prompted him to save a human being if he could.

As the Eskimos appeared round the bend of the cliff the bear climbed out of the water, and still Mercer had not seen her. It was a cry from Aiut that attracted his attention. Immediately he made a grab at his fallen rifle, but, in bending to recover the weapon, his foot slipped, and next moment the bear was dragging him towards the water.

Aiut snatched up the weapon and, not knowing how to use it otherwise, reversed it as a club and rushed at the bear. The beast cowered back instinctively and its claws, caught fast in the material, ripped Mercer's shirt away from his chest. Then Aiut saw the ivory talisman which the white man wore round his neck on a sinew of reindeer. He had last seen that piece of walrus tooth upon the bosom of his wife, and, believing that Mercer had killed her, Aiut sprang back and cast the rifle from him. At the same moment the she-bear, who was cubless, slid back into the water, dragging Mercer with her.

Mother Nature had hit back and, for a time, the wild was saved from those evils which the white man takes ever with him when he invades the last waste places of the world; for Aiut, when he led his people back to their igloos, destroyed everything that had belonged to the white man, lest any taint of that man's spirit, which the savage knew instinctively was a bad spirit, should be left upon the land. How right the chief was in his actions might well be seen from the way his people sniffed and the longing look there was in their eyes as he smashed the last of the bottles of hooch that Mercer had brought with him.

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23: Possession

Daily News (Perth) 11 April 1938

SIMBA-SABA looked out over land that had been lion country for all time.

Hours before he had climbed with slow and dignified deliberation to the Black Rock, that lonely eyrie of out-jutting stone the— surface of which has been worn smooth by the bodies of untold generations of lion-leaders, who have lain there gazing out, even as Simba-saba gazed, across the plains and forests that had been their absolute domain.

Now it seemed that the lion country was to remain sacrosanct no longer. Not eighteen hours earlier Simba-saba, setting out in search of food, had seen twinkling pin-points of light far out across the plain.

Strangely disturbed, Simba-saba had come to the Black Rock to think things out. That he had mounted slowly to his eyrie was due to the fact that he was getting old. Soon, he realised one of the younger lions would challenge his right to the leadership of the troop, and that in itself was a disturbing thought, since Simba-saba knew that, for him, loss of leadership would mean loss of life.

A week ago, perhaps, things would have been different. Then the old lion might even have been glad to yield his place on the Black Rock to a young successor and to have departed alone to eke out the rest of his days in peaceful solitude. Now the whole situation was changed. The coming of men to the lion-country had altered everything. The young lions of the troop were magnificent animals, and Simba-saba was not likely to make the mistake of underestimating their physical efficiency; it was their mental capacity which he distrusted. And mental capacity, and more, would be needed in the days that lay ahead, for only leadership, backed by experience, could save almost the last unexploited lion-country in Africa from the invading tread of man.

The hot sun, mounting higher in the heavens, warmed rock and beast alike, and slowly Simba-saba's thoughts turned to Ndoma, the only one of the young lions likely, at present, to challenge his right to retain his leadership.

The old lion knew that he would be no match for the youngster should they meet in mortal combat; but he knew also that, did Ndoma win, the other young lions, who would not attack the old leader, would dispute hotly, the authority of his successor; and, with men invading the lion country, the present was no time for factious, internecine strife.

Simba saba, moreover, was not sure if it was really the leadership of the troop that Ndoma coveted, or whether he was only; hoping to secure possession of the young lioness, Maradi, since it is the custom when an old lion dies, or a leader is deposed, for the young lions of the troop to divide his harem of sometimes as many as seven lionesses among them.

The watcher on the Black Rock dropped his head on his folded forepaws, relaxed every muscle, and closed his eyes; for age had taught him the wisdom of sleeping on his problems.

When he awakened the day was far spent. He rose, yawned, and stretched himself, until the last feeling of sleepiness ran out of his tingling pads from beneath the sickles of his strong claws.  Then he slipped silently down the hillside, travelling with such care and precision as to leave himself indistinguishable from the shadows thrown on the mountain by a bank of black bellied storm clouds which at that time hung almost stationary in the mid-heavens between earth and sun.

No single leaf rustled to his passing, and not a twig snapped under his six hundred pounds weight of sheer, vital strength as he set his feet down.

Nor did any one know of his presence as he stood and watched a party of natives, supervised by a white hunter, digging a pit in the midst of a game trail and covering the top with an artful screen of branches and leaves. By the time the men departed, well satisfied with their work, Simba-saba was far away, and just approaching the hidden valley to which a few weeks earlier he had brought his female following to bear their litters.

AS Simba-saba drew near to his own lair he once again froze into a state of complete immobility, for the moon had already risen and two black shadows bulked big in the dark entry to the kloof. The light, however, was not sufficiently strong for recognition to be possible, and all Simba-saba could see was that those black shadows represented a lion and a lioness.

Presently, however, his patience was rewarded, as one black shadow disappeared, while the other, slinking out into the open took to itself the shape of a fine, black-maned beast in the prime of life. And still Simba-saba remained immobile, for he had no intention of trying conclusions with Ndoma for the moment.

But when the young lion had stalked arrogantly away, old Simba-saba went quietly to his own cave. Three nursing-mothers raised their heads and purred a sleepy welcome. Only the fourth lioness, Maradi, who was without cubs, made no sign. Simba-saba crossed the cave and lay down beside her, after he had made the round of a his litters. Her coat, he noticed, was heavily laden with night dew.

SHE took no notice of him nor he of her until the first pale fingers of the dawn were stretching out across the sky. Then he rose and prodded her roughly in the ribs with his muzzle. On the instant Maradi sprang to her feet and, emboldened by her meeting overnight with Ndoma, snarled so savagely that, she awakened all the other occupants of the cave.

With one sweeping blow of his heavy fore-paw Simba-saba well-nigh stunned her, and before she could regather her senses he had hustled her out of the cave and was driving her relentlessly along a forest path. Once she sought to break bade and twice essayed to escape into the dense bush that bordered the path they were following, but Simba-saba shepherded her along until they reached a certain game trail, and there he watched dispassionately as she crashed through the frail covering of leaves and branches with which, yesterday, the lion-hunters had covered the pitfall they had prepared.

THEN, while Maradi's roars of fear and anger were still shattering the silence of the forest with thunderous volleys of sound, Simba-saba went quietly away and concealed himself close at hand. He was prepared to wait, with almost certain knowledge of what would happen; and presently his anticipations were fulfilled, as Ndoma, attracted by Maradi's uproar, came galloping along the game-trail in great fifteen-feet bounds.

Simba-saba waited until he saw his rival crouched at the edge of the pit with his eyes fixed on the young lioness, hopelessly imprisoned a dozen feet below ground-level. Then the old lion charged with the speed of an express train, cannoning into Ndoma's rump, as he was in the act of turning, and sent him hurtling headlong to join Maradi in the pit.

MEANWHILE, the indiscreet roaring of the imprisoned animals had attracted the lion-hunters from their camp ; but the men saw no sign of Simba-saba, although he missed no movement of theirs. Working with ropes and nets, they at length drew their captives from the pit, and, with carrying poles, bore two struggling, fighting, snarling bundles away to the strong cages that had already been prepared at their camping place.

But, if the hunters did not see Simba-saba, they yet were destined to hear the old lion's mighty voice; for, once he was satisfied that Ndoma had paid the price for the possession of Maradi, he took his way to the Black Rock. And, there, he roared and roared again until the welkin rang and all the wild couched to earth in rigid terror of the menace of his unabated power.

Then, as the sun descended, all his following throughout the lion country came to him at the Black Rock and under the blanket of dark, he led them deep into the fastness of the mountains, where no human being might follow. And there he kept them until the hunters, despairing of making fresh captures, but taking Ndoma and Maradi with them, left the lion country, which had seemed so full of promise, but had yielded them so small a profit, by reason of the wisdom of old Simba-saba.

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24: Devil's Parody

Daily Telegraph (Sydney) 28 Feb 1935

PEDRO GOMEZ was beating a donkey, not because that devil's walking parody had done anything wrong, but just because it was a worn out, useless monstrosity— mainly through semi-starvation— and Pedro was a man of mixed blood; very mixed; say one part Portuguese two parts Arab, and three parts just pure African negro; spawn, in fact, of three bad breeds that do not pay any heed to pain, when they are inflicting it.

The soko was crowded with natives marketing, but no one took any notice of Pedro and no one seemed to have any pity for the man's wretched beast of burden. And then, suddenly, everything was changed, as Pedro felt someone touch him lightly on the arm and turned to stare down into the mild blue eyes of a little man, who might have been mistaken for a young boy, but for the ragged fringe of greyish hair which framed his otherwise smooth features.

"I'll buy that donkey," Bill Gamling said quietly.

"He's not for sale," snarled Pedro.

"Well, you'll have to stop beating him, anyway."

"Go to hell!" shouted the angry Eurafrican, and cut savagely at the little man with the heavy hippo-hide whip with which he had been belaboring the wretched donkey.

But Bill neither departed to the Awful Place, as directed, nor did he give back to avoid the blow, which would never have been delivered if there had been other white men in the soko, or if Bill himself had not looked such a frail old bag of bones.

What happened next is easy enough to describe, but must have been pretty difficult for the onlookers to envisage at the moment. At one Instant Bill was standing there with the lash of the kiboko apparently just about to wrap itself round his ribs, then the little man moved like forked lightning, striking, and there was Pedro sailing through the air to land on the cruel, hard stones, three or four yards away, with a sickening thud that knocked all the wind out of him.

It was the clink of coins falling on the cobbles close to his head that caused Pedro to open his eyes to a nice view of the business end of a blue-barrelled, blunt-nosed Webley revolver of heavy calibre.

"Ten chips, and that's overpaying you, to my way of thinking," drawled Bill Gamling, and turned his back contemptuously upon the dago, while he untethered the donkey and stood whispering into one of its ungainly waggling ears.

Pedro picked himself up and the ten rupees and went off, muttering idle threats of vengeance, a badly shaken scoundrel, for he was not used to dealing with a man who looked as mild as a missionary, but developed the hell-cat ferocity of an all-in wrestler of the cut-and-come-again variety upon the slightest provocation.

A good many of the marketing natives laughed openly at Pedro as he pushed his way through them, but they did not even smile at the far more comical spectacle of Bill Gamling leaving the soko with the dilapidated donkey limping dejectedly along in his wake.

The horses and even the mules, however, kicked or bit at Punda as he went by, a butt for human beings and an abject object of contempt to all four-footed beasts. Punda, for his part, scarcely bothered to avoid the lashing hooves and snapping teeth, for that donkey was absolutely broken to affliction; nor did he seem to be the least bit interested in his immediate future. He had been sold and resold too often for him to entertain any hope of deriving benefit from this latest change of masters. Somewhat to Punda's surprise, he was not beaten, nor even abused, for his lack of speed as they ambled along the dusty road that led from the soko. But when they reached Bill Gamling's shamba (farm), they were at ones engulfed in a wave of dogs, and the donkey got one or two sharp nips before the vociferous pack was driven away.

Bill dropped the halter he had been holding, and mounted the steps of the verandah. Punda stood in front of the bungalow, precisely where he had been left; head hanging, ears drooping dejectedly forward, eyes half shut, and the knees of his forelegs slightly bent; a veritable travesty of an animal and a horrible caricature at that.

A couple of natives, peeping round a corner of the bungalow, stared at him, while they wondered why in the world their bwana (master) had wanted to burden himself with that awful old moke. One of the men picked up a sharp-edged flint; but, before he could throw it. Bill Gamling reappeared. The natives hurried forward, even before their master could shout for them.

"Turn that donkey loose in the big paddock," he ordered.

"With the wafrasi, Bwana?" one of the men queried.

"Yes, the horses won't hurt him."

But in that respect the farmer was wrong, for his thoroughbreds nearly kicked Punda to death before the shamba boys, attracted by the uproar, could get him out of the paddock. After that they turned him into a field with some cattle, but the bull which led the herd would have disembowelled him with its sharp horns had not Gamling himself happened along at the opportune moment.

"Very well" said the shamba-owner, "there are no sick beasts in the Home Paddock, so he can have that to himself, for the time being. And, Jenza, see that you feed him well, so that he gets some flesh on his bones."

"Ndio, Bwana," answered the native foreman, assenting doubtfully; for, to his way of thinking, it would be sheer waste of good fodder to attempt to fatten that dilapidated looking animal. which stood waiting with patient dejection upon the will of its new master.

Punda neither asked nor expected anything of life, and yet, alone in the Home Paddock, with Jenza faithfully carrying out his master's orders to feed and care for the donkey, the creature certainly began to put on flesh at an amazing rate. In fact, he began to feel quite skittish, and so he kicked up his heels and went careering round the paddock at a comical sort of canter. Then the moon came up over the distant mountains, and Punda, being that sort of fool, brayed and brayed until the welkin rang.

Bill Gamling swore softly in the darkness of his bedroom; Jenza, muttering to himself, got out of his blankets and felt round his hut for a good thick stick; but a prowling lion, who had also listened to that sickening cry, made no noise at all as he stole towards the Home Paddock.

The fact that the stockade surrounding the pasture was nearly nine feet high would probably not have stopped old Simba from breaking it; it was the arrival of Jenza, a spear in one hand, and a stick in the other, that frightened away the lion for the time being. The native entered the paddock and called softly to the donkey, but Punda wasn't having any of that. It may have been just moon-madness, or perhaps restoration to a minor degree of fitness set the blood coursing through his veins faster than it had done for many a long day; the fact remains that he frisked his heels in the face of the native foreman, expressed his feelings in a last devastating bray of lunatic merriment, and bolted to the farthest confines of the twenty-acre field.

Jenza, not enamored of chasing the donkey, for the purpose of administering a punishment of which his master might not approve, returned disgruntled and grumbling to his own quarters.

He never knew how near he passed to Simba. who might so easily have finished him off, had that lion happened to be in a killing mood. Bill Gamling, making the round of the shamba next morning, soon spotted the lion tracks close to the paddock and called to Jenza to saddle the donkey whilst he fetched his heavy rifle.

Old Bill intended dealing with this potential marauder right away, if that should prove possible, for he had a good deal of valuable live stock on his farm and he knew that a lion will quite blithely kill off a dozen prize bullocks or heifers in a single night, if he feels that way inclined.

But although the farmer hunted all morning, he caught only one glimpse of his quarry. That was when Simba slid off an ant-heap, on which he had been sunning himself, and took to the long grass.

Punda was undoubtedly terrified by the lion's presence, but none the less, he stood stock still, as a big-game hunter's well-trained mount should do, while his master dismounted; and what is even more. Punda waited patiently while Bill wormed his way forward through the long grass.

That hunt, however, was not destined to prosper and before Bill had crawled a dozen yards a bad-tempered old rhino got up between the hunter and his quarry. The brute charged without hesitating, and was only turned by a bullet chipping a slip of flesh from its near-side shoulder. After that Bill Gamling decided to abandon the hunt for the time being, since he realised that the roar of his heavy rifle would have driven the lion right away. He made much of Punda, however, who had stood his ground, and had waited with exemplary patience through the whole exciting episode.

When they got back to the shamba Jenza met his master with a very long face and the information that the prize herd bull had developed "lung-sick"; a serious matter, since the fact that the handsome brute still possessed a tail proved that it had not been salted against the fell complaint.

"Curse!" growled Gamling, "you'd better put the bull in the home paddock. Punda will have to run with the cows, they won't hurt him, and, if they should try, I fancy he is now fit enough to fight his own battles."

And so Punda was turned in with the herd, a very different donkey to the one the old bull had tried to disembowel a few months earlier. But if Punda was all puffed up with the memory that one of his ancestors had once trodden a path of palm branches, while the Lord rode on its back, the cows showed the long maintained contempt for the devil's parody on all four-footed animals by giving him a very wide berth.

Punda did not mind. He was used to that sort of treatment; and had. moreover, his proud, particular secret that he had been petted and approved of by his master. Just as all donkeys know, and are proud of the fact that it was upon an ass's colt that Jesus made His triumphal entry into Jerusalem, when the air was loud with Hosannahs and the road was strewn with palms.

He made no attempt to join the cows while the day-light lasted, and Bill, coming down towards evening to pet him and feed him with lumps of sugar, found Punda standing quite alone in an isolated corner of the paddock. After a while the farmer strolled off to his bungalow, and the donkey, who never in all its life before had been so kindly treated, stood gazing after him with glowing eyes, while its heart was nearly bursting with proud affection.

When the quick tropical darkness shut down Punda moved nearer to the herd for the sake of company, and, although they kept grazing away from him. he followed them persistently.

Then, in the brief silence which always intervenes between the cessation of the day's work and the awakening of night life in Africa, a peculiar coughing grunt, so characteristic of that hour at which the lion sets out upon his nightly prowl, went rumbling through the darkness, like a single bass note throbbing out from a deep-toned organ.

Instantly, the steady crop, crop, crop of the grazing cattle was stilled, and the cows no longer insisted upon withdrawing themselves from the vicinity of the donkey. Punda. for his part, stood listening, with grotesque jester's ears pricked and twitching attentively.

No further testimony to the lion's intentions followed; the steady crop, crop, crop of feeding cattle was resumed, and, one by one, the lights about the shamba were extinguished, as its human inhabitants went to bed. At length the last light was put out, and the shamba slept.

High overhead the great, golden moon mounted steadily; belated Kavirondo cranes mewed plaintively as they winged their way homewards; from the plains echoed, occasionally, the long drawn-out, eerie whining of predatory hyenas, the grunt of some rooting wart-hog, and the almost incessant yapping of a herd of zebra.

Simba, however, made no sound, as he climbed the high stockade and dropped lightly to the grass inside the paddock. The cows remained unaware of the lion's presence, at present, but Punda had seen the black shadow of the heavily maned head and shoulders, silhouetted clearly for one second against the face of the moon, as the big brute had paused before springing down from the top rail of the stockade. Now the lion, crouched belly-flat to earth, was slinking up-wind towards the unsuspicious herd, while Punda waited, thinking furiously.

To him, it was evident that the lion's whole attention was concentrated upon the grazing cows; wherefore he, himself, would be reasonably safe, if he kept, very quiet and did not move at, all. But, notwithstanding that admirable circumstance of probable safety, Punda threw back his head and made the night hideous with his braying.

That harsh, raucous cry awakened Jenza, and it awakened Bill Gamling, but neither did more than curse the obscene disturbance until Punda ran in, turned as swiftly as a polo pony following the ball, and beat a regular devil's tattoo upon the lion's ribs with his hind hoofs. Those attentions set Simba roaring furiously, and the uproar he made fetched both master and man out of their blankets in a hurry, more especially as the lowing and bellowing of frightened cattle had now been added to the unholy din.

Bill dragged on an overcoat above his pyjamas, thrust his feet into mosquito boots, and snatched up a gun. Jenza was content to arm himself more primitively with a spear. Meanwhile, the cows, which had stopped feeding to lift heads of shocked surprise when Punda started braying, scattered themselves very quickly to three comers of the paddock upon Simba giving vent to his first roar, which was cut short under the impact against his ribs of Punda's hard little heels; the fourth corner the cows would not run to, for the donkey and the lion were there already, and, luckily, it happened to be the angle of the big field that was nearest to the bungalow.

Already a dancing array of smoky torches could be seen coming down the slope from the buildings, for Bill Gamling had aroused the house boys at the first sounds of turmoil. The valuable cows were safe enough, now that Simba's attention was centred upon the beast that had attacked him. It remained to be seen if the farmer could reach the paddock in time to save the donkey from the consequences of his heroic indiscretion.

Bill was bowling along at the best pace his age permitted, but, meantime, the lion had decided that his safest form of defence would be to attack. At present, however, Punda had got his head tucked down in the corner, where two lines of post-and-rail fencing formed a right-angle, so that Simba could not spring without bashing his head against the strong corner post, and, meantime, the donkey kept lashing out with his heels in a way well calculated to discourage the bravest of lions from trying to get a grip on either of those flailing hind legs, for the purpose of pulling him down.

Time was now the essence of the contract, for even the obstinacy of a donkey has its endurance breaking point. So far, Punda's whole hindquarters had been working full time and with piston-like regularity. But as the dancing lights drew nearer, sheer, physical exhaustion forced him to rest for one second, and, in that second, Simba sprang.

Punda lashed out wickedly with his near hind leg, and by a miracle of luck, his hoof landed with the force of a battering ram right on the tender tip of Simba's nose, which is the lion's most vulnerable spot, from the point of view of inflicting pain.

The great brute roared and roared until the air quivered and the very earth seemed to tremble, but he could not do anything else, for pain had filled his eyes with water and, for the moment, he could not see. When his vision did clear Simba found himself confronted with a wall of smoky flame, for the natives had arrived, and were posted all along the stockade with their torches held high above their heads to give their master light enough to shoot. And then, from the heart of the semi-darkness beneath that dancing frieze of flame, there came a vivid flash and a thunderous report, but Simba hardly saw or heard either the one or the other as the bullet from Bill Gamling's heavy .405 big game gun crashed into his brain.

Punda, utterly exhausted by his exertions, for he was still far from fit, and nearly deafened by the roar of the rifle so close at hand, stood with head drooping and knees sagging while his heart labored and his breath came wheezily, an abject picture of dumb dejection. His head came up, however, at the sound of his master's voice, then a hand slid underneath his muzzle, and a moment later he was crunching contentedly the lump of sugar old Bill had found in the pocket of his overcoat.

"You may be the devil's parody of other animals to look at, you old image." murmured Bill; "but, by gad, you can hold your own in a rough-house with the next, and then take on all-comers."

The donkey threw back his head and, to celebrate his triumph, gave one devastating bray, which nearly stunned his master, set the teeth of all the natives on edge, and once more scattered the cows, who had begun to gather curiously round the dead lion with many snortings and stampings.

Then Punda nuzzled expectantly at his master's pocket, as though he seemed to imagine that the fight he had put up was good value for something a bit more than a single lump of sugar and a ringing smack on the rump.

Bill Gamling grinned as he grabbed hold of one of the long ears and led Punda away to the bungalow for further rewards

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25: There Are More Things...

Telegraph (Brisbane) 19 Jan 1939

"THE trouble with you, young fellow," growled Colonel Ormond, "is that you talk too much."

THE men in the club smoking room sniggered. Young Beverley Parker  had started by giving us his views upon pacifism, and had then proceeded to blaspheme Shakespeare by informing us that, in this 20th century, there is little, if anything, in Heaven or earth that is un-wotted of in man's philosophy. The sudden, briefly continued roaring of a lion in the Zoological Gardens on the other side of Regent's Park had dammed the spate of his torrent of words.

The same sound had served to arouse the Colonel from private cogitations in his favourite fire-side corner. Beverley Parker flushed crimson at the direct reproof, but the Colonel grinned amiably.

"Do any of you fellows remember Bungo Hilton?" he queried, and there was a murmur of assent. Most of us, in fact, remembered the big, quiet fellow. At such rare occasions as he was in England, he used to divide his time between studying the fauna in the Zoological Gardens and poring over maps of the most God-forgotten corners of the earth in the club library.

"For an explorer of his experience," Colonel Ormond continued, "Bungo Hilton had me beat six days put of seven. He wasn't quite so cock-sure about all the things in Heaven and earth as our friend Parker seems to be, but he did believe that every phenomenon, no matter how strange it might seem, was capable of a perfectly logical explanation, if only one, could hit upon it. Needless to say, he did not take any stock of the so-called super-natural. And yet, I rather fancy, he knows better nowadays."

"WHAT'S the yarn, Colonel-sahib?" queried a captain of Indian cavalry, as Ormond fell silent and sat thoughtfully stuffing his pipe.

"H'm. Wish to the devil I could give you the explanation," growled the Colonel, "story itself's not difficult to tell."

"Go on! Fire ahead, Colonel-sahib," we chorused.

"H'm; it was in rules that I ran across Bungo about five years ago," he answered, settling himself more comfortably in his chair. "We lunched together at Simpsons after taking our aperitifs, for he was full up with some fantastic yarn he'd got hold of and was mad keen to get hold of a man to go out with him to Central Africa. And that, Parker, my lad," he broke off, "is a land where you'll certainly find considerably more than is dreamed of in your present philosophy, if over you have the guts to get yourself out of England.

"That's neither here nor there, however," he went on. "As I was saying, Bungo Hilton wanted a partner for a Central African expedition lie was planning, and, as I'm fond of a bit of big-game hunting, I said I'd go along. Once I'd promised, ho didn't give me a ghost of a chance to change my mind, and a month later we found ourselves in Nairobi.

"According to the yarn Bungo told me, he had got hold of information which would enable him to locale the fabulous Elephant's Grave Yard, which every African explorer and big-game hunter for the last half-dozen generations has been seeking. You know the legend, I suppose, and how it is believed that elephants are granted a prescience of death and make for a certain, secret place, which has become the ivory treasure house of the world, on account of the endless number of elephants that have gone there to die?

"According to Bungo, there was supposed to be a corner of the Lado enclave into which no white man had as yet penetrated; and, apart from the grave-yard business, the inhabitants were rumoured to be a pretty queer race.

"Anyway, we made our way lip to Gondokoro and, from there, struck east towards the Abyssinian border. What sort of a country was it, you want to know? Well, it was a hell of a country, whichever way you looked at it. What Bungo used to greet as "Miles and miles of ruddy Africa," every morning when he woke up.

"We wore having breakfast outside our safari tent when one of these fellows put in an appearance. The Watu Wageni they called themselves, as we discovered later.

"Bungo's Boy, Hamesi Ali, spotted the fellow first, and it was his Exclamation, half-fear, half-wonder, and his outstretched hand that directed our attention to a sandy hummock perhaps a hundred yards sway. Standing on top of the mound was one of the queerest objects I have ever clapped eyes on. He couldn't have been much under seven feet in height, was as thin as a rail and stood there on one leg with the sole of his right foot pressed Inwards against the knee of his left leg, for all the world like a blessed, ruminating stork. His complexion was no darker than that of the average dago and his features were thin and aquiline. As we stood up to get a better look at him, he shook his spear at us, in greeting or menace— we couldn't tell which— and then vanished behind the crest of the rise.

" 'Looks as if there's something in those rumours I've heard," jibed Bungo, who knew that I had felt pretty sceptical about the whole business up to that moment. "We seem to have struck an outpost of the lost-tribe; why shouldn't we find the Elephants' Grave Yard into the bargain?'

" 'Why not,' I agreed grudgingly.

"We marched steadily north by east throughout a day of appalling heat, when the burning warmth of the sand seemed to strike clean through the soles of your boots and the refracted rays of the sun were flung back in your face like a blast from the mouth of the pit of Tophet. Towards evening we came in sight of a cluster of grass huts built round the base of a conical hill, which was surmounted by a single tree of incredible height. Everything in that strange country seemed to be long or tall and extremely attenuated.

"No one took the slightest notice of our approach, and the reason was soon apparent, for everyone was staring at an incredibly old man perched up in the topmost branches of that very tall tree. We halted our safari, wondering what the devil we ought to do next, and then we heard what that ancient oracle was saying; With one hand , clinging to the slender trunk of the tree; and the other shading his eyes he peered out north and south and east and, west; flinging down the while instructions as to where dead elephants might be found, up to five days march distant. As his messages floated down to them, little bands of armed warriors set out in the directions he indicated.

"I may add, right away, that all those parties returned within a fortnight, heavily laden with tusks cut from the dead elephants they had found, in accordance with the directions of their witch-doctor. It's no good asking me how the old devil did it because I simply can't tell you. He must have been best part of a hundred years old and was hard of hearing; but according to local report, he climbed that very tall tree every day of his life, and he was never wrong in his prognostications of where dead elephants were to be found.

"The ivory was carefully sorted as it came in, the best tusks being set aside for what was known as the Dead Man's Acre. This was a large plot of ground in which the witch-doctor-rulers of the Wageni had been buried from time immemorial. It was fenced all round with three rows of the finest elephant tusks in all the world set crisscross. Good heavens, there must be enough first-grade ivory set round that bally boneyard to pretty nearly pay off our National Debt. Long before the ivory retrieving parties returned, of course, the old witch-doctor descended from his tree and made us welcome.

"We'd struck a mighty valuable store of ivory, that was certain; but it was equally clear that we had not yet found the actual Elephant's Grave Yard. The exasperating part of the business was that the witch doctor undoubtedly knew the situation of the place we wore seeking, but about that matter, and everything appertaining to the beliefs and customs of his people, lie remained obstinately reticent. All we could ascertain, and that was mainly assumption, was that he was the hereditary guardian of the Elephant's Grave Yard and took as his tribute the pick of the tusks of such dying beasts as failed to reach their destination.

"We might have got at the secret in the long run, but luck, that had been with us so far, was due to veer in the other direction.

"It all started with Hamesi Ali falling in love with one of the Wageni women. She was a well-favoured, pleasant sort of wench, this girl, Kalui, who had taken the fancy of Bungo Hilton's servant, but I wish to heaven he had chosen to put the comether upon any other girl in the tribe, for then all might have been well. As things turned out, Kalui was the girl the witch doctor had marked down as providing an acceptable sacrifice to the tribal deity.

"Hamesi Ali came to us in a hell of a state of mind, when Kalui told him what was In store for her. In fact, he so far forgot himself as In come blinding into the tent while we were still sleeping and arouse his master by shaking him roughly by the shoulder. Bungo promptly responded by knocking Hamesi clean through the tent opening.

"Perhaps he was sorry for his quick-tempered action when he heard Hamesi's story, for he was genuinely fond of the boy. Anyway, he set to work to get at the rights of the case, and then it was we discovered that the Watu Wageni were lion worshippers. That was funny, too, for although they had any amount of ornaments showing the lion of Egypt in bas-relief, and had flatly refused to allow us to hunt lions, it had never occurred to us that old Simba— the lion— was the object of their particular veneration.

" 'That's all right, Hamesi,' Bungo reassured his servant; 'when's the sacrifice due to lake place?'

" 'I do not know exactly, bwana; but I think when the moon is full.'

" 'That gives us the best part of a week Any idea whether there is a real lion and where he lies up?'

" 'I will find- out bwana, Hamesi answered. Kalui, that evening, gave him all the information he wanted. Next morning she was missing.

"I suppose some devil of penitence for striking Hamesi dictated Bungo s subsequent actions, for nothing would satisfy him but for us to seek the tribal deity in his lair, in the hope that the native girl had not yet been sacrificed. I didn't like the business, but I kept my mouth shut and saw to the mechanism of my rifle, We realised, of course, that we should have to clear out in double quick time, it we did rescue the girl, and that would be the end of our hopes of finding the Elephants Grave Yard, for even the friendliest of savages are apt to turn nasty if you start monkeying with their religion.

"Anyway, Bungo was set on the business, so we slipped out of the village just after dawn and followed Hamesi along a bush track which we had been told was taboo. We found the lair of the tribal lion at the end of an hours hard going. The place was ankle deep in bones, and a good many of them were human; in the mouth of the cave lay the mangled remains of Kalui, a most beastly spectacle that sent Hamesi fighting mad.

"A moment later we saw the lion himself, who had been taking a snooze on top of an ant-heap. None of your stunted desert breed this fellow, but a real, deep-chested, black-maned forest king. He came straight at us without making a sound, and Bungo let him have it smack between the eyes. While the carcase was still twitching, the witch doctor of the Wageni walked out of the cave, and I've never seen such fury on a man's face in all my life.

" 'We may not kill you, because you are our guest," he said very quietly, with his eyes fixed on Bungo; "but the Curse of Simba be upon you; I sleeping or waking he shall haunt you I and, in the fullness of your days, a lion shall strike you down. Now go!"

"You can take it from me that we lost no time In clearing out; but although Bungo tried to laugh it off, he was, from that day, a changed man. We left the village, watched by silently hostile, natives, and after, seven days' marching, struck the-Blue Nile. That is just about tho worst week I ever remember, for by day I we continuously met desert lions which showed fight, and, by night, our camp was literally ringed in by the savage brutes. To make matters worse Bungo began dreaming about lions when he did get to sleep, and, by day, he brooded over his dreams. That made him morose, but, even so, I should not have believed that a man could have altered so entirely in the space of a few days. Why, damn it, when those pestilential brutes were roaring and growling round the camp at night he swore that they were calling to him and, obviously, had the greatest difficulty in preventing himself from going out to them.

"Even when we got on board a boat to take us down the real Nile things were not a great deal better, for the roaring of a lion, way-off in the desert beside the river, would set Bungo shivering like a startled thoroughbred  At Cairo we decided to put up at the Mena House Hotel, as Bungo wanted to study the Pyramids, which he had not visited previously. Perhaps he thought that a new interest would serve to take his mind off the Curse of Simba, which had been put upon him by die Wageni witch-doctor. The one thing we had not reckoned with was that the Mena House was near enough to the Zoo-ogical Gardens in the park of the Ghizeh Palace for us to hear any exceptional noise made by the occupants of the cages.

"God! How those lions did roar, that first night we slept in the hotel across the river from Cairo. It was two o'clock in the morning when the din woke me up, and I went straight along to Bungo's room, with some idea, of seeing him through what I believed would be a bad nerve-storm, brought on by the noise; but Bungo wasn't in his room. The hall-porter said that he had left the hotel and taken the Road of Pyramid towards Cairo ten minutes earlier.

"I took the same road as fast as I could foot it, and every moment the roaring of the lions grew louder. I seemed to know, by instinct, where Bungo was making for; but I never caught a sight of him along the open road, although there was a big, bright moon high overhead.

"When I reached Ghizeh Palace park I didn't need to find anyone to tell me where they kept the lions, the din was awful; and, already, native keepers were hastening towards the cages. I joined, the rush unheeded and then, suddenly, everything went quiet; deathly quiet, if you understand me.

"A moment later we found Bungo Hilton. He lay face downwards between the protection rail and the bars of one of the cages, a terrific blow had crushed his skull like a brittle egg-shell, and, behind the bars lay a great, black-maned lion, purring contentedly as it licked a bloody paw."

The Colonel paused to relight his pipe.

"Give me the answer to that one, Mister Beverley Parker," he invited, "and I'll be willing to listen to your nonsense about there not being more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy."

But Beverley Parker, for once, was unable to answer.

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26: Pride Goeth

Daily Telegraph (Sydney) 7 Jan 1935

ALONG the face of a cliff high up among the N'gong Mountains there was much movement, seen for an instant through the intervening undergrowth, then lost again. Presently a big, old-man baboon stepped out on to a game-trail; stood for a moment peering suspiciously about him; then, tail arched over his back, maledadi-fashion, bounded forward, followed by other old men of the tribe.

They, in their turn, were followed by young fighters and half-grown youngsters, while the females of the species brought up the rear, with their babies clinging to their backs, and looking for all the world like pathetic little monkey-jockeys in a circus. The leader had travelled perhaps fifty yards along the game-trail when the grass to one side of the path was violently agitated and Felis pardus fortis— eight feet of supple, ruthless, mountain leopard from muzzle to tall-tip— shot out of the undergrowth, seized a half-grown youngster, and crouched snarling over his victim.

The old men turned round, standing erect upon their hind legs to get a better view of the cause of the commotion, the other baboons clambered to various points of vantage on cliff-face or rocks. And how they cursed that leopard and how they pelted him with sticks and stones, yet managed to evade his furious rushes upon them.

Then they suddenly stopped chattering, dropped to all fours, and bounded away. It was not until that moment that Chui the Leopard realised that all the abuse and more material missiles that had been hurled at him had merely served as so much camouflage to cover the retirement of the females and their babies, who had long since disappeared.

Picking up the body of the young baboon he had killed for sheer sport and the wanton love of killing, since he was not the least bit hungry, Chui took his way through the bush until he reached an open glade where stood a tall tree, Its bare bole deeply scored with the markings of leopards' claws.

That tree-trunk was innocent of branches to a considerable height, but Chui, after resettling his grip upon the baboon, went at it with a rush and was three parts of the way up before he began to lose momentum; then he clasped his forelegs round the bole, brought his powerful hindquarters into action and seemed to go up in a series of spasmodic bounds until the lowest branch was reached. There he rested for awhile, before climbing on to thrust the carcase of the young baboon into his natural larder, a fork between two branches fully forty feet above the ground.

Meanwhile the old men and the fighting youngsters of the baboon tribe, who had been following the leopard, had assembled round the base of the tree chattering excitedly and brandishing the sticks and lumps of rock with which they had armed themselves. Chui descended to a strong branch, stretched himself along it and lay staring down at his enemies without any display of animosity, but, obviously, arrogantly contemptuous of their foolish threats.

After a while he grew tired of their idle chattering, ran a little way down the perpendicular trunk and, springing from his hind-legs, shot out over the baboons and escaped. Then, the hour being near to high noon, he made his way to his cave among the rocks where his mate was suckling her cubs, and lay down to sleep until it should be time for him to hunt again.

Towards dusk, and perhaps an hour before his neighbor, old Simba the lion, would be setting out upon his nightly prowl, Chui left the cave and coughed once or twice to announce his intention of going hunting. But a new thought struck him as his greenly glowing eyes encountered a pin-point of light winking and flashing from the plains far below his mountain home.

Chui turned back and called to his mate to join him. Together they went down the mountain-side, a pair of beautiful, arrogantly proud beasts who felt secure in their own strength and very sure of themselves. The lesser creatures of the forest got quickly to cover as they heard that peculiar cry, so like the sound made when a man tries to saw a damp log with a blunt saw, which so often accompanies the nocturnal perambulations of the leopard people.

That night, however, the pigs, jungle fowl, and other small creatures of the wild need have felt no alarm, for Chui had formed a project of his own which his mate was only too ready to aid and abet, for she, also, was a killer by nature.

Towards midnight the two soft-stepping creatures, very silent now crossed a small river- that ran through the foothills and came to the open plains. The light that had first attracted Chui's attention had long since been extinguished, but he knew exactly the situation of the native shamba (farm) for which he and his mate were making.

The thorn boma, which served as a sheep-fold, stood quite close to the village, but, as luck would have it, the dog which kept guard each night had been killed by a snake soon after sunset, and nothing but the terrified bleating of the sheep themselves disturbed the brooding hush of night, as Chui, followed by his mate, bounded over the seven foot thorn fence.

What went on inside the boma thereafter need not be described, but it was a most notable killing, from the point of view of the leopards, for they left more than fifty dead sheep behind them when they returned to the mountains just before dawn, and the natives who came to inspect the disastrous results of the raid had to put out of their misery a number of other ewes that had been badly mauled.

Chui was very well satisfied with his night's work, and killed a couple of impala on his way back to the cave, just to celebrate the occasion. His mate, more provident than he was, helped him to drag the body of one of the bucks, which weighed as much as either of them, Into the fork of a tree, where it would be out of reach of jackals and hyenas, until it was wanted, although, unfortunately, the carcase would not be protected from the depredations of vultures.

At the cave the cubs welcomed the return of their mother with such noisy ecstasy as compelled Chui to seek quieter quarters for his daytime rest. For a while he basked upon the summit of a sun-warmed rock, but, the sun growing too hot for his liking as it climbed higher in the heavens, he decided presently to seek the shade of the forest and the comfortable breadth of the branch of a tree which he had favored for a long time.

It was there that Kathuka, the Akamba hunter from the village where the flock of sheep had been decimated, caught sight of the hated marauder. It was only the preternaturally sharp sight of the native that enabled him to distinguish the form of his enemy, for Chui's general coloring blended perfectly with the yellowish-brown bark of the branch, while the bright sunlight, filtering down through a canopy of leaves, harmonised beautifully with the black finger-print markings on his coat.

Kathuka froze In his tracks, and cautiously fitted poisoned arrow to bow-string. But the leopard saw even that slight movement. Instantly he dropped straight from the branch into the long grass beneath and slunk away unseen. He had chosen his resting place with nice discrimination and an admirable eye to a line of retirement.

The native turned without even a shrug of the shoulders or click of the tongue, and went down the mountain, for a life-time spent In the wilds breeds stoical patience and the ready acceptance of disappointment in man and beast alike.

Kathuka, however, had no intention of abandoning the hunt. He went back to the village, and found his friends already busy building a house on piles into which the remainder of the communal flock would be driven up an inclined, removable track, when the herd-boys should bring them In an hour or so before sunset. Five of the men left the house building at the hunter's request, and accompanied him back to the mountain. There, in a game-runway, that bore traces of leopard's paws, they planted a strong, springy young sapling firmly in the ground, attached a noose rope to the top, and bent the sapling over in such a way that any animal treading on a mass of leaves below would be whipped up in the noose and held suspended.

They felt quite confident of capturing their quarry, for every type of animal has a blind spot, and the intelligence of a leopard does not usually rise to the recognition of traps.

Chui, however, came down from his cave, and had a good look at that springle by daylight, and when it was dark he and his mate deliberately drove a frightened buck along the game trail, then stood listening for awhile to its frantic struggles to break free from the rope by which it was suspended well clear of the ground.

At dawn the hunters came up to inspect the snare they had set with such confidence. Chui watched them from a safe hiding place. Just as they were  turning away in disgust he sprang clean over them, and, striking down and back with one fore-paw, while he was still in mid-air, crushed in a man's skull as easily as though it had been a rotten egg-shell. Then he vanished, a vital gold and black streak shooting through the air, and disappearing into the bush before ever a hunter could fit arrow to bow-string.

Chui had become a man-killer,  and from that day he preyed upon women and children, whom he took from their work on the shambas, or when they were travelling along the roads. Human flesh didn't appeal to his dainty palate particularly, but he found killing people far better fun than killing animals.

The natives accepted the presence of a dangerous man-killer in their neighborhood with a not surprising stoicism, for their circumstances of life were such that they had come to regard death at the jaws of a wild beast as part of the pre-ordained scheme of things. They gave up hunting him because his cunning had increased immensely with his new propensities, and, although immunity from molestation had caused him to abandon his nocturnal habits, they seldom caught a glimpse of him. He was careful never to launch his sudden attacks upon any woman or child accompanied by an armed man.

And then Jim Dawson came to the district, but he was a stranger to the Wakamba, and so they did not at once enlist his aid against the leopard, as they would have done if the District Commissioner, whom they knew well, had happened to come that way on one of his inspection-safaris.

But if the hunter knew nothing of the leopard, the leopard knew all about him, for Jim Dawson had a very nice fox-terrier, and leopards are particularly partial to little dogs. They prefer them even to succulent young pigs or baby lambs. Chui had never seen a white man before, and so he held Jim Dawson in no greater veneration than he did Kathuka, the native hunter. And, that being so, he made no bones about going down to Jim Dawson's tent and carrying off the dog.

Thereby he lit a fire of hatred that was not destined to burn itself out until it had consumed him, for next morning the white hunter found blood and the tracks of a leopard where his dog should have been, and sent his native boy to summon the chief of the Wakamba village; who was only too willing to tell the tale of the depredations of Chui, the Man-Killer.

"Very well," said Jim Dawson, thin-lipped with anger, "we will go up and settle accounts with this vermin."

"Bwana," answered the native, "you will never kill him, for he is very cunning."

"We shall see," said Dawson, and dismissed the chief to assemble his hunters.

They found Chui high up the mountainside, stretched on a warm rock, with every muscle relaxed, and enjoying the last of the afternoon sun. The body of a buck he had killed for the wanton sport of killing lay close at hand. He heard the approach of the hunters while they were still a long way off, and, secure in the pride of his own power, barely troubled to raise his head.

They were drawing nearer, however, and he realised that soon he would have to be moving. Still, he knew to a nicety the range of a native bowman's arrow, and so he stood up to stretch himself and yawn insolently in their faces before taking his departure ere they were within bow-shot of him. A magnificent picture the big leopard made as he stood on a high rock with his lithe, supple body silhouetted against the flaming, sunset sky.

Jim Dawson smiled maliciously as he squinted over the sights of his heavy rifle, but the muscles about his mouth tightened as he squeezed the trigger. There was a flash and a loud report. Chui crumpled to the terrific impact of a .405 soft-nosed bullet smashing through his ribs, and came rolling down from his pinnacle of pride, to fall upon the body of the buck he had butchered for wanton play.

______________

27: Elephants Apilin' Teak

Daily Telegraph (Sydney) 22 Nov 1934

THEY took Kala Nasir between the crops he had destroyed and his forest home into which not a man of all that part of Burma dared follow him. And because this "Black Defender" was a high-caste elephant, a tree Koomeriah, and no middle-class Dwasala or common Mirga, he fought like a very fiend when the angry natives noosed one of his legs, and drew him relentlessly close to the trunk of the huge tree, round which their strong rope was passed.

They took care, however, to keep well out of reach of the lashing trunk, and the sickle sweep of the great white tusks, for there was a look in the gleaming, blood-gorged eyes, which warned them what the fate would be of the foolish fellow who was careless of his own safety or over-venturesome. The snakelike trunk would whip about the body of such a one, the great foot of the free fore-leg would be set upon the lower limbs, and Kala Nasir would tear his screaming victim into two halves.

But man is more crafty than the untamed creatures of the wild, although they imbibe much of his cunning once they are in captivity. And so, presently, the exultant natives drew as near as they dared, and mocked Kala Nasir, until the Black Defender rocked with anger, raising and lowering each of his feet. in turn, except that which was roped to the tree. And so the natives, watching their opportunity, cast their noosed ropes until they had the great Koomeriah firmly tethered by all four legs.

Then they formed their camp, prepared to wait for weeks, if need be, while they tamed Kala Nasir sufficiently to take him away. They had not made up their minds as yet whether they would sell him to Johnson Sahib, who was the head of all the Keddah-operations in those parts, or would seek out some powerful rajah who might be open to buy a fine state-elephant to carry him in darbar.

In the end they took Kala Nasir to the Englishman: for they were wise natives, and therefore realised that the rajah who is quickest to buy is often the slowest to pay, whereas Government money is always certain.

And, after some weeks spent in kicking against the pricks, Kala Nasir seemed to have become reconciled to whatever lot that Fate held in store that had brought him to captivity. But that was only because night after night a trumpeting voice had come to him out of the darkness, bidding him be patient if he would win back to freedom.

It was the voice of Murad Baksh, whose name means "Desire Attained," as it had been for both of them when they had mated in the secret heart of the forest not three months ago. But the Keddah to which they took Kala Nasir was very far away, and he heard the voice of Murad Baksh no more. And then a strange thing happened to him, for, gradually, he found himself breeding a deep affection for Purangai, the wizened little mahout who groomed, drove and looked after him, giving him sugar-cane every day. and sometimes arrack as a great treat.

And so there came a time when Kala Nasir forgot the old life of forest freedom and entered with zest into the desperate work of catching wild elephants which had to be tamed and trained for carrying on the work of the British Raj all up and down India. Johnson Sahib knew him, and Purangai trusted his life to him when he rode Kala Nasir into the raging hell of the packed stockade where the torches flamed, blank cartridges and crackers exploded, the captured beasts hurled themselves crashing against the heavy, unyielding posts, and no man could hear himself speak for the fury of the trumpeting.

But whenever there was a lull In the uproar Purangai would say, "Mall, Kala Nasir, Mall" (Go on, Black Defender, go on), and Kala Nasir would move forward and knock clean off its feet any recalcitrant young tusker that was giving the sweat-drenched elephant-catchers trouble.

And then one night a miracle happened in the midst of that inferno, which was the full-packed Keddah; for Kala Nasir heard the screaming of a cow that had got herself wedged fast in a press of wildly-fighting bull elephants, and, memory stirring, he went to Investigate without awaiting any orders from his mahout. He recognised Murad Baksh at once, and his trumpeting beat down the uproar all around him, as memory, but gently piqued before, came flowing back full tide. Two big, tame, pad elephants with blunted tusks were doing their best to beat the fear-maddened, newly-captured cow into a suitable state of submission.

The scream of Kala Nasir's trumpeting distracted their attention for a moment, and in that moment Murad Baksh broke free. The elephants, urged on by the furious cries of their own mahouts, swung round to follow her, and at the same Instant Purangai gave his beast an angry order. But Kala Nasir was quite beyond taking orders from any human being. Memory had awakened, like had called to like, and— well, he had not been named the Black Defender without good reason.

Like a battle-cruiser going into action under a full head of steam, Kala Nasir launched himself against the two beasts who were striving to corner Murad Baksh afresh. The ankus with which Purangai beat upon his head bit deep, but the pain of the blows and the smell of his own blood flowing down his face but served to enrage him the more, With a squeal of fury he crashed into the nearer of the two pursuing elephants and, big as the creature was, he bowled it clean over, the mahout luckily falling clear. The man on the other animal yelled a wild, "Maro! Mar! (Hit him! Hit him!), and sent his beast into the fight, while the little boys, waving their flaming torches from the tops of the big posts surrounding the keddah, yelled to one another that Kala Nasir had gone musth.

But the big black elephant was not mad, only very angry at the thought of the indignities that had been put upon his miraculously restored mate. After Kala Nasir had dealt with that second tame elephant, which had had the audacity to think that it could stand against him, he crossed the keddah to where Murad Baksh stood alone, coyly spraying her legs with dust. He caressed her with his trunk, gave vent to one or two melancholy toots, and then she followed him docilely to the elephant-lines and allowed herself to be picketed.

After that Purangai boasted to the other mahouts that his elephant was so clever that he could tame the wildest captive without having recourse to coercion.

But when Johnson Sahib heard the story he bent his black brows in a portentous frown, for he did not love rebels, and said that Kala Nasir must be banished.

A month later the Black Defender found himself piling teak in a squelching, hot, and stifling Irrawaddy creek, which, God knows, is no work for a true Koomeriah, They sent Murad Baksh along with him, simply because she proved utterly intractable the moment they tried to separate her from her mate. That they should be separated was, however, inevitable in that land of changing destinies, which is India.

And so it happened that a travelling rajah saw Kala Nasir and admired him for his blackness, his bulk, his breeding, and his good behaviour.

"I will buy that elephant," said Rajah Kama Singh, but he said nothing of Murad Baksh, and the last sight Kala Nasir had of her was as she struggled wildly to follow him, while Hiro Lai, her mahout, used the cruel ankus to turn her back, and other mahouts brought their elephants, holding heavy lengths of chain in the fingers of their trunks, to beat her until she resumed her allotted task of piling teak in that squashy Irrawaddy creek.

Table of Contents

- 1: Golden Eggs
- 2: Natives Will Talk
- Unnamed
- 4: Blue Blood
- 5:  Very Still Waters
- 6: A Strange Drum Sounds
- 7: Floating Bones
- 8: The Double Problem
- 9: According to Law
- 10: The Secret of the Singular Cipher
- 11: The Schimmel Sets the Pace
- 12: Towards Morning
- 13: The Owl
- 14: This Little Pig
- 15: Korongo the Arrogant
- 16: Not To The Strong
- 17: The Call of his Kind
- 18: Eyes in the Air
- 19: Let There Be Light
- 20: Trial By Combat
- 21: Power Comes to Pesembeli
- 22: Nature Hits Back
- 23: Possession
- 24: Devil's Parody
- Unnamed
- 26: Pride Goeth
- 27: Elephants Apilin' Teak