Past Masters Seventy Six
Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: Some now-familiar names from this series of anthologies; a new name in Surdez, a Swiss-American author from French-speaking Bienne; and several by that prolific author Anonymous. All identifiable authors are in the L+70 Public Domain. 1: Sweet Grass / Henry S Whitehead 2: The Abominable Test / Fred MacIsaac 3: Without Fear / Coutts Brisbane 4: Remorse / Anonymous 5: The Kit-Bag / Algernon Blackwood 6: Ex-Officio / J. S. Fletcher 7: The Visitation / Cyril G. Wates 8: The New Doctor / Edgar Wallace 9: Over the Wall / Henry Leverage 10: Uncle Ned's Teeth / James Norman Hall 11: Raid on Jigger's R

PAST MASTERS

SEVENTY-SIX

8 May 2022

Produced by Terry Walker

("Pulpmeister")

Contents

1: Sweet Grass / Henry S Whitehead

2: The Abominable Test / Fred MacIsaac

3: Without Fear / Coutts Brisbane

4: Remorse / Anonymous

5: The Kit-Bag / Algernon Blackwood

6: Ex-Officio / J. S. Fletcher

7: The Visitation / Cyril G. Wates

8: The New Doctor / Edgar Wallace

9: Over the Wall / Henry Leverage

10:  Uncle Ned's Teeth / James Norman Hall

11: Raid on Jigger's Reef / Albert Richard Wetjen

12: An Old Norman-French Story / Anonymous

13: Beauty in Flight / Anonymous

14: Genesis / Michael Romain

15: A Barrack Ghost Story / Anonymous

16: Not Proven / F. A. J. Godfrey

17: Spite Corner / Georges Surdez

18: Charles the Bold / Georges Surdez

Cumulative index # 61-76

______________________

An eerie tale from the Danish Antilles, which in 1917 became the American Virgin Islands. Several other stories by Whitehead have appeared in earlier issues of Past Masters.

1: Sweet Grass

Henry S Whitehead

1882-1932

Weird Tales July 1929

A TALE, this, of the Black Obayi of Ashantee... Nybladh, administrator for the Copenhagen Company of the Rasmussen Centràl, allotted Estate Fairfield to young Cornelis Hansen, just out from Denmark to the Danish West Indies to begin the life of a sugar planter. Cornelis, tall, straight, ruddy-cheeked, twenty-two, fell in love with the island of Santa Cruz and with his pretty little house.

Nybladh had indeed used diplomacy in that allotment. An inexperienced estate manager could do little harm at Fairfield. The house stood, quite near the sea, at the western end of the Centràl's many properties, among dimpling hills. Hillside cane was a losing venture. Very little was grown at Fairfield, and that on its small proportion of level bottom-land. Then, Cornelis could be promoted as soon as he became accustomed to the practicalities. That would mean a favorable report to Old Strach, Cornelis' uncle in Copenhagen. Old Strach owned the Centràl.

Cornelis proved to be a social success from the very start. The Santa Crucian gentry drove up to call on him in their family carriages, to the little stone house glistening frostily in the Caribbean sunlight. It had been freshly whitewashed— Crucian wash, held together with molasses, and now baked to the appearance of alabaster by the relentless sun.

At their own houses Cornelis met the resident planters, chiefly Scottish and Irish gentlefolk and their sons and daughters. Also he became acquainted with the officers at the three Danish garrisons— at Christiansted, Frederiksted, and Kingshill. Many visitors, too, came over from St Thomas, the capital, forty-three miles away; others, too, from the English Islands— Antigua, St Kitts, even sometimes from Montserrat or St Lucia. There was never any lack of good company on Santa Cruz. This tropical life was vastly different from Copenhagen. Cornelis was never home-sick. He did not want to go back to cold Copenhagen. There, it seemed now to Cornelis, he had been spending a beginningless eternity, absorbed in his chemistry, his English, and other dull studies. All that had been to fit him to take his place here in this pleasant, short-houred, expensive life of a tropical planter in the sugar-trade. He enjoyed the new life from its very beginning. Yet, in spite of his pleasant housing, his hospitable entertainment, his unaccustomed freedom to come and go, he was, sometimes poignantly, lonesome.

His new friends did not, perhaps, realize the overpowering effect of the sudden change upon this northern-bred man; the effects of the moonlight and the soft trade wind; the life of love which surrounded him here. Love from the palm fronds, rustling dryly in the continuous breeze; love was telegraphed through the shy, bovine eyes of the brown girls in his estate-house village; love assailed him in the breath of the honeylike sweet grass, undulating all day and all night under the white moonlight of the Caribbees, pouring over him intoxicatingly through his opened jalousies as he lay, often sleeping, through long nights of spice and balm smells on his mahogany bedstead— pale grass, looking like snow under the moon.

The half-formulated yearnings which these sights and sounds were begetting were quite new and fresh in his experience. Here fresh instincts, newly released, stirred, flared up, at the glare of early-afternoon sunlight, at the painful scarlet of the hibiscus blooms, the incredible indigo of the sea— all these flames of vividness through burning days, wilting into a caressing coolness, abruptly, at the fall of the brief, tropic dusk. The fundament of his crystallizing desire was for companionship in the blazing life of this place of rapid growth and early fading, where time slipped away so fast.

At first he had wondered, vaguely, how other men had met this primal urge. Very soon he saw that the answer to that was all about him, here in his own estate-village. Here were ruddy zambos, pale-brown mulattos, cream-colored octoroons— mestizos of every type, of every shade of skin. That was one answer; that had been the great answer, here in the West Indies, from time immemorial; the answer here on Santa Cruz of the Spaniards and the Dutch, as many names showed; of the French and of his own people, the Danes. He wondered, whimsically, what had been the answer in the case of those austere Knights of Malta who had owned the island for a season.

But, for Cornelis, fastidiousness intervened. Across the edge of that solution hung the barrier of his inertia, his resistance, his pride of a Caucasian. The barrier seemed insurmountable to Cornelis.

Marriage? Was he not young for that? He asked himself that question many times. One did not marry, ideally, without love; love true and deep and trustful; love founded on acquaintance, appreciation, some conviction of permanence. Those were the backgrounds of marriage.

Some daughter of one of the gentry planters, perhaps? Those girls had the domestic virtues. But— he was comfortable enough with his good servants at Fairfield House. His yearnings had little relation to somebody to preside over his household. Somehow, to Cornelis, these young ladies of the planter gentry were not alluring, vital. The most attractive of them, Honoria Macartney, he could hardly imagine beside him perpetually. Honoria had the dead-white skin of the Caucasian Creole lady whose face has been screened from the sun since infancy.

'And how are you enjoying the island?' she had asked him on an afternoon when he had been visiting the Macartneys, eating some of Honoria's perfect small frosted cakes; drinking her rather too-strong tea on the east gallery of her father's estate-house near Christiansted.

Cornelis reassured her. He was enjoying himself very much indeed. Everything Honoria said, did, wore— he felt instinctively— was— suitable. That was the English word for it. Yes.

Looking at her, as he had looked at her various other afternoons, Cornelis was certain his mother in Copenhagen would approve of her as a daughter-in-law. Most of the Crucian young gentry ladies were like that. Suitable— that was the precise word...

That night he lay, sleepless, on the mahogany bed. The grass on the rolling hillsides seen through the opened jalousies under the full moon of February was at its palest, more than ever suggesting snow. That he had observed driving up the straight road from the sea to his house less than an hour before. He had dined with the Macartneys— a placid, uneventful evening. Mrs Macartney had mentioned that Honoria had made the dessert. It had been a Danish dessert, for him: 'red grout'— sago pudding stained purple with cactus-fruit. Honoria had made it perfectly. He had complimented her upon her pudding.

The warm, pulsing breath of the sweet grass surged through the open windows in a fashion to turn the head of a stone image. It was exotic, too sweet, exaggerated, like everything else in this climate! Cornelis turned over again, seeking a cool place on the broad bed. Then he sat up in bed, impatiently throwing off the sheet. A thin streak of moonlight edged the bed below his feet. He slipped out of bed, walked over to a window. He leaned out, looking down at the acres of undulating grass. There seemed to be some strange, hypnotic rhythm to it, some vague magic, as it swayed in the night wind. The scent poured over him in great, pulsing breaths. He shut his eyes and drew it in, abandoning his senses to its effect.

Instinctively, without thought or plan, he walked out of his open bedroom door, down the stairs, out upon the south gallery below. The smooth tiles there felt caressingly cool to his bare feet. Jessamine here mingled with the sweet grass. He drew a light cane chair to the gallery's edge and sat, leaning his arms on the stone coping, his shadow sharply defined in the cold moonlight. He looked out at the sea a long time. Then he shut his eyes, drinking in the intoxicating, mixed odors.

A sound secured his attention. He raised his head, looked down his narrow private road toward the sea. Clearly outlined in the moonlight a girl, possibly fifteen, came along the road toward him. About her lithe body hung a loose slip, and around her head, carelessly twined, turban-wise, was draped a white towel. She was quite close, making no sound on the sandy road with her bare feet.

His shadow moving slightly, perhaps, startled her. She paused in her languorous stride, a slender neck bearing erect a fawnlike head, nostrils wide, eyes open, taken unawares.

Then the girl recognized him and curtsied, her sudden smile revealing white, regular teeth set in a delicate, wide mouth, a mouth made for love. In the transforming magic of the moonlight her pale brown skin showed like cream.

'Bathing in de sea,' she murmured explanatorily.

Lingeringly, as though with reluctance, she resumed her sedate, slow walk, the muscles flowing, rippling, as though to pass around the house to the village at the rear. Her eyes she kept fixed on Cornelis.

Cornelis, startled, had felt suddenly cold at the unexpected, wraith-like sight of her. Now his blood surged back, his heart pumping tumultuously. A turbulent wave of sea air sweetened from acres of sweet grass surged over him. He closed his eyes.

'Come!' he whispered, almost inaudibly.

But the girl heard. She paused, looked up at him, hesitating. He managed to nod his head at her. The blood pounded in his veins; he felt detached, weak, drowned in the odor of sweet grass and jessamine.

The girl ran lightly up the gallery's stone steps. The pattern of the small jessamine leaves played grotesquely upon her when she paused, as moonlight filtered through them and they moved in the light, irregular sea breeze.

Cornelis rose and looked down into the girl's eyes. Their amber irises were very wide and eery light played in them; a kind of luminous glow, a softening...

Trembling, he placed a tentative hand on her shoulder, gently. She leaned toward him; his arms went about her firm, slender body. Young Cornelis Hansen felt, for the first time, a girl's heart tumultuously beating against his breast.

A hush enveloped the quiet of the pure, clear night. No dog muttered from the sleeping estate-village. A fresh breath, enervating, redolent of the acres of waving grass, fanned the gallery. A delicate beam of moonlight seemed, to young Cornelis, entranced, bewitched, to usher them into the open doorway of his house...

Then, suddenly, almost brutally it seemed, even to him, he thrust this pale, brown girl of gossamer and moonlight away from him. He stood clear of her, no longer bemused by the witchery of the breeze and the moonlight's magic.

With more of gentleness he laid again his hand on the delicate, rounded shoulder. As gently he turned the girl about and marched her, resolutely— like a Dane— toward the gallery steps. His fastidiousness had reasserted itself.

'Good night— my child,' said Cornelis.

The girl looked up at him shyly, out of the corners of her eyes, puzzled and resentful.

'Good night, sar,' she murmured, and slipped down the steps and like a shadow around the corner of the house.

Cornelis walked firmly into his house and shut the door behind him. He went into his dining-room and poured himself a glass of French brandy and rinsed out the glass from the earthenware water-gugglet, throwing the water onto the stone floor. Then he mounted the stairs to his bedroom, got into bed, rolled over on his side, and went to sleep.

In the morning, after his tea, he was riding about his fields so early that he was finished with his managerial inspection before nine. Ten o'clock saw him, very carefully shaved, and wearing spotless white drill and his best Danish straw hat instead of a sun helmet, driving a pair of horses in the light phaeton toward Christiansted.

That same afternoon, during the period devoted to swizzels of old rum or brandy and, especially among the Danes, tea and coffee and cakes— the period of sociability before the company at the various great houses broke up before its various dinner-parties— Cornelis called at the Nybladhs'. The Administrator and his wife were pleased to see him, as always. Several others were present, quite a company in fact, for the swizzel-hour at Nybladhs' was almost an official occasion.

After a quarter of an hour, Cornelis drew the Administrator aside and they spoke together briefly, then returned to the company gathered about an enormous mahogany table which held the silver swizzel jug and the afternoon's lunch.

At the next pause in the conversation Nybladh rose, focusing his guests' attention upon himself. He held up his glass.

'Be pleased to fill all glasses,' he commanded, importantly.

There was a considerable bustle about the great round table. Nybladh noted the fulfilling of his command. Servants hurried about among the guests. When all were freshly served he cleared his throat and waved his own glass ceremoniously.

'I announce'— he paused, impressively, all eyes dutifully upon him. 'I announce— the engagement of Herr Hansen and Miss Honoria Macartney. Skoal!' He boomed it out sonorously. Every glass was raised.

Cornelis bowed from the waist, deeply, to each of his pledgers, as they drank the health of himself and his bride-to-be.

Thus did Honoria, daughter of the great Irish-West Indian family of the Fighting Macartneys, become the Fru Hansen, after an exceptionally brief engagement, and leave her father's house to live at Estate Fairfield with her husband who was the nephew of Old Strach.

A West Indian family does not pick up titles from the populace by knocking about their estates and doing nothing. The Fighting Macartneys were well worthy of theirs. Even Saul Macartney, their ancient black sheep, who had paid the penalty of piracy by hanging in St Thomas in 1824 along with the notorious Fawcett, his chief, and who, as some believed, had been strangely magicked even after his death by his cousin Camilla Lanigan who was believed to practise obeah and was immensely respected by the Negroes— even the disgraced Saul was no poltroon. The jewels Saul and Captain Fawcett buried under Melbourne House, Saul's Santa Cruz mansion, had not been handed that miscreant over the counter!

This young Honoria was of that sanguine blood, even though her sheltered life had made her walk somewhat mincingly and there was no color in her cheeks. She began her reign at Fairfield like a sensible young housewife, studying Cornelis' likes and dislikes, satisfying him profoundly, beyond his very moderate expectations. The ardent yet self-contained young man had linked to himself something compounded of fire and silk. Honoria brought to her housekeeping, too, great skill and knowledge, from her young lifetime in her mother's great house near Christiansted.

She was a jewel of a wife, this young Honoria Hansen, born Macartney. Cornelis came suddenly to love her with an ardency which even he had never dreamed of as possible, like flame. Then their love was tempered in a fearful happening.

One morning when Cornelis was riding early about his sugar fields, it came to him, traversing a cane-range on his black mare, Aase, that never, before or since that sleepless night when he had called the girl to him on the gallery, had he laid eyes upon that girl. That he would recognize the girl whom, for a moment of abandoned forgetfulness of his fastidious reserve, he had held in his arms, whose body had lain against his heart, was beyond question in his mind. Then it occurred to him that he had thought of the girl as living in his village. That night when he had dismissed her, she had walked away around the house toward the cabins at the rear. He shuddered— those cabins!

Yet the fact remained that, cogitate the matter as he might, riding along at Aase's delicate walking pace, he could not recollect having laid eyes upon her, either before or since that night when he had sent her away. It was very curious, inexplicable indeed— if the girl lived in his village. There was really no way to inquire. Well, it did not greatly matter, of course! A brown girl was— a brown girl. They were all alike. Cornelis rode on to another canefield.

Telepathy, perhaps! When he arrived at Fairfield House toward eleven under the mounting brilliance of the late-morning sunlight, and tossed his bridle-reins to Alonzo his groom at the front gallery steps, the girl stood beside the door of Fairfield House, inside the high hallway. She curtsied gravely to him as he passed within.

Cornelis' mouth went dry. He managed to nod at the girl, who reached for his sun helmet and hung it on the hallway hatrack.

'Mistress say de brekfuss prepare' in few moments, sar,' announced the girl.

Honoria, in his absence, it appeared, had engaged this girl as a house servant. There was no other explanation of her presence in the house. She had been carefully dressed, rustling with starch, the very picture of demureness. Cornelis strode upstairs to wash before late breakfast, which came at eleven.

His equanimity was sufficiently restored after breakfast to inquire of Honoria about the new housemaid. The girl had been engaged that morning, taking the place of one Anastasia Holmquist, a Black girl, who had sent a message, by this girl, Julietta Aagaard, that she was leaving the service of Fru Hansen, and had obtained Julietta to take her place.

'She seems a very quiet, good girl,' added Honoria, 'and she knows her duties.'

'She is not of our village, eh?' inquired Cornelis, tentatively.

'No. She says she lives with her mother, somewhere up in the hills,' Honoria indicated with a gesture the section of the island behind Fairfield.

Cornelis found his mind relieved. The girl was not of his village. Only one thing remained to be explained. He understood now why he had not observed the girl about the estate. But what had she been doing 'bathing in the sea' at night? Such a practise was unheard of among the Negroes. Few, indeed, would venture abroad or even out of their houses, unless necessity compelled, after dark. The houses themselves were closed up tightly, at nightfall, the doors of the cabins marked with crosses to keep out jumbee— ghosts; their corrugated-iron roofs strewed with handfuls of sea-sand, the counting of which delayed the werewolf marauding nightly. A vast superstition ruled the lives of the Santa Crucian Negroes with chains of iron. They believed in necromancy, witchcraft; they practised the obeah for sickness among themselves, took their vengeances with the aid of the Vauxdoux; practises brought in through Cartagena and Jamaica; from Dakar to the Congo mouths in the slave days; Obayi from Ashantee; Vauxdoux, worship of the Snake with its attendant horrors, through the savage Dahomeyans who had slaved for King Christophe in the sugar fields of Black Haiti.

To go from up in the hills to the sea, at night, for a bath— it was simply unheard of. Yet, the girl, seeing him there on the gallery, had been plainly startled. She had come from the sea. Her lithe body, the towel about her head, had been sea-damp that night. It was unheard of, unless— Cornelis had learned something in the six months of his residence on Santa Cruz.

'Who is Julietta's mother?' he inquired suddenly.

Honoria did not know anything about Julietta's mother. This was the West End of Santa Cruz, and Honoria had lived all her life near Christiansted.

But, three days later, from a brow-beaten Alonzo, Cornelis learned the truth. The deference with which the young Julietta had been treated by the other servants, the Black People of his village, had been marked. Reluctantly Alonzo told his master the truth. Julietta's mother was the mamaloi, the witch-woman, of this portion of the island.

Beyond satisfying his curiosity, this news meant little to Cornelis. He was too much a product of civilization, too much Caucasian, for the possible inferences to have their full effect upon him. It was not until some days later, when he surprised the look of sullen hatred in Julietta's swiftly drooped eyes, that it recurred to him; that the thought crossed his mind that Julietta had come into service in Fairfield House to retaliate upon him for her rejection. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned! There was no Danish equivalent to the English proverb, or if there was, it lay outside Cornelis' knowledge. Yet, although a European Dane— despite the fact that his residence on Santa Cruz had not been long enough for him to realize what such deadly dislike as he had surprised in Julietta's glance might mean— Cornelis, no imbecile, did realize at the least a certain sense of discomfort.

Honoria, born on the island, could have helped the situation. But— there was no developed 'situation'. Cornelis wished this girl at the bottom of the sea; transplanted to another and distant island of the archipelago, but beyond that there was no more than the sense of discomfort at the girl's quiet, efficient presence about her duties in his house. He could not, of course, explain to his young wife his reason for wishing lithe Julietta away.

But the sense of discomfort, somehow, persisted strangely. He could not see Julietta, demure, neat, submissive to her young mistress, without being unpleasantly reminded of what he came to think of as his folly.

Then, without rime or reason, the sense of discomfort localized itself. Cornelis, annoyed during the night by a vague itching on his upper arms, discovered in the early-morning light a slight rash. Prickly heat, he told himself, and anointed his burning arms with salve. Useless. The rash persisted, annoyed him all through his morning field-inspection.

That late-morning, in his shower bath after his ride among the cane-fields, he noticed that the rash was spreading. It ran now below his elbows, was coming out about his neck. It burned detestably. He was obliged to towel himself very softly on the arms and neck that morning before he dressed for breakfast in his spotless white drill.

Julietta, waiting on table, did not look at him; went about her duties like a cleverly made automaton, her look distant, introspective.

Honoria reported an annoyance. One of Cornelis' shirts had disappeared. They discussed it briefly over breakfast.

'But— it must turn up.' Cornelis dismissed the topic, spoke of his plowing of the field abutting on Högensborg.

That night he was nearly frantic with his itching. Pustules, small, hard, reddish knobs that burned like fire, covered his arms and neck, were spreading across the firm pectoral muscles of his chest, down his sides.

Honoria offered sympathy, and some salve for prickly heat she had brought from her father's house. Together they anointed Cornelis' burning skin.

'You must drive in to Frederiksted and see Dr Schaff in the morning,' commanded Honoria. She dusted her husband's body with her own lady-like rice-powder.

The dawn after a sleepless night discovered Cornelis' torso a mass of the small, red, hard pustules. He was in agony. Honoria it was who drove in the five miles to Frederiksted, fetched Dr Schaff from his duties at his municipal hospital, leaving his assistant, Dr Malling-Holm, in charge of the cases there assembled. Cornelis, Old Strach's nephew, must not be kept waiting. Besides, Honoria had been insistent. She had seen something of the suffering of her man.

Schaff had been on the island five years; had earned his promotion there to be Chief Municipal Physician. He knew much about tropical mischances in his field of medicine. He looked with interest at the pustules. Cold-bloodedly he punctured several. He wanted an analysis. He left a new kind of salve, drove back to the hospital with his specimens.

He drove back late in the afternoon, when the hospital day's rush was over. He found Cornelis writhing in bed, his body tortured with the solid spread of the infection. Curiously, his hands and face were free of the now solidly massed red pustules. They stopped at his wrists, and again at his neck. Below the waist, at the sides, his body was free of the infection, which extended, however, down the front and back of his thighs.

'It iss verree curious, this!' commented the doctor, speaking English on Honoria's account. 'It iss as though he had worn an infected shirt.'

Cornelis, through his three degrees of fever, spoke to Honoria.

'Have you discovered my shirt? You said there was a shirt gone.'

'Ha— so-o-o!' muttered the doctor. 'And where?'

'I cannot say,' said Honoria, her lips suddenly dry. She and the doctor looked at each other.

'A servant, perhaps?'

'It must be.' Honoria nodded. 'No one else—'

Honoria disappeared while the doctor anointed Cornelis, writhing, afresh; soothed him with a long, bitter draft.

Below, Honoria had resolutely summoned all the servants. They stood before her, expressionless.

'The master's shirt is to be returned this night,' commanded Honoria imperiously. 'I shall expect to find it— on the south gallery by nine o'clock. Otherwise'— she looked about her at each expressionless face— 'otherwise— the fort. There will be a dark room for every one of you— no food, no sleep, until it is confessed. I will have none of this in my house. That is all.'

She came upstairs again, helped the doctor assiduously. At the door when he took his departure, she whispered: 'I have ordered them to return the shirt by nine tonight.'

The doctor looked at her meaningly, an eyebrow lifted. 'So! You understand, then, eh? It is bad, bad, this Black "stupidness". Burn the shirt.'

'Yes— of course,' said Honoria.

At nine she descended the stairs, went out upon the south gallery among the scents of the white-flowering jessamine; the sweet grass. All was silent. The servants had left the house, as usual, about an hour before.

The shirt hung over the stone gallery-coping. She ran down the steps, found a stick, lifted the crumpled shirt on its end, carefully, carried it into the house. It bore no marks, save the crumpling. It had been soiled before its disappearance.

She carried it into the kitchen, carefully lowered the corner of the thin garment until it caught fire from the embers of a charcoal-pot. The thin linen flamed up, and with her stick she manipulated it until every particle of it was consumed, and then stirred the embers. A few sparks came out. The shirt was completely burned.

Her face drawn, she returned to the bedroom above. Cornelis was asleep. She sat beside his bed for two hours; then, after a long look at his flushed face, she departed silently for her own room.

In the morning the fever was broken. Many of the smaller pustules had disappeared. The remaining rash was going down. Cornelis, at her beseeching, remained in bed. At noon he arose. He felt perfectly well, he said.

'All that vexation about a little prickly heat!' Honoria sighed. She had four brothers. Men! They were much alike. How often had she heard her mother, and other mature women, say that!

That night Cornelis' skin was entirely restored. It was as though there had been no interval of burning agony. Cornelis, apparently, had forgotten that painful interval. But the reaction had made him especially cheerful at dinner-time. He laughed and joked rather more than usual. He did not even notice Julietta as she waited, silently, on the table.

Two nights later, at the dinner-table, Cornelis collapsed forward in the middle of a phrase. He went deathly white, his lips suddenly dry, a searing pain like the thrust of a carving-knife through and through his chest. Sudden froth stood at the corners of his mouth. The table-edge athwart him alone kept him from falling prone. He hung there, in intolerable agony, for seconds. Then, slowly, as it had 'gone in', the white-hot 'knife' was withdrawn. He drew in a labored breath, and Honoria supported him upright. She had flown to him around the table.

As she stood upright propping him back into his chair, she saw Julietta. The brown girl's lips were drawn back from her even, beautiful teeth, her wide mouth in an animal-like snarl, her amber eyes boring into Cornelis' face, a very Greek-mask of hatred. An instant afterward, Julietta's face was that of the blank, submissive housemaid. But Honoria had seen.

At a bound her hands were clenched tight about the girl's slender arms and Julietta was being shaken like a willow wand, in a great, gale. Her tray, with glasses, shot resoundingly to the stone floor, to a tinkle of smashed glass. The Fighting Macartney blood showed red in Honoria's pallid face.

'It's you, then, you deadly creature, is it, eh? You who have done this devilish thing to your master! You— in my house! It was you, then, who made the rash, with your double-damned "magic"!'

In the primitive urge of her fury at one who had struck at her man, Honoria had the slim brown girl against the room's wall now, holding her helpless in a grasp like steel with her own slender arms.

Cornelis, faint after that surge of unbearable, deadly pain, struggled to speak, there in his chair. Well-nigh helpless, he looked on at this unaccountable struggle. At last he found his voice, a voice faint and weak.

'What is it?— What is it, Honoria, my dear?'

'It's this witch!' cried Honoria, through clenched teeth. 'It is she who has put the obeah on you.' Then, 'You she-devil, you will "take it off" or I'll kill you here and now. Take it off, then! Take it off!'

Honoria's voice had risen to a menacing scream. The girl cowered, wiltingly, under her fierce attack.

'Ooh Gahd— me mistress! Ooh, Gahd! 'Taint I, ma'am, I swear to Gahd— I ain't do it, ma'am. Ooh, Gahd— me boans! Yo' break me, mistress. Fo' Gahd-love leave me to go!'

But Honoria, unrelaxed, the fighting-blood of her clan aroused, held the brown girl relentlessly.

'Take it off!' came, ever and again, through her small, clenched teeth. The brown girl began to struggle, ineffectually, gave it up, submitted to be held against the wall, her eyes now wide, frightened at this unexpected, sudden violence.

'What is it that you tell her to do?' This from Cornelis, recovering, shocked, puzzled.

'It is their damnable "obi",' hissed Honoria. 'I will make her "take it off" you or I'll kill her.'

'It is her mother,' said Cornelis, suddenly inspired. 'I know about her mother. I asked. Her mother, this girl's mother, there in the hills— it is the girl's mother who does this wickedness.'

Honoria suddenly shifted her desperate grip upon the girl's numb arms. She twisted, and Julietta's slender body, yielding, collapsed limply to the floor. With a lightning-like motion, back and then forward again, Honoria menaced her with the great carving-knife, snatched from before her husband.

'Get up!' Her voice was low now, deadly. 'Get up, you devil, and lead me to your mother's house.'

Julietta, trembling, silent, dragged herself to her feet. Honoria pointed to the door with the knife's great shining blade. In silence the girl slipped out, Honoria following. Cornelis sat, still numb with that fearful reaction after his unbearable pain, slumped forward now in his mahogany armchair at the head of his table. His bones felt like water. His head sank forward on his arms. He remained motionless until Alonzo, the groom, summoned from the village by the frightened, gray-faced cook, who had overheard, roused him, supported him upstairs.

The two women passed around the corner of Fairfield House, skirted the huddled cabins of the estate-village in silence, began to mount the steep hill at the back. Through tangled brush and twining, resistant guinea-grass, a slender trail wound abruptly upward into the deeper hills beyond. Up, and always up they went, the Caucasian lady grim and silent, the great knife held menacingly behind the unseeing back of the brown girl who stepped around turns and avoided roots and small rocks with the ease of custom.

At the head of the second ravine Honoria's conductress turned sharply to the right and led the way along the hill's edge toward a small clearing among the mahogany and tibet tree scrub. A dingy cabin, of wood, with the inevitable corrugated-iron roof, hung perilously on the hill's seaward edge. Straight to its door walked Julietta, paused, tapped, opened the door and, pressed close by Honoria, entered.

A dark brown woman peered at them across a small table. With her thumb, Honoria noted, she was rubbing very carefully the side of a small waxlike thing, which glistened dully in the illumination of a small, smoky oil lamp standing on the table. The woman, her eyes glassy as though from the effects of some narcotic drug, peered dully at the intruders.

Honoria, her left hand clenched tightly on Julietta's wincing shoulder, confronted her, the knife's point resting on the table beside the brown hand which held the wax. This was molded, Honoria observed, to the rough simulacrum of a human being.

'That is my husband!' announced Honoria without preamble. 'You will take your "obi" off now. Otherwise I will kill you both.'

A long, blackened needle lay beside the brown woman's hand on the table. She looked up into Honoria's face, dully.

'Yes, me mistress,' she acquiesced in a singsong voice.

'You will do that at once!' Honoria tapped her knife-blade on the table decisively. 'I am Fru Hansen. I was Honoria Macartney. I mean what I say. Come!'

The brown woman laid the wax image carefully down on the table. She rose, dreamily, fumbled about in the semidarkness of the cabin. She returned carrying a shining, new tin, half filled with water. This, as carefully as she had handled the wax image, she set down beside it. Then, as gingerly, she picked up the image, muttered a string of unintelligible words in the old Crucian Creole, thickly interspersed with Dahomeyan. Honoria recognized several of the words— 'caffoón', 'shandràmadan'— but the sequence she could not grasp.

The brown woman ended her speech, plunged the image into the water. She washed it carefully, as though it had been an incredibly tiny infant and she fearful of doing it some injury by clumsy handling. She removed it from the tin of water, the drops running down its surface of oily wax. She handed the image, with a suggestion of relaxed care now, to Honoria.

'Him aff, now, me mistress; I swear-yo', him aff! I swear yo' be Gahd, an' help me de Jesus!'

Honoria took the image into her hand, looked at it curiously in that dim light, made upon it with her thumb the sign of the cross. Then she slowly broke it into pieces, the sweat standing in beads on her face. She turned, without another word, and walked out of the cabin. As she proceeded down the trail, laboriously now, her legs weak in her high-heeled slippers, she cast crumbling bits of the wax right and left into the dense scrub among the bushes at the trail's sides. Her mouth and throat felt strangely dry. She murmured inarticulate prayers.

She limped into Fairfield House half an hour later and found Cornelis entirely restored. He asked her many questions, and to these she returned somewhat evasive answers. Yes— she had gone to Julietta's mother's cabin up the hill. Yes— the 'stupidness' of these people needed a lifetime to realize. No— there had been no difficulty. Julietta's mother was a 'stupid' old creature. There would be no more trouble, she was sure. It was extraordinary what effects they could produce. They brought it with them from Africa, of course— stupidness, wickedness— and handed it down from generation to generation...

She might have her own thoughts— men were very much alike, as her mother had said— as the days wore into weeks, the weeks into the placid years which lay before her, with her man, here at Fairfield for a while, later, perhaps, in some larger house, in a more important position.

What had caused that devilish little Julietta to contrive such a thing? Those eyes! That mouth! Honoria had seen the hatred in her face.

She would, of course, never ask Cornelis. Best to leave such matters alone. Men! She had fought for this man— her man.

She would give him of her full devotion. There would be children in time. She would have, to replace Julietta, a new housemaid. There was one she remembered, near Christiansted. She would drive over tomorrow. The affairs of a Santa Crucian wife!

Cornelis plainly loved her. He was hers. There would be deviled land-crabs, sprinkled with port wine, dusted with herbs, baked in the stone oven for breakfast...

_________________

Not at all like an episode from "M*A*S*H.

2: The Abominable Test

Fred MacIsaac

1886-1940

Popular Magazine 20 Aug 1926

WHILE President Wilson was running for re-election in the fall of 1916 on a policy of neutrality, I was pulling wires in Paris for an appointment as a staff surgeon in a French military hospital. I landed at a post at a big temporary hospital at Maunay, a few miles north of the capital.

Of course, I was wildly pro-Ally and eager to aid them, but I was also a young surgeon with little experience and I wanted practice— that's the truth. In an army hospital in war time, a physician could learn more about his business in a month than in five years of ordinary service. So I packed my bag and got a train for Maunay as soon as I received my orders.

When I set eyes on the hospital, I realized how different its management must be from the superb, quiet, well-ordered institution in New York where I had served a year as an interne. It was a huge shed of wood and galvanized iron, about six hundred feet long by sixty or seventy feet wide. The entire lower floor was a great open ward with beds jammed in until there was hardly room between them for a doctor or nurse to squeeze in. Part of the second floor was also used for patients; part was partitioned off as sleeping quarters for the staff.

The structure was ingeniously but hideously camouflaged so that hostile airplanes, soaring above, might not distinguish it. Early in the war they had placed huge red crosses on the roofs of hospitals, trusting to the humanity of the foe; and the trust had often been betrayed. Now they camouflaged and took their chances.

The head surgeon, Colonel Dufrére, welcomed me heartily, assigned me to a poke of a room and drafted me for duty immediately.

It was a terribly busy time at Maunay, for a big battle was raging forty miles north. Machine guns, artillery and rifles were mowing down French poilus like grain; and the terrible results of the lead storm were coming to us by train, by wagon, even on foot, if the wounds were less important.

Of course, we were short-handed— there never were enough doctors and fewer nurses. Most of the nurses' work was done by stupid and ignorant orderlies who violated all instructions as to sterility, even ordinary cleanliness, with the result that the death rate from infections was appalling.

There was no hesitation in thrusting the knife into my hands and telling me to operate. Slight as had been my surgical experience, there were others there less competent. Many of my patients died because of my ineptness, but some survived and none would have lived had I stayed my hand.

Death was nothing in that place. We experimented upon the doomed, tried out every theory that would be confined to animals in times of peace. Why not? The men were going to die, and once in a while we achieved a miracle, made a discovery of incalculable benefit to future generations. The destruction of the human tenement became a trifle to us. While an American hospital staff would have been shocked at our callousness and carelessness, we sometimes effected cures beyond their ken.

It seemed to us surgeons that death was just a phase of existence. I know I got a notion that the youngsters who perished under my knife went right on living somewhere, somehow. While one would suppose that our butchery would have made crass materialists of us, I think nearly all believed in a life after death of one sort or another.

Nearly all— not Cofonel Paul Dufrére. To him bodies were carcasses and souls nonexistent. A wonderful surgeon, untiring, unselfish and kind, he laughed at our comfortable theories and clung stoutly to his unlovely one.

"DEATH is the end," declared the head surgeon one night, quite late.

We were all worn out and should have been sleeping; instead, we were lounging in Doctor Gaston Gervaise's room, sipping brandy and indulging in speculations,

"Man," he continued, "lives his allotted period and dies like the dog and the horse. 'Ashes to ashes and dust to dust,' and no phoenix rising from them. The dreadfulness of this war is that shells and bullets are cutting off the pitifully short span of life. Children of eighteen or twenty are dying before they have lived. I believe that battles should be fought by old men, and that armies should be restricted to persons over sixty who have lived their lives and left children behind them. Instead, useless fossils crouch far in the rear and drive the flower of the nations to destruction. We bury our children. and that ends them and the future of our race."

"I don't believe that is the end," asserted Gervaise, his fine face lighted, his brown eyes shining. He was a slender, artistic-looking man who had been a nerve specialist before he grasped the scalpel. I had heard that he used hypnotism in his nervous cases.

"The body finishes, of course," our host went.on, "but the spirit— you know nothing about that. Explain it— the spark of reason defies analysis. Though it inhabits a fleshy body constructed. like those of the animals, you can't prove that it is extinguished by death. If that was so, we would find it in the dissecting room."

"Just a lot of brain cells," growled Dufrére.

"My friend, you might just as well attempt to construct a person by looking into a chamber which he has vacated," countered the other.

"I could pretty nearly do that," smiled Dufrére. "I could tell from this room without ever having set eyes upon you that you are scrupulously neat and fastidious."

It happened that I understood French well, although I did not speak it perfectly, and I was not equipped to argue eloquently upon such subjects. But now I asked Gervaise a question.

"You agree with the church that a man's spirit exists after his death?"

"I'm not orthodox," he smiled. "I can believe in an immortal soul without accepting the Catholic or Protestant definition of it or of its destiny. I feel very sure that there is some continued existence on some other plane and that the spirit which once inhabited a man remembers its former home and its friends and acquaintances."

"That's spiritualism," commented Dufrére. "What a mark you would be for a table tipper or a ouija-board operator! I can see you asking a medium to bring out of the cupboard the spirit of your uncle, Pierre."

"I abhor commercial spiritualism as much as you do," retorted Gervaise. "I am not a fool. But if a spirit came back to earth for the purpose of being recognized, it would probably take on the semblance of its former self."

"Do you think that could happen?" I asked, rather nervously. It was a strange place for such a discussion, that horrible hospital where a dozen men were dying at that very moment. The room, the grave Frenchmen, the flickering candle, our only light, the distant, rumble of big guns—the whole thing was eerie.

"I have never seen it," Gervaise admitted. "But who knows? Perhaps, not a spirit long departed, but one which had not got very far away, one approached in reverent fashion— if a man about to die could be induced to try to come back."

"Old stuff!" declared the colonel. "Many persons have promised to return to tell what is beyond, but none ever did and I know why! There is nothing over there."

"Yes, that's true enough," our host agreed. "I don't mean that sort of appeal. But suppose the subconscious mind were addressed. I am not sure that what we call the subconscious is not the soul itself. We can reach it by hypnotism."

"Sacre nom de chien," exclaimed Dufrére. "How do you tie up spirits and mesmerism ?"

"For a long time," replied Gervaise slowly, and thoughtfully, "I have had a theory— wild perhaps. Some day I may get a chance to test it, if I don't falter. It would solve the problem for me."

"And what is this fine theory?"

"Listen! Suppose a man at the point of death were hypnotized and while under the influence his soul was commanded to return at a certain time, would not his soul try to obey orders, particularly if that soul belonged to a soldier ?"

The idea terrified me, frankly. Even Dufrére looked a trifle shocked, and Gervaise seemed sorry he had spoken.

"It's an idea," said Dufrére, considering it. "It is the best idea along those lines that-I have ever heard. Of course, the soul died with the body and couldn't obey, but it's an experiment I should like to see. Try it, Gervaise!"

"It might some time," he answered, with an ashamed laugh.

"Try it now!" was the colonel's surprising rejoinder. "When or where could you find such an opportunity? You need a dying man; just go downstairs; many are dying; all are soldiers. I am in command here and I permit the experiment."

"You don't really mean it?" Gervaise demanded. There was a strange look in his eyes,

"You can't permit such a thing. It's dreadful!" I protested.

"Nonsense. It won't hurt the soldier; it will have no result except to convince Gervaise that he is a fool."

"All right," said Gervaise, springing to his feet. ''Very well! I'll take you at your word."

"Good! I'll go down through the hospital and find a subject. Do you require an intelligent man or one who is ignorant?"

"Why, perhaps a man who could understand would be best."

"Remain here. I'll return in a few minutes."

WHEN the colonel had gone, I turned to Gervaise.

"You won't go through with this," I pleaded. "It's loathsome. Somehow I feel that it will turn out badly."

"My friend, it's an opportunity I have long sought. I must do it. And Dufrére has gone so far I can't back out. After all, the experiment will probably fail. Perhaps I really do not anticipate results. If you disapprove, leave us."

"Oh, I'll stick," I declared.

"Thanks, old man, Dufrére is utterly cynical. I need the assistance of some one who is not so completely antagonistics

A moment later Dufrére -entered, a scoffing smile on his lips.

"I've been trying to persuade him to withdraw," I said.

"Oh, let him make his test. It may amuse the patient, give him his last laugh."

"He won't laugh," said Gervaise. "Does the man know he is going to die?"

"I wrote his will two hours ago. It's a young lieutenant, recommended for the croix de guerre— lot of good it will do him! He won't last an hour. You must work at once."

"Accompany me, Gardiner," said Gervaise. "I've had a lot of success with hypnotism, and the worst it will do will be to make the last moments less painful to the poor fellow."

I trailed behind Gervaise and Dufrére along the corridor, down the flight of wooden stairs at the end, and into the long ward. Dufrére conducted us a short distance and stopped at a cot on the right-hand side. There was a number above each bed, and the number. was pinned upon the nightshirt of each patient. He stopped before cot No. 12. I observed that the hour was eleven fifteen. Screens had been placed about two beds, Nos. 12 and 13. The nurse in charge, a worn, wan, frail little Frenchwoman of forty-five or fifty, met us.

"Both these young men are about to die," she explained. "Lieutenant Prévost may go any minute. Lieutenant Bruchard may last until morning."

Gervaise squeezed between the two beds and looked down on the man in No. 12. He was little more than a boy, had been wounded in the chest.

"Please leave us, nurse," said Dufrére, in a low tone. "Prévost is the patient we wish to see."

The boy was very weak, but conscious. He opened his eyes inquiringly and pathetically as we.stood over him. The other soldier made no movement.

"Unconscious or asleep," said Dufrére, glancing at him. Then he addressed himself to Prévost. "Lieutenant, Major Gervaise has an idea that hypnotism may help you. Let him put you under his influence without struggling against him."

A weak smile was our only answer. Gervaise began the customary motions of a hypnotist, commanding Prévost to look him in the eye. He continued for a minute or two, when the patient seemed to succumb.

"Prévost, do you hear me?" he demanded.

"Yes," replied the lieutenant, in a surprisingly strong voice.

"You are about to die, do you understand ?"

"Yes."

"When you leave this body, where will you go?"

"I don't know."

"You will go somewhere?"

"Yes."

"I command you to return from wherever you are at the stroke of twelve to-night and enter my room here in the hospital— No. 15. You will do that?"

"Yes."

"Remember! I command you. From wherever you are, if it be the steps to the gates of heaven, you must come back. Come back! Do you understand?"

"From the steps to the gates of heaven, I shall come back."

The weirdness of the dialogue was beyond description. Chills were running up and down my spine.

"Now sleep!" commanded Doctor Gervaise. "Sleep, and do not wake."

"What's this? Are you going to leave him under the influence?" asked Dufrére.

"What difference does it make? He won't last a half hour."

"True," agreed the colonel.

"What pagan nonsense is this in such a place at such a time?" said a sharp voice. "Are you men or fiends?"

We turned and saw, confronting us with flashing eyes, Pére Jacot, the chaplain. We felt like schoolboys caught in mischief, and even Dufrére, the commandant, looked ashamed of himself.

Evidently the chaplain had arrived in time to hear most of our talk with the dying lieutenant, and he was raging as he might have been expected to be. He pushed Gervaise out of the way and reached the head of the bed to lay his hand upon the forehead of the patient. He started, stooped over, stripped off the sheet, revealing the figure of the man in the white-and-gray nightshirt of the hospital—a shirt long enough to be a shroud. He laid his ear against the heart, then straightened up and looked at us angrily.

"The man is dead!" he declared. "Dead without the final rites I came to give him, departed in the diabolical condition in which you placed him, Major Gervaise."

"So much the better for our experiment," muttered the cold-blooded Dufrére.

Gervaise and myself, however, were greatly moved. It seemed probable that our experiment had hastened the demise.

I GAZED on the young lieutenant, handsome despite a growth of beard on his pale face, dead in his gray-and-white shroud, with his number fastened to his breast. I thought of his mother and his sweetheart. But after all death meant nothing in that hospital; it was only the experiment which made this of moment.

Dufrére and Gervaise took the arms of the priest and were departing, while they tried to palliate the enormity, in his eyes, of their crime.

"It is not the poor young soldier who will suffer for this, but you," said Pére Jacot. "Your devilish hypnotism will damn your own souls, not his. You claim to be men of science! Do you really expect that the divinity will permit his soul to come back from the beyond?"

"If there is anything in a hereafter," declared Gervaise, "he will be back at midnight to tell us about it."

"If he comes," answered the priest hotly, "it will be to drag you down to hell as the statue did Don Juan, in Mozart's opera."

"I suggest," said Dufrére. "that we all go to Gervaise's room and wait until twelve o'clock. Unless our friend wishes to receive his visitor alone?"

"No, no! I require witnesses," cried Gervaise hastily.

"Will you come, father?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. "If there ever was need for a priest, there will be need for one if that poor soul returns."

So we climbed the long flight of stairs together. The uncarpeted steps creaked beneath our feet; the boards of the corridor groaned with our footfalls. Gervaise pushed open the door of his small, mean room and invited us to enter.

It was a chamber about twelve by fourteen, furnished only with a cot bed, a washstand with water pitcher and bowl, and two chairs of the kitchen variety. He offered. the chairs to the priest and the colonel, while he seated himself beside me upon the bed on the side nearest the door.

THOUGH Pére Jacot was not much over thirty, his hair was silver. His eyes gleamed with the light of a zealot and an ascetic. Between physicians and priests there is ordinarily a comradely toleration, but the average doctor is not a Christian in his heart and the clergyman senses it.

The present generation of educated Frenchmen, particularly those who have studied medicine, have strayed far from mother church, have become cynics and scoffers, encouraged by the attitude toward religious training of the French government. Yet these men admired and loved Pére Jacot and, as soldiers, had come to respect the French soldier-priests who were doing so much for La Patrie.

In her need for manpower, the government had not respected the priesthood— the young clergymen had to shoulder rifles and march to the front just as other young men. I believe some twenty thousand ordained Catholic priests served as privates and officers during the war.

They did their duty manfully and did not forget their priestly office. Many were killed because they crept into No Man's Land to administer the last rites to wounded soldiers, under a hail of shrapnel and machine-gun bullets. They fired their rifles at oncoming foes, though their training had taught them that they were damning their souls by killing their brother men. The ordinary soldier lost his life; the soldierpriest gave up his hope of everlasting life for La Patrie.

Pére Jacot had entered the war as a private and had been promoted on the field to lieutenant. He owned the croix de guerre with palms, for cold courage, but he did not wear his badge of bravery; instead, he inflicted dreadful penances upon himself for the lives he had taken.

In England and America we respected the conscientious objector; France was desperate; she could make no exceptions or exemptions. So Pére Jacot and many like him did their bit; in his case disabling wounds had sent him to the hospital, where he was left as chaplain, and so we respected him and wines at his disapprobation.

"Does the church consider it impossible for the dead to return?" asked Dufrére, less because he wished to know than to break the awful silence which had settled upon us.

"There are authenticated instances where the dead have returned for some good purpose," replied the priest. "If God, in His wisdom, sends a soul to earth to appear to a saint or punish a sinner, that is His right; for mortals to attempt to materialize spirits is abominable."

"This isn't a materialization," protested Gervaise.  "It is an attempt to draw back a soul to a body, not yet cold, for a scientific purpose."

"It is a deadly sin," retorted Pére Jacot. "Once a soul has left a body, it is winging its way to heaven, purgatory or hell; it is impossible to recall it."

"As a matter of fact, father," Dufrére declared, "dead men have been restored to life upon oocasions."

"By the Son of God— none other!"

"By skillful physicians. I have seen men, killed by electric shock or by drowning, brought back to life."

"They were not actually dead."

"The heart had ceased to beat."

"The heart is a corporeal organ. The soul had not taken flight in such instances."

"What is the soul? Who has ever seen it? What proof have you it exists?" the colonel asked scornfully.

"The soul is the divine spark in the body; it is invisible— and I need no proofs because I have faith."

"It's an awful lot to accept on faith," I observed timidly.

"You take many things entirely on faith," the priest retorted, with the fire of controversy in his eye. "You have faith in the solar system; it is entirely theory; you have taken other men's word for it; it is a far more incredible proposition than is embodied in our religious belief. So far as your personal knowledge is concerned, the sun is an electric light and the stars are candles.

"They tell you the distance from the earth to the moon or the sun; they cannot prove it; they have not actually made measurements; no court of law would accept their hypothesis. So many of the statements of scientists in the past, which were believed in their day, have been proved to be errors that I don't see why you should marvel that I accept the soul on faith."

"You have us there," admitted Gervaise. "We accept a lot of medical dogmas as fact; yet each generation of medical men scrap the alleged truths of the past generation."

I glanced at my watch nervously. It was ten minutes of twelve. The others, including the priest, followed my example.

"I believe in the immortality of the soul," said Gervaise. "I simply cannot accept the Christian explanation; it doesn't fit what we know to be facts. How you can believe that a good God would permit the slaughter of millions in this horrible war is beyond me!"

"God is eternal; so is the soul," replied Pére Jacot. 'The time and manner of death is unimportant, compared to the state of the soul. We cannot fathom the motives of the infinite, yet from this war you may be sure some greater benefit will eventually come to mankind."

"Faith is wonderful!" exclaimed Dufrére mockingly. "What do you think will happen at midnight, father ?"

"Nothing, I trust. But if the body of that poor young man comes to this door, I know that his soul will not be in it; it will be tenanted by some evil spirit drawn by this wicked man's incantation." He crossed himself as he finished.

"Oh, come, Pére Jacot!"' protested Gervaise. "Don't call me wicked because I make a scientific experiment. There are no evil spirits."

"Satan and the other evil spirits who wander through the world, seeking the ruin of souls!" he quoted. He took his rosary in his fingers and his lips moved in prayer.

"Well," declared Dufrére. "I expect nothing. I am so sure of it that I bet you, Gervaise, a thousand francs to a hundred that your dead doesn't walk."

"How dare you suggest a wager on such a subject!" exclaimed the indignant priest, who stood up and towered over the colonel. "Down on your knees and ask forgiveness."

Dufrere looked abashed. "I meant no offense, father. But I cannot pray."

"Your dead mother is praying for you at this moment, I am sure."

Gervaise glanced at his watch. I looked over his shoulder. It was three minutes of twelve.

"I suggest we all have a glass of brandy," said Gervaise.

"Far better for all of you to commend your souls to God," was the priest's sharp comment. "You invited this calamity Gervaise; now sit where you are and wait. No drinking! It is two minutes to the hour."

There have been agonized periods of waiting in my life. Not even the moment before the zero hour when the barrage is bursting ahead— the enemy's defensive barrage is raking the trench and the ground over which we are to move, while we wait with our right foot upon the firing step, rifles ready, bayonets fixed, and the commander watches the second hand of his watch with a flash light until the exact minute— never did two minutes drag like those two minutes.

AFTER what seemed a century, the bell in the distant church tower clanged the first stroke of midnight. I tittered from nervousness, was silenced by a glare from the priest. The second stroke— cla-ang! And then In the big, silent wooden building, where all except ourselves and the orderlies on the floor below had retired, we heard a stair creak. I cannot describe the eeriness of that creaking board far down the hall. It was followed by another, and then a distinct thump, as though some heavy object were dragging itself upward.

Pére Jacot dropped upon his knees and lifted the crucifix of his rosary. I looked at Dufrére— the man's face was livid! Gervaise grasped my arm in a grip of steel, and the goose flesh made itself felt all over my body.

Three scientists— doctors, surgeons. to whom death was as common as breathing, who had seen many die from the fruitless incisions of our knives—  and we were terrified by creaking stairs; we believed in ghosts!

I was trembling like a leaf. I could hear the chattering of the teeth of Gervaise. Pére Jacot, who expected most, seemed least afraid. He thumbed his beads and held up his crucifix, while his face, though pale, was composed. "Ora pro nobis, ora pro nobis," he murmured.

Dufrére the atheist watched the door with bulging eyes. If all he had ever believed was to be overthrown by an apparition—what would he do?"

And then the thing, whatever it was, seemed to approach. We could hear it coming slowly down the hall— thump— thump— thump!— and then a heavy thud as though a body had fallen.

"Our Father, Who art in Heaven—" I began, and to my dismay I had forgotten the Lord's prayer. What an evil thing I was!

And then the object in the hall seemed to have righted itself, for the clump of its approach continued. It was outside the door! How I hoped that it would pass. No. It had stopped! It was there! It wanted to enter! Horror unbelievable! Gervaise, this is your doing!

A second of palsied silence, then a rap on the door. It was knocking for admittance. We dared not stir. The priest pointed a bony finger sternly at Gervaise.

"Let him enter," he commanded.

"I can't move," babbled Gervaise.

The rap was repeated. Something stronger than myself moved me. I rose, took three steps to the door, took hold of the latch, swung it open. It opened inward and I stepped back. Merciful Powers, it was there!

Standing in the doorway was the dead man, in his long, gray night shirt— his face ghastly, his eyes staring in a death stare, straight ahead. Mechanically his left foot lifted; the leg was bare, but the feet were thrust into wooden sabots.

It crossed the threshold, dragged the other foot after it, and the apparition stood inside the room. The right arm moved slowly, swung upward in the salute of a soldier. A voice, deep, hollow, as from the tomb, intoned:

"You sent for me, sir."

"Avaunt, Satan!" exclaimed Pére Jacot, retreating a step and lifting his little gold cross as high as possible.

There was a loud crash. It was Dufrére. The atheist had leaped through the second-story window carrying the frail sash, covered with waxed paper, with him. And suddenly, Gervaise uttered an exclamation and drew his pistol. I was so stricken with horror that I could not move— but he did not point it at the apparition; he placed the muzzle against his forehead and pulled the trigger. The report of the weapon, followed by the fall of the suicide, had no effect upon the priest and myself. Our eyes were glued to the soldier.

Suddenly he began to crumple at the knees, then went to the floor with a heavy thud, falling on his face. The soul had fled again.

ALONE with the dead, I got the use of my legs and rushed to Gervaise. He was quite dead; the bullet had entered his brain. I then walked to the corpse in the gray nightshirt and attempted to lift it.

"Touch it not until I sprinkle it with holy water," commanded Pére Jacot.

I disobeyed and raised the body, then mutely pointed out to the good father the tag on the man's breast. It was No. 13.

"It is the vengeance of God on Gervaise," muttered the priest approaching. "He hypnotized the man in the other bed."

So that was why Gervaise had blown out his brains— the intrepid investigator affrighted by the success of his experiment. He also had seen No. 13; he had realized that his hocus-pocus had affected two men in their weakened condition: One had died; the second, his life hanging by a thread, had killed himself to obey a military command; Gervaise had murdered No. 13 and, in a spasm of remorse at the crime he had unwittingly committed, had blown out his own brains.

Or, hadn't he observed the number? Had he supposed it was the soul of No. 12 confronting him and feared to question it? Had his early religious training reasserted itself and had he shrunk from his experiment, slain himself while mad with religious frenzy? Had he accepted the priest's belief that it was the devil in person, peering out of those glazed eyes?

We would never learn the cause of his terrible act, but he had deprived poor France of one of her best surgeons at the time when she needed him most.

And Dufrére? We picked him up groaning on the hard ground below the window; his left leg was broken, but his humiliation was more dreadful than his pain.

Pére Jacot did dire penance for weeks, for his reluctant share in the tragic experiment, while I— Well, I had to work so hard as a result of the loss of the services of both Gervaise and Dufrére that I may be said to have done penance also. And science benefited not at all from the abominable experiment.

_________________

In the comic-opera Kingdom of Alluvia, two men duel to the death with their teeth...

3: Without Fear

Coutts Brisbane

(R. C. Armour, 1874-1945)

Port Adelaide News 11 June 1926

GRUNTS, groans, nay, even screams and yells, resounded through the palace, The guards in the corridors shivered. Those who were stationed in dark corners even shed the tear of sympathy; for though his temper was a little uncertain, they loved their royal master.

In the great state bedchamber, a splendid apartment, twice as long as it was broad and even higher, Peorco V. lay upon his bed of pain. It was a fine bed, all carvings and gildings, with coats of arms and things like that stuck wherever they would go. Usually it had hangings. Now they lay upon the floor, where Peorco had thrown them after tearing them down during a particularly bad spell. He lay writhing and howling, occasionally varying the performance by biting holes in the pillows; for his was a temperament that demanded free expression.

Beside the bed, ready to dodge missiles if their lord and master grew too temperamental, stood the royal physician, the ditto surgeon, the ditto nurse, and the ditto-ditto cook; the latter looking very glum indeed, for he was! In custody of the captain of the royal guard, a chap, who looked, and indeed was capable of anything. They awaited the passing of the paroxysm, the doctors with keen professional, appreciation of every wriggle, the captain with bored indifference, the cook with lively apprehension, for he was the storm-centre, so to speak.

One final gurgling howl, one more complicated wriggle, one particularly large mouthful of pillow and Peorco straightened and sat up, spitting feathers viciously. He eyed the cook with dreadful malignancy.

"Have you anything to say for yourself?" he demanded hoarsely.

"I d-do my best," stammered the unfortunate. "I have always given satisfaction so far. Th-the recipes I use are the ones that I w-was taught. Though I says it myself, your Majesty, there ain't a better cook in all Alluvia."

"That is so, y'r Majesty," put in Captain Vorko with kindly intent. "Why, last night y'r Majesty was pleased to speak very highly of the oysters boiled in brandy-sauce."

"They were certainly very good. Most nutritious," observed the physician, with a reminiscent smack, of the lips. "And the fowl a l'enfer, stuffed with chilies and stewed in rum and capers, was excellent. I have never tasted better.

"And doesn't your majesty recall, the sucking pig stuffed with chestnuts? You were certainly taken, with it at the time, sire. And with good reason, it was a veritable poem," exclaimed the surgeon ecstatically.

"In short, to sum up, so  to speak," continued physician with great authority, "with the pardonable irascibility born of pain, your Majesty has been pleased to transfer the blame to this unfortunate fellow, instead ascribing it to the regrettable weakness of your Majesty's own internal economy. Dismiss him from your service if you will, sire, though you will find no better servant in Alluvia, but do not strain the loyalty of your subjects by punishing him for no fault of his own."

Peorco glowered and bit a pillow again with a vicious intensity. He wanted the cook's blood; then and there on the carpet, where he could see and gloat over it, and all these people appeared to be in a conspiracy to baulk his natural and indeed laudable desire.

"It's not the good food you eat, really it isn't," said Vorko soothingly. "If y'r Majesty would only take a little more exercise; take a ride every day, y'know."

"So that someone could take a pot at me!" growled Peorco.

"A spice of danger is good for a man," quoth Vorko jovially. He was a big, bluff fellow with a great reputation as a hunter of bears, which he usually tackled armed only with a knife. "Besides, they're all bad shots, and you could have the fun of trying to ride them down. Or why not come after a bear with me to-morrow? I've just heard of a big fellow near the village of Kork— a regular corker, so to speak. He has killed five men already. We ought to have good sport, specially if tried him in the old-fashioned way with pitchforks."

Peorco shuddered. He hated bears and hunting, or any, violent exercise, but more especially did he hate Captain Vorko at that moment. He glowered at him.

"You're always talking about exercise!" he growled; then nodded towards the still trembling cook. "If you want some exercise now's your chance. There you are. Go ahead. You're always boasting about the way you can do the Pig Butcher's Slide. Slide away! Demonstrate it! Only don't splash me."

The Captain's eyes glittered, his hand involuntarily, slid to the hilt of the twelve-inch eviscerator hanging at his belt, the weapon he had used in his famous duel with Baron Boski, whom he carved to cutlets in the record time of one minute thirteen seconds.

The cook howled dismally. He had bucked up a bit when doctor, surgeon, and Captain had all spoken well of him; now, catching the glint of Vorkov's eye, he quailed again. An artist, himself, he could sense that Vorko's pride of craftsmanship was urging him to show his skill and gratify his sovereign's whims at one and the same time. The cook's fate hung in the balance. But a little more and Vorko might have succeeded in smothering his natural kindness, and spoiled both cook and carpet for further use; but at that moment came an interruption.

The door opened, and down the vast room at a gliding run that expressed at once haste and fear of a fatal fracturing fail on the polished parquet, came the Count Wisteria, the Grand Chancellor, and, as somebody had once said, the backbone of the country. This was a delicate allusion to his skill in politics and his extreme thinness.

He pulled up at the edge of the aforementioned carpet, and at once any chance of it being ruined was gone, for the time at least.

Vorko's hand fell from the knife-hilt, the look of holy joy faded from Peorco's expressive countenance, the cook stopped howling and sighed with relief, for Wisteria's objection to casual homicide was well known.

"I trust that your Majesty will excuse my mentioning that this fellow is a member of the Kussvereingungen Kutscragband," he observed, coming to a complete standstill by the bedside. "And should your Majesty be so unfortunate as to relieve him of the burden of continued existence, I regret to announce my belief that your Majesty's terrestrial existence might conceivably be thereby considerably curtailed or, indeed, abruptly determined."

"Don't gabble your infernal lawyer talk to me," yelled Peorco. "Speak plainly, can't you? What d'you mean?"

"In the language of the herd," replied the Chancellor with a sniff, "if you do for the cook, the society to which he belongs will assuredly do your Majesty in. Do I make myself understood, or shall I repeat the observation in Greek?"

Peorco sank back amidst a litter of feathers with a long, hollow groan.

"Nobody ever does what I want in this court!" he muttered feebly. "Get out, the lot of you! Begone! Evacuate! I'm sick of the sight of you!"

They stole away silently, the chancellor propelling the cook before him. Only the royal nurse remained behind after the royal physician had whispered a word or two in her ear. She assumed a look of resolution, that, well became her heroic build. Lifting a huge, teapot-like goblet of Exkruschen salts with, one hand, she took the august patient firmly by the nose with the other, inserted the spout of the goblet, as his mouth opened, and, with the dexterity of much practice, decanted the whole contents down the royal throat.

"Your Majesty will be better presently," she said, in what was meant to be a soothing, voice, but which her magnificent physique turned to rumbling bellow. "Pray remain tranquil."

Then she, too, glided from the chamber.

Peorco, dosed, and dazed, remained tranquil because he was for the time incapable of speech or motion.

AND NOW, you ask, why this thusness?

It was really simple enough. Alluvia, as you may not recollect, is situate between the mountains and the sea. It's soil is very rich, being alluvial deposit brought down by the numerous rivers of the region. This assures plentiful crops and consequent prosperity. From the, earliest times the people of Alluvia have always teen jolly well fed.

But the mountaineers of the hinterland have always been much the reverse. They have looked with eyes of envy on the rich and fertile lands below them, land which, with some show of reason, they have claimed as their own since it originally came from their hills.

Therefore, for many centuries they have continually raided Alluvia. This menace induced a hardiness that might otherwise never have existed amongst the Alluvians. They were continually on the alert. They were forced to plough with one hand on the sword, so to speak, and consequently were given no chance to degenerate as, they, might otherwise have done. Consequently, though they lived on the fat of the land, the fat had precious little chance of  accumulating about their equators until about a generation before Peorco V's time, when the menace was finally removed by the inclusion of the mountaineers in the realm of Alluvia on terms that did both peoples credit. Thereafter there was no need for men to keep themselves always in fighting trim; but mankind being conservative in such things, they still continued to feed in the fearless old fashion, and so the trouble began.

The kind of cookery favoured by Alluvians was but a little modified from that of the heroic age. It was true that certain trifling alterations had been introduced. Eggs, lobsters, and oysters were no longer eaten in the shell, the custom of cooking beef directly it was killed no longer prevailed, though it was seldom hung for more then three or four hours.

Apart from a few trifles like these, there was no change in the national diet. The favorite was still walnuts pickled in their shells, the most esteemed supper dish a mature rooster lightly roasted and served with preserved citron-peel, garlic, and chestnuts. A little saw still figured as part of each feeder's table equipment, and was frequently required to deal with dainty morsels that  turned the edge of a knife.

Now, this sort of grub was all very well when folks had to turn out on an average of two nights a week, and fight hand to hand combats with axes, knives, and chopping-swords, and keep themselves in training between times by ploughing and digging wells, and that sort of thing. But with the coming of peace, the introduction of modern agricultural machinery, and the consequent slackening down, things began to happen. The first thing was indigestion, the second chronic dyspepsia, the third a general irritability. Our dear old friend of the advertising columns, fullness after meals, disinclination to work, and all and soon there was the devil to pay.  The rest of 'em made their appearance. The hitherto contented populace waxed fat and kicked; they wanted indeed to kick their rulers out and get in a fresh government.

At about this stage Peorco came to the throne. Already he was a martyr to the divagations of his Little Mary. State banquets were his perilous joy, he loved them and suffered for it. Outside, the people, inflamed by ever-increasing pangs, put it all down to the government.

At his coronation Peorco was twice shot at during the short passage from the palace to the cathedral. On his return an earnest effort to bomb him was happily frustrated by the skill of that very aforementioned Captain Vorko, who diverted the missile with a sabre-stroke. On nearly every occasion when he took a ride abroad thereafter, some misguided person suffering from the aftermath of a typical Alluvian supper must needs take a shot at him.

After a round dozen of these attempts open-air exercise palled upon Peorco, and he thereafter relapsed into chess, an excellent pastime, but one scarce calculated to relieve a congested liver. He grew steadily worse. Black spots danced before his eyes, his tongue was furred— but there! For further particulars see one of those bright and chatty little articles, usually headed by a picture of a man or woman holding some portion of his or her anatomy while wearing an agonised expression.

And so we come back once more to the unfortunate monarch loitering palely perforce on his pallet, scarcely soothed by the yells of a mob demonstrating before the palace.

The door was opened softly and a young man stole in and up to the bedside. Anyone with eyes in his head would have at once detected that he was none other than Roneo, the Crown Prince, Peorco's only son, for the likeness was marked, even though the youngster had not yet attained the pleasing rotundity of his sire.

For a moment he stood looking affectionately at the wide expanse of the royal countenance spread upon the disrupted pillows, framed in a halo of loose feathers! Peorco's eyes opened, and the youngster spoke.

"Dear father," he said in a low voice, vibrating with tenderness, "are you any better?"

Peorco blinked. There was something touching in this filial devotion. For a moment he allowed a look of tenderness to creep into his glassy orbs, then memory returned and with, it a baser thought?

"Go away," he growled. "You can't touch me again this week. You've had more than your allowance out of me already, and—"

"Father!" murmured Roneo reproachfully. "I have not come to borrow, but to beg— to beg you to try something which I have here, something which I  have procured at great expense, for I had to bribe the coastguards to allow it to come through. They are biscuits, black but beautiful, guaranteed to cure your indisposition! Take— eat!"

With the. words he thrust a small box in his father's hands. Peorco opened it. Within lay a number of small black discs. Peorco sniffed them. They were odourless. He frowned; if the things had. only had an odour of some sort he might have been tempted, but they had none.

"Don't want 'em. Take 'em away!" he growled.

"But father, for the sake of your health, if you will only try a few. I am convinced—" stammered the youngster.

"Take the beastly things away— and yourself too!" roared Peorco.

Roneo looked at him sorrowfully, shaking his head. Then the light of a great resolve burned suddenly in his face. His father, his beloved, father, would not help himself. Very well, then! He must be assisted. And without more words, Prince Roneo gathered himself together and leaped upon his misguided parent.

There was hardly any struggle, for Peorco was sadly out of condition, while his son was wiry and tough despite his pale face. This royal mouth was forced open, and in went the charcoal biscuits, one by one, to the number of a dozen. Then, the orifice being filled, Roneo held it shut, whilst to save himself from semi-suffocation Peorco chewed and swallowed the stuff.

At last it was done. Roneo released his hold and drew back. Purple with wrath, Peorco sat up.

"Unfilial puppy!" he howled. "Go! Get out of my sight for ever. Get out of the palace, Get out of the country! If you are not gone in half an hour—"

But Roneo was gone. Cut to the heart by parental ingratitude he rushed, from the room and from the palace. And when, a short while later, the repentant Peorco had search made for him; he was nowhere to be found. In vain guards scoured the countryside; in vain the men stationed in the passes and along the coast to prevent the intrusion of foreigners, were warned; there was never a trace of the hope of Alluvia.

Days passed— weeks— months. Nothing was heard of the young man. Meanwhile the state of Alluvia went from bad to worse. All the simmer of discontent, aroused and then fostered by indigestion, bubbled and seethed yet more vehemently. Peorco was openly accused of murdering his son, though heaven knows the unfortunate man was distracted enough. A desperate person gained admission to the palace and almost succeeded in knifing his sovereign. Only Vorko's strength and skill saved the monarch. It was plain that an open rising might occur at any moment, and the result of that was more than doubtful.

"We can stand one attack," said Vorko plainly. "But I doubt if we can hold the palace for more than a few days at the outside. Can't your Majesty think of some way of quieting 'em down? They keep howling for Prince Roneo. Can't he be found and brought back?"

"He might— if we only knew where he was. I believe he must have gone to some outland country," sighed Peorco. "And what can we do in that case?"

What indeed? Not old time Japan was better guarded against intrusion than Alluvia. The impassable mountains behind, the shallow sea filled with reefs and constantly shifting shoals in front, had conspired to foster the  exclusive spirit of the inhabitants. The wisdom of their rulers decreed that no foreigners should be permitted to settle in the country for fear that their example should corrupt the simple virtues of the people.

Such trade as was necessary was carried on at Hundo, a small port situated at the end of a long peninsula, so isolated by barriers and a strong and incorruptible guard that nothing unauthorised could get through. A thundering heavy duty on everything except agricultural machinery and firearms prevented luxury creeping in to enervate Alluvians, luxury being the one thing the fathers of the State dreaded. For the same reason emigration was forbidden. The emigrants might have returned with disturbing tales of life without the fold.

ii

THAT ancient and widely known secret society, the Kussvereingungen Kutscragbund was in session. To the number of one hundred and eighty seven, they had met with the utmost precautions for secrecy in the Kutscragbund Hall, one of the largest buildings of the capital. No two members had entered together; each had taken a devious way from his home, each had worn a large black and purple mask to conceal his features, each was only admitted after giving the password. Only the huge black and purple banner of the society floating from a tall flagstaff on the roof, and the two door wards armed with enormous halberds, who stood at the entry, could have hinted at a meeting; yet strange to say everybody in the town knew of it.

Up at the palace Captain Vorko doubled the guards, tucked a few additional knives and pistols into the recesses of his clothing, and injured his beloved sovereign to take a turn with the foils and attempt a little pistol practice.

"Your Majesty can trust the guard, of course," he observed. "But in affairs like this it always encourages the men when they see their king doing a little for himself. Besides it looks well in the history books, and wins a lot of what I may call post-mortem sympathy."

"Eh?" barked Peorco. "What d'you mean, anyhow?"

"Oh, I thought your Majesty would prefer to die fighting. It's much less painful, taken that way," replied the man of blood, with the easy assurance of one who knows.

"But I don't want to die, fighting or otherwise!" yelled Peorco in an access of rage. Why do you want to introduce the subject? It's abominably tactless!"

"l was afraid that it might be brought to your notice rather suddenly, if I didn't break it gently," murmured Vorko in a hurt voice. He was assured that he had brought up the matter with the utmost regard for Peorco's tender feelings, and he was huffy about being called tactless.

"But why now more than at any time?" growled Peorco.

"Simply because the Kutscragbund have met. They will hold a banquet. They are gross feeders, and as soon as their victuals begin to give them beans they will start for the palace. They will rouse the people on the way, and your doom will be sealed."

"I'm hanged if it will!" ejaculated Peorco, with great energy. "I feel that a change of air will be good for me! Get the horses, and we will take a ride towards Hundo at once."

Vorko looked even more hurt. Yea, he looked positively pained. He regarded his liege lord almost with sorrow, and a nickel-steely look crept into his already steely eyes.

"I am afraid that is impossible, your Majesty. Consider historical traditions, consider the generations yet unborn! Why! it might be said that you had run away, deserted in the face of danger! The father of his country cannot possibly do anything that would lend color to such a report! No, no, sir! You will stay here, and if it needs must we will all die together. The last stand of the royal guards will be something worth recording, I promise you."

"Then I suppose I must stay?" murmured Peorco wearily.

"Of course! How on earth could we make a last stand if there was no king to stand for?" replied Vorko with simple wonder. "Shall we try a few, rounds in the shooting gallery?"

And so it came to pass that while the Kussvereingungen assembled about the long tables of the great hall for the banquet at which the policy of the society was to be divulged by its leaders, their lawful and anointed king was practicing with a pistol at twenty-five yards, all for. the specific purpose of perforating some of their sinful hides if needs must.

Old Squoshka. the dean of the weavers' guild, sat in the chair. Long a sufferer from dyspepsia, his pale face was lined with the records of pain manfully endured. He and a few others of the elders were conservative in their views. They held that Peorco should be dethroned, but that his son should be installed in his stead, so soon as he should be found. In this they differed from the young members, who maintained that both Peorco and Roneo should be boiled in oil, and a republic proclaimed. The old men were all for delay and constitutional action; the younger wanted action, and wanted it at once. It was generally felt that this meeting would be decisive.

After the banquet, when everyone was feeling badly, the matter would be put to the vote, the majority would undoubtedly be in favor of an instant move to the palace, weapons would be served out, and a grand general slaughter would most probably take place. The radical element had seen to it that the banquet would be of a fine, old, antique character, which would leave every man-jack in a fighting mood. Or at least, they thought they had— until President Squoshka rose in his place, and hammered the table with an ancient and historical gavel made of the bones of a past president famous for his skill with the battle-axe...

"Comrades!" he began. "I have to announce a trifling change in the menu which has been laid before you, owing to unforseen circumstances. It appears that a slight difference of opinion haying arisen between our good old cook, Poppino, and a newly engaged assistant the matter was adjusted in the ancient customary manner with skinning knives. Poppino, you may be suprised to hear, proved unequal to the strain put upon him by the encounter, and has departed from among us.

"Half the banquet was already prepared, according to the manner of Poppino. The other half was being cooked by his young assistant, who, I may whisper to you, deals with his materials in a way hitherto unknown among us. You are therefore offered the choice between old and new. I must ask you to make your decision now as to which school you will follow. The raw material was the same in either case. The difference lies in the cooking. Kindly signify your choice to the servers, and we will begin."

He sat down amidst puzzled silence, which was almost immediately broken by a buzz of talk. The feeling of the meeting, it presently appeared, was fairly evenly divided, with a slight preponderance in favour of the new incumbent.  Even in Alluvia, so aloof, so wedded to tradition, it seemed that a hint of novelty had pulling power. The president, the last man, it might have been thought, to yield, plumped for the new man.

The gorge began. For a little while it looked as though honors would be. even. Lambs, boiled in their fat, stuffed with chopped almonds, pistachios walnuts and plums, served with a sauce of melted butter flavored with a garlic and topped with sour cream, a glory of the old school, were disposed of quite as quickly as their rival roast lamb and mint sauce. But slowly a change came o'er the spirit of some of the banqueters. The old style feeders, with injected eyes and labouring breath, began to grow quarrelsome. There was more than one incident that might have been fatal had not an old and wise ordinance prohibited bringing weapons to table, while the knives used were all pointless.

As for the other contingent; they seemed as fresh as when they had started, though a look of unwonted contentment mingled with puzzlement bedecked their faces. They were bloated, yet they felt none of the pains that usually accompanied that blissful condition. At peace with all the world, they endeavoured to calm their disgruntled brethren. who, feeling that they were being put in the wrong, turned their vials of wrath upon the head of the cook.

That functionary, according to immemorial custom, had partaken of the banquet at a small side table. This was a precaution first instituted after a base attempt to exterminate the brotherhood, made in 1666, when the cook had being caught in the act of adding several pounds of arsenic to a stew. After that regrettable incident it had been the rule for the cook to partake of each of the dishes he had prepared, in the sight of the brotherhood, thus ensuring the integrity of the food. It had been observed that the good fellow had partaken freely of his own concoctions, though he did not of course, touch anything that  Poppino had cooked before his demise.

He wore a large beard of the trap-net variety so useful for retaining samples of a meal, bushy eyebrows, and horn-rimmed spectacles. In addition, he wore an air of stately dignity which the Poppino faction found vastly irritating. They began to show their irritation by shying bits of bread and bones at him.

The president rose to reprove this hooliganism— and at that moment one of the scullions rushed in bellowing.

"A spy!" he screamed, in, shrill falsetto, for his frail interior was so full of Poppinosities that his lower register was out of gear. "Him! That fellow who carved up poor old Pop, all because he said that children should be weaned on pork and beans. That there, beard ain't real— nor them eyebrows. He's a spy I tell you. I found a picture of old Peorco in his kit!"

At the first words the cook had gotten to his feet. He made no attempt to fly, firstly because, the doors being guarded, there was nowhere to fly to, secondly because he didn't want to. With a superb gesture, he flung up his hands and faced his accuser.

"It is a lie!" he cried in a clear, ringing voice. "I will make good my words— by the ordeal of combat! Let him meet me hear and now. At the least it will amuse the honourable brotherhood."

There was a deafening roar of approval. The Kutscragbunders liked a gory entertainment after a meal. Such a division, resulting from a difference of opinion between members, had often helped them to forget their after-banquet pangs in the past, and now, although more than half were not really suffering at all, habit was strong.

Only the scullion looked perturbed. He had seen the challenger carve up old Poppino, no slouch with his knife, in a very expeditious and workman-like fashion. He himself was conscious that he was too slow to do himself justice with the national slaughter tool. If knives were used he was doomed, and he didn't want that. He waited a moment, then had a great notion.

"I am challenged! Therefore I have the choice of weapons!" he cried.

The president bowed gravely; he had been official arbiter in innumerable little affairs of this sort.

"Certainly, brother, provided that the weapons are within the code," he agreed. "Then I select dish-covers, each to choose his own distance."

"Nay, nay, brother! Dish-covers are not in the list. You may choose sharpened spits, or even red hot pokers, but not dish-covers. Why not select cleavers? They would suit a man of your physique."

"Mr. President, I waive the code. Let him fight with his natural weapon. He was a disciple of my late, lamented colleague Poppino. He has already eaten or Poppino's cooking. I have eaten of my own. Let us begin and the first man to fall shall be adjudged conquered. Is it agreeable?"

There was an instant of stunned silence, a cackle of laughter, a roar of approval. Here, was novelty, yet novelty in a conservative form, so to speak.

The scullion brightened. He was saved.

"I accept. I will eat him under the table!" he cried wheezily.

The president nodded. He gave orders. Another small table was brought and set with knives, forks, spoons, hacksaws, keyhole saws, and all the other appurtenances proper to an Alluvian dining-table. It was set beside the challenger's. Servers appeared with the first courses. The president rose solemnly to his feet, hammered the table three times with historic gavel.

"Are you both ready?  Then, laissez aller!  Let them rip!' he cried in the ancient formula.

"And may heaven defend the right!" And with that they went to it.

Never had the old hall of the Kutscragbund witnessed such a scene. With champing jaws and distended nostrils the combatants worked their way steadily through the menu. For a while, the scullion, who had disposed of two-dozen eggs hard-boiled in oil and served with vinegar, at as many bites, held the lead, but while he was battling with a spotted dog of tremendous size and heroic consistency, the cook, dealing faithfully with pork chops and sweetbreads, overtook and passed him.

An hour passed. And another. The pace was slower now. The cook, leading by a leg of mutton and four fillet steaks, was chewing every mouthful thirty-two times, as he could afford to do so. He looked both bloated and dishevelled, but as regards looks he wasn't in it with t'other chap. But he would not yield without one final effort.

In an almost inaudible voice he called for a Krammit, the most terrific of all the delicacies in the Alluvian cuisine, a fearful and wonderful dish compounded of cheese, butter, eggs, flour, pork fat, cider and old ale, flavoured with cinnamon and garlic, a dish before which even strong men have been known to shudder.

"Both!" he cried, in a hissing whisper. "One for each of us. This has gone long enough. Let us settle it at once."

"As you will. We will decide, it in one go. Sudden death!" he murmured.

A Krammit was set before each— and each hesitated ere he plunged: his spoon deep, raising it. The scullion swallowed, a convulsive shudder passed through his vast and overburdened frame, he clutched feebly at the table, missed, rolled over and under it. There was a dull thud, a muffled report.

The contest was over. The scullion had eaten his last.

There was dead silence save for the thundering fall of a displaced button. Disaffection was swallowed up in reverence, for the youngster had proved himself a true Alluvian. He lifted his hand in salute to his late antagonist.

"Comrades!" he cried. "I have done this for your sakes, for the sake of our dear country. Know that when I left our land it was for no base purpose, but to learn so much of cooking in the outlands that I could instruct my own dear countrymen. There lies the champion of the good old ways. He is dead. I am alive. Schools of Instruction under my personal supervision will be opened throughout the country. On the portal of each shall be inscribed the beautiful words: 'Eating without Tears'.  Need I say more?"

He needed not. With a howl and a roar the Kussereingungen Kutscragbund came back to its allegiance, and the throne of Alluvia was saved!

__________________

A brief touch of late Victorian sentiment

4: Remorse

Anonymous

Armidale Express (NSW) 3 Aug 1894

"MY SWEET Lily, why do you so persistently ask that question— you know that I shall be true to you."

The girl addressed smiled wistfully, "Forgive me," she said, "I am troublesome. But something tells me— a dark and menacing cloud hovers over me, Oliver, at this moment of our parting. I do not think we shall meet again."

"Lily" and his voice was student in its tone of praise and surprise, "Lily, this is hysterical nonsense. What on earth has put it into your head? What is to prevent our meeting again? and then, dear one, to part no more."

His arm stole around her waist. He drew her to him and kissed her tenderly.

"Darling, thrust aside these fancies, and look forward to the hour when I shall return to claim my bride. Be sure of this always— come good, come evil, I shall never swerve in my loyalty towards you."

She looked up eagerly, the love light shining in her dark grey eyes: her lips parted, the glow of passian on her cheeks.

"Thank you Oliver for that assurance once more," she murmured ; " you don't know how it comforts me. But if— and we never know how our lives are planned— if we should never meet as now we hope, dear Oliver, you will find me in yonder little churchyard. And if so"— she drew his head down and kissed him as she spoke— "be sure of this, that with my dying breath I blessed you."

"Lily, Lily," exclaimed Oliver Harston, "don't talk thus. You frighten me. You make me think of a bundled impossible calamities. Why my dear, what is to hinder our plan of happiness from being carried out ? We are young, in good health; a few years will bring me wealth— why, Lily, surely this is not a prospect to whimper about."

She smiled again ; the wistful smile which at once pained and annoyed him. Like most men he was impatient of that sensitive soul touch which reveals to women possibilities of their future. He was hale, hearty and hopeful, with a good appetite and the high spirits which attend upon good digestion. Necessarily, therefore, he was in ill "fettle"— as the sporting men say— to understand and sympathise with a mood in his sweetheart which was of high strung sentiment, and had its origin in a psychologic inspiration.

They passed from the shrubbery by the vicarage, in which this conversation had taken place, and entered the house. The Rev. Mr. Crowther was seated by the fire, his comely spouse opposite.

"Ah! here comes the lovers," said the clergyman cheerily. "Well, Oliver— well, Lily, is it all settled? Have you arranged the important programme which is to govern you both for the next three years? How many letters per month, etc.? I shall be ruined in postage—ha! ha!" and he beamed upon them.

"That is better, Lily," said the young, man, with an arch glance at his betrothed. "Do you know, sir, I have had to scold Lily. She is full of forebodings as Meg Merrilies, and, what is worse than all, she has not the slenderest silver lining to her coming clouds."

"Pooh, pooh!" said the clergyman, "stuff and nonsense. Come, sit by the fire. Moping, Lily? Why, what is it, this trip to Australia? Nothing, absolutely nothing. Not more formidable than a trip across channel used to be when I was Oliver's age. Yes— yes," and his head bent thoughtfully as he looked into the blaze. "The world has moved since then. Steam, electric telegraph, Suez Canal, huge steamboats— etc.— wife," and he looked across at the calm beautiful face of his wife— beautiful indeed in her ripe middle age, "we courted and wed in slow times, and in slow fashion, my dear. And yet—"

"I think I liked the slow old times and the slow old ways better than these of our day," said Mrs. Crowther.

"Ah! we get old, wife, we get old. These young folk now would never put up with what we used to think modern, improvements. But where is Martha."

"I have not seen her," said Lilian, " since luncheon hour."

"Well, well— but she's a strange girl. I'll be hound she's away on her pony across the moor to see some of her pensioners. Ah— there she comes."

As he spoke the swift shadow of a galloping horse passed the window, and the clatter of hoofs was echoed from the avenue. And presently, the door was opened and the subject of the parson's enquiry entered.

A very handsome girl this, and yet not wholly attractive. Quite different from Lity, who was gentle and feminine in every detail of appearance and manner. This was her great attraction. Her eyes large and well opened, were, of that, lovely grey which may sometimes be seen to shadow the horizon at sea, limpid, transparent, and yet impenetrable in their depths. Shaded by their long brown lashes which curled upwards at the lids, these eyes formed a most, striking feature of her face.

A darker shadow rested in her down-turned eyes, and a faint flush came iato her cheeks as her cousin Lilian (still in her riding habit) sat down beside Oliver— who was then placed between the two girls. The newcomer seemed to notice this. She smiled, showing small, white, even teeth, and his black eyes sparkled.

"Well love!" she cried, with a merry laugh. "Have you arranged all matters?  The period of mourning, the writing of letters, the faith and fealty, and all the rest of it— has this all been discussed, my dears?"

"Never you mind," said Oliver. "You don't understand these things Gipsy. Some day perhaps, you will be caught in Cupid's toil—"

"And then," laughed the clergyman, "woe to the unhappy participant. Oh how many a lively quarter hour, as the French say, will that unhappy young man pass."

"Young man, uncle? Young?  Pshaw! Not for me. If I ever do such a foolish thing—" and she showed her teeth again, then closed her lips with a snap, "as fall in love, it will not be with a young man. Youth is all untried— a promissory note, which may or may not be met by the drawer."

"Ho, ho," chuckled the clergyman, " good. And as like as not to be dishonoured at maturity Matty, eh?  But what if the bill he endorsed, Miss. Eh, eh? what then?"

"Bankruptcy all round," said Miss Martha, "as often as not. No, no ! I like a man who has proved his fitness, not him who is as yet protestation."

There was silence. The words had been spoken by the girl with a certain restrained bitterness, thereby disguised by her bantering tone, which was felt and recognised by all.

"Well," said Oliver, "let us hope you meet your fate as you wish, Miss Laudon. Only remember — success does not always infer merit. The rewards of life do not always come to the worthy."

"Pshaw!" cried the girl, with a toss of her curls, " the battle is to the strong."

"The victory is often to the vanquished," returned the young man. "Triumph does not always teach the lesson defeat brings with it, and young and inexperienced as I am, I think I would sooner pass my life digging and pruning alders like old Jack the Ditcher yonder, than enjoy the spoils won in some battles by some great men I could name."

" Good boy, good boy," said the vicar, and his wife smiled on the young fellow. He looked very handsome with his flushed face and kindling eyes; and something in Miss Martha's face, as she looked at him, seemed to echo this thought. But when she noted that her cousin's hand stole softly into her lover's, she turned away her head with a jerk and a laugh.

"You take a pessimist view of success mon ami," said she. "If all looked at life as you do at this moment— and I emphasise this moment observe— the world would stand still. The motives for which we fight are all more or less selfish. Ah! I am right, uncle," she laughed. "You, for instance, are selfish in your unselfishness. You want to do good to your fellow creature— this is your ambition. Why? That you may merit approval in the eyes of Him you serve."

"Supposing, Matty," said the vicar, " that I was like unto those unhappy yet good men who doubt him. Who should I serve then?"

"You conscience— your sense of self-approval uncle. But, come, this is too metaphysical for the occasion. I will run away and change my dress," and she suited the action to the word.

"A strange girl," muttered the vicar; "a strange aud clever girl."

He would have thought her strange enough had he seen her in her room above. She locked the door and threw herself upon the bed, and clutched the curtains in her hands and sobbed as though in agony. He would have thought so had he seen her arise and noted the evil look in her face, the fierce resolution which shone in her dark eyes.

But he did not see her; and presently when she returned to them, clad in a warm and clinging dress which showed her supple figure to perfection; her black curls smoothed back from her arched brow; her eyes with tender and subdued emotion resting within them, her ripe red lips sensitive to every passing thought— he called her to him and fondled and caressed her. Lily, noting this, grew pale and sighed. She had the faculty of prescience, this girl.

They talked chiefly of Oliver's departure for Australia, whither he was to repair in obedience to his uncle and guardian. He had just left college with a good record. Upon coining of age he would fall into a handsome fortune. He loved and was beloved. A happy future then for him, as Martha had pointed out more than once, yet always with some hint of possibilities, some touch of reservation which chilled the warmth of hope and promise in the hearts of her listeners.

And so they parted. In the morning, when the family assembled for prayers, Oliver was gone,

THREE YEARS have come and gone. Is there not something awful in the contemplation of the steady movement of the physical world around us, while the moral battle is going on. Nature, standing with dreadful immovabilitv, looks down upon our pigmy squabbles, our miserable passion, our births and marriages and deaths with that bitter scorn which is with supreme indifference. And we, who are eternally probing her secrets, watching her through our miserable spectacles, speculating upon her ways, her origin, her destiny, forget that we are her puppets. It is at once solemn and ludicrous.

Three years, I say, have come and gone. A lady and gentleman are seated in a room in a fashionable hotel in London. They are both young, yet each wears a faded look which should not belong to youth.

"Then you will not run down to L——  with me, Martha," said the gentleman with a glance, of positive dislike at the lady.

"I will not," she answered. "Why should I go? What have I to see? Whom have I to meet? Uncle and aunt are dead, and—"

"At least, dear Lily is there— sweet patient creature."

"I can hardly see that I should be welcomed by her," observed the lady looking into the mirror over the mantel. " She cannot bear much good will towards one, you know, who stole her lover from her," and she laughed.

"I believe," said the man, "that you are a devil." |

"I shouldn't wonder, Mr. Oliver Harston. Though I can remember the time, not so long ago, that you called me an angel. Well, we'll compromise. A fallen angel eh? therefore a devil, as dear uncle would have taught."

"He little knew you," said Oliver Harston bitterly.

She turned upon him fiercely.

"Look you, sir," she said " none of you knew me, but least of all. Do you remember when you first met me— when I was a school girl and you a lad at Eton. Ha! I see you do. You remember too at that time that in your boyish fashion you made love to me; swore you adored me, and all that sort of thing. I believed you. Young in years this first love made me a woman, I dreamed for the day when you and I should wed— I thought and dreamed of no one else but you. I pictured you as possessed of a hundred virtues which you never had— courage, energy, ambition. Well, time passed on. When I left school and returned to my uncle's vicarage, it was to find you installed as my cousin's accepted lover. It was then I became a devil indeed. All thought, night and day, was of revenge. And when I heard your maudlin Lilian, that evening before your departure, whine forth her fears of disaster to your mutual hopes, I swore that her prophesy should prove true. And so it has in all particulars. You knew how I wooed you— how easily you fell into my trap, how mightily you were deceived. Go— seek your Lilian, and tell her, if she has ears to listen, the story of my revenge."

He stood still and stunned as she swept past him and from the room. And so he stood for full half an hour. Then with a start he seemed to recover himself. He left the house.

Remorse is that terrible penalty from which none can escape who have done those things they ought not to have done, and left undone those things they ought to have done. Full to the brim was the cup of Oliver Harston's remorse as he stood in the little grave yard of the village of L——, and read upon a simple slab the words :

TO THE MEMORY OF

Lilian Maud Crowthers.

Who died on the

10th September 1873

Aged 19.

She trusted and was deceived, yet she blessed him who deceived even as she passed away.

___________________

Atmospheric Blackwood supernatual tale

5: The Kit-Bag

Algernon Blackwood

1869-1951

Pall Mall Magazine, Dec 1908

WHEN the words 'Not Guilty' sounded through the crowded courtroom that dark December afternoon, Arthur Wilbraham, the great criminal K.C., and leader for the triumphant defence, was represented by his junior; but Johnson, his private secretary, carried the verdict across to his chambers like lightning.

'It's what we expected, I think,' said the barrister, without emotion; 'and, personally, I am glad the case is over.' There was no particular sign of pleasure that his defence of John Turk, the murderer, on a plea of insanity, had been successful, for no doubt he felt, as everybody who had watched the case felt, that no man had ever better deserved the gallows.

'I'm glad too,' said Johnson. He had sat in the court for ten days watching the face of the man who had carried out with callous detail one of the most brutal and cold-blooded murders of recent years.

The counsel glanced up at his secretary. They were more than employer and employed; for family and other reasons, they were friends. 'Ah, I remember; yes,' he said with a kind smile, 'and you want to get away for Christmas? You're going to skate and ski in the Alps, aren't you? If I was your age I'd come with you.'

Johnson laughed shortly. He was a young man of twenty-six, with a delicate face like a girl's. 'I can catch the morning boat now,' he said; 'but that's not the reason I'm glad the trial is over. I'm glad it's over because I've seen the last of that man's dreadful face. It positively haunted me. Bat white skin, with the black hair brushed low over the forehead, is a thing I shall never forget, and the description of the way the dismembered body was crammed and packed with lime into that—'

'Don't dwell on it, my dear fellow,' interrupted the other, looking at him curiously out of his keen eyes, 'don't think about it. Such pictures have a trick of coming back when one least wants them.' He paused a moment. 'Now go,' he added presently, 'and enjoy your holiday. I shall want all your energy for my Parliamentary work when you get back. And don't break your neck skiing.'

Johnson shook hands and took his leave. At the door he turned suddenly.

'I knew there was something I wanted to ask you,' he said. 'Would you mind lending me one of your kit-bags? It's too late to get one tonight, and I leave in the morning before the shops are open.'

'Of course; I'll send Henry over with it to your rooms. You shall have it the moment I get home.'

'I promise to take great care of it,' said Johnson gratefully, delighted to think that within thirty hours he would be nearing the brilliant sunshine of the high Alps in winter. Be thought of that criminal court was like an evil dream in his mind.

He dined at his club and went on to Bloomsbury, where he occupied the top floor in one of those old, gaunt houses in which the rooms are large and lofty. The floor below his own was vacant and unfurnished, and below that were other lodgers whom he did not know. It was cheerless, and he looked forward heartily to a change. The night was even more cheerless: it was miserable, and few people were about. A cold, sleety rain was driving down the streets before the keenest east wind he had ever felt. It howled dismally among the big, gloomy houses of the great squares, and when he reached his rooms he heard it whistling and shouting over the world of black roofs beyond his windows.

In the hall he met his landlady, shading a candle from the draughts with her thin hand. 'This come by a man from Mr Wilbr'im's, sir.'

She pointed to what was evidently the kit-bag, and Johnson thanked her and took it upstairs with him. 'I shall be going abroad in the morning for ten days, Mrs Monks,' he said. 'I'll leave an address for letters.'

'And I hope you'll 'ave a merry Christmas, sir,' she said, in a raucous, wheezy voice that suggested spirits, 'and better weather than this.'

'I hope so too,' replied her lodger, shuddering a little as the wind went roaring down the street outside.

When he got upstairs he heard the sleet volleying against the window panes. He put his kettle on to make a cup of hot coffee, and then set about putting a few things in order for his absence. 'And now I must pack— such as my packing is,' he laughed to himself, and set to work at once.

He liked the packing, for it brought the snow mountains so vividly before him, and made him forget the unpleasant scenes of the past ten days. Besides, it was not elaborate in nature. His fraend had lent him the very thing— a stout canvas kit-bag, sack-shaped, with holes round the neck for the brass bar and padlock. It was a bit shapeless, true, and not much to look at, but its capacity was unlimited, and there was no need to pack carefully. He shoved in his waterproof coat, his fur cap and gloves, his skates and climbing boots, his sweaters, snow-boots, and ear-caps; and then on the top of these he piled his woollen shirts and underwear, his thick socks, puttees, and knickerbockers. The dress suit came next, in case the hotel people dressed for dinner, and then, thinking of the best way to pack his white shirts, he paused a moment to reflect. 'That's the worst of these kit-bags,' he mused vaguely, standing in the centre of the sitting-room, where he had come to fetch some string.

It was after ten o'clock. A furious gust of wind rattled the windows as though to hurry him up, and he thought with pity of the poor Londoners whose Christmas would be spent in such a climate, whilst he was skimming over snowy slopes in bright sunshine, and dancing in the evening with rosy-checked girls— Ah! that reminded him; he must put in his dancing-pumps and evening socks. He crossed over from his sitting-room to the cupboard on the landing where he kept his linen.

And as he did so he heard someone coming softly up the stairs.

He stood still a moment on the landing to listen. It was Mrs Monks's step, he thought; she must he coming up with the last post. But then the steps ceased suddenly, and he heard no more. They were at least two flights down, and he came to the conclusion they were too heavy to be those of his bibulous landlady. No doubt they belonged to a late lodger who had mistaken his floor. He went into his bedroom and packed his pumps and dress-shirts as best he could.

The kit-bag by this time was two-thirds full, and stood upright on its own base like a sack of flour. For the first time he noticed that it was old and dirty, the canvas faded and worn, and that it had obviously been subjected to rather rough treatment. It was not a very nice bag to have sent him— certainly not a new one, or one that his chief valued. He gave the matter a passing thought, and went on with his packing. Once or twice, however, he caught himself wondering who it could have been wandering down below, for Mrs Monks had not come up with letters, and the floor was empty and unfurnished. From time to time, moreover, he was almost certain he heard a soft tread of someone padding about over the bare boards— cautiously, stealthily, as silently as possible— and, further, that the sounds had been lately coming distinctly nearer.

For the first time in his life he began to feel a little creepy. Then, as though to emphasize this feeling, an odd thing happened: as he left the bedroom, having, just packed his recalcitrant white shirts, he noticed that the top of the kit-bag lopped over towards him with an extraordinary resemblance to a human face. Be camas fell into a fold like a nose and forehead, and the brass rings for the padlock just filled the position of the eyes. A shadow— or was it a travel stain? for he could not tell exactly— looked like hair. It gave him rather a turn, for it was so absurdly, so outrageously, like the face of John Turk the murderer.

He laughed, and went into the front room, where the light was stronger.

'That horrid case has got on my mind,' he thought; 'I shall be glad of a change of scene and air.' In the sitting-room, however, he was not pleased to hear again that stealthy tread upon the stairs, and to realize that it was much closer than before, as well as unmistakably real. And this time he got up and went out to see who it could be creeping about on the upper staircase at so late an hour.

But the sound ceased; there was no one visible on the stairs. He went to the floor below, not without trepidation, and turned on the electric light to make sure that no one was hiding in the empty rooms of the unoccupied suite. There was not a stick of furniture large enough to hide a dog. Then he called over the banisters to Mrs Monks, but there was no answer, and his voice echoed down into the dark vault of the house, and was lost in the roar of the gale that howled outside. Everyone was in bed and asleep— everyone except himself and the owner of this soft and stealthy tread.

'My absurd imagination, I suppose,' he thought. 'It must have been the wind after all, although— it seemed so very real and close, I thought.' He went back to his packing. It was by this time getting on towards midnight. He drank his coffee up and lit another pipe— the last before turning in.

It is difficult to say exactly at what point fear begins, when the causes of that fear are not plainly before the eyes. Impressions gather on the surface of the mind, film by film, as ice gathers upon the surface of still water, but often so lightly that they claim no definite recognation from the consciousness. Then a point is reached where the accumulated impressions become a definite emotion, and the mind realizes that something has happened. With something of a start, Johnson suddenly recognized that he felt nervous— oddly nervous; also, that for some time past the causes of this feeling had been gathering slowly in has mind, but that he had only just reached the point where he was forced to acknowledge them.

It was a singular and curious malaise that had come over him, and he hardly knew what to make of it. He felt as though he were doing something that was strongly objected to by another person, another person, moreover, who had some right to object. It was a most disturbing and disagreeable feeling, not unlike the persistent promptings of conscience: almost, in fact, as if he were doing something he knew to be wrong. Yet, though he searched vigorously and honestly in his mind, he could nowhere lay his finger upon the secret of this growing uneasiness, and it perplexed him. More, it distressed and frightened him.

'Pure nerves, I suppose,' he said aloud with a forced laugh. 'Mountain air will cure all that! Ah,' he added, still speaking to himself, 'and that reminds me— my snow-glasses.'

He was standing by the door of the bedroom during this brief soliloquy, and as he passed quickly towards the sitting-room to fetch them from the cupboard he saw out of the corner of his eye the indistinct outline of a figure standing on the stairs, a few feet from the top. It was someone in a stooping position, with one hand on the banisters, and the face peering up towards the landing. And at the same moment he heard a shuffling footstep. The person who had been creeping about below all this time had at last come up to his own floor. Who in the world could it be? And what in the name of Heaven did he want?

Johnson caught his breath sharply and stood stock still. Then, after a few seconds' hesitation, he found his courage, and turned to investigate. The stairs, he saw to his utter amazement, were empty; there was no one. He felt a series of cold shivers run over him, and something about the muscles of his legs gave a little and grew weak. For the space of several minutes he peered steadily into the shadows that congregated about the top of the staircase where he had seen the figure, and then he walked fast— almost ran, in fact— into the light of the front room; but hardly had he passed inside the doorway when he heard someone come up the stairs behind him with a quick bound and go swiftly into his bedroom. It was a heavy, but at the same time a stealthy footstep— the tread of somebody who did not wish to be seen. And it was at this precise moment that the nervousness he had hitherto experienced leaped the boundary line, and entered the state of fear, almost of acute, unreasoning fear. Before it turned into terror there was a further boundary to cross, and beyond that again lay the region of pure horror. Johnson's position was an unenviable one.

'By Jove! That was someone on the stairs, then,' he muttered, his flesh crawling all over; 'and whoever it was has now gone into my bedroom.' His delicate, pale face turned absolutely white, and for some minutes he hardly knew what to think or do. Then he realized intuitively that delay only set a premium upon fear; and he crossed the landing boldly and went straight into the other room, where, a few seconds before, the steps had disappeared.

'Who's there? Is that you, Mrs Monks?' he called aloud, as he went, and heard the first half of his words echo down the empty stairs, while the second half fell dead against the curtains in a room that apparently held no other human figure than his own.

'Who's there?' he called again, in a voice unnecessarily loud and that only just held firm. 'What do you want here?'

The curtains swayed very slightly, and, as he saw it, his heart felt as if it almost missed a beat; yet he dashed forward and drew them aside with a rush. A window, streaming with rain, was all that met his gaze. He continued his search, but in vain; the cupboards held nothing but rows of clothes, hanging motionless; and under the bed there was no sign of anyone hiding. He stepped backwards into the middle of the room, and, as he did so, something all but tripped him up. Turning with a sudden spring of alarm he saw— the kit-bag.

'Odd!' he thought. 'That's not where I left it!' A few moments before it had surely been on his right, between the bed and the bath; he did not remember having moved it. It was very curious. What in the world was the matter with everything? Were all his senses gone queer? A terrific gust of wind tore at the windows, dashing the sleet against the glass with the force of small gunshot, and then fled away howling dismally over the waste of Bloomsbury roofs. A sudden vision of the Channel next day rose in his mind and recalled him sharply to realities.

There's no one here at any rate; that's quite clear!' he exclaimed aloud. Yet at the time he uttered them he knew perfectly well that his words were not true and that he did not believe them himself. He felt exactly as though someone was hiding close about him, watching all his movements, trying to hinder his packing in some way. 'And two of my senses,' he added, keeping up the pretence, 'have played me the most absurd tricks: the steps I heard and the figure I saw were both entirely imaginary.'

He went back to the front room, poked the fire into a blaze, and sat down before it to think. What impressed him more than anything else was the fact that the kit-bag was no longer where he had left at. It had been dragged nearer to the door.

What happened afterwards that night happened, of course, to a man already excited by fear, and was perceived by a mind that had not the full and proper control, therefore, of the senses. Outwardly, Johson remained calm and master of himself to the end, pretending to the very last that everything he witnessed had a natural explanation, or was merely delusions of his tired nerves. But inwardly, in his very heart, he knew all along that someone had been hiding downstairs in the empty suite when he came in, that this person had watched his opportunity and then stealthily made his way up to the bedroom, and that all he saw and heard afterwards, from the moving of the kit-bag to— well, to the other things this story has to tell— were caused directly by the presence of this invisible person.

And it was here, just when he most desired to keep his mind and thoughts controlled, that the vivid pictures received day after day upon the mental plates exposed in the courtroom of the Old Bailey, came strongly to light and developed themselves in the dark room of his inner vision. Unpleasant, haunting memories have a way of coming to life again just when the mind least desires them— in the silent watches of the night, on sleepless pillows, during the lonely hours spent by sick and dying beds. And so now, in the same way, Johnson saw nothing but the dreadful face of John Turk, the murderer, lowering at him from every corner of his mental field of vision; the white skin, the evil eyes, and the fringe of black hair low over the forehead. All the pictures of those ten days in court crowded back into his mind unbidden, and very vivid.

'This is all rubbish and nerves,' he exclaimed at length, springing with sudden energy from his chair. 'I shall finish my packing and go to bed. I'm overwrought, overtired. No doubt, at this rate I shall hear steps and things all night!'

But his face was deadly white all the same. He snatched up his field-glasses and walked across to the bedroom, humming a music-hall song as he went— a trifle too loud to be natural; and the instant he crossed the threshold and stood within the room something turned cold about his heart, and he felt that every hair on his head stood up.

The kit-bag lay close in front of him, several feet nearer to the door than he had left it, and just over its crumpled top he saw a head and face slowly sinking down out of sight as though someone were crouching behind it to hide, and at the same moment a sound like a long-drawn sigh was distinctly audible in the still air about him between the gusts of the storm outside.

Johnson had more courage and will-power than the girlish indecision of his face indicated; but at first such a wave of terror came over him that for some seconds he could do nothing but stand and stare. A violent trembling ran down his back and legs, and he was conscious of a foolish, almost a hysterical, impulse to scream aloud. That sigh seemed in his very ear, and the air still quivered with it. It was unmistakably a human sigh.

'Who's there?' he said at length, findinghis voice; but thought he meant to speak with loud decision, the tones came out instead in a faint whisper, for he had partly lost the control of his tongue and lips.

He stepped forward, so that he could see all round and over the kit-bag. Of course there was nothing there, nothing but the faded carpet and the bulgang canvas sides. He put out his hands and threw open the mouth of the sack where it had fallen over, being only three parts full, and then he saw for the first time that round the inside, some six inches from the top, there ran a broad smear of dull crimson. It was an old and faded blood stain. He uttered a scream, and drew hack his hands as if they had been burnt. At the same moment the kit-bag gave a faint, but unmistakable, lurch forward towards the door.

Johnson collapsed backwards, searching with his hands for the support of something solid, and the door, being further behind him than he realized, received his weight just in time to prevent his falling, and shut to with a resounding bang. At the same moment the swinging of his left arm accidentally touched the electric switch, and the light in the room went out.

It was an awkward and disagreeable predicament, and if Johnson had not been possessed of real pluck he might have done all manner of foolish things. As it was, however, he pulled himself together, and groped furiously for the little brass knob to turn the light on again. But the rapid closing of the door had set the coats hanging on it a-swinging, and his fingers became entangled in a confusion of sleeves and pockets, so that it was some moments before he found the switch. And in those few moments of bewilderment and terror two things happened that sent him beyond recall over the boundary into the region of genuine horror— he distinctly heard the kit-bag shuffling heavily across the floor in jerks, and close in front of his face sounded once again the sigh of a human being.

In his anguished efforts to find the brass button on the wall he nearly scraped the nails from his fingers, but even then, in those frenzied moments of alarm— so swift and alert are the impressions of a mind keyed-up by a vivid emotion— he had time to realize that he dreaded the return of the light, and that it might be better for him to stay hidden in the merciful screen of darkness. It was but the impulse of a moment, however, and before he had time to act upon it he had yielded automatically to the original desire, and the room was flooded again with light.

But the second instinct had been right. It would have been better for him to have stayed in the shelter of the kind darkness. For there, close before him, bending over the half-packed kit-bag, clear as life in the merciless glare of the electric light, stood the figure of John Turk, the murderer. Not three feet from him the man stood, the fringe of black hair marked plainly against the pallor of the forehead, the whole horrible presentment of the scoundrel, as vivid as he had seen him day after day in the Old Bailey, when he stood there in the dock, cynical and callous, under the very shadow of the gallows.

In a flash Johnson realized what it all meant: the dirty and much-used bag; the smear of crimson within the top; the dreadful stretched condition of the bulging sides. He remembered how the victim's body had been stuffed into a canvas bag for burial, the ghastly, dismembered fragments forced with lime into this very bag; and the bag itself produced as evidence— it all came back to him as clear as day...

Very softly and stealthily his hand groped behind him for the handle of the door, but before he could actually turn it the very thing that he most of all dreaded came about, and John Turk lifted his devil's face and looked at him. At the same moment that heavy sigh passed through the air of the room, formulated somehow into words: It's my bag. And I want it.'

Johnson just remembered clawing the door open, and then falling in a heap upon the floor of the landing, as he tried frantically to make his way into the front room.

He remained unconscious for a long time, and it was still dark when he opened his eyes and realized that he was lying, stiff and bruised, on the cold boards. Then the memory of what he had seen rushed back into his mind, and he promptly fainted again. When he woke the second time the wintry dawn was just beginning to peep in at the windows, painting the stairs a cheerless, dismal grey, and he managed to crawl into the front room, and cover himself with an overcoat in the armchair, where at length he fell asleep.

A great clamour woke him. He recognized Mrs Monks's voice, loud and voluble.

'What! You ain't been to bed, sir! Are you ill, or has anything 'appened? And there's an urgent gentleman to see you, though it ain't seven o'clock yet, and—'

'Who is it?' he stammered. 'I'm all right, thanks. Fell asleep in my chair, I suppose.'

'Someone from Mr Wilb'rim's, and he says he ought to see you quick before you go abroad, and I told him—'

'Show him up, please, at once,' said Johnson, whose head was whirling, and his mind was still full of dreadful visions.

Mr Wilbraham's man came in with many apologies, and explained briefly and quickly that an absurd mistake had been made, and that the wrong kit-bag had been sent over the night before.

'Henry somehow got hold of the one that came over from the courtoom, and Mr Wilbraham only discovered it when he saw his own lying in his room, and asked why it had not gone to you,' the man said.

'Oh!' said Johnson stupidly.

'And he must have brought you the one from the murder case instead, sir, I'm afraid,' the man continued, without the ghost of an expression on his face. 'The one John Turk packed the dead body in. Mr Wilbraham's awful upset about it, sir, and told me to come over first thing this morning with the right one, as you were leaving by the boat.'

He pointed to a clean-looking kit-bag on the floor, which he had just brought. 'And I was to bring the other one back, sir,' he added casually.

For some minutes Johnson could not find his voice. At last he pointed in the direction of his bedroom. 'Perhaps you would kindly unpack it for me. Just empty the things out on the floor.'

The man disappeared into the other room, and was gone for five minutes. Johnson heard the shifting to and fro of the bag, and the rattle of the skates and boots being unpacked.

'Thank you, sir,' the man said, returning with the bag folded over his arm. 'And can I do anything more to help you, sir?'

'What is it?' asked Johnson, seeing that he still had something he wished to say.

The man shuffled and looked mysterious. 'Beg pardon, sir, but knowing your interest in the Turk case, I thought you'd maybe like to know what's happened—'

'Yes.'

'John Turk killed hisself last night with poison immediately on getting his release, and he left a note for Mr Wilbraham saying as he'd be much obliged if they'd have him put away, same as the woman he murdered, in the old kit-bag.'

'What time— did he do it?' asked Johnson.

'Ten o'clock last night, sir, the warder says.'

______________________

6: Ex-Officio

J. S. Fletcher

1863-1935

In The Massingham Butterfly, 1926

ON THIS, the third day of his retirement from the Force, Pellison, ex-Detective Inspector of the Criminal Investigation Department, was beginning to realise what it feels like to be a fish out of water. He had nothing to do. During the thirty years of his professional career he had been so strict in the discharge of his duty, so punctilious in doing his work, that he had never learnt to play; the importance of cultivating a hobby had never occurred to him. And now it seemed to him a dreadful thing to rise of a morning with the prospect of a workless day in front of him; two days of enforced idleness had made him fear a third.

"I'll have to find something to do!" he muttered, as he picked up his newspaper after breakfast. "Can't go on doing nothing! But— what?"

Then his eye suddenly lighted on a familiar name in the print before it— the name of the old town, far away in the North, from which, years ago, he had come to London. There it was, in a list of fashionable fixtures.

February 3rd—Hunt Ball at Ashminster, 8.30 p.m.

Pellison dropped the paper to his knee with a sudden feeling of inspiration. Ashminster?— Lord! he hadn't seen Ashminster for— yes, five-and-twenty years! He had gone down, then, to assist at his grandfather's funeral. Ashminster, eh?— well, why not go down now, to see if the old place was still what it had been, if there were any old friends left alive, if—

Within ten minutes Pellison was packing a bag with necessaries; within twenty he was on his way to the station; within the hour he was in the dining-car of a big North-bound express. It was then ten o'clock; at four in the afternoon he was in Ashminster, treading the queer old streets that led from the railway to the centre of the town. And at the entrance to the Market Place he paused, to gaze wistfully at scenes and landmarks which in his youth had been as familiar as his own ten fingers.

There was very little change in the outward aspect of the place. Truth to tell, Pellison had not expected to see any. There was the old church, with its grey walls, battlemented tower, grotesque gargoyles; there the Market Cross, worn and weather beaten; there the quaint, gabled houses and their twisted chimneys. And there was the ancient Moot Hall, with its pillared front. There were signs of activity there; men were putting the finishing touches to a gaily-coloured canopy over the main entrance; others were laying down a carpet across the pavement; still more were arranging flowers and plants within the big doorway. All that, Pellison knew, referred to the Hunt Ball that night— a great social event in the life of Ashminster, to which all the élite of the neighbourhood flocked every year.

Presently he strolled, leisurely, across the cobbled pavement in the direction of a big, wide-fronted, bow-windowed old house, over the main door of which swung a gilded crown. There was a sign over that door, too; Pellison's eyes sought for the wording of it.

"The Crown Hotel," he said, meaningly. "George Grandridge! So George is still alive, is he? Um!— he was middle-aged when I was last here. Well—"

With a sudden quickening of his pulses he walked into the hall of the hotel, looking about him. There was bustle and preparation going on there, too, and in the midst of it, directing matters, stood a tall, well-fed and well-preserved silver-haired man upon whom Pellison advanced with outstretched hand.

"Forgotten me!— or not, George?" he asked, laughingly. "Look hard, now?"

The landlord, grasping his proffered hand, stared questioningly at its owner. Suddenly a gleam of recognition came into his eyes.

"God bless my soul!" he exclaimed. "John Pellison! Well, well! But it's a good many years—"

"Five-and-twenty!" said Pellison. "Grandfather's funeral, that was. Never been in the old town since, George. And now I've come to have a look round and enjoy myself a bit. You can put me up?"

The landlord pointed a finger to the window of the hotel office, where a young woman presided over a big book. He wagged his head, chuckling.

"If you'd made that request to the young lady there, John," he answered, "she'd ha' said— Full up! And so we are!— it's the Hunt Ball to-night."

"Saw it announced in the Times this morning," murmured Pellison.

"To be sure! Well, every room in the place is taken," continued the landlord. "Always is, every year. Lord Belkington's got six rooms for his party; old Lady Delladale is coming— for about the fiftieth year in succession, I should think!— and she's booked four; Sir Thomas Tolkinson's got three."

"Then you'll have none for me!" said Pellison. "Still—"

"Wait a bit, my boy!" said the landlord, with a wink. "There's a room that I never let to anybody but a friend— private, d'ye see? You shall have that, John— and now come and try a glass of sherry and tell me what you've been doing with yourself all these years. Five-and-twenty, is it? Lord!— how time does fly!"

Over a glass or two of dry sherry in the landlord's sanctum Pellison narrated the story of his career and heard in return a chronicle of the doings of Ashminster since his last visit. He himself had passed through many lively adventures; Ashminster and its folk appeared to have stood still.

"Then there haven't been many changes?" he said, when his host had finished. "Everything much the same, eh? And you said old Lady Delladale was coming to the Hunt Ball?— of course, I remember her! But she wasn't old in my day, George!— I recollect her as a fine, dashing woman. And his Lordship was alive then."

"Dead some years now, his Lordship is," replied Grandridge. "As for the old girl, I daresay she considers herself a fine, dashing woman still, my lad! But she's all of seventy, John— all of seventy! And yet goes about as gay and spry as ever they make 'em. London in the season— Monte Carlo in winter— she'll be off there as soon as this ball's over— next week she goes, I believe. And always has a smart lot about her! It's only a small party she's bringing over from Delladale Park this time— herself, a Mrs. Browne-Charrington, a Miss Fitzpatrick, and a Captain Lampard. They were all in here only yesterday— came in to lunch when the old lady brought them to look over the town. Raffish lot, I took 'em for! But she always had that sort about her, John!"

"I recollect her as a sporty woman," asserted Pellison. "Dear me! I should like to see her again!"

"You'll see her right enough, my boy!" said the landlord. "We dine here at seven-thirty— an hour before they go across to the ball. I'll tell my head-waiter to give you a nice little table to yourself close by Lady Delladale's, and then you'll not only see her but her pearls as well!"

"Pearls, eh?" said Pellison. "Something special?"

"The famous Delladale pearls," replied Grandridge. "Haven't you heard of 'em? Celebrated enough in London society and on the Continent, too, I reckon. Said to be worth fifty thousand pounds, my lad! Always wears 'em, does the old lady, when she comes to our Hunt Ball!"

"Then you've seen 'em many a time?" suggested Pellison. "Fine sight?"

"I believe you, my son!" said Grandridge, solemnly. "Make a Jew's mouth water, those pearls would! But come along, and I'll show you your room."

Outside in the hall again, Grandridge suddenly gripped his old friend's arm.

"Talk of the— eh," he whispered. "Here is the old lady and her party! Take a look at her!"

He pointed to the door, where a party of four was just entering. Pellison recognised Lady Delladale at once, and marvelled, knowing what he did, that she looked little more than a well-preserved sixty. He glanced from her to her companions— two smart, fashionably-dressed women of indefinite age, and a man, scrupulously attired, carefully groomed, tall, dark, hard-bitten, good-looking. And at him Pellison looked again— and again— and yet again. At the third inspection he turned away, certain that not so many years before he had seen that man at equally close quarters—in the dock of a criminal court.

ii

UPSTAIRS, in the privacy of his bedroom, Pellison, unpacking his bag, let his mind get to work on the man he had just seen. A good many queer characters had passed through his hands at one time or another— crooks, national and international; criminals, casual and habitual; fraudulent debtors; thieves; burglars; doubtful and shady men about town. To which category did this man belong? For that he had had dealings with him, Pellison was as certain as he was that that was the old Moot Hall clock striking five. Who— which— what was he?

All of a sudden he got it. A mental vision of the dock at the Central Criminal Court came before him, and in it the man whom he had just seen downstairs. Lawson! Richard Lawson. Charged with obtaining jewellery from a Bond Street tradesman by a trick. Convicted. Three years' penal servitude. That was the man! And— that was seven years ago.

It was fortunate, mused Pellison, that he had not been greatly to the fore in that case— he had only been mixed up in it incidentally. It was long odds against this man recognising him— besides, during the last few years, Pellison had grown a beard— now, alas, rapidly turning grey. And there the situation was—the Captain Lampard, squiring it with old Lady Delladale, was Lawson, ex-convict, and there was he, Pellison, ex-detective, in full knowledge of the fact. What to do?— that was the question.

What Pellison did, presently, was to go downstairs, after a little tidying of himself, and get hold of Grandridge again.

"Look here!" he said, when he had got his host in a corner. "I want you to do something for me, and to ask no questions about it; at present, at any rate. I want to have a few words with Lady Delladale—in private! I'll explain why when I see her. Now, as you know her, can you manage it? Say that one who used to live hereabouts and had a great respect for her family would like to pay his respects to her— eh? Old time's sake, you know!"

"Hanged if I know what you're after, John!" said the landlord, highly mystified. "But I suppose you do. Let's see now? Wasn't your father in their employ?"

"He was!" assented Pellison. "My old dad was his Lordship's farm-bailiff for some years."

"That'll do!" said Grandridge. "Wait here a minute, John."

He disappeared up the old, quaintly-balustered staircase, and in a few minutes came to the head again, beckoning Pellison to join him.

"Delighted to see anybody of your name, she says!" he whispered. "There you are— that door, Number Seven."

Pellison tapped at the door indicated and, receiving a cordial invitation to enter, walked in, to find Lady Delladale sipping a cup of tea. She gave her visitor a keen inspection as she pointed him to a chair close by her own.

"So you're a Pellison, are you?" she said. "Dear me, now I come to look at you, of course you are. You must be John!"

"John— at your service, my lady," replied Pellison. "Born and bred on the Delladale estate!"

"To be sure! I remember all of you," asserted Lady Delladale. "And what have you done with yourself? You look well preserved and prosperous!"

Pellison gave his hostess a brief account of himself: her interest deepened.

"Bless me!" she exclaimed. "A famous detective, eh? That's intriguing! You'll have had a good many exciting episodes in your career, no doubt?"

"A great many," replied Pellison. He glanced at the door, making sure that it was securely closed. Then he bent nearer to Lady Delladale's table. "It's precisely because of my experience as a detective officer that I made bold to ask for an interview with your ladyship," he continued. "Although, as I said just now, I have retired, I can't forget that there's such a thing as duty. And— happening to be here— it's my duty to warn you, my lady."

"God bless me, Pellison!" exclaimed Lady Delladale. "To warn me? What about?"

"Your ladyship possesses some very valuable pearls," said Pellison. "I understand they are as valuable as remarkable."

Lady Delladale's glance turned swiftly to the dressing table close by. There, Pellison saw, lay a small oblong green morocco-covered case.

"Well," she said, a little harshly. "What about them?"

"I advise your ladyship to take the greatest care of them, to-night," said Pellison. "Better still, if I may suggest it, I wouldn't wear them to-night. I would hand them over to the landlord, George Grandridge, and see them duly locked up in his safe— I would, indeed, my lady."

"Dear, dear!" exclaimed Lady Delladale. "Why! I've worn my pearls at the Ashminster Hunt Ball for—"

"Just so, my lady— but I have reasons for my suggestion," said Pellison. "You know the old proverb about the pitcher going to the well?"

Lady Delladale gave him a scrutinising look.

"Thieves about?" she asked.

"I know something," replied Pellison. "Precaution, my lady, is never wasted."

Lady Delladale set down her tea-cup. Like her visitor she glanced at the door. Like him, too, she bent across the table.

"You were always an honest, straightforward lot, you Pellisons," she said. "And I'm sure you're one of the old sort, John. I'll tell you something— strictly between ourselves. Those," she continued, pointing with a sly smile to the green morocco case, "those are not the real Delladale pearls— the famous set! Everybody thinks they are, but they aren't. What's in there is a marvellously clever imitation set which I had made some years ago. The real set is at my bank in London."

"Good— good!" murmured Pellison, rubbing his hands. "But—nobody knows?"

"Nobody— except myself and my bankers," replied Lady Delladale. "No— do I say, everybody thinks those— in the case there— are the real things. Well!— let them think so. Why not?"

"Those friends who are with you," suggested Pellison. "They think so?"

"Of course! Everybody thinks so!" chuckled her ladyship. "You'll see in the newspapers to-morrow morning that I wore the famous Delladale pearls at the Hunt Ball. Well— I'm not going to make anybody the wiser. Those things will be stared at, pointed at, gaped at to-night— but they're... imitation!"

"Even so, my lady, they're worth taking care of," said Pellison, as he rose. "And— there are questionable characters about."

"Forewarned is forearmed," remarked her ladyship. "Thank you for coming!"

iii

PELLISON glanced at his watch as soon as he got outside Lady Delladale's room. Five-fifteen. Two hours and a quarter before dinner— time for what he wanted. And to get on with that he hurried downstairs and out into the Market Place and Straight towards the Post Office; although twenty-five years had elapsed since his last visit to Ashminster he had not forgotten his bearings.

The first person Pellison saw— to take any note of— as he hastened along the street was the pseudo Captain Lampard, better known to him now as ex-convict Lawson. Lawson, alias Lampard, came out of a tobacconist's shop, carrying in his hand, neatly done up, what Pellison's sharp eyes saw to be a box of cigars— one of those boxes which hold fifty cigars of a medium size. He and Pellison met in a direct line; their eyes met, too; Pellison's with what anybody would have taken as the glance of a careless observer; Lampard's with indifference. But Pellison could look careless when he was literally careful, and he saw with rejoicing that his man didn't recognise him in the least, didn't attach any significance to him. Well and good, that! thought Pellison and went on to the Post Office, there to interview the telephone clerk and arrange for an immediate long-distance call— to a trusty, well-informed old colleague at Scotland Yard.

It was five-and-twenty minutes past five when Pellison was told that he was through; a quarter of an hour later he came out of the box, to tell the clerk that he should be back again at six o'clock for another similar call. He walked around the Market Place in the interval, mechanically observing the old familiar sights; in reality he was thinking of what he was going to do. The man-hunting fever was in his blood again; it was good to have a bit of the old business to do, even if he was acting ex-officio. And he was impatient; the minutes dragged until six o'clock struck. Then he was back at the telephone, and presently in touch with the centre of things, so far away, and yet so eminently available, and next he was listening intently, avidly to the voice of the man from whom he had sought information and who, in the interval of waiting, had got it for him.

It was a highly satisfied Pellison who, a few minutes later, walked out of the Post Office and turned the corner to the Police Station. The Home Superintendent, knowing him by repute, stared interestedly at him when Pellison had introduced himself, but still more when the ex-detective told him of the recent episode at the Crown Hotel.

"I know that man!" he exclaimed. "He's been staying at Lady Delladale's for the last fortnight— he and the two ladies you describe. Captain Lampard! And you're sure he's the man you know as Lawson?"

"Certain," replied Pellison. "As soon as I saw him I knew that he had been through my hands— later, I remembered when and why. He is certainly the man who, as I tell you, got three years' penal servitude at the C.C.C. seven years ago for obtaining jewellery in London by means of a trick. That I recollected, but no more. However, I've been in telephonic communication with headquarters during this last hour, and now I know all about him. After serving his three years he was very soon in trouble again and not so long after his release got five years for a somewhat similar offence. He was released on ticket-of-leave about six months ago and since then has completely disappeared. So— there you are!"

"We can pull him up for that, then," observed the Superintendent. "Failure to notify, eh? What do you advise, now?"

"That he's up to some scheme about Lady Delladale's pearls I'm as convinced as that I'm here," said Pellison. "And it wouldn't surprise me if one or both those women, Mrs. Browne-Charrington and Miss Fitzpatrick as they call themselves, were in with him at the job. The thing is to keep an eye on the lot! Now if you have a couple of trusty, experienced men— plain-clothes men— who would go back with me to the hotel— eh? They could pass as friends of mine— if they could dress themselves up a bit they could dine with me—I'll arrange it. Then they'd be close at hand if anything materialises. For you may be quite certain that if this man has designs on those pearls he'll try to carry them out at the Crown— probably has worked the plot up with that very intention."

"I can fit things," said the Superintendent. "I often dine at the Crown myself— my presence'll excite no comment. And I've a man— Wilkins— who's just the sort of fellow you want—smart, well-dressed sort, uncommonly useful for this kind of job. I'll ring him up and tell him to come round ready to go with us. These two women, now?" he continued, after he had been to the telephone. "You didn't recognise either of 'em?"

"No," admitted Pellison. "But I know the type. Sort of— well, I've seen that sort a good bit, at Deauville, and Homburg, and Monte Carlo. Adventuresses, I should say!"

The Superintendent smiled and shook his head.

"We know Lady Delladale pretty well round here," he said, significantly. "Likes that sort of society. Queer taste in an old lady, but there you are!"

"Better not tell her she's old," remarked Pellison, with a wink. "I rather fancy, from talking to her, that she intends to remain stationary at—shall we say fifty?"

"Well, she's shrewd enough," said the Superintendent. "I've had a bit of business with her now and then. Personally, I should say that it would be an exceptionally clever man who could take her in."

"This man is clever," remarked Pellison. "And you may be sure that if he's trying to bring off a big coup here, he's arranged everything to the last detail."

"Here's Wilkins!" said the Superintendent, as a smart, alert, well-groomed man walked in. "He'll suit you, I think. Now," he continued, after introducing the two men and giving Wilkins a brief account of what was going forward, "consider us under your orders. What next?"

Pellison marshalled them into the street and thence towards the Crown Hotel. But as they crossed the Market Place he suddenly checked their advance.

"There's the man!" he said in a whisper. "There!— crossing over to the Post Office. There!— that tall chap with the small parcel in his hand. Wilkins! he won't know you. Follow him in there— keep an eye on him— see what he's after! We'll wait about here a bit."

Wilkins went off, in silence, and followed Lampard into the Post Office. In a few minutes Lampard came out and went across to the Crown; Wilkins emerged, too, and returned leisurely to Pellison and the Superintendent.

"Sent off the small parcel by registered post," said Wilkins. He paused, rubbing his chin as if musing over something. "Don't know why he should bother to do so," he added, "but he told the girl it was a box of cigars. Why should he tell her that?"

"I saw him come out of that tobacconist's, over there, with what I took to be a box of cigars," said Pellison. "Well— let's go into the lounge of the hotel and have a drink before dinner."

But Pellison didn't get the chance of ordering drinks. Before he and his companions were seated the hall-porter came up. He drew Pellison aside.

"Lady Delladale's wanting to see you, Mr. Pellison," he said. "She asked— would you go up to her room as soon as ever you came in?"

iv

WITH a word to his newly-made acquaintances to sit tight and keep their eyes and ears open, Pellison left the lounge and hurried upstairs to Lady Delladale's room. Lady Delladale sat where he had left her, examining some article of female finery which she obviously intended wearing that evening. She motioned to Pellison to close the door and then, as he drew near, pointed to the dressing-table.

"You saw that green morocco case that was lying there when you were up here, John Pellison?" she asked. "Well, it contained the pearls!— or what passed for the pearls. And— it's disappeared!"

"Yes," said Pellison. "Just so! The circumstances, now, my lady?"

"Simple enough, I should think," replied Lady Delladale. "Not very long after you went out of this room, Miss Fitzpatrick— one of those two women you saw me arrive with—came in to ask me to go into Mrs. Browne-Charrington's room to look at a new gown. I went. I was away, perhaps, ten or fifteen minutes. When I returned the green morocco case was gone. Of course—"

"A moment, my lady," interrupted Pellison. "Were those two women with you in Mrs. Browne-Charrington's room all the time?"

"No! Miss Fitzpatrick, after going in there with me, left the room to fetch a gown of her own. She was away a minute or two, then she returned with the gown."

"You left your door open?"

"Open— slightly, yes. The room I went to is only just across the corridor. Its door was slightly open, too, all the time I was in it. Of course, it wouldn't take many seconds for anybody to slip in here, take the case, and clear out with it."

"A plain question, then, my lady. Do you suspect your friends?"

Lady Delladale gave Pellison a queer look.

"I suspect all three of them," she answered. "Of course they've got the case! The Fitzpatrick woman got it, no doubt, and handed it to Lampard."

"Have you told them of the loss?" asked Pellison.

"Of course! Otherwise they'd have suspected that I suspected them! Yes, I told them at once, and told them, too, to hold their tongues until I could do something. Oh, they think they're safe enough! But— they've got it!"

"My lady," said Pellison, "what do you know of these people? What are they doing in your company?"

Lady Delladale shook her head.

"I'm getting an old woman, John Pellison," she said. "I'm a lonely old woman, too. And I want society; lively, smart society— I dare say I'm a wicked old sinner, but I need and like liveliness. I met these three, the man, the two women, at Bath, not long ago. They amused me— and they're good bridge players, and I'm devoted to bridge. I asked them to visit me— brought them home with me, in fact. But— I don't trust 'em that much, John! I suspected them, only last night, of cheating. And now I'm quite sure they've stolen my green case. They'll have a job to get into it, though," she concluded, chuckling. "It's got a patent lock."

"Will your ladyship give me leave to act?" asked Pellison. "To tell your ladyship the truth, I know the man. He's an ex-convict, named Lawson— and, as a matter of fact, he's on ticket-of-leave at this time. It was because I recognised him on his arrival with you that I came up here to warn your ladyship."

"Do whatever you like," said Lady Delladale. "What do you wish me to do?"

"Nothing— until you come down to dinner, my lady," replied Pellison. "I understand that dinner's served here at seven-thirty. Just before that time, come down to the lounge— as if nothing had happened. By then I shall have done something."

"Whatever you please," agreed Lady Delladale. "So that's what Lampard is, eh? H'm! I'm not surprised. But I'm not such a fool as I may seem to be, after all."

v

PELLISON went back to his professional brethren and drawing them into a corner told them what had happened. The Superintendent's ears pricked— he foresaw big business.

But Wilkins made a grimace which signified understanding.

"That's pretty plain, Mr. Pellison," he said. "The swag's in that parcel the man registered at the Post Office."

"Doubtless," agreed Pellison. "That's the first thing your old and accustomed hand thinks of— to get rid of the swag as soon as he conveniently can after handling it. Probably the younger of the two women took the case out of Lady Delladale's room, and handed it to the man; he had his package all ready, slipped the case into it, and went straight to the Post Office. And—that's where we must go. What time does the mail go out from here?"

"Not till eight-fifteen," replied Wilkins.

"Then we're in plenty of time— the packet's safe there, as it's registered. But," continued Pellison, "they don't know me there, and we must not only see the packet but have it examined."

"I'll manage that," said the Superintendent. "They know me well enough— besides, this is police business. Come on— we'll see the Postmaster." He led the way to the street, and once outside the hotel, turned to Wilkins. "Go back to the office," he continued. "Get hold of Smithson and Buckle. Tell them to come down to the front of the Crown presently and hang around in case they're wanted. Then you come back to us. Better have some reserve force handy, in case we're going to collar all three," he said to Pellison as Wilkins moved away. "And I suppose it'll come to that."

"Suppose so," assented Pellison. "Nice sensation for the Hunt Ball! However, I dare say we can manage it quietly."

"You don't think these three people will slip away," suggested the Superintendent.

"No, they're too sharp for that! They know the swag's safe in the post; they don't know they're suspected. Lady Delladale is too cute to show any suspicion of them before themselves. Only let's see this packet and we have them."

"That's easy," said the Superintendent. "The Postmaster'll do anything I want— when the matter's explained to him."

The Postmaster listened to their story with the passive, apathetic air of the man who from long training has become nothing but an official. And when he had got the hang of it, he went silently away from his room into the Post Office outside, to return immediately with a neat parcel, sealed and blue-lined, which he laid on the table before the Superintendent and Pellison.

"That it?" he asked.

"That'll be it, sure enough," said Pellison. "Ah! that's significant! Look at the address."

The Superintendent read the address audibly:

Mrs. Browne-Charrington,

21a Mayflower Mansions,

Hyde Park, London, W.2.

"H'm!" he said. "So that's where they were placing 'em, eh?— to await the lady's return to London. All right! Well, we're going to open this and see if the stolen property's inside."

"No!" exclaimed Pellison. "Something better than that. We'll open it in the presence of the sender. The Postmaster'll let you take charge of it— there's no doubt about what's in it."

The Postmaster made no objection, and the Superintendent, with the packet under his arm, followed Pellison into the street again. Wilkins came up, pointing towards the Crown.

"Smithson and Buckle are down there," he whispered. "Both handy; I've just had a peep into the lounge. I think the man you've described, Mr. Pellison, is in there now, with two ladies. They're all in evening dress, and near the door of the dining-room."

"Couldn't be better," said Pellison. "But it's in your hands now, Superintendent— you take charge."

The Superintendent nodded, and after speaking quietly to two men in plain clothes who lounged aimlessly near the hotel entrance, walked in, with Pellison and Wilkins on his heels. His glance went straight to the corner Wilkins had indicated; there, their backs to the door, and grouped around a small table sat Lampard, Mrs. Browne-Charrington and Miss Fitzpatrick: Lampard was smoking a cigarette; all three had cocktails before them.

"Come on, both of you," muttered the Superintendent. He marched straight across and was at Lampard's side before any of the three noticed him. "A word with you," he said peremptorily. "Captain Lampard, I believe?"

There was a faint cry from one woman, a catching of her breath from the other. But the man turned angrily.

"What the—" he began. Then, as he saw the three men around him, the glare in his eyes turned to a quick look of fear that made Wilkins edge closer and watch more narrowly. "Who are you?" he got out. "I don't—"

"Superintendent of police in this town," replied his questioner, firmly. "These are police officers; there are others outside. Here is a parcel you handed in and registered at the Post Office this evening— I believe it to contain—"

"A box of cigars!" exclaimed Lampard. "I bought it here—"

"We'll see about that," said the Superintendent. "I believe it to contain a green morocco case stolen from Lady Delladale's room here." He was rapidly cutting open the packet as he spoke, and within a few seconds had pulled out of a mass of soft paper the article he had referred to. "Just as I thought," he went on. "I shall take you into custody on a charge of stealing this case and contents, and these ladies, too, as being concerned in the theft. Wilkins—Simpson and Buckle!"

Lampard had got to his feet by that time; the two women, white-faced, were faintly protesting. And Pellison put in a word, nodding at the man.

"You've forgotten me, Lawson!" he said. "But you'll remember your conviction at the Central Criminal Court seven years ago? Ah! I thought so. It was diamonds that time— now it's pearls—"

A sharp gasp from Lampard, a sudden stare, bewildered and annoyed, in his eyes, made Pellison twist round and see what the man was looking at. There, just descending the stairs, was Lady Delladale, gowned for the Hunt Ball— and decorated with her famous pearls. And from one of the women came an angry murmur— the indignant protest of a plotter whose schemes had gone wrong.

"You never got them! She has them on! You damned fool, why didn't you make sure! Anyway, they can't charge us with that!"

Lady Delladale caught the last words as she came up to the group, now increased by the presence of the two plain-clothes policemen.

"No, but I'll charge you all with stealing my green morocco case," she said. "I took care you didn't get the pearls— I had 'em in my pocket. Take them away, policeman, take all three away. I'll dine alone, and I'll go to the ball alone; take them away and lock them up— I'll attend to them in the morning."

And with a whispered word to Pellison which nobody caught but himself, Lady Delladale and the Delladale pearls swept into the dining-room.

___________________

7: The Visitation

Cyril G. Wates

1883-1946

Amazing Stories June 1927

Hugo Gernsback, Editor of Amazing Stories, offered $500 prize money for stories written to fit the December 1926 cover illustration. (Below; the artist is unidentified). The winner to receive $250,  second $150, third $100. More than 300 entries were received, and the winners' stories (first second and third) were published in the June 1927 issue. The winner, Cyril G Wates, went on to write another dozen or so more stories in the late 20s and very early 30s.

Foreword

THIS is the narrative of the last voyage of the S.S. Shah of Iran, to which voyage greatest transformation the world has ever witnessed, was directly due— the voyage which resulted in that epoch-making year, universally known as "The Year of the Visitation."

Who I, the writer, may be, is of little importance and yet my name is not entirely unfamiliar to the countless millions who will read this story and will rejoice that the silence of nearly ninety years has at last been broken and all the world may know the events which took place on that extraordinary voyage— events which have hitherto been wrapped in mystery — at the request of those strange beings who called themselves "The Deelathon," but who are better known to us today as "The Visitants."

I am Benedict Clinton and I am the great-grandson of Charles Clinton, who was Captain of the Shah of Iran. Captain Clinton, my great-grand-father, died yesterday at the age of nearly one hundred and twenty-six years, and his death unseals my lips and releases me from the promise I made to him, a year ago, on his birthday.

Although, as I have stated, my own personality is of no importance in this narrative, it affords me a certain amused satisfaction to realize that I am perhaps the last historian of the human race. Owing to the changed conditions under which we live, the professional historian has become almost as obsolete as the lawyer or the alchemist of past ages. There is an old saying that "Happy is the nation which has no history," and that proverb is as true today as in the past, except that for the word "nation" we must substitute "planet." History is rightly defined as the record of the sufferings of mankind. Without suffering, there is nothing deemed worthy of record.

During the past century the world has been passing through the most extraordinary phase of transition which ever has been, or aver will be known. Prior to the year 1950— the Year of the Visitation— Humanity was divided by innumerable lines, largely artificial, into hundreds of races and nations. Since that date man has known only two divisions; those who were living at the time of the Visitation and those who were born afterwards. We have adopted the two Deelathon words, "Zykof" and "Epzykof" (immortal and mortal), in referring to these two subdivisions of mankind and the names convey a fairly clear picture of human society of today. We of the new generation, the Zykofs, having been born to a knowledge of the Thon, glory in the prospect of a life which, while certainly not eternal, is infinitely richer and happier and more extended than that which our forefathers knew, but sometimes we are saddened by the sight of those who are nearest and dearest to us growing older and dying before our very eyes. Our friends the Epzykofs, who saw the great events which transpired nearly a century ago and even, as in my great-grandfather's case, were directly responsible for bringing about the Visitation, have only an acquired and not an inborn knowledge of the Thon and therefore are not fated to share with us, for long, the innumerable benefits it brings.

A year ago today I left my little workshop in the palm groves of Florida, where I carve and decorate the polar bosses for pleasure Zeeths, and before evening I set foot on the pine-clad shores of Vancouver Island. I had come, with many of my relatives and friends, to pay honor to Captain Clinton on his one hundred and twenty-fifth birthday. From all parts of the world we came and as I alighted from my Zeeth, I was greeted by several old friends who had just arrived from Japan.

Together we walked up the winding pathway through the forest, until we saw the gleam of white marble and emerged upon a wide lawn, upon the farther side of which, half hidden in a group of graceful cedar trees, was Capt. Clinton's home, with its fluted columns and ellipsoidal roof. The Captain was seated upon the steps, his white hair shining like a beacon light in the last rays of the setting sun, and gathered around him was a group of our relatives in animated conversation.

As we approached, Captain Clinton rose and came forward to greet us, his fine figure still erect and his eyes bright with youth in spite of his (for an Epzykof ) great age. For each he had a word of welcome, but it seemed that his handclasp to me was especially cordial.

"I am glad, very glad that you have come, Benedict," he said heartily. "I have a task for you to perform, a very important task, not without its responsibilities, and I hope that you will not refuse the request of an old man."

"That is a hope which will be realized as soon as your request is made known," I replied. "As for the responsibility involved, the fact that you have selected me, when all mankind delights to serve you, will give me strength to perform whatever task you set me."

"Thank you, Benedict," answered the Captain, simply, and turning to the others, he said, "In this happy world, where perfect candor is universal, I have the doubtful honor of being the only man with a secret. As you all know, I am the last survivor of the crew of the Shah of Iran and soon I shall go to join my shipmates. Tomorrow I will tell Benedict the story of my last voyage, a story which was to be kept secret until the last of us had sailed for the home port. When I am gone, Benedict will write it out for all the world to read."

We surrounded him with loving words and tender caresses. Not because he was the most famous man in the world for nearly a hundred years, but because of his simple nobility, we loved this fine old sea captain of a past age. Thelma, his eldest daughter, who with her companion, John Adair, had come from their home in Spain that day, slipped her arm around her father's neck and cried:

"You must not leave us yet, Father dear! You have a hundred years of life in that big body of yours still. I believe you can beat me in a swimming match even now!" For Thelma was a famous swimmer.

"That remains to be proven, my dear," said the Captain with a little laugh, half gay, half sad.

"Prove it! Prove it, Thelma!" we cried and soon we were all running down the path to the shore, where we plunged into the warm waters of the Pacific.

Thelma beat her father by a length, her white body flashing through the water like an ivory Zeeth cleaving the air. We remained sporting in the bay until the daylight died and the big moon rose.

As we loitered up the hill, my great-grandfather drew me back from the gay crowd.

"I should like you to climb the Shah with me in the morning, Benedict," he said. "I want to watch the sun rise— who knows, it may be for the last time— and then I will tell you the story of my last voyage and the Visitation of the Deelathon. Will you come?"

The half light of dawn was just touching the. snow-capped peaks in the east when Capt. Clinton and I started our ascent of the Shah, the little mountain just behind his home, to which he had attached the name of his old ship. We tiptoed down the steps in order not to disturb the sleeping guests, whose white forms lay— "Star scattered on the grass"— as old Omar puts it. Soon we were high up among the rocky buttresses of the Shah. An hour of exhilarating climbing brought us to the summit and we sat on a flat boulder to watch the ever-new miracle of the Dawn.

To the East shone the placid waters of Queen Charlotte Sound, sparkling like molten gold in the radiance of the rising sun. Beyond towered the mountains of the mainland, lifting their snowy heads above their mantle of green. To the West, the waters of the Pacific widened to an unbroken horizon.

At last the Captain broke the silence and for an hour I sat spellbound, listening to his deep voice telling the story of that last voyage — the Voyage of the Visitation.

1:  The Meteor

YOU must often have wondered (said Capt. Clinton) in common with the rest of the world, why no person among the crew or passengers of the Shah of Iran has ever revealed what took place on the last voyage of the old ship. The reason for this secrecy on the subject which is naturally of more than average interest to everyone, is quite simple.

When the Deelathon conceded to our request to make the Visitation, it was upon the express understanding that the location oc their country should be concealed. They pointed out to us that it was impossible to foresee the outcome of the Visitation and they wanted to insure their own safety in any event.

This request was so entirely reasonable that we all unhesitatingly agreed to it. We realized that it was not possible to release into the world a tremendous force like the Thon, without producing a widespread upheaval, which might be beneficent or the reverse. We decided that the simplest way of preserving the secret was to make a pact among ourselves that the entire story of the voyage should remain untold until the last of us was dead. If it seemed wise, in the light of events which were still in the future, the last living member of the party was to tell the story to some dear friend, who would publish it after his death.

This, then, Benedict (continued the Captain), is the task I am asking you to undertake. Say nothing until I am gone and then publish what I am about to tell you, word for word as I shall tell it, as you may easily do by the aid of the Thon. I feel that my end is not far off. All possibility of danger to our friends and benefactors, the Deelathon, has long passed away and the necessity for preserving their secret no longer exists. And now for my story!

The Shah of Iran, of which I was Captain, was one of a line of huge steamers which made the journey between Vancouver and Australia in the fifth decade of the twentieth century. These great vessels, which became obsolete with the introduction of the Zeeth, were magnificently equipped according to the strange standards of that time and were so powerful that, although they floated upon the surface of the water, they had little to fear from the worst storms they were likely to encounter. They carried a thousand passengers and a large crew, not only to handle the elaborate machinery and to navigate the vessel, but also to attend to the thousand and one wants of the thousand passengers!

On the seventeenth day of September, 1949, we sailed from Vancouver on a pleasure tour for which the Shah of Iran had been chartered. We were to touch at San Francisco, Manzanillo and Panama before striking across the Pacific for Sydney. The voyage was uneventful until we left the Isthmus and were three days' journey southwest of the Galapagos Islands. I was standing on the bridge with my chief officer, a fine fellow named Ian McFane, you knew him, Benedict.

The sun was rising. Ian and I were discussing some matter relating to the navigation of the ship, when a sailor came running up the steps and, touching his cap, as was the custom in those days, exclaimed:

"Beg pardon, Sir! There's something wrong with the sun!"

Ian McFane and I both looked to the East and both cried out in astonishment. Exactly in the centre of the golden disc was a round spot. This spot was perfectly black and about one-quarter the apparent diameter of the sun.

"What do you make of that, Mr. McFane?" I asked.

"Well, I hardly know, sir," replied the mate. "It's too big and black to be a sun-spot and, besides, it's moving!"

Sure enough, as we watched the spot, it crept slowly to the edge of the sun and in about ten minutes had left the disc altogether and vanished.

"It is some opaque object between us and the sun," I said.

"Some new kind of plane, maybe," suggested Ian.

"I doubt it, Mister," I replied. "It simply vanished when it left the solar disc and that would show that it's outside the atmosphere. More likely a big meteorite."

"If that was a meteorite and it hits the earth, we're going to know it!" said Ian.

"Well, don't start that idea circulating among the passengers," I replied. "We don't want a small sized panic on our hands and, anyway, we may be entirely wrong in supposing that it was a meteorite."

My warning proved to be useless, for when I descended to the promenade deck, I found many of the passengers gathered in groups, discussing the strange phenomenon, which had been seen by several early risers.

The news of the curious black spot on the sun spread like wild-fire and as soon as I made my appearance I was surrounded by a group of passengers, clamoring for an explanation.

"I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen," I said, "but I am as much at a loss to explain the spot as yourselves. I can only suggest that it may have been a small, very dense cloud."

"But that wouldn't explain why it vanished when it passed off the face of the sun," objected one of the ladies. "Oh! here comes Professor Smithton! He'll be able to tell us all about it," and the group broke away from me and re-formed around the famous astronomer and physicist, who had just arrived on deck.

OF course, I knew that my theory of a dense cloud was ridiculous, but I was anxious to avoid any suggestion that might cause alarm among the passengers. A panic is a nasty thing to handle and would have reflected seriously upon my management and indirectly upon the shipping company.

I walked across the deck in time to hear the Professor giving his opinion in his best lecture-room style. He had not seen the spot himself, so he was obliged to base his judgment upon the descriptions of the few who had been on deck at the time. He listened to all carefully and then said, laughing:

"I have no doubt that this spot on the sun seems very mysterious to all of you, even you, Captain, but the explanation is, after all, extremely simple."

There was a murmur of surprise followed by demands for enlightenment.

"The spot you saw was simply a parachute descending from an aeroplane flying at a height so great that it was invisible. The spot was oval rather than round, was it not?"

Again there was a babble of voices, some saying that the spot was distinctly oval, others that it was quite round. When there was silence, the Professor continued, apparently quite deaf to any evidence that did not fit in with his preconceived theory.

"Ah! Quite so! Distinctively oval," he said. "Due to the angle of vision, of course," and rubbing his hands together with the air of a man who has cleared away all possible doubt, he disappeared into the saloon and was soon engrossed in a hearty breakfast, an excellent example which all the passengers followed.

"So that's that !" remarked Ian, who had come up during the discourse.

"Yes," I replied, dryly, "at least it would be if it had been a parachute! Fortunately for the professor's reputation for scientific infallibility, no one except ourselves seems to have noticed that the spot left the sun at its upper edge. If anyone has invented a rising parachute, I haven't heard of it!"

Throughout the day, the Shah of Iran continued to plough her way southward through an ocean as smooth as the proverbial sheet of glass. The weather was perfect, although the heat was oppressive, but that was to be expected during a calm just south of the equator.

In the late afternoon a slight swell manifested itself, getting gradually heavier until at sunset the steamer was perceptibly pitching, in spite of hef gyroscopic stabilizers. The air was still motionless, the only breeze being due to the speed of the vessel, and the sky was absolutely cloudless.

I went to my cabin early and turned in, but could not sleep. An oppressive sense of impending disaster descended upon me like a pall, and resisted all my efforts to shake it off. At last I rose and dressed. I went out on the bridge, where I found Ian McFane talking to the officer of the watch, Gordon Caswell, the third mate. Both were looking up at the sky, where the stars were sparkling with tropical brilliancy.

"I'm glad you came out, sir," said Ian, "but what is the trouble?"

"I couldn't sleep," I exclaimed. "The heat, I guess."

"It sure is hot, even for the tropics," said Caswell.

"What are you two looking at?" I queried.

"There's something funny about the stars," replied Caswell and he pointed up towards the West.

Following the direction of his finger, I saw the Galaxy or Milky Way, as it is commonly called, shining like a belt of silver spray across the velvety sky. About fifty degrees above the horizon appeared a perfectly circular patch approximately three times the diameter of the moon. Within this area, the stars of the Galaxy were blotted out, giving exactly the appearance of the Coal Sack, that curious vacant space which has been familiar to astronomers for centuries.

"What do you think it is, sir?" asked Ian. "The spot we saw this morning?"

"It looks unpleasantly like it," I said, "and it also looks as though my theory of a huge meteorite or a wandering asteroid were correct."

"If so, it must be moving with tremendous speed," said Caswell. "It has doubled in size during the half hour that Mr. McFane and I have been watching it."

"I don't like the looks of it!" I said. "If that thing hits the sea anywhere near the boat, there's going to be one gosh-awful explosion! Mr. McFane, will you kindly have all hands called on deck.'

And quietly, please. Tell the Chief Steward to post men in all doorways and corridors to keep the passengers below decks in case of accident. Tell them to use tact and avoid a panic at all costs."

In ten minutes my orders had been carried out and the entire crew were standing by, waiting for— we knew not what !

The swell of the afternoon had increased rapidly to huge proportions, but the waves were so long and unbroken that the Shah rode them with ease. McFane, Caswell and I stood on the bridge watching that ominous disc in the sky spreading until it had blotted out fully one-eighth of the stars in the southwestern quadrant.

Suddenly the edges of the black circle were surrounded by an awful halo of flame. Far quicker than I can describe it the whole surface of the meteor, if that was what it was, had turned to a white heat, so intense that we were blinded by the glare. As the visitor from interstellar space tore its furious way through the hundred miles of our atmosphere, the whole expanse of ocean became as light as day. Great streams of molten lava shot out in every direction and yet, most ghastly touch of all, absolute silence reigned.

The blazing meteor struck the sea exactly at the horizon, that is to say about twenty miles away. We had a momentary glimpse of a fearful column of boiling water, wreathed in clouds of steam, hurling itself towards the zenith and then— darkness!

In the breathless silence my voice rang out: "Hard a-starbo'd!" and the great ship began to swing around in order to place her stem towards the point from which I was sure the inevitable danger must come.

And then came the NOISE!

NO words of mine can hope to describe the frightful bellowing tumult of that explosion. First came the shrill shriek produced by the brief passage of the meteor through our atmosphere. Following this was a roar as if all the artillery of all the armies ar.d navies of that unhappy old world of ours had been fired simultaneously and the sound multiplied a thousand-fold.

Every man whose position exposed him to the direct force of the blast was hurled to the deck and many were injured. Cries of pain from the deck and screams of fear from the staterooms were mingled with the continuous, soul-shattering blasts of noise as the white hot meteor uttered its indignant protests at being sunk in four miles of salt water.

And last came the storm !

As when a boy casts a pebble into a pond to watch the ripples spread, so when the hand of fate cast into the greatest pond on earth, a pebble forty miles in diameter, ripples fled out in all directions. But these ripples were walls of water a hundred feet in height and moving with incredible rapidity!

In a moment the vessel was caught up and hurled eastward with the speed of an express train. In vain her powerful screws beat the water in a brave endeavor to stem the force of a two hundred mile hurricane! We were helpless and could only trust in the mercy of God, the strength of steel plates and the knowledge that hundreds of miles of open sea lay between us and the coasts of South America.

You know, Benedict, that there has been a prevailing impression for the last ninety years that the Deelathon arrived from the realms of space upon the meteor, whose shattered fragments now form an island in the Pacific. We who could have contradicted that idea were pledged to silence, but no one who had witnessed that hellish globe descend from the heavens and the tempest that followed it, could have believed for a moment that any living being could have survived such a cataclysm.

For five hours we drove before the storm. The bellow of the cooling meteor had long since died away in the West, but was replaced by the tumult of the wind and waves. It would take too long to tell you all the terror of that awful night. A dozen times it seemed impossible that we could remain afloat another moment and a dozen times the impossible happened.

Just before four o'clock the waves died down as suddenly as they had arisen and the Shah of Iran rested on an even keel in smooth water.

The rain still poured down and the roar of the tempest could be heard, as it were, far overhead. The darkness was stygian and it was impossible to see more than a hundred yards in any direction, even with the aid of the Shah's powerful searchlight. I untied the rope with which I had lashed myself to the bridge rail and staggered over to McFane.

"It's pretty obvious that we have been driven by some miracle into a sheltered harbor on the South American Coast," I said.

"If that's so, sir," replied Ian, "it's a miracle indeed."

"Aye, and that's not the only miracle," said Caswell's voice. "We were three hundred miles off the coast when the meteor struck and that means we've been travelling over sixty miles an hour!"

"I'd be willing to believe you," said Ian, "if you told me it was a hundred!"

"Well, thank God it's over!" I said. "Mr. McFane, please have a sounding made and if we're in shallow water, as I suspect, drop anchor. We don't want to drift on the rocks."

By the time these instructions had been carried out, the storm outside had somewhat abated, but as the tumult of the wind became less, I noticed a continuous roar which at first I attributed to breakers on the rocks outside the harbor. On glancing at the compass, I was surprised to find that the sound came from the west; the probable direction of the land.

In about an hour, the noise of the wind had died to a whisper and then the roar from the west became very noticeable. Caswell, who had remained on the bridge, called my attention to the fact that the sound was practically steady and therefore could not be breakers.

"Well, we shall have to wait for daylight to see what it is," I said. "I'm going down now to see how the passengers have stood the racket. Call me if you see or hear anything unusual."

I found the passengers huddled in the main saloon, most of them showing evidence of the severe strain to which they had been exposed, but the ship's doctor reported that aside from one broken arm and a few bruises, there were no injuries.

"We've certainly got to hand it to Professor Smithton, sir," said the Doctor. "He did more than any of us to keep the crowd under control. He was as cool as if he were in his class room."

Having given orders for coffee and biscuits to be served as soon as possible, I was going from one group to another with assurances that all danger was now past, when the fourth officer came hurriedly down the stairs and told me that Mr. Caswell wanted me on deck at once.

AS I reached the deck I saw that dawn was breaking. The curtain of rain had been withdrawn and I was able to take in at a glance the extraordinary chance to which we all owed our lives.

The Shah was lying peacefully at anchor in a little bay surrounded by sheer, black cliffs which seemed, in the dim light, to tower to a height of at least a thousand feet on all sides. The harbor was shaped like a pear, with the narrow part— the stem— towards the open sea.

The steady roaring sound still continued and seemed to come from a point in the cliffs directly opposite the entrance to the bay, which was about a mile across at its broadest part. The width of the "stem" was certainly not above a quarter of a mile and you will understand my feelings, Benedict, when I tell you that the sight of that narrow gap in the beetling cliffs literally turned me sick! We had all been under too great a strain all night, to realize our plight clearly, but the thought of what would have happened if we had missed that narrow opening—

I went up on the bridge and joined Caswell. I began to make some remark on the providential chance which had brought us safely into the harbor, when I saw that he was paying no attention to me, but was gazing intently to the westward.

"What's the trouble, Mr. Caswell?" I asked.

"Well, sir, I don't know if the light of that meteor has affected my eyesight, but would you mind telling me how we got in here?"

2: Imprisoned

STARTLED at Gordon Caswell's strange question, I followed the direction of his gaze and saw with amazement that the entire breadth of the harbor mouth was bridged by a natural break-water, against which the waves from the open Pacific were bursting in columns of spray. No opening was visible in the reef and I was completely at a loss to answer Caswell's question as to how we had crossed it. A steamer of thirty thousand tons does not fly and even allowing for the height of the waves, it was hardly conceivable that we could have been washed over the reef without grounding.

"There must be an opening somewhere, Mr. Caswell," I said. "When you have had breakfast and it's lighter, please take number three launch and explore the reef."

While the second officer was away, the passengers began to throng the decks and many were the expressions of wonder at the remarkable harbor into which we had so providentially been carried. The black cliffs, which lost none of their height with the increasing light, were not smooth but broken by vertical seams at regular intervals. The whole scene reminded me of some picture I had seen, I could not tell where. It was Ian McFane, whose birthplace was in northern Scotland, who remarked on the close resemblance between these cliffs and the basaltic formation of the famous Fingall's Cave in the Hebrides. The vertical clefts we observed were indeed the spaces between huge hexagonal columns extending from the surface of the water to the top of the cliffs without a break, giving the semblance of a gigantic temple built for some ghastly cult of devil worship.

The water was almost without a ripple and the tier of thousand foot columns unbroken, except at the point from which the thundering roar still came. Here appeared a gap, forming a narrow gorge, and the mirror-like surface of the sea was broken by a considerable stream which cascaded over broken blocks of basalt. It was apparent that the roar we heard came from a huge waterfall, hidden from our sight in the recesses of the canyon.

Caswell returned at noon. His report only served to increase our bewilderment. With three of the men, he had landed at the base of the cliffs where the southern end of the reef abutted against them. Ordering the launch to follow them at some distance from the rocks, they had walked northward along the broken tops of basaltic columns similar to those of which the cliffs were composed.

About half way along the reef they were stopped by a torrent of water flowing across the barrier into the open sea, and were obliged to signal to the launch to pick them up.

Landing again at the northern end of the reef, they walked back to the central stream without finding any trace of an opening. The stream was too narrow to permit the passage of such a vessel as the Shah, even had the water been sufficiently deep, which was obviously not the case.

They crossed the reef, which was about two hundred yards in width, and looked out upon the open Pacific, still heaving in long rollers; the aftermath of the storm of the previous night. They returned to the Shah completely nonplussed.

Having listened to Caswell's report, I thought it best to take the passengers into our confidence. Mounting the orchestra platform in the grand saloon, I made a short speech in which I stated that the Shah of Iran was imprisoned in a land-locked harbor. How she got there I could not explain, but it was impossible to get her out with anything short of dynamite, which naturally we did not possess.

"There is no possible cause for alarm, ladies and gentlemen," I said. "The Shah is provisioned for a long voyage and is perfectly safe in this bay. As soon as the necessary arrangements can be made, I will send an expedition inland to the nearest settlement which affords telegraphic or radio facilities. Our own radio is, unfortunately, damaged beyond possibility of repair. In a few weeks at the latest, a relief boat will arrive, bringing the necessary explosive to release the Shah, and I think I can promise you all some entertainment when the blasting begins. In the meantime I hope everyone will make the best of a bad job."

There was some applause and when it subsided, Professor Smithton arose and asked for permission to question the Second Officer.

"Will you kindly describe the nature of the beach along the barrier reef, Mr. Caswell," said the Professor.

"The fact is," said Caswell, "there is no beach of any kind on either side of the reef. The rocks go straight down into the water."

"One more question," said the Professor. "Do the ends of the reef lie conformably against the cliffs? I mean," he explained, smiling at Caswell's evident bewilderment, "do the rocks fit closely together?"

"No, sir, they do not," he replied. "They are very much broken up at both ends."

"Ah! Quite so!" ejaculated the Professor with satisfaction. "I think I can explain the mystery of our arrival, even if I did make a slight, though perfectly excusable mistake about the parachute," and he smiled blandly at his audience. "When the Shah entered the harbor, the reef was not there!"

"Not there?" I exclaimed.

"Quite so. The absence of beaches and the unconformable— excuse me, I should say broken condition of the ends of the reef show that it was recently raised above the water. The parachute — beg pardon, the meteor was apparently about forty miles in diameter, judging by the area of sky it obscured when it touched our atmosphere. If its composition were similar to that of most meteors, it would weigh in the neighborhood of fifty million million tons. It is hardly to be expected that such a missile could strike the earth at a velocity of perhaps three hundred thousand miles per hour, without causing wide-spread seismic disturbances, which would flow through the solid globe in ripples from the point of impact. It is these ripples which were mainly responsible for the storm, which may be regarded as a series of tidal waves, and it was these ripples, or rather one of them, which raised the barrier reef and cut us off from the ocean — fortunately, after we entered the bay!"

The Professor was going on to enlarge on his subject when the Quartermaster entered the room and came up to where I was standing.

"Beg pardon, sir. Mr. McFane told me to tell you that the ship is sinking."

FOR the second time we came very near having a serious panic. I rushed on deck but could see no signs of anything to give basis for Ian's message. In reply to my questions he informed me that he had gone down into the launch, which was still floating alongside, to get some specimens of basalt which Caswell had brought from the reef. While there, he noticed that the Shah was floating nearly a foot deeper than when she left port. He had given orders to have all compartments examined for a leak before reporting to me, but could find nothing.

Meanwhile the excitement among the passengers was fast getting beyond control when the Professor began waving his arms and shouting for silence.

"Ladies and gentlemen! There is no cause for alarm. The Shah is perfectly safe, as I hope to prove in a few minutes. Captain, will you kindly have one of your men draw a bucket of sea water."

I nodded to Ian to have the request carried out and the Professor disappeared into his stateroom, returning in a few moments with a wooden case from which he took a thin glass tube with a bulb at one end. He dropped this into the bucket of water, where it floated upright. Having examined it carefully, he straightened up and said :

"Ah! Quite so! It is not the ship that is responsible for this unwarranted alarm, but the sea. The normal specific gravity of water is, of course 1.00, while that of sea water is about 1.031. Now the specific gravity. of this water is only 1.014, so naturally the ship has settled."

"But what could possibly cause such a state of affairs, Professor?" I demanded.

"Ah! Quite simple, Captain. The sea water has been cut off by the reef, leaving the shallow harbor land-locked. There is a tremendous amount of fresh-water running into the bay from that canyon at the western end and it is forcing out the salt water over the reef, as Mr. Caswell told us. Naturally the ship is settling and will continue to do so—" and he made a dramatic pause "—for about six inches further, when the water will be entirely fresh."

Needless to say, the Professor's stock, which had slumped after the "parachute" fiasco and made a quick recovery during the meeting in the saloon, went sky high as the result of this second example of scientific acumen. Indeed, I was so much impressed with Prof. Smithton's versatility, common sense and unfailing good nature, that I invited him to attend a conference of the officers to be held that afternoon for the purpose of laying definite plans for sending out a relief party.

At the Professor's suggestion, I also asked two young men named Alderson and FitzGerald; athletic young fellows, both members of the English and American Alpine Clubs, who were enroute to New Zealand to attempt the ascent of an unclimbed peak in the Southern Alps.

When these three passengers and the officers were gathered in the smoking room, I made a brief outline of the situation and asked for suggestions, explaining that the important thing was to get in touch with civilization as soon as possible.

The Professor rose and asked if I could state the approximate location of the Shaft and whether it would not be better to send out a relief party by sea, rather than by land.

"I am afraid that it is impossible to give a satisfactory answer to your first question, Professor. We have no way of determining how far North or South we were carried by the storm and the heavy pall of clouds makes an observation out of the question."

"Ah! Quite so! The clouds are undoubtedly the result of the immense amount of steam produced by contact betwen the meteor and the ocean. I venture to predict that, on account of the great size of the meteor, which would preclude more than a small portion being immersed, these clouds will continue for a long period of time."

"With regard to sending out a party by sea," I continued, "I had thought of that possibility, but aside from the great difficulty of transporting one of the launches across the reef, there are two serious objections to that plan. One is that the sea is too rough for a small craft to navigate in safety and the other is that all our launches are electric and intended for short trips. The storage batteries would not last for over a couple of days at the outside."

"Ah! Quite so!" said the Professor. "Then I venture to suggest, Captain, that you send a party on shore at the mouth of the river, tomorrow, and determine the feasibility of reaching the top of the cliffs. I foresee that the presence of a waterfall might prove a serious obstruction. Here is where the mountaineering skill of our two young friends, Mr. Alderson and Mr. FitzGerald, will be invaluable. If the cliffs are successfully surmounted, you can then arrange the personnel of your party and the necessary outfit of provisions."

The Professor's suggestions met with unanimous approval. No sooner did the result of our conference become known than a number of the passengers asked my permission to accompany the proposed expedition. Thus it happened that a large and light-hearted party crossed the strip of smooth water that separated us from the shore and set foot on the narrow beach just north of the mouth of the river.

3: The Coming of the Deelathon

ACCOMPANIED by the Professor and the two mountaineers, I led the way inland. Presently we approached the point where the river made its way through the wall of cliffs and turning sharply to the north, scrambled over masses of fallen rock into the entrance of the canyon, the roar of falling water growing louder as we advanced.

Above the fallen rock we turned to the right around a magnificent group of the hexagonal basalt columns and the words of some remark I was about to make, died on my lips in sheer wonderment. We were confronted with a sight which, for appalling grandeur is probably unequalled anywhere on earth.

We stood on the edge of a vast, cup-like depression in the rock. On every side towered the pillars of basalt, as smooth and perfect as though they had been carved and polished by the hand of man. On the farther side of this huge theatre, the river descended from the brow of the cliffs in one mighty thousand-foot leap, to strike squarely on the edge of the great cup, which was filled to the brim with a churning mass of foam, while the deafening roar of the tortured waters echoed and re-echoed from the black walls.

So tremendous were the cliffs that we stood, as it were, at the bottom of a circular pit and the light that filtered down from above was but a dim similitude of day.

For a long time we stood transfixed with awe, while the other members of the party gradually joined us, their laughter quenched by the wonder of the sight that met their gaze. As our eyes became more accustomed to the half-light, we were able to see that it was only around the rocky margins of the pool that the water was beaten into foam. The entire centre was occupied by a mass of water perfectly smooth and piled up like a dome of glass.

At first sight this central mass seemed motionless but we soon realized that its whole surface was the playground of titanic forces. The entire structure quivered as though it were in a state of the most delicate equilibrium, as indeed it was, and it seemed as though one had only to throw a pebble to see it dissolve in a slather of foam, like a giant bubble.

Presently the voice of the Professor broke the spell.

"I'm a old man, Captain, and in my time I've seen the glories of the starry heavens as perhaps few have done, but I thank God that He has spared me to see this!"

"I thought the great snow peaks were the most beautiful things in creation," said FitzGerald, "but this has got them all beat."

"And look at the light, Fred!" exclaimed his sister, who had joined us. "It's like all the opals in the world rolled into one. Or rather, like a soap bubble on the point of bursting, for these colors move."

Miss FitzGerald's exclamation brought us to the realization that this water was not like other water, but seemed to glow with an effulgence of its own. Streamers of light of every imaginable color darted here and there over the shining surface of the great dome, now blending into masses of rose or green or violet, now mingling in a glittering confusion of rainbow hues.

Of course, we knew that we were looking at some remarkable natural optical illusion, caused by the reflection of the light from above, but the effect was none the less impressive. The living, shining dome of color, set in its girdle of snowy foam; the silent cliffs with their ebony towers; the thundering column of water eternally descending from above; all combined into a dramatic whole whose overwhelming grandeur was foiled by a broad band of emerald green turf which framed the central cup and was dotted here and there with graceful palm trees, whose fronds glistened with diamond drops of spray.

At last I tore my eyes from that living opal and turned to the two mountaineers.

"Well, gentlemen, what do you think of our chances of getting out of this?"

"Hopeless!" replied Alderson.

"Absolutely!" agreed FitzGerald. "We're by way of being mountaineers, but we're not flies! There's not a handhold anywhere. But, good Lord ! What's that!"

At his cry of surprise, we all looked up, to behold, poised in the air above the rim of the waterfall, a great ball like a gigantic soap bubble.

"Your parachute, I guess, Professor!" said Caswell slyly. "Look, it's coming down."

VERY slowly the ball descended into the abyss and now we realized that it was far larger than we had at first supposed. It was apparently made of some transparent material like glass, except that it glittered with the same play of colors as that which appeared on the surface of the pool. Around the centre of the balloon, if balloon it was, was a broad band of some metal, such as copper or gold. This girdle formed the equator and at either pole was a projecting boss of the same metal, from which were suspended by cables, inverted cups which hung some distance below the globe.

As the strange aerial visitor drew nearer we saw that the equatorial band was studded at intervals with circular windows of the glassy material. From the centre of each of these projected a long needle, the purpose of which we could not guess unless they were for directing the course of the vessel— a theory which we afterwards found to be correct.

Very slowly the great ball sank until the two cups touched the grassy sward about three hundred yards from us. Still it sank, the cables from which the cups were suspended being withdrawn into the two metal bosses, until the lower edge of the central girdle was but a foot above the ground. Here the shining sphere hung, swaying gently in the wind that rose from the churning water.

A moment later one of the circular windows swung open and a figure stepped down upon the grass, followed by several others. They started to walk around the margin of the pool towards us and as they drew nearer the Professor exclaimed in surprise.

"Good Heavens! They're Indians! Look at the headdress!"

"Don't worry, Sir Charles," I said. "We're armed," and I drew my revolver from its holster, but as I did so I had a curious sensation that my warlike act was a gesture absolutely without meaning.

"Oh! I wasn't afraid," replied Sir Charles, "but they haven't got any— I mean, they're rather lightly clad for polite society, you know."

The group from the sphere were now near enough for me to see that Sir Charles was correct. There were five or six men and two women and each wore only a great headdress of what seemed to be white feathers. I also realized that these were no Indians. The color of the skin which had at a distance appeared coppery, was now revealed as rosy pink, not due to the presence of any coloring pigment, but as though the skin were so transparent and the health so abounding, that the blood literally shone through.

I began to agree with Sir Charles that it would be wise for the ladies to retire while we interviewed these strange inhabitants. I turned to make some such suggestion and caught sight of Margaret FitzGerald staring at the approaching party, her eyes shining with excitement.

There was a burst of admiration from the passengers, men and women joining in exclamations of delight at the physical perfection and nobility of countenance of these splendid beings who were now only a few yards from us.

The party came to a halt and one of the tallest of the men stepped forward and saluted us with a curious but graceful gesture. As he did so I realized with a distinct shock that what we had taken to be a feather headdress was not a headdress at all, but was a semi-transparent, membranous frill, actually growing upon the heads of these beings. This frill or "thonmelek" as we afterwards learned was their word for it, ran across the forehead just in front of the hair, down each side of the neck, over the shoulders and terminated just above the elbows, I know of nothing which it so much resembled as the fin of a flying fish, except that the "thonmelek" was infinitely more delicate, but it was supported upon blades of cartilage in much the same way. All this we absorbed at a glance and then the tall man, evidently the appointed spokesman of the party, addressed us.

"Deelarana, Deelatkon zeloma ek tara!" and raising their hands in the same graceful gesture, all the others echoed "Zeloma!"

"Zeloma!" exclaimed Sir Charles. "I say, Captain, it sounds as if they were giving us a salute of welcome."

"Yes, I agree with you," I replied, "and they all have the kindliest smile I ever saw on human countenance. I am certain they mean us no harm."

I turned back to the tall stranger with the intention of trying to convey our friendliness to him, by means of signs, when his lips opened and he said in the most perfect English, without a trace of accent.

"Yes, I welcome you. Us, the Deelathon, mean no harm. Welcome !"

OF all the strange incidents of this strange voyage, I think this was the most astonishing. A thrill of excitement passed through the crowd. We, sophisticated citizens of the twentieth century, had discovered an unknown country, inhabited by an unknown race as beautiful as angels, who wore no clothes, grew a frill on their foreheads, and— spoke English without an accent! True, they spoke it mechanically and not quite correctly, but it was English!

"You speak English, friend!" I exclaimed.

The tall man shook his head and smiled.

"But you understand it?"

He smiled again and said, "Yes!"

"Why, Captain," cried Miss FitzGerald, "this is like a romance out of a book!"

At these apparently innocent words our visitors, the Deelathon (for you will have guessed that it was they) showed their first sign of excitement and we saw that their frills or thonmeleks; which were normally pearly white, flashed with rainbow colors, like the surface of the Dome of Water. One of the girls stepped forward and spoke rapidly in their soft, musical language, several times repeating the word "book."

Now it happened that Miss FitzGerald had brought a volume of Emerson's essays with her, to read while her brother and Mr. Alderson were exploring the cliffs. She smiled and handed it to the lovely girl, saying:

"This is a book."

The two Deelathon examined the volume with great interest and then the man handed it back to Miss FitzGerald with a questioning look.

"It is a book," she said. "We read it."

At once the tall man caught up her words.

"Read it!" he exclaimed. "Read it."

Miss FitzGerald turned to me in surprise. "They say they can't speak English," she said, "and yet they keep on speaking it! I don't understand!"

"Don't you see?" replied her brother. "They just say the words we say— like parrots."

"No, I don't agree with you, Mr. FitzGerald," interrupted Prof. Smithton. "It is true that they repeat our words, but they combine them intelligently into new sentences, almost as though they could read our thoughts."

The tall man listened attentively to this discussion and then smiling, pointed to the book and repeated: "Read!"

"Perhaps you had better do as they ask," I said to Miss FitzGerald.

And then took place one of the strangest scenes I have ever witnessed. At a gesture from their leader, the Deelathon seated themselves on the grass and we followed their example, for an hour, nothing but the boom of the waterfall and the soft, sweet voice of the American girl reading to those gods and goddesses, the words of the great American essayist, could be heard. At first she stopped at intervals and looked up, but the Deelathon would say softly, "Read!"

And she continued.

At last, when she had read fully half of the book, the tall man put up his hands to check her and rose to his feet.

"Friends from the sea," he said, "we, the people of the Thon, welcome you, the speakers of a strange, harsh language, until this moment unknown to us. We ask you to forgive our seeming inhospitality, but of course you realize that it was impossible for us to address you in your own language until we had heard it spoken. Therefore I asked this beautiful maiden to read from her record, which she calls a hook.

"But enough of this matter of speech which doubtless you already know, by the Thon. Now that we are able to talk freely, accept our welcome and hospitality and then tell us how we, the Deelathon, may serve you. I am Toron, maker of Zeeths, and this is my companion, Torona," and he laid his hand gently upon the head of the girl who had asked Miss FitzGerald for the book.

To say that we were dumfounded at this fluent address from a being who, only an hour previously, had said, "Us mean no harm," would be putting it very mildly. For a few moments we were too astonished to reply. The Professor was the first to regain his wits. He rose, bowed courteously, and said : "Strangers, who call yourselves the Deelathon, we thank you for your welcome. I am Professor Smithton and this is Captain Clinton. We, with many others, were driven into this harbor by the terrible storm, and escape has been cut off. Therefore we seek a way inland."

"But have you no Zeeths?" asked Torona,

"I am afraid not," replied the Professor smiling. "We do not even know what a Zeeth may be."

"You do not know?" exclaimed the Deelathon girl, her thonmelek rippling with color. "But does not the Thon tell you?"

"Again I must admit ignorance," replied Smithton. "I do not even know what you mean by the Thon."

At these words the Deelathon leaped to their feet in uncontrollable excitement. Their thonmeleks furled and unfurled, flashing with a hundred hues and we heard repeatedly the words "Zed epthona Thon!" ("They know not the Thon!")

Finally Toron turned to us and said:

"You will forgive our unseemly emotion, Smithton, and you, Clinton. We were surprised at your apparent inability to understand us when we spoke our own language. We are doubly astonished that you are surprised at our fluent English. But we are astounded at your statement that you do not know the Thon and can only suppose two things: either that you and your friends are very unhappy or that you say the thing which is Epthona— or as you would express it, untrue."

"I can only assure you, friend Toron," said the Professor earnestly, "that we are not guilty of false-hood when we say we do not know this Thon, neither are we especially unhappy, though what connection that has with the Thon I do not understand."

"And are there many like you in the world?" asked one of the Deelathon men, wonderingly. "People who know not the Thon and who have lost their thonmeleks?" and he passed his hand upward over that glittering appendage.

"There are countless millions," replied the Professor.

"What you tell us," said Toron, "fills us with sorrow. True, we of the Deelathon have a legend that a people existed upon the face of the earth, who knew not the wonderful benefits which are constantly showered upon us by the Thon-ta-Zheena, but we did not believe it possible. It seemed like a story of fish flying through the air, or birds who lived under water. The news you tell us we must carefully consider. We will return to our people and I will call a conference of the Klendeela. In the meantime, return to your Zeeth- that- floats-on- the- water and at sunset I will visit you."

The Deelathon raised their hands in salutation, folded their thonmeleks and returned to the crystal globe which presently rose steadily into the air and disappeared over the brink of the waterfall.

AS soon as we set foot once more on the deck of Shah of Iran I left the passengers to narrate to their friends who had remained on board, the strange events through which we had passed, and beckoning to Professor Smithton, conducted him to my cabin and closed the door.

When we had lighted our cigars, I said:

"Well, Professor, what do you make of it?"

"Candidly, Captain, there are a good many things I don't understand at all."

"This 'Thon' they talked about so much, for example," I said, "and how they were able to talk English so fluently."

"Well, no," said Smithton, thoughtfully, "I think I begin to have a hazy idea of what they were driving at."

"That's more than I have," I said.

"No, the things I can't fathom," the Professor went on, "are what supports that dome of water and why it shines like a fire-opal and what holds up that crystal balloon of theirs and why they have frills on their heads and a few other things like that. But the Thon Didn't you notice how that word kept on creeping up in their language? Deelathon— people of the Thon. Thonmelek— that frill of theirs. Do they name themselves for their natural headdress?"

"That would hardly explain their tremendous excitement when they discovered we didn't know this Thon of theirs," I objected, "and why they regarded us as so unhappy because we didn't have frilly things on our heads."

"Ah! Quite so !" mused the Professor, "but they also said 'Epthona' and translated it as 'untrue.' I believe I've got it!" and he jumped up and began to pace the cabin excitedly. "Thon means truth.

They worship some god or fetish which stands for truth and naturally they think we're a benighted race because we don't follow their religion."

"But that doesn't explain their sudden command of English," I objected.

"Quite so!" said the professor.

There was a knock at my door and Miss FitzGerald peeped in.

"Am I intruding on a conference?"

"Not at all," I said. "Please come in and see if your intuition can solve what to our more masculine reason, is as black as ink."

"What is the problem, Captain?" she asked, seating herself on the edge of my desk. I explained that the Professor and I had been discussing the strange inhabitants of the mainland and trying to decide what they meant by "Thon."

Margaret FitzGerald looked first at me and then at the Professor, her eyes twinkling.

"Honestly, I don't know any more about it than you do, but I think I can guess."

"What is it?" I exclaimed.

"Why, you said it when I came in," she said.

"Ah! Truth," said Smithton.

"No, not exactly. I was thinking of what the Captain said. He asked me to use my supposed intuition. That's it. Intuition. Thon."

"By heaven! You're right!" cried the Professor. "Some highly developed sense of intuition, combined with marvelous memories, and reasoning powers which enabled them to understand our language after hearing the words once ! Marvellous! They're mental prodigies! That explains their idea that we are so miserable because we haven't got their 'Thon'."

"I don't think it explains everything, Professor," I replied. "I feel that there is some deeper meaning underlying that simple word 'Thon'. There's something about those people that makes me say, that if this Thon of theirs could make me like them— like them not only physically but mentally and morally— I'd never rest until I solved the mystery."

"I felt the same way, Captain," said Miss FitzGerald. "When I was reading aloud to them I had the strangest sensation as though some loving, comforting power were folding me in its arms and it seemed to emanate from the Deelathon. Oh! I know it sounds foolish, but I felt just as if my soul were in a warm bath!"

"Perhaps my chosen profession renders me less susceptible to subconscious impression than you and Captain Clinton," said the astronomer, "nevertheless, I must admit that I feel complete confidence in these Deelathon and their kindly intentions. We can only wait for the return of our friend Toron at sunset."

"Right!" I said, rising, "and now, Miss FitzGerald and Professor, what do you say to lunch?"

3: The Klendeela

THROUGHOUT the long afternoon until the sun approached and touched the narrow sea-horizon visible in the gap to the west, eager eyes were incessantly turned to the crest of the landward cliffs, watching for the return of the friendly Deelathon.

Suddenly there was a cry: "They're coming!" and a moment later we saw a crystal globe travelling through the air just above the level of the plateau. It was much smaller than the one we had seen in the ravine but it glittered with the same flux of prismatic hues and was equipped with the same equatorial band and polar bosses of reddish metal, which Toron afterwards told us was an alloy of gold, copper and selenium.

For a few seconds the Zeeth (for this was the name by which the Deelathon called their strange aerial vessels) hovered motionless above the cliff-edge, and then with a suddenness which made me gasp it shot out towards the ship with tremendous velocity, as though hurled from some invisible cannon. In less than ten seconds the Zeeth was hovering above the deck, having come to a dead stop in its headlong flight, as suddenly as it had started. Then it descended with infinite care until its suspended cups rested on the after promenade deck where a space was cleared by the passengers for its reception.

One of the crystal windows swung inward and next moment Toron stepped upon the deck, followed by the girl Torona, whom he had called his companion.

They raised their hands in the Deelathon greeting and smiling at the amazed throng of men and women with that peculiarly radiant smile which is so characteristic of all these people, they cried: "Zeloma! Welcome!"

Now, as you doubtless know, Benedict (said Captain Clinton) in the ages before the Visitation, the people of the world and especially of the so-called civilized areas, were governed in their actions not so much by reason or intelligence as by custom. It was regarded as a sign of the most depraved savagery to wear clothing for the purpose for which it was designed, namely, warmth, and people wore the most extraordinary garments, oftentimes hideously ugly, simply because they were, as we used to say, "the fashion." Early in the twentieth century there was evident a healthy tendency to get away from this bondage of fashion and return to the sensible use of clothing for warmth alone, but it proved to be simply another phase in the cycle of unreasoning custom and by the year 1940 the pendulum had swung to the other extreme, with the result that people were again loading themselves with unnecessary garments as cumbersome and ugly as those of the Victorian Era. The natural outcome of this practice was an extraordinary attitude of false shame with regard to the human body, which is quite incomprehensible to us today. Nor was this modesty without its basis in reason, for the imperfections of the average human body illustrated the meaning of the old Greek saying that it was forbidden to walk the streets of Athens naked, not because it was indecent but because it was ugly!

You will easily understand, therefore, that the eight hundred or more passengers who had not previously seen the Deelathon, regarded our story of a god-like people who wore no clothes, with mingled feelings of curiosity and disgust. The ladies, especially, listened with raised eyebrows to Miss FitzGerald's enthusiastic descriptions of the physical perfections of the Deelathon.

Having due regard to this state of mind I had some doubt as to the sort of welcome which would be accorded to the visitors.

My misgivings were soon dissipated. No sooner had the Deelathon uttered their words of greeting, than old Lady Gibson, mother of Sir Charles and the very epitome of British respectability, stepped forward and slipping her arm around Torona's waist, kissed her on both cheeks.

"My dear, you are very welcome to the Shah of Iran and you too, Sir," and the little old lady looked up nodding and smiling into the radiant face of the tall Deelathon.

Lady Gibson's impulsive action broke the ice and in a moment Toron and Torona were surrounded with passengers vying with each other to do honor to the beautiful visitors.

Presently Torona raised her head for silence.

"My dear companion, Toron," she said, "has been in consultation with the Klendeela and he has a message for you. But first I want to thank you all for your greeting. You Deela Rana, or as you would say, People of the Sea, are very strange to us with your unhappy faces and your burden of clothes— though perhaps that is why you are unhappy. I am sure it would make me so! But I know we of the Deelathon must also seem strange to you, and so we thank you for your friendliness. The, Thon tells us that great goodness is hidden behind your tired, unhappy faces, and therefore I love you all and especially this fair maiden, Margaret, whose book made it possible for us to learn your language." And she threw her arm around Miss FitzGerald and kissed her.

They stood there side by side, the American girl and the Deelathon maiden. The passengers must have been hard put to decide which was the fairer. For myself I had not a moment of doubt. Beautiful as was Torona, with a beauty almost unearthly, Margaret was more lovely in my eyes. As you will have guessed, Benedict, Margaret FitzGerald was she who afterwards became your great-grandmother.

AND then Toron spoke.

"Friends," he said, "Torona, my companion, has told you that you seem strange to us, and this is true, for it is almost beyond belief that any beings exist who know not the Thon. I have been in consultation with the Klendeela, which is our council, and this is the message they have sent to you. The Klendeela understands that you are imprisoned by the, barrier reef which sank and rose during the earthquake. Since your Zeeth-which-floats-on-the-sea, will not float in the air, like our Zeeths, we want to tell you that with the greatest of our Zeeths we can raise your vessel into the air and transport it across the reef at any time you desire. The Klendeela thinks, however, that you should not leave us until we have entertained you and, if the Thon permits, made known to you the meaning of that Thon which seems so mysterious to you. To this end they have commanded me to ask some few of you to return with me, Smithton, and you Clinton and the maiden with the book, and her brother and some few others whom you may select."

"You bring us good news, Toron," I replied, "and we accept the invitation of your council. At least, the others will doubtless do so, but as for me, I am in command here, and it is not our custom for the captain to leave his ship for any length of time."

Toron nodded his understanding and then engaged in a brief discussion with Torona. At last he addressed me again.

"We understand and honor your custom, Clinton and are prepared to overcome the difficulty. In the morning I will return with our greatest Zeeth and will transport your ship above the cliffs to a lake which is in the midst of our houses. There you can remain as long as seems fit to you, visiting us at your pleasure and returning to your ship each night. When you desire to leave us, we will lift your ship into the sea and you can return whence you came."

The idea of lifting thirty thousand tons of steel plates and girders bodily into the air might well have caused more than a qualm of doubt in our minds, but such was the complete confidence with which the Deelathon inspired us that I assented to this amazing proposal without hesitation. The tremendous speed of which the Zeeth was capable and the perfect control with which it was handled removed all doubt that we might have felt of the ability of the Deelathon to carry out this titanic engineering feat.

Having arranged the time at which they would return in the morning, Toron and Torona saluted us and entered their Zeeth, which rose from the deck, and travelling in a tremendous parabola, disappeared behind the black columns of basalt.

There was little sleep that night for any one. The insomnia was produced not at all by alarm at the prospects of the morrow, but by the fact that everyone was speculating on the meaning of these strange events. All felt that we stood on the brink of some great adventure which was to have a permanent effect upon our lives. That the Deelathon meant us anything but good never entered our minds. As Lady Gibson remarked to Margaret :

"My dear, when that glorious creature Toron looked at me I felt as though I must tell the truth. If I had told even the tiniest white lie, I should have jumped in the sea and drowned myself to hide my shame!"

Next morning every passenger and member of the crew was on deck early. At the appointed time the Zeeth soared into view, and accustomed as we were becoming to marvels, the size of this tremendous sphere staggered us. It measured fully three thousand feet around the equator and from either pole hung huge cables of the same reddish metal that was used universally among the Deelathon for engineering purposes.

When the Zeeth was hovering above the Shah I ordered the anchors to be hauled in and we floated free. The Zeeth sank slowly until the inverted cups which terminated the cables hung suspended level with the mastheads.

I had anticipated that it would be necessary to spend several days rigging steel cables under the Shah in order to provide a cradle to support the immense weight of the vessel. I had mentioned this to Toron the previous day, but he had smiled and assured me that no preparations were necessary.

The great globe hung poised in the air above the ship and then a most amazing thing happened. A slight tremor passed through the vessel and it began to rise slowly towards those inverted cups. Inch by inch rose the great liner, the water cascading from her bottom plates, until the keel was clear of the surface and we hung in mid-air, supported by some invisible force.

The cups from which this force apparently emanated were still separated from the deck by fully a hundred feet and yet the Shah hung securely on a level keel, so that in the saloon, where dinner had been laid, not even a drop of water was spilled from the filled glasses.

Slowly we rose until we hung above the level of the cliffs and then the Zeeth with its enormous burden began to move towards the land.

AS soon as we became accustomed to our strange situation, the rails were crowded with a throng eager to catch a first glimpse of the new land. We beheld a rolling park-like country, dotted here and there with groups of palms and other trees. In the far distance we could faintly discern another wall of black cliffs and beyond them rose range on range of snow-capped peaks which we rightly supposed were the mighty Andes. A wide river, like a silver ribbon, wound its way from the distant snow fields. In the centre of the level area, which might have been fifty miles in diameter, the river broadened into a gleaming lake and then continued on its placid way, amplified by numerous tributaries, until it plunged over the cliffs into the Pit of the Shining Pool.

As we drew nearer, we caught sight of innumerable buildings, not crowded together into towns, but scattered among the groves of trees. These buildings, which were of every imaginable size, were all of the same general design, consisting of an ellipsoidal roof of the same glassy crystal of which the Zeeth was constructed, supported on a circular colonnade of marble pillars. Hundreds of Zeeths of all sizes darted here and there through the air and as their occupants caught sight of us, flocked towards us and followed our course until we seemed to move in a cloud of fairy bubbles.

Many of the houses were built on the top of the basaltic columns bordering the river and we could see groups of the Deelathon standing or sitting on the verge of the cliff, watching our progress with absorbed interest.

As we drew nearer to the lake we observed, standing on a slight elevation, a very large building, which we rightly took to be the meeting place of the Klendeela or council. This was built on the same circular plan as the dwellings, but was of vastly greater size.

At last the Shah of Iran hung above the centre of the lake and the Zeeth gradually sank until the Shah was resting once more in her native element.

That afternoon a small Zeeth shot out from the shore and landed on the deck. It contained our friends Toron and Torona, bringing with them a splendid Deelathon whom Toron introduced to us as Rethmar, the head of the Klendeela.

"The Klendeela is assembled and would be honored by your presence," said Toron. "You, Clinton, and the wise man, Smithton, and the fair maiden, Margaret, and her brother, Fred."

"We answer the summons of the Klendeela gladly, Toron," I said, "because we fully trust you and are anxious to learn more of your country."

"That wish shall be granted," replied Toron. "In the meantime, while you are in consultation with the Klendeela, many of our people will come to your ship in pleasure Zeeths and take as many of your friends as care to go, to their homes; for all the Deelathon are delighted to offer hospitality to our visitors from the sea."

Torona explained that we were to cross the lake in their Zeeth and land on the farther shore, from which point we would walk to the assembly hall, in order that we might have an opportunity to see some of the country on our way.

Rethmar reentered the Zeeth, beckoning me with a smile to follow him. I approached the circular opening, not without trepidation, but I was hardly prepared for what took place. I set my foot on the edge of the door, while Rethmar extended a hand to help me. Next instant, I seemed to be falling. All sense of material existence vanished and in a whirl of confusion I seemed to be floating in space. Then I felt the reassuring clasp of Rethmar's hand and gradually I regained my composure, only to find to my astonishment that instead of resting on the bottom of the Zeeth, I was actually poised in space at the centre of the globe, without visible means of support.

Then Rethmar drew me to the side and, slipping a broad, flexible belt around my waist, fastened it with a catch of some sort.

I now perceived that there was one of these belts midway between each of the crystal windows attached to the metal band which encircled the equator.

And now another surprise awaited me. Although the Zeeth was made of some crystal, when viewed from without, the globe was quite opaque, so that it was impossible to see the occupants. When viewed from the interior, however, the glassy material was so perfectly transparent that it simply seemed non-existent and one was conscious only of the equatorial band and polar bosses, apparently suspended in air, without support.

Rethmar, having observed the state of mental aberration which possessed me upon my first entry, floated across the Zeeth to the open window and spoke to Toron in his own tongue, and I heard Toron warning the others not to be alarmed.

Professor Smithton was the next and I could hardly forbear laughing as the somewhat corpulent form of the astronomer floated lightly upwards under the guidance of Rethmar, who coolly passed one of the belts around the Professor, leaving him suspended horizontally above my head.

"Why! Good Heavens, Captain!" sputtered the Professor. "Wonders upon wonders! Do you realize what our extraordinary sensations indicate?"

"No, I can't say that I do, except that I feel as though I were having a nightmare and can't wake up!"

"WELL, well, well!" ejaculated the Professor. "These people are a thousand years ahead of us in science, as well as in mental development. They have overcome gravitation. This transparent substance of which the globe is composed is opaque to gravitation, with the result that it not only has no weight, but nothing within it— ourselves for example— has any weight either. Marvellous!"

Now the others entered the Zeeth, each of my shipmates expressing wonder at the unexpected sensation of floating in mid-air. When we were all secured in place by the equatorial straps. Toron and Torona stepped into the Zeeth. The girl sailed lightly across the globe and slipped one of the belts around her, but Toron remained floating in the air and closed the crystal window behind him.

I began to look around for some machinery by which the Zeeth could be moved, but could see nothing except a small handle in the centre of each window. Toron began to turn these handles, propelling himself from one to another by slight touches against the walls of the globe, and I perceived that the handles were connected to the long needles which projected from the centre of the windows.

There was a slight shock and I looked downward. The deck of the Shah of Iran was falling away with tremendous speed and the country opened out until we could see for many miles in every direction. Toron manipulated some more of the handles and the Zeeth began to move rapidly towards the shore.

Now, of course, we were all accustomed to riding on the old-fashioned airplanes, which had been brought to great perfection during the second quarter of the twentieth century, but the sensation was no more comparable to that of riding in a Zeeth than falling downstairs is to be compared to sliding down a snow slope on skis. There was no roar or vibration of machinery, simply swift, effortless motion, and the absolute transparency of the globe and our own lack of weight added to the illusion that we were flying through space at our own volition.

As we flew towards the great building which we had seen that morning, Toron said:

"I heard your remark, Smithton, and you are quite right in your explanation of the cause for the Zeeth's lack of weight. The globe is composed of elathongar, an artificial crystal, which, as you say, is opaque to gravitation."

"Ah! Quite so!" said the Professor, "but I still fail to understand what force propels the Zeeth, since opacity to gravitation would simply cause it to rise upward from the earth's surface."

"The propelling force is contained or rather produced by the rods attached to these handles. They are acted upon by the Thon," replied Toron. "And by turning them on their axes the force is up, down, or in either direction, as we wish."

"The Thon again !" exclaimed the Professor. "What is this Thon, Toron?"

The Deelathon smiled gravely. "That I am not permitted to tell you— yet!" he replied.

Now we sank gently to a landing on a grassy plain near the shore of the lake. We alighted, and headed by Rethmar, started up a winding path. At first we were hampered by the sudden transition in weight from nothing to one hundred and sixty pounds or thereabouts, but the novelty soon wore off and we looked about us.

Everywhere we saw the simple and yet beautiful dwellings of the Deelathon and everywhere we saw the same ellipsoidal roof of elathongar supported by pillars of stone. Later, during our stay in this strange land, we received and accepted many invitations to visit the homes of the Deelathon and we discovered that both floors and roof were universally made of this gravity-shielding crystal, thus reducing the effort required to accomplish any work to a minimum.

The force of gravity could be adjusted to any degree desired by means of a sliding panel arrangement, but during our social calls these were generally kept closed so that we simply reclined in the air and talked! Some of the passengers spent the night in the Deelathon houses and after the perfect relaxation of literally "sleeping upon air," found difficulty in sleeping at all on an ordinary bed.

PRESENTLY we entered a great avenue of stately palms at the end of which gleamed the white pillars of the assembly hall. Guided by Rethmar we walked up a noble stairway, flanked by mighty columns and stood in the centre of a splendid amphitheatre surrounded by rows and rows of marble seats or couches. As we entered we were again conscious of loss of weight, so that we seemed to float rather than walk across the crystal pavement.

Hundreds of Deelathon, both men and women, reclined on the seats, but as we entered they all rose to their feet. There was a rustling sound and a ripple of colored light as .their thonmeleks flashed erect upon their heads. Their hands rose in the Deelathon salute and there was a unanimous shout of:

"Zeloma, Deelarana!"

Rethmar led us to seats at one side of the huge auditorium and then floated to the centre and addressed the assemblage in his own language. When he resumed his seat, Toron rose and began to speak in English.

"Friends from across the sea," he said, "the Klendeela has asked me to speak for them because I alone can talk your language freely, thanks to the maiden Margaret. We have brought you here out of no idle curiosity, or merely to offer you our hearty welcome, but because we believe it lies in our power to do you great good. Not alone to you and those with you, but also to the countless millions like you, who, as you tell us, inhabit the world, to us unknown.

"But before offering you this priceless gift, known to us as the Thon, the Klendeela requests you to tell us more of that world in which you live. Tell us of its history, its present conditions, its science and its religion. Thus will the Klendeela be able to judge if we are right in revealing to you the secret of the Thon.

"Fear not to speak in your own tongue, for all will understand you. Fear only to say that which is epthona or false, for we shall know the thona from the epthona."

Professor Smithton, who had, at my urgent request, agreed to act as spokesman for our party, rose to his feet and, steadying himself for a moment against his tendency to rise above the floor, said:

"Men of the Deelathon, the feeling of confidence with which you inspired us at our first meeting is made stronger by your welcome and your offer. We do not know what this gift of the Thon may portend, but we are agreed that if your self-evident health and happiness are due in any way to this Thon, we greatly desire to share the secret with you.

"We will willingly describe to you the world in which we live, but to do this completely, it would be necessary to combine the knowledge of many minds. Among the passengers and crew of our ship are persons from every walk of life. I suggest that you allow us to select some of these persons to deal with the various phases of the subject."

"Your excellent suggestion shall be carried out," replied Toron after a moment's consultation with Rethmar. "Return now to your ship and make all necessary arrangements with your friends. Each morning the Klendeela will assemble to hear your speakers. Each afternoon we of the Deelathon will welcome you to our homes or show you the beauties of our country on foot or in our Zeeths."

"Before we retire," said the Professor, "is it permitted to ask one question?"

"Any question will be answered freely, Smithton," replied Toron, "so long as it does not relate to the Thon."

"I wish to know," said the Professor, "why, with your Zeeths, incomparably superior to our finest means of transportation, you have not long ago visited this outer world in which we live."

"There are reasons which I cannot explain to you now," said Toron, "indeed, we do not fully understand them ourselves. This, however, I can tell you: The power of the crystal we call elathongar is in some way associated with the black rock that underlies our country. When we attempt to pass far beyond this rock, our Zeeths sink to the ground. * Neither is it possible for us to leave our country on foot, for we are hemmed in on one side by the sea and on the other by several rows of unclimbable cliffs."

______________

*During the Year of the Visitation this difficulty was overcome and Zeeths now travel over every part of the world.

Toron escorted us back to the ship and left us. I called the passengers together and having told them of our meeting with the Klendeela, asked for volunteers to give the strangest course of lectures that has ever been delivered.

NEXT morning and day by day for a week we crossed the lake to the assembly hall where the Klendeela gathered to listen in a silence unbroken save by the voice of the lecturer and the rustling of those strange rainbow-tinted frills which seemed to respond to every emotion of the hearers.

Dr. Malone of Yale spoke on ancient history and Dr. Calthorp of Harvard on modern history and social conditions. Professor Smithton lectured on pure science and Fred FitzGerald on applied science and mechanics. Dr. Ronald, the ship's surgeon, gave an outline of medicine and I spoke briefly on navigation. General Thornton of the U. S. Army described the development of war from the days of the sword and crossbow to its present state of perfection. Dr. Maxwell of Leland Stanford spoke on psychology and Bishop Brander of Washington lectured on comparative religion.

Thus the days passed while those god-like creatures listened with absorbed attention to all. We had got over the wonder of their being able to understand us. We had become accustomed to the strange sensations incident to the use of the gravitation shields. But our amazement at the beauty and health and radiant happiness of these marvellous beings remained unabated. Could Carlyle have seen the Klendeela before writing his Sartor Resartus, he would have hesitated before ridiculing the picture of a Parliament without clothes !

Once only was there any interruption to the steady flow of words. It was during the latter part of Professor Smithton's lecture on physics. He was explaining some of the more recent discoveries of the scientists when there was a rustle of thonmeleks, a flash of color and the members of the Klendeela leaped to their feet amid a babble of voices. In the confusion we could hear the word "Thon" again and again. The excitement subsided as quickly as it had arisen and after a few words of apology from Rethmar, the Professor proceeded with his discourse.

Margaret FitzGerald and I spent all the afternoon with Toron and Torona, sometimes reclining in their Zeeth and watching the glorious landscape unfolding below us, sometimes wandering through groves of cinnamon and nutmeg trees, sometimes resting in the crystal dwelling of our Deelathon friends.

Toron talked freely on all subjects and willingly told us everything we asked relating to the social and economic life of the people. One subject alone he avoided, and that the thing we most desired to know— the nature and meaning of the Thon.

We were amazed at the perfection of the Deelathon government and their commercial arrangements, but we were astounded at the extreme simplicity of the social machinery by which all their activities were controlled. Early in our friendship I asked Toron if we were correct in supposing that Torona was his wife. Toron looked puzzled for an instant and then replied :

"Yes and no, Clinton. When I first met you I selected the word 'companion' as better suited to explain our relationship than 'wife.' I feel a meaning in your word which is entirely foreign to our word."

"But Torona is not related to you, Toron?" I asked.

"No, except as my companion."

"You have chosen each other as mates?" I asked.

"Yes," he replied, placing his hand gently on Torona's.

"Then surely," I went on, "you have been united by some ceremony such as that which we call marriage."

"No. That is the difference!" exclaimed Toron. "We have no ceremonies of any kind. What you call a ceremony is a form of words designed to make the listeners believe a falsehood or else to impress upon them something they are not sure of. Therefore, of course, we need no ceremonies."

I did not quite see where the "of course" came in, but I let that go and followed another line of thought.

"Then there is nothing to prevent you from separating from your companions, as you call them, at any time?"

"Nothing at all !" replied Toron, smiling radiantly at Torona.

"Then divorce must be exceedingly common among you, Toron," I said.

Toron and Torona both burst out laughing.

"As common as it is for the rose to divorce itself voluntarily from the tree," said Torona, "or the silver pathway on the lake to divorce itself from the moon."

Toron laughed again at the blank expression on our faces and said:

"Don't you see, Clinton, and you, Margaret, that all your ceremonies and divorces are necessary because you are not sure of yourselves. We Deelathon never make a mistake in our choice of a companion. In fact, as you will learn later, it is impossible for us to make a mistake. Therefore, when we choose a companion, it is forever."

Another time, as we were hovering over the wooded country in Torona's little Zeeth, Margaret commented on the curious fact that we had never seen any sign of burial grounds nor indeed had we so much as heard the word "death" mentioned.

Again Toron looked puzzled and then, as was his custom, replied by asking a seemingly irrelevant question.

"How old are you, Clinton?"

"Thirty-six," I answered.

"Years?" was Toron's curious question.

"Of course," I replied.

"I understand Margaret's question now," said Toron, his face bearing an expression as near sadness as it ever could. "Friends, does it surprise you that I, Toron, have seen over eight hundred summers and Torona over six hundred and fifty!"

"Surely, you jest, Toron!" I exclaimed. "No man can ever live to such an age!"

"And why not?" asked Toron.

"Because — Oh! because it's contrary to nature. Sickness and old age sap the wells of life and death comes, generally before a hundred years have passed."

"And we wondered at their unhappy faces, Toron!" exclaimed Torona. "Why, Margaret, there are many among the Deelathon who have lived not eight hundred but eight thousand years. We know what you mean by sickness, but no such thing exists among us. Neither have we anything which corresponds to your idea of old age. True, we leave our bodies, not because they are worn out, but because our appointed time has come. Oh friend! how can you do more than just taste the cup of life in so brief a space of time as one century?"

AND then came the afternoon when we were summoned to meet the Klendeela for the last time. Our speakers had concluded their addresses and Professor Smithton summed up their lectures in an eloquent speech in which he extolled the glories of the civilization of which we were the representatives.

For a brief interval there was silence and then Rethmar rose.

"Friends, accept the thanks of the Klendeela for your kindness. We have decided that the gift of the Thon shall be extended to you and through you to all the world. Tomorrow, if it shall please you, we will take you and all your company, both men and women, to the Thontara and there, in the presence of that undying wonder, we will reveal to you the secret of the Thon, which makes us what we are."

4: The Glory of the Thontara

I NEED not tell you in detail, Benedict, with what excitement we awaited the coming of the day upon which we were at last to learn the meaning of the mysterious Thon. Everyone on the Shah of Iran had come to love and admire these strange people with their gentle, courteous ways, their radiant, happy faces, their wonderful health and almost divine beauty.

The sun rose in a clear sky for the first time for a week, as though to celebrate the beginning of a new era for mankind. Hundreds of Zeeths soared up from among the trees on the lake-shore and hovered over the steamer. One by one they dropped to the deck and rose again with their quota of passengers.

At last the ship was deserted and the fleet of crystal spheres swooped away seaward, to land upon a grassy plain near the brink of the great waterfall. Rethmar led the way to the edge of the cliffs, at the point where the river gathered itself for the final plunge, and then we perceived a flight of steps cut in the solid rock.

We started down, each man or woman escorted by a friendly Deelathon; a company of over two thousand. Rethmar and the professor went first, then Margaret and Torona, followed by myself accompanied by Toron. As my turn came and I approached the top of the steps, I noticed that they did not terminate at the edge of the river, but entered instead, a hole in the rocks directly under the fall. I should have hesitated, but I caught sight of Margaret disappearing into the gloom and plucked up my courage to proceed.

A moment later I stood on a small platform. On my left was the cliff. On my right, and so close that I could have touched it, was a descending wall of water, thundering into the abyss.

The other four had disappeared and I looked questioningly at Toron. For answer, he took my hand and led me forward to the edge of the platform and then I realized with a thrill of horror that we stood on the top of one of the basalt columns and that the flight of steps continued spirally down it, being carved out of the solid rock. There was no railing of any kind and the idea of walking down that fearsome stairway with nothing but space and darkness below me and with millions of tons of water rushing by, turned me sick.

I glanced again at Toron and met his smile of encouragement. My fears departed and with his hand in mine, we started down. Round and round we circled, now passing close to the wall of water, whose roar grew ever louder as we descended; now passing through little tunnels which had been cut between the pillar and the cliff. Looking up, I could see a seemingly endless line of figures circling the mighty column and looking for all the world like the processionary caterpillars on the trunk of a pine tree, and once when I glanced hurriedly downward, I caught a glimpse of Margaret's dark hair and the gleam of Torona's pink body in the gloom.

At last, with a sigh of relief, I stepped from the bottom of the column to the floor of a great cave, like the famous Cave of the Winds under Niagara Falls. Margaret and the Professor, with the two Deelathon men, were awaiting us and we stood watching that silent line of figures creeping slowly downward, until we were once more united in the great cavity under the waterfall.

I thought our ordeal was over and that this must be the Thontara of which Rethmar had spoken. I was wondering how it would be possible for him to reveal any secret to us in a place where the bellow of the waters would drown any attempt at speech. But as the thought entered my mind I saw Rethmar drawing the Professor forward and they began to descend another flight of steps, cut like the other in the solid rock.

Following Margaret and Torona, I found that this stairway ran sharply down into a tunnel which seemed to lead us directly under the fall. The passage was so low that I could touch the roof with my hand and feel the living rock trembling with the tremendous impact of the water.

Still we descended and I saw a faint flicker of light below me, growing ever brighter and brighter. A hundred more steps brought us to the bottom, and passing through an arched opening, we stood at last in the Thontara.

At the glory of the sight that met my eyes, I uttered an involuntary cry of amazement and delight. We stood on the edge of a great circular depression, which I judged to be about a thousand feet in diameter. Surrounding this depression was the broad shelf of black basalt on which we were standing, and filling the entire area within this shelf, was a mass of colored light which surged and rippled like a sea of rainbows. I have spoken of the varied hues which were visible on the surface of the crystal Zeeths. This was the same but intensified a thousand-fold.

As my eyes became accustomed to the light I realized that we were standing on the border of a vast circular floor of crystal, so exquisitely transparent that it was like gazing into a bottomless pit of lucent flame. It was long before I could turn my eyes from that sea of fire and look upward, but when at last I did so, I was greeted by a new wonder.

I WAS looking at the under side of the great dome of water which occupied the centre of the pool below the waterfall! This living roof of liquid, seeming as frail as a bubble and yet weighing under normal conditions no one knows how many thousand tons, was bereft of its weight by the screening effect of the crystal and hung in midair, motionless and yet in constant motion under the tremendous force of the cataract, its under surface reflecting, as though in a mirror, the splendor of the sea of colored light below.

While I had been absorbing the beauty of this natural kaleidoscope, the rocky shelf had been filling with our great company until we were all assembled in the Thontara. Rethmar and the Professor had gone to the farther side and I saw the Deelathon raise his hand in salute and prepare to speak.

The roar of the waterfall was almost inaudible and was replaced by a soft hissing produced by the rapid movement of the liquid roof. As Rethmar began to speak, his voice 'penetrated to every corner of the immense space, reflected from the dome by some strange acoustic effect like that sometimes heard in old cathedrals.

"Friends from beyond the sea," he said, "we have brought you to this place which we call the Thontara, because it seemed the most fitting spot in which to reveal to you the secret of the Thon. You cannot have failed to understand that this Thon, which is so mysterious to you, is regarded by us as the greatest gift in the possession of man. Our language alone would reveal this to you. We call ourselves the Deelathon, 'People of the Thon.' This living frill upon our heads is the Thonmelek, 'Mirror of the Thon.' And this glory that you behold is the Thontara, 'Place of the Thon.' Now, therefore, before revealing to you the meaning of this word, we ask you to tell us what you have guessed the Thon to be."

"Truly, we have wondered, Rethmar," said the Professor. "Some thought it was the god you worship. Miss FitzGerald imagined that it stood for Intuition and I guessed it might be Truth."

"In a measure you are all right," said Rethmar, "and yet you have but touched on the fringe of the matter. Listen and I will reveal to you all, the secret of this mystery. The Thon is the Power of Life. It is the essence which separates the living from the dead, the animate from the inanimate, the man from the animal and the plant from the stone. Through the Thon, we, the Deelathon, are what we are."

"We hear your words and they are good, Rethmar," said the Professor, "but we do not yet understand how the Thon can benefit us."

"Listen again," said Rethmar. "You have told us of the outer world in which you live and we are grieved at your story. You claim credit for the conquest of Nature, but it is Nature which has conquered you. You boast of the perfection of your civilization, but you are the slaves of that civilization you have created. There is hardly anything in science which you have told us that we have not known for centuries, but we use our knowledge instead of permitting our knowledge to use us. In spite of your fancied attainments, you are in bondage to three masters: sorrow, sickness and death, and yet the key to unlock your bonds is all around you. Nay, more. You, Smithton, have told us that you have known the Thon for forty years and have not recognized it for what it is!"

"I!" exclaimed the Professor. "I told you that?"

"You told us," repeated Rethmar, "at the third meeting of the Klendeela, that forty years ago one of your wise men discovered a power that penetrated the densest metals, a power of which he could not discover the origin, a power which he called the Cosmic Ray.* This, Friends, is the Thon!

____________

*Dr. Robert A. Milliken.

"Make no mistake!" he went on. "We do not worship the Thon. One of you has told us how in ancient times men worshipped the Sun, the Source of Light. But we worship the one God, whom no man may know. As for the Thon, we know not whence it comes, we only know it fills all space and permeates all things. We know that it is a form of wave motion like light, but whereas light is reflected by material things, the Thon is reflected by the mind and spirit of all that lives. Therefore, I . have called it the Power of Life.

"You have spoken with pride of your elaborate system of laws, your multiplex religions, your social ceremonials, your great battles in which millions grapple to the death. Friends, are you so blind that you cannot see that all these things are bred of misunderstanding, misunderstanding of yourselves, of each other, of the living universe of which you are a part? Can you conceive of fighting those you call your enemies if each side could see the other's viewpoint as clearly as his own?

"I HAVE said that the Thon is a form of vibration which responds to the life-form or spirit of living things. By virtue of the Thon, one mind beholds another, just as the material eye beholds other material bodies by virtue of reflected light. Thus it is that misunderstanding is impossible among us. Thus it is that we are able to understand you when you speak your own language. Thus it is that we need no such laws and ceremonies and social machinery as that of which you boast. And thus it is that we enjoy perfect health and happiness because we see, not only the outer shell as you do, but also the living mind that resides within the shell, as you would say."

"But tell us, Rethmar," said the Professor, "if you thus see the mind within the body, why is speech necessary, since your thoughts must be visible to one another?"

"First let me say, Smithton, that the mind is not within the body, but the body within the mind. As to your question, it is a reasonable one and we ourselves do not fully understand why it is not as you say. It seems, however, that the spoken word is necessary as the vehicle of thought, with us as with you. But note the difference; when you speak, your thought must go through many translations before reaching the mind of the hearer, losing some of its sense with each translation. First you must mentally select the words best fitted to express your idea. Then your organs of speech must convert those words into vibrations of sound, which in turn must act upon the ears of your hearer and be turned into the nerve-force which reacts upon the brain. Here the word-sounds must be converted into word-pictures.

"Is it any wonder that the thought of the speaker reaches the brain of the listener in a mangled condition? And it matters not whether the words be true or false, the hearer cannot distinguish between them. But with us, the spoken word is simply the means by which the speaker reveals his thought to the hearer. No matter how imperfectly the words may have been selected, the hearer sees by the reflected rays of the Thon, the actual thought of the speaker. I use the word 'sees,' but of course we do not see the Thon with the eye, but with an intangible organ of the mind."

"It comes to us as a great surprise," said the Professor, "that the Thon of which we have heard so much, should be the medium of a sixth sense and should be none other than the Cosmic Ray, with which we are familiar. We can easily realize that a people who live under such conditions must be the happiest people in the world. But when you offer us the gift of the Thon, Rethmar, you seem to forget that we lack this special faculty which enables you to visualize the mental images produced by the Thon. You may tell a blind man of the light, but you cannot make him see."

"Oh, Smithton! Smithton! do you still fail to understand?" said Rethmar, and his voice rang out like a bugle call to every one of the great circle of listeners. "This special faculty, as you call it, is not the exclusive possession of the Deelathon. It is common to all mankind. It is a part of every living thing. It is inherent in Life itself. Oh! Friends from beyond the sea, you are not by nature blind to the Thon. For countless generations you and all your race have lived and died like men who bandage their eyes that they may not see the light!

"For the last time, listen!"

And then, in words so simple that the humblest trimmer among the crew could understand, Rethmar revealed to us the secret which gave us full possession of that marvellous sixth sense: the consciousness of the Thon.

You, Benedict, and all your generation, were born with this sense fully developed and you can hardly realize what stupendous emotions convulsed us when, to use Rethmar's simile, the bandages were torn from the eyes of our minds and we saw ourselves and our friends and all living things, face to face in the light of the Thon. To you, your consciousness of the Thon is as natural and commonplace as your consciousness of light or sound, but to us it came as an overpowering revelation.

Speaking for myself, for a space my mind was dazzled as the eyes of a blind man are dazzled when he first receives his sight. When this temporary confusion passed, my first thought was of Margaret FitzGerald.

We had been drawn together in friendship during our strange adventures. I had thought her beautiful and womanly, but no word of love had passed my lips. Now, as her eyes met mine, I saw revealed a beauty of spirit and intellect such as I scarcely dreamed could exist. Her face was radiant with happiness but her soul was calm with the peace of eternity.

No word was spoken. No word was needed. The revealing rays of the Thon told us beyond the possibility of misunderstanding that we were Companions. A moment later our arms were around each other and in the presence of that great company we gave and received our first kiss.

And in the light of the Thon we realized the literal truth of the poet's words:

"Our Spirits rushed together,

At the meeting of the lips."

THERE is little more to be told. With her hand in mine I led Margaret across the great crystal floor, walking as though in a sea of prismatic flame to where Rethmar stood.

"Rethmar and Toron. Men and Women of the Deelathon," I said, "Margaret, my dear Companion and I, thank you in the name of all this company for your great gift. Now we ask a further favor, knowing that it will be granted, that we may go back into our world and teach our unhappy fellow men to see. I even venture to beg that some few of your people will accompany us to lighten our task, for none can fail to understand the meaning of the Thon when the secret is revealed by a Deelathon."

Rethmar's face was but a faint reflection of the radiance of his spirit. Raising his hand in the Deelathon salute, he cried:

"You have heard the request of our friends, Clinton and Margaret, now Companions by the Thon. Who will go with them?"

And a thousand arms flashed up in the salute and a thousand voices rang out in the words now as intelligible to us as English:

"Zo thanaf— I will go!"

"All cannot go," said Rethmar. "Toron and Torona shall, with a company of one hundred, go with you on your ship. One thing alone we ask; that the place of the Deelathon shall remain a secret until you are sure that no harm shall come to our country. You have a saying that it is foolish to cast pearls before swine. Who knows what might happen when the Thon is revealed to all men?"

And there, in the pulsing splendor of the Thontara, we, the passengers and crew of the Shah of Iran, swore the oath of secrecy which we have kept to this hour.

Three days later the great liner was lifted from the lake to the blue waters of the Pacific, outside the barrier reef. A whirling cloud of Zeeths hovered and darted above us as our screws began to churn the water. The equatorial windows were crowded with Deelathon waving a last salute to the brave hundred upon our decks who, alas! were destined never to return.

Presently we passed the boundaries of the basalt rock and the Zeeths were forced to turn back, having reached what was then the limit of their range. Our course was laid to the North and a pathway of foam fled in our wake as we commenced the last voyage which was to bring happiness and health and understanding to the World— the Voyage of the Visitation.

Afterword

THE SUN was high in the heavens when Captain Clinton concluded his narrative. We rose from our seat on the bare summit of the Shah and without a word began our descent.

And now I, Benedict Clinton, have completed the task assigned to me by my great-grandfather a year ago. The story of the Year of the Visitation is known to all the world, even if its effects were not visible on every side today.

And yet a visitor from another planet could hardly have blamed the Deelathon for their caution lest the gift of the Thon should bring about a revolution which would convulse the world and overwhelm their tiny country in its flood.

Actually, nothing in the nature of a revolution took place. The new order was so entirely natural, so utterly sane, that the change took place everywhere, almost without our being aware of it.

There was no wholesale abolition of laws and governments. We simply ceased to use them as men discard a worn-out garment. There was no deliberate disarmament. Nations ceased to go to war because there were no nations any longer. Cruisers and battleships, armored cars and guns lay rotting and rusting where they had been abandoned. In the light of the new understanding, racial and national divisions ceased to have any meaning, although we have retained many of the geographical names for the sake of convenience.

People everywhere found a marvellous increase in health and happiness as the direct result of the knowledge of sane living, which was revealed by the Thon, but the seed of death was in them and they, the Epzykofs, are passing away from among us year by year. Not so with the generations yet unborn at the date of the Visitation. We, the Zykofs, enjoy the same perfection of bodily and mental well-being that my great-grandfather found among the Deelathon and we know of no limit to our lives, save the call of destiny.

And what of Toron and Torona and the hundred whom they led to our deliverance? They came forth voluntarily from a country of undying beauty, to bring the greatest of all natural gifts to the World, and in so doing, perished! Utterly unfitted physically to cope with the misery and disease and death which they came to eradicate, they faded, sickened and died in the accomplishment of their great task. Before the year had passed away, not one of that splendid band was left!

FAR out in the Pacific is a barren island of magnetic iron oxide, the remnant of the great meteor and above its highest point towers a mighty spire of imperishable crystal. Its prismatic efflorescence is visible at night for many miles and upon its base is the inscription:

TO THE VISITANTS

______________

8: The New Doctor

Edgar Wallace

1875-1932

Mercury (Hobart) 31 Dec 1938

Also in several other Australian newspapers at the same time. I can't find any earlier publication date.

"THERE'S a new doctor at Willough Lodge," said Sir James Colbroke, Lord of the Manor of Kingsbeach, and acknowledged sovereign of the whole town of Saxmonleigh.

"Poor devil," said his son; "Is he anybody?"

"He has bought Tillingworth's practice:" Sir James said ominously; and really little more need be said, as the practice had been allowed to languish.

For Tillingworth had been an eccentric man who had no practice. Tillingworth, with his long untidy beard and his long untidy hair, had occupied the dilapidated Willough Lodge, a stuccoed edifice at the unfashionable end of the High St., for 14 years, during which period he may have seen a few casual patients of the lower or agricultural orders; but certainly he had never been called in by the aristocracy and the no less exclusive bourgeois of Saxmonleigh.

Neither Dr. Walford-Sole, that prince of county physicians, nor Dr. Green-Sanders, a profound and learned man who was a J.P., and reputed wealthy, nor yet Mr. Salison, the surgeon (who was also a consultant in Harley St.), had ever called Dr. Tillingworth in consultation in any case requiring attention. They had been called by him on two occasions when the disease requiring diagnosis was delirium tremens, and the patient was the unfortunate Tillingworth himself. One of these, Walford-Sole, had signed the death certificate of the last Tillingworth, and had only refrained from certifying the cause as "chronic alcoholism" for the honour and dignity of the profession.

Tillingworth had a sister and a brother, the latter a sober but unscrupulous man who offered "an old-fashioned practice which needs working up" at a sacrificial price. It was purchased by a young man who was content to pay cash down and was loftily contemptuous of such mundane matters as "books." A tall, good-looking young man, tanned brown with tropical suns— he had served for three years as surgeon on the Oriental mail-boat fleet— he gazed approvingly upon the picturesque but unsanitary cottages which flank the station road. They appealed at once to his artistic side and professional instincts.

Willough Lodge was a shock. The furniture of the house (at valuation) left him gasping, and the disorder of the weed-grown garden and the ragged lawns had brought him to the edge of despair. But he was very young, and possessed immense reserves of enthusiasm. There was a girl in London for whom these lawns must be mowed, these rank beds of dandelions cultivated, these damp walls made sound and beautiful.

For three weeks, aided by discouraging plumbers, tragic paperhangers of uncertain quality, and a most pessimistic collection of jobbing gardeners, he laboured at Willough Lodge. He hoped nobody would call until his work was finished; he prayed that the distractions of consultations and minor operations would not intervene between him and his task, and his prayer was answered. It never left off being answered, strange to relate.

TWO months passed, and the garden was a riot of flowers and sweet-scented herbs. The windows blazed red and yellow with geraniums and calceolarias, but the important brass knocker never trembled to the touch of wealthy invalids of Saxmonleigh. and there came to him no greater susten-ance than a few precarious shillings drawn at rare intervals from fustian pockets.

"It is absolutely hopeless— hopeless!" His hands were thrust into his trouser pockets, his feet were stuck stiffly in the direction of Gould Mortimer's flower-filled fireplace.

His brother-in-law-to-be looked down on him with an unsympathetic grin. Gould Mortimer was a tall, broad, and healthy-coloured young man, who was remembered at Harvard as Big Mort, and since a thrifty and In-genious parent had provided for his future, be was apt to underrate the tragedy of failure.

"Why, Charles," he laughed, "you go on as if it mattered to Maisie or me whether you made £200 a month or whether you lived on your £200 a year. See here, you sit down in that old town and just wait for the other medicine men to die. Gosh! they can't live for ever!"

Dr. Charles Bullwart shook his head. "You don't grub-stake me, Gould," he said quietly. "I want to marry Maisie just as much as any man can want any-thing and still live to tell the tale, but I marry on an assured income earned by myself, and not on charity—"

"Haw!" ejaculated the disgusted Gould; "cut it right out!"

"Charity," persisted the other firmly. "Why, you old philanthropist, you found the money for the practice— you were swindled, and so was I; but you found it. No; I've got to break into Saxmonleigh society in some way or other."

The door opened and a girl burst In. She was, to charles Bullwart's prejudiced eyes, the one girl in the world by whom Nature might set its standard for all time.

"Come and play tennis," she tapped the young doctor's head with the net of the racquet— "What is wrong?" she asked suddenly.

"It's the practice," said her brother, who had suddenly assumed the face of doom. "Nothing doing down Saxmonleigh way; shocking state of health amongst the inhabitants of the village; shocking state of apathy amongst the gouty dowagers up town— everything on the shady side."

"I don't want to grouse," said the young doctor, taking the fingers surreptitiously extended in his direction, "but nobody seems to want me there— you see, I'm nobody—"

"Oh, nonsense!" said the girl indignantly, "why, everybody knows you're splendid! You cured my headache in a minute— in the Red Sea, too."

Charles caught the smothered smile of Gould Mortimer and smiled sheepishly.

"None of my patients have headaches," he said ruefully, "they are the exclusive 'county,' and I am a London nobody; that is all there is to it"

THE girl laid her hand on the brown head now bowed in dejection Then she clapped her hands gleefully.

"I've got it," she said, and her pretty face was pink with excitement

"Got?" began her puzzled brother.

''Wait!" she said, and ran to his writing-desk.

They watched her as her swift pen covered sheet after sheet of paper in the big sprawling hand which had been the despair of her Boston teachers.

"There!" she said, blotting the last sheet and handed to Gould the efforl

He read it in silence, and passed It t the disgruntled young medico, and the girl, with her hands behind her back, waited.

Charles Bullwart read:

Are you ill?

Do you want to be treated in the old fashioned way, which is sixty years behlnd the times?

Or do you wish to be cured by the methods of modern science as exem-plified by Charles Bullwart, the up-todate doctor of medicine, the experienced surgeon.

Don't take a chance! "Take Charles!

Watch yourself grow better.

Call on me any hour of the day or night— I shall be walting for you. Note this address: Willough Lodge

(Look for the house with the pink curtains.)

"You see!" she said eagerly, "we can put that in all the local papers— I learnt advertisement-writing by correspondence," she explained proudly; "it was awful good fun, and that's Just how—"

She stopped suddenly. There was a pained look on the faces of the two young men— the exquisite pain of men who are trying not to laugh.

"It won't do, sister," gasped Gould Mortimer; "it's fine, it's grand, but it's— it's verboten; it's— it's— oh, heavens!"

She looked from one to the other disappointed. "I think you're both horrid!" she flared, and marched out of the room.

A roar of laughter, too loud for the door to muffle, brought her back with a flaming face and eyes that glittered ominously.

"Why are you laughing?" she demanded coldly.

"He— he tickled me," lied her brother. It was a lame excuse as the slamming door testified.

"Something has to be done," said Gould, limp and exhausted. "I'm coming down to stay a day or two in Saxmonleigh."

"It's no use, Mort," groaned the depressed young man, "they won't let me in; you see, I've got a wrong impression of my own value. Yes, I have." He silenced the other's protests fiercely. "It comes of having been a popular ship's doctor and having hob-nobbed with Royalties on board. If I were to go round Saxmonleigh," he said bitterly, "with the signed photograph of a Viceroy in one hand and an autograph letter from a Crown Prince in another, and my chest covered with the little decorations that Royal travellers throw about instead of tips. I might have a chance."

"Why don't you?" asked the innocent Mortimer. "I should."

"Don't rot," pleaded the other.

But Gould Mortimer was really serious.

SIR JAMES COLBROKE had a suspiclous twinge in his left toe and telephoned to Green-Sanders, and that great man motored over to High House to see his distinguished patient and tell him, as he had told him some forty times In the past twenty years, to avoid old brandy and to take more exercise.

"How's that youngster doing?" asked Sir James after complaint and remedy had been punctiliously exchanged.

"Which youngster?"

"What's-his-name— the doctor?"

Green-Sanders shrugged his shoulders.

"Poor man, I'm afraid he's doing nothing. He has a house party this week; rather a pretty girl and her brother "

People did not have house-parties outside the charmed circle of the county society— they merely had folks to "stay with them."

"He's an outsider— knows nobody in the county. Why the deuce he doesn't throw up the sponge and go back to London. I don't know," he said Irritably,

He had caused it to be conveyed to Dr. Charles Rullwart that he might expect from High House no encouragement to extend his visit to Saxmonleigh. The fact that Dr. Charles Bullwart had, in a fit of exasperation, not only ignored the hint, but had expressed his opinion of county society in coarse terms, was sufficient to establish him in the county Index. Sir James was shocked to a mild respect for the interloper— the respect which for some mysterious reason the disrespectful doctor inspired.

"I met the young man who is staying with him," remarked Green-Sanders casually; "Came down in the same smoker— pleasant person, but American."

A look of understanding came to Sir James' face.

"American!" he said significantly; "of course, if he's one of those Anglo-American people he'll never do."

It was one of those vague but portentous nothings which the Lord of the Manor indulged in occasionally.

"If you see his friend— as you might— you would be rendering Dr. What's-his-name a service if you suggested that he goes back to London. He is not wanted here, and that's the end of it."

Dr. Green-Sanders shared with his fellow-practitioners a resentment for what he regarded as an unwarrantable intrusion on the part of Charles Bullwart. That same afternoon he met a very elated Gould Mortimer emerging from the printer's shop in the High St. Gould would have passed on with a nod, but Green-Sanders detained him with a gesture.

"I WANTED to speak to you, Mr.Mortimer," he said. "I think we introduced one another in the train the other day."

Gould was all attention. His big, homely face beamed down benevolence on the withered little doctor.

"Sure," he said, with a smile and a vigorous nod.

"You're a friend of Bullwart's, aren't you?" asked Dr. Green-Sanders, looking up at him.

"Sure," said Mortimer again. The doctor smiled tolerantly.

"Well you know, Mr. Mortimer," he said, "our friend is up against us— that is the expression, isn't it?"

"It's one I've heard," agreed Big Mort cautiously.

"He's up against a very disappointing combination of circumstances." said Green-Sanders soothingly, "Why doesn't a young man like that try his luck somewhere else?"

Gould Mortimer smiled largely an amusedly.

"Why should he?" he asked.

"What chance has he here?" countered the other.

"A mighty good chance," said Big Mort earnestly. "Why, see here, Dr. Green-Sanders, somebody hasd got to get your practice when you're dead."

"When I'm dead?" gasped the shocked medico, rather taken aback at the young man's words.

"Sure," responded the visitor. "You can't go on living round here for ever, can you? You've got to die some time. I guess, and that's just where old man Charles Bullwart gets his chance."

Dr. Green-Sanders drew himself up haughtily, as well as his insignificant stature would permit

"Let me tell you, Mr. Mortimer," he said stiffly, "that Saxmonleigh has failed to take your friend to its bosom. He has no more chance of getting along here than— than—"

He was at a loss for a simile, so he contented himself.with shrugging his shoulders. This he did with such vigour that his top hat fell off, was neatly fielded by Mortimer, and restored with some loss of dignity to the doctor.

"I'm sorry to hear you say all that stuff about Charles," said the resourceful American, with elaborate regret. "I guess he'll have to go back to Spain."

Mortimer nodded.

"He's some doctor in Spain," he said mysteriously.

THAT afternoon Dr. Charle Bullwart picked up his bag and prepared to depart for London, at Mortimer's urgent request.

"Stay in my house for a week," said Big Mort, "and don't read the news-papers."

"But why?"

"Why me no whys, but be wise," quoted Gould Mortimer musically. ''Got a wriggle on you, or you'll miss the train."

"But suppose I'm called in," protested the reluctant young doctor, as they waited in the hail for the cab which was to drive bira to the station.

"I'll go," said the other, grinning down at him from the staircase. "Under the present circumstances you aren't likely to be called in anywhere— except tor a bet."

Still the young man was not satisfied, and Mortimer eyed him sternly.

"You're mighty unwilling to get away from here," he said, "this two-cylinder village is surely attractive, but you can't take her with you because I want her help."

The "she" referred to stood behind her brother.

Dr. Bullwart blushed and went off to London horribly perturbed, for he knew his Gould Mortimer.

Scarcely had his train disappeared out of sight when Mr. Taggs, the local bill-poster, proceeded with his commission. Wherever It was possible to flypost a bill upon a fence or tree trunk that bill was posted. Wherever a shop expressed its willingness to display the notice, that shop was liberally supplied.

The tiny placard appeared at frequent intervals along the High St., In every shop in Church St., and Cathedral Row. It was tacked to the wooden uprights of the stalls in Market Square. People stopped in the street to read it. Farmers reined up their horses to gather its import. Sir James Colbroke descended from his car in full view of the town to read the announcement in Gregett's window.

"Good Lord!" said Sir James in perplexity, and went home to lunch very thoughtful.

Wherever men met in the borough town of Saxmonleigh they prefaced their comments on the Government, on the crops, on the weather, with: "Have you read that?"

In the morning of the following day the Vicar of St. Asaph's called and asked whether Dr. Bullwart could come along and see his wife's throat.

"I'm very sorry," said the genial Mr. Mortimer, "but my friend has been called to an important case in London."

"When he comes back—ah!" said the Vicar.

"When he comes back," agreed Big Mort gravely.

WHILE the Vicar was walking down the drive to the road, Big Mort was dancing uncouthly on the mat, to the scandal of his sister. Half an hour later. Col. Westinglane's victoria drove up the drive, and the Colonel, an irascible man, swore gently at the door till it opened.

"Doctor in?" he demanded explosively.

"No," replied Big Mort.

"When'll he be in?" rapped the Colonel.

"He's In town," said Mortimer deliberately. "At this moment he is removing the appendix of a Ambassador."

"Tell'm come and see me—Green-Sander's an ass— old Thingmyjig's ass too— Col. Wes'nlane, Meerut Lodge. Morning."

"M'n'g," responded Big Mort, not to be outdone in the matter of contraction.

Mrs. Grayling called about her daughter's earache at two o'clock. At half past came Lady Visey-Fane, the relict she always called herself "relict" being an earnest student of legal phraseology —of the late Sir William Visey-Fane (bom Visey, and Fane adopted by deed poll). Lady Visey-Fane wanted somebody to try her heart.

"Dr. Bullwart is in London," explained Mortimer. "You have probably read in the papers that a certain personage is in town."

"I quite understand," said Lady Vise-Fane graciously. "Will you ask him on his return to call— I have no regular medical attendant"

DR. GREEN-SANDERS went uninvited to Sit James Colbroke.

"Do you know that Infernal man has already taken four of my best patients," he said bitterly. "Never, my dear Sir James, have I seen anything so drivelling, so sycophantic, so horribly contemptible as the attitude of these beastly people."

But his wrath awoke no enthusiasm In the breast of his host, and something like a cold chill struck at the heart of the little doctor.

"Well, you know, said Sir James tolerantly, "there must be something in him— I mean, there's no sense in blinding oneself to facts. People like to be associated with— er— the great ones of the Earth, even remotely associated. For myself,"— he spread out his hands in self-depreciation-"I am human; what is good enough for— er— certain exalted personages is good enough for me."

"You don't mean—" began the horror-stricken doctor.

"I mean," said Sir James stoutly, "I should like you to call him in over this question of my— er— gout."

Had an anarchist dropped a cart-load of nitroglycerine on the bald head of Dr. Green-Sanders, he could not have been more astounded.

"Phoo!" he snorted angrily. "Your gout!"

He said no more, but stalked from the drawing-room of Highhouse never to return. That night he declined an invitation to dine with the relict— a fatal blunder, since it was an olive branch extended by a lady who had broken through convention and was scared to death at her own temerity.

FOR THREE DAYS Charles Bullwart chafed and fretted in the big house in Onslow Gardens which Gould Mortimer called "home," reading nothing more amusing than "Tackitt on Fracture" and "Some Inquiries Into the Development of Trypanosomissis," which light reading he had brought for his entertainment.

He arrived at Saxmonleigh late at night, and thought that the solitary porter was unusually deferential. He paused In the hall of his house to look at his letters, and was astounded to dis-cover that he had quite a budget, mostly local.

Maisie flew downstairs to greet him.

"Everything is splendid!" she cried, as she hugged him gleefully. "You're going to be a great practitioner. Oh, Charles, I'm just delighted."

Dr. Charle Bullwart looked at her in amazement.

"What has happened? Is old Green-Sanders dead?" he asked hopefully.

"He's out—"

Gould, from the landing above, an unheroic figure in a smoking-jacket and slippers, conveyed the information through a large cigar.

"Out— Green's out— the other two guys are out, You're it! You're the first medicine-man to the tribe at Saxmonleigh. Come up, old man, and paint the wigwam red!"

"I can't understand it! What does it mean?"

The young doctor was blundering through his correspondence as well as a man could with one arm occupied by a girl. "All these blight— all these good people want me to call. Here's an invitation from Sir James Colbroke himself!"

He stared up at the calm figure in bewilderment "What devil's work have you been up to?" he demanded suspiciously.

"Come up and smoke," responded the diplomatic Gould.

He left the two alone together, and after an unconscionable time he heard the flying feet of Bullwart ascending the stairs to his bedroom. Maisie came up to the drawing-room more leisurely

"There's nothing gained by your doctor rushing upstairs at fifty miles a minute," grumbled Gould, as the girl came in. "He can't make up the time he's lost in the hall. What the dickens you find to talk about I don't know."

"I hope you will one of these days," said the flushed girl, and rumpled his hair in passing.

They waited, with an exchange ot glances, till they heard the footsteps descending the stairs again-no less hurriedly. Charles Bullwart was really agitated as he came Into the room.

"Mort," he said, "I've been robbed!"

"Robbed!" cried the shocked pair together.

"Somebody has been in my room," said the young Dr. Bullwart rapidly, "and cleared out all the things I value most— except your portrait, darling; the brutes had the grace to leave that—"

"WHAT have you lost?" asked Big Mort. He was disgracefully calm in the face of the catastrophe.

"I can't tell for the moment," said Charles, with a worried frown; "but a little case with the Order of Isabella la Católica is gone— the young King gave me that when we carried him from Vigo to Malaga; a portrait of the Crown Prince of Merino— signed; the Order of St Stephanie that the Grand Duke Basil gave me when we were taking him to India! Oh! lots of things."

Gould Mortimer removed his cigar.

"I was the first to discover the robbery," he said solemnly. "You did not imagine that anybody could rob this house and me not know it? Sir, I have been on the track of these robbers. I have moved my artillery against the brigands."

He rose and went to a desk, opened a drawer, and took out a printed sheet. Dr. Charles Bullwart was the only soul in Saxmonleigh who had not seen it. It ran:

£5O REWARD.

LOST OR STOLEN.

The undermentioned articles were either left in the train between London and Saxmonleigh, or removed from the residence of Dr. Charles Bullwart Willough Lodge, Saxmonleigh:

1. The medallion and ribbon of the Order of Isabella la Católica, engraved; "From Alfonso to Charles Bullwart in memory of a pleasant association."

2. Signed photograph of the Prince of Merino.

3. The Order of St. Stephanie in brilliants, and framed portrait of the Grand Duke Basil, inscribed. "Une mille remerciments, Basil."

4. Photographs, group (signed), in gold frame, of Dr. Bullwart, the First Lord of the Admiralty, the Prince of Merino, and the Grand Duchess Maria.

3. The freehold deeds of Willoughby Lodge.

Information leading to the recovery of these should be lodged at the county police station, or to Dr. Charles Bullwart, by whom the above reward will be paid.

The doctor read it again, his hand to his brow.

"It's all right" said Gould, and patted the other's shoulder. "The bag containing these sacred goods was returned anonymously tonight."

"But— but I don't understand," said the doctor. "Of course, those things were mine, and I'm jolly glad to get them; but the deeds of this house? I only rent this place."

Big Mort smiled at his sister.

"That's all right— all right," he said easily: "the freehold is my wedding gift."

Dr. Charles Bullwart looked first at the notice in his hand, then at the pile of correspondence that lay on the table and a slow light dawned upon him.

"Which of you was the burglar?" he asked.

The girl laughed.

"That's a secret," she said. "I only drew up the advertisement"

________________

9: Over the Wall

Henry Leverage

1885-1931

Blue Book April 1920

CHESTER FAY, a slender, keen-eyed, gray-haired young man,— clad in prison shoddy, serving life and fifteen years at Rockglen, —glanced through the rain and over the wall to where a green-cloaked hill loomed.

"Charley," he whispered, "we might as well try it this afternoon. Are you game?"

Charley O'Mara, sixty-five years old, bent, broken, and bitter at the law, coughed a warning. He raised his pick and started digging around a flower-bed.

A guard in a heavy raincoat, carrying a dripping rifle, came toward the two prisoners. He stopped a few feet away from Fay.

"Quit that talkin'!" he snarled. "I'll chalk you in if I see any more of it!"

Fay did not answer the guard. He spaded the earth, dug deep, tossed the shovelfuls to one side and waited until the guard had strolled within the shelter of a low shed.

"Charley!" he continued without mov¬ ing his lips. "Listen, old pal. See that motortruck near the shed?"

"I see it, Chester."

"See where the screw is standing?" "He's watching us."

"And I'm watching him, Charley. We can beat this stir in an hour. Do you want to try it?"

"How you going to do it?"

"Will you follow me?"

"Yes, pal."

"Wait till it gets a little darker. Then we'll take the chance."

The prison guard stood with his rifle lowered to the moist earth beneath the shed. His eyes ranged from the two convicts to the wall upon which were other guards sheltered in tiny guardhouses. He yawned and drowsed, standing.

Fay worked in a slow circle. He had seen the auto-truck come into the prison yard at noon. It was part of the road-gang's outfit. There was no road-work that day, an account of the rain. The inmate driver had gone into the cellhouse.

Old Charley O'Mara let his pick dig into the earth with feeble strokes. He paused at times. There was that to Fay's actions which presaged much. The gray-haired young man was gradually closing in on the drowsing guard. He was like a lean panther getting ready for a spring.

THE attack came with lightninglike suddenness. Fay dropped his shovel, crossed the earth, struck the guard a short-arm uppercut and bore him down to earth, where he smothered his cries with a flap of the raincoat.

Charley O'Mara came limping toward the shed.

"Get a rope!" snapped Fay. "I don't want to croak him."

"Croakin's too good for the likes of him, Chester."

"Get a rope. We've got about fifteen minutes to work in. We ought to be beyond the wall by then."

Fay worked quickly. He took the rope the old convict found, and trussed the guard, after taking off the raincoat. He made sure that the man would make no outcry. He fastened a stick in his mouth and tied it behind his head. He rose and glanced through the down-pouring rain.

"I knocked him out," he said. "Now, Charley, put on that raincoat, take the cap and rifle and walk slowly toward the auto-truck. Get in the front. Stand up like a guard."

"But they might know me!"

"They won't know you. It's raining. The screws on the wall will think you are taking the truck out, by order of the warden. I'll drive. An inmate always drives."

The guard who sat huddled in the little house which loomed over the great gate at Rockglen rose, opened a small window and glanced out as he heard the motortruck mounting the grade from the prison yard. He saw what he thought was the figure of a guard standing by a convict. The convict crouched with partly hidden face over the steering-wheel.

"All right!" shouted Charley O'Mara, motioning with his rifle toward the closed gate.

The guard squinted for a second time. He caught, through the rain, the gleam of brass on the cap Charley wore. He saw the rifle. He reached and pulled at a lever. The gate slowly opened, first to a crack, then wide. Fay pressed forward the clutch pedal, shifted from neutral to first speed, stepped on the accelerator and let the clutch pedal up gently.

The truck mounted the top of the grade, churned through the gate, turned in front of the warden's house and took the in¬ cline which led over the hill from Rockglen.

ALL might have gone well for the convicts had it not been for the rain. Water had formed in deep pools along the road. Into these pools Fay guided the clumsy truck. He heard the engine miss an explosion. A sputter followed. The truck slowed. An explosion sounded in the muffler. The insulation wires grounded and short-circuited. The truck stopped.

Fay sprang from the driver's seat and opened the hood. He attempted to find the trouble. A dangling wire, touching the engine's frame, was sodden with water.

"No go!" he said to Charley. "Come on! We'll leave the truck and take to the woods. That means a chase as soon as the big whistle blows."

The two convicts were crossing an open field when they heard the first menacing blasts from the prison siren. They ran for shelter. A dog barked. A farmhand came through the underbrush. He stood watching.

"Keep your nerve!" said Fay. "You've got the rifle. Night is coming on. Follow me."

The trail led away from Rockglen. Fay sensed the general direction. He at¬ tempted to gain a railroad junction where a freight could be taken for Chicago. He was headed off by a motorcar load of prison guards. He saw the danger in time.

"To the right," he whispered to O'Mara. "Follow me. Don't cave, pal."

"I'm all in," sobbed the old convict.

Fay braced his arm beneath Charlie's elbow. He took the rifle. They crossed a swollen brook, broke through the hedge of a vast estate and came suddenly upon a trio of watchmen who had been alarmed by the blowing of the prison's siren.

The fight that followed was entirely one-sided. Fay pumped lead in the general direction of the watchmen. He was answered by a salvo. Crimson cones splashed the night. Bullets whined. A shout sounded far away. Other watchmen and constables were surrounding the estate.

Old Charley O'Mara, crouching in the shelter of a hawthorn clump, coughed, rose, spun and fell face downward. A great spot of scarlet ran over the raincoat. His aged face twisted in agony. Fay knelt by his side.

"I'm croaked, pal," said the convict. "They winged me through the lungs. Good-by, pal."

"Anything I can do, Charley?"

"Do you think you'll get away?"

"I know I will."

"To Chi?"

"Yes!"

"Will you go see my little girl?"

"Where is she?"

"At the Dropper's, on Harrison Street. She's in bad, Chester. Take her away from them low-brows."

"How old is she?"

"Sixteen."

"What is her name?"

"Emily— little Emily."

"I'll take care of her, Charley. I promise you that!"

FAY let the convict's head drop to the ground. He heard the death-rattle. He kicked aside the empty and useless rifle.

The way of escape was not an easy one. Forms moved in the mist. He darted for a row of bushes. He crawled beneath them. He gained the high fence around the estate, where, freed of the necessity of setting his pace to that of the old convict, he broke through the far-flung cordon of guards and watchmen and gained a woods which extended north and west for over a score of miles.

He discovered, toward morning, a small house in course of erection. Its scaffolding stood gaunt against the velvet of the sky. A carpenter's chest rested on the back porch.

Fay pried this open with a hatchet, removed a suit of overalls and a saw, and dropped the lid. He emerged from the woods, looking for all the world like a carpenter going to work.

To the man who had wolfed the world— to the third cracksman then living— the remainder of his get-away to Chicago was a journey wherein each detail fitted in with the others.

He arrived— after riding in gondola-cars, hugging the tops of Pullmans and helping stoke an Atlantic type locomotive— at the first fringe of the city of many millions.

With sharp eyes before him, and dodging police-haunted streets, he mingled with the workers— seemingly a carpenter.

No one of all the throng seemed to notice him. He walked slowly at times. He thought of old Charley O'Mara, and of the dying convict's request.

A speck in the yeast, a chip on the foam, he quickened his steps and entered a small pawnshop where money could be borrowed for enterprises of a shady nature.

MOTHER MADLEBAUM peered over the counter at the gray-haired young man who held out an empty palm and asked for a loan on a mythical watch. She removed her spectacles, polished them with her black alpaca apron, and glanced shrewdly toward the door.

"What a start you gave me, Chester. And me thinking all along you were lagged."

"Five C's on the block," laughed Fay pleasantly. "Remember the blue-white gems I brought you last time? Remember the swag, loot and plunder from the Hanover job? You made big on them."

"I always do with your stuff, Chester."

"Can you lend me five hundred? I've just beaten stir."

The old fence opened her safe and brought forth a money-drawer. Fay took the bills she handed to him, without counting them. He touched his hat and started toward the door.

"Wait, Chester."

"What is it?"

"Want to plant upstairs till the blow is over?"

"No. I promised old Charley O'Mara I'd see his girl for him. Poor Charley is dead."

"He wasn't in your class, Chester. Nobody is."

"Where's the Dropper's scatter?"

"Five doors from the comer, on Harrison Street. Is the girl there?"

"Yes."

"Then may God help her. You can't!"

Fay passed from the fence and lost himself in the clothing-department of a dry- goods store. He entered the place a carpenter— down in the heels and somewhat grimy from his train-ride. He emerged with a bamboo cane hooked over the sleeve of a shepherd-plaid suit. His hat was a flat-brimmed Panama, his shoes correct.

A bath, shave, shampoo and haircut completed his metamorphosis. He left a barber-shop—the proper figure of a young man. He walked briskly, seeing everything.

THERE were detectives in that city— disceming ones. He avoided the main streets and crossings. Wolf-keen and alert for the police, he turned toward the dive where little Emily O'Mara lived. He distrusted the place and cursed himself for the venture.

The Dropper's reputation among the powers that preyed was— unsavory. There had been rumors in the old days that he was a pigeon. The den and joint he managed sheltered cheap dips, pennyweighters and store-histers who bragged of their miserable exploits.

Fay entered the hallway that led up to the Dropper's, like a duke paying a visit to a tenement.

A gas-light flared the second landing. An ash-can, half filled with empty bottles, marked the third. Fay paused by this can, studied a fist-banged door, then knocked with light knuckles.

As he waited for a chain to be unhooked and a slide to open, he sniffed the air of the hallway. Somewhere, some one was smoking opium.

A brutish, shelving-browed, scar-crossed face appeared at the opening. Steely eyes drilled toward the cracksman.

"What d'ye want here?"

"Gee sip en quessen, hop en yen?"

"Who to hell are yuh?"

"A friend," said Fay. "A man to see Charley O'Mara's daughter."

Fay carried no revolver. He scorned such things. The police rated him too clever to commit murder. Only amateurs and coke-fiends did things like that.

He wished, however, that he could thrust the blued-steel muzzle of a gat through the panel and order the Dropper to unlatch the door. The thug was so long in making up his none-too-alert mind.

It swung finally. Fay stepped into the room. He narrowed his eyes and mentally photographed a mean den, made translucent by the greenish-hued smoke that swirled over a peanut-oil lamp and floated before the drawn faces of many poppy-dreamers who were peering from bunks.

The Dropper stood waiting. His elbows were slightly bent. His huge, broken¬ boned hands came slowly in front. He measured Fay from the tip of the shoes to the prematurely gray hair that showed beneath the cracksman's straw hat.

"Well, when did you get out of stir?" he snarled with sudden recognition. "I thought they threw the key away on yuh."

"Easy, Dropper! Who are all these people?"

"Aw, they're all right! There's Canada Mac and Glycerine Jimmy an' three broads over there. Then there's Mike the Bike and Micky Gleason with us to-night. Know them?"

Fay unhooked his cane from his arm. He swung it back and forth as he studied the faces in the bunks. His stare dropped to the peanut-oil lamp and the lay-out tray around which reclined two smokers. He saw a pig-like dog crouching by a screen. Behind this was the entrance to another room.

"Suppose we go in there," he said. "There's something I want to speak to you about, Dropper."

"Spit it out, here!"

"No!" Fay's voice took on a metallic incisiveness. He flashed a warning at the Dropper. The big man shifted his eyes uneasily, and followed Fay around the screen and into a room where two chintz- covered windows looked out into Harrison Street. There were a poker-table, a couch and many chairs in the room. The floor was covered with a cheap matting.

"Listen," said Fay, still swinging his cane: "I came here to see Charley O'Mara's daughter. I want to see her quick! I can't stay around here. It's no place—"

"Aw, cut that kid-glove stuff. What d'ye think we are— stools?"

"I want to see Charley's daughter— Emily!"

"You can't!"

"What have you done with her?"

"I aint done nothin'. She lives right here."

Fay hung his cane on a chair, removed his hat, turned, backed against the poker- table and fastened upon the Dropper a glance of white fire.

"Tell that girl to come to me."

"Well, who the hell are you orderin' around?"

"Go! Get— that— girl! "

The Dropper was in his own castle. The bunks in the den were filled with the reclining forms of a number of men who would commit murder at his bidding. He had, safely planted, the only hundred toys of choice Victoria hop in all of Chicago. One could buy most anything, from virtue to a man's soul, with opium at the current prices.

He considered the matter of Fay with a slow brain. Back in the heart of him there lurked a fear for a five-figure man. They did big things. They were super-crooks. Their weight might be felt through political influence.

"I'm hep!" he said sullenly. "You want to cop the skirt from me. You want to tell her about diamonds and rubies and strings of pearls— of swag and kale and the easy life swillin' wine."

"I don't want to do anything of the kind. I've got a message for her from her old man. He's not well," Fay added cautiously, remembering that under the law the Dropper might be considered Emily's guardian.

"So he aint goin' to get sprung? I heard he had a swell mouthpiece who was workin' with the pollies."

"The appeal was denied last week. The governor turned it down— cold. Charley may have to serve his full term."

"Ch, well, if that's the straight of it— I'll get the moll an' let you chin with her a bit. Remember, no fancy stuff."

Fay stared at the dive-keeper disgustedly. The Dropper weighed over two hundred and fifty pounds. He moved his gross form across the matting, paused at the screen where the piglike dog lay, and lumbered out of sight. His voice rasped in a shout: "Emily!"

HER entrance came a minute after Fay had seated himself at the poker-table. His hand rested on his hat. He heard the Dropper's nagging oaths.

Emily entered, propelled by a strong arm.

Fay rose. He flashed an assuring glance. He reached and offered her a chair.

The picture she left with him, as he turned for the chair, was one he could never forget.

Golden-glossed hair, fine-spun as flax, an oval face, big sherry-colored eyes, long lashes, a round breast and straight figure— was his summing up of little Emily O'Mara.

The Dropper lunged for the girl. He lifted her chin. He leered as she cringed from him.

"This guy wants to see you, kid!"

Fay pressed the sides of his trousers with the sensitive tips of his fingers. He waited, with his teeth grinding. He wanted to leap the distance, reach, clutch and throttle the purple neck of the brute.

The Dropper swung a terrible jaw and eyed Fay.

"Go to it! " he rumbled. "Get done with the kid, damn quick. Tell her she'll never see her old man again. That's wot I've been tellin' her—all the time."

Fay waited until the Dropper disappeared. He moved the chair he had of¬ fered to the girl, so that she could see it.

"Wont you sit down, Emily? I left your dad last night. He wasn't well."

A flash of interest and gratitude crossed her features. She clutched her skirt, stared at the door, bent one knee and sank into the chair timidly.

Fay leaned and whispered:

"Your father sent me to you. He wants you to leave this bunch. He's afraid you are not being well treated. He thinks you ought to go to some good home," he added as he realized the girl's underworld upbringing.

"Is Father coming back to me?"

"No, never."

"Why not?"

The naivete of the question struck Fay as an indictment against society.

"Because the laws are unjust!" he declared. "They keep a man in prison after he is reformed. They don't keep a man in a hospital after he is cured."

"Did you escape from Rockglen?"

"Would it make any difference to you if I had broken out of prison?"

"No, it wouldn't make any difference to me— but I don't know what you mean."

"I mean I want you to go away with me. I want to get you out of this den of petty-larceny addicts and low-brows. That's what your father wanted, Emily."

"But I don't even know your name. Why should I run away with you?"

"Because the Dropper is a brute. Because he will beat you— if he hasn't already. Because the life here leads to the gutter— and mighty fast you'll drift down to it, little Emily."

THE girl arranged a black velvet bandeau on her hair. Fay noticed that the rings on her fingers were brassy and childish. They grated on a man who had never handled any but first-water jewels.

He leaned forward and suggested:

"Come with me— say, to-morrow night. We'll go East together. I know a motherly woman who has an old mansion on the Hudson."

Little Emily fluttered her lashes in an anxious glance at the open door, beyond which was the sound of dreamy voices.

"I'm afraid I can't."

"Why?"

"He wont let me."

"What is he to you?"

"Nothing, but I'm afraid of him. He's so strong."

"He's a big mush, little Emily— a woman-beater, a peddler of opium— a Fink, if you know what that means."

The girl pulled her dress down to the tops of her broken shoes. She twisted, glanced up, smiled faintly, and blanched as the Dropper thrust his head into the room.

"What are you tryin' to pull off?" he asked.

Fay stared over the girl's cringing shoulder. His steel-blue eyes locked with the brute's. They burned and blazed into a sodden brain. The Dropper leered, said, "Oh, all right, cul," and went back to the smokers around the lay-out tray.

"Quick, Emily! Make up your mind. Can I come for you to-morrow night? I owe it to your old man. We'll go East, and this woman I know will take care of you. I hate the coppers, and I'm out to collect from the world. They sent me away to Rockglen— dead, bang wrong! They gave me life and fifteen years. I didn't serve fifteen weeks!"

Fay ceased pleading. He watched the girl. There was a mark behind her left ear which could only have come from a blow. She fingered a black velvet ban¬ deau. She clenched her hands. She started to rise. Suddenly she dropped to the chair.

"I can't go— even if Dad wants me to. I can't leave the Dropper. I am afraid he'll kill me if I go away with you."

"He's got you cowed!"

"I can't help it."

"And you slave for him— work for him— touch his hand when he calls for you?"

"I do. You don't understand my position."

"It's an outrage. Poor Charley O'Mara's daughter held in the clutches of that beast!"

"He is going to kill me some day. I saw him kill a man once. He hit him with his fist. They carried the man to the—"

"Suppose I come here to-morrow night with a gat, stick up the joint, make the Dropper whine, like a cur. What would you do?"

"He wouldn't whine. He'd kill you— the way he killed that man who didn't pay him for a card of hop."

Fay caught the underworld note.

"Do you smoke?" His voice was suspicious.

"No, I don't smoke opium. I watch other people do that."

"You're too sensible. Does the Dropper smoke?"

"He don't smoke, either. He sells the stuff."

THE girl's naivete brought a smile to Fay's lips.

"You're going East," he said. "I'll make the money for your education. I've got two big jobs located. One is in Maiden Lane."

"Diamonds?"

"Yes, gems. What do you say, little Emily?"

"I— I am afraid."

"But think what a beautiful world this is. There is London and Paris and Rome."

"London and Paris and Rome mean nothing to me. I wouldn't know how to behave in those places. All I've known is Harrison Street, and the back rooms of saloons, and getting beat up."

"But your dad was a high-roller;"

"He wasn't always. Sometimes he was broke. Sometimes we didn't know where we were going to get things to eat."

Fay's voice grew tender.

"Emily," he said, "that's all a bad dream. Yesterday afternoon I made a get-away. A man who was dying— a mark for the prison screws— told me to go and save his daughter. I don't want you to think I forgot that request. I could never forget it. Charley was a pal o' mine. I came right to you. I see the lay-out. You're cowed, beaten, crushed, by the Dropper. I'll croak him when you ask me to."

"You can't! I want you to go away. Please don't suggest anything like that. I like you, but I can never run away with you. I'm afraid."

"Good God, do you want me to leave you in this joint?"

"It's the only life I've ever known."

"Where do you sleep?"

"On a cot upstairs."

"And you ought to have a palace. Did you ever look at yourself in the glass?"

"Sometimes, after he beats me."

Fay started toward the door. He heard a chair upset. Little Emily dragged on his arm.

"Don't go to him! He'll kill you."

"Then you come with me."

"I'm afraid to."

The girl spoke the truth. Her color was ashen.

Fay went to the table, lifted her chair, turned it and motioned for her to sit down. She hesitated between the table and door.

"Please," said Fay.

He might have been addressing a princess. Her color returned in rippling waves. She tried to smile. Her lips trembled— she took one step in his direction, swayed, and pressed her fists to her breast.

The Dropper's form completely filled the doorway.

"Come here!" he snarled.

"Hold on!" snapped Fay.

"Come 'ere, yuh!"

The girl between the two men, made her choice, or rather, had it made for her.

Shrinkingly demure, and altogether tearful, she pressed by the Dropper and glided across the den where the poppy-smokers lay.

"Go to bed!"

Fay saw the brute's chin move in a slow circle over his shelving shoulder. He swung back his jaw.

"You're next," he said. "Better beat it, bo. I'll tame yuh like I've tamed her."

"Tamed is good." Fay picked up his hat. He hooked the cane over his left sleeve. "Rather pleasant evening, Dropper.I see you understand women."

"I guess I do. Yuh want to let 'em know you're the biggest guy alive. I'm that guy. Nobody ever took a broad away from me."

"But she's only a kid, Dropper."

"Another year—"

"Yes, you're right. Well, so long. There'll be another night, too. I'm coming back."

"I'll be ready for yuh!"

FAY had no set plan as he left the scatter of Mike Cregan— alias the Dropper. He wanted to thrash out the matter of Emily O'Mara in his mind. Her behavior, and the fear she held of her unsavory guardian, puzzled the cracksman.

He had accomplished much in a brief time. There were not many men living who could have broken out of Rockglen on one afternoon and strolled down Michigan Avenue the next. It was an exploit in keeping with his reputation.

Midnight found him working over the problem of the girl. He recalled old Charley's last instructions:

"Get her away from the low-brows."

A promise, Fay had never intentionally broken. There was the girl— naive, doll-like, docile. There was the Dropper—demanding, brutish, a fink.

Fay slept that night at a stag hotel.

He woke early, bathed beneath a shower, dressed and went down to breakfast.

On Harrison Street he gulped the air. He avoided being seen by the detectives of the city. Once he took a cab for a dis¬ tance of five squares. He dismissed the driver at the side entrance of a cheap hotel— sauntered through the lobby and emerged with a sharp glance to left and right.

The game gripped him as he dodged into the tenement and started climbing the gas- flared stairways to the hop-joint. He knew, in the soul of him, that Chicago was a danger-spot.

He knocked on the door and was admitted by the Dropper— who seemed alone.

"Back again," said Fay. "I said I'd be back. Where is Emily?"

"Wot t'hell!"

"Where is the girl?"

A gliding sounded over the matting of the room beyond the screen. Emily thrust her head through the doorway. Her sherry-colored eyes were red-rimmed, glazed with tears, sullen. The Dropper had just finished his morning hate by upbraiding her.

"Wot t'hell's cornin' off?" rumbled the dive-keeper. "Beat it, cul, before I wake up. I'm going to wham yuh one."

Fay swiftly hooked his cane over the edge of an empty bunk, removed his hat, took off his coat, and rolled up his sleeves.

"I didn't bring a gat!" he snapped. "I don't need one. Get into that room, set the card-table back and pile up the chairs. Get ready, you fink, for what's coming to you."

THE DROPPER found himself in the grip of a situation not exactly to his liking. He backed from Fay. He crashed over the screen. He turned, thrust Emily aside, and shelved forward his shoulders in an aggressive posture. His brows worked up and down. The scar on his cheek grew livid.

"Hol' on," he started to protest.

Fay stepped swiftly forward, whipped over a lightning uppercut, and jabbed with his left fist toward the brute's stomach. Both blows had force enough to land the Dropper against the card-table.

He went down like a pole-axed bullock. He rose in his might and rage. His bellowing could have been heard a block away. He came at Fay unskillfully— thrown off balance by the sudden attack.

The clean life of a supercrook stood Fay in good stead. His weight was less than half that of the Dropper's. But he more than made up for this by the swiftness of his blows. He tormented the brute by jabs, hooks and side-stepping.

The Dropper was no novice at boxing. Once, years before, he had been Honest Abe's chief bouncer. He had broken men's heads and hurled derelicts from barrooms. He knew the rudiments of wrestling.

Slowly his thick brain came into action. He covered his jaw with a shelving shoulder. He put down his bulletlike head and started to bore through the rain of blows. With wild swings he forced Fay against the poker-table. It went over and rolled to the wall near where Emily crouched.

The cracksman glided around the Dropper and shadow-tormented him. He struck straight from the shoulder. He was two-fisted and agile. Each flash of his eye was marked by a stinging blow. A crescendo of effort, all to the brute's purple face, had its effect. The Dropper started gasping. He lowered his fists. He breathed, waiting. He grunted as he followed Fay— blindly, grossly. A red gleam showed where his lids were puffing.

FAY felt his own strength waning. He called on all his latent nerve-force. He became a tiger. He leaped, drove a smashing fist between the Dropper's gorilla-like brows, stepped back, dodged a swing, then repeated the blow. He played for this mark. The fury of his assault was like an air-hammer on a rivet. It deadened the brute's brain. It made him all animal.

A bull's roar filled the room. Goaded to an open defense, the Dropper abandoned science. He tried to grasp his tormentor. His huge hands groped through the air. He stumbled and searched. He fell over a chair. He rose to his knees. Fay waited, hooked a short, elbow-jab between the eyes. He followed with his left. His arm snapped in its sting. He backed, side-stepped, and started around the Dropper, delivering blows like a cooper finishing a barrel.

A red rage came to the cracksman that was terrible in its ferocity. He forgot Emily. He saw only the swollen thing before him. He wanted to kill. He sought for the opening.

Abandoning his straight jabs, he danced in and out with short-arm swings to the face and neck and eyes. He pounded the ears until they resembled cauliflowers. He made a pulp of the Dropper's face.

The end came inn less than a second. Beaten into near-insensibility, tottering and bloated— the Dropper attempted to reach the door that led to the opium-joint. He remembered a gat he had planted there. He lowered his shielding left shoulder. His jaw was exposed.

Fay poised on tiptoes, drew back his right fist and sent it home with the tendons of his legs strained, in the effort. His weight, his rage, his science and clean living were in that blow. It milled the brute, staggered and brought him crashing, first to his knees, then over on his back, where he lay with his swollen face turned toward the ceiling.

Little Emily glided to the door. She waited with her eyes fixed and shimmering.

Fay breathed deeply. He turned, unrolled his silk sleeves and said:

"Will— you— get my hat and coat and cane, please?"

Little Emily helped him on with his coat. Her hands trembled.

"Now get your things. You're going away from here."

She returned within three minutes.

"I'm ready," she said.

"You saw me knock him out?"

"Yes."

"Go look at him."

Emily hurried into the room. She knelt by the Dropper's head. She came back to Fay and whispered:

"I'm not afraid of him any more."

"Why, little Emily?"

"Because you are stronger than he is."

Fay opened the door that led to the hallway where the gas-flare showed in the gloom.

"Have you everything?" he asked.

Emily pointed to a pasteboard hatbox. Fay lifted it gallantly.

"Come on," he said.

"Where are you going to take me?" she asked, humbly.

"I'm going to take you to the house of the good woman on the Hudson."

"And what are you going to do?"

"I? I'm going to get word to Charley O'Mara that I kept my promise— and his kid's all right."

___________________

There's Lend-Lease and then there's Lend-Lease

10:  Uncle Ned's Teeth

James Norman Hall

1887-1951

Adventure Dec 1946

MONSIEUR LARGETEAU, Nicholas McGoogin and myself were the only occupants that afternoon of the broad upstairs veranda of the Bougainville Club. Catastrophe had overtaken France the summer before, since which time her far distant Pacific island colony, Oceania, had been so nearly severed from contact with the outside world that it might have belonged to some otherwise uninhabited planet. The footworn stairs leading to the club veranda, with their once brightly-polished nailheads, now felt the tread of a mere handful of old-timers who climbed the staircase through force of habit. Refreshment of any kind was negligible. The only reminders of "the good old days" were the rows of dusty bottles, long since emptied, ranged on shelves behind the bar. Jules, the club steward— also through force of habit— stood behind the bar with a settled expression of puzzled unbelief upon his face; he could not yet realize what had happened to the bright world of yesterday. He served limeade, faintly colored with grenadine, with the same lack of enthusiasm displayed by those who ordered it.

It was one of those bland, cloudless afternoons so common in our part of the Pacific that we fail to remark them. A light breeze, refreshingly cool, ruffled the surface of die lagoon. The street following the curve of the beach was empty as far as the eye could see, save for a single Chinaman pushing his glassed-in vendor's cart toward a pool of shade cast by one of the acacia trees that line the roadway. Having reached it, he too came to rest on a bench, as though giving up as hopeless an attempt to give a touch of purposeful activity to a scene that belied the need for it. Twelve miles away, the island of Moorea, outlined in palest blue, appeared and vanished from moment to moment in the sunlit haze, like the phantom of an island that was too beautiful to belong to the world of reality.

"There's the Mama Tu cornin' in," Nick remarked, presently, merely, it seemed, to break the reposeful silence and emptiness of the club veranda. "Been out quite a while this voyage,

The Mama Tu, a sixty-ton schooner, had just appeared around Fare Ute point. The breeze failed as she rounded it, but the schooner's old patched mainsail gathered in enough of what remained to carry her the last quarter- of-a- mile of her homeward voyage. She was the oldest schooner in the Group, but the name alone was all that remained of the vessel Joe Cheeseman's father had built back in the early eighties. She had been rebuilt, bit by bit as necessity demanded, and so had renewed herself half-a-dozen times over since those far-off days. She came alongside the wharf so handily that she seemed to have done it herself without any help from Joe.

"It'll be a better afternoon than we looked for," Monsieur Largeteau remarked, with a contented sigh, as we watched the sailors making the vessel fast.

WE understood what he meant.

Joe Cheeseman and his super-cargo, Henry Dee, were excellent company. They were like unequal parts of the same personality, either of which would have been lost without the other. Though each had his own singularities and angularities, they fitted together as snugly as adjacent bits of a jigsaw puzzle. You might have thought that two old copra-and-pearl-shell traders who had voyaged in company for better than forty years, visiting the same islands and groups of islands year after year, would have little that was new to say at the end of whatever voyage, but never with them were any two voyages alike; and they were as fond of one another's company as though they had met for the first time only last week. Even when alone they never seemed to be talked out and were as companionable in their silences as at all other times.

Chance loved them, and led the Mama Tu through a variety of strange experience enjoyed by no other schooner in our part of the Pacific. There were, to be sure, men who called Joe and Henry the most accomplished liars in French Oceania; nevertheless, I have never known them to be trapped and brought to book. Their friends could expect anything but what was humdrum and customary when they saw Captain Joe and Henry coming ashore, and with them, Uncle Ned, the Negro cook of the Mama Tu. Ned came originally from South Carolina, but half a century in Polynesia had made him as native to the islands as the natives themselves. The three of them added to the gaiety of nations; at least, to the gaiety of islands, what little there is left of it, in these sad days.

Joe appeared first, at the head of the stairway, his white handlebar mustaches like a protecting screen behind which he slowly advanced. Henry is a small active man, quick as a weasel, but with a curious manner of walking as though treading on eggs, or amongst them, which he often did, of course, on the bird islands of the Low Archipelago; and at every step his head jerked slightly, like that of a hen in motion, but there was nothing hen-like in his character. The old Negro was the living embodiment of the Uncle Ned in Stephen Foster's song, with the happy exception that he was not blind. But "he had no teeth for to eat the hoe cake" and never had had within living memory. Imagine, then, the surprise of Monsieur Largeteau, Nick McGoogin and myself when the old man appeared wearing a grin completely filled with teeth, as white as the meat of a coconut and as even as the pickets on the fence of a Vermont dooryard. Joe and Henry had preceded him by several minutes but they had not prepared us for Ned's teeth; they'd not even mentioned them. Ned took his seat between them, all but blinding us by his grin, while the capudn busied himself in fumbling at the string of a brown-paper parcel he held on his lap.

"Thought we'd have to whistle the old tub in, the breeze was that light," Joe remarked. "Well, we got here... Oh, Jules!"

"Nothin' but limeade, Captain, same as when you left," Jules replied, sourly.

"Is that so? You fetch me some glasses and cracked ice and a pitcher o' water."

Jules stared at him, then came forward. He halted midway between the bar and the table as though stopped by an invisible barrier. The captain glanced over his shoulder. "Brought a little refreshment, Jules," and with that he set a bottle on the table. It was a bottle of whisky— Scotch— Black & White. He then brought forth a box of cigars. Leaning far back in his chair he managed to worm his hand into a trousers pocket for his knife. Gently and carefully he pried open the lid of the box and replaced the knife in his pocket.

Any comment would have been inadequate to the occasion and none was made. To say nothing of cigars, a bottle of actual liquor had not been seen on the club veranda since the summer of 1940— neither wine nor whisky, gin or brandy, beer or any such thing. Jules tiptoed to the table, took up the bottle, examined it without a word, and tiptoed back to the bar for the glasses, ice and water. "And one for yourself, Jules," the captain called after him. "You're gonna set right here with us and do the honors."

I shall not soon forget the expression of mingled unbelief and beatitude on Monsieur Largeteau's face when, the glasses filled, he lifted his own for the first sip. He rolled up his eyes in the odd manner common to him when confronted with the inexpressible; then he set his glass down with an air almost of reverence.

"Now then, Joe—" said Nick.

"Wait a minute!" said Monsieur Largeteau. "Let's get this in order. Uncle, where'd you get those teeth?"

Ned blinded us with another grin.

"They's lend-lease, Mist' Largeteau."

This seemed to call for comment, but none of us could think of anything to say. Monsieur Largeteau turned to the captain.

"Where you been, this voyage?" he asked.

"Where you 'spose we been? Down the Low Islands, of course."

"Joe, I wouldn't say a word more about it," Henry Dee put in. "They won't believe a thing we say."

Nick gave an incredulous grunt.

"The only dentist in French Oceania is right here in Papeete," he said. "Ned didn't have teeth when he left, this voyage, and now you're just back. You can't fool me, Uncle! You're wearing American teeth. The blacksmith of a dentist we got here couldn't have made 'em."

"Ain't that just what I said?" the old man replied. "Ain't no country got lend-lease 'cept Uncle Sam, is they? But I got to give 'em back right after the war. That's what the colonel tole me."

"The colonel? What colonel?" Monsieur Largeteau demanded.

"Capt'n Joe, you tell 'em," said Ned. He chuckled as he added, "I can't hardly believe it my ownself, it all happened so quick."

"I suppose the whisky and cigars are lend-lease, too?" Nick remarked.

Captain Cheeseman nodded dreamily, letting the smoke curl slowly through the thicket of his mustache.

"Henry, maybe we better tell 'em. They won't give us a minute's peace till we do.'

THAT was the cue Henry was waiting for. He wriggled his bony shoulders against the lumpy leather cushion at the back of his chair, trying to find a comfortable hollow to snuggle into. When they had a story to tell Henry carried the air, so to speak, with Joe furnishing the obbligato and Uncle Ned weaving in flourishes, runs and grace notes for decorative and corroborative purposes.

"This war's different from any that's ever been fought," he began. "Even us old mossbacks out here in the middle of the Pacific knows that. It's a world war, all right, for everybody except us. Right where we are is about the only peaceful place that's left, anywhere."

"Get on with the story," said Nick. "Where you been, this voyage?"

"Down through the Tuamotus, like the captain said, clean to the Gambiers. We picked up three tons of coffee and fourteen tons of copra at Mangareva and started north again. Joe said, 'Henry, we might as well look into Naumia lagoon and set there for a bit.' That was O.K. with me. We needed some firewood for the galley and the Mama Tu wasn't in no rush to get home. So one night about a week later we eased in there just as the tide started running in the pass. Ever been to Naumia, Mister Largeteau?"

The Frenchman shook his head.

"You Frenchmen are funny. Your country is supposed to own these islands but you don't know much about 'em. There's no people on Naumia; it belongs to the natives of Hao. They come over once a year to make their copra and then go home again. The rest of the time it belongs to the sea birds and the hermit crabs."

"And one of these days, Henry, it's goin' to belong to me and you and Uncle Ned, if ever the price of copra comes back to where it belongs," the captain put in. "We'll buy it off the Hao people. I do covet that island for my old age."

"Where's the need?" said Henry. "It's as good as ours now and always will be, and we've got none of the fret of owning it... Well, in we sailed, just about dusk, and on acrost the lagoon nine miles to where the main island is. We hooked some fine fat tuna and paihere comin' through the pass, sixty and eighty pounders. One was more'n enough for a feed for the seven of us, but we was havin' such good sport we couldn't seem to stop. Whilst the rest of us was makin the schooner snug in the cove, two of the boys went ashore, and by the time Joe and me went, they'd caught a fine lot of lobsters along the reef. They had plenty of coconut meat scratched, and before we was an hour older Ned had a supper ready that was a supper."

"I've et roasted crabs and lobsters in Sydney years ago," said the captain, "and in Frisco years before that, but there ain't no cook that's got a hand at sea food to come up to Ned."

"Now that you got your teeth, Uncle, you can get the full good of your own vittles," Henry said.

"That's right," said Ned. "Seems like I didn't relish no kaikai when I had to gum it down."

"We all know what a cook Uncle is," said Monsieur Largeteau. "Come on to the teeth. Where'd he find 'em? In Naumia lagoon?"

"That's jes' about where I did find 'em, Mist' Largeteau, but you ain't gon' know nothing about it if you keep piu-hin' us on too fas'. We ain't even finished supper yet."

"We'll call it finished, " Henry went on, "and now we're stretched out on the beach under the puketea trees that's been growin' there from heathen times, I reckon. We brought our mats ashore, and after Ned's supper all we was fit for was lyin' there, digestin' it. It was full moon that night, and you can't beat Naumia for a pretty place on a night of full moon.

"Pretty soon Joe and Ned and the boys was snorin' away peaceful as anything. I was just ready to drop off when I heard a faint hummin' miles and miles away. I'd never heard an airship before, but I knew that's what it was because it couldn't have been anything else. And then, here she come; it wasn't two minutes till I saw her pass right across the moon. That was somethin' to see for the first time. It looked awful to me— awful big and awful fast, and she was miles away in half-a-minute. But she wasn't gone for good. Naumia's twenty miles around and the airship made the full circle lookin' at things before she came down. The next time she passed over us she wasn't more'n two hundred feet over the tree-tops. That woke up Joe and the boys, and you've never seen as Ned was.

"I sho' was Henry. If I'da had my teeth they ha' been clackin' together makin' more racket than the enjines was."

HENRY went on: "The main island is a good eight miles long, and the airship came down at the far end, a good five miles from where we was. She was all lit up and we could see her plain. She had a kind of headlight to come down with. We was all scared, far as that goes. The Huns had took France. We thought more'n likely they was cornin' now to get what colonies there was left to take."

Henry broke off and was silent for so long that Nick prodded him with, "And then, what?"

"Joe, you tell 'em," said Henry. "I've lost my breath just thinkin' about how I lost it that night."

"We was too far off to see real good," said Joe, "but it was the lights that had us beat. Not all at once; it was kind of gradual, but we hadn't been watchin' two hours till they was all strung out through the groves and along that stretch of beach. You might have thought it was Papeete waterfront the way it was at night before the war started."

"Every bit as light as that. Mist' McGoogin," Ned put in. "They was more, even."

"All that out of one plane?" Mr. Largeteau asked.

"I forgot to tell you," Henry said. "There was three more big flyin' ships came down inside half-an-hour after the first one. There was nothin' we could do but wait and see what next. Then, along about three o'clock in the morning a little motor launch came down the lagoon toward us. They must have spotted the Mama Tu lyin' in the cove. We took to the bush, the lot of us, but hid so's we could see out."

"An' when we heard 'em talkin' English I got right down on my knees an' said, 'Praise the Lord!' " Ned put in.

"You was there already, Ned," said Henry. "His legs wouldn't hold him up," he added.

"There was three officers in the launch beside the colonel. You wouldn't have thought he was a colonel, he was that friendly and easy to talk with. He says, 'Boy's, how are you? Where's the town?' 'Town?' says Joe. 'There ain't no town here; nobody except us.'

" 'That's funny,' the colonel says. 'Ought to be a town here. You're sure there ain't one?' 'Dead sure,' says Joe. The colonel turned to one of the officers with him. 'Major,' he says, 'do you suppose some idiot of an S.O.B. in Washington has got our orders bollixed up?' "That's my guess,' the major says. 'Wouldn't be the first time it's happened.' 'Well,' says the colonel, 'we've come where we was told to come, and we're goin' to do what we was told to do when we got here. If there's been a mistake it's no funeral of ours.'

" 'Would you like a bite to eat?' I says, and they was all for it; so Ned got busy and in no time at all he had a supper ready for them as good as the one we'd had. You should have seen the way they tucked in!

"We showed 'em around that end of the island and when they'd seen it all the colonel says, 'Major, we picked the right place, the far end of the island,' and the major said he thought so too. They looked beat for sleep and we offered 'em our mats and pillows if they wanted to take a nap, but the colonel said they had no time to sleep until they'd got everything shipshape, ashore.

"They stayed at our end of the island, lookin' things over, till around nine o'clock in the morning; then they went back to where the airships was, and they took Joe and Ned and me with 'em. That little launch was something. It did a good fifteen knots."

"How'd they bring the launch?" Monsieur Largeteau asked. "Did it have wings, too?"

"You might have thought so, the way it flew down the lagoon," said Henry. "It did a good eighteen knots. No, sir. It came right out of one of the airships. And that ain't all that came out."

HENRY fell silent again, but at last he said, "Joe, what's the good of tellin' em? They won't believe it."

"Go ahead, anyway," said Joe. "We know what happened. And they're drinkin' the whisky, ain't they? If that and Ned's teeth don't prove it, I don't know what would."

"When we got to where the airships landed there was a town built," Henry said, impressively. "The colonel'd told us there should have been a town on Naumia. Since there wasn't, they built one of their own."

"Overnight, I suppose?" said Monsieur Largeteau.

"It wasn't finished yet, Mist' Largeteau, but she was goin' up fast. All them pretty little round houses... how'd they call 'em, Henry? 'What's-it huts'?"

"Something like that," said Henry. "The officers' mess and the hospital was the first ones finished, but the colonel seemed to think there ought to be more of 'em ready by that time. The officers mess was wide as this veranda. There was a kind of lounge at one end, with tables and easy chairs and shelves full of books along the wall. The other half was little bedrooms on both sides of a hallway, for the officers."

"Don't forget the kitchen, Henry." Ned shook his head, wonderingly. " 'Lectric stove, big 'lectric ice-box, pots an' pans, bran' new, hangin' on the walls, shelves full o' canned goods, an' mess cooks gettin' dinner ready— beefsteaks an' pork chops an' I don' know what all!"

"Then the colonel took us to see the hospital," Joe put in. "That was all ready for anybody that was sick, beds made and everything neat an' tidy. There was an operatin' room at one end and a dentist office at the other. The dentist with his white coat an' apron was standin' by the door as we went by, waitin' for business.

"The colonel stopped dead when he saw him. 'Lieutenant,' he says, 'if you ain't busy, what about a nice set of store teeth for Uncle, here? Guess he could do with 'em.' That was O K. with the dentist. He took Ned right into his office and measured him for 'em."

"While Ned was in there," said Henry, "Joe an' me went with the colonel to see the rest of the town. Houses for the enlisted men was goin' up everywhere. They set 'em every which-way amongst the trees so's they wouldn't have to cut down any of the coconut palms. A lot of soldiers was to come in a few days, the colonel told us. Everything had to be ready by the time they got there."

"How many came by the planes?" Monsieur Largeteau asked.

"What would you say, Joe?"

"Around a hundred. They called 'em Seabees. I never saw their beat for fast work. The whole town was finished by sundown that same evenin'. An' after supper we all went to the picture show."

"Picture show?" said Nick.

"That's right," said Henry. "It was a story about Frisco in the old days before the earthquake, an' it sure took Joe an' me back. But right in the middle of it an orderly came in with a wireless message for the colonel. As soon as he'd read it he went right out. We knew somethin' was up by the way he tore out o' there."

"And what was it?" Monsieur Largeteau asked.

"We stayed to see the end of the show, and when we came out the colonel was standin' with the major by the wireless office. 'Noumea— that's where we're supposed to be,' we heard him say. An' the compliments he paid to whoever it was that sent 'em to Naumia in the Tuamotus was somethin'. I've heard some pretty cussin' in my time but never anything to come up to the colonel's. He rushed off with the major an' that's the last we saw of either

"He said he'd send Joe an' Ned an' me in the launch back to where the Mama Tu lay, but it was no time to remind him o' that so we walked the five miles to the far end of the island. Ned was feelin' pretty glum about not gettin' his teeth."

"I sho' was, Henry, I sho' was. The lieutenant tole me he'd have 'em all ready the next mawnin' but I knew I'd never get 'em now. If they'd come to the wrong island they'd be bustlin' off to the one they was supposed to go to. Wouldn't have time to bother 'bout nobody's teeth."

"We was good an' tired when we got back to the Mama Tu, bein' awake most o' the night before and rushin' around all day; so we turned in and slep' so good we didn't any of us wake up till the sun was two hours high. While we was havin' our coffee Joe says. 'Henry, it's about time we was goin' on north to Fakarava. We'll stop on our way to the pass to say goodbye to the colonel.' So the boys got the hook up an' we ghosted down the lagoon. The breeze was no more than a whisper. We moved, but that was all.

"It was quiet as anything. We was five miles off, but we expected to hear some kind of stir and bustle from where their town was, but there wasn't a sound except the nuzzlin' of the sea along the outer reef. We couldn't figure it out. The air was hazy an' we couldn't see good at first, an' when finally we could, there was nothin' to see."

NICK asked, "What do you mean, nothing to see?"

"They was gone, Nick. Believe it or not, they was gone. Joe and Ned an' me stared ahead, an' looked at each other, an' stared some more. The cove at that end of the island was just like it was before they came. Joe says, 'Henry, we been dreamin'. They was never here in the first place. They couldn't ha' been.' "

"And that's the truest thing you've said yet..."

"Now wait a minute, Nick! Wait a minute!" the captain said. "We brought the old tub into the cove where the airships was layin' the day before. There's deep water right alongside the beach and we stepped ashore still not sayin' a word, we was that dazed. But when you come to think of how quick they built their town it stands to reason they could take it down just as quick. Footprints was all they left behind 'em. You might ha' thought there'd be mess an' rubbish scattered around, but there wasn't. The sand was that clean as if they'd swept it before they pulled out. The only thing we found was a package of chewin' gum one of the Seabees must ha' dropped. Henry picked it up an' handed it to Ned. 'Uncle,' he says, 'try your gums on that.' "

"But I didn't have to, Mist' McGoogin," the old man broke in, eagerly. "As we was walkin' up the beach—"

"Hold on, Ned! We ain't there yet," said Henry. "We went acrost the island first, remember? to where they'd set up the water-tanks an' distillin' plant. The day before there was fresh water cornin' right out o' the sea through two-and-a- half-inch pipe. We couldn't believe it till we'd tasted it. It was gettin' pretty hot by this time, an' Joe says, 'Wish I had a swig of it right now,' but there was nothin' but the marks on the sand to show where the tanks had set. Then, as we was comin' back to the Mama Tu we found a package wrapped up in brown paper lyin' on the sand right where the officers' mess had been. There was a note tucked under the string. Tell 'em what it said, Joe."

"It wasn't signed, but it was addressed to me. It said: 'Dear Captain Cheeseman: Sorry we had to pull out in such a hurry. Enclosed you will find a little gift from Uncle Sam and the U. S. Army:' "

"Joe opened the package and inside was three bottles of whiskey, two boxes of cigars, an' a little box marked, 'For Uncle.' That was Ned's teeth settin' in a little nest o' cotton."

The brilliance of Uncle Ned's corroborating grin was softened by the haze of cigar smoke that hung in the still air. Joe took up the bottle and held it against the light

"Fetch some more ice, Jules," he said. "There's enough left here for another round."

__________________________

War is Hell...

11: Raid on Jigger's Reef

Albert Richard Wetjen

1900-1948

Adventure Feb 1943

"Y'KNOW, Bill," said Porpoise amiably. "This war's something!" He uncorked a fresh bottle of gin and proceeded to drink his breakfast. He was sprawled in his old cane chair, under the poop awnings of our big schooner Annabelle, and his pajamas were all up around his fat belly. There were times when he made me wince, even if we were only a trading windship banging around the archipelagoes. You can go naked if you like in the Outer Islands, but at least you ought to figure a lady might walk down the docks of Brisbane where we were lying at the moment. This idea seldom bothered Porpoise though, unless the lady happened to be young and good-looking, whereupon he'd dash below and put on a shirt, and maybe some white pants. I never knew why, because the ladies'd just take one look at his bulges and then look at something else. But being mate for him for over thirty years I was used to it. "Y'know. Bill," he said again. "This war's something!"

I said, "I read the papers, Porpoise. I even listen to the bloody wireless. I know a lot of chums are fighting, including in the Solomons and way points we know. I've heard—"

"Bill," said Porpoise, folding his hands across his stomach. "Bill, that ain't half of it. The Japs have taken over Reeves Atoll." I had to laugh at that.

"If you're a navy commander with a cruiser handy maybe you can drive 'em out," I suggested. "And anyway—" I stopped, suspicious. I knew Porpoise. "What's it mean to you?"

He sighed and looked at me owl-like, his china-blue eyes very innocent. "Bill, there's a fat shell bed in that big lagoon. And it's pearl stuff. Would you want the Japs to flood the market with shell... or even pearls?"

I said, "No, but how'd you—" and Porpoise stopped me with a flourish of his bottle.

"That's the trouble with you, Bill. You never figure. The concession for Reeves Atoll was held by old Jim Stevens. He lost it in a two-up game to Bob Roberts down Melbourne way. Bob was drowned off Tulagi Beach in the Solomons, and he hadn't anyone but a Kanaka wife who ran off with Trevor of the What Ho! Trevor was sunk by a raider last month and his wife was picked up by an American ship and taken to Frisco. She ain't showed up since. That leaves Reeves Atoll open."

"Except for the Japs," I pointed out. "And we're not exactly a battleship to move in."

Porpoise agreed. "No, Bill. We ain't. But you an' me knows Reeves Atoll back an' front, and more channels into it than anyone else ever found out. Also the atoll's out the way and there ain't no other Japs going to move in without reason."

I took a turn up and down the poop, exasperated. "All right, cobber. If it's so important why ain't our own crowd moved in, and anyway, why did the Japs take it in the first place? They got other things on their minds besides pearl shell right now."

PORPOISE drank some more breakfast, wobbled his chins, and grunted. "You don't figure things right," he stated. "The Japs want it for reasons unknown. Maybe it's a stopping point to 'Stralia. Maybe they figure it'll be useful later. I dunno. Why us blokes ain't blasted 'em out I dunno either. Maybe they got too much other stuff to handle. But, Bill, them oyster beds. That's a bloody crime. And I aim to move in and stop it."

"There's a war on," I said bitterly, "an' you still think of profits."

"Eats," Porpoise corrected. "Bill, I gotta eat."

He lifted the gin bottle and I checked what I was going to reply. No one but Porpoise could look you in the eye and mention eats while hoisting a quart of Hollands. It was a gift. But this business of tackling a Jap-held atoll with a cumbersome auxiliary schooner, and little else, was nonsense. As half-partner in the profits, if any, I felt entitled to a final protest.

"Look, Porpoise. We been lucky so far— dodging raiders and subs and such. Now, let's be reasonable."

"I'm always reasonable," he stated indignantly. "I'm just wanting a shell bed. Ain't that reasonable? And with us on the ghost edge of bankruptcy!"

"But how...?" I started and he sighed. "Let me think," he said, and sank back and closed his eyes, which meant he was again cooking up something. You couldn't talk to him when he took that attitude. So I left him alone and went about getting the Annabelle in shape for what was a run with government stores to Shatuk and Anu, where they were keeping garrisons up in the Straits Archipelagoes, and I told Wong Fong our Chink cook to put an extra dash of curry into the fish on account of

Captain Bailey was cooking up something. Porpoise liked his curry strong. His throat was calcined to any other flavor. Wong Fong looked at me and then tossed half a can of curry into his simmering chowder.

"Everytime skipper cook," he sniffed, "something happen. What for not stay in Brisbane? I not like Jap."

He waved his meat cleaver and I said, "Well, don't take it out on me. I'm just telling you the old man is going crazy again. We're fighting the war at Reeves Atoll. So make his lunch strong!"

Wong went off into some swearing jabberish, and 1 went back aft. Porpoise was talking, or at least looking up from his cane chair, at someone who looked official. Since he was wearing the uniform of the Royal Australian Navy I assumed my eyesight was as correct as my hearing. But how in hell Porpoise had got a commander of the Royal Australian Navy down on our tub I don't know. Navy commanders don't as a rule condescend to visit... well, you can figure that too. And Porpoise in his pajamas, drinking his breakfast and not even standing up.

"No," Porpoise was saying candidly and with considerable profanity. "No, I ain't got a bloody idea how it'll be worked, but gimme time."

"Time!" the officer exploded. "What the hell do you think this is? A war or a picnic?"

"Oh, smother down, Joe," yawned Porpoise, and it suddenly dawned on me the gold-braided navy chum was no other than Captain Joe Smithers of the old coast liner Chucker, who must have been snaked into the service on a tow-line. I'd been second mate under him on the Townsville run once, and if I wasn't smelling a ghost he'd been third under Porpoise in the Island trade and learned his business that way more years ago than I could remember. Which rather explained why Porpoise was still sitting down and Commander Smithers was still standing. It's rather curious, but even if you happen to be navy and official, you still stand up when you talk to your old skipper. I've even seen Porpoise once stand and take off his battered uniform cap to an old, old man in Ponape. That's in the Line Islands. When I asked him why, he said, "Bill, that's old Cap'n Walsh. He taught me to spit to lee'ard when I was just so high. My first skipper!"

"Did he ever teach you sense?" I asked sarcastically, for at the time he was running after some Kanaka girl, and he said, "No, Bill. But the Islands are!" Which is just by the way.

"Now look, Porpoise," Smithers was saying, and Porpoise allowed his cigar ash to drop down his pajama front and said, "Joe, if we gotta talk war and you gotta be stuffy, you call me Captain Bailey. See? I got me feelings too."

Smithers went up in the air, waving his arms.

"You've no dignity or respect for the uniform!" he exploded and Porpoise dropped some more ashes. "I got all the respect needed, Joe. You come to me and spill stuff and ask me to handle it. I say yes, being 'Stralia born an' a patriot more or less, an' you say O.K. and now you squawk. An' I can remember when I had to haul you out of the lee rigging when you were a pickaninny too scared to come down in that blow off Perth. I ain't in your class maybe, not being navy, but I seem to remember I got a master's ticket in sail, unlimited, stuck somewhere away; and I got a master's ticket in steam, unlimited, which I probably lost, an' I been to sea... well, hell of a sight longer than you have." The red was beginning to rise in Porpoise's throat and I knew he was getting mad.

"All right, all right!" said Smithers irritably. ''I apologize— er— Captain. But this Reeves Atoll stuff. It's important."

Porpoise lighted another cigar and grunted. "It certainly is— that pearl bed—" he coughed— "the whole situation, I mean naturally I'm doing all this free on me regular run with 'Stralia stores as ordered, but you gimme the explosives and I'll attend to the channel."

"Sure, you're doing everything free," said Smithers, bitterly, sitting finally on an up-turned bucket, forgetting the navy for a while and turning back to an Island trader. He looked at me. "Bill, how can you handle this cow?"

I said, "Well, Joe, stun him or buy him another drink." And Smithers grinned and I knew we all suddenly understood each other again.

"Y' KNOW, Bill," said Porpoise, one day out. "Smithers is a pretty smooth customer."

"Which makes us what?" I inquired, ordering a reef in the fore and main, and the fore-stays'l sweated in some more. We were bucking a tough wind and the Kanakas had gotten some word of our destination and weren't too enthusiastic about jumping much to meet the Japs. Neither was I. Porpoise said, "Well, Bill, the job gives us a concession on Reeves Atoll. Hard and fast. And that means the pearl bed. And then too we're being patriotic."

"If you'd talk sense," I said, swearing at our Kanakas who were making a mess of getting the mains'l under control, "I'd maybe listen." Porpoise just sat on his fat stern and swallowed some more gin.

"Bill," he said solemnly. "You got no faith! Now take me—" The mains'l blew adrift from the robands then in a sudden squall and Porpoise came out of his cane chair like a balloon. I'll give him credit. He was a sailor when he had to be. His language blistered the deck, the sails and the spars, and we spent an hour getting things under control before we had the Annabelle into the wind again. Porpoise creaked back exhausted and took another drink.

"Now, where was I, Bill? Oh, aye. I got Smithers'— and that means the 'Stralia government's— O.K. that we get the Reeves Atoll concession. An' I got the dynamite, ain't I? Government stock an' all free. All we gotta do—"

"Sure," I said. "All we gotta do is blow a Jap raiding force out of the atoll. You said that before. What I want to know is how!"

Porpoise shook his gin bottle against the sky and shook his head. "Bill, Bill. Don't you remember when we first hit Reeves Atoll?"

I took a look at the compass and walked across to look over the weather rail. I knew something was coming and I wasn't going to like it. "Sure, chum, sure," I said. "We dropped by far water and repairs."

Porpoise coughed and took another drink. "I wouldn't for all the gold in New Guinea mention your private life. Bill— but there was a Kanaka girl on the south beach village—"

I took a deep breath. I might have known it. I choked a bit. I'd loved Nini!

"Ten years ago," I said slowly. "I don't see where it belongs."

Porpoise looked owl-eyed at the sky. "She showed you a new channel into the Reeves Atoll, Bill. On account of her father being sore at your meeting—"

"We can forget that," I said shortly. "But how did you remember?"

"I been over thirty years in the Islands an' I remember a lot of things," said Porpoise dreamily. "That's maybe why I'm still alive. Maybe you too." He sat up and looked at me and suddenly he wasn't kidding. He was Captain Bailey, his blue eyes hard and his voice crisp. "Bill, you know that channel!"

"Sure, I know it," I said. "But that was private stuff."

Porpoise bit the end from a cigar and lighted it. "It air't girl stuff now, Bill," he said grimly. "You an' me's going to make the run into the lesser lagoon of Reeves Atoll."

I got it after a while. I said slowly, "So you sold me, Porpoise. For the sake of getting that shell concession, you told Smithers I knew the east channel."

HE coughed and spilled ashes down his fat belly. For once he seemed embarrassed.

"I ain't letting you down, Bill. I know it was a secret 'tween you an' the gal but we gotta figure on the Jap stuff now, an' you're 'Stralia born like me, an' I told Smithers we could handle it."

"You mean handle the shell bed," I said bitterly. "Porpoise—"

He checked me. "Look, Bill. I've always counted on you!"

That was like telling your mother you counted on her. I'd been mate for Porpoise for over thirty years and I already knew he counted on me just as I knew he'd get me out of any jam I got into. The big slob.

So I just said, "O.K., fella," and let it ride.

So we got up in the vicinity of Reeves Atoll in about ten days, and Porpoise was very mysterious about just what we intended to do, save for the fact that my knowing the secret channel was important. Just before we sighted the Atoll, which was quite a big affair, partly of high volcanic hills, with two lagoons, a lot of small islets inside them, and, save for a main channel, enough surrounding reefs to choke a shark, we heaved to and waited for dark. I might also add that I personally considered ourselves lucky to get that far through waters that were supposed to be swarming with Jap ships, though it's true we had made the course from the east, which was a long way round and not likely to be covered.

"Now, Bill," said Porpoise, after eating, for a change, in the main cabin. "We'll sneak up on the coast."

"Sneak up?" I said incredulously. "Why, there isn't a damned light and what with the coral..." Porpoise shoveled in a spoonful of curried tinned mutton and then wagged the spoon at me.

"No, we don't get too close to the reefs, Bill," he explained tolerantly. "This is going to be a small boat job. You and me go in with a few of the Kanakas and you find the channel. Then, when we're in the small lagoon we toss a couple of the boys ashore and they work overland and do the stuff."

None of this made much sense. I said,

"Listen, Porpoise. I maybe can remember the channel if I can ever find the entrance, but how you expect me to find anything when I can't even get my coast bearings, I dunno. And anyway it's been ten years."

He shook his head, ate some more mutton, washed it down with gin, and then dug up from somewhere in his pajamas a battered copy of the South Pacific p'lot. He was all prepared for me. He importantly cleared his throat, thumbed over a page or so and read as follows: "Reeves Atoll— I'll skip the navigation, Bill, and get to the point— 'On the eastern shore, where is reported to be a channel into the smaller of the two lagoons, there exists at night, for some reason, a curious phosphorescent phenomenon which clearly shows the various drifts and currents to the natives, who are expert at using them when sailing after dark.' "

I remembered then and said, "Why, that's right, Porpoise. You can just about tell where you are by the way the phosphorescence swirls around. There's one rock where it breaks heavy."

"Exactly," said Porpoise. He spilled more cigar ashes and settled back. "I remember you told me about it once. And that's where the channel starts."

I still didn't quite savvy. "It's risky to try it at night," I complained. "After all, ten years, Porpoise..."

He grunted. "That's just because that gal ain't waiting at the other end this time, Bill. You'll get the hang of it when you're started." He considered a while. "Maybe we could wait until dawn at that," he conceded. "Once we're close in. It ain't likely the Japs would have sentries or patrols on the east side. Even the pilot book says it's practically unapproachable except for natives familiar with the waters."

So that was how it laid, except he didn't tell me what the Kanakas we were going to land would try and do. Maybe he had a hunch about what might happen. The fat slob!... Well, never mind! I was first mate to him and I took my orders.

WE came up under the land after dark, with me swearing that a Jap patrol boat would see us, or maybe a plane come out, but nothing happened. Porpoise did say that Smithers had told him it wasn't thought the Japs had any planes around, and probably no patrol boats. Well, that was what Smithers thought, but he wasn't working up to a blank, dark, reef-hung coast like I was, trying to find a certain spot. In any event, I finally made an anchorage over a fishing bank I
remembered, some four miles off-shore, a quartering moon giving me a little light; and using the night-glasses for a while, I finally figured where we were by a prominent clump of palms that had somehow taken root on the top of an enormous rock, the famous phosphorescent rock.

"O.K., Porpoise," I said. "If we gotta try it we gotta try it."

He grunted and got up from his cane chair with his bottle. "Bill," he said generously. "You're a great navigator." He took a drink. "I always knew it." As I'd been straining my eyes out and sweating blood since dark, while he had been relaxing, I felt like saying something back, but refrained. I had the boys get the whaleboat overside and after some shuffling around we started. It wasn't hard to get through the reefs once I had that phosphorescent seabreak around the rock spotted, and memory came surging back to help me. I'd run that channel a score of times with the chief's daughter in the old days, and I remembered the choke I'd had when a shark got her off the main reef when she was swimming. But there wasn't too much time to think of that now, with the whaleboat hitting the inrushing tide and sweeping along. We went by the big rock, and the phosphorescence was spectacular, and I remembered you had to go hard a-starboard where it foamed over the up-jutting coral. Then you went dead ahead until the surf on Jigger's Reef gleamed white in the moonlight, and you slid to port with the phosphorescent stream and just followed it in. I was dripping with sweat when we floated into the smaller lagoon, and Porpoise, who had done nothing but get comfortable and gurgle on his bottle and complain about not being able to light a cigar in case anyone saw him, gave a satisfied grunt.

"Nice work, Bill," he said heartily. "Nice work... An' now we gotta beach her."

"What shore?" I said wearily. "The lagoon's all yours."

"North shore," he stated. "North shore's best."

So I had the men get the oars out and start pulling. We had had to use only the steering oar while we were in the current. And I beached the whale-boat as ordered.

"Nice work. Bill," said Porpoise again and then we all froze as a flashlight came on us. Porpoise swallowed so hard you could hear him. "So they did have a patrol on this coast," he said weakly. "And Smithers was sure..."

"Smithers and you were both sure of a lot of things," I said bitterly, and there was no time for any more because the flashlight came down to the water's edge and a sharp voice challenged once in Japanese and then switched, "Ah, the British... Land now!" There was some accent but it didn't matter. It was a Jap officer and a six-man patrol and we'd been caught in the act. I don't know why they didn't shoot us out of hand, but Porpoise always said it was because they were astonished and anyway wanted to find out where we came from and why. The main thing is we were herded up the beach to a large tent, inside which a light gleamed. Our Kanakas were slapped around a bit and then told to sit down on the beach, but some gun-muzzles prodded Porpoise and me inside the tent where two importantlooking Japs were seated at a folding table, studying a chart, by the light of a hurricane lamp round which the usual giant moths and swarms of smaller insects were swarming. The officers looked up, irritated, as we barged in, and one barked some questions which the officer behind us answered. Whatever it was it seemed to cause some consternation.

The seeming big chief switched to English and addressed me: "And where did you come from? Where is your ship? Why are you here? Answer quickly."

I said, "He's the skipper," and jerked a thumb at Porpoise.

"Skipper, skipper?" said the Jap, frowning. "Ah, yes. The captain, you mean." He stared at Porpoise and Porpoise coughed and wiped his forehead on his sleeve.

"My ship struck a reef an' sunk not a coupla hours ago," he croaked. "Half the men lost. We just got away in time. We was aiming to make Formus Island but I guess I got off me course."

The officer who had rounded us up put in something then and the big chief snapped, "Well, if you are shipwrecked why are you found with so much explosives?"

"Well, I'll tell you," said Porpoise. He was always good at telling things. "I been around the Islands a good many years an' I been wrecked a time or two, and you don't know what you're liable to find when you land, and a little explosive is handy to toss at the natives if they ain't peaceful." He mopped his forehead again. He was talking for his life this time and he knew it. "Also, it's better for fishing than anything else, and a guy's gotta eat."

I SUPPOSE a lot of his lingo puzzled the Jap, for he conferred with the other officers a while, and then called in our Kanakas one by one and fired questions at them in what sounded to me like bad imitations of half a dozen dialects. You can learn Kanaka dialects all right, if you're around among the Islands long enough, but each group has its own way of saying the same word, which is why we always talk pidgin or beche-de-mer English to all hands regardless, and that's something only us traders get the hang of. The Jap didn't have it. He tried everything I ever heard of, but you can always figure on a Kanaka looking stupid and acting the same when he doesn't like anyone, and none of ours liked Japs. So they just didn't understand. The big chief finally gave up and ordered Porpoise to translate his questions to the Kanakas. This was lovely. Porpoise addressed the Marshall Islanders in the Marquesan dialect, and our Fly River boys in the Marshall Island dialect. No one understood anyone, and when they ordered me to try I just said that for a fair cow I didn't know any Kanaka talk, which was mainly true if you count out the swearing and how to kid the vahinas, that is, the girls.

So it all ended in us being ushered out pretty roughly by a very angry officer, and ordered to sit down on the beach near a large fire and keep still. As they had the whole damned patrol watching us there was nothing much else we could do. Porpoise flopped on the sand, with a lot of grunting effort, and leaned his back against a rock.

"You know, Bill," he said, lighting up a cigar which had somehow escaped confiscation. "They ain't going to shoot us yet."

"Can you read minds?" I wanted to know. "It looks to me—"

"Shush, Bill. They still ain't sure where we came from nor why, and they gotta talk it over. Maybe they gotta get in touch with some other officers."

"At daylight," I pointed out, "they'll probably spot the Annabelle and they'll have a launch out for a look-see, and then where does our goose get cooked?"

"Maybe it don't get cooked, Bill," said Porpoise seriously. He coughed, blinked up at the great stars and dropped cigar ash on his shirt. "Bill, what's the big weed on this bloody atoll? I mean what makes the Kanakas cuss, and work on a hoe when they don't want to, because it spreads all over the yam and taro patches."

"Why, that's the lush-berry," I started and then stopped.

Porpoise looked very comical squatting there on the sand in the firelight, like a Buddha looking at his own belly. But I began to get an idea what he was thinking. I managed a strained, "Well, Porpoise?"

"It ain't a cinch, Bill," he said dreamily. "But it's a chance. What's the lush-berry, Bill?"

"I don't know the highbrow name," I managed. "It's just lush-berry to me, an' the Kanakas squeeze it up and put the juice in the water and it stuns the fish so they float up."

PORPOISE smiled one of his bull whale smiles and spilled more cigar ash on his chins. "Which means it's as good as dynamite, Bill. And if you look back of you, you'll see a raft of lush-berries growing. An' if you look at the fire you'll see a big pot of rice all ready to be warmed up for breakfast...  And if you'll look a ways to port you'll see our Kanakas, and particularly Siru who can steal a glass eye from a bronze monkey and move with about as much noise as one of them dancing girls we used to see in Sing'pore. Now if I just sing a bit in bush-talk don't pay no attention."

"It's a hell of a long shot," I objected and Porpoise said, "Shut up, Bill. You'll always be a first mate." And then he began to sing with a voice like a lost bull walrus, and even I didn't get all of the drift, but Siru evidently did. Everyone looked around startled at first, then the Jap sentries relaxed and grinned at the crazy white man, and the other Kanakas grinned too, but Siru stopped grinning after a few moments and made a curious motion with his hands. I suddenly remembered then that Siru was the youngest son of King Feringa of the Samson Group, and that sometime back in his lurid youth Porpoise had become blood-brother to Feringa. In the Islands that means a lot. I was always forgetting things about Porpoise, but he forgot nothing, and he knew that so far as Siru was concerned he was his adopted father. So he sang, and what he sang was not only obscene, as much as I got of it, but was also very instructive. The Jap officers peered out of the tent at first to see what the noise was about, but then with explosive comments withdrew.

When Porpoise subsided, which was a relief, and the Japs had finished grinning at him and apparently making jokes about his vast stomach, I saw that Siru had disappeared and the other Kanakas had huddled together so he could not easily be missed.

One officer came out of the tent after a while and asked Porpoise what seemed to me a lot of useless questions. He wanted to know how we knew the Matsui Maru was based on the atoll, and had we been sent ashore to attack her. As this was all news to me I could only stare at Porpoise and wonder why he'd been so secretive with his personal first mate. The Matsui Maru had been raiding through the northern Islands, and the 'Stralian navy had never officially been able to figure where she was based.

"Mister," said Porpoise, looking owllike and innocent, "I never 'eared of that ship. Like I said, I'm just a shipwrecked trader." The Jap officer then did something that made me sick. He jerked a rifle from one of the sentries and with what I suppose was an oath swung it butt-first into Porpoise's stomach. I've made a lot of remarks about that stomach but I never expected to see it hit like that. Porpoise doubled over and was very sick. I came to my feet, boiling mad! Hell, he was my skipper!... and I got the butt on the side of my head— and that was that.

I came to, to find Siru bathing my face in the lagoon water. The fire was half-dead and only two of the Japs were alert, the rest asleep on the sand. The tent was dark. I said, "Porpoise?" and Siru nodded his head. "The big man is still sick," he said gravely. "But he will be better." And leaning around I saw Porpoise was on his back, apparently still in pain from his gruntings, but also apparently, from his spasms of swearing, not yet entirely dead.

"Is it done?" I asked Siru.

He looked at the two sentries who were watching us curiously, and he laughed. "It is well done, sir. The juice of the lush-berry catches fish. Why not yellow ones?"

IN the cool of the new dawn the sentries threw fresh fuel on the fire and placed on the rice pot. Porpoise was feeling better by now, and aside from his swearing and what I knew was a prodigious thirst, seemed reasonably recovered. The officers in the tent were bustling with life, barking orders or something, and all the Jap soldiers were alert and jumping around. The rice pot began to steam and one soldier served the officers filled bowls, together with tinned fish and some green coconuts, and then the soldiers ate themselves. They ignored us entirely, probably considering we could wait, and that was very considerate. I knew that Siru had crushed the pods of the lush-berry and dropped the juice into the pot, and I didn't want to be a stunned fish. He had done it very cleverly after Porpoise had quit singing, getting the other Kanakas to draw the Jap sentries' attention by performing native dances for them while he went silently back and forth to the bush. All in all it was a very neat job, which no green chum could have managed. I practically patted Siru on the head.

"Bill," said Porpoise weakly, about the time the sun was well up and every damned Jap was so doped he couldn't move— I hadn't thought the lush-berry was quite that good— "Bill," said Porpoise. He was still a bit groggy. "My guts are sore as hell an' I ain't feeling so good, but you tell them Kanakas to get busy now they got the dynamite back."

"I still don't know what the idea is," I protested. "What the hell are we supposed to do?"

"I didn't know the Matsui Maru was here either," said Porpoise kindly. "But Smithers had the idea." He lighted a cheroot he had found somewhere and frowned, and came down with what information he had. "An' I need a drink damned bad. But if you'll remember, the main channel to the big lagoon goes through two headland reefs, high cliffs and close together. Well, you blow 'em up and choke everything. Even the Matsui Maru. The 'Stralian navy will take care of her later, once she's shut in."

"But they can blow themselves free," I objected, and Porpoise groaned. "Bill, you'll always be a first mate. A couple of bundles under them rocks will blast them into the channel. Nothing can get out save a sea-gull, and it'd be a long, tough underwater job to blow the channel clear again. Why I ever keep signing you—"

I said hurriedly, "All right, cobber," and found him some sake in the officer's tent; had the Kanakas bind and gag all the Japs; and leaving Porpoise behind to hold his sore gut and his bottle, told the Kanakas to go ahead. What happened is history, I suppose, even if I didn't know the angle at the time. The Fly River and Marshall Island boys eased through the Japs clustered around the big lagoon, babying me along through the jungle, and we planted the dynamite where it would do most good and stayed to watch the fireworks. There was the big raider Matsui Maru riding at anchor in the lagoon, along with a couple of tankers, and we got them all bottled up, and there was more yelling and screaming than you could imagine. We blew in the entire entrance, and if I do say so, it was a lovely job, a fair cow as we say in 'Stralia, and we all got out while the excitement was on.

You could see the Japs had no idea what had happened, except they were bottled in, and I thought what a soft thing it would be for Smithers to come steaming up now and lob a few shells over and then accept the inevitable surrender. Certainly there'd be no more raiding along the 'Stralia route, from this base at least.

We eased back through the jungle, and met a few Japs on the way, and I didn't look too much while the Kanakas went to work. I ain't a mug to worry about a straight shooting job but I don't like native ways any too well. They're sort of messy.

We reached the other beach at dawn and Porpoise, who was revived now, was drinking his breakfast as usual. He said, "What ho?" I gave him a description and then I said, "Well, let's get to hell out while we can." He gurgled a bit on his bottle and said, "Fair enough, Bill. This sake's terrible. Just pile the Japs in the boat and we'll go."

I said, "Do we have to be bogged down with a lot of Japs for ballast?" and he stated, "Certainly, Bill. I'd a bet with Smithers I'd bring him a few souvenirs."

I had no more to say to that. You couldn't out-talk Porpoise. So we hauled our captive and still doped Japs back to the Annabelle, and we sailed for 'Stralia again, and apart from the fact that we got expenses out of it from the government, I still didn't see why Porpoise had let Smithers talk him into such a lousy job, even if we did know the channel. That is, I did! That is, also, I didn't see the angle until later. They gave me and Siru a medal which neither of us knew what to do with, but Smithers sent Porpoise six cases of gin.

You figure it out, chum!

___________________

12: An Old Norman-French Story

Anonymous

Newcastle Chronicle (NSW) 25 May 1869

A VILLAIN, by dint of labour and avarice, had become very rich, and his friends and neighbours advised him, now that he could afford it, to get a wife, and enjoy domestic comfort like other sensible people. He said he did not well know how to set about it, but if they took the trouble to look out for a good woman, he would marry her on their recommendation.

There was a gentleman in the neighbourhood who had a good and well-looking daughter still unmarried, as he was not able to afford her a dowry. The neighbours got the father's consent, and though the poor young girl was very unwilling to marry the miserly boor, she gave way to her father's persuasions.

The villain was very proud of the match for a while, but when he was out at his work in the fields, he began to think that this fine lady-wife would hardly take any pleasure in household work, and would feel very lonesome.

'Who knows,' thought he, 'but that in my absence some chevaliers of her acquaintance may begin to pay visits, aud entertain her with remarks on her husband's vulgarity! I know what I'll do.'

The next day, when he was just going out, after breakfast, he took a stout switch in his hand, and gave her a good beating, notwithstanding her cries.

'She'll have something to think about now till I return,' said he, as he went to his work.

When he came back, aud found her poor face swelled, and the tears startled out again, he begged her pardon a score of times, said he must have been mad for the time, etc, etc. There was great cordiality on both sides that evening and night, but next day she got her second beating, and this time thoughts of revenge came into her head.

During a shower, a couple of gentlemen, riding by, asked for shelter, and, when resting comfortably at the fire, they told their story.

'We are two of the king's counts, and are seeking for an eminent phisicien to take a fish-bone out of the poor princess's throat, where it has been for five days. We'll get the fit man if we were to travel to England for it.

'You have no further to travel,' said she, ' than to that second field,' pointing... to it. 'You see there a gentleman holding a plough ; that is the greatest physician in France.'

'Oh, thank goodness!'

'But attend to what I say. He dislikes his profession, and will not go with you unless you give him a sound cudgelling.'

'And that ho must get, if necessary,' said they.

They made their way to the villain where he was at work.

'Hail, great physician! We are sent to request your presence at the palace; the princess has been suffering for five days,' etc, etc.

'Gentlemen, you mock me ; I know nothing whatever of cures.'

A short discourse followed, and at the end of it the counts let fall a shower of blows on his back and shoulders.

'Stay your hands, gentlemen, I am ready.'

Then all possible respect was paid him.

WHEN they came to the palace, the messengers whispered the king about his whims. So when his Majesty desired him to follow him to his daughter's room, and he fell on his knees aud acknowledged his ignorance, two servants were ready with their canes, and exercised them too.

'Ah!' said the poor fellow, 'if I am to cure ths princess, make a big fire in the middle of the hall, and let no one be :ett in it but the princess and myself.'

The fire was made, and all went out but the poor, suffering princess, who sat in a high chair, while the doctor, taking off his coat and waistcoat, lay beside the fire, and went through such twistings and turnings, and made such abominable faces, and sung such comical verses, that the lady, in spite of her pain, burst out laughing, and out with the same laugh came the bone.

He seized it, and opening the door, there never was so joyful a man as her father.

'Ah, my dear friend,' said he, 'you must stay here all your life; I shall make you the happiest man in the world.'

The villain thought of his wife, and asked leave to go away, but did not get it.

Next day there were fifty sick people waiting at the gates before they were opened, for the princess's cure was known through the whole city. When the king heard of the crowd waiting to be cured, he begged the doctor to come to them and give them relief.  He was about making another excuse, but he caught a sight of the canes in the hands of the two servants.

'I'll do my endeavour, your Majesty,' said he. 'Let a strong fire be made in the room, and all that are in health quit it.'

It was done, and the doctor, drawing near the fire, addressed the sick crowd.

'My skill is very great, but the king has required too much of me, and too short a time to do it in. Nothing but a very severe remedy is sufficient, and that remedy is the ashes of a human body, just burnt, and taken on water. One of you must submit to lose his life for the sake of the rest.'

'You,' said he, seizing by the sleeve a miserable pale object, ' seem the nearest to death; prepare!'

'Oh, I'm not ill at all; I'm in perfect health.'

'And what brings you here, you hypocrite? Be off!'

Ho was only waiting for the wind of the word. He rushed out of the room, and ran past the king.

'What's the matter?

'Oh, your Majesty, I'm perfectly cured. He's a wonderful doctor.'

And out they came very quickly, by ones and twos, crying out the praises of the wonderful man. When the king found that no one in the whole city was ill, he loaded the doctor with presents and sent him home.

His lady got no more beatings.

__________________

13: Beauty in Flight

Anonymous

Albury Banner and Wodonga Express 3 Sep 1937

BILL MADISON rarely came to London, but Dick Sowerby's note had a friendly urgency that was hard to resist. They had been at the same school, they had continued their friendship during the years in which Bill had settled down as a rural landlord and Dick had developed into a painter of eminence. Now Dick had taken a big new studio, and wanted Bill to come and see it.

From Victoria Bill took a taxi to the studio. It was pleasantly suggestive of the artistic temperament in possession of a large and assured income. The deep porch ended in a green door; the windows on either side were bow, with boxes on their sills, bright with autumnal flowers.

Mr. Sowerby, it appeared, was out.

'Would the gentleman mind waiting, as the butler was just leaving for his afternoon out?'

'Don't worry about me,' said Bill, and was forthwith escorted across the hall to the new studio.

Bill dropped into an armchair by the wide fireplace and yawned. And from yawning passed, by the usual pleasant stages, to dozing.

An insistent rapping roused him; knowing that no one else was in, Bill went and opened the door.

Huddling in the angle of the porch was a girl with dark hair and large, grey eyes. As she raised them to Bill's he saw that they were desperately frightened.

'Oh, let me in,' she gasped. 'Quickly, quickly!' and before he had time to answer she shot past him like a scared rabbit, and into the studio, slamming the door behind her.

Bill followed. She was invisible, but the curtain screening a small recess, presumably the model's dressing-room fluttered wildly.

'I say—'

'He's not following me?' The voice was a shaken whisper.

'No one's following you.'

The curtain was drawn back; the girl reappeared. Her face became calmer. There was even the ghost of a smile. It occurred to Bill that she was not only young, but extraordinarily pretty.

'Don't you think,' he hinted, 'that I'm entitled to a spot of explanation?'

'Of course. But fasten that door first.'

The studio door possessed a stout lock. Bill turned the key and came back to his visitor.

'Let's make a start with the name,' he suggested.

'It's Jennifer Prout. I've just come back from America. Uncle Joshua and Uncle Thomas, the only two relations I've got, live there. They asked me to go out and see them, and I went. The firm I had been working for had given up business, and I was out of a job.

'I had a perfect time. But on the way back I met a man named Julius Macarra. An Argentine. I suppose he'd be considered handsome, if you liked his sort of handsomeness. But I didn't. I didn't like his manners nor his voice— or— or anything about him. Directly after we landed at Southampton he asked me to marry him. Of course I wouldn't.'

'Of course,' added Bill, heartily.

'I came straight to London, thinking I'd get rid of him. But at Waterloo he stepped out of the next compartment.'

'I hate interrupting,' said Bill, 'but this looks to me a plain case for a two minutes' chat with the nearest P.C.'

'I expected you to say that. Well, it isn't.'

'Why not?'

'I 've done something that— that makes me afraid of the police.'

'Serious?'

She nodded.

'And this chap knows it and is trading on the fact? What a perfect little gentleman! But I'm interrupting.'

'I escaped him at Waterloo by jumping in a taxi, and telling the driver to drive like anything to the Crystal Palace. It was the first place that came into my head. He jumped in the next taxi and followed, but a traffic block held him up. When we were out of sight I told my driver that I'd changed my mind and would go to Chelsea. At the corner of this street I got out. I was just paying the man when I saw the other taxi in the distance. I lost my head, and dashed for the neatest shelter— here, what's that?'

A door swung open, their own front door. Bill had forgotten to latch it.

'It's him! He mustn't know I'm here.'

'Then skip behind those curtains again.'

Bill, after a half-minute pause, turned the key and flung, the door open. In the passage stood a smartly— too smartly— dressed man of about' thirty, with a complexion that suggested South America's coral strands. He carried a new and shiny attaché-case, which he dumped on the floor.

'And who?' demanded Bill, 'are you?'

'No matter who I am. I wish to speak to the young lady who dashed in here just now.'

'Sorry,' Bill said, 'but these shock tactics of yours simply won't do. Unless you can produce a police warrant, which of course you can't, you'll get no information from me. On the contrary, you're running considerable risk of beirig slung out.'

'Slung out, hey!'

'Past tense of "sling",' amplified Bill, obligingly.

The dark man flung a vindictive glance round.

'There is a girl here'— he raised his voice— 'who is wanted for a crime. She knows it, I know it. But like the little fool, she hides. Far better she make friends. Else I go the whole hog.'

'Naturally,' said Bill, still patient. 'But this, happens to be a private studio. Over there you see a painting just begun. On the walls we have a collection of other paintings, weapons, and the sort of junk one always accumulates in studios. On the floor rugs.'

He was edging the visitor towards tne doorway as he spoke.

'I will search.'

Mr. Macarra, with blazing eyes, dashed past him. 'You shall not bluff me! Ha!' he pointed with a quivering finger. 'Behind that curtain I see .a foot. iShe conceals herself here.'

Bill reached the alcove with a split second to spare. 'That, my son, is where the model goes when she's resting or changing, and where you.'re not going.'

'Liar!'

Bill smiled, removed his coat, and rolled up his sleeves.

'There are,' he remarked, 'four exits from this studio, counting the skylight and the fireplace. You can choose any one of them. But I'd advise you to be quick. The door is the most pop—'

Smack— a dark palm landed on Bill's cheek.

Bill had, in the course of his life, punched and been punched by various people, mainly without any special rancour. But face-slapping by a greasy person of mixed blood was a novelty. He had to follow his enemy three more paces backwards before he got in his first blow. After which the fight began in earnest.

He soon found that Mr. Macarra cared nothing about rules. He butted, he hit below the belt, he lashed out with his feet; once he succeeded in catching Bill's left hand by the wrist and biting it.

Presently, still backing, he reached the further wall. With lizard-like speed he slid sideways, and snatched.

There was a grating sound, the clatter of a wooden scabbard on the floor. Bill's eye caught the flash of metal and his heart plunged. Mr. Macarra had armed himself with a Japanese sword.

Bill made a desperate effort to grab his enemy's wrist. He. failed to hang on; felt Macarra tearing himself free, heard his malignant chuckle, saw the sword rise— and then beheld a miracle. For Macarra 's feet shot suddenly sideways, the sword flew out of his hand, and he crashed on the parquet flooring. The girl was standing beside him. Her eyes were shining, her breath coming gustily.

'What happened?' asked Bill.

'I ran out and caught hold of his ankles. And pulled.'

'Thereby jolly well saving my life,' said Bill.

He bent over the figure. 'And now he's knocked silly, and looks like staying knocked for some considerable time. That being so—' he slid the Japanese sword back into its sheath, 'I suggest we leave him to collect what's coming to him.'

'I don't understand.'

Bill explained. It was a simple plan. Swiftly they gathered as many small and valuable objects as possible and packed them in the empty attaché case. A couple of Chinese bronzes Bill insinuated into the South American's pockets.

'We will now,' he said, 'steal silently away. From the nearest telephone booth I shall ring up the police, telling them that I've heard sounds coming from the studio which suggest burglars, and advising them to do something about it. I should like to be there to listen to his explanation, but it cannot be. This way.'

He seized the girl by the hand, and hurried her through the studio and passage into the street, leaving the door closed, but not fastened, behind him. There was a telephone box at the corner.

'The next move,' said Bill, 'is tea. But not, I think, in Chelsea. Jump in this bus and we'll see how far they'll take us for twopence.'

'Perhaps,' he continued, when they had settled down, 'you can now bring yourself to tell me exactly what crime you 've committed. '

'It was smuggling, ' said Miss Prout, in a low voice. 'I was silly enough to mention that I'd bought a whole lot of hand-made lace in America, and didn't want to pay any duty on it.'

'And he threatened to split?'

'Yes. He said that there 'd been so much lace smuggling lately that the authorities were going to make an example, and that I should get at least twelve months' imprisonment.'

'He'll be lucky if he gets off with twice that. Personally, I'd give him an extra ten years for blackmailing. There's been no duty on lace of that kind for years and years.'

'What?'

'That's so. By the way, do those American uncles of yours happen to be men of property?'

'How funny you should ask!' Only last week a frightfully rich vein of copper was found in a mine they own. There was heaps about it in the papers.'

'Hence Mr. Macarra 's passionate interest in their only relation.'

'Goodness, I never thought of that!'

'He did. Where's your luggage?'

'I left it in the cloak-room at Waterloo. Why?'

'I was going to suggest that you might like to come down to Little Poodley for a day or so's rest. Healthy climate, lovely views, no worries, and a jolly old aunt to look after you.'

'You're most awfully kind,' said Miss Prout.

MR. MACARRA, whose past turned out to be far too lurid to make his rambling story of his presence in the studio worth believing, went to prison for three years. Jennifer married Bill the week after the sentence.

Dick, having heard the story in full, functioned as best man, and painted the bride's portrait for a wedding present.

_________________

14: Genesis

Michael Romain

Telegraph (Brisbane) 2 March 1935

Apart from this story, and the titles of two stories published in 1932, I can find nothing about this author.

HE had been christened Stephen James Lee, but his friends called him "Genesis," because, if one believed all he said, there was no celebrity in England whose foot he had not set on the ladder of fame or fortune. He pretended to be an actor, but he had long forgotten the last part he had played.Genesis lived by his wits.

Genesis strolled along Oxford street. He had exactly 10 shillings in his pocket— all he possessed in the world. Genesis was hungry, not for sandwiches, but for real food; a juicy steak, potatoes, a tartlet, cheese. He drew a deep breath and turned down Regent street. Presently he entered a restaurant.

"A table, sir?"

"Not for the moment," answered Genesis. "I'm supposed to be meeting a friend for lunch: I can't remember If It was to bo here or down the road."

He strolled out. There had not been a soul in the restaurant that he had known. Three times he played the same trick without success. Finally he entered a Strand grill-room. If he drew a blank here then he would, have to eat somewhere at his own expense.

By George! If It wasn't Tony Lester, the ex-jockey, and Joe Boothby, who peddled shares. And a seat empty at the table.

GENESIS approached. His star was in the ascendant. It wouldn't help Tony to look toldly in his direction, or Joe to mutter under his breath. They were his meal tickets, cornered.

"Good morning, gentlemen," said Genesis.

Grunts.

"Thank you," said Genesis, and sat down. He picked up the menu. "Now, would you rather I ordered myself?" he asked, significantly.

"No," snapped Boothby, "I'll do that."

Genesis smiled. The trick never failed. Boothby ordered and Genesis ate hungrily. Anything to keep his mouth closed, reflected Lester. Then Boothby, who had been glancing surreptitiously at a newspaper on his knees, laid it on the table.

"Listen to this," he said. " 'Peer's Romance. The engagement is announced to-day between Lord Bernian and Mrs. J. B. Forster.' "

"Lord Bernian. That's the man they dug up somewhere in the backwoods. Isn't it?" remarked Lester.

"Canada," added Boothby. "I expect the trustees must be hoping that hes not like the rest of the family. When God make the Bernians He forgot to add in the odd spot of honesty. They're a bunch of crooks, every man jack of them," he added virtuously, as though he had never seen the inside of a gaol himself.

"I wouldn't be surprised if guy isn't phoney himself," growled little Lester. "Turning up out of nowhere like that."

"Oh, he's all right," interrupted Genesis calmly. "I met him out in Montreal some years ago. He told me of his expectations, and I said I'd see that the solicitors over here were kept aware of his existence. If It hadn't been for me he wouldn't be where he is to-day."

Boothby glared at him. He was on the point of making a sarcastic rejoinder when suddenly he found himself looking beyond Genesis at a man who was seated a little distance away.

Boothby glanced at his newspaper again. Above the announcement of Lord Bornian's engagement was his portrait. The likeness was unmistakable.

"Must look him up some time," murmured Genesis.

"I'll save you the trouble," thought Boothby. He signalled to a waiter, and asked for paper and a pencil. He scribbled a few words:—

Dear Bernian,— Remember Montreal? Congratulations on your engagement. Come over for a moment. — S. J. Lee.

Boothby folded the slip of paper and banded it to the waiter.

"To the gentleman over there," he whispered. "From this table."

Then he raised his newspaper and covertly watched Lord Bernian receive the note, frown over it, and rise to his feet.

Masking his glee, Boothby leaned forward and said to Genesis; "Your old friend Lord Bernian Is coming over."

Genesis stared at him. The expression oh his face compensated Boothby for all he had ever endured from him.

Lord Bernian approached.

"Mr. Lee?" he inquired with the faintest suspicion of a drawl.

"That's right," answered Genesis uneasily.

To Boothby's astonishment Lord Bernian extended his hand.

"Thanks for your note," he said to Genesis. "I didn't notice you sitting with your back to me. Clever of you to have recognised me. I had a beard in those days."

"Yes, of course," agreed Genesis, slowly.

"Are you quite well?"

Genesis nodded. "Staying in town?" he asked.

"Only over to-day," answered Lord Bernian. "We must meet some time." "Yes," said Genesis.

LORD BERNIAN nodded and walked away. Boothby smiled wryly. He signalled to a waiter.

"Brandy and cigars," he ordered.

Genesis leaned back in his chair.

"Sorry," said Boothby, "but I thought it was one of your little fancies."

Genesis smiled. He rolled his brandy glass. Lord Bernian remembered him in Montreal. Lord Bernian.

Genesis kept his eye on Lord Bernian until he saw him signal for the bill. Then he rose hastily to his feet.

Genesis stood in the lobby, his heart throbbing with excitement. Lord Bernian came out, tall and gaunt. Genesis felt a little afraid of him.

"Hullo," he said cheerfully.

Lord Bernian stopped and smiled. "I've a little business proposition which I think would interest you."

"I'd like to hear it," said Lord Bernian promptly. "Come along to my flat."

THE taxi stopped in a turning off Jermyn street, and Lord Bernian led the way into a block of service flats. Genesis rapidly rehearsed his plan. His mind was still engrossed in it when the door of Lord Bernlan's sitting-room closed with a click behind him.

"Now, what's this proposition of yours?" asked Lord Bernian.

Genesis moistened his lips. "It concerns a loan for ten thousand pounds which I'm negotiating," he said. Genesis hesitated. "I thought that you might advance me the money."

"Why?" Lord Bernlan's tone was sharp and defiant.

"Because of a curious idea that's occurred to me," answered Genesis boldly.

"What idea?"

"That you aren't the real Lord Bernian!"

Genesis expected an outburst. Instead, Lord Bernian smiled.

"That note in the restaurant," continued Genesis, "was sent to you by my friend as a joke. I'd never set eyes on you before, and you'd never set eyes on me. And yet you remembered me in Montreal."

"Then I apologise for my mistake in knowing you," said Lord Bernian calmly. "I never did have a good memory for faces. I must be more careful in the future."

"You don't seem to realise the position you're in," said Genesis.

"I realise that you've got hold of a ridiculous idea that I'm not who I am," retorted Lord Bernian, "and you think you can turn that idea to blackmail."

Genesis stood up. "I'm sorry we've had this little difference of opinion," he said. "I'll leave you my telephone number. You might like to ring me up some time."

"All right," said Lord Bernian with an effort. "You win. But ten thousand's out of the question. I haven't that much money in the world."

"I'll tell  you what I'll do," suggested Genesis affably. "I'll settle with you for a thousand."

"Seven-fifty— in cash, and not a penny more!" exclaimed Lord Bernian.

Genesis hesitated.

"All right," he agreed.

Lord Bernian took out his note-case and counted fifteen £50 notes.

"Here you are," he said coldly, "and mind, no funny business."

"Lord Bernian..." began Genesis eloquently.

Alone, Lord Bernian smiled grimly. He walked with quick steps to his bedroom. Where his suitcases were standing packed and ready for a journey.

GENESIS stepped into the sunshine. His mind was in a delicious, triumphant whirl. He was rich beyond his wildest dreams. He wandered aimlessly round the shops, conscious only of the wad of notes in his pocket, but too bewildered to break into them.

Imperceptibly, darkness fell. Genesis found himself near the grill-room where he had lunched. Feeling pangs of hunger, he entered and ordered himself a magnificent dinner. Genesis presented a £50 note in payment.

After a moment's hesitation the waiter took it. There was some delay before the change was brought, but Genesis was too absorbed in his thoughts to notice it. He tipped well and strolled out of the room like a conqueror.

In the lobby the maitre d'hôtel was waiting for him.

"Excuse me, sir," he said. "Will you come Into my office for a moment?"

Genesis followed him through a side door. There were two other men In the room, burly, with bowler hats perched on their knees. They had "detective" written all over them.

"Is this fifty pound note yours?" asked one of the men.

Genesis hesitated. "Yes."

"How did you come by it?"

"It was given to me."

"By whom?"

"A friend."

"What for?"

"In payment of a debt."

"What debt?"

"What right have you to question me like this?" Genesis asked as he rose to his feet. "What have I done?"

"Uttered a counterfeit note."

"Counterfeit!" Genesis moistened his dry lips. "There must be some mistake," he stammered. "That note was given to me by Lord Bernian himself."

"I'm afraid you must come along to headquarters," said one of the detectives.

Too bewildered to protest. Genesis left the restaurant.

On the pavement the placards of a news-seller caught his eye.

PEER IMPERSONATED BY COUSIN

POLICE HUNT FOR PEER'S COUSIN

PEER'S COUSIN AND COUNTERFEIT MONEY

Suddenly, Genesis remembered Boothby's words at lunch.

"When God made the Bernians... A bunch of crooks every man Jack of them..."

In the soft night Genesis remembered everything too late.

____________________

15: A Barrack Ghost Story

Anonymous

Chambers's Journal,  27 Feb 1886.

'PRISONER, have you any objection to be tried by me as president, or by any member of this court-martial?' asked the field-officer who had been detailed for the duty of presiding over the court.

'No, sir,' I answered; for it was my most unenviable situation that morning to be brought to the courtroom for trial, having been 'put back' by my commanding officer a few days before on a charge of having been asleep on my post while on sentry; an offence characterised in my indictment as 'conduct in prejudice to good order and military discipline.'

The members composing the court were then sworn, and the trial proceeded in the cumbrous fashion peculiar to military tribunals, the president laboriously writing down every word of the evidence as it was uttered. The sergeant who had been in charge of the guard at the time of my alleged offence was the principal witness against me, and he began to describe, with grotesquely ungrammatical volubility, how he had found me stretched on the ground asleep; but was at once pulled up short by the president, who ordered him to say what he had to say in as few words as possible.

'Was the prisoner sober?' asked one of the officers when the sergeant had finished his evidence.

'Quite sober, sir,' replied the man of stripes.

The men who composed the relief having corroborated the sergeant's statement, I was called upon for my defence.

I therefore narrated to the court, that shortly before my two hours on duty had expired, I saw a white figure carrying a drawn sword pass close to my post; and that, being of a nervous, excitable temperament, I was so frightened that I fell to the ground in an unconscious state, and only recovered when I was roused by the sergeant of the guard.

'Prisoner,' remarked the president, 'in my twenty years' experience of the army, I have served on numerous courts-martial, and have heard all kinds of ingenious defences put forward by men in your present position in excuse of the offences with which they were charged; but your line of defence is the most remarkable that has come under my observation. Who, do you think, will credit a story of that description? Assuredly not I, for one.—Now, prisoner,' continued the major in a kindly tone, 'I must advise you that your action in submitting to the court a statement of that description is extremely injudicious. You will do yourself a positive injury by persevering in it, not only with regard to the probable extent of your punishment, but also to your reputation as a soldier. It will be far better for you simply to own that you were asleep. You are a young man who has served but six months in the regiment; so, under the circumstances, assuming that you adopt my suggestion, which is assuredly meant for your good, the court may think fit, consistently with the duty demanded of it by the hard and fast requirements of military law, to recommend a much lighter sentence of imprisonment than would be administered to an older and more experienced member of the service.'

'I can only tell the truth, sir,' I urged.

'That, then, is your defence— that you were frightened by the figure you saw?' asked the officer in a tone of vexation.

'That is my defence, sir,' I replied.

'Very well,' said the president, writing down my statement.— 'Escort, remove the prisoner.— Stop! About his character? Call the captain of his company.'

My captain answering the summons, stated that my conduct had been most exemplary; after which I received the command: 'Left turn, quick march!' and was removed to the guardroom; and the members of the court-martial began their deliberations on the duration of the period of imprisonment which they meant to administer to me.

I shall now relate the facts in connection with the appearance of the 'figure' before alluded to. At one o'clock on the morning of my arrest, I was posted on sentry in front of a wall which had been built on the face of a cliff overhanging the beach. Why that particular spot required guarding, when any attempt on the part of a soldier to break out of barracks would be equivalent to committing suicide, as the rock had a sheer unbroken descent of one hundred and fifty feet, was a matter of puzzling speculation to the men of all the regiments which in turn occupied the quarters I refer to. A tradition, however, which was retailed to me by an aged veteran who officiated as a barrack labourer, threw some light on the subject. Many years before, the colonel of a regiment which was about to leave the town in order to embark for India, placed a sentry on the spot, to prevent his men from throwing over the cliff the rubbish that accumulates in changing quarters; and the relieving regiment finding this man on duty, had supplied his place without troubling themselves about the why and wherefore; the post became in consequence a permanent institution, and a sentry guards the wall to this day.

The morning on which I was on guard was exceedingly cold and frosty. The moon shone brightly, throwing the dark shadow of the adjoining officers' quarters half-way across the parade-ground in front. In the valley beneath I could see distinctly every gable and chimney of the houses of the old-fashioned town that nestled so cosily in the hollow between the precipitous cliffs. The moon was reflected brightly in the ocean to the south, and by its light I could even see the glittering bayonet of the sentry who guarded the government stores on the pier, a mile distant. Our gallant soldiers on duty, however, have but little regard for the picturesque; and like most men similarly situated, I was wearying for the termination of my two hours' vigil, and little inclined to admire the surrounding scenery. At length the clock struck three; and I was at once filled with a feeling of cheery satisfaction at the immediate prospect of being relieved, and of returning to the warm guardroom and drinking a cup of hot coffee before turning off to sleep.

I heard the sentry on the gate lustily shout 'Sentry-go!' as a summons for the relief to turn out; and just as I was preparing to take a last turn on my post, I perceived, at the extremity of the shadow cast by the officers' quarters, a ghostly figure in a long white robe, bearing in its hand a drawn sword. I endeavoured to shout for assistance, but was so 'harrowed with fear and wonder,' that I was unable to articulate a single word, but stood perfectly transfixed, staring at the apparition. It moved slowly past me; but when it turned round and raised its disengaged hand to its white head-covering, as if in salute, its aspect so filled me with terror, that being, as I mentioned before, of a nervous temperament, I fell to the ground, and only recovered consciousness when, a minute or two afterwards, I was vigorously shaken up by the sergeant of the guard.

That non-commissioned officer along with the men of the relief laughed heartily when I described the fright I had received, and remarked that I had been dreaming. The sergeant, however, performed the duty required of him by the rules of discipline in a most inexorable fashion. He deprived me of my arms and belts, and confined me in the prisoners' quarters in the guardroom.

Next day, I was taken before the commanding officer, a hot-headed Welshman, whom I shall call Colonel Morgan, charged with having been asleep on my post. To him I related particulars of the mysterious figure I had seen; but my statement, instead of proving a satisfactory excuse for my offence, as I hoped it would, threw the worthy colonel into a state of great indignation, and he at once remitted me for trial by court-martial.

On the third day after the sitting of the court, I was informed that my sentence would be promulgated at forenoon parade. With a sinking heart, I heard the 'assembly' sounded, then the 'fall in;' and shortly afterwards the band played merrily, as if in mockery of my agitation.

Escorted by a file of the guard, I marched to the centre of the hollow square into which the regiment had been formed; and the adjutant read out my sentence, which was, that I should be imprisoned with hard labour for a period of eighty-four days. Appended to the confirmation of the proceedings of the court-martial by the general commanding the district was a note to the following effect: 'Considering the nature of the prisoner's defence, which was calculated to excite an uneasy feeling among the men of his regiment, I consider the punishment inflicted quite inadequate to the enormity of his offence.'

The next day, I was escorted, handcuffed, to a military prison about six miles distant, where, after having been medically examined and weighed, I was introduced to a most select assemblage of erring brethren of the sword, who were engaged in the exhilarating occupation of picking oakum, alternated with the agreeable muscular exercise of 'shot'-drill.

The humiliating and degrading situation in which I found myself, through no fault of my own, made me, naturally enough, deeply regret my folly in having joined the army, and excited within me many unpleasant reflections on the good prospects in civil life which I had thrown to the winds. Like Mickey Free's father, in Lever's Charles O'Malley, I heartily ejaculated: 'Bad luck to the hand that held the hammer that struck the shilling that listed me!'

Now for the sequel to my ghost story, which was related to me when I was released from durance vile.

Between two and three o'clock on the morning of the day after I was taken to prison, a man came screaming into the guardroom of the barracks, exhibiting symptoms of the most extreme terror, and declaring that he, too, had seen the figure while on sentry; and his description of its appearance was precisely similar to mine.

The sergeant of the guard at once rushed to the officers' quarters, woke up the adjutant, and informed him of the ghost's alleged reappearance. A hue-and-cry was at once instituted; and the orderly sergeants having been roused, a 'check-roll' was called, to ascertain whether any man had left his room for the purpose of playing a practical joke. Every nook and cranny in barracks, from the officers' quarters to the wash-houses, were rigidly examined; but the spectre had apparently vanished into thin air, leaving all the regiment in a state of unpleasant suspense.

'What's all the row?' shouted the colonel from the window of his room, he having been awakened by the unusual commotion in barracks.

'The ghost has appeared again, sir,' replied the adjutant.

'Have you caught him?'

'No, sir.'

'If you do, put him, white sheet and all, in the guardroom. I should very much like to see the gentleman,' remarked the colonel as he closed the sash of his window and returned to bed.

That morning, at orderly hour, Colonel Morgan remitted the unfortunate fellow who, like me, had been scared by the mysterious visitant, for trial by court-martial, declaring that he would put an effectual check on these absurd fancies of the sentries; and immediately before the usual parade he delivered a most characteristic warning to the regiment on the subject. After describing the condign punishment which any practical joker, whether officer or private, might expect if caught in the act of playing the ghost, the commanding officer furiously exclaimed: 'When a soldier is on duty, I expect that he will stick to his post, even supposing the Evil One himself should make his appearance; and I will try by court-martial any man who dares to act contrary to my express injunctions.'

That afternoon, however, when the guard mounted, the adjutant privately gave orders that the oldest soldier should be detailed for the second relief on the haunted post; and this selection fell on a brawny Yorkshireman, a Crimean and Indian veteran named Sykes. Sykes at once intimated it as his intention to have a shot at the spectre; and being filled with a superstitious belief in the efficacy of a silver bullet when fired at a visitor from the world of spirits, vowed that he would hammer up his day's pay of sixpence and place it in a cartridge, to make sure of 'doing for' the ghost, even although he knew the operation referred to would spoil the price of a quart of beer.

The sergeant of the guard having seriously inquired at the adjutant, whether, in the event of the figure again making its appearance, the sentry would be empowered to fire at it—

'I think not,' the officer laughingly observed. 'If it is a real ghost, then I'm afraid a bullet won't be of much service. If it is a practical joker, then we'll make it "hot" enough for him without shooting him.'

That evening at mess, the appearance of the spectre was the general theme of conversation among the officers; but all of them, however, expressed their incredulity with regard to the story. A few of the youngsters, whose curiosity was strongly excited on the subject, made up their minds to keep watch beside the sentry, so as to pounce on the spirit when it made its appearance, and arranged to take with them a pet bulldog belonging to the colonel, to assist in the operation.

'Won't you join us, sir?' asked a young ensign, addressing the commanding officer.

'I think not,' he replied. 'I am tired, and shall go to bed. If you catch the ghost— which I suspect is likely to be one of the men— clap him in irons and put him in a cell. I'll attend to him to-morrow.'

When Colonel Morgan left the messroom, he visited the haunted post before retiring to his quarters, which were close at hand. After replying to the sentry's challenge, he asked Sykes: 'Have you seen anything as yet?'

'Not yet, sir,' replied the man.

'I don't think that it is likely you will either,' remarked the colonel with a laugh as he retired to his room.

Shortly afterwards, when the clock struck two, the young officers left the messroom and cautiously stole over the barrack square to the place where 'the spirit held his wont to walk.' Poor Sykes was very glad of their company; for, though he was a man of undoubted pluck, and greatly respected in the regiment for his pugilistic prowess, he was not at all bright at the prospect of tackling the ghost all by himself. He paced about on his post, keeping a sharp lookout, and the officers crouched under the shadow of the wall; while the dog took up its quarters in the sentry-box. A little before three, they were startled by the abrupt appearance of the apparition, which carried as before a drawn sword.

'Who comes there?' shouted Sykes, bringing his rifle to the 'charge.'

The spectre made no answer, but slowly raised its left hand to its forehead.

The dog, with a loud growl, sprang out of the box and rushed open-mouthed at the figure; but when he approached it, he began to wag his tail, and evinced symptoms of great satisfaction. The officers and the sentry at once surrounded the ghost, and found, to their most intense astonishment, that it was no other than Colonel Morgan himself, attired in his night-dress, in a state of somnambulism!

Aware of the danger of waking him while in that condition, they followed him to his room, whither he almost immediately returned, and there they saw him sheathe his sword and return to bed seemingly oblivious of their presence.

Next morning, he was apprised of the circumstances of the case; and the poor colonel was naturally very much concerned on learning the nature of the malady of which he had been an unconscious victim. Of course his first action was to write an explanation to the general, with a request for my release; and his next, to publish in regimental orders his regret for the trouble he had unwittingly occasioned.

Several red-tape formalities had to be gone through; and it was some days before I was astonished and delighted by an intimation from the prison governor that I was free; and was handed over to the charge of a corporal, who had been sent to bring me to my regiment. Whenever I entered the barracks, I was ordered to proceed at once to the commanding officer's quarters. Colonel Morgan shook hands with me, and expressed his extreme concern that he had been the innocent cause of my having been subjected to such ignominy.

'No wonder that I frightened you, my lad,' he observed with a smile. After informing me that he was about to proceed on leave— with the intention of undergoing a course of medical treatment to cure him of his dangerous propensity to walk in his sleep— he presented me with five pounds by way of solatium; and further gratified me by saying, that having ascertained I was of good character and well educated, he had that day placed me in orders as having been appointed lance-corporal. 'Always behave yourself, my lad, and I shan't forget you,' said the colonel; and I left his quarters perfectly overjoyed with my good-luck, scarcely believing that the pleasant, affable, kindly gentleman with whom I had conversed was the hectoring, bullying commander, who was the terror of his regiment.

The colonel faithfully kept his word to me. When he rejoined the corps, completely cured of his complaint, I was promoted rapidly; and eight years subsequently, through the influence of my patron, General Morgan, I was gazetted as quartermaster of my regiment.

________________

16: Not Proven

F. A. J. Godfrey

News (Adelaide) 8 Sep 1934

All I can discover is that F A J Godfrey was involved in the London theatre, and wrote a handful of short stories.

THE great Bremner! His first recital in England! A rustle of excitement ran like a current through the closely packed hall as Felix Bremner, carrying his priceless Strad., came on to the platform and made his bow.

America had raved about him. A second Kreisler! The discovery of generation! Following a glamorous reception in New York, he had at once been booked up for an extensive and exhausting tour of the States, in the course of which he had carried all before him. News of his conquest had been flashed across the Atlantic, and for months England had been eagerly awaiting his arrival. And now, at last, he was in London!

Bremner's eyes, as he faced the applauding audience with a smile, went instinctively to the two seats in the centre of the third row of stalls. They were empty! The only two in the hall that were unoccupied. And the only two, reflected Bremner, that mattered a rap. He began to play. And at once those who listened felt— knew— that they were in the presence of greatness. The magic of those opening notes, brought to life by. the hand of a master, held them enthralled, and, as yet, a little dazed.

And Bremner?

Incredible though it was, Bremner had not got his whole heart in his work. He played, and played divinely; but his thoughts, his innermost thoughts, were elsewhere. He was thinking of the two vacant seats.

In those seats he had hoped to find his father and mother.. His father and mother, whom he had not seen since his departure from England fifteen years before.... Would they come, he wondered? After all, he had given them absurdly short notice.

EXPECTING to disembark at Southampton the previous morning, he had intended visiting his parents at Birmingham prior to the recital, but fog had interfered with his plans. The boat had not berthed until late in the day, and passengers had been kept on board overnight.

Bremner, on the spur of the moment, had wired his agents the previous evening to despatch two tickets to Birmingham, in the hope that his people would make the journey to London in time for the performance. It was the only way, as things had turned out, of ensuring an early meeting. Moreover, there was a reason why he wished his father to be present... Fifteen years!

Bremner's mind, as he played, went back to those early days when, a lad in his 'teens. he had worked for two stifling, unsettled years in his father's office. Even then he had had visions. Visions of a future in which he saw himself— dare he picture it?— as a famous musician. Snatches of conversation came back to him.

Conversation between himself and his father, the hard-headed, practical man of business.

"How much more time are you going to waste on that fiddle of yours, my boy? D'you think I'd be where I am now if I'd spent my days tomfooling like that?"

"But it's not a waste of time, father!"

"I say it is! What use is it-tell me that?... You and your art! Daydreaming, my boy— that's what you're doing!"

Always it had been the same. And always Bremner had protested: "But I've got it in me, father— I know I have."

And always his father, to whose prosaic mind the arts and bread-winning were poles apart, had answered in the same way:

"And what if you have? What good is it going to do you— eh? You want to come down to earth, my lad, and give a bit more time to your work!"

Fifteen years ago!

THE applause that greeted him at the conclusion of his first item was deafening. London, like New York, had taken him to its heart... Elderly listeners, their eyes aglow with enthusiasm, were already comparing him in excited whispers with the giants of the past. At a touch he had established that galvanic contact with his audience which only the great achieve.

When, at length, he left the platform for the brief interval; he was strangely unsettled. Despite his tremendous ovation, he was aware of a sense of incompleteness. The two seats were still vacant. Restless, and with nerves on edge, he enquired for a telephone and rang through. to the railway terminus. There was a bad belt of fog outside London, he was told, and trains from the north were running late. One had arrived from Birmingham ten minutes since.

Incredible though It was, Bremner had not got his whole heart into his work. His thoughts were elsewhere.

Replacing the receiver, he made his way back to. the artistes' room and lit a cigarette. Perhaps they would get there yet!...

It was as he was finishing his second item that they came in. Bremner saw them at once, even before they began to make their way along the hall. He watched them being shown to their seats as, with suppressed feelings, he stood bowing in acknowledgement of the tumult of applause. The sudden sight of them had brought a lump to his throat, and given rise to conflicting emotions. They had not aged a great deal, he thought. In a strange way he had been instantly conscious of his father's presence. This, he realised, was the moment for which he had lived-the moment for which he had striven. It was as if he had been called upon to justify himself-to prove himself....

"Got it in you, have you?"... "Tomfooling with that bit of a fiddle ... Time you settled down to brass tacks, my boy!"... "When are you going to think about earning your living?".

As, once more, the superb strains broke forth, the well-worn phrases came rushing back to Bremner's mind.

Other memories, too. His own secret, cherished ambitions... His steadily strengthening knowledge of the latent power that was in him. And the painful, heated final scene, when his father had told him point-blank to get down to business, or else to clear out.

WAS his father, sitting there before him, recalling that scene, too? To Bremner it came vividly, as in a dream. He remembered what they were wearing: where they had stood; the words they had spoken...

"Well; have you made up your mind?"

"Yes. father."

His father had grunted. "Good! Going to get down to your work, eh?"

"Yes, father— to my work!... I'm going to clear out!"

His mother had wept. The whole thing had been hateful; but for Bremner there was no alternative. Much as he loved his parents, he had arrived at the cross-roads, and had taken his decision.

The impulse now to show his father the heights to which he had risen was irresistible. No longer was he playing with any lack of heart. His performance as the recital wore on was dazzling— the work of a genius. For there, in front of him, sat his father! His father, who had doubted! His father, who had scoffed at him!

For the first time in his career Bremner had forgotten his public. The last limpid note floated out over the hushed hall. There was a moment's pause; and then, rending the air like a thunderclap, came :he mighty burst of applause. It was the end of the advertised programme. but they would not let Bremner go. Four times-five times-six times they recalled him tor encores; and when at last he laughingly begged to be excused, the house rose at him.

And there, cheering wildly with the rest, his eyes brimming with tears of pride, was his father.

BREMNER found them waiting for him in the artistes' room when at length he had succeeded in making his final exit. Threading his way down the steps and along the corridor to the door of the room, he was dimly aware of odd groups of people and the buzz of congratulation that reached him from all sides. Hardened by experience though he was to the big occasion, he felt strung-up, overwrought. The sight of his father as he had stood there cheering frantically still burned at the back of his mind...

THEY came forward, smiling, as he entered the room, and again Bremner was conscious of a lump in his throat His mother embraced him. She was in tears.

"My dear boy! I can't tell you how proud we are..."

"Thank you, mother." Bremner was deeply affected. He turned as his father seized his hand and wrung it warmly.

"Well done, my boy! Well done. indeed!... Proudest moment of my life!"

All trace of estrangement was gone, lost in pride and enthusiasm for his son in the hour of his success. "Wonderful! Wonderful!... You knew the best, my boy! You always said you'd got it in you!"

Try as he might, Bremner could not suppress the thrill of triumph that surged through him at the sound of these words from his father. And in that moment he felt a fresh bond had been formed between them.

"Thanks!" he said quietly. "Glad you enjoyed it...." As he spoke,  an impish thought flashed into his mind. and he added with a smile:"What about the 'old fiddle' now?"

A flush of annoyance crossed his features as his father remained silent. There was an awkward pause. His mother tapped him on the arm.

"Your father has been ill, dear," she said. "He's stone deaf."

_________________

17: Spite Corner

Georges Surdez

1900-1949

Adventure Dec 1946

THE two boys left the bar and took their drinks to a corner table. They could not get over the wonder of it— meeting thus on Fifty-first Street, in New York, and meeting as strangers— although they had been brought up on farms less than five hundred meters apart, in a mountain village of the French Jura.

"I thought you looked familiar," said Marc Vandrel, the younger, twenty years old at the most. "Yes, I thought, here's a guy with a map just like the Coulons have, same chin, same ears..." He gestured, indicated the crowded length of the bar, the bottles behind, the signs in French and English. "Caught sight of you in the mirror and I thought I was dreaming, until I saw your uniform and thought that if I was here, why shouldn't you be?"

"You thought: There's a dirty Coulon mug, that's what you thought," Raoul Coulon said, with a grin. He wore the uniform of the French Navy, the braid of petty officer. Not as tall as Marc, he was heavier, three years older.

They exchanged stories. Marc's tale was simple. He had lived home through the German Occupation, enlisted in the Air Corps after Liberation. He had been sent to the United States as an aviation cadet. This was his first leave in New York, but some French people down south had given him the address of friends in .town. Nice people, too; Raoul must come to have dinner with them.

Coulon had been in the regular Navy. He had been in Morocco when the Americans had come. He had seen action here and there. Yes, he had heard from home, his mother had written him long letters with all the village news for the past two and a half years, pages and pages.

"Bet she didn't mention I was in America," Marc said.

For two seconds, they stared at each other solemnly, then both broke into laughter. They ordered drinks, clicked glasses, and tried to speak of casual subjects, but it was no use— when their eyes met, they laughed.

"If our folks could see us—" Coulon said.

"Yes, a Coulon and a Vandrel drinking together!"

They laughed, touched glasses and drank.

"Rather funny, eh?" Coulon said.

"Rather!" Marc agreed. "You know, I never thought about it since leaving, but now that I see you and do think of it, it seems pretty small."

His tanned but boyish face lighted up. "Compared with the war, and crossing the Atlantic Ocean! That sort of shrank things up, that ocean crossing— makes that bit of grass and the three apple trees seem like a joke—"

"Same here," Raoul nodded, "and more of it— I've crossed the Indian Ocean, the Pacific. I want to go home, of course, and I've been homesick plenty, but things back there do seem small. You can't imagine people fighting over a few square meters of land, can you?"

"When did it start, anyway?"

"Well, it was going on when my grandfather was a kid, and he's almost seventy-nine. If we could remember when the railroad was put through—that's what started it, you know—"

"Say between 1875 and 1880," Marc figured. He drank, smiled. "More than sixty years, anyway, and our families haven't been speaking— kids fighting in school, grown-ups glaring even at church— all for nothing."

THE two talked of their travels, of girls and liquors, of planes and naval actions. But every few minutes, the same subject popped up again and they would resume laughing. It was a very old village quarrel, the case of the three apple trees: When the railroad had been built into the mountains, the tracks had gone across both the Vandrel and the Coulon farms, forming a dividing line for some distance. It chanced that a small triangle of land sold by the Vandrels, perhaps twenty-five square meters, just large enough to hold three apple trees, had been isolated on the Coulon side, and the Coulons had fenced it in with an orchard of theirs. This had gone unnoticed for two years, then the Vandrels not only claimed the land but asked for rental on the space. The Coulons contended that they had made a verbal arrangement with the railway to get that bit in exchange for space elsewhere.

Marc's great-grandfather had gone to law, there had been one of those long farmers' quarrels, with renewed suits, trials, which had cost many times the value of the lot. But there was a point of pride and a principle involved. Mostly, the courts had upheld the Coulons, but there had been reversed decisions. Every autumn, there was a fresh row, for the Vandrels tried to sneak in and pick the apples from the trees. Sometimes, the strife grew so bitter that the bigger orchards were neglected.

Seen from New York, at a distance of several thousand miles, the whole matter seemed unimportant, stupid, laughable. But both boys knew it was a serious matter back home and that their friendship would not be smiled upon. No Vandrel had spoken politely to a Coulon since the first trial!

"Know what we'll do?" Marc suggested. "We'll try to get home at the same time. Then we'll walk into the Inn together. What the devil, old man, we're not living in 1880! It's time to stop!"

"Sure," Coulon agreed. "It's idiotic, that's what. We always have to be on opposite sides in everything because of that patch of land, even in politics. It's time to stop! For me, it will be easy enough," he added, "because I am the oldest boy and I'll get our farm when I leave the service. For you—"

"I'm the oldest, too," Marc said slowly. "My brother—well, he came back from Germany in '42 and died seven months after."

Coulon struck the table with his palm.

"There's a sample— mama wrote me about everybody, but she never mentioned that, just because he was of your bunch! Shows you how crass and stupid they can be— even death doesn't count—and your brother was my age, a nice guy, everybody said, and we should have been friends—"

"We'll settle that, once and for all," stated Marc.

"You bet we will." They shook hands. "Let's have a drink on it. We'll talk right up and tell them all—"

They had another drink and another. They abandoned all pretense, they discussed the matter of the lot and the three apple trees, listed the quarrels, the trials, the expenses, the yearly battles. Meeting here, on neutral soil, made the foolishness of it stand out sickeningly.

"I'll tell you what," Marc proclaimed. "The two of us will be friends, no matter what they say. And as soon as I inherit the farm, I'll go before a notary and have a deed drawn up giving you that lot and the trees in full and complete grant—"

Coulon was about to drink, held the glass poised. "A deed?"

"That's what— from person to person, you know, a grant—"

The petty officer laid the glass down carefully.

"And just how can you do that," he asked soberly, "seeing that they're our property already...?"

"It's a shame," the owner's wife said fifteen minutes later, sniffling and wiping her eyes. "I don't know what got into them! They'd both been in here before and quieter boys you couldn't ask for. And tonight, thev were so happy to see each other, it sounded like they knew each other from home, and they started to drink together, all friendly. No, it wasn't about a girl, they didn't so much as look at the girls!

"Then, first thing you know, they're fighting. They break a lot of stuff which I wouldn't ask them to pay, seeing they're French boys and in military service. But my husband gets a sprained wrist and a cut lip separating them, then they won't shake hands and be friends. After that, the big one waits outside and starts all over again, and the cop has to stop them.

"Neither one can speak good English, and the cop calls me out to explain. But when I tell him that as near as I can make out they're fighting about some apples, the cop gets sore and asks me what am I trying to do, kid him, and what sort of a dive are we running in herel"

__________________

18: Charles the Bold

Georges Surdez

Adventure 1 July 1927

THE DOWNPOUR had ceased. The night was warm and moist, the stars veiled by mist. The native soldiers were grouped outside the temporary shelters, huddling under blankets around the small fires. The smoke drifted slowly, and the smell of charred wood and stewing rice hung in the air.

The detachment, sixty infantrymen from the First Tirailleurs and thirty riders from the Second Spahis, led by Captain Choquard, had for their mission to end as quickly as possible the warlike activities of a band of Mekduf Moors. After a pursuit of seven days they were no nearer the completion of their task than at the start. Tonight the troops were camped near the old trail that leads from Nioro to Nema, across the Sudanese Sahel.

Sergeant Courfay had removed his coat and boots, and lolled in comfort, back resting against a bale of cloth. Not far away, before the officers' tents.

Captain Choquard and Lieutenant Espigny, of the infantry, were conversing. Espigny held a bottle between his knees, chipping off the wax with the blade of a penknife. Evidently Espigny had learned that the task of opening wine was not to be left even to a trusted servant.

The cork came out with a loud report, a report that jerked upward seventy-five black faces from the folds of cloth hoods. When the cause of the detonation was discovered, giggles fused shrilly and, for a brief period, there was a chorus of amused grunts.

Espigny held up the bottle.

"Come over here, Courfay, and have a drink," he invited.

Courfay drew his long form erect, strode leisurely toward the two and sank again, squatting on the straw mat that offered protection from the damp earth. The flame carved his features from the darkness: long nose, firm lips, a high forehead beneath the high crimson chechia. His short cropped red hair glinted like polished copper.

"This is good to wash out the palate, young fellow," Espigny announced gravely. He was twenty-eight, only three years older than Courfay, but his two gold stripes gave him the privilege of age.

As Espigny filled the tin cups with wine, Captain Choquard wordlessly offered the sergeant a cigaret.

"Too bad Lieutenant Marjolet is not with us," Courfay remarked.

"Console yourself," Espigny suggested with mock sympathy. "Tomorrow he will be seated here and you will be roaming north in your turn." He lifted his cup high. "Thanks to luck! I'm not in the cavalry!"

Espigny was slender, narrow-shouldered, with a neck rather too long, thin lips that twisted too often in a sardonic smile. Courfay could not succeed in liking him, in spite of the lieutenant's democratic attitude. While invariably courteous he managed to inject into his speech a sort of virus that spoiled one's enjoyment. Espigny's eyes met others frankly, but were less frank than most shifty eyes. They seemed to have an outer surface of frosted glass over the gray pupils, to shut off at the same time prying glances and his own thoughts.

"Health!" Choquard said.

"Health!" Courfay agreed, lifting his cup.

"Health! Wealth! Happiness!" Espigny added. "And success to you, Courfay, on your next leave to France!"

"My next is my first," Courfay corrected him. "I have been here two and a half years and this is my first leave."

"Yes," Espigny agreed musingly. "When we first met, near the border of Sierra Leone, you had just come out. There was the bloom of youth in your cheeks and the innocence of the baby in your blue, blue eyes!"

Courfay involuntarily brought his hand to his cheeks. He knew that they were yellow now, for he had not been teased about his fresh complexion of late.

"The bloom is gone—with the innocence," Courfay said with a laugh.

Choquard passed a handkerchief over his glistening skull, bald, he claimed, from wearing a sun helmet for fifteen years. The captain had spent most of his time in the Tonkin and had been lately sent to the Sudan. He turned toward Courfay.

"What were you doing near Sierra Leone?" he asked.

"I joined Lieutenant Espigny, who was on observation there, officially to watch Malinkemory, brother of Samory, and in reality to keep an eye on the British column under Colonel Ellis, for those were the days before the conference had established the Say-Baraoua line."

"Courfay was sent to me because he spoke English well," Espigny added quietly.

"That was during the dry season, Captain," Courfay resumed swiftly. "And I must say, for all its evil reputation, the climate there was better than it is up here in the Sahel at this particular time."

Choquard, whose habit it was to keep to one subject, ignored the last remark made by the sergeant.

"You speak English?" he insisted.

Again Espigny spoke:

"Yes, and German, a bit of Spanish, Our friend Courfay is a well educated man. Captain."

Courfay's lips quivered. Espigny had no equal when it came to discovering another man's sensitive spot. The lieutenant had deliberately aroused Choquard's interest because he knew the sergeant had reason to keep certain matters quiet.

Choquard demanded precision.

"Seems to me," he said thoughtfully, "that your assignment to the cavalry school has been held off for a long while. Sacred ——! Men who know nothing become officers. And a man like you stays a sergeant two and a half years, when the need for good subalterns is constantly felt."

With grave solicitude, Espigny refilled Courfay's glass.

"Courfay had a temporary set-back," he announced. "You have but recently arrived. Captain, and you don't know."

"Sick? Wounded?" Choquard asked.

"Neither, Captain," Courfay replied. "Demoted to corporal from sergeant a year and a half ago, just when I was due to go home for a commission."

"Yes," Choquard acknowledged, simply. He was silent, then tactfully tried to change the drift of the conversation. But Courfay was determined, now that the matter had been broached, to give no half-truths.

"A question of discipline. Captain. I offended Lieutenant Marjolet—"

"Charles Marjolet, who is with us now?"

"Yes. The offense was public, the lieutenant had no choice. I had trained a group of men. Lieutenant Marjolet inspected them, and had some criticism to offer. I— was foolishly sensitive and spoke out of my turn."

Choquard nodded.

"Lieutenant Marjolet is hard to please, I know," he said. "Until one knows him well, he seems harsh— and all of us speak hastily once or twice in our existence. But what matters a year or so to a man your age?"

"In Courfay's case," Espigny pointed out, "it mattered this much: Over twelve months lost, during which Courfay has done things that would have won him the cross, had he been an officer."

"Who can tell?" Courfay scoffed.

The lieutenant was making too much of the episode. Marjolet had not only been within his rights, he had done his duty that day in Bandiagara. Courfay, perhaps too engrossed in his own studies, had neglected the inspections trusted to him. And all had come out for the best. Courfay was now assigned to attend the Saumur cavalry school and would leave for France at the end of the present expedition. So certain was his promotion that the officers, including Marjolet, already treated him as a comrade rather than as a non-com.

Courfay fervently hoped that Espigny would not longer feed the conversation on that line. The appearance of the native sergeant, Moussa Diara, coming to report to the captain, fortunately diverted Espigny's attention.

AFTER the negro had left Choquard smiled.

"Diara feels duty bound to report that the sentries are alert every two hours. You trained him, didn't you, Espigny?"

"Yes. Brought him up by hand, so to speak. His is a fantastic story."

"How?"

"One day, when I was recruiting in Kankan, a long, loose-limbed black entered the room. Well muscled, sound, he was accepted into the Tirailleurs. He was young, eighteen or nineteen. So far, nothing extraordinary. He might have been any of the half hundred recruits I selected that day.

"He surprized me by answering my questions as to probable age, previous occupation, etc., in fluent French, with a marked Parisian accent. He informed me that he had decided upon the army as a worthy career and intended to work up from the ranks, the more thoroughly to learn the ways of the negroes."

Choquard laughed. Diara, if not black as soot, was at least a deep chocolate with a glint of red when standing in the full glow of the noon sun, manifestly a blend of Bambara stock with Coast Senegalese.

"I asked him his name," Espigny went on, "and he called himself, Monsieur Moise Lion— Mr. Moses Lion. Gently I informed him that a French name among a long list of native names would bring special inquiry from the Kayes Headquarters and suggested that he give me his real name, his native name. That cleared up the mystery: He is Moussa Diara, which means the same thing.

"I drew his story from him. When but a small boy he had entered the service of a white trader in Medina. His rise was meteoric: Pan-scrubber, cook's aid, house-boy, table-boy, butler. After three or four years in Medina, his master failed in business. But he had some affection for Diara and took him to Paris, undoubtedly thinking to keep a splendid servant cheaply.

"Moussa Diara was not a fool. He soon discovered that his master, a big man in Medina, Senegal, was nothing much at home. Also, he found out that the wages paid him were below the current scale in France. He cut loose from old ties, ruthlessly. For six or seven years, Diara did everything: Page in a hotel, shoe-shiner at railroad stations, a period as 'local-color' in a pseudo-Algerian night dump of quality and, finally, he was hired as a living advertisement for a famous shoe-polish.

"It was then that the long dormant pillaging instincts of his race stirred in his bosom. He helped himself to various tempting delicacies in a store and was arrested. The few days in jail did not annoy him— fed gratis, no work to do. But the judge decided that he should be shipped back to Senegal, where his lack of responsibility might be better understood.

"Diara was broken-hearted, but could not avoid deportation. In Africa, he did not prosper. He was too bold and talkative for Europeans to employ as a house servant or clerk. Moreover, he resented corporal punishment with threats of legal action. He joined a native trader whom he had impressed with his sophistication. But the morals of the child of the bush had been irreparably spoiled by the sojourn in France. The elegance he showed in dress, the very stiffly starched shirts and collars he wore, all had a strong appeal for the dusky beauties belonging to his associates.

"The inky-Romeo was roughly invited to go away, and tales of his iniquity spread. Shunned by black and white alike, the army was the only opening for him to crawl into. And here he is, after two years in the service, a sergeant, and unless I am a poor prophet indeed, a future colored lieutenant or captain. He has the black's ability to pick up languages, and an added dose of craftiness gathered on the boulevards. Men have risen high with less baggage."

"Fantastic," Choquard remarked. "I had a Chinese cook in the Tonkin. Gradually I discovered that he had lived in Paris, London, Berlin, a year in Peru and three years in San Francisco, America."

"I know an old black, now in Goa, I believe," Courfay said, "who had served in Mexico as private in the Nubian Battalion."

Espigny laughed.

Courfay wondered what he was about to say, for the lieutenant had the queer smile that preceded his sly thrusts.

"Speak as you wish of fantastic careers among natives," the lieutenant declared, "but the most fantastic career of all is that of Marjolet."

"Why?" Choquard challenged.

"A study of most unexpected developments. Why Marjolet is a lieutenant in the Sudan, a man who many claim will rise to high command, instead of a plodding lout tending his ancestral vineyard— that is the story."

Espigny paused and smiled.

Choquard had leaned forward. And Courfay was interested quite as much as the captain. Marjolet was somewhat of a legendary character in the Sudan. His courage and luck were proverbial. But no one had been able so far to tell just where he came from, and the events that had brought him to his present estate.

"EVOKE the picture of a ragged lad, shuffling his wooden shoes in the dust," Espigny began softly. "A lad who rose in the morning to milk the cows, who drove the cart to market on fair days. In the fall he helped gather the grapes on the sun-kissed hills of his native Burgundy; then, with the rest of the family, he trampled the fruit in the big vats. Papa Marjolet, a farmer, also owned several acres of grape-vines. Probably even then Marjolet was a daredevil— agile, strong, the village Achilles.

"I had an aunt in Dijon and I spent several of my summer vacations in the region where Marjolet was brought up. Perhaps he was one of the little ruffians who stoned me one day because I wore city clothes."

"Very likely," Choquard admitted, with a grin. "His intolerance was given him by nature as was his marvelous strength."

"The lad grew into a young man, a powerful young man, no doubt, the sort that accept the challenge of the fair-day wrestlers. Again, probably, he was like the majority of the peasant lads, none too keen to serve the Republic in the ranks. Like others, he hoped fervently that the military physicians would discover something that would make him unfit to bear arms, without keeping him from his own work in the fields. But he had neither flat feet nor a weak heart. And he was assigned to a dragoon regiment.

"From that time on, my story will no longer be supposition. I know the captain who commanded the company in which Marjolet entered as a raw recruit. In fact I happen to know officers of that particular regiment well. On my last leave home, I happened to mention Marjolet. To my surprize, my friends recalled him well, which proves that even then he had personality.

"Marjolet reported to the barracks in a blue blouse and work-shoes, rather awkward in gestures, but with a straight, fearless glance and an almost insolent way of twisting his upper lip that warned of trouble should any one interfere with that savage spirit. He could barely read and write, but was willing to learn and attended the evening classes.

"On the whole, he was a fair soldier, with a particular fondness for horses. Where others tried to cut their turn of stable-guard, he asked nothing better than to nurse the beasts all night long, with an occasional nap in the oat-bin. In the fencing room he showed little finesse, but wonderful power. He was drunk but once, when his comrades doped his beer. But he gave no promise at the time of rising even to sergeant. After his time of service was over he would go home, settle down, marry, raise husky sons who would in turn become soldiers, later to marry and so on.

"Then came Duville. You know him, of course. The great painter of battles. A large, bearded fellow with the inspired face of a priest. He was at the time engaged on his panorama showing the fording of a river in Russia, and needed details on dragoons' uniforms under the First Empire. There were piles of records for him to consult, and the ten o'clock bugle sounded before he was well into his work.

"Marjolet's captain had been assigned to aid him. Duville never stirred for hours, save to take notes and make little sketches on the back of his paper. The captain, respecting the great artist, did not disturb him. At two o'clock in the morning, Duville rose with a sigh of satisfaction. Discovering the lateness of the hour, he wanted to go back to town and find a hotel room. But it was early spring and bitter cold. The captain offered him a cot in the room he used when on service in the barracks.

"At five, the bugle rang out. The captain was awakened by an exclamation from Duville, who was at the window. Duville had seen Marjolet who, feeling the need of a wash after a night in the stables, had stripped to the waist in spite of the cold and was splashing in the trough. Duville said that Marjolet had a perfectly muscled torso.

"The lucky Marjolet was given leave of absence by the colonel and followed Duville to Paris, to pose for him. You recall the big painting so often reproduced in magazines, 'Fording a River?' Long lines of dragoons marching toward a river, other helmets glinting in the distance. Do you remember the group at the right-hand corner—a field-forge, a group of dragoons holding horses and a smith bending over his portable anvil?"

Both Choquard and Courfay nodded.

"The smith has his back to the beholder and is naked to the waist. The pads of muscles on the shoulders, the shoulders themselves, the mighty arms, the wiry calves bulging even through the heavy cloth of the breeches, are those of Marjolet. If you are a student of art you may admire the perspiration oozing with great naturalness from the skin. If you are an athlete, you may envy the academy of the model.

"The painting was a success, and Duville somehow gave the credit to the magnificent figure in the foreground. The regiment of dragoons, whose predecessors he had chosen to place in his work, gave him a big dinner. Marjolet was came, to go to the Sudan, his application was granted.

"He came to Africa firmly resolved to live up to the expectations of Duville and of his chiefs: The Man with the Muscled Torso could do no less than become a hero. And brave he was. He won the Military Medal and the Legion of Honor in one year.

"Nevertheless it was still a matter of doubt whether he was officers' timber. Then he was placed under Jacques Sorbier. Yes, Captain Sorbier, who was called in and congratulated. Duville proclaimed that the private was a survival of the vigorous type, the men of iron who had followed Napoleon. The colonel could not make him a marshal of France right away, but he placed him on the promotion list.

"Marjolet became a corporal, then a sergeant. Duville had brought him from obscurity to regimental fame. He was the pride of the unit— out of the whole army he had been picked for a model by the great Duville! Nothing was too good for him, and when the call for non-coms Marjolet's equal in courage, almost his equal in strength, and had been born a gentleman. I said that Sorbier was. He is not dead, but is no longer a soldier.

"Sorbier led thirty Spahis north against the Tuareg. The exploits of that small group, with only two white men to lead them, remind one of a page of Homer. To tell the truth, they were all picked men, those blacks under Sorbier, men with five to eight years' experience, who had cheated death so long that they felt secure.

"One afternoon, the group encountered a mob of Tuareg warriors who stood their ground, having come out of the desert to do just that, regardless of the reputation of their opponents. There was a preliminary fusilade, then the Spahis charged headlong, for that was Sorbier's system; despite cold reasoning, it succeeded oftener than not.

"Naturally, Marjolet took the right of the line. The trio of Tuareg, detached to kill him, vanished under a shower of thrusts and swings. But, as I have said, these Tuareg were particularly eager to prove their worth against the French. They used their short throwing spears and broad-bladed swords with enthusiasm.

"Sorbier, approaching a dismounted warrior, point forward, had his thigh pinned to the saddle by a throwing spear. The officer killed the warrior. But two others took his place. One clutched at the bridle of Sorbier's horse, while the other tried to slice the Frenchman's head from his shoulders. Sorbier, hampered by his wounded leg, was almost powerless, but warded off the first blows with his saber. The third or fourth stroke severed his hand at the wrist.

"Marjolet's attention was attracted by the howls of triumph from the warriors. Accounts vary as to the distance he had to cover to reach Sorbier's side. Some say twenty-five, some fifty yards. But all the blacks will swear that it was not the horse that carried Marjolet, that Marjolet flew through the air holding the horse between his legs!

"His saber clove the head of the nearest of the men, and somehow escaped his grasp. Temporarily disarmed, Marjolet struck the other with his clenched right hand. Thus rid of immediate danger, he leaned from the saddle and picked up Sorbier's blade. He took his chief to the rear where he dressed his wound as well as he could under fire.

"Another would have retreated. Marjolet attacked again. And if a section of infantry had not appeared miraculously when no infantry was believed to be in the vicinity, the Spahis would have been killed to the last man.

"Sorbier's forearm had to be sacrificed. Amputation of the right arm above the elbow, a tendon severed in his leg, Sorbier was crippled, so useless that he could not even be employed at a desk. Marjolet was given special leave to go back to France with Sorbier. The officer faced life as a cripple bravely. As for Marjolet, he was sent to Saumur and obtained his second-lieutenancy with ease.

"Sorbier was of course grateful to Marjolet, and invited him to visit his family in a vast property owned by them near Tours. You don't know perhaps that the elder Sorbier is a senator and was at one time minister of war. He is immensely wealthy. Marjolet's arrival coincided with the national elections. Passing through a near-by town, he overheard a speech in which the army was vilified.

"Marjolet, in full uniform, medals glittering on red tunic, leaped to the platform, tossed the orator to the ground below and invited those who accused professional officers of cowardice when not backed by their men's bayonets, to come toward him.

"His fists quelled the brawny machinists, the burly teamsters. It was claimed that he did better work than a police squad might have done. He seems born for the spectacular, and received a genuine ovation when recognized, for even the anti-militarists had taken pride in his prowess.

"Sorbier has a younger sister, a pretty, dark eyed little woman, fond of poetry and all that soft stuff. Whether Marjolet can talk persuasively to women, whether it was gratitude for what he had done to save her brother, I don't know. It may be that sheer muscle power appeals to women, and Marjolet, after all, is not far from handsome. Sorbier senior could not refuse anything to the man who had saved his son. To make it short, the Burgundian farm lad obtained Sorbier's daughter, in just and holy wedlock. A strange pair."

Choquard smiled.

"Napoleon, a poor Corsican, married Marie-Louise, daughter of the oldest reigning family. All proportions considered, there is nothing unusual in Marjolet's marriage."

"It is not generally known that Marjolet is married," Courfay remarked. "And what is he doing out here in that case?"

Espigny smiled.

"He may not be refined, but he has the crafty quickness of perception native to the peasant. He knows well what attracted his wife—his bravery. He was keen enough to understand that if he remained in France at her side permanently— I don't know quite how to express it— well, that his charm would wane early.

"He must always be 'Charles the Bold.' Since the nickname has been given him he has actually tried to look the part. When he goes on leave, he has sufficient prestige to last him over three months. His origin, his manners, are all forgiven. He is a hero."

Throughout Espigny's tale, Courfay had been wondering when the inevitable criticism would come. It was not the lieutenant's custom to praise a man as highly as he had praised Marjolet.

Choquard shifted his weight lazily. "You knew Miss Sorbier, Espigny?"

"Yes. Had for a long time. I tell you, I was not the least surprized of all her friends to see her give way to impulse."

"Eh," Choquard noted. "I begin to understand."

Espigny flushed, but as Choquard was still something of an unknown quantity he dare not resent the remark. Courfay, trying to keep from smiling, shook with inward amusement. For all his artful sarcasm, Espigny had revealed more than he had wished to reveal. He was the son of a wealthy man, a man who had owned textile mills and sugar-refining plants in northern France. Evidently Espigny considered himself a better match for the daughter of Senator Sorbier than the ex-farmer.

But the captain was not finished.

"I can not see, Espigny, that being born a peasant is a thing to be ashamed of. It is probable that your ancestors scratched the soil for a living. That was the first task of men. Even admitting your viewpoint as worthy of consideration, when the worse that can be brought up against a man is his birth,. I consider that man a success."

Courfay did not believe that this would make for perfect amiability between the two infantry officers, but he mentally applauded Choquard. However, recalling his rank, he was discreet. One should not stick a finger between revolving cogwheels, and the tale concerning Marjolet had been addressed, more particularly, to Choquard.

Espigny twisted his fingers nervously, obviously disliking the turn given the conversation.

"Not only do you talk like a child," Choquard resumed pitilessly, "but you forget the French Revolution, which wiped out class distinction. Marjolet is a splendid officer. That's all that concerns us in judging him. Your story, shorn of its personal comments was interesting. But were either young Courfay or myself indiscreet—"

Silence followed; a decidedly cool feeling had fallen upon the three. Choquard, placid as ever, rolled a cigaret between his fingers, hesitated, then tossed it to the nearest private.

"Going to bed," he said. "If Marjolet comes back with any important news, awake me, Espigny. Good night."

He disappeared into the farthest tent, lowered the curtain.

Espigny watched him until he was hidden from view, then shrugged.

"Sour old fellow. Probably pushed a plow in his days, too."

"Unlikely, Espigny. Military family for five generations."

Espigny eyed Courfay suspiciously.

"You agree with him?"

"I'm scarcely to be considered as a judge," Courfay evaded.

"Right. You have your own grudge against Marjolet," Espigny stated with deliberation. "What I was about to say when Choquard pounced on me is that Marjolet is not brave, that he has little real valor. He is a bluff."

"A good bluff, then—"

"Do you know why Marjolet is brave, or seems to be?"

"For the same reason that my hair is red, Lieutenant."

"No!" Espigny snapped: "Marjolet is brave because he firmly believes himself to be protected against danger."

"How did he come to that conclusion?"

"Superstition. He wears a string of medals beneath his tunic, around his neck. And to be quite safe, he purchased a Moslem amulet in Timbuktu, guaranteed to ward off steel and lead. Like the peasant who nails a night-owl to his barn door to ward off evil spirits, he hangs amulets about his neck. Convince him that his faith is ill-placed and his fine front will crumble."

Courfay laughed.

"Nonsense! Rot! All of us, very nearly, have some object that we cling to, a sort of unofficial fetish. Captain Choquard, I have noticed, has a tiger claw for a watch-charm. I have a few links of steel chain that I picked up, while in barracks in France, that for some reason I could never bring myself to throw away. You wear a ring of no great value, which probably you wouldn't part with for money. Marjolet bought the amulet for a joke, I say."

"A joke? When Marjolet bought it he had not yet married a wealthy woman. And he paid five hundred francs in silver for it. Moussa Diara told me. He got it from Marjolet's boy. Protection against steel and lead."

"That does not insure him against fever, sun-stroke, dysentery, itch, snake-bite, poison, the fangs of a wild beast, the horns of a buffalo. If he felt fear normally, Lieutenant, wouldn't he be afraid of those? Also, fear may exist regardless of danger, and the amulet does not protect him against fear, does it?"

Espigny looked up. His eyes clashed on those of Courfay with an almost perceptible impact.

Very deliberately, he picked up another bottle, resumed the patient chipping of the wax. Again came a sharp report. Again the blacks were startled.

"We'll drink this before going to bed," Espigny said, filling the cups.

He looked down at the red liquid, smiled a last time.

"Your health, Courfay! You're an intelligent man!"

THE IMMEDIATE cause of the affair between Courfay and Marjolet in Bandiagara had been a rusty butt-plate on a carbine. When Marjolet had discovered the spot of red on the dull steel, he had addressed the instructor, Courfay, loudly, before the hundred and fifty blacks and the score of white men gathered for the inspection.

"Sergeant!" his clear voice rang through the air. "From your notes I understood that you had proved a good instructor in France. I regret to say that I can not compliment you on your work out here."

Courfay had served in the Sudan under good-natured chiefs for months, men who were not as severe in the enforcement of discipline as they would have been at home. Marjolet had paused, Courfay thought, to listen to an excuse.

"In France," the sergeant replied, "I had a difficult task drilling stupid peasants, but they at least spoke my language. These blacks are almost as stupid, and do not comprehend French. I have repeatedly—"

"Enough!" Marjolet shouted. "bungler that you are! Blame yourself, not your men. I don't know what keeps me from sending in a report. You ass!"

Courfay lost his temper, unwisely.

"A man may act an ass once, Lieutenant, and not be one. But there's no mistaking his identity if he brays."

The enormity of the offense had brought utter stillness. Marjolet's voice lowered to a conversational tone.

"I hope that you'll say that you were hasty just now—"

"I've said what I've said, Lieutenant."

"You compel me to report you."

Fortunately for Courfay, his past record was sufficiently brilliant to sway many in his favor. His sentence had been mild. Demotion to corporal, cancellation of leave, with an official warning. In eight months he had been reinstated to his former rank.

Moreover, the reply he had made to "Charles the Bold" had brought him a certain popularity. The anecdote, repeated in every post of French West Africa, had been distorted into something much more pungent. Courfay knew that Marjolet's equals still teased him about his loud voice.

Espigny, in his ironical narration, had involuntarily taken away the last shred of resentment that Courfay had entertained against ,Marjolet. For he realized now that his reference to peasants had seemed to the lieutenant a scantily veiled slur.

To Marjolet's credit, after sending in the report he had been forced to write, due to the public olfense, he had never again evidenced, by word or action, that he bore the non-com a grudge. On this very expedition, when it would have been possible for him to harass the sergeant unmercifully, he had treated him with easy cordiality, insisted on doing more than his share of the tedious patrol work in the swamped fields. And, as Courfay had just discovered, he had not even informed Choquard of the sergeant's slip from grace.

So that Courfay retired to his tent and slid between his blankets with a new feeling of loyalty and understanding for his immediate superior. Also, new admiration for Captain Choquard, who defended a subordinate of whom he might have been jealous. Truly, among such men, Espigny was an exception.

But there were others of his type higher up. The plight of the detachment showed it.

Captain Choquard had arrived in the Sudan with a fine reputation made in Dahomey, Madagascar and Indo-China, highly recommended by his superiors. For some reason, however, he had aroused the enmity of some one in power.

The detachment under his orders was not too well composed. Half of the infantrymen were recruits without long training. It was plain that the information given Choquard was willfully scanty. He had been ordered north at the worst season of the year, and without absolute necessity. The band of Mekduf Moors was not misbehaving more than usual at the time, merely profiting by the belief that the French would not start out during the rains.

And Choquard had been seconded by the cavalry lieutenant, Marjolet, a man of proved courage and ability, but notoriously hot-tempered, a man hard to handle. Without doubt it had been expected that Marjolet, who disliked to see a troop poorly led, would clash very soon with his chief who was a novice in the Sudan.

But Choquard combined diplomacy with military ability. While keeping the reins, he had not checked the excitable Marjolet, had spared his pride by consulting him before every move and, when not agreeing, had coolly explained his reasons for disregarding the counsel.

Instead of showing eagerness to come to grips with the Moors, to begin his career in Africa with a crashing success, to wear his soldiers out with constant marching and counter-marching, Choquard had progressed steadily, moving from one site to another at leisure with the bulk of his forces, while the cavalry patrols sought the enemy, kept him informed, ready to take advantage of the first false move by the native chieftain.

Despite the rain, and fevers to be caught in the marshes, the detachment did not count more than four men unfit for duty. Choquard had the deft hand of a master leader. His years in the Tonkin stalking the Black Flags and river pirates, who could teach even the Moors patience and bush strategy, had hammered the captain into a steel blade, that bent but did not break, that was ready at all times to flash out and strike.

Choquard had brought the same imperturbable calm in his relations with Espigny. For days, he had endured the caustic comments of the slender lieutenant, biding his time, stalking him in the maze of his arguments, finally to pounce upon him tonight. Choquard was but one or two years over thirty, although he appeared much older. The climate of Indo-China does not preserve youth in the Occidental. With a little luck he would rise high. Higher, possibly, than either the crafty Espigny or the truculent Marjolet. Courfay hoped that, in the future, when he came back to the Sudan with a commission, it would be his fortune to serve under Choquard.

One might learn much from the captain.

"WHOSO a musketeer would be

Must jest with Death right merrily;

To insult mete out quick disaster;

Shoot straight and fast;
drink straight, and faster."

"Marjolet is back," thought Courfay. There was no mistaking the lieutenant's baritone.

Although the sun had not risen, Marjolet, with superb contempt for other men's rest, was heralding his return. Singing at all times, that was another of his peculiarities. As a general rule martial songs with a swinging rhythm. Marjolet was fond of music, and his buglers were always among the best in the Spahis.

"He sounds happy. He has news," Courfay murmured.

He thrust his legs in his breeches, slipped his feet in leather sandals and went out.

Marjolet had ridden his horse to the captain's tent, and was calling out loudly.

Choquard came out with a lantern. He was in his night-shirt. Muscular hairy legs protruded, a rather rotund stomach bulged the white cloth, a stomach that was kept within reasonable limits during the day by an abdominal belt over which the leather belt was buckled.

"What's all the noise about, Marjolet?"

"We located them and they showed fight, Captain. In a little village not far from here, which they had been looting. I don't know whether the whole bunch was there. We picked up three dead when we got in."

"Why didn't you send for me?"

"Bah! They'd have gone by that time, and anyway, I didn't have a man to spare. As they say in the guessing game, we're getting warm!"

"Probably they'll slip away, gain the desert and then good-by."

"Oh, no! They have business in another village. One of them was not dead when we reached him, and he talked."

"Strange that he did."

"Not at all." Without more explanation as to his method of obtaining information, Marjolet slid from the saddle, threw the bridle to the nearest native private. "Take him to my orderly and tell him that if the horse isn't well taken cate of, he will be. Hello, Courfay."

"Good morning, Lieutenant."

"Will you see that everything is in order among the Spahis? In the meanwhile, I'll talk with Captain Choquard."

Choquard invited him into the tent, and Courfay, after replacing the sandals with boots, woke up the cavalrymen. Those who had just returned with Marjolet were allowed to rest while their comrades took care of the horses. The sergeant inspected the thirty saddles, the carbines and sabers. He discovered nothing wrong. The black, careless in barracks about his weapons, nurses them as a fond mother cares for a first-born, when his life depends upon them.

At sunrise all was ready, and Courfay went back to report.

He found Marjolet in his tent, standing in a shallow tub while an orderly threw water over his back.

"Sit on the cot or you'll be splashed," Marjolet advised.

And, as he reported in detail the condition of men, horses and equipment, Courfay looked at Marjolet as if he had never seen him before.

The lieutenant permitted his hair to grow long, in large shocks that tumbled about his ears and over his forehead. This forehead, sloping and wide, revealed at the same time inborn pugnacity and intelligence of rare caliber. The eyes, deeply sunk under the arches of the brow, were blue-black, as if chipped from hard, polished mineral by an expert jeweler. The nose was long, the nostrils wide. A short black beard lengthened the face. The mouth, firm-lipped, was surrounded by deep grooves of determination. The teeth were white and strong, like live ivory. The high cheek-bones, the lines about the eyes, gave Marjolet a mask of rare power, in which were combined the elements of courage and dogged resolution, qualities not always found together.

Many times, Courfay had seen Marjolet naked. But he had never consciously noticed the splendid grace of the torso. Below the tanned neck, the skin was white and smooth. There was not a blemish from shoulder to heel. On the larger swells of the muscles rippled smaller muscles, so that at each move Marjolet appeared to vibrate. The overlapping muscles that inclosed the ribs were as distinguishable one from the other as on an anatomy chart. The flat abdomen, without an ounce of fat, contrasted with the paunch of Choquard.

Marjolet dressed to the waist and the orderly held his shirt out. Before accepting it, the lieutenant reached out, took from the lid of his tin trunk a string of metal discs, which he placed around his neck. Then followed a longer necklace of leather, from which hung a small oblong packet of the same material, doubtless the Moslem amulet mentioned by Espigny.

Many times, on the field after an engagement, Courfay had slit open such amulets to ascertain the contents. Marjolet's was probably similar— a pinch of dust, ashes or powder, or a bit of paper on which was scrawled a verse of the Koran. These amulets were not efficacious in foiling the death-dealing bullet or sword, as was proved by the fact that they were found on corpses.

Marjolet did not try to hide the charms from the sergeant. He passed his head through the shirt, fastened the buttons, the loose cuffs flapping about his wide wrists.

"Ready!" he announced a moment later. "I have brought back a piece of antelope meat for breakfast. After the ride I had last night, I can enjoy a cup of coffee."

Choquard and Espigny were already seated at the folding table. The Bambara cook had sliced the antelope meat into thin slices and, after a diet of tinned meat, the change was welcome.

Gathered about the cast-iron pots and the copper saucepans, the negroes were dipping their long fingers in the boiled rice drenched with spicy sauce. Those who had already finished their meal were gnawing kola nuts for dessert. They were all happy. The two major pleasures of the blacks are dancing to the tomtoms' cadence and eating much good food.

The captain spoke of Marjolet's report and the plan of action he had suggested.

"Lieutenant Marjolet had obtained information," he said. "Cheikh Sid Hamet does not intend to leave the region without looting the negro village situated—" He illustrated with the tableware. "Suppose that these plates are the flooded fields that cup the village in question, the narrow lane is the direct path. Lieutenant Marjolet suggests that the Tirailleurs, who can pass where horses can not, file quietly to dry land behind the village. In the meanwhile the Spahis, commanded by himself and Sergeant Courfay, will show themselves on the front trail, causing the Moors to move back on the uncertain paths behind the village, where we will have them floundering under the fire of our Lebels."

"Pardon me. Captain," said Marjolet, "but I would like a few Tirailleurs for support. When they find themselves shut off in front, they may ebb back upon me. Ten rifles will do."

"You'll have them. Which of the non-coms do you prefer?"

"Moussa Diara. He savvys quicker than the others and there won't be much need for courage. When it comes to skull-smashing, I prefer a real, home-bred black."

Espigny left the table, to return with a map.

"Can't use that thing," Marjolet stated without hesitation. "Whoever did it blundered on this region."

"There's only one thing wrong with the plan," Espigny declared. "A small thing, which may mean a great deal. Will the Moors go to the village? I doubt it. They will suspect—"

"We can but try—" Choquard exclaimed with impatience.

"How can we depend upon what the prisoner said?" Espigny queried.

"Trust me," Marjolet invited. "He took a long time to talk. I threatened to shave his head completely if he did not speak the truth, and I made him swear to it according to his own code. Still he lied manfully, but in the cross-examination I obtained what I sought. A sort of system of mine by which I extract one truth from three or four lies which do not connect. To check up, I told him my conclusions, and one look at his face was proof that I had guessed rightly."

Courfay had seen, in Kayes, an officer connected with the Intelligence Service, a veteran of the Arab bureau of Algeria, who, by deft questioning, approaching the core of the inquest from several angles in turn, finally isolated the truth. Not an easy lore to acquire. Marjolet had doubtless succeeded.

"In that case," Espigny admitted, "we have a fair chance. Yet the plan is so old, so time-worn, that it seems impossible that the foxy Hamet will fall into the trap."

"The trite, well tested move is surer of success than the innovation," Choquard said gravely. "There are but a limited number of moves in warfare; what counts is the time and the place. We knew when we started out that our ultimate tactic would consist of an enveloping movement. The sole problem was the site and the hour. We now have three elements: movement, position, time. There is a fourth, but that no man can control. It is variously known as luck, fate, destiny."

"Right," Espigny agreed. "Although there are those who claim destiny can be shaped by man. A sorcerer, a witch-doctor, makes a living out of the belief in his power to change destiny."

Choquard glanced at his watch, evidently saw that he had time, and only then replied:

"There have been a few cases of solidly proved predictions, I admit. But never of actual control of the future."

"How can any one tell?" Courfay protested. "When the desired event comes to pass as promised by the sorcerer, he claims the credit. He is as sure of himself as you are of your contrary opinion."

"I side with the captain," Espigny announced. "And for example, we have with us now a man whose destiny has been tampered with. None the worse for it, as far as I can see. No less a person, than you, Marjolet."

"I?" Marjolet exclaimed. "What have I to do with it?"

"You served in the Tomas Rebellion a year ago, and if reports are true, smashed quite a few skulls. I passed through Boola-Town— you know, the greatest trade center for kola nuts in West Africa— some months ago, and was told that a certain Zerecoky, a sorcerer, had cast a spell over the 'big Frenchman.' Knowing that he was protected from death by the spirits, he had not tried to match his magic against another's magic, but he had attacked the unprotected spot. Zerecoky had killed his chicken, taken out the vital organs, macerated them in the proper sauce for the proper time. Then he had stabbed the mess with steel needles after the approved fashion of enchanters the world over. Thus he believed that he was injecting fear into Marjolet's heart. An absolute failure as we all know."

"Where's that Zerecoky?" Marjolet demanded suddenly and violently.

"Unfortunately for Zerecoky, he chose a direct method against the post commander of his village, a hard-souled lieutenant, ex-Foreign Legionnaire. He poisoned his food. The officer, finding himself writhing in pain, his palate burning, had immediately drunk milk and saved himself. To connect the attempt on his life with the official poisoner was not a long process. In spite of his protestations of innocence, the lieutenant invited him to test his power against six eight-millimeter bullets. I arrived just in time to see Zerecoky's carcass exposed for the edification of the populace."

Marjolet laughed nervously.

"Why didn't you speak of this before?"

"Forgot it until the topic was brought up. It's all nonsense, anyway. By the way, did you ever hear the tale of the major who paid a sorcerer to bring him his promotion to colonel?" Espigny laughed.

"I have," Courfay replied. "I even heard his name spoken. But that same major finally went into an asylum for the insane, for he had a large spider in his ceiling. Too much absinthe, too much enjoyment, too much everything."

"By the way," Marjolet put in. "What happened to the ex-Foreign Legionnaire— after?"

"After? What could happen after? The officer was reprimanded for execution of a native notable without due trial."

"I mean— did Zerecoky's spell end with his death?"

"All sorcerers will assure you that the spell works after their death. A matter of protection, to avoid assassination on general principle. But as far as I know the officer in question is still alive. Moussa Diara was with me and knew of Zerecoky. He may have forgotten, however."

Marjolet called for Moussa Diara and questioned him, pretending amusement.

"I remember," Moussa Diara said, "very well. In those days Lieutenant Marjolet was disliked, for it was soon after the fighting. But those tales are nothing but inventions to scare old women, and a Frenchman laughs at them." Diara laughed. "It was also said that Zerecoky had not acted alone for his people, but also at the request of a Frenchman. Men had seen the Frenchman speaking with Zerecoky—"

Choquard rose impatiently and signaled to the bugler.

The Tirailleurs passed the straps of their packs over their shoulders and formed in line. The servants folded up the table and closed the food crates.

"When you please, Lieutenant Espigny." Choquard said.

Espigny swung into his saddle, blew a whistle.

"Shoulder arms. Column by one— march."

"We'll be in position by three o'clock, Lieutenant Marjolet, at the assigned spot." Choquard rapidly reviewed the situation. "We have farther to go, owing to our turning movement. You are mounted. Try not to give them alarm too soon." He shook hands first with Marjolet, then with Courfay. "Be careful, both of you. Aside from pure altruism, I hope not to have heavy casualties to report, for my own sake. Good luck."

Espigny was already in the lead, the thin column of infantry, blue backs and crimson chechias, filed on the narrow path that crossed the flooded plain on the northwest, between the glistening pools left by the rain. Choquard took the lead of section number two, immediately followed by the long line of bearers plodding with resignation under the heavy head-loads. A squad of riflemen brought up the rear.

Marjolet watched the captain, shrunk under his white helmet, shoulders sagging.

"Fine man!" he said admiringly. Then he turned to Courfay. "Do you believe all that stuff?"

"All what, Lieutenant?"

"Sorcerers, spells, fetishes?"

"No. Enough trouble comes to us from natural sources without looking for men to add to it."

Marjolet lifted the sun-helmet from his head, yet without exposing his skull to the sun—an unwise procedure in the Sudan. He ran his fingers through his thick black liair and scowled. He appeared about to speak again to Courfay, but ended with a shrug.

"Moussa Diara!" he called. When the black sergeant was standing beside his horse, he gave him final instructions, "I want you to bring your men behind us about two kilometers. Don't fall behind too far if you can help it. But above all, don't show yourself before the firing becomes heavy enough to make you sure we are engaged. I don't want those fellows to know there is a single rifleman east of the village until it is too late.

"You understand. Not one of your men must be visible to the enemy's scouts. In case you do as I say and we clean out the Moors in good style, you can count on me to boost you for your promotion. If you do anything to bring failure I'll boot you as you've never been booted before. I know you well, Diara, and no excuse will be accepted."

On several occasions before Courfay had seen that the cavalry lieutenant, while appreciating Diara's ability to understand and speak French, had no feeling of esteem for his fighting qualities. To genuine Sudanese, Marjolet rarely spoke a harsh word in a serious tone.

The Spahis moved forward at a walk, and in an hour were in contact with the advance scouts of the Moors who fell back without showing fight.

"Dropping steadily eastward and leaving an opening between themselves and the bulk of their band, they are trying to create the impression that their band is in the east," Marjolet explained to Courfay. "Unless otherwise informed, we would follow them, while the majority of the long-haired pirates looted the village to their heart's content. He handed Courfay the field glasses. "Look at that chap on the white horse."

The rider indicated, on a mount somewhat larger than the Spahis ' horses, was clad in blue cloth, his head bare. His hair and beard, unshorn, growing as they pleased, framed his thin, fine-featured face. A short carbine rested on the saddle before him. Through the glasses Courfay could see him guide his mount with his lean shanks while one hand held the gun and the other was held high to shade his eyes.

"A perfect type," Courfay agreed.

"In the official files of the government, Courfay, you can read in learned reports that these fellows, Sahel Moors, are not equal in military valor to the Moors of the Senegalese Adrar or those from the Tafilalet Oases on the other side of the Sahara. Yet they are the same breed. The Moors here do not give trouble such as the others do, because our bases are within a few days. Place them two hundred miles farther north, in the sand-dunes, with us away from water and supplies—" Marjolet laughed. "I have even seen it written that the Moors are the highest type of negroes in the Sudan. Semite and Ethiopian are one to the casual observer. He sees a man who calls himself a Moor and shows the thick lips and heavy jaw of the negro, and from then on classifies all Moors with the blacks.

"Obvious conclusion," Courfay decided, "that one should not judge by appearances."

"In no case," Marjolet approved. "There are things that men should not judge, because they never have studied them, and would not understand them if they tried."

"An Englishman named Shakespeare said something of the sort some centuries ago."

"I have heard that name," said Marjolet. "Did he serve under Marlborough?"

Courfay was suddenly reminded that the lieutenant, although he had fully acquainted himself with military and African subjects, had launched out in life without education. To discourse of literature at the present moment did not appear important to the sergeant.

"I believe so. Lieutenant," he replied.

While apparently unaware of the stratagem employed by the Moors, Marjolet had edged his troop of riders northward, so that he was between the village and the curtain of horsemen. His intention was to follow them leisurely— a scant half-score— until mid-afternoon, when he would turn and dash back to blockade the main trail.

The lieutenant halted upon the crest of a low swell, straightened in the saddle to seek out the scouts.

That Charles Marjolet resembled his namesake, the illustrious Duke of Burgundy, could not be denied. As Espigny had said, Marjolet might shape his hair and beard in imitation of the duke, but the profile, the forehead and nose, the scornful twist of the lips, nature had granted him.

In other days he would have been a splendid leader in spite of his peasant origin. The Middle Ages counted many such figures, who led pikemen and gens d'armes behind the kings and dukes of France. Even in modern days, less friendly to the man who offers nothing but courage and muscles, with a purely warlike intelligence, Marjolet had gravitated to a sphere of action best suited to him. Fate had not allowed that fierce energy, that immense strength to waste within the narrow limits of the home village.

A complete throwback who, like his ancestors, would willingly have preceded each action with a solemn appeal to some occult power recommended as a help. Courfay had read of medieval commanders who had sought everywhere for a man who would summon his Satanic majesty to appear that they might exchange their salvation for a few years of earthly power. These men also had worn amulets under the steel corselet oftener, probably, than Christian emblems.

Unconsciously theatrical in attitude, Marjolet sat in the saddle like a conqueror, left fist resting on the hip, right hand holding field-glasses and reins. He posed quite as much as the black Spahis who swelled their chests in the red tunics and clamped the chin straps of their pipe-clayed helmets tightly about their jaws.

Marjolet ended his contemplation and ordered six men to trot after the skulking Moors. Then he invited Courfay to come nearer.

The sergeant saw with surprize that his lips were twitching, his face drawn.

"LISTEN, Courfay. You bear me no grudge for what happened in Bandiagara, do you?"

"No, Lieutenant. You were in the right."

"That doesn't matter. If I talk to you not as an officer to sergeant but like a poor —— in trouble to a friend, will you repeat what I say?"

"No."

"Because I don't want any more talk about me. There's been too much as it is. I'm a peasant, that's understood. And I've never hidden it. When they brought out the big plow, to try and wean the negroes from the daba,* I shed my coat and showed them how to handle it. Up to a year ago I wouldn't have cared. But now I've— reasons for not wanting to seem ridiculous."

____________

* Native plow in form of a crooked stick.

"Naturally enough, Lieutenant."

"I've been wondering what was the matter with me for the past six or seven months. I never used to think of danger, and now I do. Not just a little, but often. Espigny's story, this morning, made me see the reason. I know it sounds crazy to you, but I believe that— spell business."

"You've dwelt on it ever since," Courfay replied lightly. "Think of anything long enough and it will gradually seem more and more reasonable."

"But why did I feel fear even before he spoke? Yesterday, when I saw a few of the enemy in the village before me, I had to make an effort to order the men forward. For a moment I was tempted to withdraw quietly, but they were all looking at my back, I knew, waiting for my hand to go up and signal them to go forward and attack. I remembered in time who and what I had been, what they thought of me. But just in time, Courfay, just in time."

"You're lucky if you don't have that feeling of reluctance before every show, Lieutenant. I have. With a hundred guns going off you can't help but feel at least one bullet will find you."

"That's not my case. I wouldn't be afraid, Courfay, if I was sure that a bullet would end me definitely and for all time. What I fear is breaking down in the middle of an action and running. After what I have been—" Marjolet repeated.

Courfay waited for him to go on, not knowing what to say.

"Here's what I wish you'd do for me, Courfay: Today you keep an eye on me. If I show fear, if I turn around, put a revolver bullet through my skull."

The sergeant glanced at the Spahis, grouped a few yards away in the shade of a small tree.

"From a purely technical viewpoint, Lieutenant," he said in a bantering tone, "your request is impossible to grant. I am the only man in this group who carries a 92 model revolver, save yourself. Admitting that I would do it, I would be degraded and shot; for the blacks are not blind, and the autopsy would prove their statement."

Marjolet gloomily accepted the objections.

"I'll have to watch myself, and if the desire to get out becomes too strong, use my own gun."

Courfay could see that Marjolet was not joking. The lieutenant would shoot himself as readily as he had shot others. He regretted that Choquard was not present. The captain, with his gentle logical reasoning, would find a way to halt matters before a tragedy occurred.

"I saw you this morning when you came back," he said. "Heard you singing. Not a trace of worry." He paused. "You did not sleep. You are merely fatigued, which does not make for strong will."

"Strong will or not—"

"You'll shoot yourself? A fine thing to do! Personally, I believe that all that ails you is being tired. Even a man of your robust constitution cannot go thirty-six hours without sleep and be quite himself. We have four hours free. Have your blankets spread under that tree, take a couple of quinine pills and try to rest."

"I once went three days and three nights without rest and I did not feel it."

"Try, just the same. It won't harm you, will it?"

"I guess not."

Marjolet lay down on the blankets while a sort of canopy was erected to shelter his head from the light. He was asleep soon.

"He considers suicide one moment and drops off to sleep the next," mused Courfay. "Yet he maintains he is on the verge of a panic. What a queer animal he is!"

No more than Marjolet, did he believe that sleep would cure his fear. But at all costs, he must try to keep the lieutenant alive until he joined Choquard. He was not altogether unselfish in this; that Marjolet and he had quarreled in the past was well known. If anything happened to Marjolet that appeared in the least strange, gossip would spread.

Courfay wandered idly among the Spahis, occasionally seeking in the distance the moving red spots that were the cavalrymen detached to keep the enemy scouts at a safe distance. The white sergeant felt very much alone among this score and a half of blacks.

There was a private among the Spahis, a man less rangy than the Bambara and Tukuleur negroes. His name was Waty, and he claimed to belong to a tribe that he called Douy. It was known only that he came from somewhere near the Liberian frontier. This fellow was not popular. He was not a follower of Allah, nor did he proclaim belief in any of the best-credited fetishes. He worshiped strange gods of his own, kind gods, evidently, who permitted him to drink and eat what he wished at all times of the year. Often Courfay had conversed with him, pitying his isolation, although Waty did not seem particularly disturbed by it.

Today, Waty had walked a few feet away from the others, had doffed coat and helmet, and was sprawling in the hot sun, back pressed against the ground, arms shading his eyes. From the thick lips hung a pipe with a curved stem and a copper lid. He smoked peacefully.

Courfay sat down beside him.

"Chore?" Waty inquired.

"No. Thou canst rest longer," Courfay informed him.

Reassured that he had no hard task to do, the negro sank back. His pipe empty, he searched the pockets of his trousers for tobacco, and pretended that his provision was exhausted. Courfay gave him a package of his own weed. Waty preferred the native leaf-tobacco to the finer mixtures that the white men used, but when he did not have to pay for it he obtained as much as he could from his superiors.

"Savvy sorcerer?" Courfay asked, after allowing a discreet pause for Waty to light his pipe.

"Savvy much," Waty assured him without false modesty.

"As much as—" Courfay mentioned a private who enjoyed a reputation as miracle-worker.

"Him no savvy nothing. Him small boy. Me, man."

In Courfay's mind a plan was shaping— not a very civilized plan, but the lieutenant seemed past reasoning. An imaginary ill might be healed by an imaginary cure. Just how good a tool Waty would prove, Courfay did not know.

"Savvy chicken palaver?" he asked.

"Yessah. I go for woods long time, when I be small boy."

Courfay had heard that the natives of the big forest sent their youths into the bush for long periods, there to learn the lore of the woods and the intricacies of witchcraft, as well as tribal traditions. Waty was not a full-fledged sorcerer, or he would have been wielding power in his village instead of being a Spahis. But if he knew a part of the ritual Courfay could pass him as an adept to Marjolet.

The sergeant pulled from his pocket two five-franc pieces, which he held in his palms in such a manner that the sun shone full upon them. The coins had a magic all their own and Waty became immediately alert.

"What I do, eh?" he exclaimed. Ten francs were more than a fortnight's pay. And Waty understood that, in exchange for a yet unknown service, they would be his.

"Catch chicken," Courfay suggested.

Waty rose immediately, and disappeared in the direction of the horses.

Courfay did not doubt but that he would find a live chicken. The Spahis are technically light cavalrymen, and light cavalrymen at all times have been noted for looting. Negro horsemen like chickens and find them in the most unexpected places. The white officers, kept by decorum from joining in the raids for food, often had poorer fare than their followers.

WATY was gone a half hour. He returned with a chicken trussed securely by the legs.

"Be ten sous more," he announced, making it clear that he had been compelled to purchase the fowl at an exorbitant rate.

Courfay laid a hand on Marjolet's shoulder to awaken him.

"Time to go?" Marjolet asked, with a puzzled glance at the sun, the clock of the true bushman.

"No, Lieutenant. I've been thinking your case over carefully. You may be right in your suspicions that you are ridden by a spell. I don't believe so, but I may be wrong. We are not in France. We have a man here, named Waty, who comes from the big forest. He is something of a sorcerer himself and he may be able to help."

"What?" Marjolet repeated.

"Fight the spell by a spell of his own."

"That's an idea!" Marjolet approved immediately.

Courfay indicated Waty, who remained discreetly at a distance. The Spahis had moved closer, but the sergeant sent them away without great show of courtesy. He did not care to have the exact happenings of the next few minutes spread through the Sudanese garrison towns.

Waty evidently was not one of those sorcerers who need face-paint, feather and rattles. He removed his chechia, squatted and signified that he was ready.

"First, we want to know if there is a bad fetish on the lieutenant," Courfay said.

"Yessah."

The black produced a little knife from his garments, held the chicken in the left hand and drove the narrow blade of yellow metal into the little neck. The pinioned bird spun in a circle, in a medley of gurgles and squawks. Courfay, not altogether pleased with himself, turned his head away until the noise stopped.

Waty then glanced at the sun, noted in what direction the chicken had fallen and died. His thick lips moved, and his nostrils were swelling.

"Yessah, Sergeant. Bad fetish live."

"Canst thou drive it away?"

"I try."

The sorcerer resumed operations. He slit the chicken open, tore out the entrails and the organs. With all the attention and importance of a gypsy fortune-teller, he scanned the bloody mess before him, and made motions with his hands.

"I can do," Waty said, at last.

"Go ahead."

Waty rose and went back to his horse, sought for something in the saddlebags. Neither Courfay nor Marjolet spoke while he was gone.

The negro returned with a lump of yellow stuff that proved to be wax of some sort. This lump he laid on a cloth he had brought with him, and his fingers moved expertly. Puzzled at first, Courfay soon saw that he was molding a statuette, to be used in the counterplay against the supposed spell that had been cast on Marjolet.

With startling rapidity, the figure took the shape of a man. Then, as Courfay looked on with growing astonishment, Waty indicated the face. A long nose jutted upward, the forehead and chin lengthened grotesquely. Scarcely believing his eyes, the white sergeant saw increasing resemblance to some one he knew.

Marjolet, seated with his elbows resting on his knees, and his chin in his hands, looked on without remark.

With his thumbs, Waty modeled a long neck, with a swelling center.

Again, the black murmured low words, chanting in a monotonous voice:

"Yeh nata ramah! Bokere makbo!"

The words belonged to no tongue known to Courfay.

The sorcerer picked up a twig to finish his statuette. A line of indentations marked a row of buttons, revealing clearly for the first time that the figure was not that of a native. Then, with solemn care, Waty ornamented the arms at the wrists with two streaks dug in the soft stuff.

Evidently the man was a lieutenant.

Waty produced a steel needle, about the size of a knitting-needle, with which he pierced the heart and liver of the chicken repeatedly. He chanted faster and faster. At length he handed the instrument to Marjolet.

"Hit!" he invited.

Marjolet glanced at the figure, at the needle. Suddenly his face wrinkled and he laughed. Courfay, who had found it difficult several times to retain the composure of a man engaged in witchcraft, exploded in his turn.

"We belong in a padded cell," Marjolet said.

Waty, however, was offended by this hilarity. He urged Marjolet to strike, and his voice rose. Even the ten francs given him by Courfay was forgotten. The white men gathered that, unless the ceremony was completed, he, the sorcerer, would lose influence with the powers he had summoned.

"Better go through with it," Courfay declared. "After all, we called upon him. That's the worst of being fools, a man can't stop when he's had enough."

Waty, with a superb gesture, picked up the lay figure and stood it on its clumsy feet. Picking up a twig, he stabbed the ground, to indicate to Marjolet just how to strike. But Marjolet, impatient, eager to get the rites concluded and forget his stupid fear, struck an horizontal blow, as if sweeping with a saber. The needle struck the statuette above the knees. With a ridiculous sagging, the wax figure collapsed, lay stretched out back upward.

"That's all, Waty. Go now," Courfay said.

Marjolet wiped his face.

"The proof that there's nothing in that stuff is that I couldn't go through with it seriously. It would be better for us to attend to business." He pulled out his watch: "That madness took more time than we believed. It is almost eleven."

Courfay, for reasons of his own, sought Waty at the earliest opportunity.

"I savvy that be Lieutenant of Tirailleurs thou didst make," he said. "Who has spoken?"

"No one."

"No one," Courfay repeated musingly, "no one stole Demba's woman's cloth, too, I suppose."

Waty shuffled, with a sulky grin.

Ouali Demba was a non-com of Tirailleurs, well along in years, who had fallen in love with a young beauty of fifteen. The romance ended happily and Demba married his heart's desire. Depriving himself of tobacco, even of kola nuts, having sent away his three other wives, Demba spent his all for the adornment of his wife.

A particularly beautiful bolt of cloth given the woman as a present had vanished, supposedly stolen. Demba had roamed about seeking the culprit. And Courfay had seen Waty and the little wife in deep conversation, and had also seen the black make off with a bundle under his arm. Not a nice trick that Waty and Madame Demba had played upon the non-com of infantry, but Courfay had kept silent, not wishing to bring about a tragedy; and, to tell the truth, he was more concerned with the fighting qualities of his men than their moral standards.

African blacks are seldom jealous in the sense that a white man uses the word. Usually the affair is settled on a cash basis. Demba was likely to prove the exception.

"If Demba hears who no one is, it will be bad," Courfay suggested.

"Moussa Diara speak to other sergeants last night," Waty explained hastily. "Tirailleur lieutenant tell Diara what to say to Spahis lieutenant. Diara, he says Frenchmen be big fools, same as blacks."

Courfay had suspected as much. Diara, who informed his chiefs of his comrades' misdeeds, also informed his comrades of the white men's weaknesses. With an ape-like alertness, he had understood that Espigny was playing a trick upon Marjolet. And he had been unable to refrain from talking. Waty had kept his ears open, blended certain knowledge with probabilities to arrive at the startling conclusion that it was Espigny who had cast the "bad fetish" over Marjolet.

Marjolet, hands in pockets, his confident bearing as evident as usual, strolled up and down, impatient for the moment to go forward.

"You know," he stated when Courfay joined him, "that thing looked like Espigny."

"Somewhat." Courfay laughed. "Part of the ridiculous business. Waty took as model the nearest white man."

"I might as well tell you that Espigny has it in for me. We used to be good friends, and one day, when we were together in Paris we met my first captain. captain of dragoons. He must have talked to Espigny, for Espigny went with some sort of a tale to my friend Sorbier, my wife's brother, you know. Old man Sorbier was not an Espigny. I had told him frankly who I was and he had even gone to visit my parents. Espigny, I suppose, can't help being what he is. He has been nasty."

"Don't worry, Lieutenant. Captain Choquard and I both understand."

"Why is it that between officers there is always this petty bickering, this gossip, this slander? Oh, I'm no better than he. Here I am, speaking to you."

"Part of the profession," Courfay said philosophically. "And we are no different than others. I had occasion to hear a few writers speak together once. Men that were referred to in print as the 'talented So-and-so, whose exquisite prose, etc.' became 'that redundant ass.' Artists, the same thing. I dare say you take men anywhere and they will gossip as much as women."

Marjolet smiled.

"True. I heard my father refer to a neighboring land-owner in this manner: 'Thinks he's clever and doesn't even know how to trim a fruit tree.'."

THREE o'clock.

Before him, four hundred yards away, Courfay could see the village. Nothing more than a few dozens of huts, some with flat terraces, others with tall conical straw roofs. Poor villages in this region, populated by hybrids of many races, men who appeared to inherit defects rather than the better qualities. They were a prey to the raiders, even now that the French flag gave them official protection. Long centuries of bowing before the superior fighting ability of the Moors and Tuareg had snapped their spirit.

The Spahis had dismounted, to occupy the nearest spread of land emerging from the marsh sufficiently to afford firm footing. The horses had been led back out of range. Their guards would prove a match for the scattered Moorish scouts in the rear. And, coming nearer rapidly, could be discerned the red skullcaps of Moussa Diara's infantrymen, arriving now that the fusillade had begun.

Coached by the two white men, the cavalrymen were obtaining fair results with their fire. The Moors, although sheltered by the outflung walls of the village, fired too high to do much damage. The bullets kicked up the water hundreds of feet to the rear, or were lost in the foliage of a cluster of trees at the entrance of the trail.

Moussa Diara arrived with his ten riflemen. The horses were brought to the spot again and the Spahis mounted. Choquard, with the bulk of the detachment, was presumably stationed on the other side of the village, and it was up to Marjolet to make a demonstration serious enough to send the Moors under his rifles.

Marjolet rode to Courfay's side.

"It has just occurred to me," he said, "that, while we are sending the others out on a narrow trail under Choquard's fire, if the Moors decide to hold the village we have to ride forward under their fire." Marjolet had paled under his tan to a yellow hue, not pretty to behold.

"That's so," Courfay agreed.

The two looked at each other for a moment, then Courfay led the way. Surprize was manifested among the Spahis when they saw that Marjolet would only proceed with the second group. The path was at some places eight feet, at others four, never much less. A few missiles buzzed near, then the Moors left the defense, making their retreat through the village streets and unwittingly falling into the trap laid for them.

The village emerged from the marshy plain completely, being erected on a rise of soil. Once on this firm footing, the Spahis spread out and Marjolet rode boot to boot with his sergeant.

"They've gone," Courfay reassured his chief.

"Then why doesn't Choquard fire?"

"Probably doesn't want to give himself away before he sees us coming out on the other side, fearing that they would sweep back and fight us from behind walls indefinitely."

They entered the main street of the village, and the Spahis divided into smaller parties, each to reach the western end after searching their allotted area. Courfay galloped straight through and, taking a small black and red flag carried by a native corporal, waved it high.

He could see the Moors, perhaps two hundred and fifty in number, nearing dry land. Choquard, he knew, must have concealed his men among the bushes that were to be seen beyond.

A bugle sounded and the Moors halted. Some of them turned back toward the village, only to halt in hesitation when the Spahis opened fire.

"Seems that all is going well," Marjolet remarked.

"Poor devils," Courfay grumbled. "They'll be wiped out without a chance to fight back."

Marjolet turned toward his men, ordered them to dismount and prepare to fire. Moussa Diara and his squad gained the top of the huts, from where they could fire more effectively.

"Three hundred meters—" Marjolet called.

Diara called out in Bambara, then in Dioula, not giving the figures but telling the natives just where to slide their back sights. Courfay dreaded the next few minutes of massacre. In plain sight, crowded together, without possible shelter, the Moor horsemen were doomed. The negro population of the village issued from concealment and massed to behold the scene, with squeals of delight.

Courfay despised them, these servile people, unable to fight their own battles; yet so eager to see their ancient masters butchered by a stronger foe.

"Choquard can't seem to make up his mind," Marjolet said. "Well, we might as well start it!"

He gave the order to open fire. Almost immediately, however, Choquard's bugler sounded, "Cease firing." The privates obeyed.

"What's the matter over there?" Marjolet wondered.

"I don't know," Courfay grunted. "The sooner this is over with the better I'll like it."

Marjolet, who had the glasses, suddenly exclaimed:

"Officer showing himself— It's Choquard, alone— coming forward!"

Courfay saw a white figure come from the bushes and enter the trail. As the captain drew nearer it was seen that he held his arms high above his head and that he wore no belt, which meant that he had left sword and revolver behind.

"He'll get himself shot," Marjolet predicted.

"Maybe not."

"He doesn't know these men."

But Choquard was not fired upon. He came up to the first of the Moors who had dismounted to meet him. And Choquard offered his hand to the native chieftain. There was a pause, then Choquard and the Moor disappeared among the men and horses crowded on the path.

"He's coming over here," Marjolet said.

Marjolet and the sergeant rode forward to meet him. Choquard was not as agile as his companion and several times the Moor steadied him with one hand. Finally, the four met, two hundred feet from the huts, in full view of all the combatants.

"I speak no language this gentleman understands," Choquard said.

"Courfay is the linguist," Marjolet put in.

"Courfay, tell him how many rifles we have on either side of him."

Courfay had mastered Arabic sufficiently to express himself fluently.

The Moor listened gravely, and stroked his beard. Six foot two or three, bearded, his head bare save for the thick, long, coarse hair, his face appeared tiny above his great figure draped in blue.

"Try to make him understand, Courfay. We could wipe him and all his men out in ten minutes. But we don't want to. For immediate terms, he must give back to the villages that which he took today. He must promise to go back to his own camp in the north."

Courfay translated, and Sid Hamet replied, at length.

"He asks about his guns, Captain. And his camels which are a few miles northeast of here."

"We can't disarm these men altogether. They can keep one rifle in ten. As for his camels and the loot he has already taken, he can have them for all I care. We can not go way back and make him return all he owns to the original possessors. He must promise not to fight us again this season."

"There's nothing so easy for them as to lie," Marjolet protested.

"We have to choose between belief and butchery," Choquard insisted. "And pardieu, none of us wish to shoot helpless men. Tell Sid Hamet that when he comes to make his peace at Timbuktu with the military governor, the rifles will be given back to his people. Tell him that he must see he can not fight us— that we have come through the Sudan from the sea and that we are here to stay. The sooner he becomes our friend, the better for him, for he must give in some time."

Courfay, although far from a scholar in the tongue, did not lack crude eloquence.

"He says that he will go to Timbuktu to write on the paper, to make his peace with the French chief. He wants to know how much he and his people will be compelled to pay in taxes."

Choquard smiled.

"Ah! That's the rub with all of them. Tell him, far less than he has paid for rifles to fight us with."

Hamet's eyes sparkled. He talked rapidly.

"We should take him as hostage to Timbuktu," Marjolet said to Choquard.

"That's just what he proposes," Courfay informed them. "He will come with one of his sons and four notables. He says that as long as the will of God has been made clear there is no sense in delay. Thus, there will be no need to seize the rifles, for his life will answer for the promise that they will not be fired at the French."

Hamet summoned his son, a man not very much younger in appearance, with the same tall figure and features. There was much loud talking, hissing ejaculations, gesturing. Then Moussa Diara was summoned and the hostages placed in his charge. With the leader, his son, and four lesser chiefs guarded by ten bayonets, the Moors were allowed to stream back into the village, to abandon their loot and then to leave for the spot where the camels had been left.

"I must thank you, Marjolet," Choquard said. "Had it not been for you I'd still be trying to locate these fellows. I can see that you don't belong to the clique that sent me out here at this season. To tell you the truth, I won't be sorry to report a successful end to my mission. Any wounded?"

"One. Not serious."

"And one man who accidentally breaks his leg can scarcely be called a big casualty. Espigny will get a leave out of it, and his leg will be all right in two or three months."

"Espigny?" Courfay repeated.

"Yes. You know he brought a few cases of wine along with him. As long as the thirty-five centimes paid the bearers did not come out of the government's coffers, I had nothing to say. It was his business. And—" Choquard smiled— "no man should sulk against his palate. We must admit that we drank with him often enough.

"Well, on the way over, I had left his private servants with his wine some distance behind. One of the bearers fell with the favorite vintage and the case plunged under water. Espigny dismounted, made his way back and directed the salvage operations. For a few moments a half dozen men wallowed in muck up to their thighs. Espigny, with his brisk manners, stood on the path, gesticulating.

"I was getting enough of it and I ordered him to either hurry or abandon the wine. It was about eleven o'clock, and I had no time to spare. In his eagerness, Espigny slipped and one leg went under. Somehow, in extricating himself, he wrenched it so that it broke. The thigh bone. When he tried to stand erect, he cried out and sagged forward, fell flat on his face."

Courfay remembered the statuette, sagging and sinking to the ground as the needle held by Marjolet struck the legs.

"So that I left him with three Tirailleurs and his bearers, to make himself as comfortable as he could and to fish out his wine!"

COURFAY! Come here," Choquard called out.

The sergeant threaded his way between the sleeping soldiers, back toward the tents. He passed the shelter in which the Moors were quartered without special guards, for Choquard, pointing out that they had volunteered to come with him, had forbidden Marjolet to place sentries around them.

In another shelter lay Espigny, with his leg in splints.

"Sit down," Choquard invited. He brought a tin cup near. "Have a drink. Espigny went to enough trouble to bring it up and it would be a shame to take the bottles back full. Now, what's the matter? You wish to talk to me?"

"I, Captain?"

"You're not your usual self. Ever since we came back to this camp you've been wandering about like a disembodied soul." Choquard indicated Espigny's tent. "You don't desire to brood on one thing until you become as bitter as he?" "If I talk I am betraying a confidence."

"I'll keep your secrets better than you're doing yourself," Choquard promised with a smile.

Courfay told him what he had said to Espigny, in effect that Marjolet was not proof against fear. He reminded the captain that Espigny had opened his subtle campaign the very next day. He narrated his conversation with Marjolet, the latter's confession of his fear, culminating in the rites performed by Waty.

With a growing sense of ridicule he told of the blow struck by Marjolet against the limbs of the effigy.

"You understand," he went on, encouraged when he saw that Choquard was still serious. "I don't believe in the rites."

"Espigny had it coming to him," Choquard declared. "I hope that it won't be your misfortune to serve with him again. From the first he tried to establish a union between himself and you against Marjolet, using your past disagreement as a lever. Whether occult or natural, his accident was well deserved. You find men such as he sowing discord everywhere."

"But do you believe there was any connection between our— our foolishness and his accident. Captain?"

"Off-hand, I should say no. Logically we can't see it as anything save one of those coincidences that have bolstered faith in the occult for centuries. Seldom are they met with as precisely as in this case. Truly, I can only say that I don't know. Some claim that there is power in thought, direct power. As near to our age as a century ago you'd both have been liable to suffer for practising witchcraft.

"Most men affect to speak of sorcery with a smile. No one has ever discovered anything while being amused. If you arrive at your conclusions by accepting the opinion of the majority, you would believe. For, among white men, there are a good fifty per cent, who, to some degree or other, believe in charms. And in other races, the belief is firmly anchored." Choquard paused gravely. "However, Sergeant Courfay, having constituted myself a court of law, I acquit you and dismiss Marjolet with a suspended sentence."

"Thank you, Captain," Courfay said with a wide grin. "But frankly, Lieutenant Marjolet is a man who needs assistance, assistance beyond my power to grant him. It is not the fact that he is married, for Senator Sorbier could give him a soft garrison in France easily enough. Something has happened inside of him, a queer change."

Choquard rubbed his smooth skull thoughtfully.

"Wait a moment," he asked.

He sat motionless, save for the flicking of the cigaret ashes into the fire. Courfay, who had first liked the captain from instinct, now came to a feeling of near veneration for him.

Not many men in Choquard's place would have given up the opportunity to win a bloody victory, return to the base with a sensational report. He had been satisfied with a tactical success that would not bring fame, when there might have been crosses, medals, promotion. Choquard had the greatest quality to be found in a soldier— humanity.

"Tell me, Courfay, what was Marjolet's goal when he started life?"

"Lieutenant Espigny told us— to be a good farmer."

"Shifted unexpectedly to a professional soldier, with his education, or rather his lack of education, the double braid of lieutenant was his ultimate goal, which he did not expect to attain until he was somewhere near forty, close to retirement. That's the lot of officers who rise from the ranks, nine cases out of ten. He may have aspired even to become a captain. Not a few succeed. But that's the end, the absolute end, for the majority. A major requires a certain poise, a certain distinction, not to be found in an ex-peasant lad, Marjolet thought."

"Yes, probably."

"Now, under thirty, he is certain to obtain his commission as captain within six months. He thinks there is nothing else to struggle for. He has arrived at the spot for which he started. And what happens when a man attains his goal, unless he has deliberately moved it a notch higher as he climbed up?"

"Quite so," Courfay admitted, although he did not see just where Choquard was leading.

"Marjolet wishes to remain alive now, at all costs, to remain at the top. It doesn't matter to a climber if he falls off the lower rungs, but it's annoying to stand at the top and then fall. A case in point: Michel Ney, Marshal of France. From poor boy to the highest rank in the French army. On the way up, a marvelously able man; at the top a quibbler and not always a good comrade. Came Russia and retreat. Another goal ahead— Ney shone like a star. Came Waterloo, and Ney outdid all his past exploits. Faced with death, he died a hero. That's Marjolet's case now. Give him a goal and he will forget his fears."

Choquard was silent, Courfay mused over the arguments just presented.

"Also," Choquard resumed abruptly, with a note of irritation in his voice, "Marjolet is expected to be brave. He knows it. He is in the position of the beautiful woman who fears the first wrinkle and brings it to her face by staring in a mirror hours on end. Courfay, too much success is as bad as too little."

It was not long before Marjolet reappeared and joined them.

"I was giving sound advice to young Courfay," Choquard told him. "He'll be back here with a commission next year. And he informed me that his intention is to get a transfer to France after one sojourn here as an officer. What is your opinion, Marjolet?"

"France has its good points," Marjolet said musingly.

"Yes, but I warned him that if he goes back without the stripes of major on his sleeves, his career will halt with a jerk. He'll have to wait his turn among thousands of others, without the chance of showing himself better than the others. Up to captain the climb is straight, but the hardest leap is from that to major. The place to take that leap is out here. Don't you think so, Marjolet?"

"I hadn't—why, I guess it is," Marjolet agreed. "In France the school officers get preference."

"Not always," Choquard corrected. "I'm a school officer. I've tried it. But in many cases— And Marjolet, had you stayed in France where would you be? You count something like eight years in the service, don't you?"

"Yes. I'd be a sergeant-major, and my head would be so dulled by routine that I'd be hoping for a pension and not worrying about a commission."

Courfay looked at Marjolet. The lieutenant's face was settling again into determination, not the mask given the features by long habit, but an inner fire that glinted in his eyes. Again, Marjolet was dreaming of the future, his spirit had received a new force.

When Marjolet had left, Courfay turned to Choquard with sincere admiration.

"I believe you struck the right chord, Captain."

"I think I did. Without undue pride, Courfay, I think I have some success as a mentor for puzzled souls. My only regret is that I can not be my own doctor!"

He offered his hand to Courfay.

"By way of further acquiring your gratitude, I'll mention you in my report so that you'll be off for school with high notes," he said.

"I've done nothing worth reporting," Courfay replied.

"I know it. But it will pay you for the times when you did do something worth while and were forgotten. I like to balance scales."

Choquard entered his tent.

Passing before Marjolet's quarters, on his way to his shelter, Courfay saw the lieutenant through the opening, seated on his cot, reading by the light of a lantern. In the last forty-eight hours the sergeant had come to a sort of intimacy with his superior, and he made his presence known. He was curious to hear Marjolet's conclusions on the climax of the expedition.

Matjolet put the book away, and Courfay noticed that the green cover was that of a well known tome on military science. With typical impatience, Marjolet had started for the top. So intense was his new resolution that it apparently had wiped the past from his memory. He spoke of army matters and questioned Courfay as to the best method to learn German, a language necessary to a superior officer in the armies of the French Republic.

"Wise man, Choquard," he interjected after a space. "But a bit soft."

"On the surface," Courfay indicated.

At this point, Waty entered the tent and handed an object to Marjolet. The lieutenant gave the Spahis a few silver francs and dismissed him.

"Thought it only right to give him a little money, because we laughed at him," Marjolet explained clumsily. To his credit it must be said that he was a poor liar, for his face flushed and he stood, hesitating, before finding the words to go on. "I bought an amulet. Not that I believe in them— And after all, why keep it around?"

Marjolet went outside and Courfay saw him toss the object just purchased from Waty into the nearest pile of embers. Instead of returning immediately, Courfay saw him move, unfasten his collar. An instant later, the lieutenant flung his arm forward again.

"I don't want to hear anything more of this nonsense," he said, when he reentered the tent. "We were a pair of fools, you and I." He offered Courfay a cigaret.

Later, when Courfay left the tent, he smelled the stench of burning leather and searched the ashes with a rapid glance. There was no visible trace left of the amulets, neither that of Waty's manufacture, nor that which preserved the lieutenant from "steel and lead."

Not only had Marjolet thrown away five hundred and some odd francs, but in the act of destruction Charles the Bold had lived up to his name.

___________________________

Index to Past Masters Nos 61-76

The "Author Index" to Issues 1-60 has been uploaded separately.

Achmed Abdullah

The Mystery of the Talking Idols 63

"A. E. P."

The End of Sherlock Holmes  67

Achmed Abdullah

Framed at the Benefactors' Club 73

W. L. Alden

After the Comet 67

Foote's Catorium 70

How the Fat Woman Eloped 68

A Scientific Balloon 72

Silver Plated   67

The Wild Man of Borneo 67

Mark Allerton

A Christmas Mix-Up 70

The Stanhope Scandal 70

Anonymous

A Barrack Ghost Story 76

Beauty in Flight 76

The Diamond Necklace 62

The Great Auk's Egg Affair 61

Fool Proof  75

The Hat Trick 71

Jacobs and Gale, Tobacconists 70

Local Color 75

An Old Norman-French Story 76

A Railway Murder 70

Remorse 76

Retribution 74

Revenge 74

The Ruins of the Abbey of Fitz-Martin 64

The Skipper's Scheme 73

The Stamp Thief 71

The Thriller 71

A Solicitor's Story 75 (as by "S.S.")

F. Anstey

Taken By Surprise  66

Francis Henry Atkins

The Lay Figure  63

Edouard A. Aujard

The Flood 75

The Swing of Sentiment  75

Stacy Aumonier

A Source of Irritation 73

Irving Bacheller

Holy Poker 71

The Prodigal Village 71

Robert Barr

The Last Straw 72

J. M. Barrie

The Adventure of the Two Collaborators 75

My Brother Henry 72

John Arthur Barry

Baleston's Secret Reef 72

The Mystery of the "Mountain Maid"  64

Frederick R. Bechdolt

Before Michael Came  63

The Lie-Detector 73

L. Adams Beck

The Interpreter (novelette) 62

H. Bedford-Jones

The Artificial Honeymoon 66

Death Gave Him His Chance  63

J. J. Bell

The Lovely Little Dinner 70

The Price of a House  63

"Sir William"  61

E. F. Benson

Negotium Perambulans  64

The Terrace 69

J. D. Beresford

The Hidden Beast 75

Harold Bindloss

Trooper Jenkins 68

Ottwell Binns

The Britisher 73

Dixon's Romance 75

Algernon Blackwood

The Kit-Bag 76

Christopher B. Booth

"Doc" Meets the Train (as by John Jay Chichester)  72

Mr Clackworthy Collects 63

Mr Clackworthy Gets His Tonic 64

Mr Clackworthy Sells Short  63

Mr Clackworthy Stakes a Friend 70

Solly's Last Forgery 64

When Mr. Clackworthy Needed a Bracer 64

Guy Boothby

By Right Of Conquest 72

B. M. Bower

The Ghost in the Red Shirt  63

Jack Boyle

The Beauty-Fountain 70

A Woman Without Fear 70

Mary Elizabeth Braddon

Good Lady Ducayne  71

Max Brand

Five Minutes to Twelve 61

Honor Bright 64

Lion Heart 61

Percy James Brebner

Cat or Devil 65

A Literary Secret  66

Scarsley Moor Mystery  66

Coutts Brisbane

Without Fear 76

Thomas Burke

The Bloomsbury Wonder 61

The Horrible God 62

Laughing Lillian 62

The Yellow Imps 62

Edgar Rice Burroughs

Who Murdered Mr. Thomas? 68

Ellis Parker Butler

Just Like a Cat 71

The Ninety And Nine  69

Sir Gilbert Campbell

The Mystery of the Essex Stairs 62

Scott Campbell

The Point of Contact 70

Under the Crown 70

Without Air 73

A Study in Green 73

Agnes and Egerton Castle

The Great Todescan's Secret Thrust 70

Mark Channing

Intrigue 74

Anna Alice Chapin

Through the Dragon's Valley  63

The Scales of Time 63

G.K. Chesterton

The Sword of Wood 65

Peter Cheyney

Christmas With a Punch 75

Cocktail For Cupid 65

Dance Without Music  64

Irvin S. Cobb

The Eminent Dr. Deeves 72

Faith, Hope And Charity 71

The Thirteenth Degree 72

Sylvanus Cobb, Jun.

The Bottomless Jug  64

J. J. Connington

After Death the Doctor 63

Dorothea Conyers

Meave's Ride  69

E. M. Delafield

The Luggage in the Hall  66

Charles Caldwell Dobie

The Open Window 71

Sir Geo. Douglas, Bart.

Unconscious Interloper 69

L C Douthwaite

The London Guillotine 66

Prospector 75

Richard Dowling

The Going Out of Alessandro Pozzone 62

Edward Dyson

A Golden Shanty 65

The Third Chair 65

Fred Engelhardt

Heritage of Osiris 75

George Allan England

Drops of Death  68

F. Scott Fitzgerald

Three Hours Between Planes 65

Francis Flagg

The Superman of Dr Jukes  72

Mrs. May Agnes Fleming

How The Lone Star Went Down  68

J. S. Fletcher

Ex-Officio 76

Ford Madox Ford

Riesenberg 61

Andrew Forrester Jr.

Arrested on Suspicion 61

Robert Edward Francillon

A Circumstantial Puzzle 62

R. Austin Freeman & Clifford Piers

By the Black Deep  64

Ltnt Edgar Gardiner

Up Irrawaddy Way 74

Arthur Gask

Rejuvenation 66

Strychnine for Village Dogs 62

Theophile Gautier

The Mummy's Foot 62

George Gilbert

In Maulmain Fever-Ward  63

Lady Gilbert

Aurora's Treasure  75

Charlotte Perkins Gilman

The Yellow Wallpaper  64

Why I wrote "The Yellow Wallpaper" 64

Guy Gilpatric

The Artful Mr. Glencannon 70

Crocodile Tears 68

The Glasgow Phantom 66

The Homestretch 61

The Masked Monster 72

Where Early Fa's the Dew 65

Susan Glaspell

A Jury of Her Peers 67

F. A. J. Godfrey

Not Proven 76

Frederick Graves

White Flame  62

Fred V Green

Markham's New Partner 65

A. S. Gregory

The Death Window 68

Valentine Gregory

Third Time Unlucky 71

While on Remand 71

James Norman Hall

Death on an Atoll 72

Fame For Mr. Beatty 75

Uncle Ned's Teeth 76

Julian Hawthorne

Calbot's Rival 67

Nathaniel Hawthorne

The Great Stone Face 66

Miles Henslow

Mystery Flight 75

Kenneth Herford

An Echo of the Quarter 73

Smiley's Scoop 73

Beatrice Heron-Maxwell

The Act of God 74

The Outcast 65

Headon Hill

The "Artemis" Mystery 65

The Bank Clerk's Love Story 65

The Dining-Car Clue 65

Limping Justice 65

S. B. H. Hurst

The Ball of Fire  74

The Receipt 74

W. W. Jacobs

Captain Rogers 71

A Love Knot 70

Malcolm Jameson

The Anarch  69

Val Jameson

"Burglin' ain't the game it was" 61

Jerome K. Jerome

The Dancing Partner 74

Rudyard Kipling

The Phantom Rickshaw 73

Otis Adelbert Kline

The Dragoman's Secret 74

Stolen Centuries 65

Thomas H. Knight

The Man Who Was Dead 61

Edmund Leamy

My First Case 74

Henry Leverage

Black Light 66

The Crimp 66

Crooked Charity 67

R. C. Lehmann

The Umbrosa Burglary 67

Henry Leverage

Over the Wall   76

Sinclair Lewis

The Cat of the Stars 68

Seven Million Dollars 68

The Willow Walk 61

H.P. Lovecraft

Obit: Henry St. Clair Whitehead 71

Marie Belloc Lowndes

An Unrecorded Instance 61

Richard Mace

The Emerald Beetle  62

Arthur Machen

The Shining Pyramid 71

Fred MacIsaac

The Abominable Test 76

William J. Makin

The Death Barge 73

The Planes that Never Returned 73

Julia Magruder

The Secret of the White Castle 65

Don Marquis

Accursed Hat! 70

Huan Mee

The Russian Cipher 65

J. J. Meehan

The Squirrel Motor 69

Abraham Merritt

The Woman of the Wood 72

William Henry Moberley

The Great Valdez Sapphire 63

C. S. Montanye

Old King's Coal   72

F. Frankfort Moore

Joan Dark 65

Ainsworth Morgan

Lady in Lower 11   72

Talbot Mundy

Bengal Rebellion 69

Edith M Nesbit

In the Dark 64

Man-Size in Marble  65

Number 17    61

Douglas Newton

Straight Enough 73

David Wright O'Brien

Hokum Hotel  68

Fitz-James O'Brien

The Wondersmith  64

Owen Oliver

The Awakening  74

Vincent O'Sullivan

The Business of Madame Jahn  64

Thomas Nelson Page

What was the Lady's Choice? 62

Miles  Overholt

Wrong Number 75

Sir Gilbert Parker

At the Sign of the Eagle  70

Max Pemberton

The Devil To Pay 63

The Dumb Avenger 75

G. G. Pendarves

The Black Camel  65

The Sin-Eater 74

The Withered Heart  74

Hugh Pendexter

Lyacus Whittle— Globetrotter 70

Ernest M Poate

A Person from the Police 63

To Professional Services— $100,000   70

Doctor Grimes Awaits Probate (as by Arthur Mallory)  73

Expert Testimony 74

William Le Queux

The Baron's Snapdragon 68

The Faith of Men 62

The Mystery Man 68

The Mystery of the Third Thumb 68

The Story of the Chief of Police 61

The Third Cracker 68

The Velvet Hand  68

The Woman Who Hated London 68

The Yellow Jasmine 68

Edith Rickert

The Chair That Smiled 74

Walter Ripperger

The Cardboard Clue 62

School For Murder 69

Morley Roberts

The Egregious Goat 73

Arthur Somers Roche (novelette)

In the Money 67

Michael Romain

Genesis   76

Anthony M Rud

The Invisible "Blinker" 73

J. Johnston Smith

Queen Of Diamonds  75

Thorne Smith

Birthday Present 66

Andrew Soutar

Bluebeard 63

D. H. Souter

Conroy 74

Charles B. Stilson

Dr. Martone's Microscope 72

The Sky Woman 67

The Soul Trap 72

Halliwell Sutcliffe

Handsome Jack  67

Miss Phyllis Brown 67

Murgatroyd's Wife  67

Georges Surdez

Charles the Bold 76

Spite Corner 76

Emile C Tepperman

Coffin Cache 63

E. Temple Thurston

A Cameo 69

E Charles Vivian

How the Girl Came to Bentley's 62

Cyril G. Wates

The Visitation 76

Edgar Wallace

The New Doctor  76

R. A. J. Walling

A Chat With William Le Queux 68

Mrs. Rooth's "Murder" 61

The Spook of Cornelius 61

"Wanderer"

Waif of the Bush 74

Stanley G Weinbaum

The Red Peri  69

Albert Richard Wetjen

The Chief of the Loch McCree 61

Raid on Jigger's Reef 76

Harvey Wickham

The Man With the Painted Nose 75

Fred Merrick White

Early Closing Day  64

Gentlemen of the Jury  65

The Missing Blade 75

The Purple Terror 66

Victor L. Whitechurch

The Convict's Revenge  61

How the Captain Tracked a German Spy 61

In a Tight Fix 61

Henry S. Whitehead

The Chadbourne Episode 75

The Door 71

Passing of a God 75

The Shut Room 75

Sweet Grass 76

The Wonderful Thing  70

Raoul Whitfield

The Great Black 65

H. C. Witwer

Money to Burns 71

Mary E Wilkins

The Shadows on the Wall  64

Edward Woodward

Clarence 75

Arthur Leo Zagat

Coward's Kill (novelette)  69

______________________

Table of Contents

- 2: The Abominable Test / Fred MacIsaac
- 3: Without Fear / Coutts Brisbane
- 4: Remorse / Anonymous
- 5: The Kit-Bag / Algernon Blackwood
- 6: Ex-Officio / J. S. Fletcher
- 7: The Visitation / Cyril G. Wates
- 8: The New Doctor / Edgar Wallace
- 9: Over the Wall / Henry Leverage
- 10:  Uncle Ned's Teeth / James Norman Hall

- 11: Raid on Jigger's Reef / Albert Richard Wetjen

- 12: An Old Norman-French Story / Anonymous
- 13: Beauty in Flight / Anonymous
- 14: Genesis / Michael Romain
- 15: A Barrack Ghost Story / Anonymous
- 16: Not Proven / F. A. J. Godfrey
- 17: Spite Corner / Georges Surdez
- 18: Charles the Bold / Georges Surdez
- Cumulative index # 61-76