Past Masters Ninety One
Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: Short fiction mostly collected from magazines and newspapers. Much of this issue has come from Australian newspapers, which routinely reprinted stories from overseas magazines. Wherever possible, I have included the original first publiction dedtails as well as the Australian source I used. I have multiple stories by Robert Barr and Guy Boothby, who were both productive short story writers as well as novelists. Boothby is best known for his "Dr Nikola" series of sensational crime novels; Robert Barr for his creation of Eugene Valmont, a French private detective working in London, which satiris

PAST MASTERS

NINETY-ONE

14 August 2022

Produced by Terry Walker

("Pulpmeister")

Contents

1: Ten Thousand Hectáreas / Farnham Bishop

2: The Burglar That Failed / George Barton

3: Stranded in a Street Car / Marie B. Schrader

4: The Party Line / Bruno Lessing

5: The Gazebrook Necklace / Walter Hackett

6: Before and After / W. Pett Ridge

7: Polly's Favorite / A. St. John Adcock

8: Bread Upon The Waters / William Caine

9: His Better Half / Guy Boothby

10: The Treasure of Sacramento Nick / Guy Boothby

11: Uncle Joe's Legacy / Guy Boothby

12: Obituary: Mr. Guy Boothby / Anonymous

13: Home Wind  / Achmed Abdullah

14: The Man Who Over-Reached Himself / K. R. G. Browne

15: The Murder of Tom Bates / Ernest Favenc

16: A Hypnotic Experiment / Ernest Favenc

17: The House of Many Mansions / Frederick Irving Anderson

18: A Dramatic Point / Robert Barr

19: An Unjust Accusation / Robert Barr

20: Marcella's Intervention / Robert Barr

21: The Great Mogul / Robert Barr

22: Lady Letty's Literary Lesson / Robert Barr

23: A Sweet Thing in Trusts / Robert Barr

24: Lazarus / Leonid Andreyeff

Cumulative Index #61-91

___________________

1: Ten Thousand Hectáreas

Farnham Bishop

1886-1930

Adventure, 1 April 1920

There were white men who wanted to bring civilisation to the savages of the central American jungles; and there were other men who believed that it was white men who were the savages…

"WHAT are you going to do about it?"

Barstow looked up in astonishment. He had sought the least frequented corner on the third floor veranda of the Tivoli— Uncle Sam's big hotel in Ancon, the American suburb of Panama City— to think over the problem that had brought him to the Isthmus.

After three solid hours of thinking and Smoking he was as far as ever from a solution, when a voice spoke suddenly at his elbow.

"What are you going to do about it, Mr. Barstow?" repeated the speaker. He was a tall, slender man, blond beneath his tropic tan, with a narrow smile and hard, light blue eyes. His cheeks were deep hollows between the prominent cheekbones and powerful jaw. The easy erectness of his carriage, the cut and set of his high collared, white duck coat and the cock of his Ecuador hat gave him a distinctly military air. He seemed to have just laid aside his insignia and unpinned a long row of campaign ribbons from across his chest.

Barstow stared at him in bewilderment. He had never seen him before, this man who seemed to know him and his unspoken thought.

"Pardon my unsought intrusion into your affairs," said the stranger, bowing stiffly from the hips. He spoke with a slight foreign accent, impossible to localize. "But, I could not help overhearing eight of the words you said tonight, when you were dining with your friend the tourist." His tone implied that Barstow was not a tourist, but a fellow adventurer and brother in arms.

"Those words told me all."

"The —— they did!" exclaimed Barstow. "What were they?"

" 'Infernal swindle!' " quoted the other. " 'Ten thousand hectareas— San Blas country.' The first two words served to attract my attention as I passed your table, but were otherwise superfluous. Anything involving a tract of land in that part of the Isthmus is invariably a swindle."

"Have a cigar," invited Barstow. "I wish I'd known you before, Mr.—"

"—before you bought the concession," the stranger continued, ignoring the attempt to obtain his name. "That must have been about ten months ago—"

"Nine."

"You decided to invest in tropical products; hardwood, possibly—"

"Rubber."

"Ah, yes; of course; the rubber boom. So you were naturally only too glad to buy good rubber land, title and quality absolutely guaranteed by the seller, the sovereign Republic of Panama, for one dollar, gold, a hectárea, or forty cents an acre.

"If the land failed to grow rubber, you were to receive your money back. If the plantation succeeded, five per cent, of the gross annual profits were to go to the national treasury. Otherwise, the only condition was that if no work were done by you on the land within the first year after the signing of the deed, then the title would be void and your money forfeit.

"Being a good business man, you read the text carefully before signing. But the forfeiture clause gave you no uneasiness at the time. You knew that the Canal was rapidly approaching completion and therefore felt that there would be plenty of labor available; for your own enterprise. So you appointed some one here your agent and awaited developments.

"But nothing developed except vague excuses, until you became alarmed and came down to see for yourself. Then you learned that no one had been working on your land, because no one was anxious to commit suicide.

"When they first told you that the Caribbean side of the eastern end of the Isthmus, from a little beyond Nombre de Dois down into South America, was in the possession of a ferocious tribe of Indians who allowed no white men to settle within their borders, you were indignant that anybody should think you simple enough to believe such fantastic rubbish. That sort of thing was impossible, in the year 1912, within fifty miles of the Canal Zone, with its electric lighted towns and model police force.

"They referred you to McPherson, who monopolizes the tribal trade. And he told you that though his schooners had plied up and, down the San Blas coast for thirty years, he would not dare try to spend a night ashore, nor would he take you there at any price.

"You went to the Panaman government, and it told you to come back mañana. You went to the American minister, and he told you that he had nothing to do with such affairs. You went to the American consul, and he told you that enough title deeds to land in the San Blas country had been granted during the past four centuries to cover the whole place like a snowstorm, and that he wouldn't give a last week's lottery ticket for any of them."

"Those were his very words!" cried Barstow. "How on earth did you know?"

"It is an old story— the consul knows it by heart. The benches in the Cathedral Plaza are full of men whose pockets are full of papers like yours. There they sit and whine because neither of the two governments will pay any attention to them."

"But it is outrageous!" protested Barstow. "To sell land in a region overrun with savages, and then refuse to give the purchaser any protection!"

"Protection?" repeated the stranger. "If some one were to attack you on the streets of Panama City, would you ask a native policeman to protect you?"

Barstow chuckled. He had been an All-American halfback ten years before, when the game demanded human battering-rams, the bigger the better. Since then, he had put on more flesh than he liked to think of; but there was still plenty of muscle on his huge body. The thought of his asking for help from one of the futile manikins who pretend to police Panama City was delicious.

"They are very amusing, are they not, those little spiggoty policemen? But if you laugh at the idea of their protecting you in the city, why are you angry because they can not protect you in the jungle?

"The police are the sole armed force of the republic. Panama has no army. And the United States Army is down here to build the Canal, not to fight another Seminole War.

"Yet you must have an army of some sort behind you, Mr. Barstow, if you are to do anything with your property in the San Blas country."

"Have you any idea where I can find one?" asked the business man sarcastically. This would make a great story to tell at the club when he was back in New York.

The stranger bowed again.

"I am Captain Kessler," he said simply. He said it in exactly the right way.

Barstow was impressed, not because he knew about Captain Kessler, but because he didn't. The captain's manner implied a great and enviable reputation, to avow ignorance of which would be to proclaim oneself a tourist— the last thing that any tourist wished to do.

"Ah, yes, yes! Sit down, captain, and tell me some more."

"I have come to you," said the captain, "because I could see that you were not like those whiners on the plaza benches. You will not let yourself be robbed of ten thousand dollars without a struggle."

"Not if I have a chance to put up a fight," declared Barstow.

"I am here to give you that chance," answered Kessler. "I, and I alone, know the one weakness of the San Blas— the only way to enter and conquer their forbidden land.

"It is useless to try to land on their coast. They even refused to let President Mendoza of Panama set foot on the soil of his own republic when he went there on board the Empire in 1908. Nor can you go overland from the Zone; many parties have tried, only to be turned back by the guards the tribesmen maintain on every trail and stream leading into their territory.

"But the San Blas country does not extend all the way across the Isthmus. Back of it, on the Pacific side, lies the land of the Chucunaque, a negroid people, with whom the San Blas, who are intolerably proud of the purity of their own stock, are constantly at feud. Recently that feud has developed into something like a regular little war.

"The two tribes are fairly even in numbers and fighting ability. But the Chucunaque are handicapped by lack of modern firearms. Their head chief, Pilelé, an old friend of mine, told me that if I would furnish five hundred Winchesters he would raise five hundred picked young men and place them under my personal leadership. Such a force, under my command, would win the war and break the power of the San Blas forever.

"That was a month ago, when I was down there on a little expedition of my own. I returned to Panama City, where no one knows or cares what is going on in that remote part of the interior. I obtained an option on the Winchesters; 1886 model, 45-90's with fifty thousand rounds of soft nosed ammunition.

"But I had not enough money to buy the rifles and charter a schooner. The Chucunaque were unable to advance me any; their rivers are not full of gold, like those of the San Blas country."

"Gold?" Barstow could not keep the thrill out of his voice at the sound of the magic word. "How do you know there is any gold there?"

"Nearly every San Blas wears a pair of heavy earrings, and the women wear noserings, hand hammered out of nuggets of virgin gold. The few explorers who have managed to stay there long enough to do a little prospecting have brought back high-grade specimens and stories of wonderful deposits they dared not stay to work.

"The old Spanish chronicles say the same thing. The San Blas country of today is the Darien of four hundred years ago, less known to white men now than it was when Balboa crossed there to discover the Pacific.

"It is full of abandoned forts and cities: Santa Cruz, Acla, Santa Maria de la Antigua. It is the land beyond the last frontier."

The land beyond the last frontier! Lost cities— Barstow thought of the ruins of Old Panama, where the tall tower of what was once a stately cathedral still stands between the jungle and the sea. To find such places and revive them, to rescue a great, rich land from savagery and open it to civilization— what an adventure that would be! Better than tamely pocketing his loss and going back to his bachelor apartment in New York. To sail on a schooner laden with smuggled rifles; to fight Indians and scale the peaks of Darien for gold! Barstow was the sort of man who rereads "Treasure Island" every year; and he was looking at the moonlight on the Bay of Panama.

"How much do you need?" he asked Kessler.

"Ten thousand more will cover everything. If you can furnish that, I will do everything else, and give you an equal share in the profits of the conquest. You need not even accompany the expedition."

"If I don't, then there won't be any expedition to accompany!"

Oh, a sailor's life is the life for me,

On the um, um, um, of the um sea,

Where the um ums rage and the wild winds roar,

And the billows break on the rockbound shore!

Barstow had got over his seasickness and was walking up and down the dirty deck of the Cholita. They were passing the Pearl Islands with a fair wind abeam— a rare thing in the almost windless Gulf of Panama. Presently the breeze would die away, and they would chug chug and drift, chug chug and drift, according to the whims and fancies of their gasoline kicker.

But Barstow did not know that yet. He was as happy as a twelve-year-old on Christmas morning, just, to see the long, smooth rollers burst to foam on the shore of the nearest island, or to watch a pelican dive for a fish. As he tramped the dock, he creaked with much now leather— boots, puttees, belt and holster. The chaste splendor of his whipcord riding breeches and white silk shirt was crowned with the biggest, showiest pith helmet ever, sold in Kingston, Jamaica.

The sight of him brought joy to the eyes of the Greek skipper and his black-andtan crew. They rejoicing was mutual, for Barstow had wanted them to look like pirates, and they did. The Zambo cabin boy shuffled to the lee rail, dumped a pan of sweepings and threw over an empty beer bottle, which floated away in the schooner's wake. Pulling a shiny new automatic from its shiny new holster, Barstow emptied the magazine, scoring eight clean misses.

Then he heard the crack of another shot, and saw the neck of the bottle fly to pieces. Kessler, wearing pajamas and holding a long barreled revolver in his left hand, grinned at him from the companionway.

"Good thing for me we weren't fighting a duel," laughed Barstow. "I know as much about shooting as I do about orchids and bug hunting. Was that why you told the Star and Herald I was making this trip to collect botanical and entomological specimens?"

"We had to give some reason," answered Kessler. "And if you think you are not going to collect any insects, wait and see."

PILELÉ, head chief of the Chucunaque nation dwelt at San Ambrosio, village on the river of the same name and about five miles above its mouth. The Cholita crossed, the bar at flood and chug chugged up the muddy stream, between unbroken walls of jungle.

Long before she came in sight of the town the sound of her exhaust brought the whole population down to the bank. And long before those on board could see the village they could smell it.

Aside from the filth, Barstow found San Ambrosio much like the native villages he had seen from the car windows on the Panama railroad. Also, there were fewer walls and less clothing. Children of all sizes ran about naked and unashamed; few adults wore anything above the waistline or overmuch below it. Four posts, a thatch roof, and a Balboa beer sign seemed to do for a house.

The one frame building in the place was the residence of Pilelé. The chief was on hand to greet the white men as they stepped ashore.

Pilelé was a lean, dignified old mixed-blood with Indian nose and cheekbones, but a dark skin and kinky hair. Beside him stood a short, sturdy youth dressed in clay and a few inches of bark cloth, whose big round head seemed covered with horsehair, so straight and coarse it grew.

With phrases of Castilian courtesy, Pilelé led Kessler and Barstow to his house and invited them within. Unbidden, most of the population pressed in after them, till the big room that the chief used for a trading store was packed tight with a stinking, staring throng.

"Tell them to get out of here!" commanded Kessler. Instead of giving the order himself, Pilelé turned to the young man beside him. Instantly from the latter's lips came such a snarl of malignant contempt that Barstow, who was near him, fairly jumped.

"Va, perritos!" he cried, pointing to the door.

A squad of Zone police could not have cleared the room faster than did those two words of corrupt Spanish. Screaming, struggling, utterly regardless of each other's ribs and toes, the San Ambrosians fled as fast as they could squeeze past each other through the door. Speeding the last one on his way with a kick from a small, splay foot, the ruler of the exodus leaned against the doorjamb, folded his arms and grinned contentedly.

"Who is that; the new chief of police?" asked Barstow.

Kessler was already putting the question to Pilelé.

"It is a mighty warrior from the hills," replied the old man in a mixture of Spanish and Chucunaque. "He has brought in three hundred of the young men who are to fight under your command. Two hundred more will follow soon."

This was unexpectedly good news to Kessler, who had fully expected to wait for weeks while the promised recruits trickled slowly in. He was an old hand at jungle warfare in South and Central America. Looking keenly at the Indian's shoulders, the captain spoke suddenly in Spanish. The clay covered savage sprang smartly to attention.

"Where have you served?" Kessler demanded in the same language.

"Colombian infantry, sir—Battalion of Santa Isabella."

"What grade?"

"Sergeant, sir."

"Rest," commanded Kessler, well pleased with his own cleverness as well as his good luck in finding such an assistant.

"What is your name?" asked Barstow, in the lisping Castilian taught in our universities and spoken nowhere else in the three Americas. He innocently, used the courteous third person, as if addressing an equal. The Indian's eyes were blank, until Kessler put the question in the usual words.

"Enrique Arcilla, señor," Kessler barked a short, guttural laugh. "Look at him!" he cried to Barstow. "Plastered with the stuff—and his name is 'Henry Clay'!"

NEVER did an expedition of this kind assemble and get under way more swiftly and smoothly. Kinky haired porters from the coast villages, globe headed fighting men from the hills, canoe loads of fish, plantains and other provisions, all poured into San Ambrosio. Once there, every one seemed possessed with a most unnative-like desire to be up and away. Barstow, of course, failed to appreciate this, while Kessler took it as a tribute to himself.

"They know better than to play tricks on me," he boasted. "I know how to handle these swine. Go sit in your tent and scratch yourself; I will attend to everything."

It seemed to Barstow, however, that the man who was attending to most things was Henry Clay. It was he who bossed the canoemen who landed the cases of arms from the schooner, and the porters who carried them to camp; Clay who mustered the warriors to receive their Winchesters, which they welcomed as old friends; Clay who brought the war news to Kessler and spurred on Pilelé whenever the civil power showed signs of hanging back.

Yet the busy little Indian found time to act as Barstow's personal servant. He seemed to take a mysterious joy in looking after the big white man's welfare, cooking his meals and skillfully extracting chiggers from under his toenails and bedbugs from his ankles. Also, he seemed to regard the English form of his own name as a title of honor, for he insisted on being called by it.

Then came the advance into the interior. For the first eight miles they paddled in dugouts to the head of navigation on the San Ambrosio. There they spent the first night. In the morning, relays of macheteros at the head of the column began to cut a trail up the jungle choked valley of another stream, a tributary, nameless till Barstow, after splashing through it for the eighth time, christened it Corkscrew Creek.

The stout business man had a tough time of it during the next three days. Overweight and out of condition, he sweated gallons and ached as if he had been beaten. But he was no quitter, and sticking to his desk through ten New York Summers had taught him to endure heat. Luckily for him, he had come to the Isthmus in the "Little Summer of St. John," when the rainy season dies down to a brisk shower or two in the afternoon.

"How much further is it to the San Blas country?" he panted as they made camp on the fourth afternoon. "I'd like a battle for a change."

"You'll have a change tomorrow," answered Kessler. "Beyond that ridge up there lies one of the biggest of all the San Blas towns. We'll drop down on it tomorrow night. I'll see that enough get out alive to carry the word to their war parties who are holding back the Chucunaque along the rest of the border.

"As soon as the warriors hear what has happened they'll drop everything and come back, blind with rage. We'll be entrenched and ready to shoot them down as they try to rush us, until the rest of the Chucunaque come up and spear them in the back."

"But how do you know the San Blas will rush in blindly like that?" asked Barstow, raising a weary leg to let Henry Clay tug off the boot.

Kessler smiled his narrow smile. "You know how proud they are of the purity of their race? You've heard the Isthmian proverb: 'No man has ever seen a San Blas half-breed'? Well, I've promised our boys free loot—and free women!"

"What! Good Lord, Kessler, you don't mean—" Barstow sat up on the creaking cot, his face a study in incredulity and disgust. "Why, man, that's vile—loathesome— filthy! We can't do that sort of thing! It isn't war!"

"Indeed!" Kessler's manner became heavily ironic. "May I ask where you have acquired such authoritative information on the subject? Myself, I have only served in six wars in this hemisphere, beside the Herero campaign in German Southwest Africa.

"You must have learned a great deal in Sunday-school about the proper Puritan way of waging war on savages—and with them. I shall have you give a little moral lecture to our clay smeared Galahads as soon as I return from inspecting the outposts."

He turned abruptly away from the tent door and strode down the trail leading to the picket line. Snatching his boot from Henry Clay's hand, Barstow pulled it on and laced it up himself.

"Blanked dashed cold-blooded beast!" he declaimed to the tent pole and the equally wooden looking Indian. "Talk about savages—he's the lowest down savage of the lot! The rest don't know any better, but he— I'll punch his Prussian head!"

Heaving himself to his feet, Barstow lumbered heavily through the camp and down the trail. He soon overtook the captain, who heard him crashing after him through the undergrowth and was waiting for him at the far end of a little cleaning.

"Look here, Kessler," Barstow began as soon as he entered the glade. "I'm here to fight my property and to bring civilization into this country; but I'm not going to fight foul. I'm paying you, and you're going to run this business as I say, or shut up shop.

"Either you give me your word of honor, here and now, to make our men leave the San Blas women alone and leave them alone yourself—or we backtrack out of here for the coast tomorrow morning. And I don't want any more of your sneering."

"So?" answered Kessler, his smile narrower than ever.

Barstow's temper exploded, as the other intended it should.

"Wipe that grin off your face or I'll knock it off!" he said, clenching his fists and starting across the clearing. Then he stopped and stood looking at the; muzzle of the long barreled revolver that had flashed out of the captain's holster.

"So we must backtrack— as you so elegantly express it— out of here tomorrow?" Kessler sneered. "You great pink faced baby; you—"  Here he called the other many evil names.

"Keep your hands and feet where they are— though why I should not let you play with your pretty pistol I do not know. It would be very amusing to see you trying to hit me with it.

"Do you think I am going to let your sniveling, hypocritical squeamishness cheat me out of a Principality? I shall make myself the uncrowned King of Darien, while your bones rot here in the jungle."

"Do you mean that you intend to murder me?" asked Barstow steadily.

"Do you think that I will let you go to tell tales to the Zone Police?" responded Kessler. Measuring the ground between them with a player's eye, Barstow thought instinctively in terms of the game he loved:

"Third down—ten yards to gain—and half a second left! I'll never make it before the whistle, but here goes!"

"I have foreseen everything," gloated Kessler. "I shall stop at nothing, and nothing shall stop—"

BOOM! The report of a heavy rifle thundered close to their ears. A cloud of smoke rolled across the narrow clearing midway between the two. Through it Barstow saw Kessler crumple down and disappear into the long grass. Already set for a rush, he hurled himself across the glade and looked down at the fallen man. What he saw made him very sick.

"Nasty mess, isn't it?" said a sympathetic voice beside him in well modulated English. Spinning round, Barstow saw Henry Clay, Winchester in hand, standing at his elbow. "Takes Kipling to describe this sort of thing properly," continued the Indian. "Remember that Burmese ballad of his? "A Snider squibbed in the jungle; Somebody laughed and fled, And the men of the First Shikaris Picked up their subaltern, dead, With a big blue mark on his forehead And the back blown out of his head."

"Who—who are you?" Barstow managed to gasp. "You wouldn't know my name. I was in the class after yours, and then I went to the medical school. The tribe sent me there because they wanted that kind of a medicine man. I always sat in the cheering section and thought you were the greatest warrior that ever trampled eleven enemies into the warpath.

"But I knew you were no scientist after my roommate told me the funny questions you asked him about the paper, when he was monitor in the final exam for that elementary botany course the sports used to take for a snap. I remembered that when I read that item about your expedition in the Star and Herald. Taken in connection with Kessler's last trip to the Chucunacque coast and the war that was going on then, I smelt gunrunning.

"What Kessler didn't know, old man, was that the war ended three weeks ago with a slashing victory for the San Blas. The Chucunaque will keep their young men from raiding over the border for many moons, I'll bet!

"And since San Ambrosio was the likeliest port for the Cholita to make I took possession of it the day before you; came with three hundred of our army, of Occupation. And I soon scared the truth, or most of it, out of that old four-flusher Pilelé.

"But— hold on— look here— let me get this straight!" cried the bewildered Barstow. "Aren't you a Chucunaque yourself?"

"Lord, no!" said the Indian emphatically. "I'm a San Blas— all of us are San Blas except the porter. Plastered ourselves all over with this infernal clay to make Kessler think we were a lot of dirty Chucunaque. Enrique Arcilla— Colombian Army— piffle! I learned to drill in the university cadet corps!

"Golly, what fun it was, to listen to you two and see old Pilelé watching us land his Winchesters and march off with them to our own country! But we'll let up on his indemnity for it.

"I had a nice little surprise all ready for you and Kessler when we reached the border tomorrow. But perhaps it is better so."

He made a sign and a dozen other Indians stepped out from the jungle and surrounded the dead body. At a word from Clay one of them brought him the captain's field glasses.

"Look at that village and remember what Kessler boasted he would do to it. Among you white men there are many Kesslers. Can you blame us for guarding our home against them?"

"Take these," he said, handing them to Barstow "and follow me. I will show you something few white men have ever seen."

Forty minutes later the two stood on the crest of the ridge marking the boundary between the territories of the two tribes. Behind them lay the Pacific; before them the sun was sinking into the distant Caribbean. Below them lay a vast expanse of virgin jungle and open, rolling sabanas.

"No!" said Barstow as they turned away and hurried down the trail to reach camp before dark.

"BY THE way," said the San Blas next morning as he and Barstow shook hands for the last time before the white man and his escort started back to San Ambrosio, "when you get back to the Zone, drop over to Colon and see McPherson the trader. He'll have something nice for you— a fiftythousand-dollar draft on New York."

Many other ridges, running at right angles to the one they stood on, sloped down to the sea; in the valleys between ran sparkling streams. Here and there, among forests of rare hardwoods, tall groves of coconut palms, and broad green pastures, rose the smoke of village fires, kindled for the evening meal. "What on earth for?"

"For the Winchesters and ammunition, of course! We must have them, and smuggled goods come high. To think of a white man's forgetting that he could make a profit! Of the white man and his works there was no sign.

"Look at that nearest village," the Indian said to Barstow, who was busily sweeping the country with the glasses and discovering a new source of wealth at every glance. "See the wives and maidens busy about the cooking fires, and the little bare babies running to meet their fathers as they come home from the hunt. See how clean the ground is kept around the long cane houses.

"See if you can find a locked door or a hungry face. You can not, for there is none in all the land.

"You're a highly successful filibuster, but I wouldn't boast about it in public. Stick to the naturalist story, tell how you were driven out of the country by the ferocious Indians who shot poor Kessler, and pretend to sell McPherson a gold brick or something for the fifty thousand."

"I know what I'll sell him," answered Barstow. "A perfectly good deed to ten thousand hectareas."

__________________

2: The Burglar That Failed

George Barton

1866-1940

World's News (Sydney), 20 Feb 1909

(Credited to Chicago Tribune, no date)

IT was dusk and a soft fall of snow was powdering the streets of the city with flakes as light as air and as dainty and transparent as my lady's handkerchief. The man was slouching along in a shame-faced sort of way when his attention was arrested sharply by a sudden flood of light from an open door-way. The yellowish glare from the candelabra in the broad hallway shimmered on the white carpeted sidewalk so that each separate particle sparkled like a newly cut diamond. He halted irresolutely, and his eyes, dulled by dissipation, looked curiously into the house. At the end of the long vista was an elaborately carved side-board, heavily freighted with glistening silverware. He tried to proceed on his way, but the glittering sight held him rooted to the spot. Some feeble remnant of virtue started him ahead a few steps, but the thought of the shining wealth within made him hesitate again— and in that hesitation he was lost.

He crept silently up the brown stone steps and into the marble tiled hall. His lethargy was thrown off; every one of his faculties was keyed up to a high pitch. Once inside he closed the heavy door to, but did not shut it. Instinctively he reached up and lowered the gas jets until the corridor was shrouded in semi-darkness. On tiptoe he proceeded back to the dining-room. Quickly he inventoried the array of solid silver pieces, each one set in place with prim precision, and all of them seemingly staring at him with such studied insolence. He looked on the sight greedily. Even at that moment, when no time was to be lost, he stood still and mentally compared the opulence of the unknown owner with his own pressing necessities; instantly the faint cries of conscience were choked.

The problem was how to gather the stuff up quickly and get ont of the house unobserved. It never would do to attempt to carry it in his arms; besides, the quantity he could take in that way scarcely would be worth the candle. He looked around for something that could be used as a bag or a covering. Nothing was in sight.

In creeping in he had noticed a small apartment between the drawing-room and the dining-room. He turned to this now eagerly. It looked like a smoking-room; it might be a man's den. Everything about it betokened a desire for comfort rather than style. In one corner was a roll top desk, with a revolving chair. On the sides were couches, piled high with pillows and silken cushions. In the centre was a round table covered with a green cloth and littered with magazines and newspapers. A large leather arm-chair, bits of statuary, a steel shield with a pair of swords across its surface, some water colors, and numberless little trinkets completed the furnishings of the apartment. It was warm, and, coming in from the chilly street, the man felt a curious sense of contentment. The odor of tobacco pervaded the room and a half-smoked cigar on an ash tray suggested the possible proximity of a man.

He swept the things off the table with one brush of his arm. One of the books fell on the floor with a thud that resounded in the hall-way. He paused, half frightened at his own audacity. It was plain to he seen that this was his first job. The merest tyro in the art of burglary would not have blundered so. He stood silent for a moment. Not a sound was to be heard. The blunder was not fatal. He deliberated for a moment after that upon whether he should take the tablecloth into the dining-room or carry the silver into this little apartment.

His decision favored bringing it in to the table, so he acted accordingly. He crept back into the dining-room and, lifting all of the sil-ver he could carry, carefully tiptoed to the little den again and deposited it on the green tablecloth. The trip was repeated three times before his cupidity was satisfied. After that he began laboriously to tie it up in a bundle. It dawned upon him then for the first time that he was engaged in a perilous work. But so far he had been successful, and nothing succeeds like success.

Just as be had finished tying the last knot in the bundle his attention was attracted by a peculiar sound in the hallway. It came, swish, swish, like the noise of the waves lapping against the side of a boat. Even to his untrained ear its meaning was certain. It was the movement of a woman's silk dress. His hands dropped from the bundle and he stood stock still. The sound came nearer and nearer.

Unconsciously he doubled up his fist and stepped to one side. He would brain her as she entered and then escape with his booty. But the moment the resolve was made it was aban- doned. He was in a desperate plight, but he could not attack a helpless woman. His manhood revolted against it, and manhood is an inconvenient thing for a burglar— especially an amateur burglar.

Presently she reached the doorway, and as she looked into the room she gave a start and her face became white. He could see that even in the dim gaslight. But she did not scream or speak. She passed on and in a moment he heard the bang of the front door as it was slammed shut. He was wondering whether she had seen him when she suddenly reappeared and, parting the curtains, stood in the doorway like a statue.

When she spoke her voice was firm and determined—not a tremor in it. "The butler is behind that curtain with a loaded revolver. If you dare to move you will be shot down like a dog!"

Her tones were convincing. He stood still, helpless and dejected. She walked into the apartment with the air of one who is master of the situation. He retreated into the far end of the room like a cornered rat. In spite of his predicament he could not help admiring her courage. She went to the side and, facing him, picked up something from a shelf on the wall. He noticed for the first time that there was a telephone in the room. She lifted the receiver and put it to her ear. Bending close to the transmitter she called out in an unfaltering voice:

"Main 9176."

There was a moment's pause. A desire to spring on her seized him, but he looked in the direction of the curtains and an ominous bulging of the drapery restrained him. Now she was speaking again:

"Dick! Dick!" she cried into the telephone.

"Come back to the house at once." There was another pause and then she exclaimed:

"Never mind! Come at once. It is urgent. There is a man here who must see you at once. It is very urgent." His lips curled in the dark; he could not restrain a desire to taunt her. He tried to keep down the impulse. But it .was no use. So he blurted out:

"Very clever; I suppose you think you are going to do the heroine act with me. Well, you are mistaken. When Dick comes here he won't find me here."

She made no reply to this. While he was talking she had picked up the telephone again. He gazed at her through the gloom, but made no attempt to interfere. A waving of the curtains might have acted as a deterrent.

"Is that the central station?" Her voice was tremulous and unreal, but quite distinct. The response must have come quickly, for she added, speaking rapidly:

"Send an officer here at once; yes, Ashworth's— Richard Ashworth's— Broad-street. There's a burglar in the house."

When she hung the receiver up she was all in a tremble. She gave a hysterical laugh, but it did not deceive the man.

"Do you suppose," he said in grim tones, "that I will stay here to be caught like a rat in a trap?"

"If you move," she said, "you will have to take the consequences."

He looked at the moving curtains and lapsed into ugly silence.

A smile of triumph crept about her blanched face, and reaching over she pressed a button. Instantly the little room was flooded with electricity. His hat was off and he stood there sullenly.

"Walter!"

She shrieked out the name, gave one hysterical scream and covered her face with her hands. He groaned like a man who had been sorely stricken, and cried: "Mary!"

They stood still for some moments looking at each other. She spoke first.

"What brought you to this plight?"

He was about to say "You," but stifled the word before it reached his lips. The thought uppermost in his mind came out.

"Of all the persons on God's earth, you are the last I wished to have seen me in this humiliation."

The fear had left her; the surprise was fadng from her face. In its place was rising scorn and anger.

"Then why are you here?"

"Hush!" he whispered, pointing in the direction of the curtains, "the butler will hear."

She laughed bitterly and said:

"A fiction reserved for housebreakers; I am alone; at your mercy— perhaps."

He did not appear to hear the last part of the remark, but peered at her curiously, anxiously.

"You are comfortable here— are you happy?"

"Certainly," she replied in a strained voice, "why shouldn't I be?" Then she straightened up and there was resentfulness in face and manner.

"How dare you speak to me in that manner, you— you burglar!"

He moved over toward her and she retreated a few steps. His hands were held out in ap-peal. He echoed her words; his hangdog look disappeared; he became eloquent.

"How dare I? I dare do it by the memory of the past; by the recollection of the happiest hours in my life; by the thought of those walks that will live as long as breath lasts; by the knowledge that you were once all but mine; by the remembrance of the vows that I poured into your ears— by all these I dare to speak to you now!"

She sank into a chair and buried her face in her hands— and sobbed. He halted at this and, touching her lightly on the shoulder, whispered:

"Forgive me! I had no right to dig up the past, but the sight of you has made me forget myself. The sight of you always did send me into a whirl. I felt that I could not live without you."

"But you see you can," she retorted, and then, seeing his melancholy look and forsaken appearance, regretted the words immediately. To cover it up she asked quickly:

"Why did you never return to me?"

"Why!" he exclaimed eagerly, "you surely remember— we quarrelled."

"Yes," she said impatiently, "a lovers' quarrel— it was nothing, a trifle, a pretext, a dispute unworthy of school children."

"But I returned," he said, "and they told me you were engaged to another— to someone in the city."

"Who told you that?" she exclaimed, rising in her wrath.

"Your mother," he said simply.

"Mother told you that," she cried, choking back a sob. "Oh, how could she do it, how could she do it?"

"Yes," he went on, "she said you were engaged to— to—"

"To Dick," she exclaimed, finishing the sentence for him.

"And Dick— your husband?" he asked anxiously.

"Adores me," she replied, "and has never heard of you."

"I'm sorry I drifted into this house," he said helplessly.

"Tell me about yourself," she demanded, in an irrelevant manner.

"There isn't much to tell," he said bitterly, "I've had a run of bad luck ever since I left you. I began to drink; I'm afraid I drank too much. Then I started to gamble, and my law practice went to the dogs. You know a man can't drink and practise law at the same time— and do both successfully. Suddenly I resolved to stop the whole business. I felt that I needed new associations and new surroundings if I would succeed. So a correspondence was opened with friends in California and I managed to make a first class connection with a law firm in San Francisco. I came to New York this morning to take the California Limited. While on the way to the ticket office to secure my berth and transportation I met some friends. We got to drinking and late this afternoon I found myself in a gambling game. When I got through I was penniless. My train was to leave at 8 o'clock and I did not have money for ticket or berth. While in that dilemma I passed your house. The door was wide open and that silver seemed to beckon me in. In my frenzied state I calculated that I could pick up enough valuables to see me out of my trouble. I came in and was packing the silver when you ap-peared. Now you have the whole shameful story."

"I feel sorry for you," she said simply.

"Sorry," he said, with a trace of sarcasm. "Does that mean the police station?"

"Sceptical as ever," she retorted. "The thing now is to save you."

Her eyes lighted on the bundle of silver.

"Put that in the corner quietly," she cried. "If Dick should come in and see that all would be lost."

He did as he was bidden.

"Suppose I go?" he suggested feebly.

"No, no," she said; "Dick will be here in a moment and that telephone call must be explained."

The man stood looking at her dumbly. She walked up and down the room hysterically. Before they had time to renew their conversation there was the sound of a key rattling in the front door. Both looked as if startled, and in-voluntarily advanced toward the entrance of the little apartment. The noise of the open-ing and closing of the front door reverberated throughout the house, and a cheery voice ex-claimed: "Hello, Mary! Where are you?"

"Right this way, Dick," replied a feminine voice that tried hard not to tremble.

Richard Ashworth, tall, broad chested, with hand-some, smooth shaven face, in full evening dress, with his greatcoat thrown over his arm, entered the room. He was taken aback at the shabby appearance of the other man, but only for a moment, and then looked swiftly at his wife for an explanation. Her face was as white as marble and she spoke haltingly:

"Dick— Dick, this— this is my— my cousin." Her tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of her mouth. It was so hard to utter that false-hood.

"The name," Dick said, advancing and extending his hand.

"Browning," replied the other, hanging his head.

"Tell him," said the woman faintly, "of the loss of your money."

"I was about to take the 8 o'clock train for California," he said, "when I met with the loss— the loss of my money."

Then, seeing Ashworth staring steadily at him, he blurted out:

"The fact is, I lost it all in a gambling game."

"And naturally," responded the other cheerfully, "want to have the exchequer replenished. "Here, take this," and he thrust a roll of bills into his hand.

Ashworth pulled out his watch and looked at it.

"My cab is at the door; I'll loan it to you; you just have time to make your train. Good-bye, and good luck."

It was impossible to protest. The heartiness, and sincerity of Ashworth simply closed the incident. The man went over to the woman and took her hand. A thrill went through both of them. He leaned over and kissed the tips of her fingers and as he did so she felt the moisture of a tear on her hand.

In a second he was gone.

As the noise of the carriage wheels died out in the distance Ashworth turned to his wife.

"Why, Mary, you are trembling— what's the matter?"

"I was afraid, Dick," she replied, "you might be angry."

"Angry!" he retorted incredulously, "just because you gave me the opportunity of staking one of your poor relatives." And as he kissed her he burst into a hearty laugh at the thought of the absurdity of her foolish fear. While they were talking they were attracted by a noise outside. An officer from the central police station, arriving just in time to see the man jump into the cab, stopped the vehicle, pulled him out and now stood there holding him by the scruff of the neck.

"I've got your burglar," he said, in tones of triumph, to the husband and wife standing on the top of the doorstep.

She shook like a leaf and would have fallen but for the support given her by her husband.

"Let that man go," shouted Ashworth, "you've made a mistake. That's a relative of Mrs. Ashworth, in a hurry to catch a train."

"Then you don't want him arrested?" he asked with a significant intonation in his voice.

"No, certainly not."

The officer went down the street chuckling to himself.

Ashworth turned to his wife.

"What do you think of that fellow— taking your relative for a burglar? That's what he gets for looking so seedy and sneaking down the steps so suspiciously. Isn't it?"

"Yes," she replied faintly.

"Do you mind If I go back to the dinner?" he asked.

"No," she said, "go by all means."

Now if Dick had been an observant man— Which he was not— he probably would have wondered why his wife's pillow was so wet with tears that night—

_________________

3: Stranded in a Street Car

Marie B. Schrader

World's News (Sydney) 27 Feb 1909

The Argosy, January 1909

The author was active between 1909 and 1926, mostly in Argosy and Cavalier. I can find nothing more about her.

"FARES, please."

The words fell ominously upon the thick atmosphere of the crowded car as it jerked along Broadway. It was the rush hour, when the individual does not bother his head about others of his kind. Persons there were who, absorbed in the perusal of their papers, heard nothing. But there was a warning conveyed in the two simple words.

The strap-hangers stopped peering through the windows into the pouring rain outside. The little old woman in the corner took a firmer grip on the bulky bundle in her arms.

The messenger-boy on the rear platform gave up his vain effort to read through the envelope in his hand. He started guiltily and felt inside his pocket. Nothing there. He had really paid his fare, and the knowledge caused him to cross his feet and whistle with satisfaction.

"Fares, please." Again the words. This time more pointed. The news readers dropped their papers. The girl with the enormous hat energetically thrust its rim into the spectacled eyes of the old gentleman next her as the two leaned forward in mutual interest to watch developments.

Evidently someone was avoiding his or her debt to the street-railway.

Two persons sat all unconscious of the mild excitement— a stately, white-haired woman and a pretty girl beside her. The older of the two was describing something to her companion, and her voice and gestures were those of a woman of fine breeding.

The young girl laughed, and her bine eyes and pink cheeks took on a deeper color against the background of her fashionable lavender hat.

"Well, madam, do you intend to pay your fare?"

The broad-shouldered young conductor stood directly In front of the two. He addressed his inquiry to the stately woman. She looked blankly at him for a moment and said haughtily:— The fare has been paid."

"Nothing like that, madam," persisted the conductor. "You didn't give me any money."

"No, but my daughter did," answered the lady, with a tone of irritation.

Leaning over toward the pretty girl, she asked:—

"You paid, didn't you, dear?"

"Why, no, mother. I thought you did."

"I told you to do so, dear," said the mother reprovingly.

By this time the attention of the entire car was focused upon these two. Their embarrassment was plainly evident.

"I beg your pardon," said the older woman in even tones to the conductor. "I was mistaken. Just a moment."

She pressed the spring of the large leather purse which lay on her lap, and examined the contents. In the meantime the good-looking conductor was growing impatient.

He stood first on one foot and then on the other and leaned roughly against the passengers in his efforts to keep a sharp lookout on all sides at the same time. The car stopped at every corner. People were getting off and on, and he had his hands full with their safe conduct.

"Not all day, please," he said, as he pulled the bell-strap with an emphatic jerk.

The stately lady stared into her purse in dismay, then nervously turned it upside down, so that a varied assortment of small articles fell out into her lap. She whispered hurriedly to her daughter, who quickly opened the handsome gold-mesh bag she held in her hand.

The jewelled top flashed in the light as she began an inspection of the interior.

"Why, mother," she gasped, "I must have left my small purse at home. I haven't a cent. Are you sure you haven't any money— not even a dime?"

The white-haired lady shook her head.

"It's no use, Katherine. Stop the car," the ordered the conductor.

"But, mother," protested the pretty girl, "what shall we do? You can't walk."

"There is nothing to be done but to get off the car," replied the mother as she rose from her seat and started toward the door. The daughter followed.

The conductor stood staring at them for a moment. The older woman certainly didn't look strong. He hesitated, and when the young lady threw him an appealing glance from her big blue eyes he felt ready to do anything in order to please her.

"One moment, madam," he said, laying a restraining hand on the departing passenger's arm. "You needn't get off. I'll make good."

His, pay was small, hut his heart was big; so he didn't hesitate long, although he remembered other occasions when he had contributed small sums from his own pocket to make up the necessary amount for some passenger who had carelessly forgotten his "change."

"Thanks" he always received in profusion, coupled with a hearty promise to send the proper fare by mail "so that you will get it the first thing in the morning." He knew the set phrase by heart.

Why did they always put it that way, and then conveniently forget to remit the amount? The first mail seldom brought anything, nor did any other, so that his confidence in humanity was growing less and less.

Some day, perhaps, he would reach that blissful state when he would become hardened like the other conductors with whom he was brought in daily contact. Their tales of the rudeness and thoughtlessness of passengers were enough to dishearten one.

"Saunders, you're a fool," they told him whenever he recounted some little incident of passengers' negligence.

"Well, what is a fellow to do?" he inquired.

"Do! Let 'em get off and walk," they answered in a chorus. "That's what we do," they added. "You're easy. When you've been on the job as long as we have, you'll do the same. What's the use of digging into your pocket for some guy who forgets you're living before he gets off at the next block? You're a nickel out, and it don't do any good. You can't afford to be making presents to strangers. Let 'em hoof it a time or two and they'll soon forget to forget their fare."

Robert Saunders thought of all this well meant advice when he stopped the stately lady and her pretty daughter from leaving the car in the rain.

"Thank you," said the older woman as she resumed her seat. "I appreciate your kindness."

"It's awfully considerate of you," ventured the girl, with a charming smile and a look from her blue eyes which caused Saunders to determine that he would blockade all the cars in town for her amusement if it would please her. "My mother has been ill. She just couldn't walk home in the wet. Over fifty squares. I wouldn't mind myself."

The passengers had completely lost interest by this time, and were once more absorbed in their papers and worries.

"Kindly give me your name," said the mother, "and I will send the ten cents by the first mail in the morning."

Saunders wished she hadn't used the familiar expression, but he answered in his most gallant fashion:—

"Oh, that's all right, madam."

"I understand," said the lady, "that you are doing us a favor, and I sha'n't forget to attend to the matter."

"Oh, it's only a small sum," said Saunders negligently, as if he possessed millions.

He looked down at the expensive gold bag the girl carried. It was worth more than all the money he had ever possessed at one time in his whole life.

"A small amount, but a fortune to us just now, since we haven't a penny with us," said the pretty girl, with another smile. "Your name, please."

"Robert Saunders," answered the young conductor in a bashful manner as he watched the old woman with the bundle until she got off the car safely. "Just send it in care of the Metropolitan Company."

While the pretty girl wrote his name with a gold pencil in a little note-book, he reached up to register the two fares, for the rules of the company were very strict regarding such matters. Each passenger had to be accounted for.

Before ringing the bell, however, he took the precaution to feel in his pocket for the necessary dime. To his dismay, he discovered that he, too, had no money.

The solution of the trouble was not to register the two fares. But failure to "ring up" had been the cause of the dismissal of dozens of men, for in nine cases out of ten it was prompted by dishonesty.

No one who knew Robert Saunders could ever accuse him of such a trait. In his entire life he could truthfully say he had never taken so much as a match which did not rightfully belong to him.

However, the officers of the Metropolitan Company did not know the strength of his character. They only knew him as one of a large force classed as "men."

If anyone discovered that he had missed ring-ing up two fares, it would look black for Saund-ers. Inspectors were constantly getting on and off the cars, andi conductors were more under surveillance than formerly because of a num-ber of "beating the company" schemes which had been successfully worked for several weeks previous.

No man was believed absolutely honest until he had proven himself so by a long career of correctly counted fares.

Once more Sannders balanced his chances of detection in negligence. The blue eyes looked at him as if wondering. That settled it. He wouldn't worry any more about it.

He couldn't let her walk. No, not even if he lost his job for his kindness.

"I'm glad I did it," decided Saunders as he helped the two ladies down the high step when they reached their destination.

"You will hear from me in the morning," said the mother.

"I wonder if I really will?" Saunders asked himself as he rang the bell to go ahead.

The car sped protestingly on its weary way. Only one passenger remained, and he sat absorbed in his paper.

Saunders straightened up a hit as he remem-bered that he was making his last trip until the morning. He was glad of it, for he was tired.

"It's not much fun arguing with hungry people who are pushed and jostled until they are all out of sorts. I'm hungry myself. Thank Heaven, I can go to my dinner in a few minutes."

As his car ran into the barn, one of his co-workers stopped him long enough to relate the latest bit of gossip pertaining to a member of the force, so that he was a trifle late in reporting at the office.

He was a bit surprised to see the last pas-senger of his car there, ahead of him, in con-versation with the manager. He waited for them to finish talking.

"His fares are not correct," said the heavy-set, keen-eyed stranger with emphasis. "I saw him knock down two myself. I wasn't on for the whole trip, so I can't make a complete report, There are others, no doubt."

"Some poor fellow in trouble," murmured Saunders. The next moment the thought flashed through his brain, "He means me."

For a second he was overwhelmed by the re-alisation, but he pulled himself together. As he emptied his pockets of the money he had collected on the trip he said:—

"Mr. Brown, I want to explain about my being short two fares."

"Oh," exclaimed the stranger, "you see he owns up."

"This is bad business, Sannders," said the manager. "You admit, then, that you are two fares shy?"

The manager never had liked Saunders. The conductor was becoming too popular. Besides, he didn't hesitate to say that some day be in-tended to become a railroad official.

Indeed, Saunders had applied for a position as conductor on a through train on the Interstate Railroad, and it gave Brown no little satisfaction to know that his request had been utterly ignored.

Saunders didn't conceal his dissatisfaction in regard to his present position. He was ambi-tious. He wanted to lift himself up and up by his own efforts. Others had done it. Why not he?

The street-railway service was well enough when something higher was slow in presenting itself, but—

"Well, what have you to say for yourself, Saunders?"

"Nothing, except that it is true that I am short two fares because of a little courtesy to two ladies."

He then related the particulars of the incident on his car.

"Likely story," growled the inspector. "Why can't they find a new tale? It's always some woman in distress. The lady will send the fare in the morning— only the fare never comes."

"What's the name and address of the lady?" asked the manager.

"She didn't tell me that," answered the conductor, fully aware that his case was weakening.

"Of course not," remarked the inspector.

"You know better, Saunders," said the manager. "Our rules are iron-clad. Failure to register fares means—no job."

"It was only ten cents."

"Only ten cents," repeated the manager. "Do you know what that means?"

"It seems such a small amount," protested Saunders.

"You say it is small. Have you ever figured up the cost to the company of all the ten-cent pieces which are knocked down in one day? If one man alone helped himself to a dime, it wouldn't mean much. But have you thought how many other men are taking these small amounts? You would be surprised at the result. Suppose we have a thousand cars a day in commission. A thousand conductors appropriate ten cents each of our money. Added up, those ten cents make one hundred dollars a day. This becomes thirty-six thousand five hun-dred dollars a year. We have to be careful of the ten cents because they lead to the thousands and then to the millions."

"I hadn't thought of it that way," said Saunders slowly. "But they were ladies— real ones. They will pay. I would give you the money now myself, only I haven't any with me."

"You're discharged," announced the manager with decision. "Come around in the morning for your voucher."

"I'll square matters then."

"Too late."

As Saunders moved off, the manager remarked to the inspector: "Will Mrs. So-and-So please write?"

The two laughed heartily.

Saunders, however, saw no cause for mirth. He walked out of the room with a heavy heart.

Life was certainly a hard struggle. Other fellows, not so conscientious as himself, seemed to get along better. Did honesty and a sense of courtesy really pay? Sometimes he doubted it.

"What's the matter, Saunders?" asked the idle conductors congregated in front of the barn.

"Matter?" exclaimed the discharged man disconsolately. "I've lost my position. That's enough, isn't it? Smith was right. It's no use trying to do the polite thing. I'm easy, I suppose. Serves me right, and so I got it in the neck. And yet"— the remembrance of a pair of eyes flashed before him— "I would do it again."

When he finally went to bed that night it was to dream that he had become president of the Metropolitan Railway, and the first thing he did was to discharge the unfeeling manager. It was a very delightful dream while it lasted; but cold grey morning brought a keener sense of the actual condition of affairs than he bad re-alised the evening before.

It was with a serious air that he presented himself at the car-barn that day. He had eaten nothing, for he couldn't. He was very near complete discouragement. However, he greeted the manager with a respectful "Good morning."

"There's a letter for you, Saunders," said the manager as he handed the conductor the amount due him for salary.

"It's from the lady!" exclaimed the conductor, his face lighting up.

"Still keeping up the bluff?" inquired the manager sarcastically, as he handed Saunders a heavy, long manila envelope with some printing in the corner.

"Not quite the style that a lady would use," he remarked, evidently enjoying the look of dis-appointment that settled over his ex-employee's features.

The manager was right. No woman would use such an envelope. Some advertisement, of course, hardly worth the opening. Saunders peached mechanically for the letter and absentmindedly tore open one end.

"What is this?" he exclaimed.

He read the writing over again.

"It's too good to be true. Listen," he said to the manager in his excess of delight. "Here's the chance I've been waiting for. It's from the superintendent of the Interstate Railroad, and I am to report at once for a position as conductor on a through train. I made application some months ago, but there were no vacancies. Isn't this a piece of luck?"

Then he read aloud the final sentence; "Kindly bring references from your present employers."

His face turned white as he realised what the words meant. For a moment he had forgotten that he was ignominiously discharged.

"So it wasn't from the lady, after all?" sneered the manager. "What good will this do you? We can't recommend you for the place."

"For God's sake, man," exclaimed Saunders, "can't you understand that I am telling the truth? Why should I wish to defraud such a wealthy corporation of so small a sum?"

"You'll have to ask that of those who have done the same trick before you," answered Brown. "Big oaks from little acorns grow. I don't mean to say that you have made a practice of such things. Maybe you were just taking a flier. Well, you didn't go very far, did you? It's a good thing to nip these things in the bud."

"Here is your ten cents," said Saunders, laying the money on the desk. "Once more, Mr. Brown, I want to tell you that I am an honest man, and as such I appeal to you to help me secure this position. I know you believe me dishonest; but even so, the matter is a small one, only ten cents. If you have any feeling, you will overlook it. Give a man a chance, even if you believe him guilty."

"Ah-ha, so you admit a possibility of your guilt, do you?"

"No, sir, I do not. I merely say that even if a man has done wrong once—"

"Saunders, I'm too busy to be bothered. You got all that was coming to you, didn't you?"

"Then, if I tell the superintendent of the Interstate that I was employed here, you would not speak a good word for me?"

"Impossible. If the lady had written— but she didn't."

Saunders went outside.

Discharged! Yes, it was really true. Somehow he had hoped against hope that something would happen to set him right. But it hadn't. He felt all that was good within him harden and turn to stone. In the future he would be rough and heartless like the rest.

They were right. They knew the world. He owned that he didn't. It was bad enough to lose his position, but to lose it for a kind act which had passed unappreciated was too much.

The tears welled into his eyes. In another moment he was afraid he would sob aloud. His whole future loomed up before him.

Everywhere he might go in the future this story of dishonesty might follow him. And all for a miserable ten cents, prompted by a good heart and an eye for beauty in distress.

He thought and thought until he saw no-thing, heard nothing. What could be done? The one big chance he coveted at hand, and he was helpless because of his dependence on others.

The official of the Interstate Railroad didn't know him from hundreds of others who were constantly seeking positions in the company.

Just at this moment a saucy sparrow perched on a near-by stone decoration over a door. It looked so cheery and so devil-may-care that Saunders envied it.

He watched it, and for a moment forgot his troubles. Surely there was independence for one. If only he were independent! Other birds flew about and tried to snatch the bit of bread the saucy sparrow held in its beak, but he avoided them, at the same time retaining control over his treasure.

"That sparrow has more grit than I have," Saunders reflected. "I must fight my own battles. It takes force and determination." He squared his shoulders.

"If that insignificant sparrow can take care of itself, why can't I? But, then, the bird hasn't any need of references."

At any rate, the sparrow gave him renewed courage.

"I'll go to the superintendent of the Interstate Railroad and tell him everything. Maybe he'll believe me. Maybe he won't. It's worth trying, though. There would be some satisfaction in knowing I had made the effort."

He went into the wash-room and freshened himself up a hit before boarding a down-town car.

All the way to his destination, hope and despair alternated in his heart. Everything depended upon the man who had sent him the letter asking him to call.

After what seemed an endless journey, Saunders reached the building which held the answer to his troubles. He was shown into the presence of a man of dignified manner, who looked up at the sound of the name Robert Saunders.

"You applied for a position with our company, Saunders?" he began in a businesslike tone.

"Yes, sir, some months ago.

"Do you still wish the place?"

"Oh, yes, sir."

"And you have been all this time in the employ of the Metropolitan Street Railway?"

Saunders nodded assent.

"Of course, then, we can refer to them if necessary?"

"That's just it, sir. I'm going to be honest with you, and I hope you will believe me. I was in the service of this company, but I am no longer there. I held my position until last evening, when something happened, and so today it is all different."

"I fear I don't understand," remarked the superintendent.

"I'll admit it looks pretty black for me," said the ex-conductor.

"Then you have been accused of wrong-doing?"

"Yes, sir, but I am innocent. The manager refused to give me a reference."

"This is serious," remarked the official. "Tell me the nature of the difficulty."

"It was all about two ladies, sir. Such nice ladies, too. Somehow, they got on my car without any money. The mother wanted to get off, but she looked weak, and it was raining hard, and the young girl had such a sweet face, with such big blue eyes.

"They were a long way from home, and I couldn't put them off. I offered to pay their fare myself, but when I went to ring up I found I didn't have any money, so I didn't register the ten cents. I just overlooked it. An Inspector caught me, and I was discharged.

"I told the truth to the manager, but he wouldn't believe me. The ladies said I would hear from them this morning, but," and he shook his head sadly, "I haven't heard."

"So you were discharged because of your kindness?" asked the official.

"Yes, sir. Sounds fishy, I know, but it's true."

"But you heard from the lady, after all," said the superintendent.

"Oh, no, I didn't. That's what hurts. It's a hard thing to put your faith in people and stand up for it when others laugh at you and call you 'easy.' I have had my experiences with passengers, but somehow I believed those ladies and I trusted them, so that I thought I would take a chance once more, just to prove that somebody really meant what he said sometimes, I'll give up after this. If I had only heard from her, but—"

"You did hear," asserted the superintendent.

"No, sir. The only letter I got was the one from you."

"I know that," said the superintendent. "But that letter was from the lady herself. She is my wife. She told me of your kindness of yesterday, and asked me to refund you your ten cents; but I decided to do better than that. When I heard the name Robert Saunders it seemed familiar. In looking over some papers, I came across your application for a position. How would you like to be conductor on the finest through train on our line?"

Saunders had to catch his breath before he could answer.

"Then I did right, after all?"

"No; you meant well, but you did wrong. You should have allowed the ladies to get off the car when they told you to stop it. Rules and regulations must be obeyed, no matter what the consequences. However," he added with a kindly look, "personally, in this particular case, I am thankful that you did as you did. My daughter told me all the details of the incident. In fact, it was she who asked me to offer you the position."

"Oh, sir, how can I thank you and her?"

"Don't try. You can start on your new duties at once. I will set you right with the manager of the Metropolitan. One moment."

Saunders was making his way to the door. He held his head high, for there was a great deal of good in the world, after all. And he owed his good fortune to her!

"I think it hardly necessary," added the superintendent, with a twinkle in his eye, "to tell you that on our line every passenger must pay his fare."

_________________

4: The Party Line

A Tale of Telephonic Eavesdropping

Bruno Lessing

(Rudolph Block)  1870-1940

World's News (Sydney), 22 Jan 1910

Cosmopolitan Magazine, Dec 1909

Rudolph Block was a newspaperman and traveller, whose magazine Vagabondia was filled with tales of his travels. Most of his writing was under the "Bruno Lessing" pseudonym. He also wrote many short stories of life in the New York Jewish community. These stories usually appeared in the "slicks"; the high-paying quality monthy magazines such as Cosmopolitan, Hearst's, McClure's, etc.

ALL the world loves a lover. Curiosity, thy name is woman. Eavesdroppers never hear good of themselves.

There you have all the philosophical reflections that fit this tale, and without more ado I shall proceed to tell you what happened in Brownsville. The Shifrins were at supper when the telephone bell rang, and Mrs. Shifrin, with greater alacrity than you would ever have thought she could display— for Mrs. Shifrin was fat— hastened to take down the receiver.

"That wasn't for us," her husband said. "It rang four times, and our call is two rings.

But Mrs. Shifrin put her finger to her lips and said "Sh!" and with a smile of seraphic content proceeded to listen. At exactly the same time the Rosensteins were at supper about three blocks down the same street, and they, too, heard the telephone bell ring. Mrs. Rosenstein upset a chair in her eagerness to answer, while her husband, in mild surprise, said:

"That wasn't for us. It rang four times, and our call is three."

Mrs. Rosenstein did not even deign to reply. She was listening at the telephone, and what she and Mrs. Shifrin heard was this:

"Is that you, Sadie?"

"Hello. David."

"Do you love me as much as ever?"

"Aren't you terrible to talk like that over the telephone!"

"But do you?"

"Ye-es!"

"Then give me one kiss."

"Over the 'phone?"

"Sure! Here's a whole lot for you. Ts! Ts! Ts! Ts! Ts! Now go ahead."

Long pause, then. "T—s!"

"You're the sweetest girl in the world."

"Say, Dave."

"Yes, sweetheart."

"I asked papa if he knew you— just in a casual sort of way, don't you know? I didn't let on about anything— I just wanted to know how he feels about you. What did you ever do to him?"

"Nothing. Why?" "Oh, Dave, he'll never give his consent!"

"What did he say about me?"

"He didn't say anything; it was only the way he looked at me. Are you sure you never did anything— oh, good-bye, Dave! I hear him coming downstairs. Call me up to-morrow, will you?"

"Yes; darling; at the same time. I love—"

But just then Sadie hung up the receiver, and the connection was broken.

Mrs. Rosenstein and Mrs. Shifrin, three blocks apart, each sighed blissfully, hung up the telephone receiver, and again sat down to supper.

"What is the matter?" asked Mr. Shifrin.

"Oh, it is so interesting," his wife replied. "Every night, just about this time, Davy Rosnofsky calls up Sadie Malbin on the telephone, and they have such a spoony conversation. I wouldn't miss it for anything."

Mr. Shifrin frowned. "Is it nice to listen to other people's conversation?" he asked. "How would you like anyone to listen to what you are saying ?"

"Oh, I don't care who listens to what I say," said Mrs. Shifrin, with a disdainful toss of her head. "But Sadie's father would be awfully mad if he knew what was going on. I wonder whether they'll get married."

THE SAME conversation took place at the same time in the household of the Rosensteins. Both husbands, being learned in the Talmud, expressed their disapprobation and paid no further attention to the matter, for all Talmudists know that he who undertakes to regulate the foibles and weaknesses of a woman embarks upon a perilous sea. And neither Rosenstein nor Shif rin was a good sailor.

The following night the telephone bell again rang four times, and both Mrs. Shifrin and Mrs. Rosenstein hurried to the receiver.

"Is that you, dear?"

"Hello, Dave. Oh, I'm in terrible trouble!"

What's the matter, darling? Tell me quickly!"

"Papa wants me to marry that horrid Lowenthal just because he has lots of money, and— boo-hoo— I'm terribly unhappy!"

"Don't cry, dearest Don't you worry about it at all. I'll break that Lowenthal's face. Can you come out to-night?"

"I'm afraid, David. Papa is so terribly suspicious."

"Just say you're going out to the square to listen to the music and I'll meet you there by accident."

"All right, dear, I'll do my best. If I don't come you'll know it's because I couldn't get out."

"Do you love me a lot, Sadie?"

"M-m-m-you bet! Good-bye."

"Moe," said Mrs. Shifrin to her husband, "let's go out to the square to-night and listen to the music."

"Isidore," said Mrs. Rosenstein to her husband, "wouldn't you like to come out to the square to-night and get some fresh air? The band will be playing."

To this day neither Shifrin nor Rosenstein understands clearly why his wife, instead of sitting down upon the first vacant bench they came to, insisted upon dragging him around, into the thickest of the crowd, and pushing and circling about until they came to the farthest edge of the throng. And there, where the music could only be faintly heard, Mrs. Rosenstein and Mrs. Shifrin stood contented, unmindful of each other's presence, gaxing steadily at a young man and a young woman who seemed to be entirely absorbed in each other.

Neither Mr. Shifrin nor Mr. Rosenstein had the slightest interest in the telephonic love affair of David Rosnofsky and Sadie Malbin. They had, both of them, done what little they could to discourage their wives in their eaves-dropping habit and had refused to discuss the matter. But there is such a thing as unconscious or subconscious absorption. Before another week had passed both of them, without being aware of the fact, knew nearly every detail ot the situation.

One night, for instance, while Mr. Shifrin was reading the Jewish Workingman, his wife, after a long session at the telephone, said to him:—

"Davy gave Sadie a ring with a diamond in it."

"I thought they had quarrelled and were never going to speak to each other again," remarked   her husband.

"Oh, that was all patched up. Davy admitted he was in the wrong."

And Mrs. Rosenstein, interrupting her husband in a game of checkers with the rabbi, said:

"He took her to the theatre last night."

"But I thought," said Mr. Rosenstein absent-mindedly, "that he said he had to work and couldn't take her."

Which merely goes to show that a husband, without the slightest interest in the gossipy prattle of his wife, somehow or other absorbs everything she says.

One night when the telephone bell rang four times Mrs. Shifrin and Mrs. Rosenstein overheard the following:—

"There's no other way out of it, Sadie, dear."

"But why can't you wait, Davy?"

"Wait? I've waited too long altogether. It's next Sunday night or never."

"You're so cruel."

"I'm not a bit cruel, Sadie. Didn't you say that if your father insisted on your marrying that scoundrel you would give up everything and marry me?"

"But maybe papa will change his mind, dear!"

"He'll change his face and his feet and his head and his lungs and his liver first."

"Aren't you terrible, Dave!"

"Now, I'll tell you what to do, girlie. Sunday night, at ten o'clock, I'll be waiting for you outside the house in a carriage. You take just what you need and no more and come out. I'll arrange all the rest. Now there's no use talking about it. I'll be there, and if you don't come out I'll know you don't love me. Goodbye."

Mrs. Rosenstein gasped. Mrs. Shifrin gasped.

And each hastened to her husband and proclaimed the startling news:—

"They're going to elope next Sunday night at ten o'clock!"

"It is not nice to listen," was Mr. Shifrin's only comment. "I wish you would mind your own business," said Mr. Rosenstein to his spouse. And you would have been willing to swear that both of them immediately forgot the matter.

A FEW evenings later, however, Shifrin and Rosenstein happened to meet in Schonstein'a cafe and played a game of chess. During the game they chatted about everything that entered their heads; but not a word was said about the telephonic love affair and probably not a word would have been said had not Mr. Malbin, the father of Sadie, entered the cafe and sat down at their table to watch the game.

Shifrin was losing, and all his mental faculties were concentrated upon the disposition of his men. But while he was thinking hard about chess his tongue ran on nimbly, answering Mr. Malbin's questions, hardly aware of what he was saying until— of a sudden— Mr. Malbin's fist came down upon the table with a crash and

"It's a lie!" he cried. Shifrin started, looked up, forgot all about playing chess, and after quite a perceptible interval of time realised that he had said:

"I understand your girl Sadie is sweet on Davy Rosnofsky."

He now stared at Mr. Malbin's glaring countenance, collected his scattered wits, and was about to reply, when Rosenstein, feeling himself called upon to defend the integrity of his friend, said:—

"Mr. Malbin, it is not a lie. Of course it is none of our business, but everybody knows the young people are in love with each other. Didn't he give her a diamond ring?"

"Didn't they meet in the square the other night?" asked Shifrin.

"Isn't it all arranged that they're going to elope on Sunday night?" said Rosenstein.

Mr. Malbin looked from one to the other, speechless with rage. Then, without a word, he rose and strode from the room.

"I'm sorry I said a word," said Shifrin meekly.

"So am I," said Rosenstein. "What did you do it for?"

"It just slipped out," explained Shifrin. "I really wasn't thinking when I spoke."

A light suddenly dawned upon Rosenstein. "Say," he said, "your telephone is on the same party line as ours. Does your wife listen, too?" Shifrin nodded.

"Well," said Rosenstein, "it's a silly business. But I guess we'd better not tell them what happened to-night." And Shifrin agreed.

ON SUNDAY night Mrs. Shifrin, out for a late stroll, happened to meet Mrs. Rosenstein directly in front of Mr. Malbin's house. They paused to chat with each other. Pre-sently a carriage drove up, and David Rosnofsky alighted and stood on the sidewalk looking up at one of the windows. Mrs. Shifrin and Mrs. Rosenstein watched him, as if spellbound. Their conversation ceased. David began to whistle softly. The window that he was watch-ing was suddenly opened, and a drenching show-er of water descended upon him, followed swift-ly by a wooden pall that fell squarely upon his head. Then Mr. Malbin. grinning triumphantly, leaned out of the window.

"You little loafer!" he cried. "If I ever catch you around here again I will have you arrested."

Mrs. Rosenstein and Mrs. Shifrin had screamed when the pail fell upon David. Now they separated without saying a single word to each other and hurried home. When David reached home to nurse his bruised crown he found a note from Sadie that had been delivered a few minutes after he left his room. It ran:—

Do not come to-night. Papa knows everything. Mr. Rosenstein and Mr. Shifrin told him. and he is waiting with a pail of water to throw it on you when you come.

Sadie.

David went to Schonstein's cafe, where he found Shifrin and Rosenstein playing chess.

"Tell me all about it," he said, in a calm, low voice. The two men looked at him, and there was that in his countenance that sent a chill down their spines. Instinctively each clutched him by an arm.

"Believe me, I am innocent!" said Shifrin.

"I did not do it on purpose!" cried Rosenstein. "Listen and I will tell you everything."

David listened. When he learned that all his talks with Sadie had been overheard by the two women he flushed furiously. Then he said:

"You are a pair of old women. I will decide what I am going to do. I know I should give you both a good beating. Maybe I will do it. But promise me one thing, and I will forgive you."

"On my sacred word of honor!" exclaimed Shifrin.

And, "On the Torah!" cried Rosenstein.

"Promise me that to-morrow night at ten o'clock you will both be in the square near the music-stand waiting for me and that you will not tell a living soul— not even your wiveswhere you are going."

They promised. Without the faintest idea of what they were to encounter they promised faithfully to keep the tryst and to maintain absolute secrecy. The following night, at the usual time, the bell rang four times, and Mrs. Shifrin and Mrs. Rosenstein promptly took their places at the telephone.

"My heart is breaking, David!" they heard.

"Do not worry, sweetheart. All will come out right in the end. I missed your note by a few minutes, but you have nothing to blame yourself for. Can you come out to-night?"

"Oh, dear no. Papa is home and won't let me leave the house."

"Don't worry, dear. I'll call you up again in about an hour. By the way, I saw an awfully funny thing last night. Remember those two blonde actresses in the Yiddish Theatre who are boarding with the Cohens? They were out last night with Mr. Shifrin and Mr. Rosenstein, sitting in the square right under the electric light. What do you think of the old rascals?"

"Oh, David! Aren't they terrible! Why, they're both married."

"Yes, but when you think of their wives you really can't blame them so much. I heard them ask the girls to meet them again to-night at the same place at ten o'clock."

I would like to make clear to you exactly how Mrs. Rosenstein and Mrs. Shifrin felt, but I cannot do it. Their first impulse was to fly at their husbands and denounce them, and, being women, their second thought was to resort to a roundabout course.

"You didn't tell me where you went last night," remarked Mrs. Shifrin with great self-control.

"Where I always go— to the cafe," answered her husband, without even looking up from his newspaper.

"I suppose you're going there to-night?"

"Yes— er— that is, no." Mr. Shifrin looked up at his wife. "I have an engagement to-night," he said, "and I promised to tell nobody about it. So don't ask any questions."

Mrs. Shifrin went into another room and began to cry softly. After all these years— she had been such a dutiful wife— to deceive her so, etc., etc. And in the meantime Mrs. Ros- enstein, who had had her soft little cry first, decided to ask no questions, but to learn for herself.

At ten o'clock Rosenstein and Shifrin were seated upon a bench close by the music stand.

"What did he want us to come here for?" asked Rosenstein.

"Maybe we are going to be arrested or killed," suggested Shifrin. They waited, and then out of the darkness emerged two female figures.

"Oh, you old, grey-haired wretches!" cried one. "You spend your nights at the cafe.

"Bah!" exclaimed the other. "Waiting for two bleached-blonde actresses, At your age!" (You see how difficult it is for a woman to be blonde without also becoming bleached.)

And the next moment both women were in hysterics, while their husbands, in hopeless amazement, looked from one to the other, waiting for a coherent explanation. Then came a messenger-boy.

"Iss here two mans vot lss Rosenstein unt Shifrin? I haf a letter."

The letter ran:

My dear friends.

I want to make an apology. I thought I saw you both with two ladies the other night, but I find I was mistaken. It was not you. It was two younger men, better looking, with a great deal more brains than you will ever have. Anyway. I didn't tell it to anybody except Miss Malbin, and I told her to-day I was mistaken. So nobody will ever know. I only apologise because I am so noble and good that I would not even have a wrong thought about a man. Nobody else will ever know of it except some sneaking person who might by accident have been listening over the telephone. But nobody that I can think of would be so low down mean.

Respectfully your friend

David Rosnofsky.

Mrs. Rosenstein and Mrs. Shifrin were weeping bitterly upon their husbands' shoulders. Their spirits were crushed; there was nothing to say, nothing to think, nothing to do but weep. Their husbands attempted, mechanically, to soothe them, but I doubt if they went about it with any great enthusiasm, for Rosenstein says that every time he looked at Shif- rin he found Shifrin winking at him. Then Mr. Malbin arrived, frowning and impatient.

"Well, what is it?" he demanded. "What do you want?"

They all looked at him.

"I don't want anything," said Shifrin, and Rosenstein echoed it.

"Didn't you just telephone me to meet you here right away because it was a case of life and death?"

Shifrin and Rosenstein looked at each other blankly. "We didn't telephone anybody about anything. We don't use the telephone."

And then a light dawned upon Malbin, and without another word he turned upon his heels and ran at full speed, all the way to his home. A note was pinned on the door. It ran:—

Dear Father-in-law,

I am sorry I had to do it, but in this world all is for the best. You hang around the house so much that I had to get you out by a trick. Well, Sadie and I will be married by this time, and on our way to Niagara Falls. Better forgive us and telegraph us whatever you think you can spare.

Your loving son-in-law.

David.

P.S.—Sadie sends a kiss. Me too.

_______________

5: The Gazebrook Necklace

Walter Hackett

World's News (Sydney) 29 Jan 1910

Munsey’s Magazine, December 1909

This writer is another of the many who wrote for magazines in the early part of the 20th century about which little if anything is known. His short stories appeared between 1908-1916 in various American magazines. It is probable that he is Walter C. Hackett, 1876-1944, American-British playwright and movie scriptwriter.

THERE are current many garbled versions of the circumstances surrounding the unique episode of the attempted theft of the Gazebrook necklace— which attempt, happily enough, was frustrated by my friend Herr Otto Schmalz, the preventer of crime. It has fallen at last to me to make public the exact facts of that singular affair. To show that I am qualified to do so, I may as well say at once that I played a prominent, if somewhat unpleasant, part in it.

By this I do not mean to imply that I was given any choice as to my actions. Quite the contrary is true. From the moment in which Schmalz found me dressing to go to the bridge party which Mrs. Gazebrook was giving in honor of her birthday, I acted— unwittingly enough, it is true— as his puppet. I can see now that he pulled the strings and I danced as he wished.

As I have said, I was dressing for the affair when he waddled his huge, hulking body into the room. He stood blinking at me with his great, round, innocent eyes, which looked even larger than they were behind his extremely thick-lensed spectacles. The sight of my preparations apparently pleased him mightily, for as he watched them, without speaking, his fat, flabby face wreathed itself in a cherubic smile.

"I'm sorry you came to-night, Herr Schmalz," I said apologetically, "for I've an engagement which I must keep."

My announcement, apparently, disturbed him not in the least. Indeed, as he heard it, the creases in his face seemed to grow even wider.

"You are to the Gazebrooks' going?" he asked presently, in his heavy guttural tones.

I looked at him in surprise. I could never succeed in conquering my amazement at his uncanny knowledge of my intentions.

"Yes," I managed to answer at last; "and I must hurry, for already I am late."

"That is good-hurry," he echoed; "for see, I am ready now."

As he spoke he suddenly threw open his overcoat— he had a childish delight in dramatic surprises— and disclosed himself in evening clothes. I stared at him dumfounded.

"I had no idea that you knew the Gazebrooks, or that you had been invited," I said to him wonderingly.

"Neither do I know them, nor have I been invited," he answered me placidly; "but you are going to take me to their house with you; so hurry, or we shall both be late!"

After this announcement he settled his great body down in an easy chair and calmly stared at me. His proposal, of course, was out of the question. The affair, as I have said, was a bridge party in honor of Mrs. Gazebrook's birth-day, and only a few intimate friends had been bidden to it. To bring a stranger would be a gross and inexcusable breach of courtesy.

I haltingly explained this to Schmalz, but I only had my labor for my pains. A defective circulation of his blood caused him to fall asleep at the most unexpected times, and now, in the middle of my explanations, I found that he was snoring and quite unconscious of what I was saying.

It was only after a violent effort that I managed to awaken him. As always, such an awakening found him in a peevish mood, and it was with a lowering brow that he listened as I began to repeat my excuses. Before I was half through, he halted me with a sudden gesture.

"You do not wish me to go with you, hein?" he asked in a voice which anger rendered sharp and shrill. "Very good, I will not. I offered only because the famous Gazebrook necklace of pearls may be stolen to-night, and I wished to prevent it."

"The Gazebrook necklace stolen!" I cried, aghast. "Impossible!"

"It is the truth," he replied contentedly. My amazement had restored him to his good na-ture. "It will be stolen by a short, slender woman, with chestnut hair, girlish, petite features, blue eyes, pale cheeks, a wide mouth, and a determined chin. She has long, tapering fingers, a— "

"Stop!" I interrupted hoarsely. "Stop, man! Do you know who it is that you are accusing of this theft?"

"Who?"

"Mrs. Gazebrook herself!" I whispered.

He smiled complacently at the news. "Then," he said, with a sigh of relief, "I dare say you will no longer object to my accompanying you!"

ii

THE birthday dinner was not yet over when the butler admitted us. Nevertheless, Schmalz insisted on seeing Jack Gazebrook at once, and bade the servant summon him from the table to join us in the drawing-room. This, not unnaturally, the butler was loth to do; but Schmalz repeated his order in such a shrill and piercing voice that, fairly frightened, the man hastened away to do as he had been told.

A moment later Gazebrook entered. He look-ed from myself to Schmalz with considerable surprise, with which a trace of annoyance was plainly visible. The annoyance increased as I presented the latter. If Schmalz noticed this, however, he gave it not the slightest heed.

"Mr. Gazebrook," he began abruptly, as soon as I had murmured his name, "to-day you removed your famous pearl necklace from safekeeping in your safe-deposit vault. Is that so?"

Gazebrook reddened angrily.

"I can't understand how that concerns you, sir!" he answered with considerable heat.

"But it does concern me," responded Schmalz tartly, "for the prevention of crime is my profession, and it has been planned to steal that necklace to-night."

"Impossible!" cried the other. "Only my in-timate friends are to be here, and no thief from without could find an opportunity."

Schmalz waddled his great form over close to him.

"Have you invited among them a tall man with a hooked nose, thick, black hair and beard, black eves with eyebrows that meet, and a mouth with thin lips?"

His voice was shrill, and quivered with excitement. Gazebrook eyed him askance.

"I fail to see why I should be cross-examined by you," he answered coldly; "but I have no objection to telling you that you have accurately described Roger Mainwaring, who will be among our guests."

"I knew it!" Schmalz's voice was even shriller than before. "I knew it!" he repeated excitedly. "You must watch him, for he it is that will commit the crime!"

His direct accusation impressed Gazebrook deeply, as, indeed, it could scarcely fail to do. The latter drew in his breath sharply, while his face went very pale. For myself, I was utterly dumfounded by Schmalz's words. Scarcely half an hour before he had, with the same assurance, told me that Helen Gazebrook would commit the crime. Now, without any reason to change that I could see, he was accusing Mainwaring— the best friend of both Gazebrook and his wife. The whole affair was incredible.

"That is a serious charge." It was Gazebrook who at length broke the silence, and, though he strove with all his strength to prevent it, his voice trembled painfully. "It cannot be passed over lightly. You must prove it, or suffer the consequences!"

His gravity utterly failed to impress Schmalz. "Let me remain as a guest," he said, adding, with pleased complacency: "I don't mind playing bridge— and I'll prove it— my fee will be five hundred dollars."

To this plan Gazebrook consented, though it was obvious that he did so with reluctance. The arrangement having been concluded, he excused himself, and returned to the dining-room. As he departed, Schmalz waddled over to the mantel, upon which stood a large, silverframed photograph of Helen Gazebrook. For a time he examined it. Then he turned to me.

"So," he remarked, happily, "my description was not bad, eh?"

He had given me the very opening I was hoping for. I was quick to take advantage of it.

"But, Herr Schmalz." I protested, "you told me that she would steal the necklace, while you said to Jack Gazebrook that—"

He stopped my words with an impatient wave of the hand.

"She will steal it, if it is stolen," he asserted, "but not for herself— not of her own free will. She has everything she could wish for. There is no reason for her to require so large a sum as this necklace would bring, except to pay blackmail to someone. In her life, before her marriage," he went on, "there was no secret that she would ask to be hushed up— the world knows that. But after her marriage? A flirtation, eh? Utterly harmless and foolish, but it may have led to the writing of an impulsive note. That note, shown to a jealous man, would be misconstrued, would utterly wreck her happiness. There you have the problem.

"I told you," he continued, "that if the necklace were stolen, it would be by a woman, for I knew that only Gazebrook's wife could find an opportunity to do so— it would be too closely watched for anyone else. I had never seen her, but, reasoning out what would impel her to do so, I discovered her motive—  the motive I have just described. From this I reconstructed her character. Once you know a person's character, if you know human nature, you know, too, his or her personal appearance. She was a flirt; therefore she was small and slender. Large women do not coquette, or, if they do, they find no men to coquette with. She flirted after her marriage; therefore she was frivolous and merciless. A small woman who is merciless is always a blonde, and blondes always have blue eyes. Only people of strong character have determined chins, and to rid herself of a black-mailer by such a means as I have outlined a woman would have to possess a strong character. Naturally, she would be pale, for the threat of exposure would frighten her. There you have it— simplicity!"

He gazed at me with childish pride as he finished his argument. He was always simply and unaffectedly vain of his remarkable powers.

"But the man?" I demanded. "What evidence have you about him?"

He smiled with an expression of undisguised contempt.

"You are stupid!" he exclaimed. "What style of man interests a woman— for she must have been interested to write to him? Her directly opposite type. So he must be dark and tall, with black hair and beard. He must be a villain— and the only villains you find among tall, dark, men invariably have hooked noses, thin lips, and eyebrows which meet. A child should know it!"

iii

THE arrival of other guests silenced us, and I did not have another opportunity of speaking with him alone during the evening. Indeed, most of the events that followed are confused and jumbled in my memory, for my brain was in a whirl of excitement. From the moment when Mrs. Gazebrook entered the dining-room, leaning on Mainwaring's arm, I was scarcely myself.

Curiously enough, one glimpse of the famous pearl necklace glowing on her throat convinced me in some odd and subtle manner that the strange prophecies of Schmalz were certain to be realised. And this presentiment was strangely confirmed just before we began playing, for she insisted upon removing the necklace and placing it in the drawer of a cabinet. It was too tight, she said, and was choking her; and because we were all friends she laughingly insisted on taking it off there and then.

It was Schmalz who assisted her to remove it. As he did so, I saw an odd light in his round, saucer-like eyes— a light which I took to be a gleam of triumph. It had vanished utterly, however, when he moved over and sat across the table from me. By some trick he had managed to cut me as a partner, while our opponents were Mainwaring and a Miss Grosvenor.

Then followed two hours of the most ex-quisite torture. Despite the efforts of everyone at the table, it was impossible to keep Schmalz awake. He would drop off at the most inopportune moments— in the midst of the most interesting hand— and completely destroy the pleasure of playing. Notwithstanding this, we won steadily. At the end of the two hours our opponents had lost a considerable sum, to which they were rapidly adding their tempers.

It was at this time that a strange thing , happened. Schmalz, who was noting down his winnings, suddenly seized a card— it was the ace of hearts— and wrote a few words across the face of it, so swiftly and covertly that none of the players, except myself, saw what he had done. Then, with his other cards— it was my deal— he shoved it across the table to me.

One glance, and I read what he had written.

It was:

Within five minutes Mrs. Gazebrook will attempt to steal the necklace.

I gazed at the message for a fascinated instant. Then, suddenly, I realised that the card must be seen by no other than myself. Yet I had no excuse for a fresh pack, and if I dealt them out fairly one of our opponents might receive the card with the dreadful accusation boldly written across its face.

For a dreadful interval— it seemed as if many minutes passed— I sat motionless and staring. Then, all at once. I determined to act.

Carelessly picking up the pack, I began to shuffle. In doing so. I managed to get the ace of hearts on the bottom. From there, with a quick turn of the wrist, I sent it spinning into my lap and underneath my waistcoat. Then I proceeded to deal. My idea was that when it was found that the pack was short, a new deck would be secured and a new deal begun; but I was doomed to disappointment. Before I had thrown the cards twice around, a voice rang through the quiet of the room like the crack of a rifle.

"Stop!" cried Roger Mainwaring.

I paused and gazed at him. He had risen to his feet, and was stand-ing there, his face livid beneath his black beard, his eyes burning with excitement. He stood in silence until all the bridge players had drop-ped their cards and every eye was fastened upon him. Then, with a slowness that fascin-ated me, he raised a trembling hand and pointed to me.

"This man." he cried, "has been cheating!"

Mad with rage, I sprang to my feet.

"You lie," I returned. "You lie!"

His answer came back at me quick as a flash.

"Then tell me," he demanded, "why you just hid that card beneath your waistcoat!"

I started back as if he had struck me a blow. Instantly I realised how desperate my plight was. To save myself from utter dis-grace. I should have to permit Schmalz's accusation of Helen Gazebrook to become public. Truly my position was a terrible one!

In despair I turned toward Schmalz, thinking that perhaps he might save me; but as my eyes fell upon him. I knew that to wish for that was hopeless. He was sound asleep!

From him my eyes wandered hopelessly about the room— which was hushed in a deathlike silence. On every hand I saw averted faces. Not an eye met mine. Evidently my silence was taken as an admission of guilt.

Presently my gaze happened to fall upon the cabinet in which Mrs. Gazebrook had laid her necklace. Like a flash, the words that Schmalz had written upon the card echoed in my brain. Within five minutes, he had said, she would attempt the theft.

She was attempting it at that moment! The diversion caused by Mainwaring's accusation of me had afforded her an opportunity. With silent stealth I saw her creeping along the wall toward the cabinet, her face white and drawn, her eyes gleaming. Fascinated, I watched her, utterly unmindful of the glances of contempt and loathing that were turned upon me.

Nearer she approached the cabinet, and nearer. At last she reached it. Softly she pulled the drawer open and thrust in her hand; and then I saw her reel back against the wall. I saw her white face turn a deadly grey, I heard her scream, and saw that the hand that she had thrust into the drawer had come forth empty!

At the sound of her cry, all eyes turned from me to where she stood leaning weakly against the wall. Almost instantly her husband had leaped to her side.

"Dearest," he cried, "what is it?"

"The necklace," her white lips whispered. "It is gone— stolen!"

He started back from her with a cry, and turned toward Schmalz. The latter, awakened by Mrs. Gazebrook's scream, was rising ponderously to his feet.

"One of the guests has stolen it!" he exclaimed shrilly. His voice rose clear and piercing above the excited talk in the room. "I will search them!" He paused, and a dead silence ensued. Apparently assuming that this meant a general consent, he turned upon Mainwaring.

"I will begin with you, sir!" he said.

Mainwaring drew angrily back.

"But this is outrageous!" he exclaimed.

Despite his huge bulk, Schmalz was upon him like a terrier.

"Do you refuse?" he screamed.

Instantly the other realised in what a position refusal would place him.

"Certainly not," he answered quickly, with a confident smile. "You may search me all you please."

Schmalz waited for no more. In a second he had sprung forward with his queer, terrier-like movement, and was thrusting his fat, pudgy hands about the other's person. In breathless silence we waited and watched, while Roger Mainwaring still faced me with his bold, confident smile.

All at once Schmalz thrust his hand into a pocket on the inside of the other's waistcoat. Then, with a shrill scream of triumph, he pulled it back, and, holding it high above his head, dangled the necklace before our astonished eyes. With it he held a packet of letters, which, while the crowd was still staring in amazement at the pearls, he quickly transferred into his other hand and cast into the log fire, where the papers blazed up brightly. At the same time Schmalz nodded cheerfully to Mrs. Gazebrook. That she saw the nod and understood it, I knew from the flash in her eyes.

Then I turned to Mainwaring. He was still standing like a statue— the picture of stupefaction. At last, with a great effort, he roused himself.

"How did those pearls come in my pocket?" he exclaimed. "I never put them there!"

In a dead silence Gazebrook crossed the room and faced him.

"You thief!" be breathed. "You, to accuse an honorable gentleman of cheating at cards!" He had recalled my own disgrace before I had myself. "Leave my house at once!"

For a moment Mainwaring faced him in sneering silence. Schmalz moved over and stood by Gazebrook's side. What the villain saw in the face of the preventer of crime, I cannot say; but he must have read some menace there, for, without a word, he turned and left the room. As he did so, Mrs. Gazebrook fell to the floor in a dead faint.

iv

THE DIVERSION caused by Mrs. Gazebrook's collapse gave me a chance to speak to Schmalz alone.

"How could Mainwaring have stolen the pearls?" I asked. "He never was near the cabinet after they were placed there."

"He didn't." Schmalz answered. "I had to accuse him of doing it so that I could search him and get Mrs. Gazebrook's letters, and until I got them I couldn't get my fee. It did no harm to call a blackmailer a thief. If I had failed to get the letters, the necklace would surely have been stolen, and an innocent woman would have become a criminal.

"But how on earth did the necklace come to be in his pocket?"

He grinned at me sheepishly.

"I put it there," he said.

________________

6: Before and After

W. Pett Ridge

1859-1930

Australian Town and Country Journal, 14 March 1917

The Strand Magazine, Jan 1917

THE CLERK informed Mr. Sumner that a party named Davies wished to see him. Party asserted that he had an appointment. Party seemed in rather a hurry, mentioned the clerk.

"Let him wait in the outer office," ordered Mr. Sumner. "I'll ring when I'm ready to See him. Say I'm engaged at present." He sat forward in his well-cushioned chair, when the clerk had retired with this message, and gave all his attention to the job of balancing a paper-knife on the tip of a forefinger. Small success attended the effort. He gave it up, and with a gold pencil-case drew circles on the blotting-pad. The clerk knocked presently, and announced that the party named Davies declared he could wait no longer.

"Shew him in," commanded Mr. Sumner, giaacing at his watch. "I can give him four minutes. Not a second longer."

The visitor entered, taking off his tweed cap. lie stuffed it into his pocket. "Shut the door behind you," ordered Mr. Sumner, abruptly.

"I'm not going to say nothing," remarked Davies, without moving, "that I object to be overheard."

Mr. Sumner had to rise from his cointor table chair, and put himself to the trouble of carrying out bis own instructions. The caller moved slightly, and took up a position on the hearth-rug. It was rather like the opening of a game of draughts, with both sides playing for safety...

"Well," said Mr. Sumner, impatiently, "make a start. What do you want to see me I about?"

"Didn't want to see you at all," retorted he other. "You sent word you wanted to see me."

"But state your case, man. Begin the proceedings. Let's hear what you have to say."

"At present," declared Davies, with his chin out, "I'm not a talker; I'm a listener." Mr. Sumner appeared to have some thoughts of returning to his chair, where he could assume a magisterial air. Changing his mind, he sat upon the corner of the polished table. Reaching across, he took up the paper-knife.

"Davies," he said, "I'm going to be frank and straightforward with you. It's not my custom to beat about the bush, and I cant claim to be good at it. I want to ask you a definite question, and it's to your interests to give me a definite answer." He pointed at the visitor with the paper-knife. "What's your price?  Now, now!" as the other made a gesture of irritation, "we needn't have any sentimental talk about principles, or nonsense of that kind. I repeat, what's your price?"

"As it happens, Mr. Sumner, I'm not to be sold. And the sooner you realise that the better."

"Attend to me." The paper-knife came into action again. "I am an employer of labor in a somewhat extensive way. You are the secretary of a so-called working men's club, not far off."

"Why 'so-called?' What do you mean by that phrase?"

"Keep cool, Davies," recommended Mr. Sumner. "Nothing is ever gained by losing one's temper. I withdraw the word. It was not well-chosen. I offer an apology."

"Granted," said Davies, curtly.

"A considerable number of my men belong to your club. More than once, when there has been a little— er— misunderstanding, you, I understand, have given advice to them on the methods they should pursue."

"And they've adopted it."

"And then," agreed Mr. Sumner, handsomely, "have adopted it. So that I look upon you. Davies, as a power in the borough, and it is a matter for regret to find that you have for some reason got your knife into me. Now, this private chat of ours is intended to ascertain whether you can be persuaded to take the knife out, and, if you must use it, use it on somebody else. All the world is at peace. War seems to be a thing of the past, and surely "

"Any special reason for choosing present moment?"

"A very special reason, if you must know. I intend to stand for Parliament at the by-election that's likely to come off soon."

"And you want all the friends you can get around you?"

"Naturally."

"Well," said Davies, finding his tweed cap, and punching it out at the crown, "you can reckon on me"— here Mr. Sumner put out his hand impulsively— "for not being one of 'em. I know which side you belong to, and all I can say is I'm surprised you sh'd make such a proposal. If you knew me well, you wouldn't dare. I wish you a very good morning."

Mr. Sumner moved adroitly from the edge of the table, and interposed to stop the visitor from leaving. Declaring that he was in no way pressed for time, he urged Davies to avoid the defect of impatience; business conducted in a hurry never proved satisfactory. Mr. Sumner mentioned that this was not the first time he had been approached by the local folk. The narrowness of the majority for the sitting member had caused him to hesitate. Now the sitting member was about to be made a Judge, and the persuasions of the local men could no longer be resisted. Apart from this, said Mr. Sumner, becoming more cofidential, he was experiencing some home worries; an only son had been devoting himself to the pernicious game of cricket, and when one had anxieties of that nature, why, it was imperative to keep the mind well occupied.

"And that suggests something," remarked Mr. Sumner. "Didn't I hear that you had a boy?"

"A good lad," said Davies, "and a clever one. Although I say it. And a pride and a comfort to his mother and me."

"You are to be envied, Davies. Happy is the father who—" He did not complete the sentence. "My proposal is this. I dare say I spoke rather clumsily just now in asking what your price was. I ought to have said, 'What can I do for you?' Now, in regard to this boy of yours. I am prepared, if you will allow me, to take charge of his education, to be responsible for the cost, even though he should go so far as one of the universities. In short—"

"In short," Davies broke in, aggressively, "having made apparently something of a muddle of bringing up one boy, you want to see what you can do with the bringing up of a second. Mr. Sumner, you've come to the wrong shop. Our boy has been looked after by his mother and me since he first came to us, and we're not going to share the responsibilities, or the pride, mark you, with anyone. He's gained scholarships already that have taken him to a public school. He looks a treat in his O.T.O. uniform. He'll probably make his own way to Cambridge. He's so well clear of the rocks now that he don't want you or any other pilot to come aboard. And as to you being a candidate for political honors, allow me to say that Edward Davies will oppose you, 'orse, foot, and artillery, in the future, as he has always done in the past."

"You are an impertinent fool," shouted Mr. Sumner, "and, in all probability, a confounded scoundrel." He struck the bell on the table violently.

"Not such a fool," retorted the other, "as to be took in by you. Not such a scoundrel as to promise what I can't perform. '

"Show this man out," ordered Mr. Sumner to the clerk, "and if he dares to call again, summon the police."

"No, laddie," advised Davies, also addressing the clerk, "Don't you in that case summon the police. If ever I call here again, you can assume I've gone off my nut, and you can have me removed straight away to the nearest asylum."

WHEN, two years later, Davies paid his second visit, the clerk might have discovered himself, as a consequence of these divergent instructions, in something of a tangle. It happened that, in the meantime, a great war had been started, and the clerk was now a sergeant attached to the British Expeditionary Force, and giving commands as readily as in peace times he had accepted them.

"Missy," said Davies, breathlessly, across the counter, to one of the new staff, "tell the governor, if you don't mind, that a party wants to see him on private business for about three-quarters of a second. Mention that the party's sorry' to trouble, but—"

"Your name, please."

There was no waiting on this occasion. Mr. Sumner came out on the girl's heels, and himself lifted the flap of the counter. "Do you bring me any news?" he inquired, anxiously. He clutched at Davies' elbow. "Any news about my boy? His regiment, I see, has been in the new advance."

"He's safe." Mr. Sumner took the visitor into the room and closed the door. Going to the comfortable chair, he kneeled down at the side of it. Davies bowed his head during the few moments of silence.

"Well, well," said Mr. Sumner, rising, and finding his handkerchief, "now that's all right. That's all right. Good of you, Davies, to come round. I'll guarantee you haven't lost any time."

"My son's letter came a quarter of a hower ago, sir, and soon as his mother and me had made ourselves acquainted with the contents, I came off here jest about as hard as I could pelt."

"Always knew you avere a man of energy, Davies. I recollect that during that by-election you allowed very little grass to grow under the soles of your boots."

"A rare good fight, chuckled the visitor, reminiscentlv. "The things I said about you, and the remarks you passed about me! Hammer and tongs, wasn't it?"

"Hammer and tongs, and every other instrument of warfare we could lay our hands on."

"We only just beat you, sir. You put up a very good struggle."

"I've often thought," said Mr. Sumner, "what a blessing in disguise it was. If I had been in Parliament when the war broke out, I shouldn't have been able to concentrate my energies on the 'business here. I can assure you, Davies, it has been no easy task to keep matters going."

He went across to the window, and remarked softly to himself, "My boy's safe, my boy's safe!"

"You'd have been very little use, sir, in the House of Commons. You speak your mind too plain to suit the parties there. Too much of the Jack Blunt about you to please them."

"You're fairly straightforward, too, Davies. What I mean to say is that there's no humbug in you. If you were only on the right side in politics—"

"I am!"

Argument began without delay, over tne polished table the two started a violent debate with all the old methods, and the ancient phrases, with urgent appeals to stick to the question, to listen to common sense, to refrain from drawing a red herring across the path, to leave off quibbling, to give a plain answer to a plain question, and to endeavor to look at the topic in the proper light.

Perhaps there was not the same vigor that had been exhibited in former days; the contest suggested a display of exhibition boxing by two pugilists who had for a considerable space been absent from the ring. An emphatic gesture by Mr. Sumner carried the date-case from the table. Both attempted to rescue it from the carpet, and their heads bumped against each other

"Clumsy!" ejaculated Mr. Sumner.

"Clumsy your own self," retorted Davies. "Why didn't you leave the job to me? I'm younger than what you are."

"I am fifty-one to-day," declared Mir. Sumner, glancing at the date-case.

"Sorry," said Davies, apologetically. "I took you to be older than that. It's your hair that deceived me."

He hesitated, and then remarked, with a burst, "Many 'appy ' returns."

"I haven't had that wish from anybody else. Even my boy . But, of course, he's too busy."

"You'll hear from him in the course of a day or two," announced Davies. "My son's letter said so. 'Sumner,' he wrote, 'sends his love to his father, and will be forwarding a note to him very shortly.' "

"You haven't, by chance," asked Mr. Sumner, deferentially, "brought the letter with you?"

Davies produced a green envelope from his inside pocket. "Would it bother you, Davies, to read out the part that concerns my boy?"

"You can read it all for yourself, sir. I'd leave it with you 'only that I faithfully promised the missus "

"I know, I know. I treasure every one that comes. And if my wife were alive—. You just look through it, Davies, and make your own selection. Take your time. There's no hurry."

Mr. Sumner sat in his chair and folded his hands.

" 'My dear father and mother,' " Davies read, " 'one of my fellow-officers is coming across, and he will post this to you so soon as he arrives at Victoria. The newspapers have most likely told you that our bomb-throwing section did some work last night. It was really a great business, and Sumner, whose father is, I think, rather a friend of yours—' "

Davies was about to make an apologetic comment.

"Quite right," declared Mr. Sumner. "Well-chosen phrase. Go on, friend Davies."

" 'Covered himself with glory. I think he will be recommended for the Medal. It seems he was something of a cricketer in days before the war, and he threw his bombs last night as though he were sending the ball in from long-on. And his example saved the situation at a most critical moment. If you meet his father, give him this message.' There follows," mentioned Davies, "what I told you, sir, about your lad writing soon. My boy adds, 'Private Sumner is very popular in the battalion. His father ought to be proud of him.' "

"His father is."

"That's all about your son. The rest of it What's wrong, sir?"

"Hang it all, Davies," argued Sumner, rubbing his eyes violently, "can't a man cry, for once in his grown-up life, without you calling attention to the fact?"

__________________

7: Polly's Favorite

A. St. John Adcock

1864-1930

Australian Town and Country Journal 10 Sept 1913

IT WASN'T OFTEN that Henry Figgis uttered his thoughts aloud; he did it that Saturday afternoon unconsciously.

"Wish I had the pluck to speak to her!" he ejaculated. "Lovely girl, that, just gone past, sir! You didn't notice, perhaps? Foolish of me, but I can't help being proud of her."

Henry looked blankly round at the man who sat near him on the bench: a rotund, shabby-genteel man with a warm complexion and a hot nose.

"She actually didn't see me!" pursued the stranger, placidly returning Henry's gaze. "I shall tease her about this." He shook his head with an air of gentle slyness. "Well, Polly,' I shall say, "so you could pass Uncle Walter in the Park and never look at him, eh? It was that young fellow on the same seat with me,' I shall say, 'you'd got him in yer eye and hadn't room for anyone else there, eh?' Only my fun, y'know. I'm fond of teasing her."

"You mean that young lady in brown?" asked Henry bashfully.

"My favorite color, sir. She wears it to please me. You did see her, then?"

"Do you know her?"

"Know her!" the rotund stranger chuckled. "Why, I've nursed her on my knee;" meeting Henry's resentful eye he hastened to add, "before she could walk. Know her! You mention me to her and see what she says."

"I don't know her," sighed Henry.

"Oh! Thought you said you did."

"Only by sight." Henry roused himself with a dim thought that affability might be the best policy. "I've sat here and seen her go by— on her way home, I suppose— several times, but I've never spoken to her."

"How could you, if you don't know her?" demanded Uncle Walter.

"Well " Henry hesitated, "I might get a chance "

"Look here, young feller," said Uncle Walter sternly; "don't you address my niece without a proper introduction. She's very p'tickler, and wouldn't like it. So I warn you!"

Henry eyed him uncomfortably. "Do you mean she's engaged already?" he faltered.

"No," said Uncle Walter. "But she stands strictly on etiquette, being as good as she is beautiful, bless her!" He paused to blow his nose emotionally. "Her mother's got a little bit of money, and I shall leave her my little all when I die; but as I say to her," Uncle Walter had edged nearer and was talking confidentially, "it's love that counts, not money. And she has great faith in my judgment, sir. 'I'll never marry any man, Uncle Walter,' she says, 'unless you like him. Kind hearts are more than coronets, Uncle Walter,' she says to me, 'and I'm not one to love a man for his good looks.' "

"I say, she must be fond of you," remarked Henry admiringly.

Uncle Walter looked at him hard.

"If you want to joke—" he began.

"I mean," Henry eagerly explained, "she must like you or she wouldn't trust you so."

"Like me!" Uncle Walter swelled. "Well— you ask her."

"I should like to," said Henry simply.

"You shall. I'll, introduce you to her," cried Uncle Walter. "I don't often take a fancy to anyone, but when I do I don't do it by halves, and my opinion goes a long way with Polly. 'Is he generous, Uncle?' she'll ask me; 'or is he one of the mean, suspicious sort? If he is, I hate him and don't wish to see him!' That's the girl she is."

They talked about her for a long while; Henry was glad to talk about her, especially to a relation; and as they grew more intimate he ventured to acknowledge that he had really fallen in love with her at first sight, weeks ago, and that he had made up his mind to speak to her somehow or other, at all risks.

"But don't," Uncle Walter interrupted. "It'd spoil you with her for ever. Tell you what— leave this to me! I'm no matchmaker, and I shall be sorry to lose her; but I'm interested in you, my boy. Fact is, I believe she saw you just now— probably she's noticed you here before. I'll sound her. If I think it's a case of love at first sight with her, too— well, they call me eccentric, and I may be a romantic old fool, but you shall go there to tea with me, and I'll formally introduce you."

Henry thanked him confusedly, but he waved all thanks aside. "Talking's dry work," he said, at length; "come along, and I'll stand a glasis of port and drink success to you."

In a tavern outside the Park Uncle Walter proposed, "Polly, and may the man who deserves her get her!" Then effusively ordered both glasses to be re-filled.

"And," said the barmaid sharply, "you didn't pay me for the other ones."

"Oh, I beg your pardon!" Uncle Walter felt hurriedly in his pockets and looked dismayed. "Dear me!" he muttered. "I had clean forgotten! My dear young friend, I shall have to ask you to pay. Do you mind? I came out without my purse, but I'll make it right next time we meet."

Henry was rather glad of the opportunity to lay Uncle Walter under an obligation; he was even idylically simple enough to suspect that Uncle Walter was artfully testing the generosity of his disposition, and therefore insisted on a third glass apiece at his expense.

When they had shaken hands affectionately and Henry was going away in an ecstasy that was half love and half port, Uncle Walter came running after him.

"My dear boy," he panted, "I'm downright ashamed, but coming out without my purse— could you lend me a couple of shillings till next week, and— Oh, thank you, thank you! You shall not regret it."

During the week, as Henry sat in the coal-order office where he earned his salary, he had unworthy doubts, and was inclined to stigmatise himself as a fool; but on the Wednesday Uncle Walter peered in upon him, and seeing he was alone, entered.

"My dear boy," he said, fervently shaking the hand Henry gave him, "I congratulate you!"

"What— what—"

"I shan't tell!" Uncle Walter lifted a cautioning finger. "Mustn't betray a lady's secrets, but— all's well! You shall go there with me to tea."

"When?" gasped Henry, in a flutter.

"How about next Tuesday? That convenient? I'll see my sister-in-law, Mrs. Johnson— Polly's mother— and meanwhile I'll meet you in the park on Saturday and let you know if that suits her."

He lingered chatting and came back hot and annoyed shortly after he had gone to say he was ashamed to own that with his usual carelessness he had come out without any cash on him and would be obliged if Henry could advance him five shillings till Saturday, when he would discharge all his trivial obligations.

He couldn't bear to owe money, he said, but, thank Heaven, Saturday was only three days off.

"By the way," he said, slipping the coins in his pocket, "what time will you be there?"

"She goes past that seat every Saturday at four," Henry laughed awkwardly.

"I'll be there at a quarter to. I say— couldn't you introduce me to her then?"

"My boy," said Uncle Walter, shaking hands again, "I will."

Henry was there on the seat punctually at a quarter to four, looking timorously in all directions, and praying that ' Uncle Walter might arrive in time.

But at four he was still absent, and Henry saw the flutter of Polly's brown dress in the distance with mingled feelings of rapture and disappointment. As she approached her eyes met his shyly, and there was something in them that told him she had heard of him and expected to see him there.

He threw an agonised glance round for Uncle Walter; another moment and she would be past, but fired by a sudden desperate impulse he rose, and raising his hat, enquired submissively— "Pardon me, were you looking for your uncle, Miss— Miss Johnson?"

She blushed and regarded him doubtfully; then her lips flickered in a dazzling smile and, too wildly embarrassed to know what he was doing, Henry involuntarily walked on beside her, letting his words come at a rush, excitedly.

"Please forgave my speaking to you," he pleaded. "I'm sorry your Uncle Walter is net here to introduce me; he promised to, but he has told me so much about you, and told you about me, so I don't feel quite a stranger "

Once started, he rattled on half hysterically, limiting himself to enthusiastic praises of Uncle Walter, that being a safe subject, and the only one in which he knew they had a mutual interest.

As they emerged from the Park, he did not observe Uncle Walter himself lurking near the gate, apparently watching for somebody to come out, and that, instead of advancing and attracting their attention, he distributed a bewildered look between them, dodged abruptly into the road, sprang on a passing tram, and was carried away.

IT WAS not until a fortnight afterwards, when Henry had discovered that her name was neither Polly nor Johnson, that he ventured on a diffident— "I haven't seen your Uncle Walter lately, have you?"

She laughed, and shook her head at him, roguishly reproachful.

"I haven't got any Uncles; that's where you made a mistake," she said. "But it was only an excuse to speak to me, dear, wasn't it? Mother disapproved it, and said you were too artful, but I understand you, and I'm sure you'll not, dearest, are you? But you must be very clever, I think, and very imaginative."

Henry flushed modestly, and allowed Uncle Walter to remain in fairyland; he didn't like to disappoint her.

___________________

8: Bread Upon The Waters

William Caine

1873-1925

Australian Town and Country Journal, 11 Dec 1918

[The Grand Magazine, February 1918]

THE MAY DAWN was breaking when Palgrave left Regent's Park. It had been pleasant, after a night's hard dancing, to walk in the clear air, smoke cigarettes, and think of the dear girl who had just promised to go back with him to India in the antumn. He was as happy as he had ever been in his life. Young, healthy, successful, and in love, why should he have shunned, by taking a cab, the sweet vernal influences to which he was so excellently attuned? It was emphatically a morning for a stroll.

On the other side of the road moved a group of three men. They were shabby, slinking figures, obviously people who had spent the night in the streets. Palgrave loitered to let them go by. He resented their presence; he resented the fact that they were going the same way as himself; they jarred. He hoped they would hurry up and take themselves out of sight. But he was certainly not going to race them.

Then, to his extreme annoyance, he perceived that the tallest of the three had begun to Come across the road towards him. The fellow's intention was obvious. Palgrave felt in his poclet, trying to distinguish between the shillings and half-pennies. He was in no mood to resist, for he was deeply in love to which, they say, pity is akin. Nor was there any policeman in sight.

Finding it impossible to be sure of his coin, he brought up a handful of change. By the time two coppers were between his fingers, the cadger had reached his side.

He looked up and found that it was George Holliday.

Palgrave felt sick. George Holliday come down to this! It was hideous. lt was detestable. It was impossible. Yet it was a fact. There could he no mistake. With one knee protruding through a hole in his trousers leg, with a black stubble on his chin and lips, a miserable age-green frock-coat buttoned over the faded red handkerchief that hid his neck, and with a battered bowler on his frowsy head, George Holliday stood before him.

"Hullo, Dick," this scarecrow was saying, as he held out a dirty hand. "I thought it was you. Why the deuce haven't you let me know; you were home?"

Palgrave was so shocked that he was actually unable to speak. Mechanically he took the hand that was offered to him. Mechanically he shook it, mechanically he abandoned it.

It was at least eight years since someone— Blakely, was it? or Teddy Crompton?— had sent him the news that poor old Holliday had at last managed to get rid of all his money, and had vanished from those cheery scenes which, ever since his majority, he had done his utmost to stimulate to further gaiety, but Palgrave had had plenty of time in which to recover from this sad intelligence, and it had not, even when it had been new, interfered with his sleep, or appetite, to any serious extent. It had not even surprised him. He may have yielded the tribute of a sigh to the memory of a very good sportsman; but life is too short in India, as elsewhere, to worry long over things that can't be helped, and he had very quickly accustomed himself to the thought of his old companion's misfortunes.

But here was the man himself in rags; and before the concrete presentation of the tragedy Palgrave lost his grip upon his philosophical acceptance of it. He could find no words at all.

Holliday seemed to be blind.

"Ten years of the East hasn't managed to reduce you, I see," ho cried boisterously. "You've put on beef, young feller. You've been too successful, that's what s been the matter with you. Oh! I've kept track of your doings out there, even though you have never written. And now I've got you again, you little villain, I'm not going to let you go."

"George," Palgrave burst out, "for God's sake don't adopt that ghastly tone. What's the good of pretending? Do you think I don't see? Oh, it's too beastly. My poor chap, tell me how on earth you've come down to this. I'd heard you'd— I mean I knew you'd— but, oh, hang it! I never imagined— I never dreamed— I never—"

Holliday stared at him. Then he suddenly hurst out laughing. "Good Lord!" he shouted, "It's these togs! The sight of you made me forget all about them, Dick. Oh! you old ass!" and he smote Palgrave playfully in the chest.

Now Palgrave had not been helping to administer the Indian Empire for ten years without having acquired a very high opinion of his own value, and, in consequence, Holliday's action had an unfortunate effect. The real distress with which Palgrave had been surprised suddenly gave place to annoyance, and he saw, in Holliday, no longer an old friend who had fallen upon evil days, but a Social Wreck, who was presuming upon a past intimacy. And dangerously. For at once the possible consequences of this meeting became visible to Palgrave, and in Holliday's last sentence he read, not a desperate attempt to disguise his own deplorable condition, but a threat. He wasn't going to let him go, wasn't he? Wasn't he though? It took two to make an arrangement of that sort.

Palgrave reacted instantaneously to the hint of imposition. He colored and, drawing himself up to his full height of five feet three Inches, he said coldly:

"I'll thank you, Holliday, to keep your hands to yourself."

The other man fell back as if he had been struck across the face.

"Good Godl" he cried. Then he laughed again, as if to reassure himself. "You're only joking, Dick?" he asked. "You are, aren't you?"

"Look here, Holliday," said Palgrave steadily. "I want you to understand that I'm frightfully sorry for you and all that. It's rotten rough luck that you've come, down to this, though how you could expect to do anything else," considering the way you used to go on, I don't see. But the fact remains that— I should say that I— that you—"

He ran down, and his eyes occupied themselves with his slippers.

"He's not joking," said Holliday, slowly. "By God! he means it."

Suddenly he turned round and began to move across the road in the direction of his two waiting companions. Palgrave knew that he would do better to let him go. His common sense told him the uselessness of anything else. Though he was annoyed with the fellow for his impudence, he was nevertheless devilish sorry for him; hut when a man had once gone under as far as poor Holliday had evidently gone, wasn't he, to all intents and purposes, better dead? To attempt to help such a wreck was the stupidest kind of folly. Surely it was far more merciful to stand aside, let things take their course, and hope that the inevitable end might not be long a-coming. He. knew that he had only to remain passive and Holliday would shamble off somewhere clean out of his life and that he would never see him again. He knew that, in a day or two, the pain which this meeting was causing him would be quite forgotten.

And yet what cursed luck, that he should have come to this point of his walk home exactly at the moment when Holliday was coming along the road! Another minute, sooner or later, and this abominable encounter would not have taken place. He almost hated Holliday for intruding his rags and misery upon this exquisite spring morning, so favorable to the prosecution of a sentimental reverie. Those other two men looked rather tough fellows. He and Holliday and they had the road to themselves. Not a policeman anywhere in sight. It might be better to—

And dash it all! he and Holliday had been pretty good friends once.

"Hold on," he cried quickly. "I can't let you go like this. I'ye got to do something for you, Holliday. I say, won't you have this?"

Between his finger and thumb, he held out two half-crowns. He was burning to separate from Holliday; to begin, ks quickly as possible, to forget this meeting, to forget that he had even so much as known Holliday. Holliday turned at Palgrave's first word. Now he came and bent his long back over the money, and examined it with care. Then he straightened his body and met Palgrave's eyes with his own.

Palgrave reddened, and his eyes, after a valiant attempt to sustain the encounter, shifted suddenly.

"Five bob," said Holliday, in the voice of one who makes a discovery.

"Look here,"  Palgrave began, hurriedly, "I simply can't tell you how sorry I am for you, but you must see for yourself, Holliday, that I can't— I mean I'm a poor man— at least, I'm not a rich man. That is to say, it's impossible for me—"

Holliday held up his hand soothingly. "That's all right, Palgrave," he said. "Don't apologise, my poor friend. I know, I know. You've got other calls on your purse; more immediate demands on it, eh? But don't be afraid. I'm not going to take your money. A poor Indian Civil servant can't be expected to squander his hard-earned coin on sentimental and hopeless charity. I know that you can't be making more than a thousand a year yet, Palgrave. As you say, you're a poor man; and I can only tell you that I think it's very generous of you to want to make me a present of five shillings all at once like this. But I won't take too much advantage of your warm heart, old man. So if you really want to do something for me, stand me a cup of coffee and a sandwich. There's a stall in Great Portland-street."

Palgrave reddened again. He hated Holliday now. He wondered why he didn't tell him to go to the devil. The insolence of the brute! His tongue had always been rather a bitter one, and misfortune had not tamed it, it appear ed. One would think that a person in his state might be inclined to be a little more civil. But not at all. However, that was his business.. If he wouldn't take the money that was offered him, hie wouldn't, and there was an end of it. But he should have his coffee, confound him!

"Very good," he said, with dignity. "Come along; and," he added, under the influence of a happy thought, "you'd better tell your two friends to join us."

"Good," said 'Holliday, "I will," and he called out to the men across the road to follow on. Then he and Palgrave fell into step, and went forward together In a silence which Palgrave was determined should not be broken by him.

"A cup of coffee!" said Holliday at last, meditatively. "I wonder, Palgrave, if you can realise, in the least, what a cup of coffee means to a man who's spent the night in the streets. A hint of hot, stimulating fluid, introduced suddenly into a body whose vital forces have become seriously enfeebled. But I don't suppose you can. I don't suppose your vital forces have ever been seriously enfeebled in all your life. Hunger is to you merely an agreeable reminder that the net meal is due. You regard It as 'the best sauce.' Believe me, Palgrave, hunger, or rather, appetite is only the best sauce for a man who sees his dinner before him. To the man who doesn't, and has no reason to suppose that he will see It for the next twenty-four hours or so, there la no such thing as appetite-only hunger. Take it from me, Palgrave, that hunger is a commodity with which such a man is only too ready to dispense. He doesn't value it at all. Not at all."

"I suppose not," said Palgrave. He. only spoke because Holliday had ceased to speak. He did not want to speak; but it seemed better to speak than to maintain silence. Silence was uncomfortable.

"When you and I," Holliday pursued; "When you and I, Palgrave, were at Oxford together, we thought we knew something about hunger. But we didn't. We were not even on bowing terms with it. Appetite? Oh, yes; we knew all about appetite. Appetite was our long suit in those days. It was a sort of a specialty with us. And very capitally we satisfied it. It was our particularly good friend, and we took care that it should be well treated. Nothing that Oxford could provide was worthy of those two stunning appetites of ours, though, of course, we could always get enough to eat there.

"But it was only in London that our appetites could find really worthy caterers. Do you remember the first time I took you to eat pudding at the Cheshire Cheese? Four plates you had, Palgrave, and I had three. For I'll say this for you, you could always beat me at table. But that was only a fair division of labor. You did more of the eating than I did, and I did more of the paying than you did. I don't seem to remember you paying very often, of course, you must have done it sometimes. You would, wouldn't you? But, of course, again, we must remember that you were at that time even poorer than you are now, while I was supposed to be a rich young man. And we were very good friends. And what's more natural in the circumstances, than that I should pay? Why, it was a positive kindness you did me to come and help me eat dinners, and suppers and lunches. I brought my purse; you, your agreeable society. The arrangement suited me down to the ground, and if it hadn't suited you. I don't suppose you'd have put up with it, would you, Palgrave?

"I wonder," he went on, for Palgrave had not replied to his questions; "I  wonder exactly how many meals you ate at my expense in the West End of London during your last two or three years in England. Even while we were up at Oxford we managed to consume a good number of London feasts; but when came down and you went to Wren's and I started in to paint London red the figure became colossal. How I chucked it about, Palgrave! And how you helped me! Well, you see what the result has been. You see how wisely you acted in not cultivating the habits of extravagance as I did. The proof is here on the pavement for us both to examine. You, the successful administrator of the Empire with your thousand a year; and I well, I needn't enlarge upon my situation, need I, Palgrave?

"And I wouldn't enlarge upon my past hospitalities towards you— I wouldn't have the indelicacy even to mention them— were It not that I am something of a philosopher— one has to be when one comes to where I am, Palgrave— and I am interested to notice in this most fortunate meeting of ours a very striking illustration of. the text, 'Cast thy bread upon the waters and it shall return unto thee after many days.' In the past I have stood you how many fine meals— a hundred? Two hundred? Three hundred?— with theatre boxes? and tickets for the Covent Garden balls and launches up the river and the Lord knows what else. And now I am going to reap the benefit of all that outlay. You are going to buy me— yes, and my friends— sandwiches and coffee at this stall—" for Holliday's monologue had brought them to the top of Great Portland-street.

Here stood the stall of which he had spoken. In its neighborhood there were hanging about a few other poor souls who, having spent the night In the streets, now, with the dawn, had been attracted irresistibly into that  neighborhood of victuals for which they could not hope to pay. Holliday called to his two companions, and they hastened to his side.

"Boys," he said, "this gent is going to pay for our breakfasts," and they, muttered their thanks to Benevolence. Palgrave continued to act with dignity. He went straight up to the stall, and addressed the young boy who was in charge of it.

"Give each of these three men," he said, a cup of coffee and a sandwich. How much is it?" And he paid the insignificant sum that was demanded. Then he turned, without a word, to go. The hand of Holliday fell heavily on his shoulder.

"Nay," he cried, "would you leave us to consume our victuals alone, my dear Palgrave? It was not so that I treated you in the old days. Sheer courtesy demands your presence at our little meal; or if courtesy cannot prevail, let me assure you that I mean you to stay. I have not done with you yet, little man," he concluded suavely.

Ah! there came a policeman; but he was hardly near enough, yet, to be quite reassuring. Palgrave perceived that it would be better to humor the whim of his objectionable guest.

"You also will have a cup of coffee, will you not, Palgrave?" Holliday went on. "A good host will always set the example, lest his friends he embarrassed. Will you not order yourself some coffee?"

His hand, that lay open on the counter, suddenly clenched Itself in a fist. The coffee-stall boy went on polishing cups, whistling. He was many miles from appreciating the realities of the situation of which he was the spectator. Palgrave did as he was bidden.

Had the policeman been fifty yards nearer, he might have resisted; but, things being as they were, he obeyed. He bad no wish :o be mixed up in a row. He was a very respectable young man. And he was just engaged to be married.

"That's better," said Holliday, "and here's to you. my fine fellow."

He raised his cup and drank deep to Palgrave while over the rim his eyes menaced the unfortunate Civil Servant.

Then he bit deep into his huge sandwich and proceeded, with a full mouth.

"I will do you this much justice, Palgrave," he said. "You were not my only parasite. There were many others. You will remember Indermaur and Blakely and Jarvis and little Teddy Crompton. We were a gay lot, and I shall never forget the kindness you fellows showed me in helping me to dissipate my resources. Not one of you ever raised a finger to check me in my pursuit of pleasure; not one of you ever bent a disapproving brow upon my performances. You were a splendid lot of chaps; just the right companions for a young fool with money to burn— Why, I hardly remember a single case in which any of you stood, for even five minutes, in the way of my ruining myself; nor can I recollect the name of one of you who ever so far forget himself as to counsel moderation to me. If there was one, it was certainly not you, Palgrave. On you I could always rely, infallibly. In you I needed never to repress the desire to return my hospitality. You were saving up all that against this morning, I expect."

The policeman was quite close now.

"Look here, Holliday," Palgrave broke out, "I've had enough of this and I'm not going to stand any more of it. You've had your coffee and you've insulted me at your pleasure and it's time you stopped it. I'm going—"

"Oh, no," said Holliday, "not yet, Palgrave. What, shall a man stand, refreshment to another and go away? Perish the thought, so un-English! You must have at least a coffee with me, before you go, Charlie," he added to the stall boy, "four more of the same."

"I won't," cried Palgrave furiously, "I won't drink another drop of the infernal stuff and," he warned the boy, "I may Inform you that I'm not going to pay for it."

The boy, naturally enough, hesitated.

"Go ahead, Charlie," said Holliday. "Go right ahead, and pour it out. And while we're about it, let's have some more company. Who says two is company? or four? It's a lie. That's not the way you and I used to keep it up, Palgrave. We always liked a crowd. Hullo!" he called to the group of night-birds, "come over here, you people, and take your breakfast. Hot coffee for everyone, and as much food as you can put away. Order what you please. It's all going to be paid for."

The effect of this announcement was magical. Almost before the words had been spoken three men and two women had added themselves to the breakfast-party. Their eyes were fixed wolfishly on the piles of food which loaded the shelves at the back of the stall, and their nostrils were distended eagerly as they sniffed the fragrance of the coffee that had been promised to them.

"Is it all right, ir?" the boy asked Palgrave.

"No," said Palgrave angrily, "it isn't. If you give anything more to anyone, it's at your own risk."

The policeman was at hand.

"Come on, bobby," shouted Holliday. "The more the merrier. Coffee's not against the regulations. Come and join us in a cup."

The constable arrived, smiling broadly.

"Officer," Palgrave was beginning, when his power of speech was removed by the two circumstances that, first, the constable had touched his helmet to Holliday, and wished him a civil "Good morning, sir," and that, secondly, Holliday had rapped down a sovereign on the counter.

"There you are, Charlie," he cried, "Take it all out of that, and when it's gone, here's another to join it, if necessary."

The boy jerked the coin into his till without a word— for who was he to waste time in speculation?— and at once began to serve the clamoring guests. At the same moment a fat, rosy-gilled man entered the stall by a little door in its back.

"Why," he exclaimed, "here's business, and no mistake!. I beg pardon, ladies and gents all. If I'd a-known abouf it, I'd a' bin a bit earlier on the spot Ah, Mr. 'Olliday, sir," he went on, touching his hat. "A fine morning, sir."

"Exceptionally fine, Butterworth," said Holliday. "How's the missis?" and Mr. Butterworth replied that she was capital well.

Palgrave's eyes were round, and he was so much astonished that he forgot to go away, a thing he might perhaps have been able to do, now that the police man was within reach, instead of only within call.

The boy whispered something in his employer's ear.

"Is it all right then?" cried Mr. Butterworth. "Is it all right then? Blimey! I should say it was all right then. This is Mr. 'Oiliday, this is. Do you meaner say as you dunno about Mr. 'Olliday? But there! 'Ow should yer, this being your first night in the stall? But, there ain't many as keeps stalls as don't know this gen'leman," and he beamed broadly upon Holliday as he smote the counter till it rattled. " 'E's a gen'leman wot is a gen'leman, Mr. 'Olliday is," he asserted, "and there's many a pore bloke going about and sleepin' out as thinks the same. Why!" he cried, "this is 'is hobby, that's wot it is. And look at him, In them shiny old togs, and that 'at! You'd never think as 'e could buy up me and the stall twenty thousand times over, would yer? But that's Gawd's truth. 'E could do it, yus, and never know it, my lad. I tell yer, it's 'is 'obby. 'E's a philanthropist, that's wot 'e is. 'E goes abaht at night dressed up like a tramp; and studies the Social Question, and the Problem of the Unemployed, an' all that at first 'and, that's wot 'o does. And every time 'e comes across a corfee-stall 'e stands grub to them as 'appens to be 'andy; some as e's a-doing of now. Is it all right? Well, I should blooming well say it is."

This oration was received with loud applause from everybody present except Palgrave. Halliday bowed his acknowledgments.

"I'm obliged to you, Butterworth," he said. "You've saved me a good deal of explanation which I owed to my friend here in the breast-plate. And this being so, Palgrave," he went on, "we needn't keep you any longer. I'm sure you are eager to be in bed. And I'm sure you sleep more happily for knowing that I'm not actually destitute. In point of fact, Palgrave," he concluded, "I'm a good deal better off now than I used to be."

______________

9: His Better Half

Guy Boothby

1867-1905

Australian Town and Country Journal 19 Dec 1906

The Windsor Magazine Oct 1895

THOMAS WYNDHAM GUILFOY had only one fault— he was just the tiniest bit in the world too weak. I don't mean weakness in either a moral or a physical sense, but in the little, insignificant trifles which go such a long way towards building up a man's character. The very shape of his boots and fashion of waistcoat, not to mention the undecided manner of his services in the tennis court, said this as plainly as any words could speak.

In his school days his reports wore always fair, and he gained a decent average of prizes. In his college career he manipulated his little "go" in safety, and his degree in proper course. He was admitted to the Inner Temple and he ate his dinners regularly.

Nevertheless, it was all eminently unsatisfactory. With his splendid abilities he should have done better. His father said as much when he handed him a cheque of four figures to settle with hiss creditors. The fact was he was dreadfully wanting in ambition, and this is as much a deformity as a short leg or curvature of the spine.

At twenty-one he fell In love— as men of his kidney always do— with a girl as ambitiously strong as he was weak. She was a splendid creature in every way— better fitted, his friends said, to adorn an Embassy than to run the middle-class home of young Tom Guilfoy. But Guilfoy pére was in ecstasies.

"That's the proper sort of girl for my boy Tom," he would say. "You mark my words, she'll make a man of him yet!"

His allowance to the young couple was on par with his enthusiasm.

During the engagement and for three golden months after the wedding day Tom Guilfoy bragged of what he was going to do in the future. He was going to show his friends, he said, that he was made of the right sort stuff, and who knew but that he might be Lord Chancellor before he was fifty, etc. Then cub-hunting came round, and in the excitement of schooling a young horse over difficult country he postponed for a time consideration of everything legal.

After that, or would have imagined, he was going to sit down for half an hour and rearrange the fiscal policy of Great Britain, and a few more little outstanding matters connected with European politics. His wife said nothing she looked after his buttons, sung his praise and formed her own plans for his reformation.

Before Christmas he had quarrelled hopelessly with his father over the trivial question of summering hunters. The squire had his own pet theories on the subject, and his son should have had sense to humor them, but he failed in this as in everything else; consequently terrible trouble ensued. Eight weeks later Mr. and Mrs. Guilfoy, junior, landed in Melbourne with £5,000 to their credit in the Bank of Australasia, and a letter warning them to expect no further help from the authorities at home.

The change suited Tom Guilfoy admirably. He rented a charming residence in the more fashionable part of Toorak (against the wishes of his wife), gave bewitching little dinners to the best people, joined two clubs— one an all night affair— punted freely at every big race meeting, and when the half-year's bank balance came round found his capital reduced by just £3,000. I can tell you he was more than a little surprised.

Then Mrs. Guilfoy rose up and took matter into her own hands. (The sequel is funny enough to make a dingo laugh.) She didn't rant, she didn't rave, she simply talked quietly but firmly to her husband, showing him his folly in unmistakable colors. Then she left him in the conservatory, very hushed and miserable to think it all over. Though he didn't know it, his reign in that house was over.

But you mustn't imagine that Mrs. Guilfoy was the sort, of woman to cry, "I told you so!" She was far too sensible for that; nor did she allow her Tom to fancy himself playing second fiddle in the house. On the contrary, she still deferred to him in everything as if she considered him the cleverest being in existence. She saw that his self-esteem had received a shock but she knew her man too well to imagine that he would remain very long depressed.

Acting on her flattering advice, he applied for admittance to the Victorian Bar. His English credentials helped him, and in due course he secured elegantly-furnished chambers, and commenced the practice of his profession. He had no clients, but his wife had scored one point.

Now to my certain knowledge there are no less than three cleverest women in Australia but neither of the other two are fit even to button the boots of Mrs. Thomas Wyndham Guilfoy. She made herself popular everywhere for her husband's sake, and a certain witty Governor once said In my hearing that of all women he'd ever met she was the most resem—  But there, it was all very pretty, and classical, and suited her exactly.

A fortnight later, Mr. T. Wyndham Guilfoy, barrister-at-law (to quote from the brass plate on his staircase), was briefed by Kelton, Castle, and Quiddle, of chancery Chambers, for Philpot, in the action of Mell v. Philpot. Mathew, B intervening." lt was a nasty, choppy, mixed up case, Just the sort of thing that would either make or break a man. Guilfoy lit a cigar and looked the brief over with the air of a man capable of mastering its difficulties at once. Reading it a second time he confessed that it certainly was involved, so he finished that cigar, lit another, and read it again. This time the point grow still more obscure, and he began to have a hazy idea that he was not quite so clever as he thought himself.

Putting his papers into his bag, ho took them home, but after dinner made some lame excuse and went to the club. His wife saw through it, but held her peace. She wanted to get hold of the brief.

When he returned about eleven, she had with her quick womanly perception found a way out of the difficulty, and she had also Invited Mr. and Mrs. Kelton to dinner on the following evening. (Mr. Kelton was the managing partner bf the eminent firm.)

While brushing her hair that night she drew her husband on to speak of the case, and he confessed is inability to grasp the all-important point.

Then for five minutes she spoke.

When she had finished, he said effusively, "By Jove, Emily, that's the very point which has been puzzling us all. I believe you are the cleverest woman in the world!"

IT Was quite a little dinner, but an enormous success. Mrs Kelton told her husband afterwards that Mrs. Guilfoy's cook must be an angel. (Mrs. Guilfoy had cooked the greater part of it herself.) When the ladies had retired Mr. Kelton drew his chair up to the table, and over some undoubted port broached the subject of the case, as Mrs. Guilfoy knew he would. Then, one by one, as a man drives tacks into a board, Tom Guilfoy drove his wife's ideas into the senior partner's head. The partner was delighted, he rose and shook hands with his barrister, and they finished the bottle in great, good fellowship. Then they went up to the drawing-room.

When the carriage was announced, and after Mrs. Kelton had kissed Mrs. Guilfoy, Mr, Kelton said warmly to his hostess:

"Madam, I congratulate you on your husband's ability. He's a clever fellow, madam; he's a dev— I mean he's solved a great difficulty for us. Gad, an enormous difficulty! I see a future before him, madam. I'm proud of his acquaintance! Good night."

When the carriage had turned the corner and the inevitable policeman had passed the gate, Tom Guilfoy condescendingly kissed his wife.

A WEEK LATER the case was heard, and Guilfoy made his first public appearance. He was nervous, but confident, for his wife had drilled the line well into him. He was no fool, nor was he wanting in oratorical powers, and, backed up by the peculiar nature of his defence, he was soon at his ease. His argument was a great success, and his Honor, in giving judgment for the  defendant, referred in highly complimentary terms to the ability of his learned brother. Thomas Wyndham Guilfoy's fortune had commenced.

Soon afterwards his wife presented him with a son and heir, and the senior partner stood god-father. The doctor, shaking his head solemnly, said "Mrs. Guilfoy must not be worried," consequently her husband lost a big will case in a most unaccountable manner: he took the wrong line his solicitors affirmed. Then the medical man ordered a sea voyage, and Mrs. Guilfoy and the baby went home in the Valetta. She looked terribly careworn and pale, and her husband naturally felt anxious.

He put up at the club during her absence, and for the first two months wrote regularly by every mall. Then she began to figure in his eyes as a tall, thin, dark-eyed woman, who cried on the promenade deck, and told him to be a good boy, to work hard, and above all, to write often. After this he only wrote once a fortnight.

Somehow or other things began to go very wrong with Tom Guilfoy. He neglected his work and lost three important cases through pure carelessness. His solicitors remonstrated, but he took no notice. He lost another. They sent their work to J. W. Beeton, of Bank place, and Guilfoy did not like it.

Then he began to "nip." All men and a good many woman know what that means. He scarcely went near his office, but played pool at the club until his hand grew too shaky, and he could hardly see the balls. After that for three weeks he disappeared into the black valley altogether.

His wife had been gone six months, and he only wrote when he felt inclined— which was not often. His handwriting must have been a revelation to her, for she suddenly wrote announcing her return. Taking the letter out of the club rack he put it in his pocket, intending to read it when alone. About a month afterwards he chanced to find it. The Oratava was expected that day, and he went down to Williamstown to meet her, taking just a nip or two to prepare himself for the interview. He could not trust himself to shave.

Arriving on board he hunted about for his wife. She was in the saloon, and two stewards counting spoons at a side table, looked out of the corners of their eyes at him and winked at each other.

I have said before that Mrs. Guilfoy was a clever woman. I withdraw that statement, and say that she was the cleverest woman that breathed. Another wife would have shrieked and fainted on being welcomed by such a scallywag of a husband as Tom Guilfoy looked at that moment, but she did neither; she was far too wise. Conceive it if you can! But I tell you that that radiant, majestic creature, beautiful as Aurora, floated up the saloon towards him, with her hands outstretched, and before he knew where he was she had kissed him on either cheek, crying

"Tom, Tom, my dear, dear boy! Oh, how glad I am to be with you again!"

Then she took him home, and he felt like a bad little boy who, anticipating a whipping, had been unexpectedly forgiven.

Now, how that woman worked no one will ever understand; but she slaved, she toiled, she fought, she struggled night and day to lift her husband back to his lost position. She was popular before she left; she was a thousand times more popular when she returned. Nobody could deny her anything; and even old Kelton began to think that, after all, perhaps he'd been just a little too hard on Tom.

A small brief followed. She brushed her husband up, gave him his cue, and he won two more cases, and his nerves returned. By this time he could run downstairs without using the banisters.

His cure was complete, and everyone said that Tom Guilfoy was a better man than they had thought him. Of course, he got all the credit— that's what is called the justice of life.

Since then he has left the club severely alone, and his wife takes precious good care that he "nips" no longer. He trusts to her judgment for everything.

To-day there is not a more popular barrister in Melbourne than Thomas Wyndham Guilfoy, and as for his wife— well, I'm not going to say what I think of her. The English language does not allow a man sufficient words to do her justice.

Locked up in an old-fashioned writing-desk (Mrs. Guilfoy's private property) is a small bundle consisting of twelve letters tied up with black silk. They represent six months of her married life. To Tom Guilfoy they are a sealed book; he never likes to think of when he wrote them.

___________________

10: The Treasure of Sacramento Nick

Guy Boothby

Macmillan’s Magazine, Sept 1894

AWAY on the northern most coast of Australia lies a little world all by itself, and unlike anything else to be found in the whole immemorial East. Its chief centre is in Torres Straits, where the majority of the inhabitants employ themselves in pearl-fishing, gathering bêche-de-mer and tortoise-shell, and generally in accumulating those gigantic fortunes of which one hears so much and sees so little.

Walking the streets of Thursday Island, the smallest of the group, yet the centre of commerce and the seat of such government as the Colony of Queensland can afford it, you will be struck with the number of nationalities represented. Dwelling together, if not in unity, certainly in unison, are Caucasians and Mongolians, Ethiopians and Malayans, John Chinaman living cheek by jowl with the barbarian Englishman, Cingalee with Portuguese, Frenchman with Kanaka— all prejudices alike forgotten in the one absorbing struggle for the unchanging British sovereign. On the verandahs of the hotels sit continually men who talk with the familiarity of old friends about the uttermost parts of the earth, and whose lives are mainly spent in places to which the average man never goes nor dreams of going. If you are a good listener they will tell you many things worth knowing; and towards midnight you will feel stealing over you a hazy conviction that the nineteenth century is as yet unborn, and that you are listening to the personal narrative of Sinbad the Sailor in an unexpurgated form.

One afternoon, as I was sitting in my verandah watching the China mail-boat steam to her anchorage, and wondering if I had energy enough to light a third cheroot, I felt my arm touched. Turning, I discovered a little Solomon boy, about ten years old, attired in an ancient pair of hunting-breeches, and grinning from ear to ear. Having succeeded in attracting my attention, he handed me a letter. It was from my friend McBain, the manager of a pearling station on an adjacent island, and set forth the welcome fact that he would be pleased to see me on a matter of some importance, if I could spare the time to dine with him that evening. There was nothing I could spare more easily or more willingly.

Once comfortably seated in the verandah, McBain explained his reason for sending to me. "You'll think me mad, but I've got a curiosity here that I want to examine before anyone else gets hold of him."

"Black or white?" I asked, with but little interest, for we lived in a land of human curiosities.

"White."

"Nationality?"

"Cosmopolitan, I should fancy."

"Profession?"

"Adventurer, with a marvellous big A."

"And hailing from—?"

"Well, he doesn't seem to know himself. One of my luggers took him out of an open boat about two degrees west of the Ladrones."

"But he surely knows how he got into the boat? Men don't go pleasure trips across oceans without knowing whence they started. Hasn't he anything to say for himself?"

"That's just what I want you to hear. Either the man's a superhuman liar, or else he's got a secret of the biggest thing on earth. We'll have him up to-night, and you shall judge for yourself."

When dinner was over we took ourselves and our cigars into the cool verandah, and for half an hour or so sat smoking and talking of many things. Then a footstep crunched upon the path, and a tall, thin man stood before us.

McBain rose and wished him "Good evening," as he did so pushing a chair into such a position that I could see his face. "I beg your pardon, but I don't think you told me your name last night."

"Sir, my name is Nicodemus B. Patten, of Sacramento City, State of California, U.S.A.— most times called Sacramento Nick."

"Well, Mr. Patten, let me introduce you to a friend who is anxious to hear the curious story you told me last night. Will you smoke?"

Gravely bowing to me, he selected a cheroot, lit it, and blew the smoke luxuriously through his nose. The lamp-light fell full and fair upon his face, and instinctively I began to study it. It was a remarkable countenance, and, in spite of its irregularity of feature, contained a dignity of expression which rather disconcerted me. There were evident traces of bodily and mental suffering in the near past, but it was neither the one nor the other which had stamped the lines that so much puzzled me. After satisfying myself on certain other points, I begged him to begin. He did so without hesitation or previous thought.

"Gentlemen, before I commence my story, let me tell you that when first the things I am going to tell you of came about, there were three of us: Esdras W. Dyson, of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, U.S.A.; James Dance, of London, England; and Nicodemus B. Patten, of Sacramento City, now before you. I reckon most folks would have called us adventurers, for we'd ferreted into nearly every corner of the globe. Snakes alive! but I've seen things in my time that would fairly stagger even you, and I guess my story of to-night ain't the least curious of 'em.

"Perhaps you don't remember the junk that fell foul of the Bedford Castle nigh upon three years ago, when she was four days out from Singapore?"

I remembered the circumstance perfectly. It was an act of flagrant piracy which had made some noise at the time; and I had also a faint recollection of having been told that white men were suspected of being mixed up in it. On being asked if he knew anything of the matter, he said—

"Well, I don't say we did, mind you, but I had a suspicion we were in China waters at the time. But bless you, in those days there were few places and few things that we hadn't a finger in. Understand, I am telling you this because I don't want to sail under false colours, and also because such work is all over now; the firm's smashed up, and we'll never go on the long trail again.

"Two years ago, for certain reasons not necessary to mention, we wanted to lay by for a while, so, bringing up at Batavia fixed right on to the Nederlander. Java's a one-horse place for business purposes, but if you know the ropes— well, there's not a better place in the world to hide in.

"Now, gentlemen both, you may take it from me that there never was such a chap for browsing about among niggers, finding out what was doing and if there was anything to be made, as Esdras W. Dyson, of Milwaukee, U.S.A. In the first place, he could patter any lingo from Chinese to Malay with a tongue that'd talk round the devil himself; and when he suspicioned a nigger had anything worth knowing— well, he'd just freeze to that charcoal sketch till he fairly got it out of him. Rigged out in native dress and properly coloured, he could pass in anywhere. It was he who found out the thing that ruined us, brought me here, and left Jim and himself feeding the fishes a thousand fathoms deep.

"Directly we arrived in Batavia he began hanging round the native quarter, making himself mighty agreeable for some particular information he wanted. He was away for two or three days; then, one night, as Dance and me were smoking on the piazza, he came striding up the path in the devil's own hurry. 'Boys!' says he in a whisper, 'I'm on it, up to the hilt, the biggest and the all-firedest stroke of good fortune we've hit yet! I'm going fantee to-night, so keep your weather eyes lifted, and when I say come, come right away.' With that he went to his room, and we could hear him rummaging about in his trunks.

"A bit later a native fruit hawker came round the corner, bowing and scraping towards us. We told him to clear out, but he commenced a pitiful yarn, all the time pushing his baskets closer to US. 'Fine duriens and the sweetest of mangosteens, if the Presence will only buy!' But the big night-watchman had caught sight of him, and came trundling down the piazza. You can reckon our astonishment when the hawker said, 'How is it, boys? Do you think they'll savee? Keep your kits packed, and be prepared to trek directly you get the word from me.' Here the watchman came up. ' On the word of a poor man, the duriens are freshly plucked, and the mangosteens hung upon the trees this morning.' We refused to buy, and he went away, crying his fruit, towards the native quarter.

"For two or three days not a shadow of a sign came from him. Then one of those Chinese hawkers came into the square with two coolies carrying his goods, and as soon as we set eyes on the second nigger we recognised Milwaukee, and stood by to take his message in whatever form it might come. Pulling up at our chairs, the Chinkey told his men to set down their loads, himself coming across to us with a tray of fans, scents, and what not; but seeing Milwaukee had a packet of slippers in his hands, we only wanted slippers. The merchant sings out, and he brings 'em over, handing one pair to Dance and another to me. We stepped inside to try them on, and, as we expected, in one of the shoes was a letter neatly stowed away. I forget now how it went, but it was to the effect that he had found out all he wanted to know, and that we were to meet him at eight on the Singapore Wharf at Tanjong Priok, bringing no kit save our revolvers.

"After squaring things at the hotel, and destroying what was dangerous in our baggage, we trekked for the Priok just as dusk was falling. Sharp at eight we were waiting on the wharf where the Messageric boats lie, and wondering what the deuce was going to happen. Inside of ten minutes a native boat came pulling up the river, and as it passed us the rower sneezed twice very sharp and sudden. It was an old signal, and Dance gave the return. The boatman hitches right on to the steps and comes ashore.

"'Good boys,' says he, very quiet and careful; 'up to time— that's right. Now to business. D'ye see that schooner lying outside the breakwater? Well, she sails at daylight. I put the skipper and mate ashore not ten minutes ago, and they're to return in an hour. There's only three chaps aboard, and it's our business to cut her out before the others come back. D'ye understand?'

"'But what d'ye reckon to do then, Milwaukee?' I asked, for it seemed a risky game, just for the sake of a mangy Dutch trader.

"'Never you mind now; when I do tell you, you'll say it's worth the candle. Come, jump in here, and I'll pull you aboard.'

"The harbour was as quiet as the sea out yonder; a Dutch man-of-war lay under the wing of the breakwater, and a Sourabaya mail-boat to the left of her. We passed between them, down towards the lighthouse and out into the open. Outside there was a bit of a sea running, but Milwaukee was always hard to beat, and at last we managed to get alongside. Somebody, most likely the anchor-watch, caught our painter, and took a turn in it, saying in Dutch, 'You're back early. Mynheer.' By the time he twigged his mistake we were aboard, and Dance had clapped a stopper on his mouth. The others were below, and I reckon you'd have laughed if you could have seen the look on their faces when, after Milwaukee's thumping on the foc'sle, they turned out to find their craft in other hands. However, they soon saw what was up, and reckoned it was no use making fools of themselves. Then Milwaukee went to the wheel, singing out to get sail on her and stand by to slip the cable. We knew our business, and in less than twenty minutes were humming down the coast a good ten knots an hour.

"As soon as the course was set and everything going smooth, Milwaukee made right aft to where Dance was steering. 'I guess it's time,' says he, 'to let you into the secret. You know me and I know you, which is enough said between pards. We've been in many good things together, but this is going to be the biggest we've sighted yet. It doesn't mean hundreds of pounds, but thousands, millions maybe; anyhow, enough to set us three up as princes all the world over.'

"'Sounds well; but how did you come to know of it?' we asked, a bit doubtful like.

"Before answering, he took a squint at the card and then aloft. 'Keep her as she goes, Jim. How did I come to hear of it? How does a man hear anything? Why, by going to the places and among the folk who talk. I got wind of it months ago, but never came across anything straight out till I went fantee among the niggers. Losh, boys, if you want yarns to raise your scalp, go down town and smoke among the darkies; I've done it, and you bet I know. There was one old chap who used to drop in every night, and smoke, and chew, and spit, and lie, till you couldn't rest. From his talk, he'd once done a bit in our line, and his great sweat was about an island he'd been to fifty years ago, where there's an old Portugee treasure-ship aground, chock full of gold, diamonds, rubies, and pearls, all waitin' for the man as'll go to get 'em. At first I reckoned he lied, for how he got there he didn't rightly remember; but he swore he found the ship, and was in the act of broaching her cargo, when the natives came and sent him back to sea again. What he did get, except a bloomin' old dagger, was stolen from him in Saigon. Directly I sighted that instrument, I began to guess there might be something in his yarn after all; for, where-ever he got it, it was a genuine Portugee's weapon of a couple of hundred years back. Well, as any lubber knows, the Portugee sailed these seas two hundred years ago; why shouldn't one of 'em have been wrecked with all her cargo and never been heard of since? Answer me that! Anyhow, you bet I froze to that nigger.

"'At first he played cunning, and seemed to suspicion I was after something. So one night I got him alone, and—d'ye remember Hottentot Joe in the Kimberley?—well, p'raps I played the same game on this old cove, and when he was sound off I began to pump him all I knew. The old chap had been sailing pretty near to the truth, but still he'd kept a bit up his sleeve; however, I got that bit, and here's his chart as near as I can fix it.'

"So saying, he drew out a paper and held it to the binnacle. Then putting his finger on a coloured mark, he went on: 'It's a bit hazy steering after we get here, inasmuch as, being a nigger, he couldn't keep proper reckoning. But once among these islands, I guess we can't be far off the right one, and to find it we'll search every mudbank in the Pacific. Accordin' to his fixin' it has a big mountain climbing from its centre, with a monster white rock halfway up, shaped like a man's fist. In a bee-line with the rock there's a creek running inland, big enough to float a seventy-four; follow that creek up a mile or so and you come to a lake, and on the other side of that lake's where the old barge ought to be. Now, what do you think?'

"'What do I think? Why, I think, Milwaukee, you are a fool to have brought us on such a rotten chase, and we're bigger fools to have followed you. The island, I guess, never existed, and we'll get stretched for this boat by the first warship that sights us. But now we are here, we'd better make the best of it. What do you say, Jim?'

"'I stand with you,' said Dance, and that settled it.

"To make a long story short, we sailed that hooker right on end for nigh upon three weeks. The wind was mostly favourable, the boat had a slippery pair of heels, and the stores, considering they were laid in by Dutchmen, were none too bad. Only one thing was wrong to my thinking, and that was the supply of grog aboard. If I had my way there'd have been a gimlet through the lot; but Milwaukee was skipper, and wouldn't hear of it.

"Tuesday, the thirteenth of January, saw the tether of the old darkie's chart, so we held a bit of a palaver, and settled to go on cruising about the islands, which we were picking up and dropping every day.

"You folk who live inside this rot-gut reef don't know what islands are. Out there, you see them on all sides, pushing their green heads up to watch the ships go by, with the air so warm, the sea so green, and the sky so blue that it's like living in a new world. Birds of every colour fly across your bows all day, and in the hush of night, lying out on deck, you can hear the water-falls trickling ashore, and now and again the crash of a big tree falling in the jungle.

"One forenoon, while I was at the wheel, Milwaukee and Jim Dance fell to quarrelling. It started over nothing, and would have come to nothing but for that tarnation liquor. I sung out to them to stop, but it was no use, so, leaving the hooker to look after herself, I went for'ard. Before I could reach him, the skipper had drawn a revolver, and I heard Jim cry, 'For Gawd's sake don't shoot!' Then there was a report, and sure enough Dance fell dead.

"Can you picture it? Overhead the blue sky, a few white clouds, and the canvas just drawing; on the deck, poor Jim lying as if asleep, and Milwaukee leaning against the foremast staring at him. Seein' there was no use in keepin' the body aboard, I called one of the Dutchmen aft and told him to fix it up in a bit of canvas. Then together we hove it overboard; it sank with a dull plunge, and so we lost the first of our mess.

"Milwaukee being too drunk to take his trick at the wheel, I stood it for him. A bit before sundown he comes on deck, looking terrible fierce and haggard. Rolling aft, he says with a voice solemn as a judge, 'Sacramento Nick, you're a good man and true. On your Bible oath, did I shoot James Dance, mariner?'

"Seeing what was passing in his mind, I said simply, 'You did.'

"'Was I drunk, being in charge of this vessel at the time?'

"'You were.'

"'That is your word and deed, so help you, God?'

"'Ay, ay.'

"'Well, that being so, no more need be said. It's the sentence of the court. Shipmate, your hand.'

"We shook hands, and he turned to the taffrail. Before I knew what he was about, he had leaped upon it and plunged into the sea. He only rose once; then the white belly of a shark showed uppermost, and never again did I see Esdras W. Dyson, of Milwaukee City, Wisconsin.

"Three days later, when I was too dog-tired to keep watch, those cut-throat Dutchmen mutinied and sent me adrift in the long boat, with one week's provisions and a small beaker of water.

"Strangers, have you ever been cast adrift? I can see you haven't; well, hope that your luck don't run that way. Fortunately it was fair weather, and I was able to rig a bit of a sail; but how long I was cruising among those islands, drat me if I know. Being ignorant, so to speak, of my position, one way was as another, and when short of provisions I'd just go ashore, pick fruit, fill my beaker, and then set sail again. One warm afternoon I found myself abreast of the largest island I'd seen yet. From its centre rose a high mountain, and, strike me dead if I lie! half way up that last was a big white rock, shaped like a man's fist! When I saw it I was clean staggered; I stood up and stared till I could stare no longer. It was just as if I'd stumbled by mistake on the very island we'd set out to seek. By tacking, I managed to get right under its lee, and there, sure enough, between two high banks, was the entrance to a fairish river. Furling the sail, I took to my oars and pulled inside. The sun was close on down by this time, and I was dog-tired; so as nothing could be gained by bursting the boilers, when, as far as I knew, all the future was afore me, I anchored where I was, and stayed in my boat till morning.

"You bet, as soon as it was light I pushed on again, bringing out on a slap-up lake perhaps a mile long by half a mile across. The water was as clear as crystal and as smooth as glass. Making for a plain of dazzling white sand at the farthest end, I beached my boat and prepared to start explorations. Then, just as her nose grounded, my eyes caught sight of a big, creeper-covered mass lying all alone in the centre of the plain. May I never know a shieve-hole from a harness-cask again, if it wasn't an old galleon of the identical pattern to be seen in the Columbus' picter-books. Trembling like a palsied monkey, I jumped out and ran for it.

"She may have been close on a hundred tons burden, but it was impossible to calculate her size exactly for the heap of stuff that covered her. How she ever got on to that plain, and why she hadn't rotted clean away during the two hundred years or more she must have lain there, are things I can't explain. Anyhow, I didn't stay to puzzle 'em out then, but set to work hunting for a way to get inside her. From the main-deck seemed to be the best course, and to reach that I started hacking at the blooming creepers. It was harder work than you'd think, for they'd spliced and twisted 'emselves into cables, and a jack-knife was about as much use on 'em as a toothpick. When night came I'd done a big day's work, and had only just got a footing on her deck.

"Next morning I went at it again, and by midday had the satisfaction of standing before the cuddy entrance. Again I felt the same blooming funk creeping over me; but when I remembered the treasure, I said good-bye to that, and placed my shoulder against the door. It crumbled away and fell all a heap upon the deck, and when the dust had passed I found myself at the entrance of a small alley-way leading into the saloon. I entered it, stepping gingerly, but had only gone a few steps before the deck suddenly gave way, and I found myself disappearing with a crash into the lower regions. The fall was a sight bigger than I liked, but it served a purpose, for my weight on landing started a plank and brought a glimmer of light into the darkness.

"Finding I was not hurt, I fell to groping for a way out again; then I noticed the rottenness of the timbers, and determined to enlarge the light I had just made. The two kicks and a shove brought a flood of sunshine pouring in, and a horrible sight met my eyes. I was standing beside an old-fashioned bed-place on which lay (you may believe me or not) the mummified body of a man stretched full out and hanging on to the stanchions like grim death. He was not alone, for in the centre of the cabin, clutching at a heavy table, was another chap, also perfectly preserved, half standing, with his feet braced against the thick cross-bars and his shrivelled parchment face, with its staring eyes turned towards me, grinning like a poisoned cat. My scalp seemed to lift and my in'ards to turn to water. Letting out one yell, I clambered for the open air.

"Outside all was sunshine, blue sky and bright colour, and, as if to set off what I had just left, a big butterfly came hovering towards me. In a few minutes my presence of mind returned, and I began to laugh at the idea of Sacramento Nick being afeared of dead men; so back I went in search of further mysteries. Again I entered the cuddy and lowered myself into the under-cabin, but this time I was prepared for anything. The treasure-guard stared, but said nothing.

"While I was wondering how I'd best set about my search, a smart breeze came whistling in, caught the figure at the table, disengaged his hold, and brought his old carcass with a dry rattle to the floor. With his fall a small piece of metal rolled to my feet, and picking it up I found it to be a key of real curious shape and workmanship. Fired with my discoveries, I slipped across to try it on the first of the chests I saw ranged round the cabin, when to my astonishment I found it open. Somebody had been there before me; perhaps I was too late. All of a sweat, I looked in, but 'twas too dark; I tried to pull the whole chest towards the light, but it was a main sight too heavy. Then I plunged my hand in, and—great Jehoshaphat, how I yelled! Clutching what I could hold, I dashed across the cabin, up into the light, and throwing myself upon the ground, spread what I had brought before me. It took less than a second to see that they were diamonds, and by all the stars and stripes, diamonds of the first water! There they lay, winking and blinking at me and the sun, and for the first, time I began to savee my amazing wealth. For the minute I was clean, stark, staring mad. I closed my eyes, and wondered if, when I opened them again, I should find it all a dream; but no, the beauties were there, looking brighter and even larger than before.

"Gentlemen, it's strange how the habits and precautions of civilisation linger with a man even in the queerest places. For while not twenty yards from where I stood was greater wealth than I or fifty men could ever spend, I found myself fearful of losing one, picking each gem up with scrupulous care and securing it inside my jumper. The next box was locked, so I tried the key. In spite of age and rust the wards shot back and the cover lifted. Again I felt the touch of stones, and again seizing a handful I went back into the light. This time they were rubies—Burmese rubies, my experience told me, and not a tarnation flaw in one of 'em. For a second time I carefully picked 'em up and was hiding 'em as before, when I happened to look round. Dash my buttons if I was alone! On all sides were niggers regarding me with considerable attention. I sprang to my feet and felt for my revolver. Fool that I was, I had left it in the boat. Seeing that I was aware of their presence, they closed in on me, and as they did so I took stock of 'em. They were unlike other South Sea natives, being of better build and but little darker than myself. True, they were rigged out in a short loin cloth not unlike tappa, but they carried neither spear nor shield. When I saw this I was for showing fight, but soon gave that idea up; they were too many for me.

"After a few minutes' inspection they began to march me through the forest in a westerly direction, all the time talking a lingo that seemed curiously familiar. Just upon sunset we entered a large clearing, on which stood a fair-sized native village, and I thought as I looked at it that, if ever I got out of this mess and turned to blackbirding, I'd know where to come for niggers. It contained perhaps fifty huts, all built of wood, and with conical-shaped grass roofs. A trim garden ran down the centre, at the farthest end of which stood the largest and the most slap-up building of the lot. As soon as we hove in sight a crowd came out to meet us, and in the middle of hundreds of yelling darkies I was marched up to the big house. The old chief, who had been bossing affairs with the swagger of a New York policeman, told me to wait, while he carried his carcass up some steps and disappeared. After a little while he returned, and signified that I should follow him.

"When I got inside I had plenty of time to look about me, for it must have been full half an hour before anyone came. Then some grass curtains were drawn aside, and what looked like a man entered. I say looked like, because I ain't really clear in my mind as to what he was; anyway, I shouldn't be far from the mark in saying he was quite a hundred years old, and just about as deformed as he well could be. He was as white as myself, and from the antics of the chief who had fetched me to his presence, I could see that he had a great hold over the niggers. Throwing himself upon the ground, that old fool of a chief feebly wagged his toes till told to rise. Then he started explaining where he had found me and what I was doing.

"During his yarn old grandf'er, whose name I afterwards found was Don Silvio, riddled me into auger-holes with his evil little eyes; then, having ordered the chief out, he started to examine me himself. He spoke the same lingo as the niggers, a sort of bastard Portugee, and still looking me through and through, asked, 'Stranger, how came you to this island?'

"I reckoned it best to keep the real truth from him, so said, 'I am a shipwrecked mariner, señor, and fetched here in an open boat.'

"His eyes blazed and his long, lean fingers twitched round his jewelled stick. 'And had you no thought of what treasure you might find?'

"'Señor,' said I, looking him square in the face, 'let me put it to you. Is it likely that a shipwrecked mariner would think of treasure?'

"A storm was brewing in his eyes, and I guessed it would break on me. Suddenly he yelled: 'You lie, you dog, you thief—you lie! You came for what you could steal, but nothing shall you take away, nothing, nothing—not one stone. The Fates that consumed those who came aforetime shall consume you also. Shipwreck or no shipwreck, you shall die!'

"He fell to beating a gong with his stick, and a dozen or so natives came tumbling in. They seemed to know their business, and before I had time to get in a word I was being dragged away down the street to a small and securely guarded hut, where I was pushed in and the door closed. Disliking the look of things, as soon as I recovered my breath I started hunting about for a way of escape, but that was no good. Added to my other troubles, I was just famishing, and was beginning to fix it that my end was to be starvation, when footsteps approached, the door opened, and a native girl appeared, bearing on her head two wooden dishes, which she set down before me. Being a favourite with the sex, I tried to draw her into conversation, but either she didn't understand my talk or fear had taken away her tongue; anyway, not a word would she utter. After she had left me I set to work on the food, and never before or since have I enjoyed a meal so much. Then, stretching myself on some dry reeds in a corner, I soon fell asleep.

"I was awakened in the chill grey of dawn by the entrance of the same beauty, who put down my breakfast, saying as she did so, 'White man, eat well, for at sunrise you die!' For a moment the shock cleared me out of speech; I could only sit and stare at her. She seemed to see what was going on in my mind, and, as if in comfort, added, 'Stranger, why do you fear death? It can only come once.'

"Her reasoning, though logical enough, wasn't of the kind calculated to meet my trouble, and when she had left me I started wondering if anybody in Sacramento City would ever hear of my fate, and bitterly cursing the day I set out in search of this villainous island. As I sat with my head upon my hands, the jewels I had stuck in my jumper fell to the floor and lay there taunting me with their sparkling splendour. Howsomever, it was no use crying over spilled milk; I had brought the situation on myself, and, whatever happened, must go through with it. Suddenly my ear caught the pat of naked feet outside the cell. Then the door was unbarred and the chief entered. 'Come, white man,' he said, 'all is made ready, and the axe waits for the bare flesh!' How would you have felt in such a situation? As for myself, I put a good face on it, and resolved, since I could no longer live a free and independent American citizen, to die as such. Pity, I thought, there wasn't a band. I was led up the village, to the open plot before Don Silvio's house. It might have been the Fourth of July for the crowd that was assembled. In the centre, for my special benefit, was an object which held an awful fascination for me: a curiously carved block of wood, dull brown in colour, and on two sides much stained and worn. It didn't take me a year to understand what it meant; and you may think it strange, seeing the nature of my position, but true as gospel, I fell to wondering how my long neck would figure stretched across it.

"When I was halted I took it for granted that the work of despatching me would commence at once, but I was mistaken. The execution could not take place until the arrival of Don Silvio, and the sun was a good hour up before there was a stir in the crowd, and the withered, monkey-faced little devil came stumping towards me. If he had appeared a hundred years old in the half-dark of his house, he now looked double that age, but the fire in his eyes was as bright as ever. Hobbling to within a dozen paces of where I stood, he took thorough stock of me. Then, tapping the block with his stick, he said, 'Señor, you are about to hunt treasure in a golden country, where I trust your efforts may meet with better success. I wish you farewell' After relieving himself of this, he went to his seat; two natives raised a great grass umbrella above his head, and, all being comfortable, he gave orders for the performance to begin. A nigger stepped from the crowd and approached me, carrying in his hand an axe. Reaching the block, he signed me to kneel. I took a last look round—first at the thick jungle, then at the great mountain pushing itself up into the blue sky. After that my eyes returned to the block, and, gentlemen both, a wonderful circumstance happened. Understand me clearly! Standing on either side of it were two thin columns of palest blue smoke, maybe six feet in height. As I stared at 'em they gradually took the shapes of men, till I could make out the features of old Milwaukee and poor Jim Dance, of London Town. They seemed to be gently beckoning me and telling me not to fear. P'raps I kind of understood, for I stretched my long neck across the block without a sign of funk. I heard the cackling laugh of Don Silvio, I saw the headsman draw a step closer, his arms go up, and then I shut my eyes, and remember no more.

"WHEN I came to my senses I was lying on the bed of rushes in my old quarters, and the native girl before mentioned was seated beside me. On putting my hand to my head to sort of fix matters, she laughed merrily and said, 'Stranger, it is still there, but to-morrow it will certainly be gone.' Why they hadn't killed me I couldn't understand, unless it was to put me to the torture of waiting another day; anyhow, the following morning I was prepared for the guard when they came to lead me out.

"Once more the crowd was there, once more that villainous old Don kept me waiting, and once more the axe went up but failed to strike. I was respited for another day. Well, this sort of thing happened every blessed morning, till I nearly went mad with the strain of it. On the eighth day, instead of being kept in the square, I was marched straight to the Don's house. The old pirate was waiting for me, and as soon as I arrived fell to questioning me about the outer world, seeming to take an all-fired interest in such parts of my own life as I thought fit to tell him. When he had found out all he wanted he said, 'Go now; for the present you are free;. but remember, if you but approach that ship by so much as half a mile, that same moment you die!' I stumbled out of his presence and down the street like a man dazed. That he had some reason for sparing my life was certain, but what it was, for the life of me, I couldn't then determine. Arriving at my hut, I threw myself upon the rushes and tried to think it out.

"That evening, a little after sundown, while walking outside the village and racking my brain for a chance of escape, an event happened which changed all my thoughts and plans. I was passing through a bit of jungle, where the fireflies were beginning to play to and fro, when I came face to face with the most beautiful girl I had ever seen, and—well, I'm a free-born American citizen, and as such the equal of any man living, but I reckon that young woman took the conceit out of me. She couldn't have been more than eighteen years of age; her skin was as white as milk, her hair and eyes of the deepest black; and when she walked it was like the sound of falling rose-leaves. Seeing me, she started with surprise, and was half inclined to run, but something seemed to tell her I wasn't particular harmful, so, overcoming her fear, she said, 'Señor, I am glad my grandfather has given you your freedom.' Her grandfather! Not being able to make it out, I said, 'Surely, miss, Don Silvio ain't your grandfather?' 'No, señor, he was my father's grandfather, but I call him so because the other is so tedious.' Perhaps my manner, as I say, didn't appear very dangerous; anyway, after this her bashfulness seemed to vanish, and we walked back to the village as comfortable as you please. She told me that it was she who had induced the old rascal to spare my life, and I reckon the look I gave her for that had something to do with the flush as spread across her face. She also let me into the risk I had run by breaking into the old galleon, which, according to her telling, was a sacred thing upon the island. She did not know how long it had lain there, but suspicioned her great grandfather had commanded it as a young man, and that all the rest who came with him were dead, a fact which, you bet, I could quite believe.

"The moon was full up before we sighted the village, and when she left me I went back to my hut in a flumux of enchantment, as much in love as the veriest schoolboy. Every day Don Silvio came to question me, and you'd better guess I did my best to corral the old chap's confidence.

"Well, each evening, as soon as the sun was down, I visited the grove beyond the village, where, sure enough, I always met the Don's great-granddaughter. Her beauty and amazing innocence so held me that I was nearly mad to make her my wife; and when I found that she reckoned to have the same liking for me, I could bear it no longer, so went right off to ask the old man for her hand. Not having the least hope of being successful, you can judge of my surprise when he promised her to me straight away, and, what's more, fixed it that the wedding should take place next day. He kept his word, and on the following morning, in the presence of all the village, she became my wife.

"The year that followed topped everything I ever knew of happiness. It slipped by in a rosy mist, and when our boy was born my cup was full. I proclaimed him American, according to the constitution of the United States, and the old Don announced a great feast in his honour. It was spread in the square, and all the village sat down to it. I can see the sight now: the shadowy outline of the mountain beyond, the great flaring torches of sweet-smelling wood, the long rows of tables, the shouts and laughter of the niggers, and at the head, between my wife and her great-grandfather, the boy in his cradle. When the feast was right at its height, the old Don rose and handed me a silver mug filled with some sweet liquor. He told me to drink to my son's health, and, suspecting no treachery, I did so. Next moment a change stole over me; I made a try to get on to my feet, but it was no use; everything seemed to be slipping away. I could just see my wife start towards me, and the old Don pull her back, when my head sank on the table and my senses left me.

"The next thing I remember is finding myself lying precious sick and weak at the bottom of my own boat, with nothing but the big green seas rolling around me. The island had vanished, and with it my wife and child. For an eternity I sailed those cursed seas this way and that, seeking for the land I had lost; but I must have drifted into different waters, for I saw no more islands. My food ran out, and I had given up all hope of being saved, when one of your luggers hove in sight and picked me up.

"Now, gentlemen, you've heard my story. Whether you believe it or not, of course I don't know; but I take my affidavy that all I have told you is true; and, what's more, if you'll fit out a vessel to search for that island and its treasure, I'll take command of her. Should we find it, I reckon I can make you the two richest men on earth; and when I get my wife and child I shall be the happiest. In proof that the treasure's there, and as my contribution towards the expenses, I hand you this."

From an inner pocket he produced a leather pouch, from which he took what at first appeared to be a small piece of crystal; on inspection it turned out to be a diamond worth at least a hundred pounds.

"That stone," said he, holding it at the angle which would best show its fire, "came from the coffers of the treasure-ship, and is the only one left out of all I saw and took. I will leave it with you for the present. Remember, there's thousands more aboard the old galleon, bigger and better nor that. Say, gentlemen, will you adventure for such merchandise?"

It was too late to go into the question that night, so we bade him come up for a further talk in the morning. Rising, he gravely bowed to us, and, without another word, withdrew. Next day he was not to be found, nor has he ever made his appearance since. Whether he lost himself and fell into the sea, or whether he was an impostor and feared detection, I haven't the remotest idea. I only know that I have a valuable diamond in my possession which I am waiting to restore to its uncommonly curious owner.

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11: Uncle Joe's Legacy

Guy Boothby

Australian Town and Country Journal 15 Dec 1900

IT MAY BE SAID, I think, and with a very fair amount of truth, that every family possesses the right to be considered conspicuous for something. From some have descended lines of famous politicians, from others have come soldiers and sailors, while those who have given to the world celebrated divines and physicians may be counted by the round dozen.

The Cripplethwaites for many generations have been famous for making money. As silk merchants they have amassed gigantic fortunes in the curious old offices overlooking St. Paul's Churchyard.

In 1840 the glories of the firm were centred in one person, Matthew, who died, leaving behind him three sons. Silas Frederick, and Joseph, to carry on the family name. Silas, being the eldest, entered the business on his seventeenth birthday, while Frederic followed two years later. To the indignation of his father, the horror of his mother, and the amazement of his two maiden aunts, who saw his conduct the foreshadowing of a career of shame, the youngest, Joseph, openly asserted h intention of alienating himself from the silk profession and seeking his fortune in foreign lands.

This plan he carried out to the letter; and for forty years nothing was seen or heard of him. During his absence Frederick died, and Silas, a hard man, whom the world agreed was already as rich as Croesus, married a hundred and fifty thousand pounds, a significant and apt way of describing a transaction into which no trace of love entered. On the strength of his reputed wealth, and the purchase of a magnificent property, situated an hour and a half's train journey from London, he became a country gentleman entertained on a corresponding scale and had long since made up his mind that his only child his daughter Celia, would make a grand match and thus place the coping stone upon his inordinate ambition.

Then a telegram reached him, announcing the arrival in England of no less a person than the prodigal Joseph, now a man of fifty-five.

Silas, who was entertaining a large house party at the time that the news arrived, found himself placed in a dilemma. His recollections of his brother were the reverse of pleasant; and indeed it must be confessed that at the best of times Joseph had not shown himself possessed of a serious disposition. From his youth he had inclined towards levity of conduct, was the only one of the brothers who could, and would, sing a good song, had been celebrated as a judge of cool ale, and on several occasions had come within an ace of causing a scandal from which the family name could scarcely have failed to suffer. Certainly many years had elapsed since then, but Silas felt he had still every right to be distrustful of the manner in which those years had been spent. So strong was the hereditary instinct in him, however, that it never occurred to him that Joseph could be anything but a rich man. There had been degrees in the Cripplethwaite wealth, but, as he was. wont grandiloquently to remark, there had never yet been one who was a poor man.

The fact remained, however, that Joseph had arrived, and common decency demanded that he should be, invited to the Hall. The invitation was accordingly sent, and in due course Joseph arrived. Alas, the result, was even worse than Silas had anticipated; Joseph was undoubtedly one of life's failures. The years he had spent abroad had been ruthless In their destruction of what had once been a not unpleasing personality. He was short and comparatively stout, had a profusion of unkempt hair and a grey beard that was turning slightly yellow round the corners of his mouth. His clothes could only have been cut by a bush tailor, and were now much worn.

More terrible than all he wore a soft felt hat, and his luggage consisted of a single cheap portmanteau, very much bursting at the seams. When he was called upon to introduce him to the members of his house party, Silas, for the first time in his life, was ashamed to speak the family name. Joseph's poverty was an outrage to his sense of the fitness of things, and he resented it accordingly. He did not, however, know his man. As the latter pointed out, he was penniless, and if Silas discarded him, the only refuge he could hope to find would be the, work-house. From this statement it will be gathered that Joseph knew the weak points in his brother's armor.

When the house party broke up, and the various county families took themselves off to other country houses, Joseph did not follow their example. In spite of his brother's hints, he stayed on, clinging like a limpet to his rock of comfort. He was past work, he found repeated occasion to inform his brother, and even if he were fortunate enough to obtain employment, it would never do to have it said that a Cripplethwaite was earning his living In a menial capacity. Hs declined Silas's offer of a small allowance, on the grounds that he did not come back to England to take his brother's money. If, however, the latter would permit him to occupy a small corner in his magnificent mansion, he said he would accept the favor with becoming gratitude.

To this proposition Silas did not know what answer to make. He could not turn the other out, and yet he had no desire that he should stay on. For the moment, however, having no visitors before whom Joseph could humble him, he did not press him to leave. In consequence every day found him obtaining a stronger hold, and twelve months later found that disreputable Joseph still in possession. By that time, he was quite one of the household; certain chairs in the dining and smoking rooms were referred to by the servants as being the property of Mr. Joseph; he had his own particular peg in the cloak-room, and his own corner of the family pew. He was never intrusive, yet always present; was on terms of the most cordial intimacy with the gardeners and stable hands, who spoke of him to each other as Old Joe, and was shrewdly suspected of matutinal visits to the "Hen and Chickens" public house.

Needless to say, all this was gall and wormwood to his pompous brother, Silas. The mere sight of that slovenly figure was sufficient to send him into transports of rage, and yet, treat him in whatever way he might, Joseph  invariably greeted him with a smiling face, held him up for the admiration of an admiring world as the most generous of brothers, described himself as one who had brought disgrace upon his family, and on more than, one occasion wept) tears of shame over his inability to return the kindnesses his kith and kin had heaped upon him.

Undesirable as Joseph undoubtedly was, when regarded in the light of a brother, there was one person who was devotedly attached to him, his niece,  the pretty Celia. The two were close friends, and if anything were canting to complete her father's anger it was found in this.

In this fashion time drifted by, until the heiress to the Cripplethwaite fortunes was no longer a child, but a beautiful woman of 22. Seven years had elapsed since Uncle Joseph had made his appearance at the Hall, and he was still there; just as humorous, just as unassertive, and if possible even more slovenly in his appearance than before. He knew all the gossip of the neighborhood, was adored by every child in the village, and was by this time so assured of his position in his brother's house that he no longer disguised his visits to the hostelry.

About this time, Silas realised that everything was ripe for carrying into execution the idea which had filled his mind for years. This was neither more nor less than to marry his daughter to the young Lord Betchington, whose property adjoined his own on the further side of the village. This young man, a vapid, brainless youth; with sporting proclivities, had adored Celia Cripplethwaite since his Eton days. On Silas's invitation, he came to stay, found occasion to propose, and was rejected with an uncompromising brevity that fairly staggered him. For a fortnight, he convinced himself that he was broken-hearted. Then an interview with Silas somewhat restored his drooping spirits, and once mere he joined the house party at Cripplethwaite Hall.

Now Celia saw through her father's manoeuvre, but being a prudent girl said nothing to him on the subject. With his Lordship, she was resolved to have nothing at all to do.

Needless to say, being young and beautiful, there was a reason for her dislike of the young peer other than, that she put forward to her father. She was in love, head over ears in love, and with the one man of all others whom, she should have avoided. This individual's name was Belway— John Harding Belway, the village doctor, a manly young fellow, with an excellent belief in himself, and an assured feeling that before he was many years older he would be the possessor of a house in Harley-street, and a European reputation. Unfortunately, in his capacity of Health Officer, he had fallen, foul of Silas over certain unsanitary cottages, shortly after he had taken up the practice, and in consequence the relations between the two were more than strained.

How Celia and this young man came to fall in love with each other is more than I can say but fall in love they certainly did. Uncle Joseph, so I am given to understand, became their confidant at a very early stage of the proceedings, arid, as the sequel will show, remained so to the end. Then came the Betchington affair, and during the time it lasted, Belway's life was as miserable as a young fellow's life could well be. So wretched did he at length become that he was forced to call upon Silas Cripplethwaite, when he declared his love, and was forthwith shown to the door. Reaching home, he wrote a fevered epistle of entreaty, which was returned to him with insulting comments.  Then came the hews; through Uncle Joseph, of course, that Silas was about to take his wife and daughter out of England on a lengthy yachting cruise, and that his Lordship would accompany the party.

"That settles it, Mr. Joseph," said the. young medico, rising from his chair. "I've put up with his cruelty long enough. If he thinks I'm going to let him carry her off, and force her Into marrying Betchington he's mistaken. Why is he so set on her marrying this beast?"

"'Come, come, my young; friend," replied the placid Joseph, "such intemperate language applied to a peer is, as Silas would tell you, little short of blasphemy."

"I don't care what it is,", returned the other.  "But you don't answer my question. Why is he doing it?"

"His lordship is rich, exceedingly rich," said Joseph, rubbing his hands together, "and between ourselves, my boy, Silas stands in sore need just now of money."

"You amaze me," cried Belway, his eyes nearly out of his head with surprise. "I cannot believe that Mr. Cripplethwaite is in need of money. Surely you are mistaken."

"Not a bit of it," replied Joseph, with a chuckle. "I can promise you that Silas is very heavily dipped. He has speculated, and lost heavily; the Hall is mortgaged to the hilt, and unless he can find money somewhere, and before very long, I very very much fear our dear Silas will go under ere the year is out And such a dear, good, generous brother as be has been to me!"

"And that is why he is trying to marry that angel to that brute?"

"Exactly."

"Then he shall not do it. Of that I am determined. May I count upon your assistance, Mr. Joseph?"

"Bless you, of course— you may, my boy."

They shook hands upon it, and as a result three days later Celia eloped with her lover. They were married by special licence, and Joseph was the sole member of the family present at the ceremony.

"He can't support her, and she shall never have a halfpenny from me," cried Silas in a fury, when he heard the news. "If he thinks I'm going to keep them he is mistaken. I'll not lift my hand even to save them from starvation."

A day later he discovered the part the reckless Joseph had played in the business. This was just the excuse he had been waiting for for years."

"Out you go," he cried, his face white with rage. "Out of my house within an hour, or the servants shall throw you out. Go and starve like the other fools you've fostered and egged on to ruin."

Joseph accordingly departed. The shock must have been a severe one, so the servants said, for it was noticed as he went down the drive that he walked with a less assured step than of old, while everyone was aware that he had aged considerably during the past few weeks.

On reaching London ho found the runaways ensconced in lodgings in the neighborhood of Bloomsbury Square, prodigiously in love, but as far as Belway was concerned anxious as to what was going to happen in the future. To return to the village, under the present circumstances, was out of the question, and yet earn his living he must. From a consideration of things, past, present, and to come, he was roused by the entrance of Joseph, carrying in his hand the identical portmanteau he had brought with him from Australia so many years before.

"Uncle Joe?" cried the young couple in complete surprise: "Why, what on earth does-this mean? How did you get here?"

Uncle Joe smiled blandly.

"I came by train, my dears," he said, "and it means that dear Silas has turned me out."

"On account of your goodness to us, I suppose?" said Belway, who was the first to speak. "Well, I must say I am not surprised."

"Poor Uncle Joe," added Celia, coming round the table and kissing him.

"Never mind, sir, we'll make it up to you," said Jack. "We'll not turn you out. There's a room at the back that will just suit you. And for the future you must take up your abode with us. In the meantime I'll have to overhaul you, for by tho look of it you seem to want it."

So it was settled, and without further protest on Joseph's part. He settled down with the young couple in Bloomsbury as unconcernedly as he had done with Silas in the country. And in this fashion the weeks and months went by. Not a word or token of forgiveness came from Silas. Belway's practice in the country was sold for what it would fetch, and now he was endeavoring to work up another for himself in London. But, try how he would, his efforts met with poor success.

For some time his only patient was the amiable Joseph, who was still cheerful, though visibly growing weaker. That the end of his career was growing near, Belway felt certain, but how near it was not even he could guess.

In the morning of one cold December day he was comparatively well, in the afternoon he took to his bed, and by midnight, just as the snow was falling, he was dead. Three days later he was buried, and Belway and a curious little individual in a palpable wig and snuff-colored coat, who described himself as the deceased's solicitor, were the only mourners.

"AHEM," said that gentleman, as he sipped a glass of hot toddy in the sitting-room of the Bloomsbury lodgings on their return. "It only remains, my dear sir, to hand you these three envelopes, which were entrusted to me by my late client.  The first contains his wishes and instructions, drawn up a week ago; to the second you will find reference made therein; while the third must be opened when the conditions of the other two have been complied with. I have no doubt you will not fail to act upon them within the time specified, namely, forty-eight hours."

Feeling as if he were doing it all in a dream Belway opened the first envelope, and drew out the letter it contained. It was addressed to his dear nephew, John Harding Belway, and conjured him, by the affection he entertained for his memory, to at once repair with his wife to the residence of his father-in-law in the country. He was to obtain an interview at any hazard, and, having done so, to hand to that gentleman the second letter, after which he would be at liberty to open the third.

The day following was Christmas Eve. Deep snow covered the face of the country. When Belway and his. wife stepped out of the train on to the 'little roadside platform, it was only to find that no cab would venture but, and in-consequence they

-had a three mile walk before them. To make things still worse it was growing dark, and if they had not both known the way so well they might have experienced some difficulty in finding it. They reached the Hall, however, without adventure, though the butler's surprise on opening the door might very well have terminated in a fit of apoplexy.

"Hush," said Belway, shaking his finger at him, "not a word, as you love your life. Show us into the morning room, and then go and tell your master  that some visitors ; would like to speak to him. Be sure you do not let him guess who we are."

"Master is just off to London, sir," replied the man in a whisper, "I expect the brougham round every minute. However, if you'll step in, I'll do as you tell me. I fear you'll find him greatly changed, sir."

Five minutes later the anxious couple in the morning room heard a slow step on the polished floor outside. The door was opened and Silas Cripplethwaite, woefully changed, indeed, entered the room. Belway has confessed; to me since that both he and his wife trembled as they stood before him. They need not have done so, however. It was plain that Silas had no idea of their identity until he reached the centre of the room. Then he threw his hat away and ran towards his daughter and took her in her arms.

"Celia, Celia," he cried, "is it really you? Oh, thank God, thank God!"

For upwards of a minute not a sound was to be heard but the girl's sobs, as she nestled her head upon her father's shoulder. Then he put her from him and held out his hand to Belway.

"I did you a wrong, sir," he said, "and I have been severely punished for it, I ask your pardon. To-night is Christmas Eve, and I was just leaving for London in search of you to ask your forgiveness, and to bring you back. Now, thank God, I am saved my journey, and we will celebrate it as we have never done before, and for the last time in this house."

"The last time?" cried Celia, with a frightened look.

"I am ruined, darling," returned her father, "and any moment the crash may come. But there, we'll not talk of that to-night. Nothing matters now that I have got you with me again."

It was not until later in the evening that Belway found an opportunity to transact the business which had brought him down to the country. Indeed, in the delight, of the reconciliation he had well-nigh forgotten his errand. It was a sad and solemn moment for them all, for when he spoke his name the shadow of the dead man seemed to stand between them.

"Poor Joseph," said Silas at last. "He died without forgiving me. But what is this, letter of which you speak? Let me see it."

Jack took, the envelope from his pocket and handed it to his father-in-law. The latter opened it, and drew out the contents, which consisted of a number of flimsy papers and a short note.

"Good heavens, what does this mean?" he cried, as he turned them over and over. "How did you get possession of these things?"

"I do not know what they are," Jack returned, "but the letter was handed to me by Mr. Malthaus, who was your brother's solicitor."

"But they are the very bills which were to fall due next week," cried the other. "The fatal bills that meant my ruin. What is this mystery?"

"Had you not better read the letter which accompanied them?" said Jack, "it may tell you more."

Silas did as the other suggested, and as he read his hands shook, and large tears rose in his eyes and coursed down his cheeks.

"They come to me from Joseph," he said, "but I can scarcely believe the tale he tells. It appears that while we always thought him 'poor,' he was in reality richer than us all put together! He knew I was in difficulties, and he has put me on my feet again. Oh, Joseph, Joseph," then after a pause during which the dead years rolled back, he added softly, "little brother Joe," and bent his head and wept till his shoulders shook with the violence of his emotion.

Then, it struck Belway that he also had a communication to read, and he opened the remaining envelope. It was an evening of surprises, and the supply was not exhausted yet. The last document proved to be a copy of Uncle Joseph's last will and testament, the original of which was in Mr. Malthaus' keeping. It bequeathed to John Belway, husband of his niece, Celia, thirty thousand pounds, in remembrance of the kindness and care he had shown to an old man; while to the said Celia Belway, daughter of his brother Silas Cripplethwaite, he left the residue of his fortune, which would be found to amount to a sum of seventy thousand pounds safely invested in Consols.

If Jack Belway is not a happy man to-day he does not deserve to be. He has his wife, whom he loves as devotedly as on the day they entered their shabby little Bloomsbury lodgings together; he has his children, who, he and his wife: agree, are the finest in the world; he has his: home in Harley-street; and if he has not yet acquired his European reputation-well, he has the satisfaction of knowing that he is making splendid headway towards it. Lastly, if there is one man who is proud of his success it is Silas Cripplethwaite, who has put the business in St. Paul's Churchyard on its legs again, and is nursing it for the benefit of Jack's eldest boy, who, so I am told, is to enter the well-known office as soon as he is old enough.

And all this, it must be remembered, is the outcome of Uncle Joe's Legacy.

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12: Obituary: Mr. Guy Boothby

Anonymous

Advertiser (Adelaide) 1 March 1905

THE DEATH is announced of Mr. Guy Newell Boothby, the well-known novelist, who was a native of South Australia, being the eldest son of Mr. Thomas Wilde Boothby, for some time member of the House of Assembly, and grandson of Mr. Justice Boothby.

MR. GUY BOOTHBY was born on October 13, 1867, in the house of his grandfather, who was living then in what is now the Passionist Monastery, at Glen Osmond. He was a son of the late Mr. T. W. Boothby, formerly member of Parliament for Victoria. When 23 years old he became private secretary to the Mayor of Adelaide, and assisted in carrying out the arrangements for the first big ball given by Mr. Cohen, in the Exhibition Building.

He was always of a literary turn of mind, and many playgoers will remember the production of his drama, "The Jonquil," at the Theatre Royal, where it was far from successful. His first writing of any importance was an account of his bush travels, but his success as a novelist was the result of his creation of the wonderful character of Dr. Nikola, in A Bid for Fortune. Some people think Dr. Nikola was made to do duty altogether too long in Boothby's novels, but there is no doubt he achieved a remarkable success as a story-writer, an avocation which he must have found very profitable.

His output of fiction was considerable, as, apart from short stories, he published during the past ten years about two dozen stories. His best-known were Dr. Nikola, Dr. Nikola's Experiment, In Strange Company, A Sailor's Bride, The Marriage of Esther, and A Lost Endeavor. He married an English lady, Miss Rose Bristowe. Of late years he had resided near Brighton, Sussex, where he found time for rearing prize dogs,horses, and cattle, as well as collecting live fish from all parts of the world.

In answer to a request made by an interviewer of the London Weekly Sun, some time ago, Mr. Guy Boothby explained his methods of work. They were somewhat paralysing. He got up at a fearful hour in the early dawn, when Londoners were just going to bed. His two secretaries had to be there at 5.30 a.m. He talked his novels into a phonograph, and when he had talked enough his secretaries transcribed it direct on the typewriter. A telephone communicated from his room to theirs, as to every part of his large estate.

I asked mildly (says the interviewer) what time Mr. Boothby went to bed, if, indeed, he ever did so, and was told at 9 p.m.

"You must get through heaps of work?"

"Oh, I've finished one novel in the morning and begun another in the afternoon before now. Have to, the work comes pouring in so. Luck? Not much! I had ten years of steady rejection, without a spark of success to begin with; then I met Kipling in Australia, about '90, and his encouragement helped to keep my heart up. We've been great friends ever since; he's a double man to me— Kipling the Great Man and Kipling the Pal, but I like the Pal best. Well, my first book appeared in '94, when I was 27, and since then I've published 11 others; four are running serially, four more the publishers have got, and six others are in hand." He smiled at my wide-open eyes of surprise. "You see," he added, "I don't take literature seriously."

"But art—" I was beginning, when— "Art's got nothing to do with it," said Mr. Boothby, "there's no art in literature!"

"What!" I felt myself turning pale. Shade of Matthew Arnold, no art in literature! To one who had sat in turn at the feet of all the little gods in Grub-street— imbibed their philosophy, and sworn by their catchwords— such a statement seemed the sheerest blasphemy. I expected to see a bolt from heaven descend on the rash speaker.

But Guy Boothby sat unmoved and smiling. "....Not in literature as I make it," he continued, and it was once more possible to breathe. "You see, if a man can do a thing easily, without effort, that is to say, it can't very well be an art. You paint or write because it's in you; where does the art come in? You might as well say that driving a butcher's cart is an art. Of course, there's more of it in painting than in literature, because you have to study technique, and so on."

"But surely literature has its technique too? Henry James—"

"Oh, Henry James is a stylist, and doesn't come into the question. Suppose I choose to spend two years on a book, like some of my esteemed contemporaries... and... perhaps I'd be an artist too; but it would bore me to death to stick at one so long. Style? Read some of the reviews, and you'll see that I've no style!"

This was embarrassing, but Mr. Boothby continued serenely— "No, if all I'm told is true, I'm not an artist, but I turn out books that seem to interest folk and take them out of themselves for a bit, and in return I have everything I want, country house, kennels, stables, and er— well, if you must have it, secretaries who get up at 5.30 a.m. With regard to my work, I never let myself forget what Kipling once said to me, 'Boothby, remember that your appreciation of A's work is just what A thinks of yours!' "

Mr. Josiah Boothby, C.M.G., when seen late on Tuesday night by a representative of The Advertiser, was much surprised to hear of his nephew's death. Asked to give some particulars of the deceased author, Mr. Boothby said "It is a long time since he left South Australia, and I'm afraid that I can't say much about him on the spur of the moment. He was the son of Mr. Thomas Wyld Boothby, my brother, who represented the South-Eastern district in Parliament for some time. He was the eldest of three children, all boys, and was born, I think, at Glen Osmond, in 1867. He was therefore only in the prime of life, as it were. His brothers are Benjamin and Herbert, and they, like poor Guy— whose full name was Guy Newell Boothby— live in England. His mother before marrying my brother was Miss Hodding, whose people lived at Fullarton. Guy was only in his teens when the whole family left for England, but he returned when he was about 22, and almost immediately became private secretary to Mr. Cohen, the Mayor of Adelaide. It was at that time he took to writing. He wrote a play called 'The Jonquil,' and it was produced by a set of amateurs at the Theatre Royal, with Guy in the leading male part. He stayed at my father's house while in Adelaide, and was very fond of fiction, his room being always full of light literature. Before he left Australia finally for the old country he and a friend travelled extensively in the back country of Queensland and Central Australia. They drove a buggy, and saw a lot of back country life. After he had been home for some time, I think about 10 or 12 years ago, he married an English lady, Miss Bristowe. He had three children, one boy and two girls. The last letter we had from home informed us that he was unwell, but I had no idea that his illness was serious."

On hearing of Mr. Boothby's death Mr. Cohen expressed his deep regret, and kindly volunteered some information as to his own relations with the deceased novelist.

Mr. Cohen stated that Mr. Boothby about 15 years ago entered the services of the Adelaide Corporation. He began in the capacity of a cadet, but shortly afterwards was promoted to the rank of junior clerk. He served for some time as a junior clerk, and was then elevat-ed to the position of senior clerk. Not long afterwards Mr. Cohen was elected Mayor of Adelaide. Immediately Mr. Cohen took office he appointed Mr. Boothby as his private secretary. This was in the year 1890-1.

Mr. Cohen stated that Mr. Boothby, with his literary turn, was not contented with his position. He held that there was little opportunity for him to rise in the service of the corporation, and consulted Mr. Cohen as to whether he should not leave and proceed to Brisbane, where he believed there was a wider opening for his talents than Adelaide could offer. Recognising his ability and the small possibility of his having the opportunity to rise to any appreciable degree for some years in the corporation employ, Mr. Cohen, rather reluctantly, advised him to go. Mr. Boothby proceeded to Brisbane, and subsequently journeyed to England. He formerly corresponded frequently, but Mr. Cohen had not heard from him by letter for some years.

_________________

13: Home Wind

Achmed Abdullah

(Alexander Nicholayevitch Romanoff) 1881-1945

World's News (Sydney) 11 June 1930

Good Housekeeping Jan 1929

WHAT lad was there among them, Tartars of the Balkan steppe, that had not dreamed some time, or boldly spoken out his dreams, of riding away into the west and defying alien swords with a swishing crimson sword of his own, of seeing the far, strange lands where all the far, strange things happened and kissing the lips of the far, strange girls?

Of war and loot and passion their talk would be as, the day's prosy toil of fields and cattle pens done, they galloped down some windswept sand hollow where the desert spawned its golden, brittle eternities toward the sunset. They would boast what grand fighters they would be, given the chance; and how sooner or later they meant to thumb their noses at the Akh-Padishah, the Czar's Majesty who had forced stupid peace on the steppe, and to drive the grey-coated Slav soldiers before them like kine to the slaughter. And then once more high and triumphant Islam's green banner and— wah!— theirs the glory and the shimmering treasure and the blue-eyed, wheat-haired Russian girls....

Chiefly the girls. Girls trembling with love and a little with fear as they salaamed deeply at the stirrups of the Tartars of the Balkash horde, the conquerors— praised be the name of Mohammed, the True Prophet, the Seal of the Apostles of the One God! Thus their talk.

Not so the talk of the older men. They had forgotten their free, careless youtht before the Russians had annexed and pacified Central Asia from Samarkand to the Pamirs. They had forgotten the thrill of crackling steel and neighing stallions and nasal, thudding, sardonic kettledrums— the thrill of savage life and savage strife and, belike, savage love. They preferred the warm, comfortable dust of roofed houses to sleeping with dagger on hip and cheek, to the naked earth.

Not that their life was easy. Lean comforts here, in their little valley tucked tightly into the steppe. Better the scant present— they thought— than the bloody past.

They would listen to the lads' bragging and shake their heads; and— here we quote the words of Sharif Bek, the chief of the Balkish tribe, to Kara Nazir, his son— would say:

"Before my beard grew I, even as you, was of necessity a fool. And the notion I had was that the hardest way to face an enemy was the handsomest, and the more enemies to face— aye, ten to my lonely!— the greater the glory. There was, too, this other notion— that the most unwilling lips were the softest. But now the tale is a different one. Now I am an old man...."

"A cold man!" interrupted Kara Nazir.

"Aye," laughed Sharif Bek, "and therefore a wise man! Give me to-day peace and quiet. Give me my own hearth so snug and cosy and my own old wife sitting across from me. And if her cheeks are wrinkled and her hair white— by Allah the Compassionate Compassioner! what do I care—since my eyes are dim?"

Patronisingly he smiled at his son, who smiled back as patronizingly. There was about Kara Nazir a naive vanity which sat on him almost like a virtue, and he exclaimed:

"Russian gold for me— and Russian throats to cut— and Russian women, so tall and supple! Gold and blood and love— are there in all the world three better things to give to a strong man happiness and a fine lull heart?"

He rose to his towering height. A good looking youth he was, eighteen years of age; his ruddy face raised at a keen angle on the square, combative chin; his eyes fearless and storm-grey and questing as an eagle's his arrogant beak of a nose with the flaring, nervous nostrils throwing a purple shadow across the high cheek bones; his teeth flashing even and white as he went on:

"Soon, soon I shall take my sword and my two feet away from here."

"No, no!" cried Khaizaran, his mother, who was squatting by the hearth, busy with pestle and mortar and grain. "Bide here, my son!"

"The far places are calling me."

"Let them call! Can they be better than this place? What can you seek in the far places that you have not here in the Balkash steppe?"

"Glory!"

"A rotten fig for glory! Can you eat it? Can you drink it? Can you wear it?"

"True!" chimed in her husband. There is more glory in plain food honestly earned than in 10,000 glittering blades."

"Ho!" mocked Kara Nazir. "The cat ate 700 chickens— then went on pilgrimage to the holy places. Your thoughts were different years ago when you rode to foray and raid against the Mongol tribes beyond the northern border."

"That was before we learned the white lessons of peace. The Russians taught us— bless them, the Lord God!"

"Curse them, the Lord God! They clipped our wings. They blunted our talons!"

THE mother sighed. His father did not reply. Empty words he considered them. A bit of boasting— it was the way of youth.

Besides, his son was a good son, a strong farmer, clever with fields and cattle.

He smiled with tolerant amusement, and Kara Nazir saw and read the smile; exclaimed once more, violently:

"Soon, soon I shall take my sword and my two feet away from here!"

He threw out his chest, stood upon his toes to make himself the taller, then quickly sank back on his heels as he heard a purring voice:

"And where would you go, O braggart?"

He feared that voice a little. Yet the speaker— Ayesha, his orphaned cousin, who made her home with his parents— was only a slip of a girl. She came in from her milking carrying two brimming pails. Fiftten she was, small and angular and amazingly gawky— though there might have been lurking promise of beauty in the waxen pallor of her skin, the ebony of her locks, the oval of her features, the velvety red of her curved lips.

Challengingly she stared at Kara Nazir, who stared back at her not a whit less challengingly. For always, and it has been so since their early childhood, these two bickered, argued, nagged each other, pride clashing with pride and stubbornness with stubbornness. Yet— which, according to how you look at life, was curious or not curious at all— they made common cause whenever a third took the one's part against the other.

"To go where, O braggart?" she repeated.

"To follow my nose," was his curt answer.

Rudely she spoke. "A crooked path, judging by the shape!"

Rudely he replied: "Let me praise Allah, who at least gave me the wit to keep a foe from striking that same nose of mine. If it were yours, why it might be twisted off your face while you debated on how to guard it— though the lack of the thing you call nose would improve your looks, O regrettably lean and underfed cousin!"

His mother was shocked. "How can you use such words to your wife-to-be?" she admonished.

"My wife-to-be?"

"Is it not the rule of our tribe that cousin shall mate with cousin?"

"A foolish rule easily broken," cut in Ayesha.

"Easily broken indeed," agreed Kara Nazir cheerfully.

He paused; continued: "It is not only because of your nose, Ayesha. Your nose I might feel inclined to forgive. But there are also your eyes— and in this matter of a woman's eyes I am a trifle fastidious. Blue eyes for my father's only son— Russian eyes."

"Still do not grieve. It may be that— inshallah— you will not die an old maid. For some day I shall come back from the far places, my waist shawl plump with gold— and with part of the gold I shall buy you a husband willing to overlook your eyes and nose and—"

"Hai!" peaked Ayesha's furious scream, and he ducked quickly and ran from the house as she picked up an earthen pot and threw it at him, narrowly missing his head.

HE went to the village green. There he found his boon companions and, as always, they talked of high deeds to come; talked, as Tartars will, with big, blustering words, and Kara Nazir the loudest of them all.

"Jaunty to strife— hot-hoof and lusty— that's the way of me!" he declared. "And not I the one to hide my coinage in the heels of my boots!"

So he boasted, while in the little house Ayesha suddenly sobbed out loud.

Sharif Bek walked up to her. He put his lat. clumsy hand gently upon her shoulder.

"What is the matter, child?" he asked.

He did not know why she was sobbing. But his wife did.

"Be pleased to go away, O my lord," she told him gruffly. "What good are men in time of trouble?"

He shrugged his shoulders and left, and she turned to Ayesha.

"Allah!" she demanded, "are you crying because of that son of mine, that big, stupid. useless son of mine? Why—" and she did not mean a word of what she was saying— "there are better lads in the Balkash horde, stronger, handsomer— to be picked up hereabouts for the price of a shrug and a glance!"

She folded the weeping girl to her lean old breast; went on in a whisper:

"Or if you insist upon having my worthless son, listen— there is a way— a love charm that never fails. Take of wild foxglove a blossom, seven stems of brown fern, three clods from a man's grave and him ancient and wise, three hairs from a black cat's tail— and burn it all— and throw the cinders against the north wind when your loved one passes—

"Love him?" cried the girl. "No, no! I do not love him! I hate him!"

She jumped up and rushed from the room and out to the village green, where Kara Nazir was still holding forth grandiosely how, one of these days, he would be trying a trip to the foreign wars.

"With steel at my haunch and fire at my heart," he was saying. "And I'll return a Prince among splendid, tall warriors and—"

"Pah!" interrupted Ayesha, running up and facing him. "The drum that booms most loudly is filled with wind."

He grew red and some of the other youths exchanged winks. They were a little jealous of Kara Nazir. It was he who knew the handsomest tricks and twists of brave speech, he who always topped their boasts with still grander boasts. So they nudged Mich other, laughed, whispered, and Musa Khan, the miller said :

"Ayesha is right. Why don't you, ride, Kara Nazir, instead of talking? Talk does not wield a dagger nor spur a stallion— unless, of course, this courage of which you prate—"

And the miller was utterly taken aback when at once, violently, Ayesha cut in:

"Be quiet, O creature! Who are you, O less than nothing, to jeer at my cousin?"

She stood by Kara Nazir's side, small and angular and amazingly gawky, ready to defend him with words or, if need be, with her hard little fists.

They walked home side by side. He looked down at her and smiled.

"I like you," he said.

"In spite of my nose?"

"Never was there nose more exquisite in all Allah's creation!" he declared to her.

They laughed; hand in hand they crossed the threshold; there Khaizaran chuckled happily as she busied herself about the kitchen.

Yet the very next day, when he spoke of far wars, far lands, far women, again Ayesha taunted him, demanding why he did not go to these same far wars, far lands, far women, adding that the Balkash horde would not perish for the lack of one peasant lad, be he ever so clever and mighty, suggesting that he had a horse and a sword and that the world was wide and waiting.

So when go at last he did it was less because he wanted to than because she dared him— and it came about this way:

SHE was returning one evening from her milking and he from his herding astride his shaggy pony. They met. She walked beside his stirrup. Late summer it was, the fields yellow with the soft glint of kerning corn.

She spoke of it. "The crops will be fat, the Lord be praised!"

"What of it?" he replied. "The fatter the crops the higher the taxes we must pay the Russians. Wah! may Allah send an earthquake to destroy them utterly. May they ride with care and trouble and the black, black luck ever on the saddles behind them!"

Here he was back once more at his old complaining— and, too, his old boasting— and Ayesha bit her nether lip in a style that meant impatience as he cursed the Russians, the Christains, the foreigners— declared it was their shadow that lay like a grey blight across the free steppe—ah, how he hated them!— and how it was his proper Tartar notion to gallop against them as his forefathers had done, with jingling spurs and flashing weapons and the nasal drone of the drums.

"War for me!" he exulted. "War red and lusty!"

"Why don't you go to war?"

"I shall— soon, soon!"

"Soon is always the morrow with you— the morrow's morrow that never comes. I told you before, a horse you have and a sword, and the world is wide and waiting, and the Balkash horde will not miss you!"

Her temper rose, as did her accents. "Hearty you are as long as you're safe— with no more danger than your own boasting. But less hearty, I wager, when real danger will be at you with a splash and a roar. In the fine, full key your voice, when there's no worse enemy to face you than your father's cattle, and the drifting sands of tiie steppe! But piping thin and small you'll be when naked iron whistles about your head!"

She saw him wince and, woman-like, loving him so, she must hurt him yet more deeply.

"Red your words!" she cried. "But never a red deed! Always your boasts stepping grandly on the highway of brave folly— and never your feet!"

She paused, went on: "Perhaps the miller spoke the truth. Perhaps it is plain, hard courage you lack."

He grew pale. "You mean it?" he asked slowly.

Then, as she inclined her head, he suddenly swung his horse about and galloped away.

A great fear clutched at Ayesha's soul. "Where are you going?" she called after him.

"To war. Where else?"

And the last thing he saw as he glanced over his shoulder— the last memory, which he would never forget— was Ayesha standing there, leaning on a thorn stick, staring after him with horror and despair in her eyes.

And the hours passed and night dropped and the moon came out and looked through a hole in the clouds and the winds of the steppe raced like a leash of strong dogs and— "Oh, my heart," said the poor girl, "oh, my grief— that I have sent him to the foreign wars!"

She went home. She told Khaizaran.

And there, that night in the little house, were two women sitting silent; and there was Sharif Bek swearing at them, for that their eyes were wet— and his own eyes not dry at all as he thought of his only son riding into the West.

SO because of a girl's impatient taunting and also because of his own youthful bragging, war came to Kara Nazir. Not war of clean glory and high, storied deeds, but war of misery and dirt and defeat and sufferings unspeakable. Not fighting for Islam's green banner against the infidel Russians, but fighting for these Russians against an alien folk called Austrians.

Far lands? Yes. He was destined to see plenty and to spare of far lands.

Also loot. There his agile Tartar hands stood him in good stead, and presently the one regret he had was that his pockets were not deep enough.

And as to women— foreign women— there he had been the braggart indeed, and when it came to thinking of them there always jutted into his mind the picture of a girl of the Balkash horde, so small and lean and gawky—different from the foreign women, the city-bred, slouching women. Gawky? Yes. She was gawky. But free— and clean— and his cousin, blood of his blood and bone of his bone

But these thoughts came later.

There were first the long days when he rode across the steppe. Eager he was, expectant and to tell the truth, a little afraid.

For Ayesha had been right. The world was wide indeed— too wide to a peasant lad who heretofore had known nothing but his own tight bailiwick. Immense and brittle and hot and yellow-sered stretched this world, a flayed, scalped wilderness with lonely rocks towering like sentinels, with a far horizon of soft curves and blue vapors and framed in the north by the sudden leapingup of hills, ragged, red, keen as a dagger thrust. There were four signs of life; occasionally a desert man jogging along astride a pony, sulky, without a word of greeting, his jaw bound mummy-fashion against the wind and the driving, biting sand grains; a shepherd urging his flock to distant pasturage; the silhouette of a camel rider springing up, sharply outlined on a firmament like a gigantic scrawl of Asian handwriting.

Once in a while the solitude was broken by tiny hamlets folded completely into narrow valleys where small rivers ran and whence rose the odor of hard russet grain and ruddy melons. Here the tribesmen, Kirghiz and Turkomans, were friendly and hospitable. They offered Kara Nazir milk and curds and fruit. They said, "Stretch your hand and eat your fill, O stranger,"— which was a good thing for him since he had not even the smell of a single copper coin in his waist shawl.

There was at times the temptation to return to the Balkash horde; the longing for the hearty home air, the home scents, the home winds, the home folk singing old, familiar songs. But he overcame this temptation. For they would laugh at him. Not only Ayesha. Also the young men— they would file their tongues to the mockery of their minds; would make up crude verses to the disgrace of his face.

On he rode until finally on the ninth day he reached Turkand, a Russian outpost cutting athwart the desert with stout, mud-built battlements and blue-grey cannon squatting aloft and guarding the cardinal points of the compass and the converging caravan trails.

There were here no pleasant people to give him bed and board, asking no better price than "May the Lord God reward you!" So, since he was hungry and had nothing of value except his horse, he sold it for ten beggarly roubles— and five of them he spent for food before the day was an hour older and the other five did not sing so rich a song as they clanked thinly in his shawl.

Again he felt a little frightened; not of the Russian soldiers who walked about in their clumsy boots, but of the town itself.

It was the first town he had ever seen. Huge it seemed to him, though it numbered less than 7,000 inhabitants; and, being afraid, he stalked around with the heaviest swagger he could muster, with the hraggardly pretense and air, so common to nomads on strange, unfamiliar occasions, of a man who had better streets and finer bazaars at home while in reality he had never seen either street or bazaar. Still occasionally a shrewd observer might have caught him forgetting his alert dignity and staring into houses and shops with a child's wide-eyed wonder— and there was one who did observe.

A tall man he was, green regimental tunic gay with medals and ribbons won on many a battle field, great fur cap cocked at a rakish angle, beard long and curly and russetred, sticking out like a battering ram ahead of his thick chest or, if the wind veered, fluttering across his broad shoulder like a banner— and the martial whole of him Mustaffa Yussef, good Moslem, good Tartar and soldier of his Majesty the Czar, with rank and pay of top sergeant in the 7th, Grand Duke Nicholas's Own Ferghana Cossacks, a regiment of hawkish warriors recruited among the Central Asian Tribesmen.

He remembered how, years earlier, he too had come out of the steppe, a peasant, travel-stained, loutish, uncouth, a little afraid; making arrogant, conceited parade of his lean gifts— less because deep in his soul he thought much of them than because he wanted to keep himself on an equality with all men, including the Czar of Russia and the Emperor of Yellow China.

Such has ever been the way of the nomad; had been his own way; was surely this stranger's way; and so he addressed him with jovial words:

"By the honor of my beard but you look like a man most fierce and full-blooded! A man who might write his name round and round this cold world with the point and edge of the crimson sword!"

"You are right," was the other's careless admission. "I am indeed such a man. Show me one better than myself!"

Mustaffa Yussef hid a smile while Kara Nazir went on.

"You speak the Tartar tongue, O soldier."

"I am a Tartar of Tartars."

"Then why the Russian uniform?"

"Why not?"

"They are of the infidels— bless them not, the Lord Allah!"

"Yes. They are infidels. "But—" came the Sergeant's calm lie— "not so their ruler, the Czar. He is as proper a Moslem as any of us, praying five times daily to the One God, blessing the name of the True Prophet and Islam's green banner.

"Oh!" stammered Kara Nazir, astonished. "You are sure of it?"

"Positive! Have I not many a time knelt on the same rug with the Czar, bowing towards Mecca?"

After which splendid falsehood he pointed to a gray, squat barrack that housed the troopers of the 7th Ferghana Cossacks.

"Good Moslems in there, too," he added. "Good Tartars, eager to go to war for the Czar— the champion and defender of Islam!"

"What war?"

"The pick and pride of all wars, in the West, against the Germans and Austrians."

"Who are they?"

"Pigs and sons of pigs. Eaters of dirt! Deniers of the Koran. Holy war, it is. We ride to-morrow. Tide with us, O son of title world!"

Kara Nazir hesitated. He thought of the Balkash steppe; thought— a little— of Ayesha The small vixen, always nagging him, always bickering— and yet how loyal when others had interfered: for instance, that time against Musa Khan, the miller— and the horror and despair in her face when he had galloped away.

"AH" he thought, "Ullah Ibaraq f'amur— may God protect her life!"

"Come with me!" he heard the voice of the Sergeant, who smote him on the shouder. "Come and meet the lads! there will be tobacco and food and the fine Tartar songs and maybe a drop of foreign wine!"

So presently there was Kara Nazir inside the barracks amid the Ferghana Cossacks, coarse, lawless men who squatted on the floor, drinking, eating, smoking, chattering, laughing riff-raff of Central Asia, more rogues than honest men, nor stewing with remorse for past sins— rather stewing with longing for sins yet unsinned. Round and round went the bottles, and Kara Nazir had his nose in them as much as the rest and he shouted:

"Pass the bottle, boys! Hearty! Hearty!"

"Pass her round!" came the roaring chorus.

"Hearty! Hearty!"

"Hearty to drink! Hearty to love!"

"Hearty to war!"

"Aye—hearty to death!"

"Make her go with a dash, boys, and to the devil with all shirkers!"

"Ride with us, O Kara Nazir!" cried the Sergeant.

"Ride with us!" yelled ohe others.

"Wah!" he replied, "of course I'll ride with you. O strong men, O heroes!"

THE next day the little town echoed the clatter of horses' hoofs, the rhythmic tramp of hob-nailed boots, and the dramatic rumble of the guns, as, sweeping through the streets, came the cavalry, infantry, and artillery, flanked by mounted officers, with full-skirted, green coats reaching half-way down to their high patent-leather boots, their narrow waists belted with gold.

Cheers, laughter, and the soldiers' song, full-throated, vigorous, wild:—

Soldatushki! Bravo! Rebyatushki

Droojno vrage beitye!

Smelye, droojno,

Vo shtijki, vo rooja.

Beitye, no rebeitye!

Soldatushki! Bravo! Rebyatushki

Kara Nazir did not understand the words. But riding stirrup to stirrup with the Ferghana Cossacks he yelled the refrain as loudly as the others:— "Soldatushki! Bravo! Rebyatushki" . Of glory spoke this song, also of splendor—  of faithful love— of heroism, of charging with sabre and lance— of cheerfully fighting the enemy— of grand comrades and loyalty eternal!

An ironic jest this song turned out to be. For there was no glory when the Ferghana Cossacks, having reached Orenburg, were dismounted, loaded on flat, smelly, cattle cars, rushed to the Polish front, bled white, loaded back on the cars, rushed to the East Prussian front, once more bled white. There was no splendor in the mud of the trenches nor in the swish of the knout when steppebred nomad spoke too freely to monocled, scented Moscow aristocrat. There was no faithful love with sleek civilian clerks embezzling the money meant to purchase ammunition and medical supplies. There was no charging with sabre and lance when the Czar's more or less loyal General hurled hundreds of thousands of his less or more loyal subjects against the massed, thundering German guns. There was no cheerfully fighting the enemy amid poison-gas fumes and screaming high-explosive shells. There were no grand comrades nor loyalty eternal as, one by one, the Ferghana Cossacks perished, cannon fodder, thrown into the bloody maw of insane, imperial ambition; were quickly replaced by raw levies until tne regiment was like a crazy quilt of all the many races and provinces of the Russian Empire— and Kara Nazir, now a top sergeant with medals and ribbons, the last survivor of those who had so boldly ridden out of Turkand bravely singing:—

"Soldatushki! Bravo! Rebyatushki." .

There was to-day little of the boaster left in him, little of the youth.

Old he felt, old he looked— dear Lord Allah!— and he not yet twenty-one, as, his feet raw and bleeding, the straps of his knapsack cutting his shoulders—he marched with his comrades through an edge of Northern Galicia.

On on. Along hot, jagged roads, where occasional thickets threw fleeting moments of shade. Up steep hillsides, where the purplish-gold sun shafts cleft the black rags of the fir trees. Through broad valleys, where fields of neglected corn spread beneath the pigeon-blue sky like sultry summer dreams.

Lifeless, these fields, since the toilers, the peasants, had gone to war. But fields fat and peaceful— and Kara Nazir thought of home.

Of the Balkash hamlet he thought, tucked greenly into the yellow swash of the steepe. Thought of its primitive, nostalgic symphony peaking up from a consonance of sounds, the pessimistic grunts of the camels; the barking of the shaggy hounds; the protesting crunch of the lumbering carts that carried the grain to the barn; the sobbing ol the leather flails that winnowed the wheat; the creaking of the water-wheels; the gossip of the women sitting in front of theii houses rocking the blown-up milk skins on their knees till the butter rolled rich and frothy.

His own mother among the women— and nobody in all the Balkash horde to rival her when it came to butter and cheese and curds.

He thought of her; thought of his father; thought of Ayesha. What a vixen he remembered her— what a nagging, stubborn, little vixen! Only a child— fifteen—

No. No longer fifteen. Seventeen now she must be, and he wondered— smiled as he wondered— was she still so small and lean and gawky.

"Braggart," she had called him; had been right, he admitted.

Well— he considered— he was to-day no braggart, but a hard, tough man, fighting to live, not fighting to die, however heroically.

For he had drunk the dregs of disillusion. Be would still sing, "Soldatushki! Bravo! Rebyatushki!" but would sing it without enthusiasm : indeed, rather with something of a sneer.

So would his comrades— Tartars and Lithuanians, White Russians and Little Russians. Letts and Jews, Circassians and Kalmycks and Armenians. All subjects of the far-flung Russian Empire. All— as there was no end to misery and corruption and injustice and useless sacrifices— hating that same Russian Empire with a dull, smouldering hatred, waiting for the spark to set it aflame.

HIS spark came suddenly, overnight. It came out of the mouth of an under-sized, bearded man in cheap clothes and bowler hat, who stood on a street corner in Moscow and cried:—

"Da zdrastvooyet revolutzia— long live the revolution!"

Perhaps the man's name was Lenin. Perhaps Trotzky. Perhaps he had no name; was not even a man; only a symbol.

At all events, there was the cry, terrible, portentous, ominous, triumphant. It was echoed north, south, west, east. It was everywhere, all at once.

"Long live the revolution!"

And to some it spelled a fine, high idealism, and to others grotesque fanaticism; to some cruelty and lust and revenge, and to others a chance to line their pockets with gold; to some a mere change from monotony to boredom, and to others a sort ot grim, twisted amusement

But to the army it spelled peace; spelled by the same token, home. And so one night, when a Bolshevist kommissar had brought news that the war was over, the troopers of the 7th. Grand Duke Nicholas's Own Ferghana Cossacks— long ago their officers had fled or been killed— were sitting around a camp-fire; and there was one, a swarthy, dreamy-eyed Ukrainian Jew, who spoke of Kieff and its coiling, cobbled streets and its smoky saloons, where a man might drink his fill of tea and vodka for less than a ruble.

"Let me tell you how it is there, brothers," he said. "You say, maybe. Moscow? You say. maybe, Odessa? Ah, by the God of Abraham and of Jacob! What is Moscow compared to Kieff or Odessa? Give me the guitars of Kieff rather than—"

"Be quiet, O Jew with the leaky tongue!" growled a Circassian, and he proceeded to describe his native valley in the heart of Caucasus.

"It is most lovely an a Friday, the day of rest of all Allah's creatures," he related, "whoa we stroll with our women and children into the sloping hills and smoke our pleasant pipes and drink coffee and licorice water beneath the twinkling of the golden crab-apples that cluster high up in Hie hedges, and the greenish elderberries on their thick, purple stalks."

"To the devil with coffee and licorice water and elderberries!" bellowed a flaxen-haired, grey-eyed giant from the Baltic. "Have you ever seen the north, dear brothers? Have you ever seen Kronstadt? Come with me, brothers! Pish we have and beef and beer— and such black bread as you never set tooth to— and women who know how to smile, and—"

"You are all as blind as new-born puppies!" cut in Kara Nazir. "In &U the world there is only one land for a man's long ing."

"And where is that, Sergeant?"

"The land of the Balkash horde! Where else? So quiet it is, so free and honest. The steppe we have, immense and grand— and small woods here and there, stirring with bird and beast— and proper hamlets crowded with warm houses— and every door always on the latch— and the men hearty and merry—and the women with arms so soft and generous—and the roads safe for the prettiest girl ever so lonely—"

He rose. "The Balkash horde for my father's only son!" he shouted exultantly, and he was off that same night toward the east.

BY railroad he travelled, by river boat, and on foot and on horseback. Week after week he travelled, and wherever he went all Russia seemed to be in motion. Everywhere were soldiers— soldiers no longer of the east, south, north, west— going east smith, north, west— going home...

"Home— soon, soon!" he thought, when at last he reached Turkand.

There, with some of the loot that clinked in his waist shawl, he bought himself a shaggy camel, which had a profusion of blue ribbons plaited into the bridle as protection against the djinns and ghouls of the steppe— the steppe that stretched before his eyes with a sort of barbaric splendor. There was no verdure. But under the purple and orange tints of the sky the sand ridges became heaps of topaz and the sun-scorched rocks masses of ruby and amethyst. He did not linger at Turkand. He rode steadily into the east.

He gave a deep, throaty laugh of sheer joy as the heart of the desert came to him with shimmering dunes, tossed like a stormy, billowing sea, charging, leaping, threatening— an ocean of red sand touched with golden lights; the untamed wild; savage bastion of nature most savage and most free.

Free! Free! That was the breath, the reason, the secret soul of the steppe— and he opened wide his lungs and filled them with the hot, dry air as though to cleanse himself from the abominations of the past years, the dirt of the trenches, the muck and mire of the battlefields, the war.

War! And what was the good of it?

Here, he told himself, was his own land; here the place his feet should never have left; here the only place he had ever seen that was worth hacking good steel for.

"Home— and the tang of the home wind!" he thought, and impatience overtook him.

"Home, O uncouth daughter of unmentionable ancestry!" he shouted at the snarling camel and he tickled its soft muzzle with a point of his dagger," urging it on to greater  speed

On the seventh day out of Turkand he found himself on a ridge overlooking the Balkash Valley. He had ridden the night through. Now, standing on that ridge, he watched young day shoot up, racing along the rim of the world in a sea of fire that put out the paling moon. He watched the east flush with rosepink and elfin green. He listened to the noises of waking day as he descended into the valley.

NOISES in the orchards. A drowsy canticle. A bird gurgling and twittering. Another bird shrilly calling to its mate. A metallic buzzing of flies around a puddle.

Noises in the pastures. Goats bleating. Cattle bellowing. Horses neighing.

Noises in the village streets as the people began to go about their fine, prosy toil— ah, he thought, the dear toil, the home toil— the men to their herding and farming, the young girls to their milking and gardening, the older women to their household tasks, weaving, cooking, pounding grain, making butter.

He came to the first house, his father's house— and there he saw his mother squatting at the open door, rocking the blown-up milk skin on her knees.

She looked up. She did not recognise him at first, he had changed so—with his moustache, his shaggy Cossack cap, his gay medals and ribbons. A stranger she thought him, and she gave hospitable greeting:—

"The salute, O son of Adam! Crane inside and drink your fill. For crossing the weary sands you must have seen much thirsty country"

He jumped from his camel. "Mother— mother— don't you know me?"

"Who " she stammered, half-guessed the answer to her question, as she repeated with a shaking voice—"Who?"

"I, mother— I, Kara Nazir, your son. Who else?"

She ran up to him, upsetting the milk skin. She cast her thin arms about his neck, trembling with age and emotion. She kissed him. She could not speak; could only utter ludicrous, bird-like little noises:—

"Oh— oh— oh..."

She cried as if her heart would break. Then suddenly she spoke. A rapid jumble of words. Words that tripped over each other. Fervent words to tell him the gossip of the past years. Never giving him a chance, though several times he tried to put in a word of his own.

"AH! the many things that have happened since you went away, my little son, my little hero! You remember Ali, the son of Ali? His wife died— may she reach Paradise!— and whom do you think he married? You will never be able to guess. Pathouma— the miller's eldest sister— can you imagine the like? Why he married her, Allah alone knoweth— she with the humped back like a yearling camel, and the nose like a whiplash! And you remember Esa the blacksmith? Him you must give the sound, sound beating to-morrow. For he is going about swearing that your father is too old, too feeble for the chieftainship— and that you would never return, were doubtless wandering up and down the broad world, roistering with the merry, laughing men of the West— and that he himself should be chief— have you ever heard such arrogance? And— oh, yes— you remember Zuleika, the priest's third daughter? With a foreigner she ran away— a Tartar trader— wah, may she have the ill luck of seven black Fridays! and listen to what happened to Mustaffa Krim—"

"Mother! Mother!" he interrupted all at once. "By the honor of my teeth, you talk too much!"

She was a little taken aback, a little hurt. "But—"

He laughed, pointed, and then she, too, laughed and ran into the house. For coming down the street was Ayesha.

She was no longer lean and gawky. Lovely she was, with the waxen pallor of her skin, the ebony of her locks, the oval of her features, the velvety red of her curved tips He salaamed deeply before her.

"I love you, O heart of three roses!" he said.

"And I love you!" she replied.

And then— was it not like her?— she turned on him with words that held just a faint tinge of anger.

"Wah!— the stubborn, bragging lad you were to ride to the foreign war because of a rash word— to be gone the many years— and weary, weary their waiting!"

She sank into his arms. "Ah, the grey years that came between you and me in the blue summer's night and the long day— came between you and me in the black winter's night and the short day! Allah— Allah— the bitterness of your absence— the long ache of it!"

She clung to him.

"Love— hurts," she said.

"Aye! And yet— tell me— is there happiness under Heaven finer than the sharp pain of it?"

And he kissed her.

____________

14: The Man Who Over-Reached Himself

K. R. G. Browne

1895-1940

World's News (Sydney) 16 April 1930

British novelist, playwright, movie scriptwriter and humorist, who often collaborated with W.  Heath Robinson.

UNTIL that morning when, quite by chance, I came unexpectedly upon it, I had not known that the inn existed. I had been to Quentock Admiral upon some matter of business and had elected to take my homeward way on foot across the moor to Hading and thence by train. It was as I gained the hill-top overlooking Hading town that I perceived the inn.

It stood upon the very crest of the hill, separated from the lane by a narrow patch of grass. Upon the grass, at the road's edge, a tall pole flaunted aloft a weather-beaten signboard, embellished with an indecipherable device and the well-nigh illegible legend, "The Running Hind." The signboard, which had the appearance of having been created soon after the hill itself first came into being, creaked a little mournfully in the wind.

The inn was clearly of an equal age. It was a long, low building of grey stone, superbly thatched, with small leaded windows and a heavy, iron-bound door. A battered wooden bench ran across its front and from the solitary chimney a faint smoke wandered up into the sky.

My first thought was one of envy for those who had the fortune to inhabit such a place. It is not every man who, by standing at his door and facing south, can overlook two counties, and can, by turning north, practically repeat the experience. Such a privilege was his who owned the "Running Hind."

I became curious to set eyes upon this happy person.

I left the lane, crossed the little strip of grass, and approached the house. Above the door I read, inscribed in spidery white lettering, "Jonathan Fraley, Licensed to Sell Beer, Spirits and Tobacco." Jonathan Fraley, then, should sell of his beer to me

As I pushed open the door I found myself in a darkness which, after the glare outside, was as that of the Pit. Slowly I perceived that I stood in the tap-room, a big, lowroofed, oak-walled room, split by a massive counter Behind this counter a man in shirt-sleeves and a white apron was engaged earnestly upon the burnishing of tumblers.

"Good morning," I observed, advancing across the uneven floor.

"Good morning," said he. He was, I perceived, a small, lean, wiry man of any age between forty and sixty. His face was brown and lined, so that it had the appearance of a withered apple. His head was guiltless of hair, save for a thin, reddish fringe that encircled it above his ears, giving him a somewhat mcnkish look. His eyes, however, were his most arresting feature. Of a peculiarly penetrating blue, set widely in his head, they seemed perpetually engaged with some object at a great distance; it was as if, for him, the grey stone walls of the "Running Hind" did not exist.

On my request for beer he set it before me in a gigantic tankard of the kind that one sees frequently in costume plays, but rarely elsewhere.

"A fine day," I ventured, inevitably.

He nodded, being apparently a man of a taciturn habit.

"I should imagine," I went on nopefully, "that it must be very pleasant to live up here at the top of the world."

"It's good enough," answered the landlord in his queer, metallic voice, "for those that care for it."

"Not much custom, I suppose," I suggested. "I don't mind that," said the landlord, as if custom were the very 'last thing that any innkeeper could desire. "Though I dare say there was a lot more of it when this place was built. It's the loneliness I don't like."

With that he breathed heavily into a tumbler and moved away, with the air of one who has had enough of idle conversation with inane though affable wayfarers. Nor could I linger in the hope of further confidence, for at this point I was obliged to depart to catch my train.

It was not until late in the following week that I had cause again to return from Quentock Admiral by way of Rading Hill, and again I found the landlord of the "Running Hind" polishing glasses behind the bar. On this occasion he seemed disposed to unbend towards me, until at length I was gratified to find him talking freely. As time went by I dismissed all thought of my train from my mind, while my interest and wonder grew at finding such a man in such a place.

For there was nothing of the rustic about the landlord of the "Running Hind." Jonathan Fraley was, as I soon discovered, very well read; there seemed to be no classic of which he had not a working knowledge, and his acquaintance with modern literature, and especially novels, was both accurate and wide. It seemed, indeed, that reading was his chief interest in life. Finding that my tastes lay in the same direction, he became almost cordial.

Nevertheless, he puzzled me considerably. He had a strange habit of breaking off abruptly, often in mid-sentence, to stand motionless, his head on one side and his peculiar eyes gazing into vacancy, in an attitude almost of expectation; in a moment or two he would resume the conversation without attempt at explanation or apology., He was, indeed, an unusual man.

It was one of his inexplicable silences that heralded the plainly unwelcome appearance of the man called Joe. It occurred when Jonathan Fraley, eternally polishing glasses, was discoursing with wisdom and insight upon the works of the modern American novelists. Suddenly he stopped, tilted his head, and assumed his uncanny listening attitude. At the same moment the big door groaned and swung open, revealing the tall figure of a man outlined against the sunlight beyond.

At first I took him to be merely another customer, until Jonathan Fraley caused me to think otherwise by uttering a queer, strangled noise in his throat. I glanced round at him. His lean face seemed suddenly to have gained a score of fresh lines; he was very pale, and his eyes stared through the man on the threshold to something very far away.

"Morning, Jonathan," said the man in the doorway.

A little shiver seemed to run through Jonathan Fraley.

"It's some time since I saw you, Joe," he said, and his voice was more metallic than ever.

The man called Joe stepped into the room and came towards the bar. He was a big man of about forty, as I Judged, wideshouldered and powerful. His face was pleasant enough, with sleepy grey eyes and a wide, mobile mouth; I noticed that he lacked the upper half of his left'ear. He wore an undistinguished suit of blue serge and an old soft hat. He glanced at me incuriously as he came forward.

"I'd like a word with you, Jonathan," he said, and jerked his head to a door behind the bar.

For a perceptible period the landlord hesitated, his face now empty of expression; then in silence he lifted the flap of the bar. The big man passed through, pushed open the door, and disappeared. Without a word to me the landlord followed him.

For a few moments the murmur of their voices came to me unintelligibly. Then a sudden draught caught the door, which had been imperfectly latched, and drove it slightly open. Thus I was provided with a clear view of one wall of the room beyond and a quarter of another; and, seeing this, I knew whence came Jonathan Fraley's knowledge. For from floor to ceiling the walls were lined with books; not a square inch remained uncovered.

I was speculating vaguely upon this when the voice of the big man came clearly to me. I ought, no doubt, to have moved tactfully away, but I did not. I can offer no excuse, but confess the fact."

"I must have more than that, Jonathan. Fifty, at least."

I heard the voice of Jonathan Fraley.

"How long is this going on, Joe? How long d'you reckon to bleed me this way?"

"Bleeding, you call it?" said the voice of Joe. "I'd hardly call it that. Where'd you be if it hadn't been for me? I'm pretty patient, Jonathan, but I must have more than that. Shut that door," he added swiftly. The door slammed, and I heard no more.

For perhaps five minutes I stood there, wondering. Then the door opened and the big man came out, followed by the landlord. The man called Joe passed round the bar and crossed to the outer door. With his hand on the latch, he glanced back.

"So long, Jonathan. I'll look in again soon."

The door groaned again as it closed behind him.

Jonathan Fraley stood staring after him, and I noticed that his penetrating eyes held a new light; a wild, almost, it seemed to me, an insane glitter. Suddenly, he swung round upon me.

"I'm going to tell you what I've not told a soul yet. I've got to, or— I guess I'm right In saying it'll go no further?"

Somewhat bewildered, I reassured him. He regarded me for a moment with that wild stare.

"Ever been to Arizona?" he asked abruptly. Considerably taken aback at being thus flung headlong into Jonathan Fraley's past,

I confessed that I had not.

"Ah," said Jonathan Fraley. He was not looking at me now, but across the room, out through the solid wall, many thousand miles away. "Eight years ago I was to Arizona, running a little mine away in the hills on the edge of the Painted Desert. Illegal, of course, but I was on my beam-ends and had to live somehow. I never saw the man at the top. He must have been a big bug of some sort, I fancy. Irived in Amsterdam, or at least that's where we sent the stones. We used to send 'em down over the border into Mexico and on from there. I never knew how they got 'em to Amsterdam, because my job was finished when they were over the line. I got my orders back the same way. He must have made a lot of money, whoever he was. They were all small stones, of course, and not a staggering lot of them, but he never paid a cent or a halfpenny of duty anywhere. I didn't come off so badly myself, for that matter. There were— pickings. I lived on the outfit with half a dozen Mexican greasers and a few Indians to work the mine. I was quite happy. I like to be my own master, and as long as I got the stones across the border, headquarters never worried me. I was well paid, and I worked for it."

He paused for a moment, gassing steadily past me. I waited almost impatiently for him to continue. It is a far cry from an illicit diamond mine on the edge of the Painted Desert to an old inn on the hill crest above Rading town. Presently he went on.

"I'd been there about six months when Joe Bagot came. That's the man who's just gone. He turned up one day in a casual sort of way, said he'd stumbled on us by accident and asked for a job. Pretty ragged, he was, and tired. I hadn't a job to give him, but I said he could stay if he liked. I was glad to see someone who spoke my own language, you see.

"We got along well enough at first He was a silent sort of man; didn't talk a lot, and very little about himself, except when he had drink in him, which wasn't often. But I got to know a good deal about him, partly then and partly afterwards."

Jonathan Fraley turned his eyes suddenly to my face; the effect was as if I had received an actual blow.

"I tell you now," he said, "Joe Bagot is just about the most dangerous man loose in England to-day. Not many men in this country pack a gun all the time, but he's one of them. He's been everything, almost, in his time. Navvy, bar-tender, yegg and road-agent in the States; swindler and con. man over here. That's a few I can swear to. For a time he was a gang-leader over on the East Side in New York. That's where he lost his ear— you noticed it? Shot off in a gang-fight.

"Well, he stayed with me some time. After a bit he took to nosing round the mine, putting out hints that I was running it on the wrong lines and being robbed right and left. That made me wild, and we got to arguing. There he beat me every time, making me out a fool and laughing if I got angry. Gradually I came to dislike him— one does, you know, if you're laughed at, and from that it wasn't a great step to pretty near'.hating him. By the time he'd been with me about a month, things were pretty strained. I think we'd have had a real flare-up if Ray hadn't arrived.

"At least, he said that was his name. One of the Indians found him wandering about, quite lost, on the edge of the desert, and brought him in. I wasn't particularly pleased to see him, because I didn't yearn for any more publicity. It seemed strange I'd lived at the mine six months without seeing a soul, and then had these two, Bagot and Ray, thrown on me within a few weeks.

"Ray was a queer little devil, thin and small and hungry-looking, with a head much too big for him, and a great Adam's apple that jumped about when he spoke. About thirty-five, I should think, but old-looking for his age. He said he was a geologist, having a look at the desert, and asked if he might make our place his headquarters for a spell. I didn't want him, but I thought if I turned him off too quickly he might get suspicious and start inquiring. He looked that sort. And I reckoned he hadn't the sense to realise what, we were doing if we let him alone. So he stayed."

His voice ceased and for a moment there was no sound in the room but the placid tick of the grandfather clock in the corner by the fireplace. Jonathan Fraley was staring out through the wall again.

"Bagot hated him," he said suddenly. "So did I, but not to that extent. Bagot used to get up and walk out whenever Ray came in, and Ray used to stare after him in a puzzled sort of way.

"Get rid of the little toad," said Bagot to me one day.

"I will when I can,"I said, "If I send him off too soon he's just the sort to start wondering why."

You'll understand I wasn't having too easy a time, what with Bagot and Ray and running the mine as well. Especially when Ray suddenly took it into his head to be inquisitive and began asking all manner fool questions that took me all my time to answer.

"You see, Ray was a danger. I knew Bagot, being more or less a wrong 'un himself, wouldn't give anything away, but Ray was different. I tried all I knew to make him leave of his own accord, but he hung on till I got to loathe the sight of his great head and spindle legs.

"Then, when he'd been a fortnight about the place, it happened. I was in a pretty foul temper that day, because someone had broken into my office in the night and made hay of my papers. I put it down to one of the greasers, but I couldn't be sure, and it worried me. Ray turned up in the afternoon and started badgering me till I could have shot him. Then he wanted me to play cards with him. and at last, to keep him quiet, I did. We played some fool game, and after a bit he got rattled, for he was a bad loser. Suddenly he leaned across the table and stared at me.

"You cheated," he said.

"I was clean taken aback, for I knew I hadn't.

"What's that?" I said.

" 'You cheated,' said Ray. 'You know you did, for I saw you.'

"That made me clean wild, for I wasn't going to sit there and let that little rant tell his lies about me. I just shoved a hand across the table and took hold of his throat and shook him.

" 'Cheated, did I?' I said, and shook him harder.

"Suddenly he gave a queer little choking noise and went limp on my hand. It was a horrible feeling. I let go and he dropped like a wet sack. I waited, but he didn't get up. I found he was dead.

"I've been frightened often enough," said Jonathan Fraley, "but never as I was then. I just stood there staring down at him like a dumb thing. Then the door opened and my foreman came in. He was a greaser called Dominguez, and a good fellow. He stared at Ray on the floor, and then at me, and back at Ray again.

"I pulled myself together and told him Ray had died of a heart attack, and that we must keep it quiet for the sake of the mine. Then he carried Ray out and Dominquez fetched a spade and we buried lam behind the hut I went back to the hut in a kind of daze and sat there till dark, trying to think things out.

"Bagot came in at dusk. He stood in the doorway and looked at me.

" 'Where's Ray?' he said.

" 'Cleared out and gave no reason," I answered.

" 'Ah!' said Bagot. He stared at me for a moment and then walked out. Ten minutes later he was back again. He leaned against the doorpost and grinned at me.

" 'I see he's gone all right,' he said, 'but you haven't planted him very deep.'

" 'I couldn't say a word, and presently I heard him laugh.

"Do you know what you've done?' ae said. 'You've killed a Government man.'

" 'I sat there and gaped at him.

" 'What?" I said.

" 'A Government man. I found it out last night. I've suspected him for days. It was Ray who went through your office last night trying to fill up his evidence for the Revenue people. While he was out I had a look at his gear. And I found this.'

"He held out a sheet of paper. There was not much on it, but enough to show that he was right. Ray had been a Revenue agent.

" 'Took you in, eh?' said Bagot. 'Just like his nerve, to come and stop on your premises till he'd got all the evidence he wanted. How did it happen?*

"I told him. He looked at me in a queer sort of way. 'I never thought he'd do it,' he said.

I  stared at him.

" 'What do you mean?' I asked.

" 'Why,' said Bagot, 'he was talking to me yesterday trying to pump me about you, and saying you were the tightest mouth he'd ever met. I said the only time you ever talked was when you were angry, and the only time you got angry was when you were playing cards. I guess he was aiming to make you talk, and just naturally overreached himself in the hope you'd round off his work for him out of your own mouth. I hoped he would, for I'd had about enough of him. I didn't know then for sure that he was a Government man.'

"I sat there, staring at Bagot. until at last I understood.

" 'Do you mean; I said, 'that you deliberately set Ray on to me, hoping I'd put him out?

" 'I didn't just hope,' said Bagot, grinning at me, 'Knowing you for the fiery little redheaded runt you are, I knew.

"Something went wrong in my head then, and I jumped up and went for him. But he's bigger than me, and I couldn't touch him. That made me wilder than ever, and I must have gone clean mad, because next thing I knew I'd bitten him clean through the hand. It's a sickening feeling— all salt and— and gritty. He let out a yell and threw me across the room. When I got up he'd gone."

Jonathan Fraley ran his tongue over his lips, and I saw that the hand which lay upon the counter was shaking.

"I cleared out within the hour. Worked my way to the coast, and from there over to England. I was scared nearly crazy. You can't kill a Government man and get away with it. There was a bit of a stir in the papers soon after— I saw something about it. I brought a few stones with me, and after a bit I found this place and bought it. I've been quite peaceful here— until to-day. I always had a feeling Joe Bagot would come after me. Now he's come."

He paused and glanced at the clock, while I sought vainly for words adequate to the occasion.

"Your train," he said suddenly "is the twelve-forty-five, isn't it? You'd better be going. And I'll be glad if you'll say nothing of this to anybody."

"Of course not," I began, "but—"

"You'd better be going," said Jonathan Fraley "These things settle themselves in their own way."

I hesitated, but it was very clear that he bad ended his story and had no more to say He walked with me to the door.

"Sometimes," he said at the threshold, "it does a man good to talk. Good day." The door closed, and I was out upon the open hill-top.

I stood for a moment in an attempt to restore my thoughts to order. Jonathan Fraley's summary conclusion to his tale had left me, as it were, suspendid in mid-air, out of touch with everyday things. I wanted to turn back, to ask a dozen probably futile questions, but the memory of the landlord's face as he bade me "Good day" forbade such a course. I began to walk across the little green.

And then I saw Joe Bagot. He sat, his hands in his pockets, upon a gate in the hedge on the far side of the road; he had an air of waiting for something or somebody.

I confess that I was somewhat taken aback. The story of Jonathan Fraley had not inspired in me either liking or respect for Joe Bagot, and I had no desire to see him again. I could not, however, draw back, and I held on my way to the lane.

As I drew level with the man on the gate he slid to the ground and came leisurely to my side.

"Going to Hading, sir?" said his deep voice. "I'll walk with you, if I may."

"I must hurry," I answered, rather inanely. "My train is at twelve-forty-flve. It is a fact that I could think of nothing else to say.

"Plenty of time," said Joe Bagot, calmly. For a few yards we walked in silence; I became aware that he was regarding me with an amiable smile.

"Old Jonathan been spinning cne of Ms yarns to you?" he asked suddenly.

"He told me a very unusual story," I returned, but with a twinge of apprehension.

"What was it this time— oil wells in the Caucasus, diamond mines in Arizona, or adventures in Thibet?"

I stared at him.

"I don't understand," I said, with perfect truth.

He did not answer for a moment, but kept his eyes fixed on the squat tower of Bading Church. When he spoke he did not look at me.

"Would you say, now, that over much reading could turn a man's brain?"

Feeling more than ever at sea, I replied that I was not in any way qualified to give an opinion.

"It's had that effect on Jonathan Fraiey," said Joe Bagot. "Would it surprise you to hear that he's never been out of this country in his life?"

I looked at him incredulously.

"It certainly would," I answered.

Joe Bagot threw back his head and laughed aloud— a cheerful, infectious laugh. He surveyed me with an amused grey eye.

"It's quite true. I'm his cousin, so I ought to know. Jonathan's lived here all his life. It's too much reading that's the matter with him. Five years ago his wife died, and he's been sort of queer ever since. He was always a great one for books, and since then it's: become a sheer mania with him. Adventure stories chiefly. And he doesn't just read a book— he enters into the story and actually lives it himself, if you can understand. They say that if you repeat a thing often enough you get to believe it absolutely in the end That's how it is with him. Whatever he told you to-day— oil wells, diamonds, or whatever it was— was pure nonsense. Mind you, as I say, he really believes it himself, but if you were to come back with me I could show you the book he got it from. I know most of his yarns by heart. I was worried about him at first, but he's all right in every other way. I've spoken to doctors about it, and they agree it's really a mild form of insanity. He's done nothing but read and read and read all these years, till now he's come to believe these things actually happened to him. It's a queer business."

I could say nothing for a moment, for this revelation was so utterly unexpected.

"But," I protested feebly, "he told me—" Joe Bagot grinned again.

"Oh, I know. I'm always the villain, but there's a reason for that. Did he work in my chipped ear? Mauled by a horse, that was, not a mile from here."

"But I heard you ask him for money."

"Oh, did you? And why not? When his wife died I lent him the cash to buy 'The Running Hind,' and it's the devil's own job to get it back. He pays up a bit at a time, and hates me for that reason." He paused and surveyed me reflectively. "I should think you got the Arizona mine story. Didn't it strike you as a bit— well, filmish?"

At the time of its telling it certainly had not, but now, in the clear light of day and beneath the sardonic glance of my companion, Jonathan Fraley's history did undeniably appear somewhat improbable. I walked on in silence, endeavoring to re-adjust my faltering impressions and slowly coming to the inevitable if unwelcome conclusion that I had made rather a fool of myself. Recalling the features of Jonathan Fraley, I felt that I knew now what was meant by the hypnotic eye.

"Stopping around here long?" asked Joe Bagot.

"No," I said. "I'm going over to France to-morrow."

"That's a pity. I could have shown you any number of folk who know Jonathan's tales as well as I do. Here's the station. Don't think too hardly of the old chap. He can't help himself, and he does no harm." He smiled at me and I ran for my train, leaving him gazing after me.

IT SO happened that three months later I was again in Quentock Admiral. I had not forgotten the landlord of "The Running Hind," but I thought of him as little as might be, for no man likes to be reminded of his own credulity. Yet I was sorry for Jonathan Fraley.

Probably it was for this reason that I found myself, about noon of a fine summer's day, walking up the long hill overlooking Rading town. I told myself that I would not enter the inn; but, when it came into my view, I stopped and stared blankly.

For "The Running Hind" was changed, and not for the better. The little patch of grass was now studded with cheap iron-topped tables; a new and flaming signboard swung at the tall pole; above the old doorway an immense gilt-lettered board announced that Somebody's Ales and Stout might be obtained within.

For a brief space I stood and gaped; then, curiosity overpowering me, I passed between the tables and entered the tap-room.

Here also was change. Upon the old walk were now bright-coloured calendars, almanacs, and other decorations of the kind that cost nothing and are worth less; two long tables lined the walls, and behind the bar stood two white-coated men. Three or four persons were drinking in the room, but of Jonathan Fraley there was no sign visible.

I approached the counter and asked for beer. It was brought to me by one of the white-coats, a plump, cheery man with a glittering bald head.

"Can you tell me," I asked, "if Mr. Fraley is anywhere about?"

The plump man started violently.

"Mr. Fraley?" he repeated. "Why, didn't you know? He's dead."

I do not know what had warned me, but I had half expected just such a reply. Nevertheless, it came as a considerable shock.

"Dead?" I said. "When was it? How did it happen?"

"Matter of three months ago, pretty near," said the plump man. "Queer affair altogether, if you ask me. He was found one morning in the chalk-pit across the lane with his back broken. Died in an hour."

He awaited comment, but I said nothing. "And—" pursued the plump man, "the funny thing is that he wasn't alone. There was another man with him— a big, strong-looking fellow. He was quite dead— neck broken."

A minute or so passed before I could achieve speech.

"How did it happen?"

"Nobody knows. The big chap was a stranger in these parts. Nobody knew him. Tough-looking fellow, he was, with a torn ear and a funny sort of scar across his hand. Had a pretty exciting life, from the look of him. The whole thing was a bit of a mystery, because, you see, no one really knew anything about Fraley either."

"But," I said, "he'd lived here all his life, surely?"

"All his life?" said the plump man. "Not a bit of it. I've lived here since I was a kid and I remember him turning up about five or six years ago. Quiet sort of cove, he was, with funny clothes and a bit of an American accent. Always seemed to me as if he was scared of something." He broke off as another customer entered. "He let this place go to pot, anyway. I'm only just beginning to work it up. Excuse me."

As I stepped out through the door Into the bright sunlight a phrase of Jonathan Fraley's came suddenly back to me:—

"These things settle themselves in their own way."

_________________

15: The Murder of Tom Bates

Ernest Favenc

1845-1908

Evening News (Sydney) 29 August 1896

British born and educated, Favence arrived in Australia aged 19, and while working on cattle and sheep stations in Queensland wrote occasional stories for the Queenslander. In 1877 the newspaper sponsored an expedition to discover a viable railway route from Adelaide to Darwin, which was led by Favenc. He later undertook further explorations, became a magistrate, and wrote three volumes of short fiction.

"SAME old fence," said the swagman, as he contemplated an erratic piece of fencing by the side of the road. "That crooked tree still alive that Jim Staines hung himself on. It's quite pleasant to come back from one's wanderings and be welcomed by the old familiar objects such as these."

The swagman pulled out his pipe, and proceeded to fill it with a musing kind or air.

"Nine years since I was in this place, and blest if I think there's any change in it. Bet two to one old Jarmyn is still in the verandah looking out for travellers, and telling everybody of the roaring nights of the old days." He smoked on for a time, then a smile stole over this weather-worn features, and he resumed the swag he had thrown down, and went on his way.

"Darned if I don't do it," he muttered; "I've just enough coin to carry it through."

Maranoo, the township he was approaching, was just about the sleepiest of all the sleepy bush townships of New South Wales. A good-sized pocket handkerchief would have covered it. The one and only street was grass-grown to such a degree that it was generally used as a common. The daring stranger who walked down it during midday roused up disgusted milkers chewing their cud, and woke from pleasant dreams the sleeping horses. But in the opinion of the citizens of Maranoo a halo of glory still stuck to the place which time could not eradicate.

There had once been a gold field in its immediate neighborhood, and the memory of that field was the badge of honor of the Maranoos. True, the field had been of the smallest and poorest, but gold had been got there, and as years passed the nuggets increased in size and weight, and the mad orgies of the diggers were spoken of with bated breath. Nay, by whom started it was never known, but there were rumors of a deep lead, of such wonderful richness that, if once traced, the fortunes of Maranoo and the inhabitants thereof would be made for ever.

The swagman, whose name was Bates, had been on the field during its short-lived existence, and had been personally known to many of the inhaibitants, having been one of those who had made a little— a very little— gold.

"Don't suppose they'll know me again, with my hair all white like it is. However, I'll chance it," and revolving these thoughts, he marched on along the road.

Soon the great township of Maranoo hove in sight, the first house, naturally, being a pub. There was old Jarmyn, as he had anticipated, still on the lookout for the diggers to return and rouse the welkin with festivity.

The architecture of the town was poor and simple in the extreme, but it sufficed, for the inhabitants did not put on airs. So long as they could spit in the road from their own doorway they were content.

The swagman pulled up at the old pub known to fame as the Digger's Rest, and throwing his swag on the verandah floor, greeted old Jarmyn with the intelligence that it was blanky hot for the time of year.

Jarmyn, after taking in the astounding fact that the newcomer was a stranger in reality, and not one of the townspeople masquerading as such, got up and proceeded methodically behind the bar, the shelves of which were mostly stocked with dummies.

"I don't mind if I do," said Bates. "P'raps you'll join me," and he ostentatiously drew forth some silver. Jarmyn had no objection, and joined.

"You don't mind a fellow here in the old dig-gings days of the name of Bates— Tom Bates— do ye?" asked the swagman.

"Bates! Name seems familiar like. A sort of cross-eyed, down-looking chap, was he?"

"Not at all. Eyes as straight as your'n— might have had a black 'un occasionally."

"Bates—Tom Bates. Of course," said the land- lord, changing his tack, for even a swagman was a rare and precious being. "Now I mind him. I was thinking of Tom Gulliver. Yes, Bates. Friend of yours?"

"Rather. He and I went to West Australia, together."

"What, that 'ere Coolgardy I've heard tell on? Do anything there?"

"Me and Tom did first-rate at first, but he was allus a-hankering after something he'd left be-hind here. Weighed on his mind, it did, until he took sick with typhoid."

"Did he die?" said the landlord.

"Not he! Tom Bates die of typhoid— no fear! We got stone-broke, and the stonier we got the more Bates talked of Maranoo, and what there was there he'd left behind."

"What was it?" asked the landlord, filling the traveller's glass again. "Ah! that he never told me. Only he used to say, 'Just you wait, Jim Thomson, until we get back to Maranoo, and we'll just paint the town the bloomiest red ever was. You see, old Jarmyn (that's just what he said) 'll just go clean off his chump with joy when I tell him about it, and plump down a twenty-ounce nugget, and say, Drinks all round, and take it out o' that.' "

"I always did believe in the old times coming back," commented the interested Jarmyn.

By this time the news had travelled round that there was a stranger in the town, and one after another the Maranoos walked in. The talk became general, and all the old residents claimed to have known Tom Bates.

"And where may he be now?" asked the land-lord.

"Tom Bates! Why, the poor old chap, he's lying dog sick in the orsepittal in Gobungalong. 'Jim,' he says to me, 'I'll pull round right enough. You go ahead, and wait for me at Maranoo, and the time we'll have of it— my colonial!' "

"I suppose," said the landlord, "he didn't let on where it was, did he?"

"He did not. I tell you, we was stone-broke and busted in West Australia, and just for the lack of turning up a slug or two we'd never have got back."

All eyes were fixed on the man who had really been to West Australia, which most of the Maranoos imagined to be somewhere in the neigh-borhood of New Zealand, and they had no notion exactly where that was.

"What did you want to turn up slugs for?" demanded a native-born Maranoosian. The traveller smiled in a superior manner.

"Slugs is nuggets out there," he condescended to explain.

"When do you think Tom Bates will arrive?" asked the landlord.

Jim Thomson, as he called himself, hesitated. "I want to have a little talk with you about that," he said. "Something atween ourselves— say, after dinner."

It being about that hour, the Maranoos dispersed, talking as they went of the interest to be aroused in their town and the probable disposal of unsalable town allotments.

"It's just this way with Tom Bates," said the hypocrite, after putting away a good, sturdy feed. "I told you as how we were both nigh stumped. Now, when Bates got took bad, and had to lay up in the orsepittal at Gobungalong, he says to me, 'Jim, you take what we've got left, and push on to Maranoo. If there's any of the real old sort who remember Tom Bates, they might advance a little loan, and down I'd come hot foot, and in less than a fortnight you see that place will just roar again!"

The landlord mused solemnly.

"Have a drink," said the traveller, jumping up.

"Mind you, I don't say as they will do it," remarked the landlord after the drinks had been swallowed. "But I don't mind sounding the leading townspeople, and together we might make up a little. How much do you think would be wanted?"

"Say, a matter of five pounds. What's that when you'll have fifty— aye, and fifties— pass over this very counter night after night," and he thumped the counter heavily as though anxious that it should bear witness to the truth of his prediction. Jarmyn nodded approvingly at the sentiment, and they parted for a while.

Now, amongst the townspeople there was, as there usually is in most sleepy-headed bush towns, a man of wonderful acuteness and discernment. In this case the local wiseacre was a kind of carpenter, painter, and Jack-of-all-trades. His name was Coop, and he had once had a wonderful experience. No less than being summoned to Sydney as a witness in a law case. True his evi-dence had not been required after all; but his expenses had been paid, and as time went on he persuaded himself that he had figured with great distinction in the witness box, had been put through a severe cross-examination by the opposing counsel, whom he had signally put to confusion. When there had been much excitement in the way of extra drinks, he was in the habit of adding something about a banquet and presentation by his Sydney admirers; but this was looked upon with suspicion.

Now, the case of Tom Bates was one to ponder over. He came to the conclusion that, as he expressed it, there was something in it. What that something was he could not explain; but as he was in the habit of remarking, "They can't take an old fox like me in. I've been to Sydney, and learnt all the tricks of the trade. It's my belief"— then a brilliant idea came to him— "Tom Bates has been murdered."

When it came to the matter of making up the £5 he gave nothing himself, but he urged the others to do so.

"Give him rope enough," he said, "it's my belief that that £5 will unearth a ghastly crime."

He communicated his suspicions to the local policeman, when that worthy would be sufficiently awake to listen to him. He held out a vision of promotion and stripes to him. He argued that a murder discovered in Maranoo would give the town as much notoriety as a new gold field. He made himself an objectionable nuisance, even to the easy-going Maranoos.

The £5 was collected, and handed over in one note to the swagman, who publicly placed it in an envelope with a letter, urging Tom Bates to immediately hasten to Maranoo, dead or alive, and point out the scene of the future rush. This envelope, with enclosure, was solemnly handed over to Jarmyn to post and register, and he rose to the occasion and shouted for all hands to drink success to the new rush.

"It's my belief," said the knowing man to the policeman, "that he's suspicious of us. He saw that I read him like a book, and I noticed he changed color. I must have seen him when I was in the court in Sydney. If he heard me trounce that barrister no wonder that he felt queer all over."

The policeman yawned. He was rather tired of Coop.

Another bright idea now occurred to Coop. As he was in the habit of saying, "Give me the opportunity, and see me rise to it." He determined to watch the pub that night to see that the guilty man did not escape. He did so, but without result. Not to be done, however, he invented such an adventurous recital of the night's proceeding, that he staggered even the constable. If Coop was willing to swear anything— no matter what— before the local J.P.—he would take upon himself to arrest the traveller on suspicion, but without the ceremony of swearing he professed that the law could do nothing.

Coop hesitated, but led on by vain glory, made an affidavit that to the best of his belief the man Thompson had murdered his mate Bates, in order to obtain possession of information concerning the whereabouts of a rich deposit of gold in the abandoned workings at Maranoo. It took a lot of trouble to induce the policeman to assist in the night watch, but Coop assured him that it must lead to fortune, and he consented to try an hour or two.

No one was more surprised than Coop when, after all had retired, they saw the traveller emerge from the public house, swag on shoulder. He stood still for a minute, looked up and down the deserted road ; then, taking what is known as "a sight" at the building he was leaving, strode off.

Coop nudged the policeman, and they followed. "Be careful," whispered Coop, trembling somewhat, "he's a desperate man."

But the policeman, if stolid, was not afraid. He walked quickly after the swagman, who turned sharply when he heard the following footsteps.

"I arrist you on suspicion of having caused the death of one Thomas Bates, and ivery word you say will be used against you," he gabbled off.

The traveller stood quietly enough taking in the sense of what he said, then burst out laughing. "Hang it all mate, it's only a joke. I'm Thomas Bates myself."

"Oh that be blowed," said Coop, who had recov-ered confidence on seeing that there was no blood-shed imminent. "I knew Tom Bates well, none better. We were like brothers when he was here."

But the swagman still laughed. "You fool, Coop, don't you remember me? Not that we were ever very chummy, but many's the time I've shouted drinks for you when I had the stuff. Look here, I tell you I'm Tom Bates, so how can I have murdered myself?"

The policeman was puzzled. "If you had, it would be suicide, and I arrest you for murder."

"Arrest me! You can't arrest me for killing myself when I'm alive!"

"Oh, but I can, though, and I do. Coop here swears that you made away with one Thomas Bates."

"Coop does? Look here, you little varmint, I'll bring a double action against you for destitution of character and illogical imprisonment. How about that wife you deserted in Rattington? How about that drunken man you choked?"

Coop waited to hear no more, but departed.

"Have I got to go with you because that bally little liar has told you some cock and bull story?"

"Yes; we must have it cleared up now. Come along."

The swagman went.

So impressed were the townspeople with their belief in their coming benefactor Tom Bates that they absolutely refused to recognise the real Simon Pure, and Coop met with universal scorn and derision for starting the trouble. Moreover, the policeman related the accusations the swag-man had thrown at him, and his wife coming to hear of it, the life of poor Coop became a burden and a reproach, besides which he was haunted by a dread of divers and unknown penalties being inflicted on him in the event of the traveller being Bates himself.

The case went up to the neighboring town, but as it all rested on the alleged disappearance of a man whose existence no one was sure of, there was naturally nothing in it. Gobungalong being appealed to, replied that everyone but a wooden-headed Maranoo man knew that there was no such thing as an hospital in Gobungalong; consequently, there never had been a Tom Bates there. The letter containing the enclosure was returned.

The traveller was discharged, accordingly, with a stern admonition not to come to that part of New South Wales again playing jokes on quiet people. He apologised; said that he only wanted to walk the first few miles in the cool night, his meals had been paid for, he had committed no crime— would the bench see fit to grant him something from the poor-box to help him along after this unjust and unlawful detention.

The presiding magistrate said that he was very sorry, but there was no poor-box. The Maranoo people should give him something by way of compensation; but they had all hastily left the court.

Jarmyn assembled the subscribers and paid them back their subscriptions to the Bates fund; then he locked the note up, and Maranoo was happy and sleepy, once more.

One month afterwards the disgusted commercial who paid Maranoo a periodical visit came on his rounds. Jarmyn had an account with him, and handed him the torn £5 note in payment.

The commercial looked at it, smiled, and gave it back. "What's the matter with it?" asked the astonished publican. "Aint it a good 'un?"

"It was once upon a time," replied the commercial, "but that bank is one of those that have burst up."

Jarmyn looked at the commercial in astonishment and dismay. "Why, I got it from the branch bank in Oraka myself, and the bank was open the other day."

He looked again at the note long and wistfully. "Blamed if I think it's the same," he muttered. Nor was it. The note had been changed by the swagman— a common enough trick, and not requiring much dexterity, as the commercial explained.

"Bust me, if he didn't want compensation!" roared Jarmyn. "I'll compensate him if I catch him!"

Strange to say, the townsfolk, while most sympathetic, did not see their way to handing back the contributions Jarmyn had returned to them, and there are now two factions in the once sleepy town. The Jarmynites are those who did not subscribe, and the anti-Jarmynites are those who did. Both parties detest Coop, and the policeman is watching for an excuse to run him in.

______________

16: A Hypnotic Experiment

Ernest Favenc

Evening News (Sydney) 2 Sep 1899

I HAD LONG been interested in hypnotism, and as I fondly imagined, understood the science as well as a man without practical experience could. That was the trouble. In theory, I was perfect, but as yet my practical experience was limited to two attempts— both, I am bound to admit, failures. At this juncture my wife came to my rescue. She is of a mild and gentle disposition, and takes great interest in my scientific researches; but it never occurred to me that she could act as a subject for my experiments until after a conversation we held one day on the matter.

'There is a singular development in connection with hypnotism just recorded in this journal,' I said.

'What is it, Willy?' she asked.

'That if the person hypnotised thinks of some particular character, whether  of history or fiction, whom he or she admires, they assume that character under the hypnotic influence. Further, that the hypnotiser can imbue the patient with the notion that he or she is some historical personage. But that,' I added, 'was known before. The first part of the paragraph is, however, novel.'

We talked over it for some time, and presently my dear wife said shyly—

'Willy, suppose you try and hypnotise me. I will think of some favorite character. But mind, dear, you will not make me do anything foolish, will you?'

I assured her that I would not, and we commenced the experiment. To my astonishment it was a complete success.

'Now, Lucy,' I said, 'tell we who you are?'

The next moment I got a terrible blow in the face that nearly knocked me down.

'The most infectious pestilence upon thee!' said my wife. 'Hence, horrible villain! or I'll spurn thine eyes like balls before me; I'll unhair thy head!'

And she proceeded to do so by hauling me about by my beard, for I had no hair to speak of.

On she went: 'Thou shalt be whipped with wire and stewed in brine, smarting in lingering pickle!'

Good heavens! My gentle Lucy, who shrieked at a mouse, was transformed into Shakspere's Cleopatra. As well as I could under the difficult circumstances I removed the influence, but my wife had no sooner caught sight of me than she fell back on the sofa in1 a faint, with a cry of alarm. No wonder. The first blow had caused a rush of blood to my nose, and a second one had swelled my eye, whilst being haules about by the beard had left me slightly dishevelled. I must have been a pitiable sight indeed.

'Oh, what has happened?' she moaned, faintly.

"I'll tell you directly,' l said, behind my blood soaked handkerchief. 'I must go and stop this bleeding; it's only my nose.'

I went to my bedroom, and when the bleeding' had somewhat stopped I told her what had happened.

'Is Cleopatra, as portrayed by Shakspere, a favorite character of yours?' I asked.

My wife rather shamefacedly confessed that she did admire the domineering character of Cleopatra.

Here was a surprise. I should have thought that my wife would have admired one of the mild heroines of Jane Austen, but this disclosure took my breath away. It only shows how you can be married for years ana yet not know one another's character. However, we agreed to drop the experiments at present, but the thing had given me an idea.

We were not too well off, but I had expectations from an old aunt, so too unfortunately had another nephew, an idle scapegrace of a fellow, who would squander all she left him in a year or two. But, most unjustly, my respected aunt had rather a weakness for him, and naturally I felt very serious about my inheritance at times. Why shouldn't I make sure, invite my worthy relative to stay with me, persuade her to let me hypnotise her, and while in that condition make her promise to make her will in my favor, to the exclusion of the other unworthy nephew?

I mentioned the idea to my wife, and she and I arranged the details of our plot. I found, on consulting all my authorities on hypnotism, that a promise given under the hypnotic influence remained binding until the patient was relieved of it by the hypnotiser. Instances were cited of confirmed drunkards promising to refrain from drink, and adhering to the promise; and of course I thought all these cases true.

This was satisfactory. If I could only hypnotise the old lady my future was eafe. My aunt always enjoyed a visit to us. She was fond of her meals, and my wife was a capital cook; so she came readily on my invitation. I must admit-that her visits were not an unalloyed blessing, for she took every advantage of her position, and was as exacting in her demands as one woman could well be. However, when there is money at stake, one puts up with that sort of thing, although my wife used to have a good cry every night in the seclusion of our room. Indeed, I felt at times half inclined to hypnotise my wife, and let my aunt have a little experience of her in the character of Cleopatra.

However, my way was partly cleared for me, for my aunt was deeply interested in the subject of hypnotism, and therefore I began to talk about it, and the successful (God forgive me) experiments I had made. We had a series of mock hypnotisms, and my wife acted her part well, for I was careful not to make the hypnotism a realism. The old lady rose to the bait, and expressed a wish to be hypnotised.

It was a nervoue moment. What if I failed?

Fortunately, the old lady, my respected aunt, was a willing subject, and it was not long before I got her off into a real hypnotic trance; and I proceeded to question her on the subject of her will. She answered readily enough, and I  found out that beyond a poor £500, the whole of her property was left unreservedly , to her favorite nephew James. I told her that must be altered at once, and the name of William inserted instead of James. I hesitated whether I should allow James anything, but generosity prevailed, and I let him stand in for the £500.

I restored my respected aunt to her senses, and she expressed herself as much pleased at the success of the process. She stayed with us a little longer, and I repeated the mesmeric passes, and thoroughly fixed the will subject on her mind. We parted on the most affectionate terms, far more affectionate than ever we had been before.

A fortnight passed, and one day I received simultaneously a letter and a telegram. I opened the telegram.

My dear aunt had suddenly expired in a fit of apoplexy. Surely we had not overfed the dear creature?

The letter was from her, written the night before her sudden and lamented death. In it she upbraided me in a furious manner; said that I had made her a laughing stock and a show. She discarded me for ever, and I need not expect one penny of her money.

My wife and I gazed at each other in dismay. What on earth had occurred?

This is what happened, as I found out afterwards. That villain James heard somehow, through one of my servants I suppose, about the hypnotic experiments going on, and he laid a deep and artful scheme. There was at this time a mountebank performing in the town, who had a lot of miserable hired subjects whom he used to make perform all sorts of ludicrous and disgusting tricks under the pretended mesmeric influence.

To this entertainment James insisted on escorting my aunt. She asked to be taken out after a short time had elapsed, and appeared very pre-occupied and silent.

'James!' she said, when they got home, 'I have been staying with William, and while there he hypnotised me. Do you think he made a show of me, like that man did with his patients?'

'Not a doubt about it,' said the villain.

'What! Made me eat tallow candles and stick pins in myself?'

'Yes. In fact, I know, he did from one of the servants.'

My aunt nearly had a fit. Then she dismissed James, and wrote two letters— one to me, and one to her lawyers.

The next morning James turned up again, determined to drive the nail home, and told her a list of my atrocities that he pretended he had heard. He  had just described how I called up the servants and made her dance a hornpipe before them, when suddenly she choked, turned red, and went off in a fit of apoplexy from sheer rage. James had overdone it. When the lawyer arrived she was dead.

I shall never forget how James and I glared at one another while the lawyer opened the will. The hypnotic suggestion had held good, and James had cut his own throat. William got everything but the £500 which James got.

'I congratulate you, Mr. William,' said the lawyer. 'Your aunt only inserted your name about a fortnight ago.'

I have given up hypnotic experiments. I am quite satisfied about the matter.

____________________

17: The House of Many Mansions

Frederick Irving Anderson

1877-1947

The Saturday Evening Post, 17 March 1928

Anderson wrote a number of stories featuring Deputy Parr, and Oliver Anderson, the "extinct author" who had to fake his own death.

"NEXT TO the squealer," said Parr, the man hunter, making thoughtful repairs on a stogie,  "the little tin god of coincidence gets all my joss. The average crook spends about two-thirds of his life in jail simply because, though he might beat the cops, the long arm of coincidence is longer than the long arm of the law. If it wasn't for chance," said the police deputy, his eye roving over the street crowds— and doubtless some mechanism in the back of his head clicking now and then as he identified some familiar face— "if it wasn't for chance, Oliver, I'd be tailor— or maybe a shoemaker— like that fellow in the window "

He took off his hat and mopped his brow. It was one of those days of late winter when, though the city pavements are swept bare of every flake of snow that falls, there hangs in the air the smell of thaw from distant stream and wood. They paused for cross-tide traffic and there came alongside of them a shabby little fellow in two or three pairs of pants and a coat or two too many, who hugged himself, in addition, to keep warm. Parr regarded him as a strange bug.

"Yes," he went on, "one of those shoemakers in that window." He laughed "Recent remedial legislation designed to put crooks in jail and keep them there," he said, "has thinned out the good shooting in my district, I admit. Still, with squealers and coincidence, I manage to bag a good tropliy or two now and then " His eyes followed the little fellow, who, as rich in choice as any tramp with all time for his own, drifted over to the window where sat three shoemakers half-soling shoes for the edification of passers-by. Quite a little crowd stood watcinng, because city people are simple and easily amused.

Oliver Armiston chuckled to himself. Pelts! That shabby little fellow was Parr's man Friday, Pelts. The man hunter had undoubtedly recognized a "mug" out of his mental rogues' gallery in that shoemaker's window and had sent Pelts back to look it over. The deputy commissioner never walked abroad without this fellow Pelts trailing behind to keep watch of the wake, and his side partner. Morel, the handsome man, moving ahead as a scout. Pelts was undoubtedly a tramp at heart, whereas Morel looked like a society man— a profession requiring, as a starter, good looks, hne clothes, and a big income. No one would take either for a police detective.

"Coincidence is verboten in your business, isn't it?" said Parr, turning to his companion, the extinct author, as they moved forward again and swept into the Avenue.

"Why?" he asked "Is it because it is so true to life? Or because it isn't? Which?"

"It is the lazy man's way," explained Armiston.

"It keeps my jails full," said Parr complacently.

"It's not dramatic," said Oliver.

"Oh, isn't it? Listen. There was a famous porch climber who eluded us for three years— and all the time he was busy climbing porches. How did we get him finally? We didn't. He got himself. He accidentally stepped on the grass in the Park. That's a misdemeanor, punishable by a fine or ten days in jail if it is flagrant. A sparrow cop picked him up and brought him in." Parr chuckled. "Clever, eh?"

"Clever of your desk lieutenant to recognize him when he was brought in," agreed Armiston.

"No; clever of the coincidence," cried Parr. He produced his cane, which had been standing on its head in a very deep pocket of his ulster, and marched with it alongside. "Here is another. A crank writes a threatening letter to the President when he was in town last. Threatens to kill him. We trace the letter to the district it was mailed from. He probably votes. Such a man is apt to regard the franchise as a solemn duty. We examine the polling lists in that district. We find he has given his pedigree and signed his name in the same handwriting as the letter. Careless of him to mail that letter in the same district where he voted."

Parr's eyes moved this way and that, never still. He saw strange things in crowds, unseen by other eyes. Crooks knew him to the last hair. They studied him as rats study a cat they would like to hang a bell on It was a legend that a ripple of fear accompanied Parr wherever he went.

"Here's another!" Parr was harping on the same string for the edification of his author friend. "Did you read of the holdup last night?"

Oliver nodded. It was one of those atrocious crimes that leave the city aghast. Payroll bandits had backed a messenger into a hallway and shot him dead without a word. They escaped in a stolen car held in waiting. Around the corner they changed to a second car, also stolen. Half a mile farther on they changed to still a third car, which they picked up in passing. Thus the police had no description of the third car for another hour, when the owner reported his loss.

"A cunning get-away!" said Oliver.

"Except for one thing," agreed Parr. "The second car was cold. It didn't start very well and they were in a hurry. One of them got out and pushed. He left his finger-prints for us. We happen to have copies of them downtown." Parr turned his cold eye on Armiston "It is stylish among your type of philosophers," he expounded, "to say that nothing really ever happens, that things always occur. Isn't that a fact?"

"It is a fact that there is no effect without cause," agreed the bookish Armiston. "If that is what you mean."

"That is exactly what I mean," said Parr grimly. "Tell me, Mr. Philosopher, what induced this particular crook to get out and leave his mark on that car for me. It might just as well have been one of the others."

"Have you got him?"

"I will have him shortly," said the man hunter easily. His eyes beamed. '"I expect to be decorated by the French Government when I turn him in."

"Oh? Who is he?"

"Aristide Leblanc." Parr's tone was just above his breath.

Inwardly Anniston recoiled as if at a shot. But outwardly he preserved his poker face. In fact, he managed a humorous twinkle to the smile and bow he gave some friends passing in a car. To walk and talk with Parr one must be imperturbable; there was no telling how many eyes stared at them from ambush.

Aristide Leblanc was an apache who had cunningly obtained employment in a wealthy household as a butler— the family of Worthington Horn, a banker. He locked the family in the wine vault and abandoned them to die miserably beyond the reach of help, while he looted the house and walked off. Horn had dug his way to freedom literally by his finger nails, and just in time, too, for his wife had been at the point of succumbing. So terrible had been the ordeal that the banker pledged his life and his fortune to the running down of the apache and bringing him to justice. At present Horn was in Paris conferring with the French police.

"He was in hiding here, then?" exclaimed Armiston, shading the incredulity in his voice. Where could such a marked man conceal himself! Never had there been such a price on a man's head, such a hue and cry.

"He's never been away," replied Parr.

"I'd have gambled he was following Horn," said Oliver, "Just one step behind, in the shadow of the pursuit. That would have been the safest place for him " Then he added with conviction, "That fellow has finesse as well as cunning. You'll never get him'"

"He's left his card," said Parr, smiling.

"He makes no effort to cover his tracks! He seems rather proud of them, in fact," put in Oliver.

"I'll have him shortly," reiterated Parr confidently. "The percentage in favor of the bank is beginning to work against him. He can't beat coincidence. It's Fate! There comes a time when these things work out very simply, in spite of you fiction writers. Hello! What a magnificent fellow we have here!"

The exclamation was evoked by the sight of a door opener, in the regalia of a Dahomey potentate, handuig into her landau a woman in gorgeous furs— a woman of the type known among dressmakers as a "larger" woman, as distinguished from a stylish stout. There is something particularly menial about opening doors, it seems; and people who can afford the indulgence have it done with as much pomp and circumstance as possible. This truly magnificent fellow was as tall as a Swiss Guard, and he wore a clanking cloak plastered with medals. He bowed and bowed to the lady, and when he shut her m with a final polish of the door handle he continued to bow and 6ack away as if etiquette prescribed it.

"What a crib to crack," muttered Oliver Armiston, looking up at the embellished fagade and identifying it as that most opulent of recent apartment hotels, derisively known as the Golden Shekel. "Did you ever have a squeal from there, Parr?" he asked

Parr shook his head. No. He stopped at the next corner, looking down the Avenue and tapping the curb with the point of his stick. A taxi that might have been stalking him immediately drew up and proffered itself Parr was in the act of stepping in, when a blond young man of the type the English call a nob came to a halt in front of the mail box and began frantically searching himself. It was evident that the dumb letter box had just reminded him that he was to mail a letter, but he had forgotten the letter. Parr looked him over with a smile of pride.

"That door-knob polisher," he was saying to Armiston, and he stepped into the taxi— "that door-knob polisher—" and the taxi rushed forward. The young man was still canvassing his pockets for that letter. It was Morel, Parr's society specialist, called in for orders.

Oliver, for his part, would have liked to continue on foot because of all the rabbits Parr could kick up along the road. But the deputy evidently had something else on his mind. They ran into a traffic semaphore set against them, but they swung into the center of the Avenue with an angry honk and their car was put through, to ant accompaniment of peremptory police whistles, as if it were the King of the Belgians in town on another visit of thanks They had gone five blocks before the stalled traffic resumed. If Parr had been followed— as he usually was— this regal procedure snuffed out the lurking shadows. Half an hour later they arrived on foot at Oliver Anniston's home in a quiet side street in the lower Fifties.

Since the deputy had taken to calling on his friend Armiston, the extinct fiction writer, for an occasional tour de force of the imagination to help out in refractory cases, Parr had been coming here more and more, usually by some such devious route as he had just pursued. During the run of what was known as the insurance-window cast?— in which one crook had obligingly snuffed out another for him— Parr had installed a private wire here in Armiston's study, and he had conveniently neglected to remove it. It connected directly with Central Office. Many of his most famous cases had been brought to a successful conclusion in the seclusion of this quiet side street.

The deputy had hardly arranged himself in his favorite elbow chair before the fire when his telephone muttered discreetly. It was Morel reporting.

"What's that? You say you never saw him before!" cried Parr with the utmost ferocity.

Morel expatiated; as an added precaution he had turned the well-thumbed leaves of the rogues' gallery, pages that swung on hinges, like museum specimens. But the deputy was not to be mollified.

"Go back," he ordered. "Wait! Better get yourself invited to dinner. Can you?"

"I think I can arrange it, sir," said Morel meekly.

"Good! Find out what a crook is doing there as look-out. And don't tell me he isn't a crook!" He hung up.

"The carriage starter?" asked Oliver, "Did you recognize him as a crook?"

"No! He recognized me! Didn't you see how careful he was to keep his back turned to me?" cried Parr.

There must have been an unholy glamour about the person of the deputy for crooks, big and httle. In their dread they were always fearful he would recognize them. And in their childish vamty they were almost afraid he wouldn't. So they were forever revealing themselves, torn between vainglory and terror. This fellow gave himself away. The hours passed.

Shortly after eight o'clock that evening the figure of a lithesome young dancing man such as any hostess might have been proud of emerged from the Golden Shekel and decided to walk a little, for the air. It was Morel. He must have passed some secret office, for hardly was he out of the block when a magic invisible curtain of espionage fell, without a rustle, about the house of many mansions. In another ten minutes so closely was the Golden Shekel invested by the police that not a shadow could have emerged unobserved. Comings and goings continued apparently as usual, but with each departure a shadow detached itself, unseen.

The telephone muttered again discreetly. Parr listened, his eyes glowed like dull coals.

"Good!" he cried, and hung up. He turned on Oliver. It is more of an art to hold a poker face on good news that bad. This was triumph.

"It's a den of thieves," he said. "The place is crawling with crooks from cellar to garret."

"I thought they were all post-deflation millionaires of the most noisome type!" cried Oliver, aghast— getting the feel of the excitement.

Parr guffawed.

"Oh, not the tenants!" he roared "The help! Waiters, hallboys, maids, chefs, clerks— they are all crooks! And apparently on their good behavior. A kind of sanctuary!" Parr's face wore the smile of a benign cannibal. Then he added in his voix blanche, "Your friend Aristide Leblanc is the maitre d'hôtel. Tossing this hand grenade into Oliver's lap, he sat back smiling and bowing.

Even the clocks for the moment seemed to forget their occasions and cease to tick; then they all began again, thudding in Oliver's eardrums. Parr, with the light touch of a watchmaker, deftly broke of the ash of his stogy. It wasn't often things fell out so nicely. He eyed Oliver.

"Rot!" snorted Armiston. He glared at Parr.

"Wait," counseled the deputy. He breathed triumph. Morel should be here any moment.

"He is hiding there— Leblanc?" cried Oliver, unwilling to believe.

"Could you think of a better place to hide?" beamed the deputy.

Oliver pulled up sharp. "By George, you're right!" he exclaimed excitedly. "Nobody ever goes there! They are social pariahs. Parr, that apache has more than low cunning. He has brains! If it hadn't been for that lookout—"

"Haven't I been telling you?" interposed Parr. "A crook can't beat coincidence. Its arm is too long."

It was almost laughable that the vanity, the craving of that petty crook on the door should reveal the abri of the crafty Leblanc,

"Is he disguised?" demanded Armiston, breathless now.

"I suppose you would say so, yes," said Parr complacently. "But not for Morel. Morel spent two years in Bertillon work. You couldn't fool an anthropologist with a faked Piltdown skull, could you? No. Well, no more could you fool Morel with a faked Leblanc. Here he is!"

The housekeeper, all smiles, was ushering in a faultless young man, done over for evening. Oliver, who knew Morel well, was amazed when he got out of his coat. He looked so much like someone else, anyone but himself. Even if the matutinal Morel had been known among crooks— and Parr was very careful that he should not be— it would have taken an anthropologist now to pierce the disguise which he seemed to have put on by the mere act of dressing for dinner. Some women do the same thing merely by going to their hairdresser's.

"You managed your get-away all right?" asked Parr, eying Morel narrowly.

"I think so, sir, yes," answered the young dandy. There was a slight tremor in his voice, as if for the first time he let down. The bare question may momentarily have shaken him. If Armiston had doubted before, he was without doubt now. He knew these two and he detected the swift interchange between them. Inured by the many dangers they had faced together, they used unconsciously a pantomime that was beyond words in moments like this. This was touch and go!

"Is everything tight?" muttered Parr.

Morel nodded.

"I left Burke in charge, sir "

"And Pelts?"

Morel shook his head. He didn't know.

Armiston had a momentary vision of the last he had seen of Pelts — the forlorn little fellow pressing his nose against the show window while he watched, with glazed look, that shoemaker. If Pelts had one fault it was that he was hard to call off, once he had the scent.

Morel explained the disposition of the men. Various effects, geographical and other, contributed to perfection in this investiture. In the first place, the Golden Shekel, rearing fifteen stories into the air, stood on a corner opposite the Park, behind whose wall a whole regiment could be planted. At a signal from Parr as their Roderick Dhu, those drear winter thickets would suddenly become alive with bonnet and spear and bended bows. Only a stone's throw away stood the old arsenal, a windy old police barracks, where reserves were held in readiness for any emergency.

"Now, let's see. Who are our neighbors?"

"On the street side, said the complete Morel, who seemed to have chinked every crevice before coming in, "is a private dwelling occupied, it so happens, by your colleague, Deputy Konheim of the Automobile Bureau. I put two men in his cellar. I thought they might crawI and back burrow under the walls."

Parr roared with delight.

"The little tin god of coincidence!" he cried. "As you say, it is the lazy man's method, Oliver! See, I sit here and let it work for me.... Go on, Morel."

"On the other side," said Morel, "is new construction—  the new Towers the McClintick people are erecting. It's up to the twentieth floor."

"Yes. Nothing but a steel skeleton yet. We might put in our own gang as watchmen "

"I made the arrangement, sir," responded Morel.

"Remember, there are eyes looking out as well as in," cautioned Armiston. It fired his imagination, the way this curtain was drawn.

"Now tell us what you had for dinner " said Parr between his teeth. Now they came to the crux of it.

ii

EVERY LITTLE while certain rich people decide that nothing available through the regular channels costs quite enough. The weight of ready money is appalling. Their constant craving is for something more expensive, to distinguish their taste from that of the lower strata. Then they reach the peak of extravagance still unappeased, in very desperation they paint the lily for themselves. Sometimes it is a motor car, especially designed from sump pump to door tassels, of which a limited edition of signed copies is privately issued— much as a forbidden book is circulated. These hand-tooled vehicles seldom run, but at least the curse of cheapness has been circumvented.

The Golden Shekel was an expression of tnis yearning for the reek of wealth in housing. Impossible as it may seem, every apartment had a private entrance and a private automatic lift. It was really a house of many mansions piled one on the other.

The subscribers shared the same servants, breathed the same air and used the same street; also they had a common salle a manger , where, dressed for one another, they dined in the evening. It was said the food was gold plated. Otherwise each lived in his own automatic niche.

Morel bathed and changed, and dug up an acquaintance to take him in. One had to be taken in, it was that exclusive. In lugubrious state, amid the overstuffed splendors of the banquet hall of the Golden Shekel, Parr's handsome man readily passed inspection. He had a way of looking the perfect sap instead of the sophisticate, quite a trick of countenance when you may be under an observation as shrewd as your own. It was a mask ordinarily as impenetrable as the one of black silk Morel wore mornings downtown when he reviewed, with his Bertiilon eye, the crooks brought in for the line-up.

So far, so good! Morel turned in response to a murmured question in his ear involving a technic of gastronomy and found himself staring, nose to nose with Aristide Leblanc— whom Morel, too, believed to be just one step behind the suddenly implacable Worthington Horn in Paris. It was an emergency there is no school for. One must be endowed with an iron nerve and a coordination of all the faculties that bespeaks the perfect sub- conscious state.

"A pheasant's egg— little high, gentleman, crushed in the sauce," the maitre was suggesting, with that flattering assumption of equality some of these distinguished gentlemen can sometimes confer.

In that moment Morel, the perfect collector, found himself examining, with the utmost fascination, the point of Aristide's jaw, which in this specimen, as rarely occurs, suggested a pair of mandibles united by a central suture for a chin, instead of the single inframaxillary. Also he noted methodically the alveolar and auricular points, and the asterion and the angle of the condyles—trick sign-posts in the voodoo of craniometry. To the eye of the expert the face had been insidiously lifted. A plucked eyebrow replaced the distinctive lowering effect of the erstwhile child of Nature; a slight tightening of the lower eyelids gave the face a wholly new regard. There is jeauty doctor who does this thing for the trade. Morel canvassed these improvements with artistic valuation.

"Crushed through a fork and whipped into the oil," urged Aristide seductively; he lowered his voice: "It is for the gourmet only, gentleman!" he said. His baleful gaze, in turn, from force of habit, took Morel's cranial points to pieces, but with less-informed analysis.

Morel shook his head. If it must be egg in the sauce; then a near-by henery white. He could order a dinner to allay suspicion in any quarter; nevertheless, he drew the line on high flavors.

Morel sat tight from soup to nuts, his amazement growing. Just as Lloyd's, of London, list missing ships year after year, so the police post among themselves the names of big crooks who sink without a trace in the ooze of crime. This attrition is continuous, because crime breeds its own virus and takes a bigger toll of its votaries than do the forces of retributive justice. Else, Parr would need more than squealers and coincidence to keep up with the parade. There is no port of missing ships But here, under the ornate roof of this blatant house of many mansions, was such a cache of jail-birds as might win the chevrons of a whole police force. In fact, Morel at the first blush of this embarrassment of riches could hardly restrain his impulse to dash out and call the wagon.

The apache himself was a day's work for anyone. The man on the door, whose vanity had inadvertently touched off this bonanza, was a mere jackal following on the heels of the lions who lolled inside. The first familiar face Morel had encountered was that of Manny Sheftels, deep-sea card sharp, who had conveniently disappeared over the side in a recent winter passage. Some of his victims would not be too happy to find him safe on earth and brought to book, for Manny had a sly talent for making his accusers appear contemptible. Redrawn, it is true, but still unmistakably Manny to a Bertillon eye. He seemed to occupy the position of social prompter here among these innocents. Elegance under this roof being of a variety such as only a movie director could beget in the sins of his cinema palaces, the dapper Manny fitted admirably as arbiter elegantarium.

With more of a trade flavor, there was Little Joe Mangin, soup expert— safe cracker— recently out of Leavenworth— under the walls, not through the big front gate. He was the checker on the kitchen door, his valued fingers tamping rubber stamps instead of nitroglycerine during the interregnum.

The cigarette girl was Pin-Point Annie, manipulator of a dozen night-club cloak-room holdups. She was noted for her nervous trigger finger. She was out on bail, overdue, in fact. Among the elegant waiters were such mellifluous artists as Tony the Plasterer— with an arm like cordwood— Soft-Shoe Ferry, the Human Fly; Killer Depuis; hovering over a lady from the oil fields, apparently oblivious of her lavish display of ice— platinum-mounted ice— that decorated the horizontal bosom, was Spanish John, the garroter. So the roster ran.

But most astonishing of all was the unveiling of a recent acquisition to Parr's collection of rare prints downtown— in the person of the resident manager. At first sight his face did not quite isolate itself for filing in the well- ordered card index in the back of Morel's head. Then it came to him. It was Vincent Delby, absconding bank cashier from Seattle— one of those rare birds who build up a lifetime of rectitude for one single splurge of crime. Delby had walked out on his board of directors one fine day after shipping the portable assets of his administration ahead of him.

Morel came to a pause at this point in his recital. The great man hunter, who had never drawn such a net as this before, shook his head, smiling with that look of foolish incredulity which denies an overwhelming event.

"Vincent Delby," he repeated. His lip curled, "The amateur! Do you imagine for a moment he knows where he is? He does not!"

Usually these amateurs, for whom the police had such scorn, did not get very far. Too late they learn that thieving is a trade that requires an apprenticeship. Crooks shelter one another, the amateur has no place to go. Yet someone somewhere had reached out and touched this bank wrecker on the shoulder and guided him— and his loot, you may be sure — to this haven of refuge. Now he was using his undoubted talents to promote the splendors of life for the subscribers at the Golden Shekel, in return for the protective coloring they, unsuspecting, gave him a retouched Vincent Delby, but undoubtedly, if Parr knew the breed, a quaking fugitive suspicious of every footfall.

There was a long pause, each peopling it with his own thoughts. Morel was consciously smiling, as if laboring under the flattery of great personal achievement. Parr scowled villainously at the fire. Oliver tugged at his single white lock.

"Who's running it?" asked Oliver. "There must be head."

"I couldn't make out," said Morel. "Delby is the front of course, but he is only the stuffed shirt. There is someone else."

"Leblanc," said Parr grimly. "He knows the business. It takes a man of superb endowments to get away with it there. And it takes a cold-blooded killer to hold that gang in leash. Think of the tons of stuff under their very noses!"

There was another silence. Through it there came the long-drawn-out wail of agony of a fire siren, like the cry of a panther, it rose on the air, flooded every crevice with clamor. All heads turned as if stirred by some atavistic dread. The eerie cry sank to a whimper, then died away. The staccato exhaust of some great cannonading fire truck smote the resonant air of night with blows like the hammer of Vulcan Then the horrible siren cry rode the wind again. A great many indignant people have written letters to The Times asking "Why do you make so much noise going to a fire, when the streets are empty?" The answer is for children: "To remind you not to play with matches!" From near and far came the clang of bells, screams big and little, echoing and reechoing among the empty streets.

"That's nearby," said Oliver.

Parr's telephone rang. Burke speaking.

"The Towers is burning. I thought maybe you'd want to know, sir."

"The Towers? There's nothing to burn— nothing but steel girders "

"It's in some falsework— planks and timbers— that the workmen use. It's two hundred feet up in the air."

"Sew up the block with the reserves," commanded Parr. "Let no one come in, not even a reporter."

"But if they have to get out— out of the Golden Shekel! What then? Embers are failing all around it!"

"I expect likely," laughed the deputy. "Well, they can't. I'll be right over."

He hung up. He arose and put on his things, as did the others.

"My little tin god is working overtime for me tonight," he said, laughing. "I didn't want to pull that joint until daylight, so we could see just what we were doing. Now we've got a nice fire next door. We might dig up a little panic in the Golden Shekel and drive out our precious lambs, one by one, into our waiting arms." He usually chose the simple way, avoiding, as much as possible, the sensational exploitation of his acts in the press. "Well, we'll see what it looks like first," he said grimly.

They hurried on, Morel running ahead. When they turned the corner into the Avenue the spectacle in its rare magnificence broke on them as if framed for a picture. High up above the roof tops, like something floating unsupported in the night, the bud of flame gently swayed in a graceful fire dance It was one of those nights with no moon, and there were no low-lying clouds to reflect the luminescence of the city streets; the fire blazed placidly against the clean background of the night. Now and then a balk of timber— probably a 12 by 12 that the big derricks up there handled like tooth-picks— dislodged itself and fell, a blazing plummet, to the street below.

Or some lighter stuff, with little plumes of flame blowing this way and that, wafted in spirals like a falling leaf. But the spectacle was all up above.

It was the theater hour, when just before midnight, for a brief moment, traffic in the Avenue surges to full tide, to die away as suddenly. This traffic, all northbound, people going home, was jammed against the rigid police lines ahead. The passengers in their gay wraps crowded the sidewalks with cries of amazement and delight.

"Look at that!" cried Parr, halting and pointing in sheer admiration. "Did you ever see a shot like that in the movies? No, you didn't!"

His jubilant cry was occasioned by a new aspect to the picture. Against the dull outline of that skyscraper skeleton, on top of which the pyre burned, there now appeared crawling fireflies. First a single one, then another, several, six and more. They moved slowly, with a stop and go, climbing floor by floor, up and up toward the blazing timber. They were firemen with lanterns and fire ex- tinguishers, mounting by scaling ladders. Climbing with a scalmg ladder is the test for a fireman. When he stops doing that he stops being a fireman, goes out to pasture.

The deputy broke into a run; the boy in him got the better of him. Oliver hung to his heels. They pushed aside the crowd, the bulldog visage of Parr winning for them a breach in the police lines that otherwise stood like a rock. Burke was evidently taking no chances until his chief arrived to take charge. Inside the sacred vacuum of the police lines there stood only the highly privileged Golden Shekel, with a newly swarmed clump of police pluggmg its every exit. There was about it ail the sprawl of fire apparatus. Directly below, the spectacle was dwarfed into insignificance This was only a seven-minute wonder, after all, Parr, with a sigh, saw that he could not turn it to account, that he would have to wait till day-light to back up his wagon. He passed the word to Morel: Not a soul was to be permitted to emerge from the Golden Shekel— those were fire orders! The patrols and hose wagons, and odds and ends that trail along with such noisy jubilance whenever a fire calls, were winding in their hose lengths, folding tarpaulins, gathering personnel and backing off and going back home for another wink and nod. There was no chance to get water up there in the clouds. It was up to the scaling-ladder crew.

Parr wandered over to the hook-and-ladder truck that mothered those intrepid climbers.

"Jerry, my old pal!" he burst out happily. He seized the grizzled old captain, who had a megaphone strapped across his face, and wrung his hand. "Why, Jerry, I thought you were retired and out to grass years ago!'' cried the enthusiastic Parr.

Capt. Jeremiah Gilhooley, who had followed the trucks through snow and ice for forty years, started back, stung to the quick by such an insult. The deputy, quick to see his mistake, turned the subject.

"Those are fine lads you've got there," he cried heartily. The lanterns were still crawling up and up in that interminable climb, painfully slow and small now.

"And why should I retire when I can climb a pole?" cried the outraged Captain Gilhooley, not to be diverted. And to prove it he snatched a scaling ladder off the truck, hooked it onto the cornice above him with a single thrust and started up like a monkey. Gaining the first horizontal girder, he clung there precariously while he drew up his ladder and swung it above his head for another hold. And up he went another notch. He roared through his megaphone to the fireflies above him, "Step lively, ye terriers! I'll be treading on yer tail!"

The first firefly lantern was on the level of the fire now; then the second and the third winked out as it crawled out of sight over the ledge. Those crawling fire-flies below continued to ascend, winking themselves out one by one over the top, the brave captain with the rest, when, of a sudden, as if from some great ghostly hand clamped over it, that blazing pyre aloft — that must have shone like a beacon for ships at sea— died down and whipped out. The fire was out! That was all there was to it!

After an interval a lantern looked over that high ledge and the descent began. It was even more breath-taking, their climbing down, than going up.

"I'd better fade out of the picture," laughed Parr. "That fellow Jerry will want to fight when he gets back. Never, Oliver, suggest to a cop or a fireman that he is old enough to retire!"

Parr moved into the background. Morel came up.

"All snug?"

Parr, as he asked the question, let his keen eyes explore the outlines of the precious Golden Shekel The face of Vincent Delby, the bank wrecker out of Seattle, could be seen pressing itself against the barred windows giving on the street. That amateur fugitive was doubtless the prey to the most terrible fears, even now when the excitement had died down and the chances of his being driven into the open seemed remote.

"All snug, sir," reported Morel. "They are like a herd of cattle in a burning barn. We'd have to go in and drag them out if we wanted them!"

It was all over. Hook and Ladder Truck Number Thirty Blank, Captain Jeremiah Gilhooley, was departing, its bell tolling gently its farewell hymn and its siren murmuring sotto voce as it gathered speed. It cut a path through the jammed crowd behind the police lines with a sudden threatening snarl of a panther aroused, but in another moment ail that came back on the night air was the rhythmic purr of its sweet-running motor. There is nothing so tame as a fire truck going back home.

Now there were police whistles sounding, and sharp commands; then the police lines broke and let the flood through.

"Keep them moving, Burke!" commanded Parr. "No jamming in front of the place, remember! I'll see you at daylight."

Parr and Oliver walked home. It was only a few blocks and there was a zest in the night air for tired brains. Inside, Parr folded his hands over his ample girth and settled back in his favorite elbow chair for a wink and a nod. This was one of those nights when he would take a hot towel in lieu of a bed. Oliver, for his part, had suddenly become wide awake. The tips of his fingers were itching. A sure sign! He did most of his thinking with the tips of his fingers— an old trick from his days of story writing. He softly opened his desk and brushed the keys of his faithful typewriter, letting those gifted cerebral ganglia in the fingertips waft him hither and yon, on the wings of fancy. As he wrote, there gently nudged his thoughts the low wail of a fire siren. Suddenly he came to a halt and shook Parr violently.

"Parr! Wake up, Parr!"

''Yes— yes "

"Are you awake, Parr?"

"Yes!" said Parr, in that abused tone of the guilty.

"You'd better telephone your friend Gilhooley

"Eh? What's the—"

"See if he's got home yet, Parr!"

Oliver frantically shook the deputy.

"Wake up, Parr! Wake up!"

He seized the telephone and jammed it into Parr's hand.

Parr suddenly was wide-awake; with one sweep he seized the phone. He called for a connection through Central Office. Before he asked his question he knew what the answer would be. The answer would be no. In that swift moment, like a man drowning, the whole panorama floated before his eyes.

Aristide Leblanc, the apache! The apache climbed over from his own roof and set the fire in that pile of plank and timber! Then he and his murderous crew lay in wait for the scaling ladders to come crawling over that parapet one by one. One by one! Oh, it was poetically simple! Aristide Leblanc took care of that crew of firemen, one by one, as they came over the top.

Then Aristide calmly put out the fire with a squirt of the extinguishers, borrowed the firemen's helmets and coats and scaling ladders. And down there in the street Aristide borrowed that hook-and-ladder truck, and with the bell tolling gently the farewell hymn and the siren muttering sotto voce, under the admiring eyes of Mr. Farr and his cohorts Aristide drove away, till even the soft purr of the engine was lost to sound. Where were they now? Where? What difference did it make? Who would think of stopping a rampant fire truck, no matter how much noise it was making, no matter where it was going?

"They don't answer, chief."

"They are not expected to," responded the deputy wearily. "Flash Morel for me!" He rubbed his head, felt of it tenderly to see if it was there. "Morel!" He snarled, he swore horribly. What the shocked Morel, who had been playing pinochle at the arsenal, waiting for dawn, got out of it was that he should go at once to the roof of the Golden Shekel and find there the dead bodies of the crew of Hook and Ladder Truck Number Thirty Blank.

Parr arrived on the scene in person before Morel found them. The hovering Delby, the amateur, who, it seemed had been left behind, along with some others too old for the climb, followed them, tremulous, hoping against hope. There were so many doors and shafts to guard the magnificent isolation of the subscribers that it was some time before they found the right chute to take them to the roof. The crew of the fire truck had been stored in the penthouse, just big enough for the purpose. They were tied tight, Captain Gilhooley and all his brave men. Each sported a welt the size of an egg over one eye, the fruit of a soft-nosed bludgeon wielded by the unerring apache. Otherwise they were unmarked and all alive. They had no story to tell. They had simply been extinguished one by one as they came crawling over that parapet. Parr's men were sweeping up the agonized Vincent Delby and the others, and were leaving. When all was said and done Parr turned on Morel with curling lip.

"So you didn't make your getaway all right, after all?" he snarled.

Morel would have taken oath that he had withdrawn without disturbing that picture. Certainly that villainous apache, in his guise of maitre, had not visibly turned a hair under Morel's scrutiny,

Parr, snatching at straws, asked savagely "Where's Pelts?"

No one had seen him. Pelts, the scent in his nostrils, was probably fatuously chasing that shoemaker that Parr had set him on earlier in this fateful day.

At midnight an abandoned fire truck was reported loitering in Pelham Parkway, Westchester. At two there came a cipher message by wire from New Haven. Parr raced to Curtiss Field by auto.

An intrepid flyer, in his pajamas, said, "We don't take off at night. We can't make a landing. That's elemental!"

"We'll hover till dawn!" commanded Parr, with so much pent-up venom in the words that they took off at once; they arrived over Boston just when the first pink of day showed beyond the Light.

It was shortly after eight in the morning that a long low rakish-looking parlor-car motorbus, of trunk-line vintage and as squat as a long-wheel-base hippopotamus, rumbled softly down the runway and entered the terminal. It had been delayed in leaving New York this night by tire trouble, and most of its passengers had gone over to a rival. But fortunately, passing through City Island, off Pelham Bay, it had picked up a dozen emergency passengers. So the trip had not been a dry haul after all.

Parr and two hundred men, the finest the police force of Boston affords, enveloped the motorbus as it came to a soft stop and carefully extracted therefrom Aristide Leblanc, the apache, and ten companions, together with their luggage, which was very heavy. This luggage contained all the portable loot to be had on short notice from the Golden Shekel.

"I'll take care of this little fellow," said Parr, taking out of the line-up a shabby forlorn creature in two or three pairs of pants and a coat or two too many. Since dropping overboard with that message to Parr at New Haven, Pelts had been curled up in a chair behind the apache, to all intents, asleep.

"Chief," cried the exultant Pelts, "you are a wonder! That shoemaker— remember that shoemaker you sent me back for? He was the outside man for this gang of crooks. Every so often he went up there and looked their place over, to see if it was all right. He was the one that tipped them off and started the fire on the roof. I was pinned to his tail!" said Pelts with the feeble smile of a shy man who nevertheless has his pride.

_______________

18: A Dramatic Point

Robert Barr

1850-1912

Casino and Kyogle Courier and North Coast Advertiser (NSW) 8 Feb 1908

Pearson's Magazine, January 1896

IN the bad days of Balmeceda, when Chili was rent in twain, and its capital was practically a besieged city, two actors walked together along the chief street of the place towards the one theatre that was then open. They belonged to a French dramatic company that wonld gladly have left Chili if it could but, being compelled by stress of war to remain, the company did the next best thing, and gave performances at the principal theatre on such nights as a paying audience came.

A stranger wonld hardly have suspected, by the look of the streets, that a deadly war was going on, and that the rebels— so called— were almost at the city gates. Although business was ruined, credit dead, and no man's life or liberty safe, the streets were filled with a crowd that seemed bent on enjoyment and making the best of things.

As Jacques Dupré and Carlos Lemoine walked together they conversed earnestly, not of the real war so close to their doors, but of the mimio confliots of the stage. M. Dupré was the leading man of the company, and he listened with the amused tolerance of an elder man to the energetic vehemence of the younger.

'You are all wrong, Dupré,' cried Lemoine, 'all wrong. I have studied the subject. Remember I am saying nothing against your acting in general. You know you have no greater admirer than I am, and that is something to say when the members  of a dramatic company are usually at loggerheads through jealousy.'

'Speak for yourself, Lemoine. You know I am green with jealousy of you. You are the rising star and I am setting. You can't teach an old dog new tricks, Carl, my boy.'

'That's nonsense, Dupré. I wish you I would consider this seriously. It is because you are so good on the stage that I can't bear to see you false to your art, just to please the gallery. You should be above all that.'

'How can a man be above his gallery— the highest spot in the house? Talk sense, Carlos, and then I'll listen.'

'Yes, you're flippant, simply because you know you're wrong, and dare not argue this matter soberly. Now she stabs you through the heart—'

'No. False premises entirely. She says something about my wicked heart, and evidently intends to pierce that depraved organ, but a woman never hits what she aims at, and I deny that I'm ever stabbed through the heart. Say in the region or the neighbourhood of the heart, and go on with your talk.'

'Very well. She stabs you in a spot so vital that you die in a few minutes. You throw up your hands, you stagger against the mantle-shelf, you tear open your collar— and then grope at nothing, you press your hands on your wound and take two reeling steps forward, you call feebly for help and stumble against the sofa, which you fall upon, and, finally, still groping wildly, you roll off on the floor, where you kick out once or twice, your clenched hand comes down with a thud on the boards, and all is over.'

'Admirably described, Carlos. Lord! I wish my audience paid such attention to my efforts as you do. Now you claim this is all wrong, do you?'

'All wrong.'

'Suppose she stabbed you, what would you do?'

'I— I would plunge forward on my face— dead.'

'Great Heavens! What would become of your curtain?'

'Oh, hang the curtain!'

'It's all very well for you to maledict the curtain, Carl, but you must work up to it.  Your curtain would come down, and your gallery wouldn't know what has happened. Now I go through the evolutions you so graphically describe, and the audience gets time to take in the situation. They say, chuckling to themselves, "that viliian's got his dose at last, and serve him right, too." They want to enjoy his struggles, while the heroine stands grimly at the door taking care that, he doesn't get away. Then when my fist comes down flop on the stage and they realize that I am indeed done for, the yell of triumph that goes up in something delusions to hear.'

'That's just the point, Dupre. I claim the actor has no right to hear applause— that he should not know there is such a thing as an audience. His business is to portray life exactly as it is.'

'You can't portray iife in a death scene, Carl.'

'Dupré, I lose all patience with you, or rather I would did I not know that you are much deeper than you would have us suppose. You apparently won't see that I am very much in earnest about this.'

'Of course you are, my boy; and that is one reason why you will becomo a very great actor. I was ambitious myself once, but as we grow older—' Dupré shrugged his shoulders—'well, we begin to have an eye on box-office receipts. I think you sometimes forget that I am a good deal older than you are.'

'You mean that l am a fool, and that I may learn wisdom with age. I quite admit that you are a better actor than I am; in fact I said so only a moment ago, but—'

'You wrong me, Brutus: I said an older soldier, not a better. But I will take you on your own ground. Have you ever seen a man stabbed or shot through the heart?'

'I never have, hut I know mighty well he wouldn't undo his necktie afterwards.'

Dupré threw back his head and laughed. 'Who is flippant now?' he asked.

'I don't undo my necktie, I merely tear off my collar, which a dying man may surely be permitted to do. But until you have seen a man die from such a stab as I receive every night, I don't understand how you can justly find fault with my rendition of the tragedy. I imagine, you know, that the truth lies between the two extremes. The man done to death would likely not make such a fuss as I make, nor would he depart so quickly as you say he would, without giving the gallery gods a show for their money. But here we are at the theatre, Carlos, and this acrimonious debate is closed— until we take our next walk together.'

In front of the theatre, soldiers were on duty, marching up and down with muskets on their shoulders, to show that the state was mighty and could take charge of a theatre as well as conduct a war. There were many loungers about, which might have indicated to a person who did not know, but there would be a good house when the play began.

The two actors met the manager in the throng near the door.

'How are prospects to-night?' asked Dupré.

'Very poor,' replied the manager. 'Not half-a-dozen seats have been sold.'

Then it isn't worth while beginning?'

'We must begin,' said the manager, lowering his voice, 'the President has ordered me not to close the theatre.'

'Oh, hang the President!' cried Lemoine impatiently. 'Why doesn't he put a stop to the war, and then the theatre would remain open of its own accord.'

'He is doing his best to put a stop to the war, only his army does not carry out his orders as implicitly as our manager does,' said Dupré, smiling at the other's vehemence.

'Balmeceda is a fool,' retorted the younger actor. 'If he were out of the way, the war would not last another day. I believe he is playing a losing game anyhow. It's a pity he hasn't to go to the front himself, and then a stray bullet might find him and put an end to the war, which would save the lives of many better men.'

'I say, Lemoine, I wish you wouldn't talk like that,' expostulated the manager gently, 'especially when there are so many listeners.

'Oh! the larger my audience, the better I like it,' rejoined Lemoine. 'I have all an actor's vanity in that respect. I say what I think, and I don't care who hears me.'

'Yes, but you forget that we are, in a measure, guests of this country, and we ehould not abuse our hosts, or the man who represents them.'

'Ah, does he represent them? It seems to me that begs the whole question; that's just what the war is about. The general opinion is that Balmeceda misrepresents them, and that the country would be glad to be rid of him.'

'That may well be,' said the manager almost in a whisper, for he was a man evidently inclined towards peace; 'but it does not rest with us to say so. We are French, and I think, therefore, it is better not to express an opinion.'

'I'm not French,' cried Lemoine. 'I'm a native Chilian, and I have a right to abuse my own country if I ohoose to do so.'

'All the more reason, then,' said the manager, looking timorously over his shoulder— 'all the more reason that you should be careful what you say.'

'I suppose,' said Dupré, by way of putting an end to the discussion, 'it is time for us to get our war paint on. Come along, Lemoine, and lecture me on our common art, and stop talking politics, if the nonsense you utter about Chili and its president is politics.'

The two actors entered the theatre; they occupied the same dressing-room, and the volatile Lemoine talked incessantly.

Although there were but few people in the stalls the gallery was well filled, as was usually the case. When going on for the last act in the final scene, Dupré whispered a word to the man who controlled the falling of the curtain, and when the actor, as the villain of the piece, received the fatal knife thrust from the ill-used heroine, he plunged forward on his face and died without a struggle, to the amazement of the manager, who was watching the play from the front of his house, and to the evident bewilderment of the gallery, who had counted on an exciting struggle with death.

Much as they desired the cutting off of the villain, they were not pleased to see him so suddenly shift his worlds without an agonising realisation of the fact that he was quitting an existence in which he had done nothing but evil. The curtain came down upon the climax, but there was no applause, and the audience silently filtered out into the street.

'There,' said Dupré, when he returned to the dressing-room; 'I hope you are satisfied now, Lemoine, and if you are, you are the only satisfied person in the house. I fell perfectly flat, as you suggested, and you must have seen that the climax of the play fell flat also.'

'Nevertheless,' persisted Lemoine, stoutly, 'it was the true rendition of the part.'

As they were talking the manager came into their dressing-room.

'Good Heavens, Dupre!' he said, 'why did you end the piece in that idiotic way? What on earth got into you?'

'The knife,' said Dupré, flippantly. 'It went directly through the heart, and Lemoine here, insists that when that happens a man should fall dead instantly. I did it to please Lemoine.'

'But you spoiled your curtain,' protested the manager.

'Yes, I knew that would happen, and I told Demoine so; but he insists on art for art's sake. You must expostulate with Lemoine, although I don't mind telling you both frankly that I don't intend to die in that way again.'

'Well, I hope not,' replied the manager. 'I don't want, you to kill the play as well as yourself, you know, Dupré.'

Lemoine, whose face had by this time become restored to its normal appearance, retorted hotly:—

'It all goes to show how we are surrounded and hampered by the traditions of the stage. The gallery wants to see a man die all over the place, and so the victim has to scatter the furniture about and make a fool of himself generally, when he should quietly succumb to a well deserved blow. You ask any physician and he will tell you that a man stabbed or shot through the heart collapses at once. There is no jumping back business in such a ease. He doesn't play at leap-frog with the chairs aud sofas, but sinks instantly to the floor and is done for.'

'Come along, Lemoine, cried Dupré, putting on his coat, 'and stop talking nonsense. True art consists in a judicious blending of the preconceived ideas of the gallery with the actual facts of the case. An instantaneous photograph of a trotting-horse is doubtless technically and absolutely correct, yet it is not a true picture of the animal in motion.'

'Then you admit,' said Lemoine, quickly, ' that I am technically correct in what I state about the result of such a wound.'

'I admit nothng, said Dupré. 'I don't believe your are correct in anything you say about the matter. I suppose the truth is that no two men die alike under the same circumstances.'

'They do when the heart is touched.'

'What absurd nonsense you talk. No two men act alike when the heart is touched in love, why then should they when it is touched in death? Come along to the hotel, and let us stop this idiotic discussion.'

'Ah!' sighed Lemoine, ' you will throw your chances away. You are too careless, Dupré, you do not study enough. This kind of thing is all well enough in Chili, but it will wreck your chances when you go to Paris. If you studied more deeply, Dupré, you would take Paris by storm.'

'Thanks,' said Dupre, lightly,' but unless the rebels take this city by storm, and that shortly, we may never see Paris again. To tell the truth, I have no licarc for anything but tho heroine's knife. I am sick and tired of the situation here.'

As Dupré spoke they met a small squad of soldiers coming briskly towards the theatre. The man in charge evidently recognised them, for saying a word to his men, they instantly surrounded the two actors. The sergeant touched Lemoine on the shoulder, and said:

'It is my duty to arrest you, Sir.'

'In Heaven's name, why?' asked Lemoine.

The man did not answer, but a soldier stepped to either side of Lemoine.

'Am I under arrest also?' asked Dupré.

'No.'

'By what authority do you arrest my friend?' inquired Dupre.

'By the president's order.'

'But where is your authority? Where are your papers? Why is this arrest made?'

The sergeant shook his head and said: 'We have the orders of the President, and that is sufficient for us. Stand back, please ?'

The next instant Dupré found himself alone, with the squad and their prisoner disappearing from a back street. For a moment he stood there as if dazed, then he turned and ran as fast as he could, back to the theatre again, hoping to meet a carriage for hire on the way. Arriving at the theatre, he found the lights out, and the manager on the point of leaving.

'Lemoine has been arrested, he cried; 'arrested by a squad of soldiers whom we met, and they said they acted by order of the President.'

The manager seemed thunderstruck by the intelligence, and gazed helplessly at Dupré.

'What is the charge?' he said at last.

'That I do not know,' answered the actor. 'They simply said they were acting under the President's orders.'

'This is bad, as bad as can be,' said the manager, looking over his shoulder, and speaking as if in fear. 'Lemoine has been talking recklessly. I never could get him to realise that he was in Chili, and that he must not be so free in his speech. He always insisted that this was the nineteenth century, and a man could say what he liked; as if the nineteenth century had anything to do with a South American Republic.'

'You don't imagine,' said Dupré, with a touch of pallor coming into his cheeks, 'that this is auything serious. It will mean a nothing more than a day or two in prison.'

The manager shook his head and said, 'We had better get a carriage and see the President as soon as possible. I'll undertake to send Lemoine back to Paris, or to pat him on board one of the French ironclads. But there is no time to be lost. We can probably get a carriage in the square.'

They found a carriage and drove as quickly as they could to the residence of the President. At first they were refused admittance, but, finally, they were allowed to wait in a small room while their message was taken to Balmeceda.

An hour passed, but still no invitation came . to them from the President. The manager sat silent in a corner, while Dupré paced up and down the small room, torn with anxiety about his friend.

At last an officer entered, and presented them with the compliments of the President, who regretted that it was impossible for him to see them that night. The officer added, for their information, by order of the President that Lemoine was to be shot at daybreak. He had been tried by court-martial and condemned to death for sedition. The President regretted having kept them waiting so long, but the court-martial had been sitting when they had arrived, and the President thought that perhaps they would be interested in knowing the verdict.

With that the officer escorted the two dumb-founded men to the door, where they got into their carriage without a word. The moment they were out of ear-shot the manager said to the coachman:—

'Drive as quickly as you can to the residence of the French Minister.'

Everyone at the French Legation had retired when these two panic-stricken men reached there, but after a time the secretary consented to see them, and, on learning the seriousness of the case, he undertook to arouse His Excellency, and learn if anything could he done. The Minister entered the room shortly after, and listened with interest to what they had to say.

'You have your carriage at the door?' he asked, when they had finished their recital.

'Yes.'

'Then I will take it and see the President at once. Perhaps you will wait here until I return.'

Another hour dragged its slow length along, and they were well into the second hour before the rattle of wheels was heard in the silent street. The Minister came in, and the two anxious men saw by his face that he had failed in his mission.

'I am sorry to say,' said his Excellency, ' that I have been unable even to get the execution postponed. I did not understand when I undertook the mission, that M. Lemoine was a citizen of Chili. You see that fact puts the matter entirely out of my hands. I am powerless. I could only advise the President not to carry out his intentions; but he is to-night in a most unreasonable and excited mood, and I fear nothing can be done to save your friend. If he had been a citizen of France, of course , this execution would not have been permitted to take place, but, as it is, it is not our affair. M. Lemoine seems to have been talking with some indiscretion. He does not deny it himself, nor does he deny his citizenship. If he had taken a conciliatory attitude at the court martial, the result might not have been so disastrous; but it seems that he insulted the President to his face, and predicted that he would, within two weeks, meet him in Hades. The utmost I could do was to get the President to sign a permit for you to see your friend, if you present it at the prison before the execution takes place. I fear you have no time to lose. Here is the paper.'

Dupré took the document, and thanked Ms Excellency for his exertions on their behalf. He realised that Lemoine had sealed his own fate by his independence and lack of tact.

The two dejected men drove from the Legation and through the deserted streets to the prison. They were shown through several stone-paved rooms to a stone-paved courtyard, and there they waited for some time until the prisoner was brought in between two soldiers. Lemoine had thrown off his coat, and appeared in his shirt sleeves. He was not manacled or bound in any way, there being too many prisoners for each one to be allowed the luxury of fetters.

'Ah,' cried Lemoine when he saw them, 'I knew you would come if that old scoundrel of a President would allow you in, of which I had my doubts. How did you manage it?'

'The French Minister got us a permit,' said Dupré.

'Oh, you went to him, did you? Of course he could do nothing, for, as I told you, I have the misfortune to be a citizen of this country. How comically life is made up of trivialities. I remember once, in Paris, going with a friend to take the oath of allegiance to the French Republic.'

'And did you take it?' cried Dupre eagerly.

'Alas, no ! We met two other friends and we all adjourned to a café and had something to drink. I little thought that bottle of champagne was going to cost me my life, for, of course, if I had taken the oath of allegiance, my friend, the French Minister, would have bombarded the city before he would have allowed the execution to go on.'

'Then you know to what you are condemned,' said the manager, with tears, in his eyes.

'Oh, I know that Balmeceda thinks he is going to have me shot, but then he always was a fool, and never knew what he was talking about. I told him if he would allow you two in at the execution, and instead of having a whole squad to fire at me, order one expert marksman, if he had such a thing in his whole army, to shoot me through the heart, that I would show you, Dupré, how a man dies under such circumstances, but the villain refused. The usurper has no soul for art, or for anything else, for that matter. I hope you two won't mind my death. I assure you I don't mind it myself. I would much rather he shot than live in this confounded country and longer. But I have made up my mind to cheat old Balmeceda if I can, and I want you, Dupré, to pay particular attention, and not to interfere.'

As Lemoine said this he quickly snatched from the sheath at the soldier's side the bayonet which hung at his hip. The soldiers were standing one to the right, and one to the left of him, with their hands interlaced over the muzzles of their guns, whose butts rested on the stone floor. They apparently paid no attention to the conversation that was going on, if they understood it, which was unlikely. Lemoine had the bayonet in his hands before either of the four men present knew what he was doing. Grasping both hands over the butt of the bayonet, with the point towards his breast, be thrust the blade with desperate energy nearly through his body.

The whole action was done so quickly that no one realised what had happened until Lemoine threw his hands up and they saw the bayonet sticking in his breast.

A look of agony came in the wounded man's eyes, and his lips whitened. He staggered against the soldier at his right, who gave way with the impact, and then he tottered against the whitewashed stone wall, his right arm sweeping automatically up and down the wall as if he were brushing something from the stones. A groan escaped him, and he dropped on one knee. His eyes turned helplessly towards Dupré, and he gasped out the words:

'My God!— You were right— after all.'

Then he fell forward on his face and the tragedy ended.

__________________

19: An Unjust Accusation

Robert Barr

Tumut and Adelong Times (NSW) 5 Jan 1900

Cassell's Family Magazine, Aug 1897

THERE ARE houses in London which seem to take upon themselves some of the characteristics of their inmates. Down the steps of a gloomy-looking dwelling you generally see a gloomy-looking man descend, and from the portal of a bright red-brick façade, encrusted with terra-cotta ornaments, there emerges a fashionably dressed young fellow twirling a jaunty cane. The house in which a terrible murder has been committed usually looks the exact place for such a crime, and ancient maiden ladies live in peaceful semi-detached suburban villas.

In like manner famous club buildings give forth to an observant public some slight indication of the quality of their collective members. The Athenaeum Club looks for all the world like a respectable massive bookcase, made last century and closed up. One would expect, were the walls opened out, to see row upon row of stately, useful volumes, like encyclopaedias, and solid works of reference, strongly bound in sober leather. The Reform and the Carlton, standing together, resemble two distinguished, portly statesmen, of opposing politics, it is true, but nevertheless great personal friends. The clubs where good dinners are to be had seem to bulge out in front, and you can almost imagine a phantom hand patting a distended waistcoat with supreme satisfaction.  The University Clubs remind one of the architecture of Oxford and Cambridge. A benignant and holy calm pervades the clerical clubs, and the hall porters look like vergers; while there are wide-awake and up-to-date clubs in Piccadilly frequented by dashing young sparks, and the windows of these clubs almost wink at you as you pass by.

Of no edifice in London can this theory be held more true than of the gloomy, scowling building that houses the Royal Ironside Service Club. It frowns upon the innocent passer-by with an air of irascible superiority, not unmixed with disdain. If you hail a hansom and say to the cabman, 'Drive me to the Royal Ironside Service Club,' the man will likely lean over towards you and ask with puzzled expression, 'To where, sir?' But if, instead, you cry in snarly, snappy tones, 'The Growlers'!' he will instantly whip along towards St. James's quarter, and draw up at the sombre entrance of the Ironsides, expecting with equal certainty to be well paid and found fault with.

The membership of the Growlers' is made up entirely of veterans from the army and navy; all of whom have seen active service, and most of whom have records for exceptional bravery. There are many armless sleeves in the Club, and it has been stated that among the five hundred members there are only seven hundred and twenty-three legs, although this cannot be definitely proven, for some cases of gout may have been mistaken for a patent leg. This question might be solved if all the members were like Admiral Sir Stonage Gradburn, who wears, in plain sight, an oaken leg strapped to his left knee, just as if he were a Portsmouth sailor; and on this he stumps sturdily in and out of the club, the thump of his wooden leg carrying terror to every official of the place within hearing distance. The old man will have nothing to do with modern artificial contrivances in the way of patent legs, and when a well-known firm in London offered him one for nothing if he would but wear it, the angry Admiral was only prevented from inflicting personal chastisement upon the head of the firm by the receipt of a most abject apology from that very much frightened individual.

Membership in the Growlers' is an honour that may be legitimately aspired to, but it is very seldom attained, for the blackballing in the Growlers' is something fearful. The Committee seem to resent applications for membership as if they were covert insults. It is a tradition of the Club that shortly after the Battle of Waterloo the Duke of Wellington was elected without opposition, but members speak apologetically of this unusual unanimity, holding that the Committee of the day were carried away by public feeling, and that the Duke should not have been admitted until he was at least ten years older. The junior member of the Club is Colonel Duxbury, who, being but sixty-five years old, neither expects nor receives the slightest consideration for any views he may express within the walls of the Club building.

It is not precisely known how this collection of warlike antiques came to select James O. Norton, a person of the comparatively infantile age of forty, to be manager of the Club. Some say that his age was not definitely known to the Committee at the time he was appointed. Others insist that, although the Club dues are high, the finances of the institution got into disorder, and so an alert business man had to be engaged to set everything straight. Outsiders, again, allege the Club had got so into the habit of grumbling that at last it thought it had a real grievance; and thus they brought in a new man, putting him over the head of the old steward, who, however, was not dismissed nor reduced in pay, but merely placed in a subordinate position.

Scoffers belonging to other clubs, men who were, doubtless, blackballed at the Growlers', libellously state that the trouble was due to the Club whisky; a special Scotch of peculiar excellence. In all other clubs in London, whisky, being a precious fluid, is measured out, and a man gets exactly so much for his threepence or his sixpence, as the case may be. No such custom obtains at the Growlers'. When whisky is called for in the smoking-room, for instance, the ancient servitor, Peters, comes along with the decanter in his hand, and he pours the exhilarating fluid into a glass until the member who has ordered it says 'Stop.' The scoffers hold, probably actuated by jealousy and vain longing, that this habit of unmeasured liquor is enough to bankrupt any club in London.

Peters, whose white head has bent without protest under many fierce  complainings poured out upon it by irascible members, is said to be the most expert man in London so far as the decanting of whisky is concerned. The exactitude of his knowledge respecting the temperaments and requirements of each member Is most admirable.

When Sir Stonage Gradburn projects the word 'Stop' like a ballet, not another drop of the precious liquid passes the lip of the decanter.

When Colonel Duxbury, with the modesty of a youthful member, says 'Stop' in quite a different tone of voice, Peters allows about an ounce more of whisky to poor into the glass, and then murmurs with deferential humility: 'Oh, I beg your pardon, sir.'

Whereupon the Colonel replies with chastened severity— 'I will overlook it this time, Peters, but be more careful in future.' Whereupon the respectful Peters departs with the decanter in his hand, saying— 'Thank you, sir.'

SHORTLY after the installation of the new manager, Admiral Sir Stonage Gradburn drove up to the Growlers' Club in his brougham, and stumped noisily through the hall, looking straight ahead of him with a deep frown on his face. His forbidding appearance caused everyone within sight to know that the British Empire was going on all right, for if the Admiral had ever entered with a smile on his face, such an unusual event would have convinced them that at last the peace of Europe had been broken.

The stump of the Admiral's wooden leg was lost in the depths of the carpet that covered the smoking-room floor, and the old man seated himself with some caution in one of the deep, comfortable, leather covered chairs that stood beside a small round table, Peters waiting upon him obsequiously to take his hat and coot, which the Admiral never left in the cloakroom as an ordinary mortal might have done.

When the respectful Peters came back, Sir Stonage ordered whisky and the Times, a mixture of which he was exceedingly fond. Peters hurried away with all the speed that the burden of eighty-six years upon his shoulder would allow, and returning, gave the Admiral the newspaper, while he placed a large glass upon the table and proceeded to pour the whisky into it.

'That will do,' snapped the Admiral when a sufficient quantity of 'special' had bean poured out. Then an amazing, unheard-of thing happened, that caused the astonished Admiral to drop his newspaper and transfix the unfortunate Peters with a look that would have made the whole Navy quail. The neck of the decanter had actually jingled against the lips of the glass, causing a perceptible quantity of the fluid to flow after the peremptory order to cease pouring had been given.

'What do you moan by that, Peters?' cried the enraged sailor, getting red in the face. 'What is the meaning of this carelessness?'

'I am very sorry, Sir Stonage, very sorry indeed, air,' replied Peters, cringing.

'Sorry, sorry!' cried the Admiral. 'Saying you are sorry does not mend a mistake, I would have you know, Peters.'

'Indeed, Sir Stonage,' faltered Peters with a gulp in his throat, 'I don't know how it could have happened, unless—' he paused, and the Admiral, looking up at him, saw there were tears in his eyes. The frown on the brow of Sir Stonage deepened at tho sight, and although he spoke with severity, he nevertheless moderated his tone.

'Well? Unless what, Peters?'

'Unless it is because I have had notice, sir.'

'Notice! Notice of what— a birth, a marriage, a funeral?'

'Notice to quit, sir.'

'To quit what, Peters? To quit drinking, to quit gambling, or what? Why don't you speak out? You always wore a fool, Peters.'

'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,' replied Peters with humility. 'I am to leave the service of the Club, Sir Stonage.'

'Leave the Club!' cried the Admiral with amazement. 'Now, Peters, that simply proves the truth of what I have been saying. You are a fool, and no mistake. You may get higher wages, which I doubt. You may better yourself, as the detestable modern phrase goes, but where will you meet such kindly treatment as you receive in this Club?'

Sir Stonage Gradburn glared at the servitor so fiercely that Peters feared for a moment the Admiral had forgotten he was not on the quarter-deck, and was about to order the culprit before him to receive a certain number of lashes; but the eyes of the aged waiter refilled as the last words of the Admiral brought to his mind the long procession of years during which he had been stormed at, gruffly ordered about, and blamed for everything that went wrong in the universe. Still, all this had left no permanent mark on Peter's mind, for there had never been a sting in the sometimes petulant complaints at him, and he recognised them merely as verbal fireworks playing innocently about his head, relieving for a moment the irritation of same old gentleman who had been accustomed all his life to curt command and instant obedience. Peters actually believed that tho members had been invariably kind to him, and when he thought of how munificently they had remembered him Christmas after Christmas, a lump came into his throat that made articulation difficult.

Although the members gave no audible token of their liking for him, nevertheless, the old man well knew they would miss him greatly when he was gone; and Peters often pictured to himself the heroic ordeal that awaited his unfortunate successor in office. So the Admiral's remark about the kindness of the Club to him touched a tender chord in the heart of the old menial, and the vibration of this chord produced such an agitation within him that it was some moments before he could retain sufficient control over his voice to speak. An impatient 'Well, sir?' from the scowling Admiral brought him to his senses.

'The new manager has dismissed me, Sir Stonage,' replied Peters.

'Dismissed you?' cried the Admiral. 'What have you been doing, Peters? Not infringing any of the rules of the Club, I hope? You have been with us, man and boy now, for forty-two years, and should have a reasonable knowledge of our regulations by this time.'

Peters had become a servitor of the club at the age of forty-four, and therefore every member looked upon him as having spent his infancy within the walls of the Ironside Service Club.

'Oh no, Sir Stonage ; I have broken none of the rules. I leave the club without a stain on my character,' replied Peters, mixing in his reply a phrase that lingered in his mind from the records of the Courts. 'Mr Norton dismisses me, sir, because I am too old for further service.'

'What!' roared the Admiral in a voice of thunder.

Several members in different parts of the room looked up with a shade of annoyance on their countenance. Most of them were deaf, and nothing less than the firing of a cannon in the room would ordinarily have disturbed them, but the Admiral's shout of astonishment could have been heard from the deck of the flag-ship to the most remote vessel in the fleet.

'Too old! Too old!' he continued, 'too old for service! Why, you can't be a day more than eighty-six!'

'Eighty-six last March, sir,' corroborated Peters with a sigh.

'This is preposterous!' cried the Admiral with mounting rage. 'Go and get me my stick at once, Peters. We shall see if servants are to be discharged in the very prime of their usefulness.'

Peters shuffled off and returned from the cloak-room with the stout cane. The Admiral took a gulp of his liquor without diluting it, and Peters, handing him his stick, stood by, not daring to make any ostentatious display of assisting Sir Stonage to rise, for the old warrior resented any suggestion that the infirmities natural to his time of life were upon him; but on this occasion, to Peters' amazement, the Admiral, firmly planting  his stick on the right hand side of him, thrust his left hand within the linked arm of Peters, and so assisted himself to his feet, or rather to his one foot and wooden stump. Peters followed him with anxious solicitude as he thumped towards the door; then the Admiral, apparently regretting his temporary weakness in accepting the arm of his underling, turned savagely upon him and cried in wrath: 'Don't hover about me in that disgustingly silly way, Peters. You'll be saying I am an old man next.'

'Oh no, sir,' murmured the abject Peters.

The Admiral stumped into the committee room of tho Club, and rang a hand bell which was upon the table, for no such modern improvement as electricity was anywhere to be found within the Club. When the bell was answered the Admiral said shortly:

'Send Mr Norton to me here.'

Mr Norton came in pleasantly— a clean out, smooth shaven, alert man, with the air of one who know his business. Nevertheless, Mr Norton seemed to have the uneasy impression that he was a man out of place. He looked like a smug, well-contented, prosperous grocer who was trying to assume the dignified air of a Bank of England porter. He bowed to so important a person as the Chairman of the House Committee with a deference that was not unmixed with grovelling; but the Admiral lost no time in preliminaries, jumping at once to the matter that occupied his mind.

'I understand, sir,' he said, 'that you have dismissed Peters.'

'Yes, Sir Stonage,' replied the manager. 'And I have heard given a riv.eon of such I absurdity that I find some difficulty in crediting it; so I now allow you a chance to explain. Why have you dismissed Peters?'

'On account of hage, Sir Stonage,' replied the manager, cowering somewhat, fearing stormy weather ahead.

'Hage, sir!' roared the Admiral, who for some unexplained reason always felt like striking a man who misplaced his 'h':

'I never heard of such a word.'

'Peters is hold, sir,' said the manager, in his agitation laying special street on the letter 'h' in this instance.

'Hold! Hold! Are you talking of a ship? Haven't you been taught to speak English? I have asked you what reason you can give for the dismissal of Peters. Will you be so good as to answer me, and use only words with which I am accustomed?' The badgered manager, remembering that he had a legal contract with the Club which that body could not break without giving him at least a year's notice or bestowing upon him a year's pay, plucked up courage and answered with some asperity—

'Peters is in his dotage, sir; 'e's hover heighty-six years hold if 'e'sa day, sir.'

Fortunately for Mr Norton the long committee table was between him and the angry Admiral. The latter began stumping down the room, rapping on the table with tho knob of his stick as he went, as if he had some thought of assaulting the frightened manager.

'In his dotage at eighty-six!' he exclaimed. 'Do you intend to insult the whole Club, sir, by such an idiotic remark? How old do you think I am, sir? Do you think I am in my dotage?'

The manager, his grasp on the handle of the door, attempted to assure the approaching Admiral that he had no intention whatever of imputing anything to anybody except to old Peters; but he maintained that if he was to reform the Club he must be allowed to make such changes as he thought necessary, without being interfered with.

This remark, so far from pouring oil on the troubled waters, added to the exasperation of the Admiral.

'Reform! The Club has no need of reform!'

So the conference ended futilely in the manager going back to his den, and tho Admiral stumping off to call a meeting of the House Committee.

When the venerable relics of a bygone ago, known as the House Committee, assembled in the room set apart for it, their Chairman began by explaining that they were called upon to meet a crisis, which it behoved them to deal with in that calm and judicial frame of mind which always characterised their deliberations. Although he admitted that the now manager had succeeded in making him angry, still he would now treat the case with an equable temper which all who knew him were well aware he possessed. Whereupon he disclosed to them the reason for their being called together, waxing more and more vehement as he continued, his voice becoming louder and louder, and at last he emphasised his remarks by pounding on the table with the head of his stick until it seemed likely that he would split the one or break the other.

The members of the Committee were unanimously of opinion that the new manager had cast an aspersion on the Club which was not to be tolerated; so the secretary was requested to write out a cheque, while the manager was sent for, that he might hear at once the decision of the Committee.

The Chairman addressed Mr Norton, beginning in a manner copied somewhat after the deliberative style of our best judges while pronouncing sentence, but ending abruptly as if the traditions of the Bench hampered him.

'Sir, we have considered your case with tranquillity in which any measure affecting the welfare of our fellow-creatures should be discussed, and, sir, we've come to the conclusion that we don't want you any longer. Go!'

The Chairman at the head of the table scanned malevolently the features of the offending manager, while the different heads of the Committee, grey and bald, nodded acquiescence. The manager, seeing the fat was in the fire in any case, now stood up boldly for his rights. He demanded a year's notice.

'You shall have nothing of the kind, sir,' replied the Admiral. 'It is not the custom of the Club to give a year's notice.'

'I don't care what the custom of the Club his,' rejoined Norton. 'My contract calls for a year's pay if I ham dismissed.'

'I don't care that for your contract!' cried the Admiral, bringing his stick down with a whack on the table. 'The Club will not change its invariable rule for yon or your contract.'

' Then I shall sue the club in the Law Courts. You will 'ear from my solicitor.'

Here the admiral, rising, poured forth a stream of language which it is impossible to record, and the members of the Committee also rose to their feet, fearing a breach of the peace.

'In heaven's name,' whispered the secretary to the manager, 'don't anger the Admiral further, or there will be trouble. Take the cheque now, and go away without saying any more; then, if you don't want the other year's salary, bring it back and give it quietly to our treasurer.'

'The hother year's salary?' cried Norton.

'Certainly. It is a habit of the Growlers' to pay two years' salary to whom they dismiss.'

'Oh, I beg your pardon,' said Norton, seizing the cheque, which he found was for double the amount he expected. Whereupon he retired quickly to his den, while the Committee set itself the task of soothing the righteous anger of the Admiral.

And thus it comes about that Peters, who is, as Sir Stonage Gradburn swears, still in the prime of his usefulness, serves whisky in the smoking-room of the Growlers' as usual, and the old steward of the Club has taken the place so suddenly left vacant by the departure of the energetic Mr Norton.

____________________

20: Marcella's Intervention

Robert Barr

Weekly Times (Melbourne) 29 Aug 1903

Frank Leslie's Popular Monthly, January 1903

MISS MARCELLA Compedore, usually referred to in the newspapers as "the gifted and beautiful;" a young woman ambitious to occupy the position in America that Ellen Terry fills in England, walked from the Everett House, in the city of Brentville, towards the Grand Theatre, with her manager, John Kerwin, the enterprising chief of the Kerwin Comedy Company.

The play billed for the night was "The Comedy of Errors," and Mr Kerwin seemed very pessimistic regarding the prospects, for the City of Brentville was in a state of great excitement over the election which was to be held next day.

As he spoke they had a practical illustration of the interest the town was taking in the contest. Down from an upper window over their heads came a fluttering cloud of hand-bills which settled like gigantic snowflakes on the passers-by and on the pavement. Indeed, the street seemed pretty well covered with these sheets, which were being distributed with reckless lavishness.

Miss Compedore, with a laugh, shook the leaves from her, and grasping one, gazed at it with amazement; then she gave a little gasp of recognition.

"Why," she said, "it looks like a theatrical poster. I declare here is a portrait of Ella Bective."

"It is," assented Kerwin. "I wonder what that virago has to do with the present Brentville election for Judge?"

Then he read the florid announcement, printed in red and black, which gave some explanation.

"The above is a portrait of Mrs Edward Derwent, and Edward Derwent is the son of the man who now has the temerity to ask the suffrage of a godly and moral people. This innocent and trusting girl, in all good faith, married young Derwent, in Boston, while he was attending Harvard College, and he plighted his faith as a man to be her protector until death did them part. How has this young man fulfilled his trust? Judge Derwent, in his aristocratic pride, alien to the land he lives in and abhorrent to his fellow-citizens refused to recognise his new-found daughter. His son, instead of standing like a man beside the woman he had chosen In the face of all the world, consulted his pecuniary interest by joining in the bitter persecution his father had begun, The wealth of the Derwents hunted down their victim. The outraged laws of her country at last came to her relief. A divorce was granted to her in the State of Arizona on the grounds of desertion and extreme cruelty. Where is she now? Perhaps in a mad-house! Perhaps the grave has closed over her sufferings. Heart-broken and deserted, what cares Judge Derwent where she has sought refuge? Before aspiring to a position where he may (pass judgment on the frailties of others, let him Stand before the great citizens' meeting at the Music Hall to-night, and answer to the questions there to be put to him regarding the fate of his daughter-in-law."

"Well, well, well," said Kerwin, "this is slightly severe. What has become of the termagant anyway? You knew her pretty well, didn't you?"

"I knew all about her," said Miss Compedore, with a laugh. "She was on the variety stage when she married that young fool. I never knew his name before, but she made a good thing of it. There was no Arizona divorce; she did not need a divorce. Ella was married before to that prize fighter who was killed out West some years ago. The divorce was a mere threat to get money from the judge. She was the most flippantly heartless creature I ever met. She tried the legitimate for a while, but had no brains; nothing, in fact, but those sweetly innocent looks of hers. After getting all the cash she could from the judge, something over thirty thousand dollars, she went to England with one of those farce companies, and is now the Countess of Trelor."

"Oh, yes; it was Ella Bective that married Lord Trelor, wasn't it? Well, I think Ella is going to do us out of a good house to-night," commented the doleful Kerwin.

"She would be glad if she knew that," laughed Marcella, "for she never liked me, and I confess that I cared very little for her."

At the stage door the two were met by Mr Keith, the proprietor of the theatre.

"It is no use," Kerwin," he cried. "Shakespeare is too old a fogey to run up against a red-hot American election. There are not half-a-dozen people in the house. I propose to return the money and close the shop. Everybody is at the music hall. We'll have a full-house to-morrow night, and I'm going to announce the election returns from the stage between the acts. William, of Stratford, and the latest returns; a comical mixture that will appeal to our people..."

"You knew Ella Bective, didn't you?" asked Miss Compedore.

"Oh, yes I the whole theatrical profession knew her, or of her."

"The judge will have no difficulty in disproving the statements of this lying paper," she said, holding up the circular in her hand.

"Oh, the judge will make no attempt to disprove it; he will say nothing. He win not appear at to-night's meeting. he is defeated now beyond doubt, for there is no time now before the voting to contravene that circular, even if the dignified old man permitted an attempt of that sort. The Woman's Purity League is on the war path— on the wrong track, as usual; and the organisation will be there in force. Derwent has been judge for eight years now, and is a man against whose probity nothing can be said, but this scandal will dish him. lie will be defeated, I am sure, and it will break his heart, I think. His opponent, Lawyer Sneed, a sharp, unscrupulous man, is at the bottom of all this mud throwing. They tell me young Derwent will be there to-night, but he won't be listened to. The men there will not hear anything said against a woman, even if young Derwent attempts it, and how he can clear himself without telling the truth about Ella I don't know. By the way," continued the proprietor, lowering his voice, "there is the young man now on his way to the hall. He has a good deal of pluck to face that crowd."

Marcella gazed at the dejected youth; then said to the proprietor: "Why don't you go on the stage at the music hall tonight and give a discourse on the merits of Ella Bective?"

"Me! Oh, I never interfere in politics. You see our patrons are Democrats and Republicans alike, so it wouldn't do for me to chip in. The Purity League wouldn't listen to a theatre man either. They look upon Ella Bective as a lamb stolen from our grip. No, it wouldn't do for me to speak. Well, I must go and dismiss my half-dozen."

"I shall go back to the hotel," said Kerwin. "Are you coming, Miss Compedore?"

"No; I shall go to my dressing room. I want to look over my new part In quietness and alone. Will you send the janitor to me, Mr Kerwin? I shall be late, and do not wish to be locked in."

"Certainly, certainly. Michael shall attend you right away," replied the genial proprietor as he hurried off.

Marcella went to the chief dressing room and pinned up against the wall beside the gaslight the portrait of Ella Bective, looking at it intently until Michael rapped at the doer.

"Michael," she said in a sweet voice, for the Irishman was an old adorer of hers, "I expect to be very late to-night."

"Trouth, ma'am, an' I'd be glad to sit up till daylight for ye."

"Oh, no, you mustn't do that. It isn't often you have a night to yourself; so leave me the key of the stage door. Come to the hotel for it to-morrow morning. I wish to practise a new part, and I don't want a soul about the theatre listening to my ranting!"

When the good-natured janitor left her alone she rummaged among her belongings, selected a lovely flaxen wig and tried it on; she painted and prinked until she was transformed, and at last, superbly dressed, with her jaunty hat above her yellow hair, she let herself out of the theatre and walked quickly to the thronged music-hall from which came the sound of cheers. The vast auditorium was packed to suffocation, and an overflow crowd thronged the streets struggling to get in; no wonder the theatre was empty.

Miss Compedore knew too much of houses of entertainment to attempt an entrance at the front. She went directly to the stage door, said to the attendant with a nod, "I am to speak to-night," and he made no opposition. Another moment she was up the stair and in the wings of the mammoth stage.

She had a side view of the chairman and a row of women, whom she took to be representatives of the Purity League, together with a number of men, also seated upon the stage towards the back, and among them with bent head sat young Edward Derwent. A tall, hatchet-faced man was eloquently discoursing, and before she heard much of his speech she knew that this was Lawyer Sneed, the opposition candidate for Judge.

He was declaiming upon the qualities necessary for that high office. His neat rounded periods, were received with ringing cheers. However, until the moment when he drew a handkerchief across his heated brow, parted his coat-tails and sat down, he made no allusion direct or indirect to the subject which was in everybody's mind.

"How about the scandal?" shouted several voices when the orator had seated himself.

But Sneed sadly shook his head, and did not rise to his feet again.

"It is always well to listen to both sides," said the chairman, rising and taking a sip of water. "I now ask a hearing for Edward Derwent, who claims permission to speak on behalf of his father."

Young Derwent arose, looking ghastly pale, moistening his parched lips. He was greeted with a storm of hisses which augured ill for the compliance with the chairman's expressed with for a hearing.  The young fellow essayed to speak, but the tumult increased, and in spite of the rapping of the chairman's mallet, not a word could be heard.

"Where's your wife, you scoundrel?" cried the audience.

One of the League came forward and the gallantry of an American audience brought instant silence to the thronged hall.

"The vilest criminal," she said, with a withering glance at the unfortunate young man, "has a right to be heard. I beg of you, silence."

Then she sat down. They cordially cheered the lady and obeyed her, so Edward Derwent had now the stage to himself and a listening audience. Three or four times he moistened his lips, but somehow the opposing magnetism of great assemblage overpowered either his will or his outage.

"Oh, it's no use," he cried, and with a despairing wave of the hand, snatched his hat, bolted from the stage and rushed blindly down the stairs to the outer air. He seemed to realise suddenly nothing could change the vote against his father, and so fled from the unequal contest.

The crowd seemed somewhat taken aback by this abrupt and unexpected exit, and there was a momentary hush, complete at first, then disturbed by the rustling of a silken skirt.

With the graceful movement of one accustomed to the stage, unabashed by the thousands of eyes turned upon her in startled amazement, there stood before them the pictured lady of the poster. There was a flutter of paper all over the hall, as if each one who possessed the sheet turned to it and compared the likeness with the original. Then there fell a stillness as deep as the desert, and out of that silence arose the low, sweet voice of a woman, not loud but clear and distinct, thrilling each auditor to the further end of the hall.

" 'Where is your wife, you scoundrel?' I heard a man shout a moment ago. Where should she be but in the place from which you have driven her husband by your injustice and your cant? You scoundrel!"

She dwelt on the last word with her vibrating voice, and each one of her listeners thought he had never heard it pronounced before. It seemed to take on a new and sinister meaning. As the voice rose in tones of intense indignation, standing in superb self-confidence before them, she seemed to hold her audience enthralled, each unit of it breathless.

"Yes, there are scoundrels in this contest, but they are neither Judge Derwent nor his son. There was never an Arizona divorce got by me against Edward Derwent, and the wretches that produced this tissue of falsehoods well knew it. They dare not spring their lie upon a public until it was too late to get legal proof to the contrary. Desertion, abandonment, cruelty! I say to you that the last cheque that Judge Derwent gave to his daughter-in-law was for thirty thousand dollars. Do I look like a woman with a broken heart? Does my gown, from Paris, resemble the poverty-stricken garment of an abandoned wife?"

With an inimitable gesture and flourish of the hands she appeared to spread her magnificent raiment before the eyes of all. No man there was so stupid as not to realise the splendor of her outfitting.

"Lawyer Sneed!" she cried, pointing her finger at that aghast man, "who is behind this perjured circular?"

"I— I— I had nothing to do with it," gasped the terror-stricken candidate.

"Who desecrated the streets of this fair city by covering them with libels of its most distinguished citizen, a man honorable, patriotic, and God-fearing?"

"I tell you," stammered Sneed, "I know nothing of it."

"Then get up here beside me and denounce it with that eloquence which you used a moment ago. Tell this audience who, on your behalf, has been guilty of this crime, and characterise him as he deserves."

She gave him but a moment to decide, and the man had not presence of mind to accept her offer, but sat there speechless.

"He dared not rise," she cried, "and now if you want him for a ruler and a judge over you, vote for him to-morrow."

She bowed to them like a prima donna, switched round her skirts and disappeared, but not before she had heard the wildest cheer of that evening.

NEXT NIGHT, between the first and second acts of All's Well That Ends Well, Mr Keith, the proprietor of the theatre, came before the curtain and read the following result of the polls:—

Judge Derwent, 3981. Lawyer Sneed, 700.

At which the audience applauded vociferously.

_________________

21: The Great Mogul

Robert Barr

Albury Banner and Wodonga Express (NSW) 23 Dec 1904

Cassell's Magazine, August 1900

THE GREAT MOGUL was angry. The fleet, powerful engine, with its boiler set high— its ridiculous little smoke pipe, like a stub nose on a massive head; its broad circle of a glistening headlight, the modern equivalent of the fabled giant's one eye, fixed in the forehead; its disproportionately large driving wheels; the whole machine a racehorse of steel— stood fuming and sputtering, muttering low curses at the delay, hissing its resentment at being stopped at such a no-account place by the arm of the semaphore across its iron path, which in the language of the railway said, 'Thus far and no farther!' a command not to be ignored even by the Great Mogul, the premier train of the road.

The G. X. and M. Railway was proud of its Great Mogul, which is quite erroneously advertised as the fastest train in the world but then every railway has at least one fastest train in the world, so there was no reason why the G. X. and M. should be behind its competitors.

The Great Mogul went thundering across the landscape, passing with swift contempt the way stations, making the buildings tremble as it dashed by, and all ordinary traffic had to give place to this prince of the line, taking humble positions on the sidetracks until the rear end of the last car of the Mogul disappeared in the whirl of dust down the dim distance.

The Great Mogul was the name of the train to the general public, but railway men called it merely No. 19, A pair of figure is all very well for every-day use, but the imaginative public like a title with 'Lightning' or 'Thunderbolt' or something of that sort in it. But now the career of this famous train was checked and brought to a standstill at an insignificant hamlet whose very name on a painted board over the door of the little station had been heretofore undecipherable, so swiftly had the Mogul passed it. No wonder the engine protested, and the swinging bell amidships, on the top of the boiler, kept up a continuous clang-clang as if to warn the world that although the throttle was shut, the train was technically in motion.

Harry Sanderson, almost the youngest driver on the road, a man high in the esteem of the Brotherhood of Locomotive Engineers, the most conservative labour organisation in the world, leaned out of the window of his cab as he swayed the bell-rope to and fro. There was an impatient frown on his brow as he edged his engine up to the platform and finally came to a standstill. Then he sprang off, strode to the bare waiting-room, and kicked in the half-open door of the telegraph office, crying: 'What in thunder is the meaning of this ? '

He stopped suddenly and removed his cap, awkwardly, something almost approaching a blush staining his bronzed race. 'I — I — I beg pardon, miss,' he stammered, 'I— I just came in for orders, you know.'

'Really!' said the girl with a smile; 'I thought by your tone you came in to give them.'

Sanderson laughed. Although the girl was so pretty, she was evidently good-natured as well, and not inclined to resent the unannounced intrusion of a blundering man.

'In all the stations of the road that I know there are men operators, so I tho tight there was a man here.'

'And do you browbeat the unfortunate men telegraphists in the way you began a moment since?'

'Oh, that wasn't browbeating, Miss. Merely our customary form of salutation. They do the same with me, you know.

'What I was going to ask was, Why have they stopped No. 19?'

'I don't know why. Here is the despatch: 'Hold 19.' Brief and to the point, you see. I expect there's a special coming, although I've no further instructions, go if I were you, I'd side-track 19 and leave the main line clear.'

'All right, miss,' said Sanderson, as humbly as if she were president of the road and he the most obscure brakesman. He went out, sprang on his engine, backed the waiting train, had the switch thrown over, and ran the Mogul on the side track.

Then seeing the line was clear he re-entered the telegraph office.

'Could you find out for me what the trouble is? Perhaps there has been an accident. Seems to me no sane train despatcher would stop 19 for some measly special.'

'Almost a crime to interfere with the Mogul, isn't it?' she said with a little laugh that left him more bewildered than ever, inwardly fuming that he could think of nothing apt and polite to say in reply.

Her fingers touched the key, the slim white hand vibrating nervously in sympathy with the sound. Sanderson leaned on the rail that enclosed her little den, and watched intently. He had never been so interested in telegraphy before, and this not on account of the temporary stranding of the Mogul.

'Click-a-lick-lick ; click-a-lick-lick ; clicklick; click-a-lick-lick,' rattled the key.

'Why it seems to be saying the same thing all the time.'

'It is. That is the call for the despatcher's office.'

'Chuck!' 'Chuck!' The white hand ceased for a moment, then went on again, and now Sanderson knew the key was not repeating the same letter. How marvellously expert she was. The wrist seemed so firm and steady, the fingers held close together almost imperceptibly caressed the polished knob, the mysterious language chattered along without a break, and yet the girl appeared to bestow no attention to what she was doing; her eyes looked out of the window as if she were studying the gigantic proportions of the Mogul's engine.

All at once the hand deserted the key and took up a pen. Another part of the machine began a tiny-sounding conversation with her, and the pen ran smoothly over the yellow sheet of paper.

'There,' she said, handing him the slip when the metallic clatter ceased. He read:

'Tell Sanderson that the President and the Board of Directors will pass Whiteville in a special about 12.40. Side track 19 and see that the line is clear.'

'You see, Mr. Sanderson, my orders to you have been corroborated by headquarters. You have 10 minutes still to wait so there is no use of being angry. Of course the despatcher might have let you gone on ever so many miles up the line, but the good man doesn't want to run any risk of wrecking his superiors, being perhaps afraid their successors might not reappoint him, so even 19 must stand aside when the president of the road travels.'

'Oh, that is all right; I'd like to stay here all day. Did you tell the despatcher I had been making a row, kicking in the door and using language like a hot-box?'

'Oh no. I said that the engineer of 19 whose name I did not know, was anxious to know why his train was delayed. So, you see, he took pity on a woman's curiosity, and, while giving you the information sought, telegraphed the name of Sanderson.'

'He didn't say Harry, did he?'

'As a matter of fact he did, but I omitted it, fearing to offend so great an official as the driver of the best train on the line.'

'I'd like to ask the despatcher another question.'

'Very well. I'll call him up again.'

As her hand hovered over the key Sanderson said hastily, 'Ask him to tell me the name of the smart girl who does the telegraphing at Whiteville.'

The young woman leaned back in the chair as her hand dropped from tho key.

'So sorry, she said, 'but l am not allowed to send private messages over the wire. All communications must pertain to the business of the road.'

'Oh, must they? Can't I pay for a private message?'

'No. This is not a Western Union office.'

'I think it is highly important that engineers should know the names of those despotic persons who stop their trains.'

'Any complaints against operators must not be made to the delinquents personally, but sent over signature to the head office telegraphic department, room E.'

'You've got the by-laws of the company down fine, haven't you? How can I make a complaint against you if I don't know your name?'

'Oh, that's quite easy. Just sav in your statement, 'the telegraphist at Whiteville.'

'Don't you find it lonesome here?'

'No. Not when No. 19 stops.'

Sanderson laughed heartily at this response. He was feeling more at ease than when the conference began. He listened for the roar of the expected special, hoping something would occur to delay it.

'Isn't there any station agent or switch man about?'

'There is a station agent, who is switchman, lamp-cleaner, signal minder, and everything else combined; but he goes to his lunch at twelve and doesn't return till one.'

'Then who set the signal against me?'

'I did. You wouldn't have stopped if you had known, would you?'

'I'll tell you one thing. I'll stop next time if you simply come out on the platform and wave your handkerchief.'

'The red flag is the danger signal.'

'I'm not so sure of that. There may be more danger in the white flag for some of us.'

'The white flag is a token of surrender.'

'Then I hope to see you wave it.'

'As a conversationalist you are making great progress, Mr. Sanderson.'

'I never had so bright an example before. I think I'll abandon my engine, and learn telegraphing. But, on second thoughts, I guess I won't. I wouldn't have a chance of seeing you again. We might be stationed miles and miles apart, whereas on my engine I may catch a glimpse of you now and again.'

'You would be better occupied looking where you were going.'

'That's just what I would be doing, Miss? I wish I knew your name. Why won't you tell me?'

'For one thing you never asked me.'

'Then I ask you now.'

'My reason for refusing is that our acquaintance has been of the shortest.'

'So I must wait?'

'I am afraid you must.'

'One consolation is that our acquaintance is getting longer every moment. Would you teach me telegraphing if I came as a pupil?'

'With great pleasure, Mr. Sanderson.'

'I expect it would take me about ten years to learn. It seems to me an incomprehensible thing. Do you know what that jabbering thing is saying now , or do you have to spell it out?'

'The sounder is talking to me as plainly as you are.'

'Why aren't you writing it down?'

'Because the message is not for me.'

'Oh, I see. Through train, eh? Doesn't stop at this crossing. Well, it must take a very high order of intelligence to run a telegraph machine.'

'I wish the company thought so; it might then pay better salaries. But telegraphing is a simple, easy, indoor occupation. It is nothing like running an engine; there is something heroic in that, where a man must have a great skill in understanding the complicated giant that bears him, and must be ready in the twinkling of an eye to make a decision on which depends his own life and the lives of hundreds of his fellow beings.'

'One gets used to it,' Harry said, blushing again, his old confusion returning, half fearing that the girl was quizzing him, yet somehow realising she was very much in earnest.

His disquietude was relieved by the sudden darkening of the room, the trembling of the floor, as if a small earthquake were in progress, the, deafening roar, and the equally sudden return of light. The special and the ten minutes had passed.

'Oh, dear, I must go. The driver was in too much of a hurry. He needn't have been so strictly on time when he had only the directors on board.'

'You forget the President,' said the girl, rising, and holding out her hand. Harry took it, and said appealingly—

'Good-bye, Miss—?'

'May Shelby.'

'Thank you ever so much, and may the signal often stop me at Whiteville.'

An instant later he was at his post, the swaying bell sounding its sonorous note over the quiet country, the quickening staccato puffs of the engine setting the train in motion toward the west. She stood at the door of the station, and he waved his hand in farewell to her, while she fluttered her white handkerchief for a moment, but, apparently remembering what she had said a few minutes before put it quickly out of sight again.

As the Great Mogul disappeared in the distance the girl turned with a sigh and went back to the telegraph room.

SOME DAYS later the Great Mogul had passed and re-passed, but you cannot see much of anyone on a train going fifty miles an hour. May Shelby had startling evidence that the engineer was making progress in the Morse alphabet. As the great train swooped down on Whiteville the air was rent by a series of whistles, absolutely unintelligible as signals to brakesmen and switch-tenders. Two long toots, a short and a long, two short calls, then two more short calls, audible for ten miles. But to one listener the rending whistles were as understandable as if the engineer himself had entered the room and ad called her by name.'

'M— A— Y.'

She sprang from her chair and sped to the platform. The train roared past Ike a section of a midnight thunderstorm, and from it fell a small package that bounced along the platform, coming to rest at her feet, as if it were a spent shell. The little box contained sweets to the sweet, with a note by the engineer; but as this communication did not pertain to the business of the company, and did not go on file among the documents of the telegraph office, it cannot be reproduced in this authentic account.

Thus, neatly tied parcels were in the habit of falling on the platform of Whiteville station, coming to the person for whom they were intended in a state more or less of disrepair, sometimes bursting like a shrapnel shot and scattering candies canister-wise along the planks, and on the line; but when the stationmaster returned at one o'clock each day there was left little trace of the bombardment, so no record of the conflict ever reached the head offices of the company.

One evening Harry Sanderson was looking over his engine during the five minutes stop in the central depot in the city of Dayburg when there was a light touch on his arm. He turned round, and saw standing there the telegraphist of Whiteville, blushing rosy red.

'Well!' cried Harry, amazed, glancing down at his greasy hands, which he dare not offer to a trim young woman. The power of further speech seemed to have left him; not so the girl.

'I just wanted to say,' she cried breathlessly, 'that I have been promoted. I'm on the Dayburg staff. Therefore be careful how you whistle approaching Whiteville, for the new operator there will understand, and I don't think he cares for candy.'

With that she was gone like a flash, before he could collect his wits to make reply. Time was up, and he had to take out the Great Mogul.

IT WAS SHORTLY after this brief incident that the big strike took place on the G. X. and M. and the connecting lines, involving the going out of all the employees except the station staffs, the telegraphists, and the members of the Brotherhood of Locomotive Engineers. The road was practically paralysed, no trains moving except those which carried the United States mails. At first the strike was carried on with moderation; but when the success of the men became more and more doubtful there were throats of violence, then one or two dynamite explosions, trains derailed, engines crippled, and finally a threat to stop the Great Mogul, in spite of the more cautious counsels of the men's leaders, who dreaded national intervention if tho mails were hindered.

The city of Dayburg was practically in a state of insurrection, the central depot in the hands of an angry mob, the local authorities lax or afraid. The high arched roof of the station echoed with the clamour of the crowd which stood thickly packed, from platform, to platform, on the many lines of rails. The platforms themselves were occupied by an angry seething mass, waiting for the Great Mogul, and bent on mischief.

Darkness had fallen, and already No. 19 was two hours and a half late. Wild rumours were afloat that it had been wrecked further down the line, but the railway authorities had confidence that Sanderson would pull it through somehow, and at last their belief was justified. There was little telegraphing to be done, and most of the operators from various points of vantage looked upon this stormy sea of humanity, hooted at when recognised by any of the strikers, whose cause they, had refused to further.

One, in her anxiety, stole down on the main platform itself, and stood there unmolested by the mob whose individual members were chivalrous to a man. Some assisted her to a quieter spot, and one helped her to the top of a box, where, as he said, she could see everything and be out of danger.

'We're goin' to break his neck for him,' the man said encouragingly, apparently alluding to the driver of the expected train.

May Shelby said nothing, trembled, but held her ground.

At last the heads of the fermenting mass were illuminated by the first rays of the strong headlight of No. 19, approaching very, very slowly, The brazen clangour of the bell called forth a roar terrible to hear, the roar as of a beast at bay. She saw Harry Sanderson leaning from his huge machine, his clear voice ringing above the tempest— 'Out of the way, there! Clear the track! Stand aside!'

The engine came on with caution, as if it apprehended danger ahead. The bell rang incessantly. The strikers shook up, lifted fists and brandished weapons, but they gave way sullenly before the grinding wheels of the Mogul. Opposite the girl on the box the train came to a stand. The mob thickened round the engine.

'You must come off, Sanderson,' shouted the spokesman.

'Don't be a fool,' replied the engineer good humouredly; 'you know this is a mail train. You don't want to call in the United States troops, do you?'

'United States troops won't help you. Get off. This train goes no further till the strike's settled. You hear me!'

There was a wild outcry at this, arid cheer after cheer. The troops were distant and the train was there. There were only half a dozen passengers in the carriage; and they, frightened at the menacing multitude, made their way unhindered to the city. The express messenger was ordered off, and after some protest complied. Then the men in charge of the mails were given notice to quit; and, bowing to the inevitable, they obeyed orders.

'It's all up, Sanderson. Every man is off the train but you, and now it's your time to travel.'

'That's so. But my travelling is going to be done on this engine; and, as we're nearly three hours late, just tell the boys ahead there to move out of the way, or they'll get hurt.'

'That bluff's no good, Sanderson. Get down, or we'll pull you down.'

'Shovel in some coal,' said Harry to his fireman. There was a laugh from those nearest him, and looking over his shoulder he saw that his fireman had deserted him. He was, as the spokesman had said, alone on the train. The engineer reached for the rope and began to ring the bell.

'Clear the track,' he shouted.

The girl standing on the box could scarcely see him for the moisture gathering in her eyes. Nervously she clasped and unclasped her hands as she resolutely choked down the sob rising in her throat.

'Don't you worry, Miss,' the workman beside her said soothingly, 'he'll never get that train out. We'll break his neck first.'

The leader of the strikers cried angrily, in the tones of a man whose patience was exhausted : 'Say, Sanderson, are you coming down, or ain't you?'

'No, I'm going out of town. See you later.'

'Boys, take him off that engine.'

There was a movement towards the engineer, who whipped a revolver from his hip pocket.

'Look here. The man who sets foot oh these steps will be shot, and I'll shoot to kill. You know me. Keep off.'

In spite of the exhortation of the leader there was a general shrinking back of those nearest the engine. When the pistol in his right hand, the engineer pulled a lever with his left, and a puff of steam rose to the roof.

'Stand clear ahead there.'

Suddenly a man with a crowbar in his hand sprang up the steps on the other side of the engine. The crowbar hovered a moment in mid-air, there was a woman's shriek, and a blow descended from behind, felling the engineer, like a poleaxed ox, to the floor of his cab.

The second puff of steam went aloft, the whole train moving slowly.

The leader, genuinely appalled at the tragic outcome, roared: 'Stand away there in front. For God's sake someone jump aboard and stop that train!'

But no one moved. None there were engineers; the one man who knew how to control the power he had invoked lay dead or senseless before the mechanism to which he had given life and motion. Faster and faster passed the vestibuled cars; a deep silence had taken place of the previous tumult.

In the silence came the swish of a woman's skirts. May Shelby clutched the silver-plated rods of the last Pullman car. The speed of the train threw her on her knees on the car steps, but she clung desperately to the polished rods, recovered herself, got upon the rear platform, opened the door— which, fortunately, was left unlocked by the deserting porters— and disappeared inside as the train rushed out into the night. Through the abandoned coaches she hurried, until her way was stopped by the baggage car. Breathing a prayer for courage, she climbed the iron ladder, crept along over the intervening roofs on hands and knees,  jumped through the darkness to the coal heap on the tender, and from that, bruised and blackened, to the iron floor on which the man lay that she loved.

Her first thought was of him ; and, kneeling beside him, she tore open the grimy woollen shirt and put her hand over his faintly beating heart.

'Oh, Harry, Harry!' she cried, 'tell me what to do.'

There was no response. She took the cushion from the engineer's bench and placed it under has head. Then, standing up, she faced the complicated boiler end, with its polished steel and brass fittings— a puzzle like that of the Sphinx, whose solution meant life, and its misreading, death.

The locomotive pitched like a ship at sea. Station after station flashed past, and in the intervals peaceful farmhouses with windows alight, the inmates perhaps, murmuring to themselves, 'There goes the Great Mogul, late, and trying to make up time.'

She knew intuitively that the speed was too rapid to last. It needed but a sharp turn in the road to fling the train into chaos. She pushed in one knob, and found herself enveloped in hissing steam. She feared to throw on the powerful air-brake not knowing what might happen if that case — instant wreckage, perhaps. Surely they had telegraphed ahead to have the line clear.

'Harry, Harry, what am I to do?'

The man at her feet groaned aloud. The vibration seemed to touch nerves in him Ions attuned to sensitiveness in speed.

'Tom, you fool,' he muttered, 'don't so down grade so fast. You'll wreck her. Shut off steam.'

'Yes — but how, Harry? How is steam shut off?'

She was kneeling again beside him, trying to control his right hand, which was grasping the air.

'How? How what? You know. I can't get my hand on the lever.'

The lever! It must be the one near the seat where the engineer sat, ready to his hand. Gasping with fear of what might happen if she made a mistake she pulled it towards her.

The mammoth engine shuddered like some living monster, and, great as was its speed, leaped forward. Throwing her weight against the lever, she pushed it from her, and almost fainted with joy when the purring roar of the exhaust stopped instantly.

The train slowed to a standstill in the forest; and then the young woman had the temerity to set it in motion again, drawing up at the platform of the station where a doctor was to be had.

'Why, my wife can do anything,' Harry Sanderson, superintendent of traffic on the G. X. and M. Railway, is accustomed to say. 'Didn't you ever hear how she ran the Great Mogul? No? Well, this is the way it happened...'

And then he will relate the story which has just been told to you.

____________________

22: Lady Letty's Literary Lesson

Robert Barr

Leader (Melbourne) 29 Dec 1906

IF AN ARTIST had wished to paint a picture representing scorn, anger and various other evil passions, he could not have found a better study than Lady. Letty's face as she finished the letter. Luckily for Letty there was no witness to that undeniable scowl which for the moment marred the very perfect beauty of her face.

The first reading of the letter had merely caused amazement that anyone should dare to pen such lines to her. She was too much astonished at . the moment to remember that her correspondent did not know he was writing to a lady. She forgot also her own persistence in sending to him letter after letter, imploring, and. even demanding advice. Here she had it, and yet, she was not happy.

Lady Letty's lines had fallen in pleasant places. The rod of criticism had been spared, and if the young lady had not been spoiled by the lack of this corrective, she was unprepared for brutal frankness now that she had brought it down upon herself. Indeed, Lady Letty was so charming a girl that no one who knew her ever thought of saying anything in her presence that was not  complimentary and pleasing. Her school essays into literature had been so enthusiastically commended by her friends: that the poor girl actually thought she had only to step into the great world, gently wave Mrs. Humphrey Ward aside, and occupy the place hitherto held by that woman of genius.

And Lady Letty had very high and noble ideas about life in general. She wished to devote her time and talent to worthy objects. She sometimes said unkind things about fashionable people, and yet no one enjoyed a dance better than Lady Letty.  She wished to sway mankind toward the good, the true, the beautiful, and it must be said of the younger portion of mankind whom she knew that they displayed great anxiety to be so swayed by Lady Letty, especially in the dreamy mazes of a waltz.

But Lady Letty was determined to be loved for herself alone; youth and beauty were to be unaided by rank and fortune when that important turning point in her life arrived, all of which goes to show that, she was very, very young indeed. She was also bent upon winning fame entirely through her own merits, and so she bad chosen the nom de guerre of John Hazelden.

The lack of appreciation which John Hazelden met at the outset of his career grows familiar to us all by reading biographies of the truly great. The manuscript invariably returned, often accompanied by a polite little printed note, amiably explaining that this rejection cast no reflection upon the merits of the manuscript.

John Hazelden tired of the monotony after a while, and when the sixth story came back from that well-known magazine the Magnet, which, as everyone is aware, attracts hundreds of thousands of readers, John Hazelden offered to rewrite the story if the editor would kindly point out what was wrong with it. A stamped and addressed envelope brought a brief reply, written by some subordinate in the Magnet office, to the effect that it was against the custom of that periodical to criticise contributions sent in. The fact of the story's return proved it unavailable as far as the Magnet was concerned, and the writer remained, most sincerely,— J.D.W.

Now these three initials failed to satisfy the literary yearnings of Lady Letty. She was a persistent little person, who had been allowed all her life to do exactly as she pleased, with that amount of leisure time on her hands which the Prince of Darkness delights in filling up, so she wrote a letter to an old school friend who was making her way in journalistic circles, somewhat, it must be confessed, to Lady Letty's chagrin, for the girl at school had not shown cleverness superior to that with which Lady Letty received assurance she was endowed, and her ladyship begged her journalistic friend to discover for her who the actual editor of the Magnet was, and to send her, if possible, his private address.

The journalistic friend replied promptly, in a hurriedly scrawled note from the Scribbler's Club, saying the editor's name was Richard Grant, and he lived in bachelors quarters at No 17 Plum Tree-court, Temple, E.C. Then the flippant journalist went on to say that if Lady Letty intended entering the literary, field, she was taking unfair advantage of her competitors by storming the editor's sanctuary instead of his sanctum. The journalist begged Lady Letty, in fairness to those who had to make their living with the type writer, not to send her photograph to the editor, or write on paper that bore the Belmer crest.

To this Lady Letty replied with dignity, after thanking her friend, that if she ever attempted, to write, she would adopt a nom de plume, which the journalist thought a wrong phrase to use. Lady Letty then explained that she wished the private address of the editor, not for herself, but for a friend of hers, named John Hazelden.

It was John Hazelden himself who wrote to Richard Grant, enclosing his manuscript once more, begging the editor to amend anything that might be wrong, or if this were impossible, imploring him to point out in what respect the story failed to meet approval. Mr. Hazelden would he glad of any advice the editor might be pleased to tender to one who desired to make his living with his pen.

The result of this appeal was the letter now in the young lady's hand.

17 Plum Tree Court, Temple, E.C.

John Hazelden, Esq.

Dear Sir,

You might as well ask me to carve a marble statue out of a pile of bricks, as to set me the impossible task of making anything worth reading out of your story. You want to know what is wrong with it. I beg to inform you it is all wrong. Your people are impossible; your conversation stilted and unnatural. Living men and women never spoke as your characters do. The work is more like that of a silly school girl than of a man, even if he happens to be  exceedingly young, as you doubtless are. What you need is experience. Fall in love with a girl, and get her to fall in love with you, then set down what you say to each other, and the result is bound to be better than this effort. It certainly couldn't be worse.

Yours truly, Richard Grant.

Lady Letty tore both the letter and the returned manuscript into exceedingly small pieces. Then she went out for a long walk, land during that promenade partially cooled her heated temper, and came to a very grim determination. She would acquire the love experience recommended by the rude Mr. Grant, and he himself should be the teacher. She would lead him a dance, that she would; twist him round her little linger, and when he proposed would reject him with scorn. Her revenge would be made complete by sending him afterwards a story in which his own conversation with her should be set down as accurately as if written by a shorthand clerk. She would contrive to meet him somehow under the name of Miss Brown, or Jones or Robinson, and when, afterwards, John Hazelden sent the new story to the impolite Richard Grant he would write that he knew it to be true because it was told to him, amid much laughter, by a charming girl named Miss Brown.

What with the inspiring effect of the walk through a beautiful park, and the exhilarating effect of this newly concocted plot against an unfortunate man's peace of mind, Lady Letty came back to the Manor House in a much better humor than she left it.

She sat down and wrote to her accommodating friend the journalist, saying that John Hazelden was very anxious to meet Mr. Richard Grant, and wished to find out when and where he spent his vacation. A week passed before the reply came, and the delay was explained by the letter itself, which was rather inaccurately type written.

The journalist admitted that she had invested in a machine, and was still practising. Besides, she said, it was not quite. so easy to see Mr. Richard Grant as a person in the country might suppose. However, the enterprising journalist had requested an interview in order to learn what he thought of the literary outlook, as she proposed to write an article on that subject, and Mr. Grant had consented to see her on condition that his name was not mentioned in the forthcoming contribution.

It appeared that his views regarding literature were most pessimistic, but after that question was settled they got a-talking of forest and glade, and here the young man grew enthusiastic. It appeared that he was a younger son of Lord M'Fernley of Scotland, and he was going to spend his holidays in the Highlands. On the fifteenth he would join the Gorm House party of Mr. M'Lean, on the shores of Loch Gorm, where he would spend a fortnight trout fishing the Loch. He had secured the only boat on the lake, and expected therefore to revel in the sport unmolested. So if John Hazelden thought to make his acquaintance there he might find his project inopportune. After fishing in the West, Mr. Grant would go across to his father's place near the east coast, and there would be Mr. Hazelden's best opportunity for meeting him.

It was now the third of the month, and Lady Letty lost no time in becoming Miss Letitia Johnson, and it was as Miss Letitia Johnson of Glasgow that she took two rooms in the farmhouse overlooking the Loch. The farmer successfully carted her canoe over the exceedingly rough road from the landing place of the Glasgow steamer, miles and miles away, and delivered it safely at the margin of the lake.

Lady Letty had planned it all out. The canoe was to be the means of introducing her to Mr. Richard Grant. She knew just how that young man would act when he learned that the plain household held another visitor than himself. His first inclination would be to desert the place altogether, and enjoy his vacation somewhere else. A few minutes' reflection would show him this was not so easily done as it may have appeared on the first thought. Most of these two weeks were likely to be consumed in the search for any place so secluded as Loch Gorm. He would then, she surmised, succumb to the temptation of the Loch, if he were a true fisherman, and would resolve to stay and make the best of it, ignoring his fellow guest. Then the canoe would play its part the first day or the second, she would lose her paddle, and drift helpless on the lake, with a signal of distress flying. The objectionable Mr. Grant could scarcely refrain from coming to her assistance, and Lady Letty, young though she was, had already enough of experience to know that a man was not so difficult to conquer as Port Arthur.

It was late at night when Mr. Grant arrived, and Lady Letty saw nothing of him that evening. Next morning when the servant brought Lady Letty's breakfast to the front parlor, which was study, library and drawing room for her ladyship during her stay in the Highlands, the lass was very gossipy and eulogistic about the newcomer. He was a rare nice body, she said, and a thorough gentleman, unco' free, with his money, which Letty took to be a hint for herself.

After breakfast the young lady surveyed herself in the mirror, and with a touch or two here and there concluded she was suitably arrayed for conquest. She was fetchingly attired, and her short skirt, exceedingly neat, the, product of the best shop in London, showed a pair of small feet and dainty ankles. The expensive hat from Paris displayed that fashionable simplicity which is nowhere more effective than in the wilderness, and doubtless a mere man, while admiring the artistic completeness of hat and costume, would be fool enough to imagine that the whole combination had been purchased at the nearest village. Nevertheless, the final result would be the same as if he had seen the bill.

With the light-yellow paddle under her arm, the young woman opened the door, and went out. She carried herself with a quiet dignity which seemed to intimate that she had no thought of masculine intrusion within the realm of her earthly paradise. A well-set-up young fellow, in a Harris tweed Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers, with a cap of the same material jauntily stuck on his head, was stuffing a black pipe with tobacco from a rubber pouch.

For one instant he looked, in stupified amazement at the vision which had just emerged from the front door, then he thrust pipe, pouch and loose tobacco hurriedly into the pocket of his Norfolk jacket, and removed his cap, The young lady had paused for an instant on the threshold gazing with admiration in her eyes towards the steely mirror of the placid lake, which at that distance gave no hint that its waters were brown with the peat which surrounded it.

Then she drew herself up as she noticed the salute from the stranger, and, returning it with the slightest possible inclination of her fair head, she glided down the path toward the lake, while the young fellow gazed in stupefaction after her, with his cap still held in his hand.

"By Jove!" he murmured to himself. "Who would have expected Bond-street in Argyllshire."

Finally he gathered together basket, landing net and jointed rod, with its long brown canvas bag, then strolled in the direction the vision had taken, quite forgetting his pipe, which was an extraordinary thing. Old Donald was waiting for him in the stern of the boat, and as Richard stepped past him into the prow Donald shoved the craft off from the bed of peat on which it partially rested, then took to the oars while his employer put together the trout rod. Then as he stood up he saw the vision calmly paddling her own yellow canoe toward the middle of the loch.

"Who is that, Donald? Do you know?" asked the young man.

"I'm not sure," replied Donald, "it's a young lady fra' Glascaw, that's been stopping up at the hoose this week or mair."

"Surely to goodness she's not going to attempt fishing for trout from that treacherous cockle-shell!"

"Ah, ye can never ken," replied Donald nonchalantly, as if it were no affair of his. "Glascaw bodies are a' daft."

"Row over there," said Richard. "I must speak with her."

Donald did as he was directed, and as the boat approached, perfectly unknown to the young lady, of course, for she was looking altogether in another direction, Richard made so bold as to address her.

"I beg your pardon, Miss, but I hope you don't intend fishing from that canoe."

She turned towards him, an expression of mitigated surprise upon her very pretty face.

"Why not?" she asked.

"Because it is so unstable, You have no one with a landing net; if you are so unfortunate as to hook a fish, I assure you there are ten chances of your going to him, to once of his coming to you."

The girl smiled very winningly.

"Do you think a canoe is so treacherous as all that? I confess I am not an expert fisher, but I did imagine myself an expert canoeist."

"I see that you understand the canoe perfectly, but one might as well attempt to play a fish from the back of a galloping horse, as to stand up in that craft. I beg of you to abandon the canoe, and come into this boat."

"Oh, thank you very much, but I could not think of such a thing. I brought my canoe all the way from Glasgow for the express purpose of learning to fish in it."

"I am sure you are attempting the impossible. I don't know very much of canoes, but I had one at Oxford, and, goodness knows, it threw me into the river often enough without my trying to fish from it. This boat is as steady as the ark, and nearly as roomy, I shall he delighted if you accept a place in it, and Donald here will he as pleased to dip out fish for two as for one."

Letitia cast a regretful look over the surface of the lake, a look touched with pathetic reluctance.

"There couldn't be a finer day," she said, "for my experiment with the canoe," and she spoke with most touching wistfulness.

"Oh, if you wish the experiment tried, just step into this boat, and I'll take your place in the canoe. I don't mind a wetting in the least. I'll try the experiment."

Lady Letty laughed very sweetly. The young man had referred to the canoe as craft, little thinking the craft was in its passenger, and so at last the passenger accepted a place in the stern of the boat, contriving, quite successfully, as she. did so to give to her action the air of conferring a favor.

With her first cast the hook caught the young man in the shoulder of his Norfolk jacket, and he, unfortunate wretch, little suspecting the typical nature of the incident, laughed with exceeding cheerfulness, and then showed her how the trick of making a cast should be done.

This day was the first of many pleasant outings on the little loch, and, as has been intimated, trout was not the only thing that was caught.

NEARLY two weeks later he invited her to attend the bagpiping and the sports at Skillymanduich, just as if he were a farmer lad, and she his lass. The farmer drove his wife and all that belonged to the house over to the Fair, and if there were not the Hundred Pipers of the song, there were at least enough of them in the musical contest to make the air very resonant with the skreel of the pibroch. It was a great day, and the whole of the country side was there.

Early in the afternoon, Richard Grant said to Letitia: "Are you tired?"

"Not in the least," she answered, "it's very jolly."

"Would you mind walking home across the moors?"

"Do you know the way?" she asked.

"Yes, I have been across once or twice in the quest of tobacco."

"Very well," she replied, "let us be off," and so they walked up and up from the village, and over the hills and far away. At last they came to the summit, and saw beneath them the farm house that had been their home, and beyond that again, the blue Atlantic, with the red western sun hanging over its outer rim.

"You must be tired now," he said, "let us sit down in the heather for a moment and enjoy this unexampled scene."

"It is beautiful," she murmured.

"Letty," he said, "we seem to be alone in the whole world, and speaking for myself there is no one in the world but you. Letty, I love you. Will you marry me ?"

Now was her opportunity. Now had come the crisis she had planned for, schemed for and contrived for. The lesson was long ago prepared, and she knew it by heart. She glanced up at the young man, at his clear cut face, which was in desperate earnest. Then she looked towards the sinking sun.

"But you know nothing of me," she said at last, a remark which was not in the lesson at all.

"I know that you are the dearest, most honest, best girl in the world, and in addition to. that the most beautiful woman that walks the earth. Of course I should have written to your father, and asked his permission to pay my addresses to you, but I was too anxious, and wished first to assure myself of your assent."

Lady Letty continued to gaze at the distant Atlantic, and for some moments there was silence between them.

"Won't you answer, dear?" whispered the young man, bending towards her.

With a quivering little sigh she said: "I think you may write to Father, or perhaps it would be better if you went to see him, and said nothing of my assent."

"Oh, heaven bless you, Letty," cried a jubilant voice, "tell me where I shall find him."

"He is easily found," said Letty, with one of those confiding little laughs which he admired so much, "he is Earl of Balkerl, at Balkerl Castle, in the Midlands."

__________________

23: A Sweet Thing in Trusts

Robert Barr

Albury Banner and Wodonga Express (NSW) 15 May 1903

The Strand Magazine, Oct 1901

JOHN L. WARNER was very well satisfied with himself when he stepped on the white clean deck of the great German liner Uberalles, whose prow was pointed towards America. And the young man had good reason to be proud, for he had brought to a successful conclusion a very thoughtful investigation that had extended over most of the German Empire, and had involved side-trips to the chief financial capitals of Europe, occupying a period of six months. The search had been conducted with all the secrecy of a diplomatic embassy, and in this sort of subtle service John L. Warner was an adept.

The young man's important mission came about in this way. The Sugar Trust of the United States had become alarmed. It had received a hint that Germany was contemplating a new move in the sugar industry. For years Germany had endowed the sugar trade with State bounties that had resulted in ruining one or two minor West Indian Colonies of Great Britain, while at the same time it had provided England with ample sugar at a price somewhat under the cost of manufacture.

This outcome could scarcely be described as beneficial. It was a sweet boon to the English consumer, oppressive to the German taxpayer, and bankrupting to the Colonial planter. Now it seemed the German Government was about to take upon itself the task of fighting the United States Sugar Trust in its own lair, and, if victorious, would hold a monopoly for the whole world. The sugar trade of England was in a bad way, but that of the United States was a lusty industry, and an interesting fight might be expected, for if the German Government thought it owned the Teutonic Government the Sugar Trust was quite convinced that its chief, Mr. Hovmannhause, owned the United States.

The first move Mr. Hovmannhause, head of the Sugar Trust, made was to possess himself of all the facts, and to get the facts he sent his trusty lieutenant, John L. Warner, to Europe, provided with an ample supply of ready money, an article useful in Germany as elsewhere. Now the young man's mission was finished, he has assured himself that there was no truth whatever in the allegation that Germany had any thought of fighting the American combination, and he was on the way to see Sandy Hook again, always a delightful prospect to the true citizen of 'God's Country.'

It was quite natural, then, that young Mr. Warner should walk up the deck on a delightful morning in June rather well pleased with himself. This gratifying state of mind was enhanced rather than diminished by seeing the familiar figure of a charming young lady leaning over the rail, and he remembered, with a thrill of pleasure, that there would be moonlit sights all the way across, and that the ample decks of the Uberalles formed excellent promenades. So he approached the lady.

'Why, how fortunate I am, Miss Stansbury, that I find you on board at a time of the year when most; of our fellow-citizens are going the other way!'

The young woman turned her blue eyes upon him and smiled; then he saw she was prettier than the friend he thought himself accosting. She spoke with a slight but very dainty German accent.

'It is not very complimentary to Miss Stanbury that you should mistake another for her.'

'Permit me to doubt that, madam. I think the young lady herself would agree with me, were she here, that I had paid her a very high compliment indeed.'

'It is nice of you to put it that way; nevertheless, I am sorry for your disappointment.'

'The disappointment has already vanished, for, to tell the truth, my acquaintance with the lady I mentioned is neither very long nor very intimate. Still, one welcomes a friendly face when a long voyage is ahead.'

'But not at other times ? I fear your politeness has vanished with your disappointment.'

'I did not intend say remark to mean anything uncivil towards the ladies in general or any lady in particular. It is rather indicative of my own unfortunate situation. I am such a busy man ashore that about the only time I had for pleasant intercourse with my kind is on board ship going from country to country.'

'How dreadful! I hope everyone in America is not like that, for this is my first visit to the United States, and I expected to meet some interesting people.'

'Oh, you will. No; they are not all like me, although we do have the reputation of being rather a hurrying nation. Do you intend to stay long in America ?'

'That will depend entirely on my father, whom I have persuaded to take me with him. He may finish what he has to do In a short time, or there may be unexpected delay. He is Hermann Steinhoff, of Berlin; doubtless you have heard of him.'

'I can't say positively that I have or have not,' replied Warner, with some hesitation. 'Is it a name one would see in the papers?'

The girl arched her eyebrows slightly, but made no explanation beyond saying:—

'Very likely. You will perhaps see more of the name in the newspapers if he succeeds in what he is attempting.'

'I hope he will succeed. He is bound to, since you accompany him,' said the young man, in a clumsy attempt at compliment, at which the girl smiled.

'May I introduce myself as John L. Warner, of New York? My excuse is that steamer introductions are necessarily somewhat informal, and we may have no mutual friends on board.'

So thus began an acquaintance that was to ripen very rapidly. The father proved to be a taciturn, self-absorbed man, who allowed his daughter to do as she pleased so long as his meditations were not interfered with. He kept his own counsel very rigidly, sitting for hours in his deck-chair, lost in interminable calculations which he was constantly working out in a blank book he held on his lap.

His neglect of the charming young lady was more than compensated fax by the assiduous attentions of Warner.  There were moonlight walks on the ample desks and cosy confidences in adjoining steamer chairs.   So far as Miss Steinhoff was concerned her preference for the frank young American was almost as marked as his for her. He seemed to care for no one else on board the Uberalles, and although she had many invitations to promenade, she rarely availed herself of them.

Warner was ever the person in favour, and the luxurious smoking-room, which on other voyages had been his preferred resort, scarcely knew him at all on this trip. The pleasant weather and it the nightly-increasing moonlight invited young people towards sentimentality, and to each of them cordially accepted the invitation. He knew little of women, but had the American's intense respect for them, and this fair flower of German soil, with her amazing learning on book subjects of which he was entirely ignorant, and her equally amusing lack of knowledge regarding the ways of the world which an American girl would know all about, fascinated him.

On the other hand, she had met no one in the least like Warner, a youth who had had his own way to make, who had overcome obstacles that might have baffled many a less strenuous person, who had educated himself in the things that mattered, from his own point of view, and who had illimitable ambitions for his own career and a boundless faith in the future of his country. There was no land like it; and in his enthusiasm he sometimes forgot that she belonged to another.

But before the voyage was half done he had resolved to induce her to change her nationality and her name if he could. He first realised how far he had advanced when he caught himself several times on the very verge of telling her something of the Sugar Trust, a subject sacred from discussion with outsider, its methods not even to be mentioned, as an inadvertent word might reach the ears of some alert newspaper reporter.

On her part Miss Steinhoff was frankly confiding. She appeared to have acquired an amazing belief in his genius as a business man, and, perhaps possessing no trade secrets to guard, she could talk without the restrictions which now and then embarrassed the young man, when he fell into the habit of talking about himself, a subject on which youth is somewhat eloquent when a sympathetic listener is at hand. They found and occupied certain secluded places on deck, which became entirely their own, as the passenger list was not a long one.

One evening the conversation drifted to the subject of speculation and the Stock Exchange, and Warner told several interesting stories of fortunes made in a moment.

'Oh, Mr. Warner,' said the girl, 'I wish you would give me some advice. I want to experiment in speculation. There was left to me a year ago a trifle over 40,000 marks, and I have brought the legacy with me, What are the chances of my turning it into a million?'

'Forty thousand marks. That is ten thousand dollars. Well, if you take my advice, you will keep clear of Wall Street. The sum might last you two minutes or it might last only one. You are certain to lose it.'

'But aren't there any safe stocks?'

'Oh, yes. Safe for investment, but they don't fluctuate much, and it is on sharp fluctuations that the big piles are made.'

'I should think a man of your experience would know stocks that are safe, yet that were sure to rise.'

'Ah, if any of us knew that, Miss Steinhoff, should we be working for someone else? If I were absolutely certain that a given stock would go up or down even one point, I could be a millionaire the day after. No, there is nothing certain about Wall Street, except that the outsider will lose his money and some of the insiders as well.'

'You discourage me, Mr. Warner.'

'If you will promise me not to mention to any living soul what I tell you, I'll give you what we call a pointer. I don't think you can lose, and you stand to win. I'll give you the name of an honest broker, bat be careful not to let him know who sent you. Get him to put that money into sugar.'

'What ? You don't mean in the grocery business ?'

'No, no. Stocks of the Sugar Trust. I have reason to believe they will rise shortly. They have been unduly depressed because of certain rumors which I happen to know are entirely unfounded. But for Heaven's sake, Miss Steinhoff, never ever hint in the remotest fashion what I have told you. It is a secret that must be well guarded.'

'A secret for a secret then,' laughed the young woman, ' and a coincidence besides. But, then, you won't think your secret is safe with me if I at once tell you what I have been warned not to tell. So, on second thoughts, I'll not say anything, for I feel sure you would distrust me if I did, and I shouldn't like that. It was the curious coincidence that made me forget for the moment. Well, there can be no harm in saying what the coincidence is, without going into particulars, for I see you are interested, but it is a Government matter, therefore I must be careful, for I am still on German territory, and shall be until I set foot in New York. Our Government stands no nonsense from tattlers. So you will be silent, for my sake. It is really on account of sugar that I am on this ship. My father is very much trusted by our Government, and he is crossing with intent to teach your smart Americans some pointers, as you call them, on sugar. There, I mast say no more. Father would be furious if he knew I had even hinted that much, for there is always a chance that the Americans may be cleverer than he or our Government sad may beat us at our own game, so nothing is to be said until success is certain.'

The agent of the Sugar Trust rose somewhat unsteadily to his feet and drew a long breath, resolutely keeping down any indication of surprise or dismay; but as his head came into the strong moonlight she was amazed to see that all colour had left his face.

'What is wrong?' she asked, in alarm, also rising. 'Are you ill?'

'No, no. It is nothing. Foot asleep or something of that sort, and it stings a bit. Suppose we take a walk up and down the deck for a few turns.'

They promenaded for a while, but conversation lagged. The girl saw something was amiss, but could not guess what although he tried strenuously to seem interested and be interesting; so finally she bade him good-night and went down the companion-way.

Warner lit a cigar and trod the deck alone, thinking deeply. Here, by the merest chance, he had come upon the secret which he had spent thousands in Germany to discover without getting even a hint of its existence for his money. The German Government was going to fight the American Sugar Trust after all, and the information came to him, not through his own alertness on which he had so confidently plumed himself, backed by the resources of a great corporation, but by way of a casual conversation on a steamer's deck!

His failure shook his confidence in himself and humiliated him. He had come within an ace of deluding his employers. But had he the right to enlighten them now? What he had learned was told him in confidence, and although, technically, he had given no promise, yet the girl had taken that promise for granted. He wondered what enchantment had come over him. A week ago such qualms of conscience would never have occurred to him. It would have been the Trust— first, last, and all the time.

'All's fair in love and war,' he quoted to himself; but which was it, love or war?  War between the sugar combines certainly, but what between the girl and himself? Love, as certainly as the coming fight. If he told his employers the truth it would work injury indirect to the girl and direct to her secretive, moody father. If she ever came to know that her betrayed confidence had resulted in wrecking her father's plan her feelings towards the culprit would be the reverse of friendly.

At one moment it seemed that the honest course was to tell the girl all about it, but the consequence of this might be disastrous to those who employed and trusted him. After all, if he were to lay any claim to honesty his first duty was towards the men who paid him and would continue so until he refused to accept their wage.

The moon and the steamer had travelled far in the same direction before he reached this decision, and when he went to his state-room he cursed himself as a traitor to the girl he loved. Next morning when he met Miss Steinhoff, looking very charming, as if she had arrayed herself wish special care, which was indeed the case, his fealty to his employers wavered. He resolved to place a supposed case before the lady and let her settle the question.

'Good morning, Mr. Warner,' she greeted him.

'You seem worried. Didn't you deep well ?'

'I scarcely slept at all. It was almost daylight when I turned in. Yes, I am worried. A question of ethics has arisen; I think that's what they call it. I'm in a quandary, but I have some hope of persuading you to help me out.'

'I shall be delighted to assist, if I can.'

'Well, you see, it's like this. I'm a hired man. I belong to a company; I am the company's servant, although we don't like to be called a servant unless we are Presidents of the United States. I believe senators and high officials also term themselves servants of the people, which is one method of catching the nimble vote. However, to come to the point, this big company pays me lavishly, and in return is supposed to receive my best efforts night, day, and for all time. I was sent over to Europe some months ago to learn the answers to a certain question which it was the determination of those interested there to conceal. The answer would be "Yes" or "No." The company was willing to spend thousands to find out which of these simple little words was the correct one. My investigations led me to the conclusion that "No" was the answer. The chance remark of a friend of mine afterwards convinced me that the true reply is "Yes", but if my friend had known I belonged to this company he would not have given me the information he did. Now my problem is, should I or should I not tell my company what I learned?'

'Did you promise your friend not to tell?'

'No, I gave no promise.'

'In that case I think it is your duty to give your company the information you have received. It belongs to them and not to you.'

'Perhaps I ought to add that, although I made no promise, yet a promise was tacitly implied. My friend believed I would tell no one. Besides this, my friend very likely will be injured by my betrayal of confidence, indirectly at least.'

'I cannot see that this changes the position. The fault lies with your friend. He should not have spoken, but, having spoken, he had to take the risk of his folly. And now, Mr. Warner, I want to ask you a question. How is it that this problem of conscience suddenly becomes troublesome in mid-ocean! You were not worrying about it when the voyage began, were you?'

'No. Well, you see, Miss Steinhoff, my association with you has changed many of my previous ideas. Actions that I had considered perfectly justifiable now take on a different completion.'

'That is very ingenious, Mr. Warner, and very complimentary to me; but I fear I cannot accept the flattery. Is it not the truth that I am the friend to whom you have been alluding?'

'A man is not bound to incriminate himself on the witness-stand, Miss Steinhoff.'

'Then I was the culprit. It was something I said last night about sugar. Are you interested in sugar?'

'I— I— I— can only repeat what I have just said.'

'And an excellent remark it is, if somewhat trite. It answers my question quite as fully as if you said "Yes." So you are Interested in sugar. This is very awkward.'

'Do you desire to modify your advice?'

'Ah, no. Truth is truth, and individuals don't count. You have no other course but to tell your company.'

'I don't agree with you, Miss Steinhoff, I can resign, and I'll do it.'

'That would not affect the situation. If you had resigned before we left Germany it would be different, but when this information came to you, through my indiscretion, you were still in the company's employ, and as I said before, the knowledge belongs to them, and not to you. It seems to me that it is the same as is someone paid you a large amount of money that belonged to the company, and you thought of resigning so that you need not turn over the money to it.  That wouldn't be honest, would it?'

'I don't suppose it would.'

'Indeed, I think you are already to blame for telling me of the danger that threatens. A man perfectly loyal to the company would have kept quiet about it, for already I am forming dark designs about having you thrown overboard some night. What a pity the moonlight is so strong. However my duty is equally clear. I must now warn my father that a rival knows his purpose in crossing the ocean. He may have some design for thwarting you, and I will assist him. We are enemies from the present moment on, be beware— beware!'

And with a laugh and a mocking curtsy she left him to seek her father.

John L. Warner paced the deck meditating deeply upon the dilemma. After a time the girl returned, and as he accosted her he said, lightly:

'Well, Miss Steinhoff, which is it to be? Poison or the dagger?'

'Neither, I'm afraid. You see before you a very contrite and chastened woman, who has meekly endured a scathing censure on the chattering proclivities of her sex. But it seems that my father is not in the least afraid of either you or your company. The best man will win, he says, and he has evidently not the slightest doubt who the best man is.'

'Um,' growled Warner, his commercial instincts for the moment coming uppermost. 'He is evidently very well backed to be so confident.'

He is backed by the German Government, and I think that is as strong as any company even in the United States. But I forgot. I am not to talk any more about my father or his task. It's forbidden, so we must choose some other subject, if you please.'

'Very well. We will take the interesting subject of your proposed speculation. You gave me your advice and would not reverse it. I am going to reverse my advice. Instead of buying the stock of the Sugar Trust you must sell it. That stock is going to fall very shortly after we reach New York. I will introduce you to a broker, if I may, who will lay out the money to the best advantage.'

'That is very good of you, Mr. Warner, when you remember that I am your enemy.'

'The good Book commands us to love enemies, and I confess I find no difficulty in obeying the Scriptural injunction.'

When they reached New York there was a crowd of reporters to greet Warner, who received them with great good humour. No, he had not gone over to Europe on business. Nervous prostration had been the trouble with him, but he was all right now. He had needed a rest, and Europe was a great place to rest in. So calm and peaceful, you know. The Sugar Trust? Oh, he supposed that was all right, and was grubbing along trying to make a living for the labouring men who own it. No; absolutely no news about it. To tell the truth, he hadn't looked at a paper for months. How was the stock quoted, anyhow? Same old figures eh? Then everybody must be going on all right. Of course, if he had anything to tell he would gladly tell it. The Trust had no particular secrets, and its only object in the world was to produce the best sugar at the lowest price. Exactly; a benevolent institution, as you say. Well, good-bye; so long; delighted to have met you.

And thus the newspaper boys were convinced that something big was on the carpet and determined to find out what it was.

It was a week before the sensational announcement was made in one of the leading papers. Germany was going to fight the Sugar Trust. Millions upon millions were to be on call. And America was to see the greatest industrial and financial contest that had ever taken place in the New World. Herr Steinhoff had absolutely refused to be interviewed, but there was no doubt he was in New York on behalf of the German Government and the powerful syndicate that was acting in conjunction with Germany. There was an instant panic in Sugar Stock, and prices went down with a run.

Luckily for the young woman, Warner had kept all his promises, and her money was on the right side of the market. He called upon her every day, and expected that she would be very much depressed when the full exposure of her father's mission was cast abroad to the world; but such was not the case, and he became more and more convinced that the syndicate must be even stronger than he had suspected when the publication of its plans were met with scornful indifference.

Although Miss Steinhoff remained in New York her father had disappeared. He wanted to get out of reach of the reporters, she said, who had pestered the life out of him at all hours of the night and day. Sugar stock went down and down. The semi-official denial of the German Government, cabled across from Berlin, sent it a few points lower, for no one believed the diplomatic assertion.

'Seems to me,' said Warner to Miss Steinhoff one evening, 'you had better close that deal. Sugar Stock can't go much lower even if the worst happens. I wonder the German Government went the length of denying a thing that must be patent to the world before long. But I suppose they will disclaim that telegram at the psychological moment.'

'Oh, the German Government is truthful enough, although your newspapers don't seem to believe it.'

'Truthful enough? Why, you told me yourself that the Government stood sponsor for your father.'

'Certainly. What has that to do with the case? Father is sorry the Government took the trouble to deny the report, for it kept the papers in the wrong track, and so gave him a chance to go on with his work.'

'Miss Steinhoff, you bewilder me. Let me beg of you to make this clearer. What purpose is your father here for if not to fight the Sugar Trust?'

Miss Steinhoff laughed long and musically. 'Poor father knows nothing of the Sugar Trust, I doubt if he ever heard of it. Are you not aware that my father is one of the leading scientists in Germany, and probably in the world?'

'God bless me!'

'Isn't your company interested in scientific research?'

'Great heavens, no.'

'Then we are not rivals and enemies after all. I suppose I may as well tell you all about it. Sugar has defied analysis so far. Father has been trying to reduce it to its component elements, and had all but succeeded. The Government thought he should come over to the United Stakes to learn what he could about their investigations along the same lines in this country. I believe he has accomplished his task, and I have also a suspicion that full particulars are at this moment on their way to Germany. I surmise this, because he now invites me to go with him to visit Niagara Falls. The German Government pay the expenses of his journey to America, because he is in the employ of the Government. I think that certain learned societies are also interested in his excursion. Does all this compete with your company in any way?'

Warner most impolitely sprang for his hat, then paused.

'Say nothing of what you have told me, but listen to what I am about tell you. See your broker first thing in the rooming. I'll go with you if you'll let me, for I will not act on what I know until later in the day. Put every penny you can scrape together into stock of the Sugar Trust. You sold before, now you must buy. The stock will be up in the skies before a week.'

And so it proved. Warner was no false prophet and Miss Steinhoff became rich. Naturally the young woman was exceedingly grateful to her mentor.

'I owe it all to you,' she said, with a slight tremor in her voice, for her father was anxious to get back to Berlin. 'I cannot imagine why you should have been so kind to a stranger and a foreigner, especially one who has given you such a fright and called you her enemy.'

'It was pure selfishness on my part.'

'In what way?'

'I was working for a commission.'

'A commission! I'll willingly divide with you— glad to— I didn't dare offer—'

'Of course you couldn't, so that's why I ask. I am anxious that you should keep all the cash, but I want the owner of it.'

And then he said a number of things that have no relation to Stock Exchange operations, which, of course, is the motive of this recital, therefore they are omitted as irrelevant. The lady answered in kind, and so her remarks become entirely without interest. But she did not return to Germany.

__________________

24: Lazarus

Leonid Andreyeff

Leonid Nikolaievich Andreyev, 1871-1919

Weird Tales March 1927

Current Literature May 1907

The translator of this story is not known. It may have been Thomas Seltzer (1875-1943) who translated some of Andreyev's work.The spelling of the author's name is as given in Weird Tales.

WHEN Lazarus left the grave, where for three days and three nights he had been under the enigmatical sway of death, and returned alive to his dwelling, for a long time no one noticed in him those sinister things which made his name a terror as time went on. Gladdened by the sight of him who had been returned to life, those near to him made much of him, and satisfied their burning desire to serve him, in solicitude for his food and drink and garments. They dressed him gorgeously, and when, like a bridegroom in his bridal clothes, he sat again among them at the table and ate and drank, they wept with tenderness. And they summoned the neighbors to look at him who had risen miraculously from the dead. These came and shared the joy of the hosts. Strangers from far-off towns and hamlets came and adored the miracle in tempestuous words. The house of Mary and Martha was like a beehive.

Whatever was found new in Lazarus' face and gestures was thought to be some trace of a grave illness and of the shocks recently experienced. Evidently the destruction wrought by death on the corpse was only arrested by the miraculous power, but its effects were still apparent; and what death had succeeded in doing with Lazarus' face and body was like an artist's unfinished sketch seen under thin glass. On Lazarus' temples, under his eyes, and in the hollows of his cheeks, lay a deep and cadaverous blueness; cadaverously blue also were his long fingers, and around his finger-nails, grown long in the grave, the blue had become purple and dark. On his lips, swollen in the grave, the skin had burst in places, and thin reddish cracks were formed, shining as though covered with transparent mica. And he had grown stout. His body, puffed up in the grave, retained its monstrous size and showed those frightful swellings in which one sensed the presence of the rank liquid of decomposition. But the heavy corpselike odor which penetrated Lazarus' grave-clothes and, it seemed, his very body, soon entirely disappeared, the blue spots on his face and hands grew paler, and the reddish cracks closed up, although they never disappeared altogether. That is how Lazarus looked when he appeared before people, in his second life, but his face looked natural to those who had seen him in the coffin.

In addition to the changes in his appearance, Lazarus' temper seemed to have undergone a transformation, but this circumstance startled no one and attracted no attention. Before his death Lazarus had always been cheerful and carefree, fond of laughter and a merry joke. It was because of this brightness and cheerfulness, with not a touch of malice and darkness, that the Master had grown so fond of him. But now Lazarus had grown grave and taciturn, he never jested, nor responded with laughter to other people's jokes; and the words which he very infrequently uttered were the plainest, most ordinary and necessary words, as deprived, of depth and significance as those sounds with which animals express pain and pleasure, thirst and hunger. They were the words that one can say all one's life, and yet they give no indication of what pains and gladdens the depths of the soul.

Thus, with the face of a corpse which for three days had been under the heavy sway of death, dark and taciturn, already appallingly transformed, but still unrecognized by anyone in his new self, he was sitting at the feast-table among friends and relatives, and his gorgeous nuptial garments glittered with yellow gold and bloody scarlet. Broad waves of jubilation, now soft, now tempestuously sonorous surged around him; warm glances of love were reaching out for his face, still cold with the coldness of the grave; and a friend's warm palm caressed his blue, heavy hand. Music played— the tympanum and the pipe, the cithara and the harp. It was as though bees hummed, grasshoppers chirped and birds warbled over the happy house of Mary and Martha.

ii

ONE OF the guests incautiously lifted the veil. By a thoughtless word he broke the serene charm and uncovered the truth in all its naked ugliness. Ere the thought formed itself in his mind, his lips uttered with a smile: "Why do you not tell us what happened yonder?''

All grew silent, startled by the question. It was as if it occurred to them only now that for three days Lazarus had been dead, and they looked at him, anxiously awaiting his answer. But Lazarus kept silence.

"You do not wish to tell us," wondered the man; "is it so terrible yonder?"

And again his thought came after his words. Had it been otherwise, he would not have asked this question, which at that very moment oppressed his heart with its insufferable horror. Uneasiness seized all present, and with a feeling of heavy weariness they awaited Lazarus' words, but he was sternly and coldly silent, and his eyes were lowered. As if for the first time, they noticed the frightful blueness of his face and his repulsive obesity. On the table, as if forgotten by Lazarus, rested his bluish-purple wrist, and to this all eyes turned, as if it were from it that the awaited answer was to come. The musicians were still playing, but now the silence reached them too, and even as water extinguishes scattered embers, so were their merry tunes extinguished in the silence. The pipe grew silent; the voices of the sonorous tympanum and the murmuring harp died away; and as if the strings had burst, the cithara answered with a tremulous, broken note. Silence.

"You do not wish to say?" repeated the guest, unable to check his chattering tongue. But the stillness remained unbroken, and the bluish- purple hand rested motionless. And then he stirred slightly and everyone felt relieved. He lifted up his eyes, and lo! straightway embracing everything in one heavy glance, fraught with weariness and horror, he looked at them— Lazarus who had arisen from the dead.

It was the third day since Lazarus had left the grave. Ever since then many had experienced the pernicious power of his eye, but neither those who were crushed by it forever, nor those who found the strength to resist in it the primordial sources of life, which is as mysterious as death, never could they explain the horror which lay motionless in the depth of his black pupils. Lazarus looked calmly and simply with no desire to conceal anything, but also with no intention to say anything; he looked coldly, as one who is infinitely indifferent to those alive. Many carefree people came close to him without noticing him, and only later did they learn with astonishment and fear who that calm stout man was that walked slowly by, almost touching them with his gorgeous and dazzling garments. The sun did not cease shining, when he was looking, nor did the fountain hush its murmur, and the sky overhead remained cloudless and blue. But the man under the spell of his enigmatical look heard no more the fountain and saw not the sky overhead. Sometimes he wept bitterly, sometimes he tore his hair and in frenzy called for help; but more often it came to pass that apathetically and quietly he began to die, and so he languished many years, before everybody's eyes, wasted away, colorless, flabby, dull, like a tree silently drying up in a stony soil. And of those who gazed at him, the one who wept madly sometimes felt again the stir of life; the others never.

"So you do not wish to tell us what you have seen yonder?" repeated the man. But now his voice was impassive and dull, and deadly gray weariness showed in Lazarus' eyes. And deadly gray weariness covered like dust all the faces, and with dull amazement the guests stared at each other and did not understand wherefore they had gathered here and sat at the rich table. The talk ceased. They thought it was time to go home, but could not overcome the weariness which glued their muscles, and they kept on sitting there, yet apart and torn away from each other, like pale fires scattered over a dark field.

But the musicians were paid to play, and again they took their instruments, and again tunes full of studied mirth and studied sorrow began to flow and to rise. They unfolded the customary melody, but the guests harkened in dull amazement. Already they knew not why it is necessary, and why it is well, that people should pluck strings, inflate their cheeks, blow in thin pipes, and produce a bizarre, many-voiced noise.

"What bad music!" said someone.

The musicians took offense and left. Following them, the guests left one after another, for night was already come. And when placid darkness encircled them and they began to breathe with more ease, suddenly Lazarus' image loomed up before each one in formidable radiance: the blue face of a corpse, grave-clothes gorgeous and resplendent, a cold look, in the depths of which lay motionless an unknown horror. As though petrified, they were standing far apart, and darkness enveloped them, but in the darkness blazed brighter and brighter the supernatural vision of him who for three days had been under the enigmatical sway of death. For three days had he been dead: thrice had the sun risen and set, but he had been dead; children had played, streams murmured over pebbles, the wayfarer had lifted up hot dust in the highroad, but he had been dead. And now he is again among them, touches them, looks at them, and through the black disks of his pupils, as through darkened glass, stares the unknowable Yonder.

iii

NO ONE was taking care of Lazarus, for no friends, no relatives were left to him, and the great desert, which encircled the holy city, came near the very threshold of his dwelling. And the desert entered his house, and stretched on his couch, like a wife, and extinguished the fires. No one was taking care of Lazarus. One after the other, his sisters— Mary and Martha— forsook him. For a long while Martha was loth to abandon him, for she knew not who would feed him and pity him. She wept and prayed. But one night, when the wind was roaming in the desert and with a hissing sound the cypresses were bending over the roof, she dressed noiselessly, and secretly left the house. Lazarus probably heard the door slam; it banged against the side-post under the gusts of the desert wind, but he did not rise to go out and look at her that was abandoning him. All the night long the cypresses hissed over his head and plaintively thumped the door, letting in the cold, greedy desert.

Like a leper he was shunned by everyone, and it was proposed to tie a bell to his neck, as is done with lepers, to warn people against sudden meetings. But someone remarked, growing frightfully pale, that it would be too horrible if by night the moaning of Lazarus' bell were suddenly heard under the windows, and so the project was abandoned.

And since he did not take care of himself, he would probably have starved to death, had not the neighbors brought him food in fear of something that they sensed but vaguely. The food was brought to him by children; they were not afraid of Lazarus, nor did they mock him with naive cruelty, as children are wont to do with the wretched and miserable. They were indifferent to him, and Lazarus answered them with the same coldness; he had no desire to caress the black little curls, and to look into their innocent shining eyes. Given to Time and to the desert, his house was crumbling down, and long since had his famishing goats wandered away to the neighboring pastures. His bridal garments became threadbare. Ever since that happy day when the musicians played, he had worn them unaware of the difference of the new and the worn. The bright colors grew dull and faded; vicious dogs and the sharp thorns of the desert turned the tender fabric into rags.

By day, when the merciless sun slew all things alive, and even scorpions sought shelter under stones and writhed there in a mad desire to sting, he sat motionless under the sun's rays, his blue face and the uncouth, bushy beard lifted up, bathing in the fiery flood.

When people still talked to him, he was once asked: "Poor Lazarus, does it please you to sit thus and to stare at the sun?"

And he had answered: "Yes, it does."

So strong, it seemed, was the cold of his three days' grave, so deep the darkness, that there was no heat on earth to warm Lazarus, nor a splendor that could brighten the darkness of his eyes. That is what came to the mind of those who spoke to Lazarus, and with a sigh they left him.

And when the scarlet, flattened globe would lower, Lazarus would set out for the desert and walk straight toward the sun, as if striving to reach it. He always walked straight toward the sun, and those who tried to follow him and to spy upon what he was doing at night in the desert, retained in their memory the black silhouette of a tall stout man against the red background of an enormous flattened disk. Night pursued them with her horrors, and so they did not learn of Lazarus' doings in the desert, but the vision of the black on red was forever branded on their brains. Just as a beast with a splinter in its eye furiously rubs its muzzle with its paws, so they too foolishly rubbed their eyes, but what Lazarus had given was indelible, and Death alone could efface it.

But there were people who lived far away, who never saw Lazarus and knew of him only by report. With daring curiosity, which is stronger than fear and feeds-upon it, with hidden mockery, they would come to Lazarus who was sitting in the sun and enter into conversation with him. By this time Lazarus' appearance had changed for the better and was not so terrible. The first minute they snapped their fingers and thought of how stupid the inhabitants of the holy city were; but when the short talk was over and they started homeward, their looks were such that the inhabitants of the holy city recognized them at once and said: "Look, there is one more fool on whom Lazarus has set his eye;" and they shook their heads regretfully, and lifted up their arms.

There came brave, intrepid warriors, with tinkling weapons; happy youths came with laughter and song; busy tradesmen, jingling their money, ran in for a moment, and haughty priests leaned their crosiers against Lazarus' door, and they were all strangely changed, as they came back. The same terrible shadow swooped down upon their souls and gave a new appearance to the old familiar world.

Those who still had the desire to speak, expressed their feelings thus:

"All things tangible and visible grew hollow, light and transparent, similar to lightsome shadows in the darkness of night;

"For that great darkness, which holds the whole cosmos, was dispersed neither by the sun nor by the moon and the stars, but like an immense black shroud enveloped the earth and like a mother embraced it;

"It penetrated all the bodies, iron and stone, and the particles of the bodies, having lost their ties, grew lonely; and it penetrated into the depth of the particles, and the particles of particles became lonely;

"For that great void, which encircles the cosmos, was not filled by things visible, neither by the sun, nor by the moon and the stars, but reigned unrestrained, penetrating everywhere, severing body from body, particle from particle;

"In the void, hollow trees spread hollow roots threatening a fantastic fall; temples, palaces, and houses loomed up and they were hollow; and in the void men moved about restlessly, but they were light and hollow like shadows;

"For time was no more, and the beginning of all things came near their end: the building was still being built, and builders were still hammering away, and its ruins were already seen and the void in its place; the man was still being born, but already funeral candles were burning at his head, and now they were extinguished, and there was the void in place of the man and of the funeral candles;

"And wrapped by void and darkness the man in despair trembled in the face of the horror of the infinite."

Thus spake the men who had still a desire to speak. But, surely, much more could those have told who wished not to speak, and died in silence.

iv

AT THAT TIME there lived in Rome a renowned sculptor. In clay, marble and bronze he wrought bodies of gods and men, and such was their beauty that people called them immortal. But he himself was discontented and asserted that there was something even more beautiful, that he could not embody either in marble or in bronze. "I have not yet gathered the glimmers of the moon, nor have I my fill of sunshine," he was wont to say, "and there is no soul in my marble, no life in my beautiful bronze." And when on moonlight nights he slowly walked along the road, crossing the black shadows of cypresses, his white tunic glittering in the moonshine, those who met him would laugh in a friendly way and say:

"Are you going to gather moonshine, Aurelius? Why then did you not fetch baskets?"

And he would answer, laughing and pointing to his eyes:

"Here are the baskets wherein I gather the sheen of the moon and the glimmer of the sun."

And so it was: the moon glimmered in his eyes and the sun sparkled therein. But he could not translate them into marble, and therein lay the serene tragedy of his life.

He was descended from an ancient patrician race, had a good wife and children, and suffered from no want.

When the obscure rumor about Lazarus reached him, he consulted his wife and friends and undertook the far journey to Judea to see him who had miraculously risen from the dead. He was somewhat weary in those days and he hoped that the road would sharpen his blunted senses. What was said of Lazarus did not frighten him: he had pondered much over Death, did not like it, but he disliked also those who confused it with life. "In this life are life and beauty," thought he; "beyond is Death, and enigmatical; and there is no better thing for a man to do than to delight in life and in the beauty of all things living." He had even a vainglorious desire to convince Lazarus of the truth of his own view and restore his soul to life, as his body had been restored. This seemed so much easier because the rumors, shy and strange, did not render the whole truth about Lazarus and but vaguely warned against something frightful.

Lazarus had just risen from the stone in order to follow the sun which was setting in the desert, when a rich Roman, attended by an armed slave, approached him and addressed him in a sonorous voice: "Lazarus!"

And Lazarus beheld a superb face, lit with glory, and arrayed in fine clothes, and precious stones sparkling in the sun. The red light lent to the Roman's face and head the appearance of gleaming bronze: that also Lazarus noticed. He resumed obediently his place and lowered his weary eyes.

"Yes, you are ugly, my poor Lazarus," quietly said the Roman, playing with his golden chain; "you are even horrible, my poor friend; and Death was not lazy that day when you fell so heedlessly into his hands. But you are stout, and, as the great Caesar used to say, fat people are not ill-tempered; to tell the truth, I don't understand why men fear you. Permit me to spend the night in your house; the hour is late, and I have no shelter."

Never had anyone asked Lazarus' hospitality.

"I have no bed," said he.

"I am somewhat of a soldier and I can sleep sitting," the Roman answered. "We shall build a fire."

"I have no fire."

"Then we shall have our talk in the darkness, like two friends. I think you will find a bottle of wine."

"I have no wine."

The Roman laughed.

"Now I see why you are so somber and dislike your second life. No wine! Why, then we shall do without it: there are words that make the head go round better than the Falemian."

By a sign he dismissed the slave, and they remained alone. And again the sculptor started speaking, but it was as if, together with the setting sun, life had left his words; and they grew pale and hollow, as if they staggered on unsteady feet, as if they slipped and fell down, drunk with the heavy lees of weariness and despair. And black chasms grew up between the words, like far-off hints of the great void and the great darkness.

"Now I am your guest, and you will not be unkind to me, Lazarus!" said he. "Hospitality is the duty even of those who for three days were dead. Three days, I was told, you rested in the grave. There it must be cold... and thence comes your ill habit of going without fire and wine. As to me, I like fire; it grows dark here so rapidly.... The lines of your eyebrows and forehead are quite, quite interesting: they are like ruins of strange palaces, buried in ashes after an earthquake. But why do you wear such ugly and queer garments? I have seen bridegrooms in your country, and they wear such clothes— are they not funny?— and terrible?... But are you a bridegroom?"

The sun had already disappeared, a monstrous black shadow came running from the east, it was as if gigantic bare feet began rumbling on the sand, and the wind sent a cold wave along the backbone.

"In the darkness you seem still larger, Lazarus, as if you have grown stouter in these moments. Do you feed on darkness, Lazarus? I would fain have a little fire— at least a little fire, a little fire. I feel somewhat chilly, your nights are so barbarously cold. Were it not so dark, I should say that you were looking at me, Lazarus. Yes, it seems to me you are looking.... Why, you are looking at me, I feel it— but there you are smiling."

Night came, and filled the air with heavy blackness.

"How well it will be, when the sun will rise tomorrow anew.... l am a great sculptor, you know; that is how my friends call me. I create. Yes, that is the word.... but I need daylight. I give life to the cold marble, I melt sonorous bronze in fire, in bright hot fire.... Why did you touch me with your hand?"

"Come," said Lazarus. "You are my guest."

They went to the house. And a long night enveloped the earth.

The slave, seeing that his master did not come, went to seek him, when the sun was already high in the sky. And he beheld his master side by side with Lazarus: in profound silence they were sitting right under the dazzling and scorching rays of the sun and looking upward. The slave began to weep and cried out: "My master, what has befallen you, master?"

The very same day the sculptor left for Rome. On the way Aurelius was pensive and taciturn, staring attentively at everything— the men, the ship, the sea, as if trying to retain something. On the high sea a storm burst upon them, and all through it Aurelius stayed on the deck and eagerly scanned the seas looming near and sinking with a dull boom.

At home his friends were frightened at the change which had taken place in Aurelius, but he calmed them, saying meaningly: "I have found it."

And without changing the dusty clothes he wore on his journey, he fell to work, and the marble obediently resounded under his sonorous hammer. Long and eagerly he worked, admitting no one, until one morning he announced that the work was ready and ordered his friends to be summoned, severe critics and connoisseurs of art. And to meet them he put on bright and gorgeous garments, that glittered with yellow gold— and scarlet byssus.

"Here is my work," said he thoughtfully.

His friends glanced, and a shadow of profound sorrow covered their faces. It was something monstrous, deprived of all the lines and shapes familiar to the eye, but not without a hint at some new, strange image.

On a thin, crooked twig, or rather on an ugly likeness of a twig, rested askew a blind, ugly, shapeless, outspread mass of something utterly and inconceivably distorted, a mad heap of wild and bizarre fragments, all feebly and vainly striving to part from one another. And, as if by chance, beneath one of the wildly-rent salients a butterfly was chiseled with divine skill, all airy loveliness, delicacy, and beauty, with transparent wings, which seemed to tremble with an impotent desire to take flight.

"Wherefore this wonderful butterfly, Aurelius?" said somebody falteringly.

"I know not," was the sculptor's answer.

But it was necessary to tell the truth, and one of his friends who loved him best said firmly: "This is ugly, my poor friend. It must be destroyed. Give me the hammer. "

And with two strokes he broke the monstrous man into pieces, leaving only the infinitely delicate butterfly untouched.

From that time on Aurelius created nothing. With profound indifference he looked at marble and bronze, and on his former divine works, where everlasting beauty rested. With the purpose of arousing his former fervent passion for work and awakening his deadened soul, his friends took him to see other artists' beautiful works, but he remained indifferent as before, and the smile did not warm up his tightened lips. And only after listening to lengthy talks about beauty, he would retort wearily and indolently: "But all this is a lie."

By day, when the sun was shining, he went into his magnificent, skilfully built garden, and having found a place without shadow, he exposed his bare head to the glare and heat. Red and white butterflies fluttered around; from the crooked lips of a drunken satyr, water streamed down with a splash into a marble cistern, but he sat motionless and silent, like a pallid reflection of him who, in the far-off distance, at the very gates of the stony desert, sat under the fiery sun.

v

AND NOW it came to pass that the great, deified Augustus himself summoned Lazarus. The imperial messengers dressed him gorgeously, in solemn nuptial clothes, as if Time had legalized them, and he was to remain until his very death the bridegroom of an unknown bride. It was as if an old, rotting coffin had been gilded and furnished with new, gay tassels. And men, all in trim and bright attire, rode after him, as if in bridal procession indeed, and those foremost trumpeted loudly, bidding people to clear the way for the emperor's messengers. But Lazarus' way was deserted: his native land cursed the hateful name of him who had miraculously risen from the dead, and people scattered at the very news of his appalling approach. The solitary voice of the brass trumpets sounded in the motionless air, and the wilderness alone responded with its languid echo.

Then Lazarus went by sea. And his was the most magnificently arrayed and the most mournful ship that ever mirrored itself in the azure waves of the Mediterranean Sea. Many were the travelers aboard, but like a tomb was the ship, all silence and stillness, and the despairing water sobbed at the steep, proudly curved prow. All alone sat Lazarus exposing his head to the blaze of the sun, silently listening to the murmur and splash of the wavelets, and afar seamen and messengers were sitting, a vague group of weary shadows. Had the thunder burst and the wind attacked the red sails, the ships would probably have perished, for none of those aboard had either the will or the strength to struggle for life. With a supreme effort some mariners would reach the board and eagerly scan the blue, transparent deep, hoping to see a naiad's pink shoulder flash in the hollow of an azure wave, or a drunken gay centaur dash along and in frenzy splash the wave with his hoof. But the sea was like a wilderness, and the deep was dumb and deserted.

With utter indifference Lazarus set his feet on the street of the eternal city, as if all her wealth, all the magnificence of her palaces built by giants, all the resplendence, beauty, and music of her refined life were but the echo of the wind in the wilderness, the reflection of the desert quicksand. Chariots were dashing, and along the streets were moving crowds of strong, fair, proud builders of the eternal city and haughty participants in her life; a song sounded; fountains and women laughed a pearly laughter; drunken philosophers harangued, and the sober listened to them with a smile; hoofs struck the stone pavements. And surrounded by cheerful noise, a stout, heavy man was moving, a cold spot of silence and despair, and on his way he sowed disgust, anger, and vague, gnawing weariness. Who dares to be sad in Rome? the citizens wondered indignantly, and frowned. In two days the entire city already knew all about him who had miraculously risen from the dead, and shunned him shyly.

But some daring people there were, who wanted to test their strength, and Lazarus obeyed their imprudent summons. Kept busy by state affairs, the emperor constantly delayed the reception, and seven days did he who had risen from the dead go about visiting others.

And Lazarus came to a cheerful Epicurean, and the host met him with laughter: "Drink, Lazarus, drink!" he shouted. "Would not Augustus laugh to see you drunk?"

And half-naked drunken women laughed, and rose petals fell on Lazarus' blue hands. But then the Epicurean looked into Lazarus' eyes, and his gayety ended forever. Drunkard remained he for the rest of his life; never did he drink, yet forever was he drunk. But instead of the gay reverie which wine brings with it, frightful dreams began to haunt him, the sole food of his stricken spirit. Day and night he lived in the poisonous vapors of his nightmares, and Death itself was not more frightful than its raving, monstrous forerunners.

And Lazarus came to a youth and his beloved, who loved each other and were most beautiful in their passions. Proudly and strongly embracing his love, the youth said with serene regret: "Look at us, Lazarus, and share our joy. Is there anything stronger than love?"

And Lazarus looked. And for the rest of their life they kept on loving each other, but their passion grew gloomy and joyless, like those funeral cypresses whose roots feed on the decay of the graves and whose black summits in a still evening hour seek in vain to reach the sky. Thrown by the unknown forces of life into each other's embraces, they mingled tears with kisses, voluptuous pleasures with pain, and they felt themselves doubly slaves, obedient slaves to life, and patient servants of the silent Nothingness. Ever united, ever severed, they blazed like sparks and like sparks lost themselves in the boundless Dark.

And Lazarus came to a haughty sage, and the sage said to him: "I know all the horrors you can reveal to me. Is there anything you can frighten me with?"

But before long the sage felt that the knowledge of horror was far from being the horror itself, and that the vision of Death was not Death. And he felt that wisdom and folly are equal before the face of Infinity, for infinity knows them not. And it vanished, the dividing-line between knowledge and ignorance, truth and falsehood, top and bottom, and the shapeless thought hung suspended in the void. Then the sage clutched his gray head and cried out frantically:

"I can not think! I can not think!"

Thus under the indifferent glance for him, who miraculously had risen from the dead, perished everything that asserts life, its significance and joys. And it was suggested that it was dangerous to let him see the emperor, that it was better to kill him, and having buried him secretly, to ell the emperor that he had disappeared no one knew whither. Already swords were being whetted and youths devoted to the public welfare prepared for the murder, when Augustus ordered Lazarus to be brought before him next morning, thus destroying the cruel plans.

If there was no way of getting rid of Lazarus, at least it was possible to soften the terrible impression his face produced. With this in view, skilful painters, barbers, and artists were summoned, and all night long they were busy over Lazarus' head. They cropped his beard, curled it, and gave it a tidy, agreeable appearance. By means of paints they concealed the corpselike blueness of his hands and face. Repulsive were the wrinkles of suffering that furrowed his old face, and they were puttied, painted, and smoothed; then, over the smooth background, wrinkles of good-tempered laughter and pleasant, carefree mirth were skilfully painted with fine brushes.

Lazarus submitted indifferently to everything that was done to him. Soon he was turned into a becomingly stout, venerable old man, into a quiet and kind grandfather of numerous offspring. It seemed that the smile, with which only a while ago he was spinning funny yams, was still lingering on his lips, and that in the comer of his eye serene tenderness was hiding, the companion of old age. But people did not. dare change his nuptial garments, and they could not change his eyes, two dark and frightful glasses through which the unknowable Yonder looked at men.

vi

LAZARUS was not moved by the magnificence of the imperial palace. It was as if he saw no difference between the crumbling house, closely pressed by the desert, and the stone palace, solid and fair, and indifferently he passed into it. The hard marble of the floors under his feet grew similar to the quicksand of the desert, and the multitude of richly dressed and haughty men became like void air under his glance. No one looked into his face, as Lazarus passed by, fearing to fall under the appalling influence of his eyes; but when the sound of his heavy footsteps had sufficiently died down, the courtiers raised their heads and with fearful curiosity examined the figure of a stout, tall, slightly bent old man, who was slowly penetrating into the very heart of the imperial palace. Were Death itself passing, it would be faced with no greater fear: for until then the dead alone knew Death, and those alive knew Life only—and there was no bridge between them. But this extraordinary man, although alive, knew Death, and enigmatical, appalling, was his cursed knowledge. "Wo!" people thought; "he will take the life of our great, deified Augustus;" and then sent curses after Lazarus, who meanwhile kept on advancing into the interior of the palace.

Already did the emperor know who Lazarus was, and prepared to meet him. But the monarch was a brave man, and felt his own tremendous, unconquerable power, and in his fatal duel with him who had miraculously risen from the dead he wanted not to invoke human help. And so he met Lazarus face to face.

"Lift not your eyes upon me, Lazarus," he ordered. "I heard your face is like that of Medusa and turns into stone whomsoever you look at. Now, I wish to see you and talk with you, before I turn into stone," he added in a tone of kingly jesting, not devoid of fear.

Coming close to him, he carefully examined Lazarus' face and his strange festal garments. And although he had a keen eye, he was deceived by his appearance.

"So. You do not appear terrible, my venerable old man. But the worse for us, if horror assumes such a respectable and pleasant air. Now let us have a talk."

Augustus sat, and questioning Lazarus with his eye as much as with words, started the conversation: "Why did you not greet me as you entered?"

Lazarus answered indifferently: "I knew not it was necessary."

"Are you a Christian?"

"No."

Augustus approvingly shook his head.

"That is good. I do not like Christians. They shake the tree of life before it is covered with fruit, and disperse its odorous bloom to the winds. But who are you?"

With a visible effort Lazarus answered: "I was dead."

"I had heard that. But who are you now?"

Lazarus was silent, but at last repeated in a tone of weary apathy: "I was dead."

"Listen to me, stranger," said the emperor, distinctly and severely giving utterance to the thought that had come to him at the beginning, "my realm is the realm of Life, my people are of the living, not of the dead. You are here one too many. I know not who you are and what you saw there; but, if you lie, I hate your lies, and if you tell the truth, I hate your truth. In my bosom I feel the throb of life; I feel strength in my arm, and my proud thoughts, like eagles, pierce the space. And yonder in the shelter of my rule, under the protection of laws created by me, people live and toil and rejoice. Do you hear the battle-cry, the challenge men throw into the face of the future?"

Augustus, as if in prayer, stretched forth his arms and exclaimed solemnly: "Be blessed, O great and divine Life!"

Lazarus was silent, and with growing sternness the emperor went on: "You are not wanted here, miserable remnant, snatched from under Death's teeth, you inspire weariness and disgust with life; like a caterpillar in the fields, you gloat on the rich ear of joy and belch out the drivel of despair and sorrow. Your truth is like a rusty sword in the hands of a nightly murderer, and as a murderer you shall be executed. But before that, let me look into your eyes. Perchance only cowards are afraid of them, but in the brave they awake the thirst for strife and victory; then you shall be rewarded, not executed.... Now, look at me, Lazarus."

At first it appeared to the deified Augustus that a friend was looking at him, so soft, so tenderly fascinating was Lazarus' glance. It promised not horror, but sweet rest, and the Infinite seemed to him a tender mistress, a compassionate sister, a mother. But stronger and stronger grew its embraces, and already the mouth, greedy of hissing kisses, interfered with the monarch's breathing, and already to the surface of the soft tissues of the body came the iron of the bones and tightened its merciless circle, and unknown fangs, blunt and cold, touched his heart and sank into it with slow indolence.

"It pains," said the deified Augustus, growing pale. "But look at me, Lazarus, look."

It was as if some heavy gates, ever closed, were slowly moving apart, and through the growing interstice the appalling horror of the Infinite poured in slowly and steadily. Like two shadows entered the shoreless void and the unfathomable darkness; they extinguished the sun, ravished the earth from under the feet, and the roof from over the head. No more did the frozen heart ache.

"Look, look, Lazarus," ordered Augustus, tottering.

Time stood still, and the beginning of each thing grew frightfully near to its end. Augustus' throne, just erected, crumbled down, and the void was already in the place of the throne and of Augustus. Noiselessly did Rome crumble down, and a new city stood on its site and it too was swallowed by the void. Like fantastic giants, cities, states and countries fell down and vanished in the void darkness, and with uttermost indifference did the insatiable black womb of the Infinite swallow them.

"Halt!" ordered the emperor.

In his voice sounded already a note of indifference, his hands dropped in languor, and in the vain struggle with the onrushing darkness his fiery eyes now blazed up, and now went out.

"My life you have taken from me, Lazarus," said he in a spiritless, feeble voice.

And these words of hopelessness saved him. He remembered his people, whose shield he was destined to be, and keen salutary pain pierced his deadened heart. "They are doomed to death," he thought wearily. "Serene shadows in the darkness of the Infinite," thought he, and horror grew upon him. "Frail vessels with living, seething blood, with a heart that knows sorrow and also great joy," said he in his heart, and tenderness pervaded it.

Thus pondering and oscillating between the poles of Life and Death, he slowly came back to life, to find in its suffering and in its joys a shield against the darkness of the void and the horror of the Infinite.

"No, you have not murdered me, Lazarus," said he firmly, "but I will take your life. Begone."

That evening the deified Augustus partook of his meats and drinks with particular joy. Now and then his lifted hand remained suspended in the air, and a dull glimmer replaced the bright sheen of his fiery eye. It was the cold wave of Horror that surged at his feet. Defeated, but not undone, ever awaiting its hour, that Horror stood at the emperor's bedside, like a black shadow all through his life, it swayed his nights, but yielded the days to the sorrows and joys of life.

The following day, the hangman with a hot iron burned out Lazarus' eyes. Then he was sent home. The deified Augustus dared not kill him.

Lazarus returned to the desert, and the wilderness met him with hissing gusts of wind and the heat of the blazing sun. Again he was sitting on a stone, his rough, bushy beard lifted up; and the two black holes in place of his eyes looked at the sky with an expression of dull terror. Afar off the holy city stirred noisily and restlessly, but around him everything was deserted and dumb. No one approached- the place where lived he who had miraculously risen from the dead, and long since his neighbors had forsaken their houses. Driven by the hot iron into the depth of his skull, his cursed knowledge hid there in an ambush. As if leaping out from an ambush it plunged its thousand invisible eyes into the man, and no one dared look at Lazarus.

And in the evening, when the sun, reddening and growing wider, would come nearer and nearer the western horizon, the blind Lazarus would slowly follow it. He would stumble against stones and fall, stout and weak as he was; would rise heavily to his feet and walk on again; and on the red screen of the sunset his black body and outspread hands would form a monstrous likeness of a cross.

And it came to pass that once he went out and did not come back. Thus seemingly ended the second life of him who for three days had been under the enigmatical sway of death, and rose miraculously from the dead.

___________________

Index to Past Masters Nos 61-91

The "Author Index" to Issues 1-60 has been uploaded separately at MobileRead

Achmed Abdullah

—Grafter and Master Grafter 84

—The Fetish of Remorse 83

—Framed at the Benefactors' Club 73

—Home Wind  91

—The Incubus  90

—Interlude 84

—The Mystery of the Talking Idols 63

—Poker 89

Cleve F. Adams

—Default With Doom  81

A. St. John Adcock

—Ambitious Man 89

—Polly's Favorite 91

George Ade

—Making the Grade 78

"A. E. P."

—The End of Sherlock Holmes  67

W. L. Alden

—After the Comet 67

—A Case of Dual Consciousness 84

—Foote's Catorium 70

—How the Fat Woman Eloped 68

—The St. Bernard Myth 68

—A Scientific Balloon 72

—Silver Plated—67

—The Wild Man of Borneo 67

—A Tricycle Made For Two 82

Mark Allerton

—A Christmas Mix-Up 70

—The Stanhope Scandal 70

Harley S. Aldinger

—The Green Intelligence 85

Frederick Irving Anderson

—The House of Many Mansions 91

—The Signed Masterpiece  82

Leonid Andreyeff

—Lazarus  91

Anonymous

—Armistice  78

—A Barrack Ghost Story 76

—Beautiful Decoy 89

—Beauty in Flight 76

—A Chance Meeting 84

—Chinese Murder  80

—A Detective Adventure  80

—The Diamond Necklace 62

—The Great Auk's Egg Affair 61

—Fool Proof  75

—The Hachma Ruby 86

—The Hat Trick 71

—Haunted  78

—Jacobs and Gale, Tobacconists 70

—John Sherlock's Alibi 86

—Local Color 75

—An Old Norman-French Story 76

—Outwitted: A Lawyer's Story 90

—The Petrie Plan 83

—The Pretty Passenger 88

—A Railway Murder 70

—Remorse 76

—Retribution 74

—Revenge 74

—Rogue's Room 86

—The Ruins of the Abbey of Fitz-Martin 64

—The Skipper's Scheme 73

—A Solicitor's Story (as by "S.S.")  75

—The Stamp Thief 71

—The Thriller 71

—The Two Chignons 85

F. Anstey

—Taken By Surprise  66

Edwin L. Arnold

—The Haunted "Smoker" 87

Alice and Claude Askew

—Heritage of Lucille Rivers 82

Francis Henry Atkins

—The Lay Figure  63

James L. Aton

—The Box of the Ivory Dragon 90

Edouard A. Aujard

—The Flood 75

—The Swing of Sentiment  75

—Laola of the Isles 85

Stacy Aumonier

—A Source of Irritation 73

—Straight Griggs 78

F. Britten Austin

—Into the Blue 79

J. F. B.

—Throne of Chaos

Irving Bacheller

—Holy Poker 71

—The Prodigal Village 71

Mrs. Baillie-Saunders

— The Wrong Reception  83

Louisa Baldwin

—The Weird of the Walfords 89

James Barr

—The Man in Moccasins  82

Robert Barr

—A Dramatic Point 91

—The Great Mogul 91

—Lady Letty's Literary Lesson 91

—The Last Straw 72

—Marcella's Intervention 91

—A Sweet Thing in Trusts 91

—An Unjust Accusation 91

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

George Barton

—The Burglar That Failed 91

Frederick R. Bechdolt

—Before Michael Came  63

—The Lie-Detector 73

L. Adams Beck

—The Interpreter 62

H. Bedford-Jones

—The Artificial Honeymoon 66

—Bradford's P-Luck 83

—Breakfast at the Savoy 79

—The Coral of Idris 83

—Death Gave Him His Chance  63

—Not Upon the Sleeve  79

J. J. Bell

—The Lovely Little Dinner 70

—The Price of a House  63

—"Sir William"  61

Elizabeth W. Bellamy

—Ely’s Automatic Housemaid 88

E. F. Benson

—Negotium Perambulans  64

—The Terrace 69

J. D. Beresford

—The Hidden Beast 75

—The Looking Glass 87

Harold Bindloss

—Trooper Jenkins 68

Ottwell Binns

—The Britisher 73

— Dixon's Romance 75

George A. Birmingham

—Jimmy Cassidy's Picture  80

—The Spy 81

Farnham Bishop

—Ten Thousand Hectáreas  91

Michael Bittner

—No Greater Love  88

Algernon Blackwood

—The Kit-Bag 76

M. McDonnell Bodkin

—The Will and the Man 79

Edward Boltwood

—Foghorn Fernando 86

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

—Other People's Money 89

—Solly's Last Forgery 64

—When Mr. Clackworthy Needed a Bracer 64

Guy Boothby

—By Right Of Conquest 72

—His Better Half 91

—The Treasure of Sacramento Nick 91

—Uncle Joe's Legacy 91

—Obituary: Mr. Guy Boothby (Anonymous)

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

—The Corner of John Street 80

—A Diabolical Experiment 87

—Her Ransom 80

—The Ghost of the Cabinet 80

—Lady Langton's Jewels 80

—A Literary Secret  66

—Scarsley Moor Mystery  66

Coutts Brisbane

—Without Fear 76

George Bronson-Howard

—The Prophetic War Correspondent 79

K. R. G. Browne

—The Green-eyed Remedy  82

—The Man Who Over-Reached Himself 91

—On the 6.15  80

—Two Women in the Case 80

Thomas Burke

—The Bloomsbury Wonder 61

—The Horrible God 62

—Laughing Lillian 62

—The Yellow Imps 62

Frances Hodgson Burnett

—The Christmas in the Fog 87

Edgar Rice Burroughs

—Who Murdered Mr. Thomas? 68

Ellis Parker Butler

—The Inexorable Tooth 79

—Just Like a Cat 71

—Mr. Wellaway's Host 77

—The Ninety And Nine  69

—Something for the Kid 77

—Blackmail Broadcast, Unlimited  80

Donn Byrne

—The Wake 88

Thomas Byrne

—Prima Donna's Diamonds  80

William Caine

—Bread Upon The Waters 91

Sir Gilbert Campbell

—The Mystery of the Essex Stairs 62

Scott Campbell

—In the Powder-Box 80

—The Man and the Motive 83

—The Point of Contact 70

—The Price of Perfidy 78

—A Study in Green 73

—Under the Crown 70

—Without Air 73

Reginald Campbell

—The Howling Of Dogs 80

Russ W. Carter

—The Pink Envelope  89

Agnes and Egerton Castle

—The Great Todescan's Secret Thrust 70

Stephen Chalmers

—The Great God Ananzi  86

Robert W. Chambers

—The Princess Zimbazim 79

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

—Mayfair Melody 86

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

Marie Corelli

—The Sculptor's Angel 88

Anne Crawford

—A Mystery of the Campagna  85

W. E. Cule

—A Ship's Bell 88

Atwater Culpepper

—Gunfire at Scarlani's 89

Captain Henry Curties

—Redeeming Flames 79

Norbert Davis

—You Bet Your Life 77

E. M. Delafield

—The Luggage in the Hall  66

Donald Devereux

—Mr. Keeble's Funny Story 83

Charles Caldwell Dobie

—The Open Window 71

Douglas M Dold

—A Creeping Terror 84

Laurence Donovan

—Death Makes a Man Mad 84

—Death Rolls Its Own 90

—He Gave Him a Gun 84

—Whispering Death 84

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

—The Pass of Nolan's Welcome 81

J. Allan Dunn

—The Screaming Skull 85

Edward Dyson

—A Golden Shanty 65

—The Third Chair 65

Charlton L. Edholm

—Gorilla Girl 84

—Red Evidence 84

Fred Engelhardt

—Heritage of Osiris 75

George Allan England

—Drops of Death  68

—A Question of Salvage 81

—Ribbon of Fate 81

Gwyn Evans

—The Pool of Secrets 88

Ernest Favenc

—The Murder of Tom Bates 91

—A Hypnotic Experiment 91

Charles J. Finger

—The Lizard God 81

—The Shame of Gold 81

Howard Fitzalan

—The Red Hand 78

F. Scott Fitzgerald

—Three Hours Between Planes 65

Francis Flagg

—By the Hands of the Dead 81

—The Master Ants 81

—The Superman of Dr Jukes  72

Mrs. May Agnes Fleming

—How The Lone Star Went Down  68

J. S. Fletcher

—Ex-Officio 76

Homer Eon Flint

—The Planeteer  77

Hulbert Footner

—Assorted Chips 86

Ford Madox Ford

—Riesenberg 61

Andrew Forrester Jr.

—Arrested on Suspicion 61

Robert Edward Francillon

—A Circumstantial Puzzle 62

Ralph Franklin

—Reward in Hell 86

R. Austin Freeman & Clifford Piers

—By the Black Deep  64

Tom Gallon

—The Haunted Picture 87

Ltnt Edgar Gardiner

—The Cruise of the Vega  82

—The Snake Strikes 81

—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

J. U. Giesy

—Not Down on the Bill  82

—Zapt's Repulsive Paste 90

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

Alan Graham

—The Bat And Belfry Inn 87

Dahlia Graham

—Her Fatal Gift 79

Gordon Graham

—The Great George Mystery 85

Frederick Graves

—White Flame  62

Evelyn Everett Green

—The First Class Passenger 82

—The Grey Lady of Lakeside 82

—Intimate Enemies 82

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

Walter Hackett

—The Gazebrook Necklace 91

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

—The Soul of a Ship 87

George Hibbard

—The Allard Burglars 88

Robert Hichens

—The Nomad 85

Headon Hill

—The "Artemis" Mystery 65

—The Bank Clerk's Love Story 65

—The Dining-Car Clue 65

—Limping Justice 65

Roy L. Hinds

—The Murder Master 80

Roy W. Hinds

—What He Taught Best  80

William Hope Hodgson

—Bullion!  88

S. B. H. Hurst

—The Ball of Fire  74

—The Receipt 74

Washington Irving

—The Adventure of the German Student 86

W. W. Jacobs

—Captain Rogers 71

—A Love Knot 70

M. R. James

—Canon Alberic's Scrap Book  82

Malcolm Jameson

—The Anarch  69

—Doubled and Redoubled 85

—Tricky Tonnage 81

Val Jameson

—"Burglin' ain't the game it was" 61

Edgar Jepson

—The Infernal Machine 79

—Madderson's Mascot 79

—A Troublesome Widow 79

Jerome K. Jerome

—The Dancing Partner 74

Rudyard Kipling

—The Phantom Rickshaw 73

A. W. Kapfer

—The Phantom Drug 82

Robert Keene

—The Dangerous Day 86

—A Hand-Bag Too Many 86

—The Vanishing of Benjamin Vex 86

Otis Adelbert Kline

—The Dragoman's Secret 74

—Stolen Centuries 65

Thomas H. Knight

—The Man Who Was Dead 61

Alexander Kuprin

— Menagerie 83

—Terror! 89

Edmund Leamy

—My First Case 74

R. C. Lehmann

—The Umbrosa Burglary 67

H. Field Leslie

—The Winged Ones 86

Bruno Lessing

—The Party Line 91

Henry Leverage

—The Absconder 83

—Black Light 66

—The Crimp 66

—Crooked Charity 67

—Over the Wall—76

—$-Rays 84

Lazar Levi

—Mistress of the Undead

Sinclair Lewis

—The Cat of the Stars 68

—Seven Million Dollars 68

—The Willow Walk 61

Sumner Locke

—A Question of Rights 82

W. J. Locke

—The Conqueror 89

H.P. Lovecraft

—The Colour out of Space 81

—Obit: Henry St. Clair Whitehead 71

Marie Belloc Lowndes

—An Unrecorded Instance 61

Harris Merton Lyon

—The Weaver who Clad the Summer 88

Herbert MacAlpine

—A Dog-House Detective 89

Richard Mace

—The Emerald Beetle  62

Arthur Machen

—The Shining Pyramid 71

Fred MacIsaac

—The Abominable Test 76

Julia Magruder

—The Secret of the White Castle 65

William J. Makin

—The Death Barge 73

—The Planes that Never Returned 73

Charles J. Mansford

—The Brigand of Kairouin the Holy  82

—The City of the Scarlet Scarabeus  82

Francis Marlowe

—Hostile Witness 83

Don Marquis

—Accursed Hat! 70

H. B. Marriott-Watson

—The Devil of the Marsh 89

Richard Marsh

—The Mask 88

—A Silent Witness  77

Huan Mee

—The Russian Cipher 65

J. J. Meehan

—The Squirrel Motor 69

Abraham Merritt

—The Woman of the Wood 72

Robert Duncan Milne

—Ten Thousand Years in Ice 85

William Henry Moberley

—The Great Valdez Sapphire 63

C. S. Montanye

—Old King's Coal 72

—One Hour Back 85

—That Finished Product 85

—Thieves Three 84

—To Skid or Not to Skid 85

—White as Snow 85

F. Frankfort Moore

—The Crock 87

—Joan Dark 65

Cary Moran

—Murder Magic  89

Ainsworth Morgan

—Lady in Lower Eleven  72

Arthur Morrison

—Myxomycetes 90

Ward Muir

—A Blind Man's Home-Coming 87

—Detective Tempest Faces the Music  80

—Europe is Wonderful 87

—Sargasso 86

Talbot Mundy

—Bengal Rebellion 69

Neil Munro

—The Tudor Cup 88

Edith M Nesbit

—In the Dark 64

—Man-Size in Marble  65

—Number 17— 61

—The Third Drug 88

Clarence Herbert New

—The Passing of an Angel 79

—The Warburton Mystery 82

—Where There Ain't No Ten Commandments 79

Douglas Newton

—Girls Don't Count 80

—Straight Enough 73

Hume Nisbet

—His Reward  88

David Wright O'Brien

—Hokum Hotel  68

Fitz-James O'Brien

—The Wondersmith  64

Owen Oliver

—The Awakening  74

—A Feminine Stand 81

Vincent O'Sullivan

—The Business of Madame Jahn  64

Miles  Overholt

—Wrong Number 75

Thomas Nelson Page

—What was the Lady's Choice? 62

Barry Pain

—"Owing to the War" 88

Sir Gilbert Parker

—At the Sign of the Eagle  70

K. R. Patterson

— Conscience 83

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

—The Cotton Stopper 79

—Doctor Grimes Awaits Probate (as by Arthur Mallory)  73

—Expert Testimony 74

—Inside the Limousine 78

—To Professional Services— $100,000—70

Muriel A. Pollexfen

—The Conjurer of the Clouds 83

Melville Davisson Post

—The Laughing Woman 79

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

A. T. Quiller-Couch

—Our Lady of Gwithian 83

Allan Ramsay

—The Adventure of the Table Foot 86

Anna Steese Richardson

—Morrell's Memoriser 81

Edith Rickert

—The Chair That Smiled 74

W. Pett Ridge

—The Fixing of Mrs. Farwell  80

—Expert Interference  82

—Before and After 91

Walter Ripperger

—The Cardboard Clue 62

—School For Murder 69

Morley Roberts

—The Egregious Goat 73

Arthur Somers Roche

—A Cancelled Sale 82

—In the Money 67

Michael Romain

—Genesis 76

David C. Roose

—Dobson's Plots 86

Anthony M Rud

—The Invisible "Blinker" 73

Rafael Sabatini

—Intelligence 84

G. Morris Sand

—Carnival Killer 84

Duncan Campbell Scott

—The Witching of Elspie 78

Marie B. Schrader

—Stranded in a Street Car 91

Chris Sewell

—The Intruder 82

Marion Shaler

—The Court of the Wicked Queen 87

Sandy Sharp

—The Diamond Bracelet 89

Helen Simpson

—Hotel Evidence 89

Fred C. Smale

—Caught Out 90

—The “V” Force  90

J. Johnston Smith

—Queen Of Diamonds  75

Thorne Smith

—Birthday Present 66

Andrew Soutar

—Bluebeard 63

D. H. Souter

—Conroy 74

Raymond S. Spears

—The Cruise of the Cadis  84

—The Horse Thief Rendezvous 89

—Mississippi Medicine 88

—On the Dodge 89

—A Pearl of Price 88

—Soft-Paw Ignorance 88

F. St. Mars

—Another Pawn of Fate 84

Charles B. Stilson

—Dr. Martone's Microscope 72

—The Pipe of Death 85

—The Sky Woman 67

—The Soul Trap 72

Bram Stoker

—Our New House 89

Halliwell Sutcliffe

—Handsome Jack  67

—Miss Phyllis Brown 67

—Murgatroyd's Wife  67

Georges Surdez

—The Baturu Mandarin 89

—Charles the Bold 76

—The Man from Nowhere 89

—Spite Corner 76

Annie S. Swan

—Concession 85

—Dead Men's Shoes 86

—The Diplomat 86

—The Mystery of the Old Tin Box 86

—Somebody's Sons 88

Carl N. Taylor

—The Opium Smugglers  80

Emile C Tepperman

—Coffin Cache 63

—No Living Witness 89

Basil Thomson

—The Burglary in Middlesex Street 86

E. Temple Thurston

—A Cameo 69

Roger Torrey

—Black Murder 78

—The Bookie Bets on Murder 90

—Dice and No Dice 77

—The Frankie and  Johnny Murder 83

—Justice Borrows Bullets 85

—The Missing Mr. Link 83

—Murder Backstage 83

—Murder By Accident 77

—One Escort— Missing or Dead 85

—Printer's Ink Runs Red 90

—Three Dead Men 83

—Ticket to Death (as by John Ryan)  77

—Two Little Men 84

Edward W Townsend

—A Deal in Mines and Morals 77

Louis Tracy

—An Idyll of the Hills 88

—The Wrong Number 87

—The Force of Circumstances 90

—(Obituary)  90

Katharine Tynan

—Lettice Langworthy's Prince 87

H. D. Umbstaetter (as by Barnes MacGreggor)

—The Great Star Ruby  80

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

Hugh Walpole

—The Tarn 86

—The Twisted Inn  86

"Wanderer"

—Waif of the Bush 74

Harold Ward

—"Great Minds Run—"

Cy Warman

—"Sycamore": A Ghost Story  87

Stanley G Weinbaum

—The Red Peri  69

Albert Richard Wetjen

—The Chief of the Loch McCree 61

—The Devils Ransom 82

—Raid on Jigger's Reef 76

—The Ship of Silence 86

Harvey Wickham

—The Man With the Painted Nose 75

Edith Wharton

—Kerfol  87

Ethel Lina White

—An Unlocked Window  78

—White Cap 89

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

—Bothon 78

—The Chadbourne Episode 75

—The Door 71

—Passing of a God 75

—The People of Pan 77

—Sea-Tiger  78

—The Shut Room 75

—Sweet Grass 76

—The Wonderful Thing  70

Raoul Whitfield

—The Great Black 65

—The Next-to-Last Laugh 79

—When Sky Crooks Fall Out 84

H. C. Witwer

—Money to Burns 71

Mary E Wilkins

—The Shadows on the Wall  64

Lee Willenborg

—The Queen's Emerald  88

Edward Woodward

—Clarence 75

John Worne

—The Brink of Destruction 87

—Bertie and the Doorstep 87

May Wynne

—Cornflower Blue 86

Leroy Yerxa

—O'Sheen's Photo Finish 85

—O'Sheen's Sweet Tooth 85

Gordon Young

—Bogus Gems 89

Arthur Leo Zagat

—Coward's Kill    69

—The Little Walking Corpses 86

—Satan's Scalpel 878

E. F. Ziska

—Man of Ages 78

______________

Table of Contents

- 1: Ten Thousand Hectáreas / Farnham Bishop

- 2: The Burglar That Failed / George Barton

- 3: Stranded in a Street Car / Marie B. Schrader

- 4: The Party Line / Bruno Lessing
- 5: The Gazebrook Necklace / Walter Hackett
- 6: Before and After / W. Pett Ridge
- 7: Polly's Favorite / A. St. John Adcock
- 8: Bread Upon The Waters / William Caine
- 9: His Better Half / Guy Boothby

- 10: The Treasure of Sacramento Nick / Guy Boothby

- 11: Uncle Joe's Legacy / Guy Boothby
- 12: Obituary: Mr. Guy Boothby / Anonymous
- 13: Home Wind  / Achmed Abdullah

- 14: The Man Who Over-Reached Himself / K. R. G. Browne

- 15: The Murder of Tom Bates / Ernest Favenc

- 16: A Hypnotic Experiment / Ernest Favenc

- 17: The House of Many Mansions / Frederick Irving Anderson

- 18: A Dramatic Point / Robert Barr
- 19: An Unjust Accusation / Robert Barr
- 20: Marcella's Intervention / Robert Barr
- 21: The Great Mogul / Robert Barr

- 22: Lady Letty's Literary Lesson / Robert Barr

- 23: A Sweet Thing in Trusts / Robert Barr
- 24: Lazarus / Leonid Andreyeff
- Cumulative Index #61-91