Past Masters Ninety Five
Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: Further short stories from magazines and newspapers, including a group of four by Richard Connell. His most famous story is "The Most Dangerous Game", which is in this issue, but he wrote in a wide variety of genres and the other three show his versatility. I have also included a newspaper interview with Mark Hellinger, celebrated broadway columnist and Hollywood movie producer, which was in all probability written by Hellinger himself whenin Australia in 1944. He wrote, by his own count, some 6,000 short stories at the rate of one a day, for mony years. 1: Madam Lucifer / Richard Garnett 2: T

PAST MASTERS

NINETY-FIVE

Produced and Edited by Terry Walker ("Pulpmeister") from short stories in magazines, newspapers and other sources, and all in the Life + 70 years public domain.

4 September 2022

Contents

1: Madam Lucifer / Richard Garnett

2: Twice Drowned / Christopher B. Booth

3: The Most Dangerous Game / Richard Connell

4: Pardon This Intrusion / Richard Connell

5: Tested / Richard Connell

6: A Friend of Napoleon / Richard Connell

7: Javelin of Death / Captain Dingle

8: Made in Borneo / Leo Crane

9: The Dancer's Mascot / Beatrice Heron-Maxwell

10: The Philosopher's Mistake / Francis Gribble

11: His Strange Inheritance / Druid Grayl

12: The Man Who Sold His Head / Elliott Flower

13: The Girl on the Platform / Harold Bindloss

14: The Storm Centre / J. J. Bell

15: Myrtle and the Baronets / K. R. G. Browne

16: The Building / Seumas O'Kelly

17: A Commercial Mermaid / George A. Birmingham

18: The Clutch of the Law / Deas Cromarty

19: A Witch City Mystery / Frederic Van Rensselaer Dey

20: Auxons / Julia Truitt Bishop

21: A Supernatural Swindle / Tudor Jenks

22: Behind the Curtain / Don Marquis

23: The Short Story of Mark Hellinger / Anonymous

24: The Luck of the Trevors / John Strange Winter

Cumulartive Index 61-95

________________

1: Madam Lucifer

Richard Garnett

1835-1906

The Twilight of the Gods: 1888

LUCIFER sat playing chess with Man for his soul.

The game was evidently going ill for Man. He had but pawns left, few and struggling. Lucifer had rooks, knights, and, of course, bishops.

It was but natural under such circumstances that Man should be in no great hurry to move. Lucifer grew impatient.

"It is a pity," said he at last, "that we did not fix some period within which the player must move, or resign."

"Oh, Lucifer," returned the young man, in heart-rending accents, "it is not the impending loss of my soul that thus unmans me, but the loss of my betrothed. When I think of the grief of the Lady Adeliza, the paragon of terrestrial loveliness!" Tears choked his utterance; Lucifer was touched.

"Is the Lady Adeliza's loveliness in sooth so transcendent?" he inquired.

"She is a rose, a lily, a diamond, a morning star!"

"If that is the case," rejoined Lucifer, "thou mayest reassure thyself. The Lady Adeliza shall not want for consolation. I will assume thy shape and woo her in thy stead."

The young man hardly seemed to receive all the comfort from this promise which Lucifer no doubt designed. He made a desperate move. In an instant the Devil checkmated him, and he disappeared.

"UPON my word, if I had known what a business this was going to be, I don't think I should have gone in for it," soliloquized the Devil as, wearing his captive's semblance and installed in his apartments, he surveyed the effects to which he now had to administer. They included coats, shirts, collars, neckties, foils, cigars, and the like ad libitum; and very little else except three challenges, ten writs, and seventy-four unpaid bills, elegantly disposed around the looking-glass. To the poor youth's praise be it said, there were no billets-doux, except from the Lady Adeliza herself.

Noting the address of these carefully, the Devil sallied forth, and nothing but his ignorance of the topography of the hotel, which made him take the back stairs, saved him from the clutches of two bailiffs lurking on the principal staircase. Leaping into a cab, he thus escaped a perfumer and a bootmaker, and shortly found himself at the Lady Adeliza's feet.

The truth had not been half told him. Such beauty, such wit, such correctness of principle! Lucifer went forth from her presence a love-sick fiend. Not Merlin's mother had produced half the impression upon him; and Adeliza on her part had never found her lover one-hundredth part so interesting as he seemed that morning.

Lucifer proceeded at once to the City, where, assuming his proper shape for the occasion, he negotiated a loan without the smallest difficulty. All debts were promptly discharged, and Adeliza was astonished at the splendour and variety of the presents she was constantly receiving.

Lucifer had all but brought her to name the day, when he was informed that a gentleman of clerical appearance desired to wait upon him.

"Wants money for a new church or mission, I suppose," said he. "Show him up."

But when the visitor was ushered in, Lucifer found with discomposure that he was no earthly clergyman, but a celestial saint; a saint, too, with whom Lucifer had never been able to get on. He had served in the army while on earth, and his address was curt, precise, and peremptory.

"I have called," he said, "to notify to you my appointment as Inspector of Devils."

"What!" exclaimed Lucifer, in consternation. "To the post of my old friend Michael!"

"Too old," said the Saint laconically. "Millions of years older than the world. About your age, I think."

Lucifer winced, remembering the particular business he was then about. The Saint continued:

"I am a new broom, and am expected to sweep clean. I warn you that I mean to be strict, and there is one little matter which I must set right immediately. You are going to marry that poor young fellow's betrothed, are you? Now you know you can not take his wife, unless you give him yours."

"Oh, my dear friend," exclaimed Lucifer, "what an inexpressibly blissful prospect you do open unto me!"

"I don't know that," said the Saint. "I must remind you that the dominion of the infernal regions is unalterably attached to the person of the present Queen thereof. If you part with her you immediately lose all your authority and possessions. I don't care a brass button which you do, but you must understand that you cannot eat your cake and have it too. Good morning!"

Who shall describe the conflict in Lucifer's bosom? If any stronger passion existed therein at that moment than attachment to Adeliza, it was aversion to his consort, and the two combined were wellnigh irresistible. But to disenthrone himself, to descend to the condition of a poor devil!

Feeling himself incapable of coming to a decision, he sent for Belial, unfolded the matter, and requested his advice.

"What a shame that our new inspector will not let you marry Adeliza!" lamented his counsellor. "If you did, my private opinion is that forty-eight hours afterwards you would care just as much for her as you do now for Madam Lucifer, neither more nor less. Are your intentions really honourable?"

"Yes," replied Lucifer, "it is to be a Lucifer match."

"The more fool you," rejoined Belial. "If you tempted her to commit a sin, she would be yours without any conditions at all."

"Oh, Belial," said Lucifer, "I cannot bring myself to be a tempter of so much innocence and loveliness."

And he meant what he said.

"Well then, let me try," proposed Belial.

"You?" replied Lucifer contemptuously; "do you imagine that Adeliza would look at you?"

"Why not?" asked Belial, surveying himself complacently in the glass.

He was humpbacked, squinting, and lame, and his horns stood up under his wig.

The discussion ended in a wager: after which there was no retreat for Lucifer.

The infernal Iachimo was introduced to Adeliza as a distinguished foreigner, and was soon prosecuting his suit with all the success which Lucifer had predicted. One thing protected while it baffled him—the entire inability of Adeliza to understand what he meant. At length he was constrained to make the matter clear by producing an enormous treasure, which he offered Adeliza in exchange for the abandonment of her lover.

The tempest of indignation which ensued would have swept away any ordinary demon, but Belial listened unmoved. When Adeliza had exhausted herself he smilingly rallied her upon her affection for an unworthy lover, of whose infidelity he undertook to give her proof. Frantic with jealousy, Adeliza consented, and in a trice found herself in the infernal regions.

ADELIZA'S arrival in Pandemonium, as Belial had planned, occurred immediately after the receipt of a message from Lucifer, in whose bosom love had finally gained the victory, and who had telegraphed his abdication and resignation of Madam Lucifer to Adeliza's betrothed. The poor young man had just been hauled up from the lower depths, and was beset by legions of demons obsequiously pressing all manner of treasures upon his acceptance. He stared, helpless and bewildered, unable to realize his position in the smallest degree. In the background grave and serious demons, the princes of the infernal realm, discussed the new departure, and consulted especially how to break it to Madam Lucifer— a commission of which no one seemed ambitious.

"Stay where you are," whispered Belial to Adeliza; "stir not: you shall put his constancy to the proof within five minutes."

Not all the hustling, mowing, and gibbering of the fiends would under ordinary circumstances have kept Adeliza from her lover's side: but what is all hell to jealousy?

In even less time than he had promised, Belial returned, accompanied by Madam Lucifer. This lady's black robe, dripping with blood, contrasted agreeably with her complexion of sulphurous yellow; the absence of hair was compensated by the exceptional length of her nails; she was a thousand million years old, and, but for her remarkable muscular vigour, looked every one of them. The rage into which Belial's communication had thrown her was something indescribable; but, as her eye fell on the handsome youth, a different order of thoughts seemed to take possession of her mind.

"Let the monster go!" she exclaimed; "who cares? Come, my love, ascend the throne with me, and share the empire and the treasures of thy fond Luciferetta."

"If you don't, back you go," interjected Belial.

What might have been the young man's decision if Madam Lucifer had borne more resemblance to Madam Vulcan, it would be wholly impertinent to inquire, for the question never arose.

"Take me away!" he screamed, "take me away, anywhere! anywhere out of her reach! Oh, Adeliza!"

With a bound Adeliza stood by his side. She was darting a triumphant glance at the discomfited Queen of Hell, when suddenly her expression changed, and she screamed loudly. Two adorers stood before her, alike in every lineament and every detail of costume, utterly indistinguishable, even by the eye of Love.

Lucifer, in fact, hastening to throw himself at Adeliza's feet and pray her to defer his bliss no longer, had been thunderstruck by the tidings of her elopement with Belial. Fearing to lose his wife and his dominions along with his sweetheart, he had sped to the nether regions with such expedition that he had had no time to change his costume. Hence the equivocation which confounded Adeliza, but at the same time preserved her from being torn to pieces by the no less mystified Madam Lucifer.

Perceiving the state of the case, Lucifer with true gentlemanly feeling resumed his proper semblance, and Madam Lucifer's talons were immediately inserted into his whiskers.

"My dear! my love!" he gasped, as audibly as she would let him, "is this the way it welcomes its own Lucy-pucy?"

"Who is that person?" demanded Madam Lucifer.

"I don't know her," screamed the wretched Lucifer. "I never saw her before. Take her away; shut her up in the deepest dungeon!"

"Not if I know it," sharply replied Madam Lucifer. "You can't bear to part with her, can't you? You would intrigue with her under my nose, would you? Take that! and that! Turn them both out, I say! turn them both out!"

"Certainly, my dearest love, most certainly," responded Lucifer.

"Oh, Sire," cried Moloch and Beelzebub together, "for Heaven's sake let your Majesty consider what he is doing. The Inspector—"

"Bother the Inspector!" screeched Lucifer. "D'ye think I'm not a thousand times more afraid of your mistress than of all the saints in the calendar? There," addressing Adeliza and her betrothed, "be off! You'll find all debts paid, and a nice balance at the bank. Out! Run!"

They did not wait to be told twice. Earth yawned. The gates of Tartarus stood wide. They found themselves on the side of a steep mountain, down which they scoured madly, hand linked in hand. But fast as they ran, it was long ere they ceased to hear the tongue of Madam Lucifer.

_________________

2: Twice Drowned

Christopher B. Booth

1889-1950

Detective Story Magazine Feb 1936

A STEAMING hot bath was Raoul Erskine’s personal prescription for his jumpy nerves, and, if his nerves had ever needed soothing, they needed it to-night. The stock market had unexpectedly slumped during the afternoon, and he’d been forced to use some of Roberta Strickland’s bonds. That was a serious risk to take, putting up a customer’s securities for collateral, and, when the customer was a woman, the hazard was even greater. Most of them are hard losers.

Roberta Strickland, for all of being a bully good sport, was likely to squawk as loud as the next one if she got nicked for thirty or forty thousand dollars. Only, of course, Raoul Erskine didn’t expect that to happen. The market would recover in a day or two and Robbie’s bonds would be back in the vault where they belonged.

The tub was half full. Raoul Erskine, always a fastidious man, reached toward the glass shelf for the bottle of lavender bath salts, sprinkled in a generous quantity of the pleasant-smelling crystals, replaced the bottle, and reached for the cord of his silk dressing gown.

As he did so, the doorbell rang? Had it not been for the fact that Thurman had promised to wire a tip from Chicago if certain things occurred, Erskine might have ignored the bell; but there was a chance it might be a telegram. He shoved his feet into a pair of straw sandals and padded swiftly through the ground-floor bedroom of his seashore cottage to answer the ring.

A man who lives by the stock ticker learns to mask his emotions and guard against sudden surprises, but the coincidence of finding Roberta Strickland standing outside his door was almost too much for him.

“You!” he exclaimed.

“Why the great surprise?” demanded Robbie. “Do I intrude?”

It was; to be sure, no occasion for surprise, since Robbie Strickland was quite an informal person, and this wasn’t the first time she had dropped in on him unannounced. She had always been welcome. Erskine liked the sight of her extremely pretty face, and found her breezy manner refreshing.

“No, of course not!” Raoul Erskine hastened to assure her. “You caught me a bit negligee— that’s all. I was about to take a plunge in the tub. But that can wait if you feel like having a drink.”

Robbie, once a showgirl and twice divorced, did not allow the sight of a man in a dressing gown to embarrass her. She came in.

“That’s always a temptation. You have such perfect liquor, Raoul. Getting dressed for the evening out, I suppose. Well, I shan’t keep you but a moment. This is a business call, old dear. All those new laws congress has passed to curb wicked Wall Street doesn’t make it a prison offense for a girl to consult her broker after business hours?”

Raoul Erskine became uneasy with a vague presentiment.

“The law expressly says that, when the broker’s lady client is beautiful and charming, she must always call after eight and remain until midnight— unless she prefers to go dancing.”

Robbie swept off her beret and fluffed back her naturally blond hair as she sat down.

“While you mix the drinks, I’ll talk. Hold on tight to the cocktail shaker while I explode a bomb.

Maybe I’m smart and maybe I’m crazy, but I’ve done gone and bought myself a hotel.”

Raoul Erskine stared at her, his sense of impending disaster increasing. It took money to buy hotels, and the only money Robbie had was the fifty thousand in 3/4 per cent Liberty bonds that he had bought for her with the divorce settlement money she had gotten from Bob Strickland, her second husband.

“You look a little startled,” said Robbie. “Well, it’s not exactly a new idea. The notion bit me a couple of months ago. I’ve been watching the Breakwaters Inn dying on its feet and deciding that I was just the gal who could nurse it back to health. The bank’s stuck with the joint, see, and it’s costing ’em plenty of dough to keep it running. So they’re practically giving it to me. All I do is assume the mortgage.”

Erskine was instantly relieved. “Well, you can’t lose much on a deal like that.”

“Oh, but I can. I’m going to spend some jack fixing up the place. The real swank, see, to pull in the right people. I’m going to shoot the works, Raoul, and, if I lose— well, I’ve gambled before. What I dropped in to tell you was that I want you to sell my bonds and have the cash ready for me not later than noon to-morrow. I’m moving fast.”

The mouth of the cocktail shaker chattered against the rims of the glasses as Erskine poured out the drinks. He couldn’t keep his hands steady. “Have the cash ready for me not later than noon to-morrow!” Those were words of doom, passing the death sentence on his career. Noon to-morrow was impossible.

Raoul Erskine didn’t trust himself to speak until he had gulped down his own drink. Some of it slopped over the edge of the glass and made a stain on the front of his dressing gown. Robbie, whose eyes never missed a trick, saw that Raoul was not his usually suave self.

“Must have been hard going in the Street for you to-day,” she observed. “You’re all jittery.”

“No, not at all,” lied Erskine. “I did pretty well, as a matter of fact. Now, about this hotel business. I’d go slow on that, if I were you. The Breakwaters is a lemon. You’ll lose your shirt.”

Robbie laughed. “Then I’ll have to joint the nudists. Besides, old dear, it’s my shirt.”

Erskine tried to reason with her. Always an earnest, convincing talker when there was a point to gain for himself, he overplayed his hand. It was the earnestness of desperation— and Robbie Strickland was nobody’s fool. Broadway and two husbands had wised her up plenty.

As she listened, a chilly frost came into Robbie’s eyes, which were no longer friendly.

“Listen, Raoul,” she snapped, “I’ve played too much poker not to know when a guy is trying to bluff out a busted flush. I’m calling you. They’re my bonds. Is there any reason I can’t get ’em at noon to-morrow?”

Erskine refilled his glass and drained it at a gulp. He wiped his lips with the tips of his fingers.

“Robbie, I’ll tell you the truth. Your bonds are safe. You’ll get every dollar of your money, but I want you to do me a favor. Let me keep them until the end of the week.”

Robbie Strickland was on her feet. Now her eyes were blazing with a cold fury. “In other words,” she said, “you’ve put my bonds in hock.”

“They’re safe, I tell you! I— I’ve merely sent them over to my bank as evidence of good faith. The market went off this afternoon because of some wild rumor. It caught me unawares.”

“To hell with that stuff!” snapped Robbie. “Do I get my money at noon to-morrow?”

Raoul Erskine dashed the perspiration from his forehead. “That’s impossible, Robbie, and you’d better not press me. If you stir up a mess, you won’t get a dime.”

Robbie stood for a moment, staring at him in contempt and wrath. Abruptly she turned and moved across the room. She reached for the telephone.

“What are you going to do?” blurted Erskine.

“I’ve never had any use for crooks,” answered Robbie, “and the kind I hate most are those who steal from their friends. Now what would you think I’m going to do? One guess ought to be enough.”

One guess was enough. Raoul Erskine knew that she was going to have him arrested. In a frenzy he rushed at her and grabbed the telephone from her hand.

“Wait, Robbie! Wait until we’ve talked it over! Give me a day!”

She was in no mood for reasoning. Robbie was a wild cat when her temper got away from her. She tried to get back the phone.

Erskine couldn’t remember exactly how it happened. Robbie Strickland ceased being a woman. She became merely an enemy bent on accomplishing his ruin. He struck her with the telephone, heard the beginning of a shrill scream which died away in her lovely throat, then stared at her in horror as she fell away from him to lie like a dead woman at his feet.

Raoul Erskine couldn’t move. He could hardly think. His palsied hands put the telephone back on the table.

“If she’s dead.” he whispered thickly, “I’m in for murder!”

But Robbie was still alive. Her breath fanned faintly against his cheek as he dropped to his knees and bent over her.

“Phelps!” called Erskine loudly. “Phelps!” Then he remembered it was the butler’s night out, and that he and Robbie were alone in the house. He shook Robbie’s shoulder, called out her name. She did not respond.

“May have fractured her skull,” groaned Raoul. “I’d better get her to the hospital. If she dies, I’m in for it.”

But he was also in for it if Roberta Strickland lived. Any hope of placating her was gone now. She’d never forgive him for that blow. She would accuse him of trying to kill her. Arrest would come even more quickly. There would be sensational headlines in the morning papers. Erskine could see them in his mind. The bank would call his loans. No matter whether the market went up or down, he was done.

Raoul Erskine stumbled numbly to his feet. Above the hammering of his own pulse, which made a pounding noise in his ears, he could hear the gurgling sound of water in the bathroom. The hideous plan was bom in his brain at that instant.

In a moment of fiendish inspiration, spawned by his desperation, he saw how simple could be his escape— with Robbie dead. Even if the market didn’t come back, he would be safe. His own stock transactions had been masked under a cryptic, “Account No. 19, Special.” If the bottom dropped out, he could claim that it was Roberta Strickland’s account.

“I’m crazy,” muttered Raoul, “to think of such a thing.”

But the idea persisted, accumulating detail. Erskine rushed to the window and peered out into the driveway. As he had expected, Robbie’s car, a small coupe, was parked under the portico.

He leaped back across the room and gathered Robbie up in his arms. She stirred slightly and a moan escaped her parted lips— lips that Raoul Erskine had often wanted to kiss. He didn’t think of that now. Again she had ceased being a woman.

“Can’t take the risk of letting her recover consciousness,” muttered Erskine. “She’ll start screaming as sure as hell, and I mustn’t hit her again.” That would have endangered his scheme, for the police were to believe she had died of accident.

Erskine was a big man, and Robbie was no great burden for him to carry. He strode through the communicating passageway and, through the bedroom, into the bath. With a steely coldness which was amazing even for himself, he lowered Roberta Strickland’s body head-first over the rim of the tub and submerged her face.

She didn’t struggle. Raoul turned his eyes away so as to not watch the bubbles of air which kept coming up through the water. Presently there were no longer any bubbles, for she had ceased breathing.

Robbie was now quite dead, and, as Raoul Erskine realized that, he was seized with a frenzy of fear.

“I must be mad,” he whispered. “I’ve drowned her. This is murder. My God, to think I’ve done a thing like this!”

He carried Robbie’s body into the bedroom, put her on the bed, and hurriedly began to dress. His fingers were clumsy in his haste.

Five minutes later he had Robbie’s body in the car, her own coupe, and was driving through the back streets, headed for Sands Point, which was a deserted stretch of ocean front with a handful of half-completed cottages to mark the failure of a real-estate scheme. Nobody lived out here, and it was a perfect spot for Erskine’s purpose.

There was an old pier, jutting out into the water, and Erskine drove onto it, the loose and rotting planking making a rumbling thunder under the rolling tires. He drove to the very edge, stopped the car, but not the engine, got out and looked around. The night was very dark, the water black as ink, sucking and slapping at the piles.

Reassuring himself that there were no prying eyes to watch what he was doing, he moved Robbie’s body across the width of the seat behind the steering wheel. He shuddered a little, for one of her hands touched his. It was cold with that awful clamminess of death.

The ancient piles had settled, the pier slanted sharply, and it was just a matter of reaching inside the door with one of his gloved hands and releasing the emergency brake. The car began moving. Raoul Erskine leaped back and slammed the door. In fascination he watched the front wheels reach out across empty space, poise there for an instant, and then plunge down to strike five feet of water in a loud splash.

“They’ll find her at low tide,” muttered Erskine. “Only one explanation— the car got away from her and she drowned. That bruise on her head— where she struck the windshield. Now I’m safe.”

As horrible as it all was, Raoul was stirred by a perverted pride. He had accomplished what everybody said could not be done— a perfect crime.

Erskine got back home at a quarter of nine, and he had no more than let himself inside the house
when the telephone rang. He answered without hesitation.

It was Kate Thomas on the wire. Kate and Robbie shared a bungalow at the far end of the beach.

“Hello, Raoul,” said Kate. “Has Robbie left yet?”

Erskine was surprised at his own calmness. “Almost an hour ago,” he answered. “She just dashed in, had a quick drink, and dashed out again.”

“That’s queer,” complained Kate Thomas. “We’ve got a date for dinner. Trouble with her car perhaps. She’s always smashing into somebody’s fender, or having somebody smash into hers. The little fool drives like a lunatic.”

“Yes, probably trouble with the car,” agreed Erskine. “We’ll have to lecture her about careless driving. Anybody can have one smash too many.” He thought that was being pretty clever.

Raoul Erskine had a better sleep that night than he expected. Phelps, the butler, awakened him at eight.

“A man to see you, sir,” explained Phelps. “He says he’s a detective.”

Erskine felt no cause for alarm. Kitty, of course, had told the police that Robbie had come to his house last night. The police would want to question him, merely as a matter of routine.

“Detective?” repeated Raoul in feigned astonishment. “I haven’t sent for any detective. What does the fellow want?”

“It’s something about the death of Mrs. Strickland, sir. It seems that she drove her car off the old pier at Sands Point and was drowned.”

Raoul Erskine tossed back the bedcovers. “Robbie— drowned! Good Lord, Phelps, are you serious?”

“It must be quite a shock, sir. You and Mrs. Strickland were very good friends.”

"Right, Phelps. Robbie Strickland was the salt of the earth. I can’t believe it! Tell the detective I’ll be right out.”

“If it’s just the same to you,” said another voice, “I’ll come in.” The detective entered the bedroom. “Callaghan’s the name, Mr. Erskine. I spell it with a ‘g.’ Officer from police headquarters. We’re looking into the death of a Mrs. Strickland.”

Raoul Erskine brushed his hand across his forehead, like a man bewildered. “Yes, so my butler told me. It’s almost impossible to think of Robbie being dead. She was so alive, so vital. This news hits me pretty hard.”

Callaghan nodded. “The dame she lived with told us you and Mrs. Strickland were very good friends.”

“The best!” exclaimed Erskine. “Now, don’t gst me wrong. Not sweethearts, nothing like that— just friends.”

“When was the last time you seen her?” inquired Callaghan.

“About eight o’clock last night. She drove here to my place for a minute, had a drink, and left within a few minutes. She seemed in a bit of a rush.”

Again Callaghan nodded. “That checks all right. Wasn’t despondent or anything like that?”

“Robbie Strickland despondent? If you’d known her, you wouldn’t ask.”

Callaghan looked around the room. “Left about a quarter past eight, eh? Didn’t say anything about driving to Sands Point?”

“Why, no,” answered Erskine.

“Kind of queer,” said Callaghan. “She left here at a quarter past eight to have dinner with some people at eight thirty, and yet she drives in the opposite direction, out to a Godforsaken place like Sands Point. Yeah, that’s kind of queer. Unless something happened to make her go out there— maybe for the purpose of driving her car off the pier.”

“Suicide, you mean?” exclaimed Raoul Erskine. “Nonsense!”

Callaghan acted like a restless man. He moved his position again, seeming, inadvertently, to get closer to the open door of the bathroom.

“You was her broker, I’m told,” said the detective. “Been losing any money in the market?”

Erskine shrugged his shoulders. “She may have lost a few thousand in yesterday’s slump. I don’t personally watch all the accounts. But Robbie could take it on the chin. If you’re thinking she drove her car off the pier because she lost a little money, forget it.”

Again Callaghan had shifted his position and, as he cupped his hands to his mouth to light a cigarette, his gaze had drifted through the open door and into the adjoining private bath. For the first time Raoul felt a faint uneasiness. Why was this fellow interested in the bathroom?

“This is an odd case,” said Callaghan. “It’s one of the oddest I ever run into. What makes it so odd, Mr. Erskine, is that a person can’t drown twice.”

The hackles of Raoul Erskine’s neck stood up. He was glad that Callaghan was looking into the bathroom instead of at him. He knew that the color had drained out of his face, and he made a grab for a cigarette as an excuse for concealing his features while he fought to regain his composure.

“This flatfoot will not take me by surprise a second time,” he thought, and said aloud: “Twice drowned? That doesn’t make any sense to me.”

“I thought maybe it would— to you,” said Callaghan, and then Erskine saw that Callaghan had been watching him through the mirror.

"See here,” snapped Raoul, “I’m not so sure I like the tone of your voice.”

Callaghan’s smile was grim. “I’m sure you don’t, Mr. Erskine. “Drowned twice! You didn’t like to hear me say that. Meant something to you, didn’t it?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean by talking such nonsense!” blustered Raoul.

“Then I guess I’d better make it more clear,” went on Callaghan. “As I said, people don’t drown twice. We fished Mrs. Strickland’s car out of the Atlantic Ocean, with her inside of it. She was drowned, right enough— but not with the right kind of water.

“You see, Mr. Erskine, when people die they stop breathing. And when they stop breathing they stop getting anything inside their lungs. Now you’d sort of figure that for a person to drown in salt water, there ought to be salt water in their lungs.”

Raoul Erskine’s eyes were bulging. The bedroom seemed to spin and rock before his eyes. He continued to hear Callaghan’s voice, but the words sounded as if they came from a far distance.

“There wasn’t any salt water in Mrs. Strickland’s lungs,” continued the detective. “Only fresh water. Even more peculiar, it had a funny odor— sort of perfumed-like— the odor of lavender.  I see you’ve got a bottle of lavender bath salts in there on your bathroom shelf, and I guess that ties everything up nice and tight.”

Raoul Erskine knew that it did.

__________________

3: The Most Dangerous Game

Richard Connell

1893-1949

Collier’s 19 January 1924

A brilliantly conceived and executed longish short story, reprinted countless times. It has been the basis of at least twenty movies, and more than TV series episode adaptations ranging from The Simpsons to Game of Thrones.

Richard Connell was a journalist, award-winning short story writer, and Hollywood screenwriter twice nominated for an Oscar.

"OFF THERE to the right— somewhere— is a large island," said Whitney. "It's rather a mystery—"

"What island is it?" Rainsford asked.

"The old charts call it `Ship-Trap Island,"' Whitney replied." A suggestive name, isn't it? Sailors have a curious dread of the place. I don't know why. Some superstition—"

"Can't see it," remarked Rainsford, trying to peer through the dank tropical night that was palpable as it pressed its thick warm blackness in upon the yacht.

"You've good eyes," said Whitney, with a laugh," and I've seen you pick off a moose moving in the brown fall bush at four hundred yards, but even you can't see four miles or so through a moonless Caribbean night."

"Nor four yards," admitted Rainsford. "Ugh! It's like moist black velvet."

"It will be light enough in Rio," promised Whitney. "We should make it in a few days. I hope the jaguar guns have come from Purdey's. We should have some good hunting up the Amazon. Great sport, hunting."

"The best sport in the world," agreed Rainsford.

"For the hunter," amended Whitney. "Not for the jaguar."

"Don't talk rot, Whitney," said Rainsford. "You're a big-game hunter, not a philosopher. Who cares how a jaguar feels?"

"Perhaps the jaguar does," observed Whitney.

"Bah! They've no understanding."

"Even so, I rather think they understand one thing— fear. The fear of pain and the fear of death."

"Nonsense," laughed Rainsford. "This hot weather is making you soft, Whitney. Be a realist. The world is made up of two classes— the hunters and the huntees. Luckily, you and I are hunters. Do you think we've passed that island yet?"

"I can't tell in the dark. I hope so."

"Why? " asked Rainsford.

"The place has a reputation— a bad one."

"Cannibals?" suggested Rainsford.

"Hardly. Even cannibals wouldn't live in such a God-forsaken place. But it's gotten into sailor lore, somehow. Didn't you notice that the crew's nerves seemed a bit jumpy today?"

"They were a bit strange, now you mention it. Even Captain Nielsen—"

"Yes, even that tough-minded old Swede, who'd go up to the devil himself and ask him for a light. Those fishy blue eyes held a look I never saw there before. All I could get out of him was This place has an evil name among seafaring men, sir.' Then he said to me, very gravely,Don't you feel anything?'— as if the air about us was actually poisonous. Now, you mustn't laugh when I tell you this— I did feel something like a sudden chill.

"There was no breeze. The sea was as flat as a plate-glass window. We were drawing near the island then. What I felt was a— a mental chill; a sort of sudden dread."

"Pure imagination," said Rainsford.

"One superstitious sailor can taint the whole ship's company with his fear."

"Maybe. But sometimes I think sailors have an extra sense that tells them when they are in danger. Sometimes I think evil is a tangible thing— with wave lengths, just as sound and light have. An evil place can, so to speak, broadcast vibrations of evil. Anyhow, I'm glad we're getting out of this zone. Well, I think I'll turn in now, Rainsford."

"I'm not sleepy," said Rainsford. "I'm going to smoke another pipe up on the afterdeck."

"Good night, then, Rainsford. See you at breakfast."

"Right. Good night, Whitney."

There was no sound in the night as Rainsford sat there but the muffled throb of the engine that drove the yacht swiftly through the darkness, and the swish and ripple of the wash of the propeller.

Rainsford, reclining in a steamer chair, indolently puffed on his favorite brier. The sensuous drowsiness of the night was on him." It's so dark," he thought, "that I could sleep without closing my eyes; the night would be my eyelids—"

An abrupt sound startled him. Off to the right he heard it, and his ears, expert in such matters, could not be mistaken. Again he heard the sound, and again. Somewhere, off in the blackness, someone had fired a gun three times.

Rainsford sprang up and moved quickly to the rail, mystified. He strained his eyes in the direction from which the reports had come, but it was like trying to see through a blanket. He leaped upon the rail and balanced himself there, to get greater elevation; his pipe, striking a rope, was knocked from his mouth. He lunged for it; a short, hoarse cry came from his lips as he realized he had reached too far and had lost his balance. The cry was pinched off short as the blood-warm waters of the Caribbean Sea closed over his head.

HE STRUGGLED up to the surface and tried to cry out, but the wash from the speeding yacht slapped him in the face and the salt water in his open mouth made him gag and strangle. Desperately he struck out with strong strokes after the receding lights of the yacht, but he stopped before he had swum fifty feet. A certain cool-headedness had come to him; it was not the first time he had been in a tight place. There was a chance that his cries could be heard by someone aboard the yacht, but that chance was slender and grew more slender as the yacht raced on. He wrestled himself out of his clothes and shouted with all his power. The lights of the yacht became faint and ever-vanishing fireflies; then they were blotted out entirely by the night.

Rainsford remembered the shots. They had come from the right, and doggedly he swam in that direction, swimming with slow, deliberate strokes, conserving his strength. For a seemingly endless time he fought the sea. He began to count his strokes; he could do possibly a hundred more and then—

Rainsford heard a sound. It came out of the darkness, a high screaming sound, the sound of an animal in an extremity of anguish and terror.

He did not recognize the animal that made the sound; he did not try to; with fresh vitality he swam toward the sound. He heard it again; then it was cut short by another noise, crisp, staccato.

"Pistol shot," muttered Rainsford, swimming on.

Ten minutes of determined effort brought another sound to his ears— the most welcome he had ever heard-the muttering and growling of the sea breaking on a rocky shore. He was almost on the rocks before he saw them; on a night less calm he would have been shattered against them. With his remaining strength he dragged himself from the swirling waters. Jagged crags appeared to jut up into the opaqueness; he forced himself upward, hand over hand. Gasping, his hands raw, he reached a flat place at the top. Dense jungle came down to the very edge of the cliffs. What perils that tangle of trees and underbrush might hold for him did not concern Rainsford just then. All he knew was that he was safe from his enemy, the sea, and that utter weariness was on him. He flung himself down at the jungle edge and tumbled headlong into the deepest sleep of his life.

WHEN he opened his eyes he knew from the position of the sun that it was late in the afternoon. Sleep had given him new vigor; a sharp hunger was picking at him. He looked about him, almost cheerfully.

"Where there are pistol shots, there are men. Where there are men, there is food," he thought. But what kind of men, he wondered, in so forbidding a place? An unbroken front of snarled and ragged jungle fringed the shore.

He saw no sign of a trail through the closely knit web of weeds and trees; it was easier to go along the shore, and Rainsford floundered along by the water. Not far from where he landed, he stopped.

Some wounded thing— by the evidence, a large animal— had thrashed about in the underbrush; the jungle weeds were crushed down and the moss was lacerated; one patch of weeds was stained crimson. A small, glittering object not far away caught Rainsford's eye and he picked it up. It was an empty cartridge.

"A twenty-two," he remarked. "That's odd. It must have been a fairly large animal too. The hunter had his nerve with him to tackle it with a light gun. It's clear that the brute put up a fight. I suppose the first three shots I heard was when the hunter flushed his quarry and wounded it. The last shot was when he trailed it here and finished it."

He examined the ground closely and found what he had hoped to find— the print of hunting boots. They pointed along the cliff in the direction he had been going. Eagerly he hurried along, now slipping on a rotten log or a loose stone, but making headway; night was beginning to settle down on the island.

Bleak darkness was blacking out the sea and jungle when Rainsford sighted the lights. He came upon them as he turned a crook in the coast line; and his first thought was that be had come upon a village, for there were many lights. But as he forged along he saw to his great astonishment that all the lights were in one enormous building— a lofty structure with pointed towers plunging upward into the gloom. His eyes made out the shadowy outlines of a palatial chateau; it was set on a high bluff, and on three sides of it cliffs dived
down to where the sea licked greedy lips in the shadows.

"Mirage," thought Rainsford. But it was no mirage, he found, when he opened the tall spiked iron gate. The stone steps were real enough; the massive door with a leering gargoyle for a knocker was real enough; yet above it all hung an air of unreality.

He lifted the knocker, and it creaked up stiffly, as if it had never before been used. He let it fall, and it startled him with its booming loudness. He thought he heard steps within; the door remained closed. Again Rainsford lifted the heavy knocker, and let it fall. The door opened then— opened as suddenly as if it were on a spring— and Rainsford stood blinking in the river of glaring gold light that poured out. The first thing Rainsford's eyes discerned was the largest man Rainsford had ever seen— a gigantic creature, solidly made and black bearded to the waist. In his hand the man held a long-barreled revolver, and he was pointing it straight at Rainsford's heart.

Out of the snarl of beard two small eyes regarded Rainsford.

"Don't be alarmed," said Rainsford, with a smile which he hoped was disarming. "I'm no robber. I fell off a yacht. My name is Sanger Rainsford of New York City."

The menacing look in the eyes did not change. The revolver pointing as rigidly as if the giant were a statue. He gave no sign that he understood Rainsford's words, or that he had even heard them. He was dressed in uniform— a black uniform trimmed with gray astrakhan.

"I'm Sanger Rainsford of New York," Rainsford began again. "I fell off a yacht. I am hungry."

The man's only answer was to raise with his thumb the hammer of his revolver. Then Rainsford saw the man's free hand go to his forehead in a military salute, and he saw him click his heels together and stand at attention. Another man was coming down the broad marble steps, an erect, slender man in evening clothes. He advanced to Rainsford and held out his hand.

In a cultivated voice marked by a slight accent that gave it added precision and deliberateness, he said, "It is a very great pleasure and honor to welcome Mr. Sanger Rainsford, the celebrated hunter, to my home."

Automatically Rainsford shook the man's hand.

"I've read your book about hunting snow leopards in Tibet, you see," explained the man. "I am General Zaroff."

Rainsford's first impression was that the man was singularly handsome; his second was that there was an original, almost bizarre quality about the general's face. He was a tall man past middle age, for his hair was a vivid white; but his thick eyebrows and pointed military mustache were as black as the night from which Rainsford had come. His eyes, too, were black and very bright. He had high cheekbones, a sharpcut nose, a spare, dark face— the face of a man used to giving orders, the face of an aristocrat. Turning to the giant in uniform, the general made a sign. The giant put away his pistol, saluted, withdrew.

"Ivan is an incredibly strong fellow," remarked the general, "but he has the misfortune to be deaf and dumb. A simple fellow, but, I'm afraid, like all his race, a bit of a savage."

"Is he Russian?"

"He is a Cossack," said the general, and his smile showed red lips and pointed teeth. "So am I."

"Come," he said, "we shouldn't be chatting here. We can talk later. Now you want clothes, food, rest. You shall have them. This is a most-restful spot."

Ivan had reappeared, and the general spoke to him with lips that moved but gave forth no sound.

"Follow Ivan, if you please, Mr. Rainsford," said the general. "I was about to have my dinner when you came. I'll wait for you. You'll find that my clothes will fit you, I think."

It was to a huge, beam-ceilinged bedroom with a canopied bed big enough for six men that Rainsford followed the silent giant. Ivan laid out an evening suit, and Rainsford, as he put it on, noticed that it came from a London tailor who ordinarily cut and sewed for none below the rank of duke.

The dining room to which Ivan conducted him was in many ways remarkable. There was a medieval magnificence about it; it suggested a baronial hall of feudal times with its oaken panels, its high ceiling, its vast refectory tables where twoscore men could sit down to eat. About the hall were mounted heads of many animals— lions, tigers, elephants, moose, bears; larger or more perfect specimens Rainsford had never seen. At the great table the general was sitting, alone.

"You'll have a cocktail, Mr. Rainsford," he suggested. The cocktail was surpassingly good; and, Rainsford noted, the table apointments were of the finest— the linen, the crystal, the silver, the china.

They were eating borsch, the rich, red soup with whipped cream so dear to Russian palates. Half apologetically General Zaroff said, "We do our best to preserve the amenities of civilization here. Please forgive any lapses. We are well off the beaten track, you know. Do you think the champagne has suffered from its long ocean trip?"

"Not in the least," declared Rainsford. He was finding the general a most thoughtful and affable host, a true cosmopolite. But there was one small trait of .the general's that made Rainsford uncomfortable. Whenever he looked up from his plate he found the general studying him, appraising him narrowly.

"Perhaps," said General Zaroff, "you were surprised that I recognized your name. You see, I read all books on hunting published in English, French, and Russian. I have but one passion in my life, Mr. Rains. ford, and it is the hunt."

"You have some wonderful heads here," said Rainsford as he ate a particularly well-cooked filet mignon. " That Cape buffalo is the largest I ever saw."

"Oh, that fellow. Yes, he was a monster."

"Did he charge you?"

"Hurled me against a tree," said the general. "Fractured my skull. But I got the brute."

"I've always thought," said Rainsford, "that the Cape buffalo is the most dangerous of all big game."

For a moment the general did not reply; he was smiling his curious red-lipped smile. Then he said slowly, "No. You are wrong, sir. The Cape buffalo is not the most dangerous big game." He sipped his wine. "Here in my preserve on this island," he said in the same slow tone, "I hunt more dangerous game."

Rainsford expressed his surprise. "Is there big game on this island?"

The general nodded. "The biggest."

"Really?"

"Oh, it isn't here naturally, of course. I have to stock the island."

"What have you imported, general?" Rainsford asked. "Tigers?"

The general smiled. "No," he said. "Hunting tigers ceased to interest me some years ago. I exhausted their possibilities, you see. No thrill left in tigers, no real danger. I live for danger, Mr. Rainsford."

The general took from his pocket a gold cigarette case and offered his guest a long black cigarette with a silver tip; it was perfumed and gave off a smell like incense.

"We will have some capital hunting, you and I," said the general. "I shall be most glad to have your society."

"But what game—" began Rainsford.

"I'll tell you," said the general. "You will be amused, I know. I think I may say, in all modesty, that I have done a rare thing. I have invented a new sensation. May I pour you another glass of port?"

"Thank you, general."

The general filled both glasses, and said, "God makes some men poets. Some He makes kings, some beggars. Me He made a hunter. My hand was made for the trigger, my father said. He was a very rich man with a quarter of a million acres in the Crimea, and he was an ardent sportsman. When I was only five years old he gave me a little gun, specially made in Moscow for me, to shoot sparrows with. When I shot some of his prize turkeys with it, he did not punish me; he complimented me on my marksmanship. I killed my first bear in the Caucasus when I was ten. My whole life has been one prolonged hunt. I went into the army— it was expected of noblemen's sons— and for a time commanded a division of Cossack cavalry, but my real interest was always the hunt. I have hunted every kind of game in every land. It would be impossible for me to tell you how many animals I have killed."

The general puffed at his cigarette.

"After the debacle in Russia I left the country, for it was imprudent for an officer of the Czar to stay there. Many noble Russians lost everything. I, luckily, had invested heavily in American securities, so I shall never have to open a tearoom in Monte Carlo or drive a taxi in Paris. Naturally, I continued to hunt— grizzliest in your Rockies, crocodiles in the Ganges, rhinoceroses in East Africa. It was in Africa that the Cape buffalo hit me and laid me up for six months. As soon as I recovered I started for the Amazon to hunt jaguars, for I had heard they were unusually cunning. They weren't." The Cossack sighed. "They were no match at all for a hunter with his wits about him, and a high-powered rifle. I was bitterly disappointed. I was lying in my tent with a splitting headache one night when a terrible thought pushed its way into my mind. Hunting was beginning to bore me! And hunting, remember, had been my life. I have heard that in America businessmen often go to pieces when they give up the business that has been their life."

"Yes, that's so," said Rainsford.

The general smiled. "I had no wish to go to pieces," he said. "I must do something. Now, mine is an analytical mind, Mr. Rainsford. Doubtless that is why I enjoy the problems of the chase."

"No doubt, General Zaroff."

"So," continued the general, "I asked myself why the hunt no longer fascinated me. You are much younger than I am, Mr. Rainsford, and have not hunted as much, but you perhaps can guess the answer."

"What was it?"

"Simply this: hunting had ceased to be what you call `a sporting proposition.' It had become too easy. I always got my quarry. Always. There is no greater bore than perfection."

The general lit a fresh cigarette.

"No animal had a chance with me any more. That is no boast; it is a mathematical certainty. The animal had nothing but his legs and his instinct. Instinct is no match for reason. When I thought of this it was a tragic moment for me, I can tell you."

Rainsford leaned across the table, absorbed in what his host was saying.

"It came to me as an inspiration what I must do," the general went on.

"And that was?"

The general smiled the quiet smile of one who has faced an obstacle and surmounted it with success. "I had to invent a new animal to hunt," he said.

"A new animal? You're joking." "Not at all," said the general. "I never joke about hunting. I needed a new animal. I found one. So I bought this island built this house, and here I do my hunting. The island is perfect for my purposes— there are jungles with a maze of traits in them, hills, swamps—"

"But the animal, General Zaroff?"

"Oh," said the general, "it supplies me with the most exciting hunting in the world. No other hunting compares with it for an instant. Every day I hunt, and I never grow bored now, for I have a quarry with which I can match my wits."

Rainsford's bewilderment showed in his face.

"I wanted the ideal animal to hunt," explained the general. "So I said, What are the attributes of an ideal quarry?' And the answer was, of course, 'It must have courage, cunning, and, above all, it must be able to reason.' "

"But no animal can reason," objected Rainsford.

"My dear fellow," said the general, "there is one that can."

"But you can't mean—" gasped Rainsford.

"And why not?"

"I can't believe you are serious, General Zaroff. This is a grisly joke."

"Why should I not be serious? I am speaking of hunting."

"Hunting? Great Guns, General Zaroff, what you speak of is murder."

The general laughed with entire good nature. He regarded Rainsford quizzically. "I refuse to believe that so modern and civilized a young man as you seem to be harbors romantic ideas about the value of human life. Surely your experiences in the war—"

"Did not make me condone cold-blooded murder," finished Rainsford stiffly.

Laughter shook the general. "How extraordinarily droll you are!" he said. "One does not expect nowadays to find a young man of the educated class, even in America, with such a naive, and, if I may say so, midVictorian point of view. It's like finding a snuffbox in a limousine. Ah, well, doubtless you had Puritan ancestors. So many Americans appear to have had. I'll wager you'll forget your notions when you go hunting with me. You've a genuine new thrill in store for you, Mr. Rainsford."

"Thank you, I'm a hunter, not a murderer."

"Dear me," said the general, quite unruffled, "again that unpleasant word. But I think I can show you that your scruples are quite ill founded."

"Yes?"

"Life is for the strong, to be lived by the strong, and, if needs be, taken by the strong. The weak of the world were put here to give the strong pleasure. I am strong. Why should I not use my gift? If I wish to hunt, why should I not? I hunt the scum of the earth: sailors from tramp ships— lascars, blacks, Chinese, whites, mongrels— a thoroughbred horse or hound is worth more than a score of them."

"But they are men," said Rainsford hotly.

"Precisely," said the general. "That is why I use them. It gives me pleasure. They can reason, after a fashion. So they are dangerous."

"But where do you get them?"

The general's left eyelid fluttered down in a wink. "This island is called Ship Trap," he answered. "Sometimes an angry god of the high seas sends them to me. Sometimes, when Providence is not so kind, I help Providence a bit. Come to the window with me."

Rainsford went to the window and looked out toward the sea.

"Watch! Out there!" exclaimed the general, pointing into the night. Rainsford's eyes saw only blackness, and then, as the general pressed a button, far out to sea Rainsford saw the flash of lights.

The general chuckled. "They indicate a channel," he said, "where there's none; giant rocks with razor edges crouch like a sea monster with wide-open jaws. They can crush a ship as easily as I crush this nut." He dropped a walnut on the hardwood floor and brought his heel grinding down on it. "Oh, yes," he said, casually, as if in answer to a question, "I have electricity. We try to be civilized here."

"Civilized? And you shoot down men?"

A trace of anger was in the general's black eyes, but it was there for but a second; and he said, in his most pleasant manner, "Dear me, what a righteous young man you are! I assure you I do not do the thing you suggest. That would be barbarous. I treat these visitors with every consideration. They get plenty of good food and exercise. They get into splendid physical condition. You shall see for yourself tomorrow."

"What do you mean?"

"We'll visit my training school," smiled the general. "It's in the cellar. I have about a dozen pupils down there now. They're from the Spanish bark San Lucar that had the bad luck to go on the rocks out there. A very inferior lot, I regret to say. Poor specimens and more accustomed to the deck than to the jungle." He raised his hand, and Ivan, who served as waiter, brought thick Turkish coffee. Rainsford, with an effort, held his tongue in check.

"It's a game, you see," pursued the general blandly. "I suggest to one of them that we go hunting. I give him a supply of food and an excellent hunting knife. I give him three hours' start. I am to follow, armed only with a pistol of the smallest caliber and range. If my quarry eludes me for three whole days, he wins the game. If I find him"— the general smiled— "he loses."

"Suppose he refuses to be hunted?"

"Oh," said the general, "I give him his option, of course. He need not play that game if he doesn't wish to. If he does not wish to hunt, I turn him over to Ivan. Ivan once had the honor of serving as official knouter to the Great White Czar, and he has his own ideas of sport. Invariably, Mr. Rainsford, invariably they choose the hunt."

"And if they win?"

The smile on the general's face widened. "To date I have not lost," he said. Then he added, hastily: "I don't wish you to think me a braggart, Mr. Rainsford. Many of them afford only the most elementary sort of problem. Occasionally I strike a tartar. One almost did win. I eventually had to use the dogs."

"The dogs?"

"This way, please. I'll show you."

The general steered Rainsford to a window. The lights from the windows sent a flickering illumination that made grotesque patterns on the courtyard below, and Rainsford could see moving about there a dozen or so huge black shapes; as they turned toward him, their eyes glittered greenly.

"A rather good lot, I think," observed the general. "They are let out at seven every night. If anyone should try to get into my house— or out of it— something extremely regrettable would occur to him." He hummed a snatch of song from the Folies Bergere.

"And now," said the general, "I want to show you my new collection of heads. Will you come with me to the library?"

"I hope," said Rainsford, "that you will excuse me tonight, General Zaroff. I'm really not feeling well."

"Ah, indeed?" the general inquired solicitously. "Well, I suppose that's only natural, after your long swim. You need a good, restful night's sleep. Tomorrow you'll feel like a new man, I'll wager. Then we'll hunt, eh?
I've one rather promising prospect—" Rainsford was hurrying from the room.

"Sorry you can't go with me tonight," called the general. "I expect rather fair sport— a big, strong, black. He looks resourceful— Well, good night, Mr. Rainsford; I hope you have a good night's rest."

THE BED was good, and the pajamas of the softest silk, and he was tired in every fiber of his being, but nevertheless Rainsford could not quiet his brain with the opiate of sleep. He lay, eyes wide open. Once he thought he heard stealthy steps in the corridor outside his room. He sought to throw open the door; it would not open. He went to the window and looked out. His room was high up in one of the towers. The lights of the chateau were out now, and it was dark and silent; but there was a fragment of sallow moon, and by its wan light he could see, dimly, the courtyard. There, weaving in and out in the pattern of shadow, were black, noiseless forms; the hounds heard him at the window and looked up, expectantly, with their green eyes. Rainsford went back to the bed and lay down. By many methods he tried to put himself to sleep. He had achieved a doze when, just as morning began to come, he heard, far off in the jungle, the faint report of a pistol.

General Zaroff did not appear until luncheon. He was dressed faultlessly in the tweeds of a country squire. He was solicitous about the state of Rainsford's health.

"As for me," sighed the general, "I do not feel so well. I am worried, Mr. Rainsford. Last night I detected traces of my old complaint."

To Rainsford's questioning glance the general said, "Ennui. Boredom."

Then, taking a second helping of crêpes Suzette, the general explained: "The hunting was not good last night. The fellow lost his head. He made a straight trail that offered no problems at all. That's the trouble with these sailors; they have dull brains to begin with, and they do not know how to get about in the woods. They do excessively stupid and obvious things. It's most annoying. Will you have another glass of Chablis, Mr. Rainsford?"

"General," said Rainsford firmly, "I wish to leave this island at once."

The general raised his thickets of eyebrows; he seemed hurt. "But, my dear fellow," the general protested, "you've only just come. You've had no hunting—"

"I wish to go today," said Rainsford. He saw the dead black eyes of the general on him, studying him. General Zaroff's face suddenly brightened.

He filled Rainsford's glass with venerable Chablis from a dusty bottle.

"Tonight," said the general, "we will hunt— you and I."

Rainsford shook his head. "No, general," he said. "I will not hunt."

The general shrugged his shoulders and delicately ate a hothouse grape. "As you wish, my friend," he said. "The choice rests entirely with you. But may I not venture to suggest that you will find my idea of sport more diverting than Ivan's?"

He nodded toward the corner to where the giant stood, scowling, his thick arms crossed on his hogshead of chest.

"You don't mean—" cried Rainsford.

"My dear fellow," said the general, "have I not told you I always mean what I say about hunting? This is really an inspiration. I drink to a foeman worthy of my steel— at last." The general raised his glass, but Rainsford sat staring at him.

"You'll find this game worth playing," the general said enthusiastically." Your brain against mine. Your woodcraft against mine. Your strength and stamina against mine. Outdoor chess! And the stake is not without value, eh?"

"And if I win—" began Rainsford huskily.

"I'll cheerfully acknowledge myself defeat if I do not find you by midnight of the third day," said General Zaroff. "My sloop will place you on the mainland near a town." The general read what Rainsford was thinking.

"Oh, you can trust me," said the Cossack. "I will give you my word as a gentleman and a sportsman. Of course you, in turn, must agree to say nothing of your visit here."

"I'll agree to nothing of the kind," said Rainsford.

"Oh," said the general, "in that case— But why discuss that now? Three days hence we can discuss it over a bottle of Veuve Cliquot, unless—"

The general sipped his wine.

Then a businesslike air animated him. "Ivan," he said to Rainsford, "will supply you with hunting clothes, food, a knife. I suggest you wear moccasins; they leave a poorer trail. I suggest, too, that you avoid the big swamp in the southeast corner of the island. We call it Death Swamp. There's quicksand there. One foolish fellow tried it. The deplorable part of it was that Lazarus followed him. You can imagine my feelings, Mr. Rainsford. I loved Lazarus; he was the finest hound in my pack. Well, I must beg you to excuse me now. I always' take a siesta after lunch. You'll hardly have time for a nap, I fear. You'll want to start, no doubt. I shall not follow till dusk. Hunting at night is so much more exciting than by day, don't you think? Au revoir, Mr. Rainsford, au revoir." General Zaroff, with a deep, courtly bow, strolled from the room.

From another door came Ivan. Under one arm he carried khaki hunting clothes, a haversack of food, a leather sheath containing a long-bladed hunting knife; his right hand rested on a cocked revolver thrust in the crimson sash about his waist.

RAINSFORD had fought his way through the bush for two hours. "I must keep my nerve. I must keep my nerve," he said through tight teeth.

He had not been entirely clearheaded when the chateau gates snapped shut behind him. His whole idea at first was to put distance between himself and General Zaroff; and, to this end, he had plunged along, spurred on by the sharp rowers of something very like panic. Now he had got a grip on himself, had stopped, and was taking stock of himself and the situation. He saw that straight flight was futile; inevitably it would bring him face to face with the sea. He was in a picture with a frame of water, and his operations, clearly, must take place within that frame.

"I'll give him a trail to follow," muttered Rainsford, and he struck off from the rude path he had been following into the trackless wilderness. He executed a series of intricate loops; he doubled on his trail again and again, recalling all the lore of the fox hunt, and all the dodges of the fox. Night found him leg-weary, with hands and face lashed by the branches, on a thickly wooded ridge. He knew it would be insane to blunder on through the dark, even if he had the strength. His need for rest was imperative and he thought, "I have played the fox, now I must play the cat of the fable." A big tree with a thick trunk and outspread branches was near by, and, taking care to leave not the slightest mark, he climbed up into the crotch, and, stretching out on one of the broad limbs, after a fashion, rested. Rest brought him new confidence and almost a feeling of security. Even so zealous a hunter as General Zaroff could not trace him there, he told himself; only the devil himself could follow that complicated trail through the jungle after dark. But perhaps the general was a devil—

An apprehensive night crawled slowly by like a wounded snake and sleep did not visit Rainsford, although the silence of a dead world was on the jungle. Toward morning when a dingy gray was varnishing the sky, the cry of some startled bird focused Rainsford's attention in that direction. Something was coming through the bush, coming slowly, carefully, coming by the same winding way Rainsford had come. He flattened himself down on the limb and, through a screen of leaves almost as thick as tapestry, he watched. . . . That which was approaching was a man.

It was General Zaroff. He made his way along with his eyes fixed in utmost concentration on the ground before him. He paused, almost beneath the tree, dropped to his knees and studied the ground. Rainsford's impulse was to hurl himself down like a panther, but he saw that the general's right hand held something metallic— a small automatic pistol.

The hunter shook his head several times, as if he were puzzled. Then he straightened up and took from his case one of his black cigarettes; its pungent incenselike smoke floated up to Rainsford's nostrils.

Rainsford held his breath. The general's eyes had left the ground and were traveling inch by inch up the tree. Rainsford froze there, every muscle tensed for a spring. But the sharp eyes of the hunter stopped before they reached the limb where Rainsford lay; a smile spread over his brown face. Very deliberately he blew a smoke ring into the air; then he turned his back on the tree and walked carelessly away, back along the trail he had come. The swish of the underbrush against his hunting boots grew fainter and fainter.

The pent-up air burst hotly from Rainsford's lungs. His first thought made him feel sick and numb. The general could follow a trail through the woods at night; he could follow an extremely difficult trail; he must have uncanny powers; only by the merest chance had the Cossack failed to see his quarry.

Rainsford's second thought was even more terrible. It sent a shudder of cold horror through his whole being. Why had the general smiled? Why had he turned back?

Rainsford did not want to believe what his reason told him was true, but the truth was as evident as the sun that had by now pushed through the morning mists. The general was playing with him! The general was saving him for another day's sport! The Cossack was the cat; he was the mouse. Then it was that Rainsford knew the full meaning of terror.

"I will not lose my nerve. I will not."

He slid down from the tree, and struck off again into the woods. His face was set and he forced the machinery of his mind to function. Three hundred yards from his hiding place he stopped where a huge dead tree leaned precariously on a smaller, living one. Throwing off his sack of food, Rainsford took his knife from its sheath and began to work with all his energy.

The job was finished at last, and he threw himself down behind a fallen log a hundred feet away. He did not have to wait long. The cat was coming again to play with the mouse.

Following the trail with the sureness of a bloodhound came General Zaroff. Nothing escaped those searching black eyes, no crushed blade of grass, no bent twig, no mark, no matter how faint, in the moss. So intent was the Cossack on his stalking that he was upon the thing Rainsford had made before he saw it. His foot touched the protruding bough that was the trigger. Even as he touched it, the general sensed his danger and leaped back with the agility of an ape. But he was not quite quick enough; the dead tree, delicately adjusted to rest on the cut living one, crashed down and struck the general a glancing blow on the shoulder as it fell; but for his alertness, he must have been smashed beneath it. He staggered, but he did not fall; nor did he drop his revolver. He stood there, rubbing his injured shoulder, and Rainsford, with fear again gripping his heart, heard the general's mocking laugh ring through the jungle.

"Rainsford," called the general, "if you are within sound of my voice, as I suppose you are, let me congratulate you. Not many men know how to make a Malay mancatcher. Luckily for me I, too, have hunted in Malacca. You are proving interesting, Mr. Rainsford. I am going now to have my wound dressed; it's only a slight one. But I shall be back. I shall be back."

When the general, nursing his bruised shoulder, had gone, Rainsford took up his flight again. It was flight now, a desperate, hopeless flight, that carried him on for some hours. Dusk came, then darkness, and still he pressed on. The ground grew softer under his moccasins; the vegetation grew ranker, denser; insects bit him savagely.

Then, as he stepped forward, his foot sank into the ooze. He tried to wrench it back, but the muck sucked viciously at his foot as if it were a giant leech. With a violent effort, he tore his feet loose. He knew where he was now. Death Swamp and its quicksand.

His hands were tight closed as if his nerve were something tangible that someone in the darkness was trying to tear from his grip. The softness of the earth had given him an idea. He stepped back from the quicksand a dozen feet or so and, like some huge prehistoric beaver, he began to dig.

Rainsford had dug himself in in France when a second's delay meant death. That had been a placid pastime compared to his digging now. The pit grew deeper; when it was above his shoulders, he climbed out and from some hard saplings cut stakes and sharpened them to a fine point. These stakes he planted in the bottom of the pit with the points sticking up. With flying fingers he wove a rough carpet of weeds and branches and with it he covered the mouth of the pit. Then, wet with sweat and aching with tiredness, he crouched behind the stump of a lightning-charred tree.

He knew his pursuer was coming; he heard the padding sound of feet on the soft earth, and the night breeze brought him the perfume of the general's cigarette. It seemed to Rainsford that the general was coming with unusual swiftness; he was not feeling his way along, foot by foot. Rainsford, crouching there, could not see the general, nor could he see the pit. He lived a year in a minute. Then he felt an impulse to cry aloud with joy, for he heard the sharp crackle of the breaking branches as the cover of the pit gave way; he heard the sharp scream of pain as the pointed stakes found their mark. He leaped up from his place of concealment. Then he cowered back. Three feet from the pit a man was standing, with an electric torch in his hand.

"You've done well, Rainsford," the voice of the general called. "Your Burmese tiger pit has claimed one of my best dogs. Again you score. I think, Mr. Rainsford, I'll see what you can do against my whole pack. I'm going home for a rest now. Thank you for a most amusing evening."

AT DAYBREAK Rainsford, lying near the swamp, was awakened by a sound that made him know that he had new things to learn about fear. It was a distant sound, faint and wavering, but he knew it. It was the baying of
a pack of hounds.

Rainsford knew he could do one of two things. He could stay where he was and wait. That was suicide. He could flee. That was postponing the inevitable. For a moment he stood there, thinking. An idea that held a wild chance came to him, and, tightening his belt, he headed away from the swamp.

The baying of the hounds drew nearer, then still nearer, nearer, ever nearer. On a ridge Rainsford climbed a tree. Down a watercourse, not a quarter of a mile away, he could see the bush moving. Straining his eyes, he saw the lean figure of General Zaroff; just ahead of him Rainsford made out another figure whose wide shoulders surged through the tall jungle weeds; it was the giant Ivan, and he seemed pulled forward by some unseen force; Rainsford knew that Ivan must be holding the pack in leash.

They would be on him any minute now. His mind worked frantically. He thought of a native trick he had learned in Uganda. He slid down the tree. He caught hold of a springy young sapling and to it he fastened his hunting knife, with the blade pointing down the trail; with a bit of wild grapevine he tied back the sapling. Then he ran for his life. The hounds raised their voices as they hit the fresh scent. Rainsford knew now how an animal at bay feels.

He had to stop to get his breath. The baying of the hounds stopped abruptly, and Rainsford's heart stopped too. They must have reached the knife.

He shinned excitedly up a tree and looked back. His pursuers had stopped. But the hope that was in Rainsford's brain when he climbed died, for he saw in the shallow valley that General Zaroff was still on his feet. But Ivan was not. The knife, driven by the recoil of the springing tree, had not wholly failed.

Rainsford had hardly tumbled to the ground when the pack took up the cry again.

"Nerve, nerve, nerve!" he panted, as he dashed along. A blue gap showed between the trees dead ahead. Ever nearer drew the hounds. Rainsford forced himself on toward that gap. He reached it. It was the shore of the sea. Across a cove he could see the gloomy gray stone of the chateau. Twenty feet below him the sea rumbled and hissed. Rainsford hesitated. He heard the hounds. Then he leaped far out into the sea.

WHEN the general and his pack reached the place by the sea, the Cossack stopped. For some minutes he stood regarding the blue-green expanse of water. He shrugged his shoulders. Then be sat down, took a drink of brandy from a silver flask, lit a cigarette, and hummed a bit from Madame Butterfly.

General Zaroff had an exceedingly good dinner in his great paneled dining hall that evening. With it he had a bottle of Pol Roger and half a bottle of Chambertin. Two slight annoyances kept him from perfect enjoyment. One was the thought that it would be difficult to replace Ivan; the other was that his quarry had escaped him; of course, the American hadn't played the game— so thought the general as he tasted his afterdinner liqueur. In his library he read, to soothe himself, from the works of Marcus Aurelius. At ten he went up to his bedroom. He was deliciously tired, he said to himself, as he locked himself in. There was a little moonlight, so, before turning on his light, he went to the window and looked down at the courtyard. He could see the great hounds, and he called, "Better luck another time," to them. Then he switched on the light.

A man, who had been hiding in the curtains of the bed, was standing there.

"RAINSFORD!" screamed the general. "How in God's name did you get here?"

"Swam," said Rainsford. "I found it quicker than walking through the jungle."

The general sucked in his breath and smiled. "I congratulate you," he said. "You have won the game."

Rainsford did not smile. "I am still a beast at bay," he said, in a low, hoarse voice. "Get ready, General Zaroff."

The general made one of his deepest bows. "I see," he said. "Splendid! One of us is to furnish a repast for the hounds. The other will sleep in this very excellent bed. On guard, Rainsford."

HE HAD never slept in a better bed, Rainsford decided.

________________

4: Pardon This Intrusion

Richard Connell

Australian Worker 22 April 1931

Collier’s November 15 1930

FARWELL'S fingers tightened on the antique statue of carved jade. The bell of the flat was ringing sharply. Farwell frowned.

He set the heavy statue back in the teakwood cabinet; but he made no move to answer the bell. It rang again. He faced the door, motionless.

The knob turned slowly.  A man stood there, a shabby, rabbit-faced man, with a black bag. The man blinked at Farwell.

'You Mr. Greenwood?' the man asked.

'No; friend of his. He's out. What do you want?'

'You could sign this for him, mebbe?'

'Sign what?'

'This contrack. So they'll know I came, here.' He held out a piece of paper to Farwell. 'Nobody trusts nobody nowadays,' the man remarked sadly.

'What's it for?' snapped Farwell.

'Tuning the piano. We do it regular. Mr. Greenwood has a contrack—'

'Do you usually enter a flat without waiting for somebody to open the door?' Farwell demanded.

'Oh, no, sir,' said the man. 'But the door was open and I figgered it would be all right, on account of the contrack, and I got to tune it because I get so much for each tuning, and I got a family, and so I thought—'

'Come back to-morrow.'

'Can't. Contrack says to-day. Besides, I got jobs to-morrow. Got to work here now.'

'How long will it take?'

'Not long. Mebbe half an hour.'

'Get busy, then.' Farwell sat in an easy-chair in a corner of the big living-room. He tried to read Voltaire's 'Candide.'

The man drummed a few bars of what might have been 'Pale Hands I Love.' Then— bink, bink, bink on the treble keys.

Farwell looked up and glowered at the back of the man.

'Swell place he's got here,' the man remarked.

'Think so?' said Farwell, curtly.

'Rich guy, this Mr. Greenwood?'

'Yes; very rich. But don't let that take your mind off your work.'

'Oh, I can talk and work at the same time,' said the man.

Bink, bink, bink. Pale Hands I Love. Bink—

''YOU know,' he said, 'piano-tuning is sort of lonesome. A lot of people think us piano-tuners is a pest—'

'No! I can hardly believe it,' said Farwell. Bink, bink, bink.

Farwell lit a cigarette and strolled into one of the bedrooms. He could hear— bink, bink, bink. Pale Hands I Love — bink, bink, bink.

Presently he came back, to the living room.

'How's it going?' he asked.

'Pretty good,' said the man. 'Lot of work to be done, though. Pouring cocktails into a grand don't help.it none.' Bink, bint, bink. 'I'll bet them statues are worth something,' said the man. Bink, bink, bink.

'Never mind the statues. Finish your job.'

'Yes, sir. But I'll bet they're worth plenty.'

'About seventy thousand,' said Farwell.

The man whistled. Bink, bink, bink. He tightened wires and used tools.

'Being a banker beats piano-tuning,' he observed. 'Seventy thousand?' Bink, bink, bink.

Farwell paced the floor, smoking nervously.

'When will you finish that infernal racket?' he asked.

'Won't be very long now,' said the man.

Pale Hands I Love. Bink, bink.

'There's somebody at the door,' the piano-tuner announced.

'Mebbe it's Mr. Greenwood, and now he can sign the contrack?'

Farwell wheeled around and faced the door.

A sleek man with the discreet face and dark clothes of a manservant stood in the doorway.

'Beg pardon,' he said.

'You one of the servants?' asked Farwell.

'Yes, sir. The butler, sir.'

'I'm a friend of Mr. Greenwood, and I've been waiting to see him,' said Farwell.

'I'm tuning the piano,' said the man.

'I can't say when Mr. Greenwood will return.'

'I won't wait,' said Farwell, glancing at his watch. 'I'll phone him from the club, in an hour or so.'

'Very good, sir.' The piano-tuner stuffed his tools into his bag.

'I'm done,' he announced. 'Sign here. That's right.'

Farwell and the piano-tuner walked down the stairs and out of the house together.

'Good-bye and good luck,' said the piano-tuner; but Farwell strode away without answering.

'GIVE me a drink, Charlie. Scotch. Double. What rotten luck! Planned the job for months. Had to act to-day. Stuff goes to a museum to-morrow. My watcher tipped me the servants were out. I walked in on a fake card and found old Greenwood alone. It was a cinch to tie him to his bed and gag him. I was just starting to pack up the junk when in walks a frowsy piano-tuner. I'm stymied. I figured he'd go soon, so I didn't use the strong-arm stuff, but, curse him, he kept fooling around with that piano, and then, just as he finished binking, in walks one of the servants, so I bow out quick. Tie that for luck, Charlie. Give me another double?'

'LISTEN, Ben, I done my best. I got in O.K., made up to pass as a piano-tuner if I had to— and I had to. One of Greenwood's friends was there— too big to slug— and he wouldn't budge. I tried to outstay him. I guess I put that music -box out of action. Then a flunkey came in— and I'm licked. Seventy thousand! Help! Pass me that there bottle?'

'BIT OF luck, what? I pushed in, and there was a gentleman and a piano-tuner. They took me for one of the servants, and I gave them the idea that Greenwood wouldn't be home for quite a while. They made a quick shift, and I bagged the stuff without any trouble at all. But what puzzles me is: Who tied up the old boy? Well, no matter. The junk will bring in eight thousand pounds. I say, Mabel; fetch a bottle of stout from the cupboard, will you, my dear?'

________________

5: Tested

Richard Connell

Observer (Adelaide)  8 Oct 1927

Saturday Evening Post 25 June 1927

"FOR SALE.—Idlehours, a gentleman's magnificent country estate of 76 landscaped acres in the most exclusive section of Greenwich, Connecticut. Large new colonial mansion. furnished with authentic early American furniture. Twelve master's bedrooms and baths; eight servants' rooms. Spacious drawing room, dining room, music room, library. Eveery modem convenience and labour-saving device.  Electric piano, organ, phonograph, range, washing machine, refrigerator, radio. Garage for six cars. Stabling for eight homes, private nine-hole golf course. Swimming pool. Three tennis courts. Address enquiries to Frederic James Dollaway. Idlehours, Greenwich, Connecticut. or Lakington Apartments, Park avenue, or the Dollaway Building, Nassau street. New York City.

This is the advertisement Mr. Dollaway might quite properly have inserted had he ever wished to sell Idlehours. There was little likelihood, however, that he would ever need to sell it. It was his pride and joy, and he was well able to support a pride and joy, for he was a large crude rubber man.

This has no reference to Mr. Dollaway's personal appearance, manners, or character. In size, he was not large, though broad and with a portliness proper to fifty-two; he was not crude, being a dignified gentleman of precise demeanour; and there certainly was nothing rubbery about his character. Mr. Dollaway upon a time, been a small man. Now, by virtue of his initiative and perspicacity— and some good fortune— he was a very large crude-rubber man, with no end of rubber piled in warehouses, a number of million dollars neatly put away in admirable stocks and bonds, a duplex apartment on Park avenue Idlehours, and Dolly, a daughter.

By the grandfather's clock— from Deerfield— it was ten minutes past seven one June morning was coolly bright. Mr. Dollaway, in correct riding attire, stood on the broad pillared verandah of Idlehours, tapping impatiently his riding crop against his boots. Adcock, the groom, was late in bringing round the Irish hunter for Mr. Dollaway's regular Saturday pre-breakfast canter. Adcock knew perfectly well that his job was to have the hunter saddled, bridled, immaculate, and ready at the front steps at 7.15 precisely Yet it was not until almost 7.20 that Adcock led up Mr. Dollaway's mount. The groom wore on his abashed brow the consciousness of sin.

"Ah, good morning, Adcock, said Mr. Dollaway. "You're late— nearly five minutes late."

Adcock mumbled out some apologetic cockney about a defective alarm clock.

"One can always find excuses for tardiness," remarked Mr. Dollaway, "but seldom an adequate reason."

He swung himself into the saddle.

Dollaway was not cross— at least, not very cross. "It was too fine a day, and it was Saturday, which day, in the well-ordered life of Mr. Dollaway, was set aside for play. From Monday till Friday he was a vastly busy and exacting executive; with Friday afternoon he closed his desk with a bang of finality, and until Monday devoted himself to play with a single-minded energy.

"You know," observed Mr. Dollaway, as his horse pranced and skittered, "a delay like this dislocates my schedule for the entire day."

All Adcock could think of to say was "Sorry, sir," as his employer trotted off.

MR. DOLLAWAY rode along filling his lungs with fresh country air and looking about him with a gratified, proprietary smile. A glance at his wrist watch brought an annoyed expression to his lips. It was time to turn back. He must bathe and change before breakfast, and breakfast, at Idlehours, was invariably on the stroke of eight. Reluctantly, he turned and headed his mount towards the stables. He galloped.

He was tingling from a cold shower and clad in the shaggy tweed plus fours of a country squire, when at eight he took his seat before a grapefruit in the meticulously colonial dining room. Across the old mahogany table— picked up, a bargain, in Salem, was another grapefruit.

"Poole?" Mr. Dollaway addressed the butler.

"Yes, sir."

"Where is Miss Dorothy?"

"Not down yet, sir."

"I see that," said Mr. Dollaway. "Was she called?"

"Oh, yes, sir."

"Will you ring the breakfast bell again, please?"

"Yes, sir."

Shortly after the noise of the bell— a particularly loud, clear bell— died away. Dolly came hurrying in. Her tousled blond hair, her sleepy eyes, and the fact that she was still buttoning her light summer dress, suggested that a world's record for speedy dressing had just been made. She kissed her father lightly on the forehead.

"Morning, dad."

"Good morning, my dear."

"Have a good ride?"

"Excellent. Wish you'd been with me.

She made a face as she bent over the grapefruit. "Seven is an unholy hour."

"I find no difficulty in getting up then," said her father.

"No wonder. You were in bed by ten."

"And you?"

"Oh. I didn't get to bed until somewhat later."

The father raised his eyebrows. "Late party, eh?"

"Not so very."

"Enjoy it?"

"It didn't set me on fire.

"I beg your pardon."

"I mean I had only a mildly amusing time. We played demon thirteen and danced a bit."

"Who was there?"

"Nobody."

"Odd party."

"I mean nobody worth mentioning. Mostly college friends of the Poodle."

The Poodle?"

"Yes; Sylvia Watterson's brother Randolph. He looks like one."

"I see."

"Sophomores," said Miss Dollaway disdainfully.  "Nothing on their minds but hair wax. They try to make you think they're men of the world— the cucumbers. Two years ago they were in short pants, collecting cigarette pictures. Their line flattens me out."

"You're not very ancient yourself, you know, Dolly," her father reminded her.

"I'm twenty," said Miss Dollaway. "I'm through finishing school. I feel centuries older than those pale-green bananas— centuries."

Her father regarded her fresh, rather pretty face for some moments. An idea seemed to occur to him.

"You're twenty," he said. "Well, well, think of that! I suppose one of these days you'll be thinking of getting married."

His daughter gave him a quick look.

"Dad," she said, "what else do you think girls think about?"

"You have considered it then?"

"Of course."

"M-m-m— shopping round, as it were?"

"Most girls start doing that at seven, or thereabouts," answered Dolly.

"Well," said Mr. Dollaway, in the portentous manner adults assume when giving advice to others younger and presumably less wise than themselves, "shop around, but don't take a bargain. You deserve the best. I assure you, my dear, that I intend to be most particular about whom I accept as your husband and my son-in law."

"So do I," said Dolly.

"Character," declared Mr. Dollaway, in I an oracular strain, "is more important in a man than soulful eyes and a cleft chin."

"I loathe cleft chins," said Dolly. "I always want to stick olives in them."

"Nowadays," said Mr. Dollaway, "there is no reason why foolish marriages should be contracted. I don't make unsound investments, do I?"

"I hope not, dad."

"Well, a man is like a stock. You can analyse him, get fairly accurate information about him, and predict pretty surely what he is going to do. Suppose I were going to take a partner—"

"Oh, dad. you're not thinking of getting married!"

"I am not. I meant a business partner. Well, what would I do?"

"I suppose," answered Dolly, "you'd make sure you picked the right man."

"Precisely. But how?"

"Try him out somehow, I suppose. You'd find out if he knew his onions, stuck to his job, was easy to work with, and didn't have bad habits— like pinching money or stenographers."

"You get the idea," said Mr. Dollaway. "That would be my procedure. It can apply equally well to a possible husband."

Dolly looked a bit alarmed. "You mean a trial marriage?" she asked.

Her father looked more than a little shocked. "No. No, indeed. Certainly not. The trial should come before the marriage."

Dolly contemplated her poached egg thoughtfully.

"Girls," she observed, "aren't as dumb about picking a husband as you might think, dad. They have a hundred little ways of finding, out whether he's the man for them. They watch how he speaks to waiters, for example. They consider his taste in neckties and jokes. They notice how he carries his liquor and plays games. Besides, dad, there's something else which is sort of important. It may not count for much when you're picking a business partner, but it's different when you're getting married. I mean you've got to be in love."

"One can use commonsense even in love," said Mr. Dollaway. "There, it's time for me to go. I'm due to meet Hargraves at first tee at quarter to nine.' He gulped the remainder of his coffee and went his way.

Miss Dollaway continued to consume her egg with pensive, puzzled brow. What was on her father's mind? This was, she reflected, the first time she could remember that he had ever talked to her as if she were grown up. His usual attitude toward her was one of absent-minded in diligence. He had always shown her the careless affection one bestows on a pet. Until her mother's death, three yeas before, he had hardly noticed her at all. When circumstances had brought them into closer contact with each other, he Lad behaved toward her as if she were about twelve years old— something to be teased if he happened to be in the mood for teasing, or scolded, if he felt like scolding, but never to be taken very seriously.

Now, suddenly, Mr. Dollaway seemed to have become aware of the fact that he was the father of an attractive young woman of marriageable age. He probably saw her, she mused, as a problem and she knew him well enough to know that when a problem came up in his life it was his habit to deal with it promptly and efficiently.

With the reflection that fathers are a funny lot, she finished her breakfast, got into her roadster— one of those tiny imported affairs— and drove over to Sylvia Watterson's house to play tennis with Sylvia and a couple of sophomores.

AT LUNCHEON that day Mr. Dollaway was in high spirits. He had beaten Hargraves at golf and had made a birdie. "I'm planning a little party for you, Dolly," he announced.

She looked at him in surprise. "What sort of party, dad?"

"A house party," he said. "Next weekend, if that suits you. I thought you might like to invite some young men— say, four young men and three girls. We've plenty of room, you know. Well?"

"That would be very nice, dad."

"Now, whom shall you ask? I want you to invite your own particular friends— the ones you like best. Who are they?"

Dolly considered.

"Well, she said, "there's Sylvia Watterson and Grace Rhodes and Ilona Berry."

"Yes; and what men?"

Again Dolly considered. "Ned Markham," she said.

"Oh, yes," approved her father; "the young man who took you to the football games and dances."

"Yes. And Gil Grosvenor and Muddy Waters and Bill Rice." She read her father's questioning glance. "Oh, they're all quite respectable," she said. "Ned and Gil went to Princeton and are in Wall street. Bill Rice went to Williams and works for his father, Jonathan Rice."

"Sailors and Mariners Trust Company," murmured her father.

"Muddy Waters didn't go anywhere, and he works on a newspaper, but he's a nice boy "

"Surely his name isn't Muddy!"

"No. His mother was musical and he was christened Verdi Rossini, so we call him Muddy."

"I see," said Mr. Dollaway.

"You should hear him play the piano," added Dolly.

"I hope to have that pleasure," said Mr. Dollaway. "All right, I'll leave it to you to invite them."

"You're a dear, dad."

THE FOLLOWING Friday night four young men alighted from a train at the Greenwich Station, bags grasped in their hands. They were all pleasant-looking, tallish young men, who, at a quick glance, looked rather alike. When they raised their straw-hats, which they did when they spied Dolly wailing on the platform, it became apparent that Mr. Markham had black hair, Mr. Grosvenor brown, Mr. Waters red, and Mr. Rice blond. Their attire was spruce, with just that trace of soft-collared carelessness which the recent alumnus affects to distinguish him from the excessively well-dressed men of the theatre programme. They all greeted Dolly warmly, and were conveyed to Idlehours in Mr. Dollaway's second-best limousine.

In due course they were presented to the master of the house, who gave each of them a firm grip, a cordial smile, and a searching look.

"My aunt's hat!" remarked Mr. Waters later and privately. "What a cold and calculating eye the old boy has!"

"I feel as if I'd been X-rayed," said Mr. Grosvenor.

"No one is apt to put anything over on that lad," said Mr. Rice.

"I like him, though," said Mr. Markham. "Nothing soft about him. He's a regular—"

Mr. Markham felt his coat-tail plucked by Mr. Rice, and stopped. Mr. Dollaway was approaching the group radiating affability.

"Would one of you gentlemen care to play a game of billiards with me?" asked Mr. Dollaway. "I usually play for au hour or so before I retire."

The four young men looked at one another as if uncertain which should accept the honour. Mr. Markham spoke first. "I'd like very much to play with you, Mr. Dollaway," he said.

"Come along then," said Mr. Dollaway. To the others life said, "You'll find the ladies in the music room."

He led Mr. Markham away. Soon the ivory balls were clicking merrily on the green table.

"Game," announced Mr. Dollaway. "Thank you, Mr. Markham."

"Thank you, sir. You play a fine game."

"And you," returned Mr. Dollaway, "play just well enough."

Mr. Markham looked at his host blankly.

"I mean," explained Mr. Dollaway, "a young man shouldn't play billiards too well. If he does, it argues that he has spent too much time on his game— time taken from more important things."

"I suppose so," agreed Mr. Markham.

"I'm going to bed now," Mr. Dollaway said. "I make it a point to be in bed by ten most nights. Rather early for you, I suppose."

"Oh, no, sir. I'm usually in bed by 11. I have to be. I find I can sell bonds better if I'm just a little less wattle-eyed than my customers."

Mr. Dollaway smiled. "Sound scheme," he said. "How are you getting on, Mr. Markham."

"Fairly well. Of course, I haven't really got my teeth in the business yet."

"What's your line?"

''Municipal and public utilities mostly."

"M-m-m," said Mr. Dollaway.

"Just now," remarked Mr, Markham, as he put away his cue, "we're putting out some rather attractive Associated Waterworks of Utah sixes."

"M-m-m," said Mr. Dollaway.

"They yield—" began Mr. Markham.

"M-m-m," said Mr. Dollaway. "Perhaps you'll drop in and see me one of these days, eh?"

"Delighted to. sir," said Mr. Markham, promptly. "Shall we say Monday?"

Mr. Dollaway bestowed a keen look on the young man.

"Monday it is—  8.50." He smiled. "By the way Mr. Markham, what do you plan to do with your first million?"

Young Mr. Markham did not hesitate. He answered in the decided tone of one who has given a subject extensive thought and has made up his mind.

"Invest half of it in sound bonds and strong common stock, well diversified," he said. "Put the other half to work in some going concern and make it make another million for me."

Mr. Dollaway nodded. "Eminently sane idea," he said. "Well, good-night, Mr. Markham. Here"— he drew from his pocket a typewritten sheet— "are the plans for to-morrow."

Mystified, Mr. Markham look the paper. "Thank you. sir. Good night."

It was approximately 2 o'clock in the morning. Four young men in pyjamas sat in the common sitting room of their suite at Idlehours holding a short post-mortem on the evening and smoking a last cigarette.

"Remarkable house," said Mr. Rise. "Actually has enough ashtrays."

"Everything," observed Mr. Waters, "runs by electricity— including, I suspect, the host. I've lived in worse places than the cellar."

"What were you doing in the cellar, Muddy ?"

'"He took me on a personally conducted tour. On our right, the electrical laundry; on our left, the automatic ash sifter. All highly antiseptic, but not very homey, somehow."

"Did he happen to ask you what you intend to do with your first million?" enquired Mr. Rice.

"Why, yes," said Mr. Waters. "Did he ask you?"

"I told him I'd quit work and live in Venice," said Mr. Rice.

"I said I'd retire and buy a 'plane and sail round the world," said Mr. Grosvenor. Mr. Markham said nothing.

"What did you say, Muddy?" asked Mr. Rice.

"I goggled," said Mr. Waters. "Then I said I guessed I'd hare my piano tuned."

"What did he say to that?"

"He said 'M-m-m', and led me upstairs, I guess he thought his cellar was wasted on me," replied Mr. Waters.

"I think," yawned Mr. Markham, "we'd better approach the hay. We've a large day ahead of us."

Mr. Waters groaned. "Are you going to be on tap tor the morning ride?" He asked.

"I am," said Mr. Markham.

"Guess well all have to be," said Mr. Rice gloomily. "Can't risk peeving him."

Mr. Waters scanned a typewritten sheet. "No time on this for being peevish," he said. "My aunt's hat, but it must be great to be methodical!"

In a dolorous voice he read from the paper:—

"Seven, rising signal; 7.15, ride; 8, breakfast; 9, golf; 10, swim; 12,  rest;  1, luncheon; 2.30, tennis; 4.30 bridge; 6.30 dress for dinner; 7.15, dinner; 9, billiards, bridge; 10, dancing."

"When do we brush our teeth?" enquired Mr. Rice.

"Some time Sunday." said Mr. Waters. "No it isn't down here. Sunday's all laid out for us too. We take the 8.29 back to town Monday, it says."

The four young men smoked in silence tor a moment. Mr. Rice went to the window and looked out.

"It's a mild moonlight night," he remarked, "and it's only a five-mile walk to the Greenwich station."

"No," objected Mr. Waters, "we can't let Dolly down. It's supposed to be her party, you know."

"I don't intend to walk out on the show," stated Mr. Markham. "I guess it won't hurt you fellows to live up to a schedule for once in your lives."

"Anyhow," said Mr. Waters, "the food is good."

Meditating on this, the four young men repaired to their respective beds. It seemed but a few minutes later when the silvery sharpness of the rising bell cut into their dreams and summoned them to a brisk morning ride, the prelude  of a day of concentrated play. Saturday passed, and Sunday, and the four young men did not miss the 8.29 back to the city on Monday morning.

"DOLLY, I've a surprise for you; "What, dad?"

Father and daughter were sitting at dinner in the dining room at Idlehours. It was on the Friday evening following the house party.

"Can't you guess?" Mr. Dollaway asked, watching her.

"No. A new car?"

"Better than that, I think."

"Please tell me."

"I'm asking some one out this weekend."

"Some one?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"Ned Markham."

"Oh, how nice!"

"You like him, don't you, Dolly?"

"Very much. I'm fond of Ned— terribly fond.

"I like him, too," said Mr. Dollaway.

"I'm so glad, dad."

"I saw him this week," her father said— "twice."

"Did you?"

"Yes. Monday he called at my office. Sold me some bonds, too, the young rascal. Thursday he had luncheon with me at the club— tried to sell me some more. He doesn't miss a trick, that boy. I like the way he follows the ball. So I asked him out to visit us again."

"I nope he sells you some more bonds," said Dolly.

"He may. But one reason I'm asking him out is that I may offer him a place in my organization. Do you think I should?"

Dolly wrinkled her forehead. It was not like her father to consult her.

"Yes, I think you should," she replied. "It would be wonderful for Ned."

"Consider it done," said Mr. Dollaway.

MR. EDGERTON Markham enjoyed his second week-end at Idlehours. He played billiards and rode with Mr. Dollaway. and he played tennis and danced with Dolly. Opportunities were afforded for long talks with both of them.

The result of his talk with Mr. Dollaway was that presently lie found himself behind a neat desk in a neat office in the Dollaway Building, diligently striving to master the intricacies of the crude-rubber business under the eye of no less a person than the President himself.

Young Mr. Markham learned quickly. It seemed almost as if he were a born crude rubber man. So gratifying was his progress that not many weeks had gone by— a period which included two more visits at Idlehours— when Mr. Dollaway sent for him.

"Ned, my boy,"' said Mr. Dollaway, benevolent but business like, "I have a job for you."

"Yes, sir. Glad to take it on."

"It's a tough one," said Mr. Dollaway— "mighty tough."

"Yes, sir," said Mr. Markham.

"You've heard of Herman Shallenbarger?"

Mr. Markham suppressed a wry look.

"That's your man," said Mr. Dollaway. "Well, do you want to tackle him?"

"Certainly."

"I warn you. it's a mean assignment. He's the roughest, crudest, crustiest old pirate in the rubber business. He hates me. Won't buy a pound of rubber from us, and he's one of the biggest dealers, too. We've tried our darnedest to land him, but he gets violent when any of my representatives come near him. Kicks them out of his office. Insults them. Now I'd like very much to sell the old bear some rubber. Point of honour, you see."

"I see," said Mr. Markham. "I'll go right after him."

"He'll jump all over you," predicted Mr. Dollaway.

"I'll got at once," said Mr. Markham. "Will be see me?"

"Oh. yes. His favourite sport is seeing the men I send to him, and then, as soon as they start selling talk, pouncing on them."

Mr. Markham started for the door. You don't have to go unless you want to," Mr. Dollaway called after him.

"I want to," said Mr. Markham.

AN HOUR later Mr. Edgerton Markham sent his business card in to Mr. Herman Shallenberger. After a nervous wait in the anteroom, he was shown into that gentleman's office. Mr. Shallenbarger was a very large man who looked as if he had swollen; his short, brushy hair bristled and his porcine eyes narrowed as Mr. Markham entered.

"What do you want?" barked Mr. Shallenbarger.

Mr. Markham returned his hostile stare. Mr. Markham's stare was fraught with contempt, and perhaps held a tinge of pity.

"I'm from the Dollaway Corporation," said Mr. Markham firmly.

'Yeah?" said Mr. Shallenbarger. He Looked as if his visitor had just announced that he had a virulent case of leprosy and intended to infect Mr. Shallenbarger.

"I've come to tell you something about rubber," said Mr. Markham with great dignity.

Mr. Shallenbarger exploded. "I'll tell you something, you whippersnapper!" he roared. "Your goods are rotten. Old Dollaway is rotten. If you work for him you're rotten too. How dare you come into a decent office and try to sell an honest man—"

Mr. Shallenbarger had a deep and fairly loud voice. Mr. Markham's voice vas not so deep, but it was louder, more vibrant. more  penetrating.

"Who the hell wants to sell you anything. you old fossil?" shouted Mr. Markham, leaning over and firing his words into Mr. Shallenbarger's purpling face. "I didn't come here to sell you anything. I came here to tell you that we won't sell you any rubber, not an ounce. Get that? We don't want your business."

"What's that?" bellowed Mr. Shallenbarger, looking just then, like a poor insurance risk, since he seemed on the verge of blowing up into many small pieces.

"You heard me!" roared back Mr. Markham. "I came to warn you that you can't count on us for any rubber. We won't sell you any, on any terms. You're slipping, and everybody in the rubber world knows it. We don't want customers like you. Good day!"

Young Mr. Markham stalked toward the door, but not too rapidly.

"Hey!" bawled Mr. Shallenbarger. "Of all the gall! Who says I'm a bum customer? Who says I'm slipping?"

Mr. Markham turned with a frosty face. "I can't waste time talking to you," he said.

"Yes, you can," trumpeted Mr. Shallenbarger, as, with an agility surprising in one so adipose, he scrambled round from behind his desk and interposed his bulk between Mr. Markham and the exit.

"You'll talk to me," declared Mr. Shallenbarger, "if I have to knock you down and sit on you."

"Better not try it," said Mr. Markham, doubling up his fists, but making no attempt to thrust Mr. Shallenberger from his path.

"So you don't sell me any rubber, eh?" Old Mr. Shallenbarger snorted

"That's what I said."

"By heaven, you will if I want you to!"

"I will not!"

"You will!"

And strangely enough after some violent debating Mr. Markham capitulated and did sell Mr. Shallenbarger some rubber. Then he returned to  his office.

All the rest of the day Frederick James Dollaway chuckled. "Shrewd psychology," he remarked from time to time; "shrewd psychology'"

ON THE DAY following this victory young Mr. Markham had two unusual experiences. He was eating his luncheon in one of those downtown clubs where young executives congregate when he was approached by a bland-looking individual who appeared knowing and prosperous.

"Are you Mr. Edgerton Markham?" enquired this individual most politely.

"Yes."

"My name is Foster—Douglas L. Foster," said the stranger. "I'm in rubber, too."

"Glad to know you, Mr. Foster Have a seat."

"Thanks." Mr. Foster sank down into a chair and smiled expansively. "So you're the young fellow who out-bulldozed old Shallenbarger," he said.

Mr. Markham bowed.

"Like your job?" queried Mr. Foster.

"Very much."

"Perfectly satisfied?"

"Who is?" countered Mr. Markham. "Why do you ask?"

Mr. Foster accomplished a perfect smoke ring.

"Oh, I was just wondering," he said. "A fellow like you can go a long way in the rubber game— if he uses his noodle and plays his cards right."

"I hope so," said Air. Markham.

Mr. Foster dropped his voice to a confidential whisper.

"Look here, Mr. Markham," he said, "I know a young and growing concern that can use a man like you. We've plenty of capital and a real future. Now I can make you a definite offer. We'll double what Dollaway is paying you and give you a crack at a partnership inside of two years. How does that hit you"

"Much obliged," said Mr. Markham.

"Remember this," said Mr. Foster— "It will be a long time before you get a chance like that, working for old Dollaway. Think that over."

"I don't need to," said Mr. Markham. "Thanks for your offer, but I'm going to stick where I am."

"You mean that?"

"I certainly do."

"Oh, very well. You're the judge, I suppose," said Mr. Foster. He uttered a few thoughts about the weather, and took his departure.

Mr. Foster had hardly left the room when another person approached Mr. Markham. The second stranger had nervous eyes and fingers and a hoarse, low voice. He dropped into the vacant seat opposite Mr. Markham.

"My name is Elkus," he said. "I'd like a few words with you, Mr. Markham— strictly confidential."

Mr. Markham nodded.

"You're interested in making money," said Air. Elkus, as one stating an axiom. "So am I. Listen, I can put you next to something. You may not know the ropes in the rubber game, but I do."

Mr. Markham signified that he was interested.

"Listen," said Mr. Elkus n a thick whisper. "A friend of mine —never mind his name yet— is purchasing agent for a large concern— tires. He is in the market for a juicy order—three hundred thousand, anyhow— and he's ready to do business."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning that you can get yours."

"How?"

"Listen? Suppose he O.K.'s your bid or, say, three hundred and forty thousand, he's in right, and his firm won't question the price. You deliver him three hundred thousand dollars' worth of rubber and kick back twenty thousand bucks to him. The other twenty you tuck in your own locket. Not bad, eh?"

"Not so good, either," said Mr. Markham.

"Do you want a bigger cut?"

"It isn't that. I don't like the looks of it, that's all."

Mr. Elkus showed surprise. "But it's done every day," he said.

"Not by me."

"Virtuous, eh?" said Mr. Elkus.

Ice crept into Mr. Markham's eyes. "Call it that— or plain sense. I'm not going to queer my future by pulling any underhand stuff. That's final, Mr. Elkus."

Mr. Elkus shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, well, you're young. You'll learn," he said. "But listen—"

"No more of that stuff," said Mr. Markham sternly, and he rose with a wintry, forbidding look on his young face. Mr. Elkus left in some haste.

TWO mornings later Mr. Dollaway sent for Mr. Markham, "Ned," he said, "could you get away for a while— a week or ten days?"

"Yes, sir. Where do you want me to go?"

"Canada," said Mr. Dollaway, and continued—"I'm going up there for a bit of  fishing. Old stamping ground of mine. It's rough but I thought you might like to go along."

"Delighted to go," said Mr. Markham promptly.

"Good. We leave to-morrow on the midnight for Montreal."

TWO MEN in new khaki outdoor outfits sat beside a nameless lake deep in the woods three hundred and more miles north of Montreal, surrounded by a profane and troubled silence and a chill northern twilight.

"I knew that Indian was up to some-! thing dirty," remarked Sir. Dollaway in a bitter voice.

"Don't you think he'll come back?" asked Mr. Markham.

"Not lie. He's well on his way to Hudson Bay with our canoe, guns, and provisions by new," said Mr. Dollaway, wagging his head and groaning a little.

"Ob, well, we can manage," said Mr. Markham.

"M-m-m— can we, though? Ned, I know more about this game than you do, and I tell you we're up against it. You can't laugh off being lost in a wilderness like this. We can wander around in circles for a month. Ironic, isn't it?— a man with plenty of money in the bank ending his days by starving to death." Mr. Dollaway sighed deeply.

"Oh, come on, Mr. Dollaway," said Mr. Markham. "We'll get out."

"M-m-m—will we? Two years ago Samuel G. Temple and his son got lost in these very woods. Guide deserted them. Their bodies weren't found till the following spring. Sad case."

"We'll be missed," said Mr. Markham, "and searched for."

"No soon enough," said Mr. Dollaway.) "I told Dolly and the office we might be gone a month". By the time anybody realizes we're lost, there'll be no use hunting for us. Believe me, Ned, we're in a tight jam."

"We can live on berries and roots," said Mr. Markham cheerfully.

"You're an optimist."

"We have strong legs," said Mr. Markham.

"We can't eat 'em," said Mr. Dollaway "What are you laughing at? This is no time for laughing."

"Why not? I'm enjoying myself," said Mr. Markham. "It's all adventure; real pioneer stuff, with the bark on. You and I against Nature. Stop worrying, Mr. Dollaway."

"Oh, you talk like a Boy Scout'." exclaimed Mr. Dollaway, slapping at a black fly.

"I was one once," said Mr. Markham.

"I suppose you can make a fire by rubbing two sticks together," said Mr. Dollaway grimly.

"Sure. I can have a go at it anyway."

It took an hour, plenty of perspiration and some swearing, but at last Mr. Markham had a fire crackling.

"Now that you've got it, what are you going to do with it?" asked Mr. Dollaway.

"Keep warm and cook dinner," said Mr. Markham. Mr. Dollaway grunted dubiously.

"You take easy and contemplate the sunset," said Mr. Markham. He vanished. He returned with a hatful of succulent huckleberries and six fish.

"How on earth?" cried Mr. Dollaway.

"Elementary Boy Scout stuff," explained Mr Markham "I picked the berries, and snared the fish with my hoot laces. They're only chubs, but we can eat them. I'd have got more if the light had held out."

He bestirred himself cleaning the fish with a nail file and broiling them on forked sticks.

They proved edible. Mr. Dollaway munched hungrily. A distant cry made them both start.

"Lynx," said Mr. Dollaway. "Savage brutes when they're hungry."

"You wrap yourself up in the blanket and forget about lynxes," said Mr. Markham. "I'll start a smudge to keep off the insects, and I'll stand guard against the lynxes."

"Why should I have the blanket?" Mr. Dollaway asked.

"You're older. You need the rest more. Just leave this show to me, sir."

So, unmolested by lynxes or bugs, Mr. Dollaway slept, and was awakened by the perfume of cooking fish captured at dawn by the energetic Mr. Markham.

"Now," said Mr. Markham after breakfast, "we start for civilisation."

"M-m-m— remember, we followed that red scoundrel for two days. Where are we? Do you happen to have a road map about you?"

"Stop worrying and leave it to me," said Mr Markham.

Mr. Dollaway did.

After much panting and plodding through the woods, after following watercourses, after extensive meditation and calculation by Mr. Markham,  they eventually did get back to the log-cabin ramp, to warm clothes, and sustaining food.

TWO MEN in tailored attire sat in the express which bore them swiftly away from Montreal and toward New York. They had had an excellent, dinner, and were enjoying excellent cigars in the club smoker A long silence, and then—

"Ned, my boy," said Frederic James Dollaway, "congratulations!"

Mr. Markham stared at his employer "On what, sir?"

"On the way you've come through."

"Come through what?"

"Everything," beamed Mr. Dollaway, "every test."

Mr. Markham's eyes widened.

"Every test," he repeated.

"I've hew trying you out my boy," chuckled Mr. Dollaway. "First in the office, I watched how you sailed into the work and handled it. Then I tried you on old Shallenbarger. I didn't expect you'd sell him— but you did. Remember a Mr Foster offering you a job?"

Mr. Markham nodded.

"Foster is an old friend of mine," said Mr. Dollaway. "I put him up to trying to get you away from me. You showed that you were level, Ned. Fine quality— loyalty.  Remember Elkus?"

Mr. Markham, somewhat bewildered, nodded again.

"I hired him— he's a private detective— to put up that shady proposition to you. You didn't fall for it."

Mr. Dollaway could hardly speak, he was chuckling so.

"You thought we were lost in the woods. Well, we weren't. Joe didn't desert us. I told him to skip. Besides. I know every inch of that territory. I just wanted to see how you'd act in the face of hardship and danger. Ned, you proved yourself a real man. Remember how you said— 'You and I against Nature'?"

Mr. Markham blushed "Yes, I remember," he said.

There was another silence. Mr. Dollaway broke it. "Ned?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is there something you want to talk to me about?"

"Why, no, sir, I don't think so."

"You're sure? Come, we're old friends."

"Well," said Mr. Markham hesitantly, "I'm glad, of course, that I didn't fall down, and I appreciate your interest in me— and—"

"Yes. Out with it'"

"Well," pursued Mr. Markham, not very easily. "I was thinking you might see your way clear to giving me an increase September first."

Mr. Dollaway's chuckle became a laugh. "Of course," he said. "You'll find me liberal enough, Ned. Well, anything more?"

"Thank you, sir. I— I can't think of anything more."

"Come now " said Mr. Dollaway in his most paternal manner, "why do you suppose I tested you like this?"

"To see if you wanted me in your organization."

"Partly that, of course," said Mr. Dollaway. "but mostly for a more important reason."

Young Mr. Markham's eyes widened still more, and his colour deepened.

Mr. Dollaway gave him a benevolent dig in the ribs. "I wanted to be sure," said Mr. Dollaway. "that I wanted you for a son-in-law."

Mr. Markham became very, very red indeed. He seemed to have trouble with his articulation. His throat seemed dry, but his brow wasn't.

"But—but—" he stammered. "I'm terribly sorry, sir, but —you see, sir, the fact is I'm engaged to a girl from East Orange, and we're to be married in September."

"What?" Mr. Dollaway's mouth opened to emit the word, and stayed open.

"Why, yes, sir. We've been engaged a year. I'm terribly fond of Dolly. But— well, we never were in love with each other. You see, sir, the fact—"

"What is the fact?" Mr. Dollaway managed to say.

"Well, Dolly is in love with Muddy Waters, and I shouldn't be at all surprised if—" Mr. Markham broke off and looked extremely miserable.

"What shouldn't you be surprised at?" asked Mr. Dollaway sternly.

"Oh, Muddy is a splendid fellow. Good as they make them. Worth a couple of me."

"What shouldn't you be surprised at?" persisted Mr. Dollaway.

"Well, I shouldn't be surprised," said Mr. Markham, gathering himself together, "if by the time you got back to Greenwich, Dolly and Muddy had eloped and got themselves married."

When Frederic James Dollaway did get back to his labours be found that Mr. Markham, in addition to his other sterling qualities, was also endowed with the gift of prophecy.

__________________

6: A Friend of Napoleon

Richard Connell

The Saturday Evening Post, 30 June 1923

ALL Paris held no happier man than Papa Chibou. He loved his work— that was why. Other men might say— did say, in fact— that for no amount of money would they take his job; no, not for ten thousand francs for a single night. It would turn their hair white and give them permanent goose flesh, they averred. On such men Papa Chibou smiled with pity. What stomach had such zestless ones for adventure? What did they know of romance? Every night of his life Papa Chibou walked with adventure and held the hand of romance.

Every night he conversed intimately with Napoleon; with Marat and his fellow revolutionists; with Carpentier and Cæsar; with Victor Hugo and Lloyd George; with Foch and with Bigarre, the Apache murderer whose unfortunate penchant for making ladies into curry led him to the guillotine; with Louis XVI and with Madame Lablanche, who poisoned eleven husbands and was working to make it an even dozen when the police deterred her; with Marie Antoinette and with sundry early Christian martyrs who lived in sweet resignation in electric-lighted catacombs under the sidewalk of the Boulevard des Capucines in the very heart of Paris. They were all his friends and he had a word and a joke for each of them as, on his nightly rounds, he washed their faces and dusted out their ears, for Papa Chibou was night watchman at the Museum Pratoucy— “The World in Wax. Admission, one franc. Children and soldiers, half price. Nervous ladies enter the Chamber of Horrors at their own risk. One is prayed not to touch the wax figures or to permit dogs to circulate in the establishment.”

He had been at the Museum Pratoucy so long that he looked like a wax figure himself. Visitors not infrequently mistook him for one and poked him with inquisitive fingers or canes. He did not undeceive them; he did not budge; Spartanlike he stood stiff under the pokes; he was rather proud of being taken for a citizen of the world of wax, which was, indeed, a much more real world to him than the world of flesh and blood. He had cheeks like the small red wax pippins used in table decorations, round eyes, slightly poppy, and smooth white hair, like a wig. He was a diminutive man and, with his horseshoe mustache of surprizing luxuriance, looked like a gnome going to a fancy-dress ball as a small walrus. Children who saw him flitting about the dim passages that led to the catacombs were sure he was a brownie.

His title “Papa” was a purely honorary one, given him because he had worked some twenty-five years at the museum. He was unwed, and slept at the museum in a niche of a room just off the Roman arena where papìer-mâché lions and tigers breakfasted on assorted martyrs. At night, as he dusted off the lions and tigers, he rebuked them sternly for their lack of delicacy.

“Ah,” he would say, cuffing the ear of the largest lion, which was earnestly trying to devour a grandfather and an infant simultaneously, “sort of a pig that you are! I am ashamed of you, eater of babies. You will go to hell for this, Monsieur Lion, you may depend upon it. Monsieur Satan will poach you like an egg, I promise you. Ah, you bad one, you species of a camel, you Apache, you profiteer—”

Then Papa Chibou would bend over and very tenderly address the elderly martyr who was lying beneath the lion’s paws and exhibiting signs of distress, and say, “Patience, my brave one. It does not take long to be eaten, and then, consider: The good Lord will take you up to heaven, and there, if you wish, you yourself can eat a lion every day. You are a man of holiness, Phillibert. You will be Saint Phillibert, beyond doubt, and then won’t you laugh at lions!”

Phillibert was the name Papa Chibou had given to the venerable martyr; he had bestowed names on all of them. Having consoled Phillibert, he would softly dust the fat wax infant whom the lion was in the act of bolting.

“Courage, my poor little Jacob,” Papa Chibou would say. “It is not every baby that can be eaten by a lion; and in such a good cause too. Don’t cry, little Jacob. And remember: When you get inside Monsieur Lion, kick and kick and kick! That will give him a great sickness of the stomach. Won’t that be fun, little Jacob?”

So he went about his work, chatting with them all, for he was fond of them all, even of Bigarre the Apache and the other grisly inmates of the Chamber of Horrors. He did chide the criminals for their regrettable proclivities in the past and warn them that he would tolerate no such conduct in his museum. It was not his museum of course. Its owner was Monsieur Pratoucy, a long-necked, melancholy marabou of a man who sat at the ticket window and took in the francs. But, though the legal title to the place might be vested in Monsieur Pratoucy, at night Papa Chibou was the undisputed monarch of his little wax kingdom. When the last patron had left and the doors were closed Papa Chibou began to pay calls on his subjects; across the silent halls he called greetings to them:

“Ah, Bigarre, you old rascal, how goes the world? And you, Madame Marie Antoinette, did you enjoy a good day? Good evening, Monsieur Cæsar; aren’t you chilly in that costume of yours? Ah, Monsieur Charlemagne, I trust your health continues to be of the best.”

His closest friend of them all was Napoleon. The others he liked; to Napoleon he was devoted. It was a friendship cemented by the years, for Napoleon had been in the museum as long as Papa Chibou. Other figures might come and go at the behest of a fickle public, but Napoleon held his place, albeit he had been relegated to a dim corner.

He was not much of a Napoleon. He was smaller even than the original Napoleon, and one of his ears had come in contact with a steam radiator and as a result it was gnarled into a lump the size of a hickory nut; it was a perfect example of that phenomenon of the prize ring, the cauliflower ear. He was supposed to be at St. Helena and he stood on a papier-mâché rock, gazing out wistfully over a nonexistent sea. One hand was thrust into the bosom of his long-tailed coat, the other hung at his side. Skin-tight breeches, once white but white no longer, fitted snugly over his plump bump of waxen abdomen. A Napoleonic hat, frayed by years of conscientious brushing by Papa Chibou, was perched above a pensive waxen brow.

Papa Chibou had been attracted to Napoleon from the first. There was something so forlorn about him. Papa Chibou had been forlorn, too, in his first days at the museum. He had come from Bouloire, in the south of France, to seek his fortune as a grower of asparagus in Paris. He was a simple man of scant schooling and he had fancied that there were asparagus beds along the Paris Boulevards. There were none. So necessity and chance brought him to the Museum Pratoucy to earn his bread and wine, and romance and his friendship for Napoleon kept him there.

The first day Papa Chibou worked at the museum Monsieur Pratoucy took him round to tell him about the figures.

“This,” said the proprietor, “is Toulon, the strangler. This is Mademoiselle Merle, who shot the Russian duke. This is Charlotte Corday, who stabbed Marat in the bathtub; that gory gentleman is Marat.” Then they had come to Napoleon. Monsieur Pratoucy, was passing him by.

“And who is this sad-looking gentleman?” asked Papa Chibou.

“Name of a name! Do you not know?”

“But no, monsieur.”

“But that is Napoleon himself.”

That night, his first in the museum, Papa Chibou went round and said to Napoleon, “Monsieur, I do not know with what crimes you are charged, but I, for one, refuse to think you are guilty of them.”

So began their friendship. Thereafter he dusted Napoleon with especial care and made him his confidant. One night in his twenty-fifth year at the museum Papa Chibou said to Napoleon, “You observed those two lovers who were in here tonight, did you not, my good Napoleon? They thought it was too dark in this corner for us to see, didn’t they? But we saw him take her hand and whisper to her. Did she blush? You were near enough to see. She is pretty, isn’t she, with her bright dark eyes? She is not a French girl; she is an American; one can tell that by the way she doesn’t roll her r’s. The young man, he is French; and a fine young fellow he is, or I’m no judge. He is so slender and erect, and he has courage, for he wears the war cross; you noticed that, didn’t you? He is very much in love, that is sure. This is not the first time I have seen them. They have met here before, and they are wise, for is this not a spot most romantic for the meetings of lovers?”

Papa Chibou flicked a speck of dust from Napoleon’s good ear.

“Ah,” he exclaimed, “it must be a thing most delicious to be young and in love. Were you ever in love, Napoleon? No? Ah, what a pity! I know, for I, too, have had no luck in love. Ladies prefer the big, strong men, don’t they? Well, we must help these two young people, Napoleon. We must see that they have the joy we missed. So do not let them know you are watching them if they come here tomorrow night. I will pretend I do not see.”

Each night after the museum had closed, Papa Chibou gossiped with Napoleon about the progress of the love affair between the American girl with the bright dark eyes and the slender, erect young Frenchman.

“All is not going well,” Papa Chibou reported one night, shaking his head. “There are obstacles to their happiness. He has little money, for he is just beginning his career. I heard him tell her so tonight. And she has an aunt who has other plans for her. What a pity if fate should part them! But you know how unfair fate can be, don’t you, Napoleon? If we only had some money we might be able to help him, but I, myself, have no money, and I suppose you, too, were poor, since you look so sad. But attend; tomorrow is a day most important for them. He had asked her if she will marry him, and she has said that she will tell him tomorrow night at nine in this very place. I heard them arrange it all. If she does not come it will mean no. I think we shall see two very happy ones here tomorrow night, eh, Napoleon?”

The next night when the last patron had gone and Papa Chibou had locked the outer door, he came to Napoleon, and tears were in his eyes.

“You saw, my friend?” broke out Papa Chibou. “You observed? You saw his face and how pale it grew? You saw his eyes and how they held a thousand agonies? He waited until I had to tell him three times that the museum was closing. I felt like an executioner, I assure you; and he looked up at me as only a man condemned can look. He went out with heavy feet; he was no longer erect. For she did not come, Napoleon; that girl with the bright dark eyes did not come. Our little comedy of love has become a tragedy, monsieur. She has refused him, that poor, that unhappy young man.”

On the following night at closing time Papa Chibou came hurrying to Napoleon; he was a-quiver with excitement.

“She was here!” he cried. “Did you see her? She was here and she kept watching and watching; but, of course, he did not come. I could tell from his stricken face last night that he had no hope. At last I dared to speak to her. I said to her, ‘Mademoiselle, a thousand pardons for the very great liberty I am taking, but it is my duty to tell you— he was here last night and he waited till closing time. He was all of a paleness, mademoiselle, and he chewed his fingers in his despair. He loves you, mademoiselle; a cow could see that. He is devoted to you; and he is a fine young fellow, you can take an old man’s word for it. Do not break his heart, mademoiselle.’ She grasped my sleeve. ‘You know him, then?’ she asked. ‘You know where I can find him?’ ‘Alas, no,’ I said. ‘I have only seen him here with you.’ ‘Poor boy!’ she kept saying. ‘Poor boy! Oh, what shall I do? I am in dire trouble. I love him, monsieur.’ ‘But you did not come,’ I said. ‘I could not,’ she replied, and she was weeping. ‘I live with an aunt; a rich tiger she is, monsieur, and she wants me to marry a count, a fat leering fellow who smells of attar of roses and garlic. My aunt locked me in my room. And now I have lost the one I love, for he will think I have refused him, and he is so proud he will never ask me again.’ ‘But surely you could let him know?’ I suggested. ‘But I do not know where he lives,’ she said. ‘And in a few days my aunt is taking me off to Rome, where the count is, and oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear—’ And she wept on my shoulder, Napoleon, that poor little American girl with the bright dark eyes.”

Papa Chibou began to brush the Napoleonic hat.

“I tried to comfort her,” he said. “I told her that the young man would surely find her, that he would come back and haunt the spot where they had been happy, but I was telling her what I did not believe. ‘He may come tonight,’ I said, ‘or tomorrow.’ She waited until it was time to close the museum. You saw her face as she left; did it not touch you in the heart?”

Papa Chibou was downcast when he approached Napoleon the next night.

“She waited again till closing time,” he said, “but he did not come. It made me suffer to see her as the hours went by and her hope ebbed away. At last she had to leave, and at the door she said to me, ‘If you see him here again, please give him this.’ She handed me this card, Napoleon. See, it says, ‘I am at the Villa Rosina, Rome. I love you. Nina.’ Ah, the poor, poor young man. We must keep a sharp watch for him, you and I.”

Papa Chibou and Napoleon did watch at the Museum Pratoucy night after night. One, two, three, four, five nights they watched for him. A week, a month, more months passed, and he did not come. There came instead one day news of so terrible a nature that it left Papa Chibou ill and trembling. The Museum Pratoucy was going to have to close its doors.

“It is no use,” said Monsieur Pratoucy, when he dealt this blow to Papa Chibou. “I cannot go on. Already I owe much, and my creditors are clamoring. People will no longer pay a franc to see a few old dummies when they can see an army of red Indians, Arabs, brigands and dukes in the moving pictures. Monday the Museum Pratoucy closes its doors forever.”

“But, Monsieur Pratoucy,” exclaimed Papa Chibou, aghast, “what about the people here? What will become of Marie Antoinette, and the martyrs and Napoleon?”

“Oh,” said the proprietor, “I’ll be able to realize a little on them perhaps. On Tuesday they will be sold at auction. Someone may buy them to melt up.”

“To melt up, monsieur?” Papa Chibou faltered.

“But certainly. What else are they good for?”

“But surely monsieur will want to keep them; a few of them anyhow?”

“Keep them? Aunt of the devil, but that is a droll idea! Why should anyone want to keep shabby old wax dummies?”

“I thought,” murmured Papa Chibou, “that you might keep just one— Napoleon, for example— as a remembrance—”

“Uncle of Satan, but you have odd notions! To keep a souvenir of one’s bankruptcy!”

Papa Chibou went away to his little hole in the wall. He sat on his cot and fingered his mustache for an hour; the news had left him dizzy, had made a cold vacuum under his belt buckle. From under his cot, at last, he took a wooden box, unlocked three separate locks and extracted a sock. From the sock he took his fortune, his hoard of big copper ten-centime pieces, tips he had saved for years. He counted them over five times most carefully; but no matter how he counted them he could not make the total come to more than two hundred and twenty-one francs.

That night he did not tell Napoleon the news. He did not tell any of them. Indeed he acted even more cheerful than usual as he went from one figure to another. He complimented Madame Lablanche, the lady of the poisoned spouses, on how well she was looking. He even had a kindly word to say to the lion that was eating the two martyrs.

“After all, Monsieur Lion,” he said, “I suppose it is as proper for you to eat martyrs as it is for me to eat bananas. Probably bananas do not enjoy being eaten any more than martyrs do. In the past I have said harsh things to you, Monsieur Lion; I am sorry I said them, now. After all, it is hardly your fault that you eat people. You were born with an appetite for martyrs, just as I was born poor.” And he gently tweaked the lion’s papier-mâché ear.

When he came to Napoleon, Papa Chibou brushed him with unusual care and thoroughness. With a moistened cloth he polished the imperial nose, and he took pains to be gentle with the cauliflower ear. He told Napoleon the latest joke he had heard at the cabmen’s café where he ate his breakfast of onion soup, and, as the joke was mildly improper, nudged Napoleon in the ribs, and winked at him.

“We are men of the world, eh, old friend?” said Papa Chibou. “We are philosophers, is that not so?” Then he added, “We take what life sends us, and sometimes it sends hardnesses.”

He wanted to talk more with Napoleon, but somehow he couldn’t; abruptly, in the midst of a joke, Papa Chibou broke off and hurried down into the depths of the Chamber of Horrors and stood there for a very long time staring at an unfortunate native of Siam being trodden on by an elephant.

It was not until the morning of the auction sale that Papa Chibou told Napoleon. Then, while the crowd was gathering, he slipped up to Napoleon in his corner and laid his hand on Napoleon’s arm.

“One of the hardnesses of life has come to us, old friend,” he said. “They are going to try to take you away. But, courage! Papa Chibou does not desert his friends. Listen!” And Papa Chibou patted his pocket, which gave forth a jingling sound.

The bidding began. Close to the auctioneer’s desk stood a man, a wizened, rodent-eyed man with a diamond ring and dirty fingers. Papa Chibou’s heart went down like an express elevator when he saw him, for he knew that the rodent-eyed man was Mogen, the junk king of Paris. The auctioneer, in a voice slightly encumbered by adenoids, began to sell the various items in a hurried, perfunctory manner.

“Item 3 is Julius Cæsar, toga and sandals thrown in. How much am I offered? One hundred and fifty francs? Dirt cheap for a Roman emperor, that is. Who’ll make it two hundred? Thank you, Monsieur Mogen. The noblest Roman of them all is going at two hundred francs. Are you all through at two hundred? Going, going, gone! Julius Cæsar is sold to Monsieur Mogen.”

Papa Chibou patted Cæsar’s back sympathetically.

“You are worth more, my good Julius,” he said in a whisper. “Goodby.”

He was encouraged. If a comparatively new Cæsar brought only two hundred, surely an old Napoleon would bring no more.

The sale progressed rapidly. Monsieur Mogen bought the entire Chamber of Horrors. He bought Marie Antoinette, and the martyrs and lions. Papa Chibou, standing near Napoleon, withstood the strain of waiting by chewing his mustache.

The sale was very nearly over and Monsieur Mogen had bought every item, when, with a yawn, the auctioneer droned: “Now, ladies and gentlemen, we come to Item 573, a collection of odds and ends, mostly damaged goods, to be sold in one lot. The lot includes one stuffed owl that seems to have molted a bit; one Spanish shawl, torn; the head of an Apache who has been guillotined, body missing; a small wax camel, no humps; and an old wax figure of Napoleon, with one ear damaged. What am I offered for the lot?”

Papa Chibou’s heart stood still. He laid a reassuring hand on Napoleon’s shoulder.

“The fool,” he whispered in Napoleon’s good ear, “to put you in the same class as a camel, no humps, and an owl. But never mind. It is lucky for us, perhaps.”

“How much for this assortment?” asked the auctioneer.

“One hundred francs,” said Mogen, the junk king.

“One hundred and fifty,” said Papa Chibou, trying to be calm. He had never spent so vast a sum all at once in his life.

Mogen fingered the material in Napoleon’s coat.

“Two hundred,” said the junk king.

“Are you all through at two hundred?” queried the auctioneer.

“Two hundred and twenty-one,” called Papa Chibou. His voice was a husky squeak.

Mogen from his rodent eyes glared at Papa Chibou with annoyance and contempt. He raised his dirtiest finger— the one with the diamond ring on it— toward the auctioneer.

“Monsieur Mogen bids two hundred and twenty-five,” droned the auctioneer. “Do I hear two hundred and fifty?”

Papa Chibou hated the world. The auctioneer cast a look in his direction.

“Two hundred and twenty-five is bid,” the auctioneer repeated. “Are you all through at two hundred and twenty-five? Going, going— sold to Monsieur Mogen for two hundred and twenty-five francs.”

Stunned, Papa Chibou heard Mogen say casually, “I’ll send round my carts for this stuff in the morning.”

This stuff!

Dully and with an aching breast Papa Chibou went to his room down by the Roman arena. He packed his few clothes into a box. Last of all he slowly took from his cap the brass badge he had worn for so many years; it bore the words “Chief Watchman.” He had been proud of that title, even if it was slightly inaccurate; he had been not only the chief but the only watchman. Now he was nothing. It was hours before he summoned up the energy to take his box round to the room he had rented high up under the roof of a tenement in a near-by alley. He knew he should start to look for another job at once, but he could not force himself to do so that day. Instead, he stole back to the deserted museum and sat down on a bench by the side of Napoleon. Silently he sat there all night; but he did not sleep; he was thinking, and the thought that kept pecking at his brain was to him a shocking one. At last, as day began to edge its pale way through the dusty windows of the museum, Papa Chibou stood up with the air of a man who has been through a mental struggle and has made up his mind.

“Napoleon,” he said, “we have been friends for a quarter of a century and now we are to be separated because a stranger had four francs more than I had. That may be lawful, my old friend, but it is not justice. You and I, we are not going to be parted.”

Paris was not yet awake when Papa Chibou stole with infinite caution into the narrow street beside the museum. Along this street toward the tenement where he had taken a room crept Papa Chibou. Sometimes he had to pause for breath, for in his arms he was carrying Napoleon.

TWO policemen came to arrest Papa Chibou that very afternoon. Mogen had missed Napoleon, and he was a shrewd man. There was not the slightest doubt of Papa Chibou’s guilt. There stood Napoleon in the corner of his room, gazing pensively out over the housetops. The police bundled the overwhelmed and confused Papa Chibou into the police patrol, and with him, as damning evidence, Napoleon.

In his cell in the city prison Papa Chibou sat with his spirit caved in. To him jails and judges and justice were terrible and mysterious affairs. He wondered if he would be guillotined; perhaps not, since his long life had been one of blameless conduct; but the least he could expect, he reasoned, was a long sentence to hard labor on Devil’s Island, and guillotining had certain advantages over that. Perhaps it would be better to be guillotined, he told himself, now that Napoleon was sure to be melted up.

The keeper who brought him his meal of stew was a pessimist of jocular tendencies.

“A pretty pickle,” said the keeper; “and at your age too. You must be a very wicked old man to go about stealing dummies. What will be safe now? One may expect to find the Eiffel Tower missing any morning. Dummy stealing! What a career! We have had a man in here who stole a trolley car, and one who made off with the anchor of a steamship, and even one who pilfered a hippopotamus from a zoo, but never one who stole a dummy— and an old one-eared dummy, at that! It is an affair extraordinary!”

“And what did they do to the gentleman who stole the hippopotamus?” inquired Papa Chibou tremulously.

The keeper scratched his head to indicate thought.

“I think,” he said, “that they boiled him alive. Either that or they transported him for life to Morocco; I don’t recall exactly.”

Papa Chibou’s brow grew damp.

“It was a trial most comical, I can assure you,” went on the keeper. “The judges were Messieurs Bertouf, Goblin and Perouse— very amusing fellows, all three of them. They had fun with the prisoner; how I laughed. Judge Bertouf said, in sentencing him, ‘We must be severe with you, pilferer of hippopotamuses. We must make of you an example. This business of hippopotamus pilfering is getting all too common in Paris.’ They are witty fellows, those judges.”

Papa Chibou grew a shade paler.

“The Terrible Trio?” he asked.

“The Terrible Trio,” replied the keeper cheerfully.

“Will they be my judges?” asked Papa Chibou.

“Most assuredly,” promised the keeper and strolled away humming happily and rattling his big keys.

Papa Chibou knew then that there was no hope for him. Even into the Museum Pratoucy the reputation of those three judges had penetrated, and it was a sinister reputation indeed. They were three ancient, grim men who had fairly earned their title, The Terrible Trio, by the severity of their sentences; evildoers blanched at their names, and this was a matter of pride to them.

Shortly the keeper came back; he was grinning.

“You have the devil’s own luck, old-timer,” he said to Papa Chibou. “First you have to be tried by The Terrible Trio, and then you get assigned to you as lawyer none other than Monsieur Georges Dufayel.”

“And this Monsieur Dufayel, is he then not a good lawyer?” questioned Papa Chibou miserably.

The keeper snickered.

“He has not won a case for months,” he answered, as if it were the most amusing thing imaginable. “It is really better than a circus to hear him muddling up his client’s affairs in court. His mind is not on the case at all. Heaven knows where it is. When he rises to plead before the judges he has no fire, no passion. He mumbles and stutters. It is a saying about the courts that one is as good as convicted who has the ill luck to draw Monsieur Georges Dufayel as his advocate. Still, if one is too poor to pay for a lawyer, one must take what he can get. That’s philosophy, eh, old-timer?”

Papa Chibou groaned.

“Oh, wait till tomorrow,” said the keeper gaily. “Then you’ll have a real reason to groan.”

“But surely I can see this Monsieur Dufayel.”

“Oh, what’s the use? You stole the dummy, didn’t you? It will be there in court to appear against you. How entertaining! Witness for the prosecution: Monsieur Napoleon. You are plainly as guilty as Cain, old-timer, and the judges will boil your cabbage for you very quickly and neatly, I can promise you that. Well, see you tomorrow. Sleep well.”

Papa Chibou did not sleep well. He did not sleep at all, in fact, and when they marched him into the inclosure where sat the other nondescript offenders against the law he was shaken and utterly wretched. He was overawed by the great court room and the thick atmosphere of seriousness that hung over it.

He did pluck up enough courage to ask a guard, “Where is my lawyer, Monsieur Dufayel?”

“Oh, he’s late, as usual,” replied the guard. And then, for he was a waggish fellow, he added, “If you’re lucky he won’t come at all.”

Papa Chibou sank down on the prisoner’s bench and raised his eyes to the tribunal opposite. His very marrow was chilled by the sight of The Terrible Trio. The chief judge, Bertouf, was a vast puff of a man, who swelled out of his judicial chair like a poisonous fungus. His black robe was familiar with spilled brandy, and his dirty judicial bib was askew. His face was bibulous and brutal, and he had the wattles of a turkey gobbler. Judge Goblin, on his right, looked to have mummified; he was at least a hundred years old and had wrinkled parchment skin and red-rimmed eyes that glittered like the eyes of a cobra. Judge Perouse was one vast jungle of tangled grizzled whisker, from the midst of which projected a cockatoo’s beak of a nose; he looked at Papa Chibou and licked his lips with a long pink tongue. Papa Chibou all but fainted; he felt no bigger than a bean, and less important; as for his judges, they seemed enormous monsters.

The first case was called, a young swaggering fellow who had stolen an orange from a push-cart.

“Ah, Monsieur Thief,” rumbled Judge Bertouf with a scowl, “you are jaunty now. Will you be so jaunty a year from today when you are released from prison? I rather think not. Next case.”

Papa Chibou’s heart pumped with difficulty. A year for an orange— and he had stolen a man! His eyes roved round the room and he saw two guards carrying in something which they stood before the judges. It was Napoleon.

A guard tapped Papa Chibou on the shoulder. “You’re next,” he said.

“But my lawyer, Monsieur Dufayel—” began Papa Chibou.

“You’re in hard luck,” said the guard, “for here he comes.”

Papa Chibou in a daze found himself in the prisoner’s dock. He saw coming toward him a pale young man. Papa Chibou recognized him at once. It was the slender, erect young man of the museum. He was not very erect now; he was listless. He did not recognize Papa Chibou; he barely glanced at him.

“You stole something,” said the young lawyer, and his voice was toneless. “The stolen goods were found in your room. I think we might better plead guilty and get it over with.”

“Yes, monsieur,” said Papa Chibou, for he had let go all his hold on hope. “But attend a moment. I have something—a message for you.”

Papa Chibou fumbled through his pockets and at last found the card of the American girl with the bright dark eyes. He handed it to Georges Dufayel.

“She left it with me to give to you,” said Papa Chibou. “I was chief watchman at the Museum Pratoucy, you know. She came there night after night, to wait for you.”

The young man gripped the sides of the card with both hands; his face, his eyes, everything about him seemed suddenly charged with new life.

“Ten thousand million devils!” he cried. “And I doubted her! I owe you much, monsieur. I owe you everything.” He wrung Papa Chibou’s hand.

Judge Bertouf gave an impatient judicial grunt.

“We are ready to hear your case, Advocate Dufayel,” said the judge, “if you have one.”

The court attendants sniggered.

“A little moment, monsieur the judge,” said the lawyer. He turned to Papa Chibou. “Quick,” he shot out, “tell me about the crime you are charged with. What did you steal?”

“Him,” replied Papa Chibou, pointing.

“That dummy of Napoleon?”

Papa Chibou nodded.

“But why?”

Papa Chibou shrugged his shoulders.

“Monsieur could not understand.”

“But you must tell me!” said the lawyer urgently. “I must make a plea for you. These savages will be severe enough, in any event; but I may be able to do something. Quick; why did you steal this Napoleon?”

“I was his friend,” said Papa Chibou. “The museum failed. They were going to sell Napoleon for junk, Monsieur Dufayel. He was my friend. I could not desert him.”

The eyes of the young advocate had caught fire; they were lit with a flash. He brought his fist down on the table.

“Enough!” he cried.

Then he rose in his place and addressed the court. His voice was low, vibrant and passionate; the judges, in spite of themselves, leaned forward to listen to him.

“May it please the honorable judges of this court of France,” he began, “my client is guilty. Yes, I repeat in a voice of thunder, for all France to hear, for the enemies of France to hear, for the whole wide world to hear, he is guilty. He did steal this figure of Napoleon, the lawful property of another. I do not deny it. This old man, Jerome Chibou, is guilty, and I for one am proud of his guilt.”

Judge Bertouf grunted.

“If your client is guilty, Advocate Dufayel,” he said, “that settles it. Despite your pride in his guilt, which is a peculiar notion, I confess, I am going to sentence him to—”

“But wait, your honor!” Dufayel’s voice was compelling. “You must, you shall hear me! Before you pass sentence on this old man, let me ask you a question.”

“Well?”

“Are you a Frenchman, Judge Bertouf?”

“But certainly.”

“And you love France?”

“Monsieur has not the effrontery to suggest otherwise?”

“No. I was sure of it. That is why you will listen to me.”

“I listen.”

“I repeat then: Jerome Chibou is guilty. In the law’s eyes he is a criminal. But in the eyes of France and those who love her his guilt is a glorious guilt; his guilt is more honorable than innocence itself.”

The three judges looked at one another blankly; Papa Chibou regarded his lawyer with wide eyes; Georges Dufayel spoke on.

“These are times of turmoil and change in our country, messieurs the judges. Proud traditions which were once the birthright of every Frenchman have been allowed to decay. Enemies beset us within and without. Youth grows careless of that honor which is the soul of a nation. Youth forgets the priceless heritage of the ages, the great names that once brought glory to France in the past, when Frenchmen were Frenchmen. There are some in France who may have forgotten the respect due a nation’s great”— here Advocate Dufayel looked very hard at the judges— “but there are a few patriots left who have not forgotten. And there sits one of them.

“This poor old man has deep within him a glowing devotion to France. You may say that he is a simple unlettered peasant. You may say that he is a thief. But I say, and true Frenchmen will say with me, that he is a patriot, messieurs the judges. He loves Napoleon. He loves him for what he did for France. He loves him because in Napoleon burned that spirit which has made France great. There was a time, messieurs the judges, when your fathers and mine dared share that love for a great leader. Need I remind you of the career of Napoleon? I know I need not. Need I tell you of his victories? I know I need not.”

Nevertheless Advocate Dufayel did tell them of the career of Napoleon. With a wealth of detail and many gestures he traced the rise of Napoleon; he lingered over his battles; for an hour and ten minutes he spoke eloquently of Napoleon and his part in the history of France.

“You may have forgotten,” he concluded, “and others may have forgotten, but this old man sitting here a prisoner— he did not forget. When mercenary scoundrels wanted to throw on the junk heap this effigy of one of France’s greatest sons, who was it that saved him? Was it you, messieurs the judges? Was it I? Alas, no. It was a poor old man who loved Napoleon more than he loved himself. Consider, messieurs the judges; they were going to throw on the junk heap Napoleon— France’s Napoleon— our Napoleon. Who would save him? Then up rose this man, this Jerome Chibou, whom you would brand as a thief, and he cried aloud for France and for the whole world to hear, ‘Stop! Desecraters of Napoleon, stop! There still lives one Frenchman who loves the memories of his native land; there is still one patriot left. I, I, Jerome Chibou, will save Napoleon!’ And he did save him, messieurs the judges.”

Advocate Dufayel mopped his brow, and leveling an accusing finger at The Terrible Trio he said, “You may send Jerome Chibou to jail. But when you do, remember this: You are sending to jail the spirit of France. You may find Jerome Chibou guilty. But when you do, remember this: You are condemning a man for love of country, for love of France. Wherever true hearts beat in French bosoms, messieurs the judges, there will the crime of Jerome Chibou be understood, and there will the name of Jerome Chibou be honored. Put him in prison, messieurs the judges. Load his poor, feeble, old body with chains. And a nation will tear down the prison walls, break his chains, and pay homage to the man who loved Napoleon and France so much that he was willing to sacrifice himself on the altar of patriotism.”

Advocate Dufayel sat down; Papa Chibou raised his eyes to the judges’ bench. Judge Perouse was ostentatiously blowing his beak of a nose. Judge Goblin, who wore a Sedan ribbon in his buttonhole, was sniffling into his inkwell. And Chief Judge Bertouf was openly blubbering.

“Jerome Chibou, stand up.” It was Chief Judge Bertouf who spoke, and his voice was thick with emotion.

Papa Chibou, quaking, stood up. A hand like a hand of pink bananas was thrust down at him.

“Jerome Chibou,” said Chief Judge Bertouf, “I find you guilty. Your crime is patriotism in the first degree. I sentence you to freedom. Let me have the honor of shaking the hand of a true Frenchman.”

“And I,” said Judge Goblin, thrusting out a hand as dry as autumn leaves.

“And I also,” said Judge Perouse, reaching out a hairy hand.

“And, furthermore,” said Chief Judge Bertouf, “you shall continue to protect the Napoleon you saved. I subscribe a hundred francs to buy him for you.”

“And I,” said Judge Goblin.

“And I also,” said Judge Perouse.

As they left the court room, Advocate Dufayel, Papa Chibou and Napoleon, Papa Chibou turned to his lawyer.

“I can never repay monsieur,” he began.

“Nonsense!” said the lawyer.

“And would Monsieur Dufayel mind telling me again the last name of Napoleon?”

“Why, Bonaparte, of course. Surely you knew—”

“Alas, no, Monsieur Dufayel. I am a man the most ignorant. I did not know that my friend had done such great things.”

“You didn’t? Then what in the name of heaven did you think Napoleon was?”

“A sort of murderer,” said Papa Chibou humbly.

OUT BEYOND the walls of Paris in a garden stands the villa of Georges Dufayel, who has become, everyone says, the most eloquent and successful young lawyer in the Paris courts. He lives there with his wife, who has bright dark eyes. To get to his house one must pass a tiny gatehouse, where lives a small old man with a prodigious walrus mustache. Visitors who peer into the gatehouse as they pass sometimes get a shock, for standing in one corner of its only room they see another small man, in uniform and a big hat. He never moves, but stands there by the window all day, one hand in the bosom of his coat, the other at his side, while his eyes look out over the garden. He is waiting for Papa Chibou to come home after his work among the asparagus beds to tell him the jokes and the news of the day.

_________________

7: Javelin of Death

Captain Dingle

Aylward Edward Dingle, 1879-1947

High Seas Adventures, February, 1935

"WANT any more?”

“No, damn your eyes! You’ve got me now, but I’ll take my time and get you for this!”

The fight had been looming up all the cruise, and it came off at last after a weary day when the Narwhal had cut-in three whales. Tired and hungry men gladly allowed a smoking supper of doughnuts fried in whale oil to grow cold in order to watch that battle of giants; and now that the second mate, Radley, lay in a crumpled heap at the feet of Peters, the harpooner, the crowd moved regretfully toward the forecastle scuttle, sorry it was so soon over.

The harpooner stepped aside and walked aft, bent upon his own supper. The fight over, he was not the man to nurse the cause of it any further.

He had barely passed the try-works when a boy’s shout of warning rang in his ears. He turned swiftly, glimpsed running figures and vaguely saw his late antagonist fumbling at the fife-rail. Then a crushing blow on the head felled him, and he pitched headlong to the deck as an iron belayingpin clattered against the brick base of the try-pots.

When Peters sat up, his head ringing like a released spiral spring, a mob of men surged around him, and in the middle they bustled and thumped Radley until he faced his victim. Something of the fear of death clouded the second mate’s scowling visage. He looked anxiously toward the poop as if he hoped for help to come from that direction. It was his own watch on deck; the other officers, harpooners, carpenter, and the rest of the afterguard were at supper. The poop was deserted except for the lone figure at the wheel. A growing rumble of anger among the men sent a shiver down his spine.

Peters got up stiffly.

“Let him go, fellows,” he said, looking hard into the eyes of Radley. “He’ll remember what he’s done after a bit, and he won’t enjoy the smell of himself.”

Both excellent whalemen, it was more professional jealousy than anything else that had set Radley and Peters by the ears. Nantucket had bred them both, and they had held high records in the whalingest of whaling communities while sailing in separate ships.

There was, too, a reason for Peters’ refusal to exact penance for the second mate’s treacherous attempt on him. To complain to the skipper about that unseamanlike end to a sailorly scrap might mean that Radley would be disrated, for the Narwhal’s skipper had his own downright ideas on man’s dealings with man. He was in the whaling business to make a quick competence, and a warring, simmering crew was a serious obstacle in his way.

There was no doubt that he would punish Radley’s action by disrating him, and that must inevitably finish the rivalry that already had the ship divided into hot factions. There would be no chance of Peters losing his place at the head of the Narwhal’s expert whalemen; nobody else was anywhere near Radley; no man could hope to overtake the big harpooner’s lead.

And that was the great reason which prompted Peters to heap coals of fire on the second mate’s head. He would not accept an advantage won by reason of another man’s blind anger. He had made no mistake, either, when he said that Radley would not admire himself when he cooled off and remembered what he had done.

THE harpooner came on deck after supper, lighted his pipe at the galley and took his customary seat on the spare topmast in the port waterways. Here he always sat when neither on watch nor asleep. For one thing it was immediately beneath the davits of his own boat; for another thing it was also the resting place— when rest was possible— of his son, the youngster whose shout had warned him of the belaying-pin too late to dodge. Here Peters strove daily to make a sailor and a whaleman of the boy, and success was coming. Already the young sapling promised to outgrow the parent tree. Wiry, whalebone and whipcord like his father, young Eph Peters already pulled number two oar in the second mate’s boat, and, but for the close rivalry between them and the mate’s boat of which his father was harpooner, would have before now had his chance with the “iron.”

“Yer head hurt much, dad?” asked Eph, sitting in his accustomed place.

“Don’t hurt, son. My head’s too blame tough to crack as easy as that. But you hollered too late. Might have missed me if I hadn’t turned ‘round. Forget it. How fur have ye got with them hitches an’ knots?”

“I ain’t done no hitches ner no knots this watch. What d’ye think I am? Think I kin fool with pieces o’ rattlin’ stuff an’ whale-line while I’m thinkin’ of that Radley dog? Just wait till we’re fast to a whale. I’ll let a hole through him wi’ the spare harpoon!”

“If you do, son, I’ll hang you up myself!” said Peters very slowly and very quietly. “You’ll do your bit the same as always, and never forget that Mr. Radley’s second mate o’ this ship, an’ officer in charge o’ your boat. And you ain’t going to forget that Mr. Radley and me’s nip an’ tuck fer high boat this cruise, an’ I ain’t going to have it said that my son helped me to beat his own boat by playin’ the dog. Git on with your larnin’, son, and likely you’ll be a harpooner yet afore the cruise’s up.”

To a sailor composed of bone and red blood, humiliation hurts more than a score of husky physical wallopings, and Mr. Radley was a man of that kind. He took his supper alone, undergoing all the bitterness of self-reproach. It was not in him to immediately realize the true sportsmanship underlying Peters’ refusal to make capital out of the flying belaying-pin; rather it seemed to him a deliberate assertion of superiority on the part of an inferior. The idea obsessed him, until long before a wakeful watch below was up he had taken to himself the role of the aggrieved party, and his mood was one of surly, smoldering anger, wholly foreign to him in his normal condition.

Thus, when the skipper saw him in the early morning, for the first time since the combat, and demanded to know the cause of his battered and bruised face, Radley told part of the story only, and that part calculated to arouse sympathy toward himself and official displeasure toward Peters. He led the skipper to believe that the harpooner had led the whole watch, or more particularly Peters’ boat crew, in an unprovoked attack upon him.

Fully aware of the intense rivalry between the two men, the skipper was inclined to attribute the whole thing to that cause and to judge any such offense as leniently as possible. But, being human, he could not help being influenced slightly by the first version of the story told to him. The other man’s version would have to be strongly stated to overcome first impressions. Besides, Mr. Radley was second officer of the ship; Peters was only a member of the afterguard, ex officio as it were by reason of being a harpooner.

“We’ll settle this matter in the forenoon watch, Mr. Radley,” the skipper said. “You were saying that young Peters is almost ready to have a chance with the ‘iron,’ weren’t you?”

“He’s as fit right now as his father is, sir,” returned Radley, his eagerness cropping out in spite of himself.

“Then maybe we’ll shift your harpooner into the mate’s boat, and give the youngster his chance with you. If this business started as you say it did, it won’t do any harm to give Peters a lesson by keeping him on board the ship next time we lower away.”

IN whaler fashion the captain and mates ate breakfast at a first table, the harpooners, carpenter, sailmaker, and cooper coming into a second sitting when the others were through.

The ship was under cruising rig, jogging serenely through the placid waters of the northwestern Pacific with three lookouts aloft, the tension of momentary expectation pervading all hands. The smell of whale was in the air. The fires under the try-pots were never cold for many daylight hours together on the Bonin grounds. Harpooners overhauled irons and lines, seeing that the harpoons were ready to hand in the crotch on the starboard bow of their boats, assuring themselves that each tub of line was snugly coiled ready for running. Seamen looked to oars, to make quite sure that none had been cracked or sprung in the previous day’s service. Peters worked over a bent and twisted soft iron harpoon head by the forward crane of his boat; young Eph, to his wondering surprise, was given a similar job at his own boat, right across the deck from his father.

From time to time the youngster glanced across as if unable to restrain his impatience to impart his great hope to his parent. Everything pointed to his getting the chance he had dreamed of, the hurling of his first harpoon at a living target. The carpenter made the rounds of the boats, handing each harpooner the deadly bomb-lance that is reserved for dire extremity. This horribly efficient weapon, when hurled into the side of the whale, nearly always means the end of the chase; for a charge of explosive is carried in the head, a trigger is set which is tripped by the whale’s own skin on entering, and in an instant an eruption takes place inside the leviathan that rarely misses a vital part.

Peters had the old whaleman’s dislike for such a weapon. He decidedly preferred to turn his fish fin-out by the orthodox methods, and used the deadly tool under silent protest. Aft on the short poop the mates were clustered, looking at each other inquiringly, and from each other to the companionway by which the skipper must emerge from the cabin.

It was apparent that something was afoot apart from the daily routine, and Radley revealed his knowledge of the business by his nervous aloofness. Presently the skipper stepped out of the companionway, spoke to his officers, and immediately the mate roared out:

“All hands muster aft! Bear a hand now!” and evinced utter astonishment at his own order. Blankly the men looked at each other as they trooped aft and clustered in a milling mob at the break of the poop. Young Peters alone grinned, for he was now certain that promotion was afoot, and he blushed boyishly at the thought that he was the most likely candidate, else why had he been told off to do a harpooner’s job.

Who the unlucky man to be disrated was bothered him but little. Peters hung on the edge of the crowd, still fingering his harpoon-head, as mystified as his mates at the unheard-of departure from sea custom. Neither punishment, promotion, nor any other matter of ship’s business that he knew of called for a muster of all hands at two bells in the forenoon watch on the whaling grounds. There was never time for such things; even at that moment any or all of the three lookouts might set the ship in a frenzy of action by a long-drawn “Blo-oo-ow, ah blo-oo-ow!”

“Men,” began the captain, holding up a hand, “an assault has been committed by one officer on another. Those men who saw the trouble from the beginning, stand over to starboard; the rest may carry on with their jobs.”

The men who had seen the fight— and they numbered the entire ship’s company forward except the helmsman— shuffled uneasily and looked disconcertedly at the officers.

Radley’s bruised face flushed a shade deeper beneath the tan, and he avoided the men’s direct gaze. Peters started as the words were uttered, and an angry flush suffused his powerful countenance while he sharply scrutinized every man around him. To him, the captain’s speech meant that some busybody had carried the tale of the second mate’s hot-headed and unmanly act right to the fountain of authority, and he boiled at the thought. He flashed a glance at young Eph, recalling the youngster’s heated talk; but Eph looked as surprised as the rest, though he could not and did not try to hide his pleasurable anticipation of promotion. What puzzled the boy was, who was to be disrated for his benefit?

Then, suddenly, through his mind flashed the joyful thought that Radley was to be punished, thanks to the unknown tale-carrier, and one of the harpooners would be moved up into the place of the third mate, who, of course, would fill Radley’s vacant berth. The harpooner could scarcely be any other than his father, and he, Eph, would achieve his ambition of filling the old man’s shoes to complete the family triumph.

“Now men, shake a leg,” repeated the skipper impatiently, for not a man had moved over. “I want the men who manhandled Mr. Radley. If I have to find them out myself, I shall make their punishment something to remember. Step out now.”

If the crowd were uneasy before, they were stupefied now. Dumbly, with open mouths, they stared at the harpooner, who in turn stared in titter unbelief in his own ears at the skipper. Not a man there but had guessed he was expected to bear witness against the second mate; truly, their only scruple would be that Peters did not want the unpleasant business known to the captain at all. But “The men who had manhandled Mr. Radley!” And they were to be punished! That put another complexion on the matter, and a deep growl rumbled around the crowd.

Peters, still dumfounded, fingered his harpoon nervously and started toward the ladder, bound to have his doubts set right.

“Stay down there, Peters!” the skipper said, and extended a flat palm toward the ladder. The growl threatened to burst into furious remonstrance at the obvious twist the skipper had gotten into his yarn. The two men who had led in hustling Radley after the belaying-pin left his hand stepped aside and began calling off names of those who had so willingly lent a hand. The muttering subsided; a heavy silence hung over the clustered men in the waist.

Then, pipe-like and clear, far overhead, from fore and main crow’s nest simultaneously rang the electrifying hail—

“A-ahblo-oo-ow!”

“Where away?”

The skipper’s mind was set on whales now; not all the black eyes and bruised noses in the whaling industry could distract his attention from his legitimate business.

“Lone bull down to th’ sou’west!”

“Lower away!” pealed the order, given by the skipper and echoed by the first mate as that important officer sprang to his own boat.

If but one boat were to be lowered, it must be his, of course. Peters swiftly clapped his iron on to the shaft and leaped to the bulwarks in readiness.

“You’ll stay aboard this time,” the skipper called to the chief mate. “Mr. Radley and the third mate will be enough; you will be third boat, if it’s wanted.”

For a moment the mate looked aggrieved; then he grinned. If he always had gone out with his own boat, he would have been in the contest for high catch, and on a level with his harpooner; but the skipper sometimes took a notion to chase a whale himself, and on those occasions he replaced the mate.

So, while Peters always went along to hurl the harpoon, only a percentage of the boat’s catch fell to the credit of the chief mate. Therefore it was only his pride that suffered a little when he was ordered to stay for possible third boat.

Peters saw the order from a different angle. He had refrained from taking advantage of Radley’s mean action, from a sportsman’s motive; he saw the result now. The second mate had not felt the same scruples. Peters stood moodily watching the chase from the bulwarks by his boat, cold rage in his heart.

The mate walked aft with a philosophical air and took the place of the skipper who was on his way aloft with binoculars to watch and direct the chase. The boats had sailed on leaving the ship, and as long as the sails were visible it was evidence that they had not yet got fast to the whale. Then first one sail was lowered and rolled up, and in a few minutes the other followed, and Peters’ interest in the boats smothered his personal feelings. He glanced aloft to the main crow’s nest and saw the skipper intently watching the maneuvers of the boats. Presently a hail carried down, and the mate sprang to alert attention.

“Lower away!” ordered the skipper. “The third mate’s in trouble!”

Peters hesitated while the boat’s crew jumped to the tackles.

“In with you!” cried the mate, springing into the stern-sheets of the boat, and the harpooner silently took his place.

“Shove off! Give way!”

And the boat was thrust clear while a couple of hands stepped the mast and set the spritsail. Away she sped, and the breeze that was barely sufficient to move the sluggish old whaleship heeled the boat down to the rail and drove her through the sparkling seas with a boiling spout of spray at her stem.

“What’s the trouble, Peters?” sang out the mate, as the first two boats rose into plainer view.

“Fighting whale, sir! Third mate’s boat’s busted, and Radley looks to have his hands full.”

“Better have the bomb-lance handy then. That’s the stuff for mean whales!” advised the mate, and edged his boat a bit to windward.

THE whale sounded just as the harpooner caught a glimpse of his black bulk, and the boat was luffed to stop her way until the place where he reappeared was discernible.

Then the tub-oarsman sang out: “There’s the third mate’s boat, down to loo’ard, sir. She’s awash, and there’s some men hanging onto her!”

The helm was shifted, and the boat buzzed down to assist, but the third mate was a real whaleman and could endure several more hours in the water if only the whale that put him there were safely ironed.

“We’re all right for a while,” he hailed. “Better get fast, or you’ll lose him. Radley ain’t got him yet!”

“Blo-oo-ow!” shouted Peters, with an arm outflung toward the far side of the second mate’s boat. The blunt snout of an enormous cachalot rose from the water, and in a moment it was plain that Radley had an iron in him, for the boat gradually pulled up closer to the whale.

Then Peters’ announcement that it was a fighting whale was amply justified. Without warning, gathering way like a torpedo boat, the whale charged fair at his tormentor and the chief mate’s crew held their breath.

Peters fixed his eyes upon a slight, springy figure in the bows of the threatened boat, and his grim face relaxed.

Eph bent to his bow oar like a veteran; the onrush of the murderous cachalot left him as cool as even his father and mentor could have wished him to be.

A wild shout of warning pealed out as the boat backed off and let the whale charge by a scant oar’s length away. The slackened whale-line fouled the oars. Eph’s ash loom was flung high in the air, and the youngster himself was hurled over the side of the steeply heeling boat, a turn of the line about his shoulders.

Stoic that he was, Peters uttered no sound, simply flashing a look of appeal to his officer. Then he straightened up and stared at the scene of disaster with incredulous eyes. As the writhing line snatched Eph from his thwart, seemingly to certain death, Radley left his hold on the steering oar, seized the boat-knife, and in a flash dived straight into the swirling froth that surged over the boy’s disappearing form.

The boat, heeling giddily to the strain of the snarled line, suddenly righted; the line hung down slack; then two heads broke water together, and a howl of defiance to the whale burst forth as four pairs of steel-muscled arms hauled Eph and Radley aboard.

The thing had taken little time. The men were back at the oars, as if nothing uncommon had happened, when a shot from the mate’s boat warned them that the whale was coming again. It was high time to step in if the mate was to strike a blow, and he set his oars in motion.

“Great Jonah! See that thar’ whale!” gasped the bowman, glancing over his shoulder.

Again the furious whale bore down on the second mate’s boat, and Radley stood up to take a desperate chance with the lance. But the cachalot has a frontal piece impervious to the sharpest blade. The long lance struck, fell back into the water, and in an instant the great blunt head crashed into the boat, smashing it to loose staves and tossing all hands broadcast.

“Give way! Oh, crack your backs!” urged the mate, and a running string of encouraging oaths then came through the clenched teeth of Peters, himself a cracking, swollen-veined bunch of straining sinew.

Once more the whale turned and charged at the fragments of the boat and burst among the planks and oars and swimming men like a mad bull through a paper fence.

A malignant devil had taken charge of him and he sought out men from the wreckage with fiendish cleverness. Around him the sea rolled and tumbled, great clouds of spray wreathing him as in a mist. But through the mist objects flashed at intervals, and Radley could be seen, farflung in the crash, now swimming frantically to get out of the track of the monster.

Skillfully maneuvering, the mate swept his boat around until the whale presented a fair mark for the harpooner.

Then he saw what had been hidden before. On the whale’s streaming back, hanging on desperately to the shaft of a planted iron, was young Peters, and his white face shone out like an ivory mask against the gleaming black hide.

“My God, Peters!” groaned the mate as the boat surged near. “You can’t plant that bomblance without—”

The harpooner looked round swiftly, and his grim face paled. The one comprehensive glance showed him Eph’s body, covering the vital area of black skin beneath which beat the whale’s mighty heart; showed him, much nearer, the agonized face of Radley, fair in the monster’s path. And, while the picture flashed through his brain, he reformed that other picture, of a snarled line, a boat-knife, and a son snatched from death.

With silently moving lips, he stood erect in the bows, never waiting for the customary “Stand up and give it to him!” His knee was braced solidly against the thigh-board in the bows, the long, dynamite-headed bomb-lancer was balanced in a hand as steady as a lighthouse. Intuitively the oars hung poised, ceasing their forward impulse, awaiting the order to back water which would come for lightning obedience in a moment.

“Can you? Oh, can you?” breathed the mate.

The harpooner gave no sign. The rushing shape of the maddened whale flashed past the stem of the motionless boat. Ten fathoms in front of his wicked snout floundered Radley, breathless and weakened, and a fear of death was on his set face, yet he fought stubbornly in the face of the end.

A hissing intake of the breath was heard as Peters stiffened; then like the javelin of fate his weapon was launched, fair at the vital spot of the whale. The iron sank deep into the massive side, six inches from Eph’s body, and the ensuing explosion deadened the groan that burst from the harpooner.

“Starn— oh, starn all!” cried the mate, and the oars bit deep to back the boat out of the stricken whale’s flurry. One oar was idle. Peters flung aside the coils of the lance warp, swept the churning waters with a swift scrutiny, and plunged overboard into the turmoil.

“There’s Mr. Radley, sir!” shouted the bowman, as the second mate’s head emerged from the welter. A sweep of the steering oar brought the boat round, and the spent and sickened officer was dragged into the boat. Every eye then fastened upon the mate in mute inquiry as he scanned the littered waters about the expiring whale for trace of Peters. There seemed no hope of Eph having escaped, for, with the stroke of the lance, the whale’s flurry had started.

“There’s Peters! And he’s got Eph!” whooped the mate, but he added, beneath his breath, “What’s left of Eph, I guess!”

Silently the oars moved again, and the harpooner was taken up, gasping painfully from bursting lungs. But there was a lot left of Eph, and it was but a moment before the harpooner was satisfied of the happy circumstance. Eph spoke to him. A wan smile flashed across Peter’s face; then he turned to the gunwale and became deathly sick.

“I threw myself off when I saw that lance coming,” explained Eph, when the mate had set a weft as a mark on the dead whale and the boat was pulling away to pick up the third mate and his crew. “Mighty close, ‘twas, though. I felt that ol’ whale heave up!”

When the whale was fast alongside the Narwhal, and the crew went to dinner preparatory to commencing cutting-in, Peters sought out the skipper and made a request.

“Eph got fast to that fish, sir, and it wasn’t his fault he didn’t kill his first whale. The boy’s got the stuff in him, and I want you to give him his chance right along now. Won’t you let me change boats with him? I’d like to have him along with the mate until he’s toughened a bit.”

“You want to change into Mr. Radley’s boat, eh?” mused the skipper, peering hard into the harpooner’s face. “What’s the idea? You don’t want to start anything with him again, do you?”

“I never started anything with Mr. Radley, cap’n, and I’m not likely to after this day. I want to settle our differences for all time. We’re about nose and nose on the catch now, and if we’re both in the same boat we’ll finish that way. Won’t be any cause to start anything then.”

The skipper nodded. He had heard from one of the ship-keepers while the boats were away the truth of the previous day’s fight, and he had a suitable discipline in mind for the second mate.

He was about to say so, when Radley came up with hand extended to Peters and a shamefaced smile on his face. The harpooner gripped that hand as if he meant what the grip implied, and the skipper turned away with a satisfied smile.

______________________

8: Made in Borneo

Leo Crane

Munsey's Magazine, Oct 1907

This author wrote a handful of "tall stories" around 1905-1907. Nothing else is known.

BENSON is one of those chaps who lift their lives in their hands and go looking for wild animals. Most men are content and happy to allow the animal kingdom the free run of the jungles; but not so is Benson. He is a restless sort who must seek them, because there are menageries with empty cages.

Whenever you go into a circus-tent with the children and see a surly-looking beast glaring from behind inch bars, pacing the bottom of a den into ruts, snuffing and cursing the world in general, remember that once upon a time a chap of Benson's clan— perhaps Benson himself— faced that particular beastie when it was free and on its native heath. Behind each captive there is a story, and Benson is usually the star performer in the tale. You will never hear the chapter when the beastie wins out and the glory is all with the jungle.

Benson can usually be found when a steamer makes port with wild livestock on the manifest.

"Of course," he said to me one night, "a man can get a line on beasts after a fashion. He can study a hyena, f'r instance, until he coppers the laugh down to a note, an' mebbe he can figger out what that note means. Simms Foraker claims he can tell when a zebra's in a good humor, an' mebbe he can; but for me, I never seen one that way, an' I ain't takin' no chances. The life-insurance folks don't cover no bets on my life, anyway, an' so I'm tryin' to live just as long as I can, to make 'em sorry.

"But a wild man— now say, there's a study for your spare time. You've got to sit up nights figgerin' the dope on a wild man's characteristics, There ain't never been two of 'em alike. First, they're scarce; an' second— when ye do manage to snake one out by his hair he's different from the one ye had before."

Benson at this point proceeded to fill his pipe and to prop up his chin with his knees. You see, Benson was sitting on the deck— I should have told you that— with his back to the rail. It was one of those nights when the stars burn softly in a filmy sky, when the wind carries with it the damp scents of the sea.

Now the rich odor of burning latakia arose from the fire-lined bowl of Benson's pipe. It was fairly alight, and he seemed diffident.

"Wild men—" I suggested.

"Ye can't be kind to a wild man," said Benson gravely. "He wouldn't understand it if you tried to be, an' besides, you'd be wasting your time. What a wild man wants is some one to take him in hand firmly, to be good to him, but determined; and at the same time it's my advice to the fellow who's contractin' for the job to watch both ends an' the middle for his white-ally, 'cause with a wild man times are mostly excitin', or just beginning to be such. You can believe me— I handled one wunst. It was this way:

"Simms Foraker and me was down on a jaunt near Borneo. That's the grand hang-out place for wild men. We had knocked around a goodish bit without getting a sight at anything. Now, don't go for to think that we was down there lookin' for wild men. No, we hadn't got to that stage at that time; but in case we rushed across a wild man who wasn't working overtime, and no orders ahead of him, why, we just allowed that we'd sign contracts for a season.

"Well, we heard of this chap a long time before we see anything of him. The natives along the coast had all sorts of battles with him. He was a toughish customer. He had nearly bludgeoned the brains out of one of their holiest head-men. Just about that time we comes along, lookin' wise, an' we hears this fellow is off on a small island— that he has a skiff, comes to the main-land, skurries around for things to his taste, gives the chap who protests the grand salaam with a club, an' fades away.

"Says Simms Foraker to me: 'Here's a fine fat wild man, an', sonny we're on.'

"An' with that we started building a trap for him.

"It would take too long to-night to tell ye how we got him, but we got him, all right enough. It took four men to hold him down while we slipped a rope anklet where anklets usually go— an' the calf of one man's leg in Borneo looks as if a dog had used it to cut wisdom-teeth on— but we got him. Trust me an' Simms Foraker to nab anything smaller'n a behemoth, an' we'll give that a trot to the post if any one speaks up that a prime specimen's loose.

"He was a tidy sort of chap, this wild man. Darkish in the skin— in fact, he was a brunette coon— a short, squat one, a rakish bullet-head, kind o' slantin' to the nor'-nor'- east, an' surmounted by furze. His eyes was weak an' blinkin'. His arms were the wonderment, though. They were long, and hung down close to his knees. I'll bet a month's pay he could sit on a chair an' pick pennies off the floor without straining a fiber. His shoulders were inlaid with bunches of knots, an' these same knots worked like eccentric winches when he took it into that cacti head to get busy.

"He talked some gibberish, mostly excited, but we paid no attention to it. Simms Foraker said it wasn't French, nor Portugee, nor Latin, nor none of them nigger tongues, an' we were satisfied he didn't know more'n we did as to what it meant. It sounded wildmannish, all right. We got him on shipboard at length, an' nailed him up in a slat cage 'tween decks. "'A fine busy trip for us,' says Simms Foraker to me, on the side. 'That chap'll fetch his weight in pure genoo-ine gold at the Lunnon docks. Oh, we're the two wise bodysnatchers, we are!' says he to me. And I nodded an' winked back at Simms Foraker all them fool sentiments."

ii

BENSON sighed. This was not one of his epic recitals. But he seemed to feel that, having started once, it should be finished, and so he went ahead.

"The first thing that worried us was the question of feedin' him. There ain't no sense in stickin' the ship's bill o' fare in 'tween the slats of a cage an' saying 'Oui! Oui!' We tried him on raw meat, an' he nearly had a convulsion. Fruits an' grass stuffs made him feel so sick that he threw what he could at the waiter. After a while we learned that he was right partial to a mess of salt-horse and potatoes. He perked up amazin' when he got fed a little. An' every time I'd go near his habitation he'd begin the gibberish. Most impressive it was, an' earnest, an' I'd bow and smirk and blink at him till he'd get so crazy mad that he wound up by nearly biting holes in his face with fair rage. Simms Foraker said we needn't mind, for all wild men acted like that at times.

"We got along all right for a time on that voyage. The weather it was hot, an' we were kind o' peekish and worn down. Most of the time me an' Simms Foraker laid round on the deck, nights, with nothin' on to speak of, growlin' an' swear in' an' comparin' that part of the world with the rest of it, which was decent. I remember one hot night it got stuffy. The atmosphere chased itself down one's throat and dried there in blocks.

" 'I'll just step down to see how his nibs is restin',' I says to Simms Foraker, 'an' then I'll come on deck with a pillow.

" 'Bring me one,' says he drowsy-like.

"With that I departed to the 'tweendecks. I made the return journey to the side of Simms Foraker in just three leaps, all counted, touchin' the high places.

" 'He's gone!' says I, breathless.

" 'Who's he?' asked Simms Foraker, not dreamin' that anything radical had happened:

" 'Nibbsey!' says I, shifting a glance on my shoulder to see if he was making up the deck.

" 'The wild man out!' yells Simms Foraker.

" 'Right you are! He's vacated his den for somewheres else. He's loose, s'welp me!'

" 'By hokus!' gasps Simms Foraker. You can bet he was pale. 'Let's dig up the captain.'

"The captain was, if anything, worse scared than either of us.

" 'Loose!' says he, incredulous.

" 'Free as the air itself!' says I to the captain. Go down there an' make sure of it, man,' orders that insane old captain to me.

" 'What did you say? Go down there again?' I remarks, not knowin' whether I had understood him.

" 'Sure!' he replies. 'Go down an' see if he ain't asleep on the floor, or curled up somewhere.'

" 'Not while I can breathe up here,' says I. 'Whenever you want a sample of Hades coal— why, call on me an' I'll fetch it. But don't ask me to go below to trail that Borneo lunatic. I was there when he was nabbed, an' I see the whole thing.'

"An' I was downright mad to think of it.

" 'Well, where has he got to?' asks the captain gruffly.

" 'That's for some one to find out,' advises Simms Foraker.

" 'He's your wild man,' says the captain, weakening.

" 'Not when he's loose,' says Simms Foraker patiently.

" 'But I won't have a wild man runnin' loose about my ship!' screams the captain, suddenly getting his mad up.

" 'Maybe if you'd tell him that, quiet-like, he'd come around an' be penned up like a nice little chap,' says Simms Foraker, getting his own sparker working.

"This was a stumper for the captain.

"We were all a bit on edge by that time. Each man knew the other was afraid, which wasn't none encouraging. We kept a weather-eye open, this way an' that, and a first-class 'Boo!' from the rear would have sent the bunch to the masthead. It weren't no pleasant difficulty. It is the business of a wild man to be wild, an' we expected it of him. This hanging fire didn't agree with our meals. We stood around an' looked for him. Then we got nervous as wim-men. If he was going to come on, why didn't he come on? An hour passed away, while we shifted from one foot to the other, watchin' the retreat.

" 'All right,' says Simms Foraker, who could get used to anything. He wanst lived for two weeks on broiled snake, an' got to like it. 'All right!' says Simms Foraker, determined. 'Now let him come on!'

"But, dang it all! he didn't come on.

"Then they turned on me," said Benson. "They said I was a fool, and a scare-head, and a mark. They were going to call me other names worse'n that, when there was a noise like a scuffle, an' a rush on the deck, an' a man comes up yelling. It was Samuels, the cook, an' he looked as if he'd got the call. His eyes were fair hanging out.

"'Save me!' he screams to us, waving signs with his hands like a deef-mute. 'Captain! Captain! That Borneo man is in my galley!'

"Right there it was a relief to me to know for certain that he was loose," said Benson, digging at his pipe.

" 'In the galley!' roars the captain, not stirrin' an inch.

" 'He pitched me out quick as a flash, an' ducked inside, an' he's barricaded himself.'

"Then the captain straightened up wonderful. 'If he's in that galley he can't get away, so here you, Jenkins and Brown! Take a turn of a piece of rope through the galley-door handle an' make fast somewheres. That'll fetch him all tight an' tidy.

"Jenkins and Brown, when they realized the job weren't none pleased. They went up the deck like heroes, though. I guess their hearts were beatin' overtime a few, but they did it, s'welp me! Once the door was made fast, the only way for that wild man to get out was through a small port, and the captain set a man to watch that, with orders to beat the brains outer anything that tried to climb through. Brown took first watch with a capstan-bar held ready. Then Simms Foraker and me took reg'lar breaths, an' stood at ease.

" 'That's all settled,' says the captain now. 'We've got him like a crab in a net.' An' the captain acted as if he had accomplished something.

"The captain was right. We had him, all right. When Brown got tired watchin' Wilkens spelled him, an' then Jones.

" 'He ain't got no firearms in there, boys,' says the captain, to hearten 'em up. 'Only carvin'-knives, an' cleavers, an' such! Don't be afraid.' Which was comforting."

iii

BENSON seemed inclined at this moment to take a rest. He proceeded to change his attitude with regard to the deck, which was hard, and he suggested that the subject was a dry one. Away off on the quay was a place with lights. I sent the ship's boy hustling to that place with a pail, and when he brought the pail back there was foam on the top of it. Benson appreciated this.

When he had wiped his lips with the back of his hand and had heaved a hard sigh, he said:

"Say!" doubtfully, "ain't you got nothin' better to do than listen to yarns?"

"This will be a hummer, old man," I told him.

"Well, don't sign my name to it, 'cause the captain would blame me for a blabber. Call the ship the Mary Jane, or some such common name as that, 'cause we ain't none too proud o' this wild-man yarn, none of us, an' as for Simms Foraker, he'd be that mortified he couldn't ever enter a side-show again. You don't want to deprive an honest man of business d'ye?"

"Go on," I coaxed. "It's the shank of the evening, and wild men are scarce."

"You bet," agreed Benson solemnly, relighting his pocket-furnace. "Boreno's 'bout given out of first-class wild men. There's a poor sort o' second grade on the market, but they're unculled, an' the price ain't much to sneak of no more. A genooine, double-edged wild man, guaranteed to snarl an' yell, not to say chew a keeper every little while, would make the shows mortgage a three-hump camel. That's right."

Benson spat over the side reflectively.

"Oh, yes," he remarked, with a little sigh, "wild men ain't frequent."

"What happened to this fellow in the ship's galley?" I asked.

"Hum-m-m! You see, every night has its dawn, an' with dawn comes arousin', wash-up, an' breakfast. Nobody thought o' breakfast on that ship. We were too excited over the possible maneuvers of the wild man, so we stood around, an' forgets breakfast clean. But dinner ain't a goin' to let a chap snub it without mentioning the subject. Painful subject, too, is dinner when there ain't none.

"Samuels, the cook, he stands idle like a carpenter on strike. There was strictly nothin' doin'. The captain, he was the last to cave in. Says he: 'See here, Mr. Foraker, I'd like somethin' to eat. Can't you call off that freak of yours?'

" 'Sorry, sir,' says Sirnms Foraker, feeling real blue himself, 'but I don't know the signs.'

"The captain snorted, an' went on pacing up an' down the deck. Another halfhour went by slowly, and then there came floatin' out o' that galley the most delicious smells that you ever smelt. We stood around an' wondered what in the name of all the good cooks he was doin' in there by himself alone. An' these smells increased. Fine, wholesome, wide smells they were, almost enough to make a beggar a meal, and calculated to drive hungry men mad.

" 'That's a Brunswick stew,' said one of the men, sniffing.

" 'With gravy,' added another.

" 'Brunswick nothin'! That's duff a la Borneo.'

" 'Smells a little wild to me,' one of the critics said.

" 'As for me,' says Samuels, the cook, 'I'm partial to some biscuit,' and he dived below into the extra stores to get it. We all nibbled a bit when he returned, an' we thought o' the free-lunch counters we had passed a while back.

"At last the captain got real desperate.

" 'We'll have to have him out of that,' he says, gritting his big teeth. ' Wilkens, Brown, Jones, cast off that rope-lashing an' stand by.'

"They didn't like the order, but they was good men and true. The wild man heard them fumbling, an' he begins to mix up a few pots and pans inside there, which sounds horrible, like the last night of an iron-foundry. Wilkens, Brown, an' Jones weren't anxious to sleep near to that galley door when it was unfastened.

"The captain then divides the crew into two watches to stand ready, spelling each other, and to ketch him whenever he showed abroad. The captain hoped he would come out. No one dared go in after him. There was nothing to do but wait— an' wait on an empty stomach at that. The day spun along its usual stretch, an' we waited. Toward night the wild man began to yowl, like a dog what's lonely, an' this wasn't pleasant to hear.

"Still we waited. Then night comes, an' it gets as dark as the inside of your hat, an' still we was waiting. Along 'bout nine o'clock, when the men were downright tired out, some one made the terrible discovery that the galley door was open.

"Open it was, sure enough— wide open. They made a skirmish, and the wild man wasn't there. Samuels installs himself inside, and piles things against the door.

" 'I'll stand me ground,' he calls out to us. 'You do the fightin' an' I'll get dinner.'

"Where did he go? That's what we wanted to have explained, 'cause we was outside the galley, with no door an' nothin' to pile against it, an' we wasn't wasting time 'bout dinner no longer. What we wanted was a barricade at least twelve feet high. That wild fellow was loose in the midst of us, an' the cold chills paraded up and down a chap's back in fours. The quieter he kept the worse we felt. If he had only yowled out, and threatened to fight! But he was a mysterious wild man.

"Along about an hour later, the captain says he thinks he'll turn in. The first mate is in charge o' the deck. The captain goes to his cabin, but in two minutes he's on deck again, calling for all hands.

" 'What's wrong, sir?' asks the mate, rushin' up.

"' He's in my bunt— the double-blanked son of a Borneo stable-hand! He's in my bunk!'

" 'Are ye sure, captain?' asks Simms Foraker, cautious.

" 'Sure!' The captain foamed at the mouth. 'Didn't I see his eyes? Didn't I feel his dirty hide? Here you, Martin, Williams, Smith! We'll just go down there an' rout him out.'

"But Martin, Williams, and Smith had different ideas. They protested. They said they had not shipped to fight wild men of Borneo, an' they each an' every one backed water with the white fear showing in their eyes.

"The captain was up against it for fair. There was no sense in hittin' Smith or Martin, or, for that matter, even Williams, 'cause the same feeling was in the whole dod-gasted crew, which was human, an' the captain knew it. He felt the same way himself.

" 'What's to be done, Mr. Foraker?' asks the captain. 'Ain't I heard you say you'd handled wild men before?'

" 'Never this kind,' says Simms Foraker, quite candid. 'This one can't be strictly called a wild man as yet, 'cause why— he ain't wild.'

"The captain gasped, an' he choked. 'He ain't wild!' he screams out. 'He's wild enough for me!'

" 'We might bar him in,' says Simms Foraker, 'like we did in the galley.'

" 'But where'll I sleep?' moaned the captain.

" 'Nice on deck these fine nights.'

"Then the captain gave way to the most elaborate, an' at the same time the most vicious, language that ever I hear. I've been around some, too, an' I've heard language so low that I couldn't understand what it meant, but this crop o' the captain's, it was superb. The words was short, middle-sized, and then a lengthy one that would just fair crash out an' land solid. My! My! the captain talked a spell. It came right up from his heart, too; you could see that. He wanted to let us know how he felt, an', by gum! he just did. I felt sorry for him, but I stood wide.

"'Hold on!' says Simms Foraker, when the captain was most violent. 'You've got no right to kill a passenger, an' that wild man's a passenger.'

" 'Passenger be double-crossed!' yells the captain. 'He's an animal! He's freight! Loose freight at that! He's a menace to the ship!'

"And with that the captain took his nerve in his hand an' went into the cabin single. I admired the captain. But I didn't go along— no! The captain was the bravest man among us— s'welp me, but he was! He went in there single, an' no man stopped him. Five minutes later the captain reappeared, his face sorter blank, an' he says, says he:

" 'That chap's a spook, I believe. He's gone!'

" 'Gone again!' whispers back Simms Foraker.

" 'Can't find a hair of him. Now, don't let this get out among the men. We'll make out he's still down there.'

" 'Wonder where he is?' whispered Simms Foraker to me.

" 'Bunked down in our cabin, for a dime,' says I.

" 'We're used to sleepin' on deck,' says he.

" 'I don't care to sleep anywheres else,' I says.

" 'One of us had better stand guard half the night,' was his suggestion, an' I agreed with him. We tossed a coin. Simms took the first watch. Then the night wore itself gray in the face, an' dawn found us looking as if we had attended a wake.

" 'Now,' says the captain, 'we'll have a thorough search for that mystery o' the Borneo slums.'

"They summoned all hands, issued orders an' commenced. Williams was the first to start him. Williams went below to get some new rope. He was supported by Harrison and Martin. They came tiptoeing back, their eyes bulgin' out, an' they whispers:

" 'He's in his cage, asleep.'

"And, by hokus! so he was, sleepin' like a baby."

iv

BENSON wiped his forehead, and laughed to himself.

"See here, Benson," I asked him, "have you been joking me?"

"Not a bit of it. That's the true state of affairs as they was recorded. You can see for yourself, if the captain'll let ye look at the log.

"Honest, that wild man was in his cage. It makes me laugh at times, an' at other times it makes me creep. That wild man was a wonderful sort. You can just bet that we made a swift rush down there an' double-slatted that cage in a hurry. Our Borneo friend woke up as we were hammering. He said something, an' rolled over an' went off to sleep again. You could hear him snore like a grampus."

"And didn't you have any more trouble with him?"

"Trouble! That was only the beginning. He didn't try to get out again until we made Aden. He was quiet as a new-born lamb up to that time. We had to coal some, an' the chap in charge o' the job was a Swede. He heard we had a fine specimen of a wild man aboard, an' he steps down to look him over. Simms Foraker an' me went along. The wild man was standin' close to the bars, watching out.

"As we come up he lets out a lot of gibberish. The Swede jumps, an' lets go another parcel in reply.

" 'What's wrong with you?' says Simms Foraker to the man.

" 'He says he wants to get out an' see the Swede consul.'

"Simms Foraker turned blue in the face at this.

"Yes, the wild man got out, all right. We couldn't get them bars down any too quick. He was a Swede cook that some ship had lost out in that Borneo quarter. He was a nigger, all right, but he spoke a Swede language, an' that was a dead language to me 'n' Simms Foraker. He had bilked us for a ride to Aden, all right— no work, an' a stateroom to himself."

Benson leaned his head sadly on his hand and stared off to where the little lights gleamed on the quay.

"Do about it?" he snorted, a moment later, when I asked a pertinent question.

"We were darned glad he didn't have us pinched. We paid him twenty pounds in gold to call it square. That's what we did. Don't talk to me about wild men. It's the tame kind that queers me!"

_______________

9: The Dancer's Mascot

Beatrice Heron-Maxwell

1859-1927

World's News (Sydney) 8 Dec 1923

THE Brevity music-hall was having a success at last.

Several preceding revues had come down more or less with a run— or without one— and the reason why "Life and Its Livers" had "clicked" was said to be Sylva White's dancing, which captivated the audience on the first night, and had continued to draw ever since.

There are born dancers, and dancers who are made by training, and others.

Sylva's talent was innate, and brought to perfection by careful teaching.

She had the indescribable grace of a flower swaying in the breeze, or a bird skimming through the air; she was as light as thistledown on her feet, and as supple as a nautch girl. And every movement of her beautiful arms, every pose of her lissome figure, was a verse of the living poem she created when she danced.

Night after night the Brevity was packed for her turn, and the management had already given her a contract that meant the top of the tree for her, and a long run for their show.

On a June evening, when a crescent moon was sailing in a starry sky, and romance was in the air, even of a London street, the house, which had been half-empty, filled up just before nine for the "Fireflies"— the five girls of whom Sylva was the lead.

In the orchestra a young violinist with grave, dark eyes, and a handsome, pale face, gazed steadily at the O.P. side, by which the Queen of the Fireflies would enter.

IT had happened that Max Delorme met Sylva and played for her to dance before she was engaged on a trial week at the Brevity; and the whole of his emotional artist's heart had yielded to the idyllic talent and the radiant personality of her. More than once he had tried, in those poor days of the little dancing girl, to tell her what she was to him. But Sylva. with all her joie-de-vivre, was not for love or lovers as yet.

She put him off with gay evasion; only now and again vouchsafing a special smile or glance just to keep him from despair.

Lately, since her success, he had looked for this reassurance in vain: and to the pain of hopelessness was added now the corroding flame of jealousy.

It was an ecstasy of agony that he suffered each night while he played first fiddle for her solo.

As the four girls who were her accessories crossed the stage and finished their prelude to her entrance. Max, keenly conscious of every detail, noted the expression on the face of one of them, a brunette called Julia Joy.

There was no mistaking the furious hate that disfigured it as Sylva entered and hovered in the centre before commencing a pas seul, while the storm of applause greeted her, the music purposely dallying under the conductor's baton to give her time and mark her as the star.

Then Sylva, with a little gesture of both hands, as though she would gather the incense of adulation to her heart, glanced at the conductor and broke into her swallow-flight.

Max, watching closely, saw her reach the corner where Julia Joy was, saw Julia take a half-step forward from the line, and thereby collide with Sylva just as she made her swift turn to dart up the stage again.

It was very nearly a bad fiasco.

Sylva, all unconscious of the cause, was thrown off her balance, and would have fallen headlong but for her consummate skill and elasticity.

As it was, she only touched the ground with her finger-tips, and was upright and whirling on before the audience fully realised the clever recovery.

But when they did the applause burst out in a tornado of approval, and the slip that might have meant a failure became a fresh triumph.

A man leaning out of a box led the clapping that greeted her concluding pose, and Sylva, glancing directly at him. smiled her recognition. Julia's eyes were malignant as she looked from one to the other, and she was the embodiment of venomous spite when a superb trophy of white flowers was handed over the footlights, followed by bouquets and posies in profusion.

Sylva received the tribute with another upward glance at the box where Carew Blane sat.

Max, heedless of possible reprimand, as he ceased playing, flung a spray of lilies towards her.

She set her foot on it as she bowed in response to repeated calls, and the curtain went down on the picture that she made— branded indelibly on Max Delorme's brain— his flowers crushed and trampled, while a bloom from his rival's offering was raised to her lips, and her face glowed with emotion that was the counterfeit of love, if not love itself.

When Sylva reached her dressing-room she ran to the table where stood a small Oriental dancing figure, and. lifting it, kissed it and put some flowers round it.

"You think it is your mascot," said a sneering voice behind her, and Sylva. startled, faced round to find Julia Joy in the doorway.

"I love my little Eastern girl," Sylva said quietly. "I always give her some of my flowers, and to-night she deserves them more than usual."

"Yes— more than you think. It was touch and go with you when you barged up against me."

Julia's voice was fiercely rancorous, and Sylva, wondering and a little dismayed, went and touched her on the shoulder.

"Why, Julie," she said, "was it you? How did it happen, dear? I was doing exactly the same as usual, and I always calculate that corner to a hair's breadth."

Then, seeing the anger in the girl's dark flush, she caught up one of her bouquets. "Don't let us quarrel over it." she added sweetly; "have some of my flower."

Julia seized the posy and hurled it to the floor.

"I hate you." she stammered furiously. "I stepped forward on purpose. I hoped you would come to grief. I'll never dance with you again. I'm giving in my notice tonight."

And, as Sylva stepped back amazed, she ran to the table, snatched the little statuette, and threw it violently down, breaking it to pieces.

As she flung out of the room, Sylva knelt amongst the debris, trying to fit the broken fragments together, with tears shimmering in her eyes. The dresser, entering with a note, stared aghast.

"Why, whatever's happened to your little bit o' luck, miss," she said. "Never mind about them pieces— I'll pick 'em up for you. Read your letter, dear, and dry your eyes."

Sylva obeyed, and, changing her dress, pinned some of Blane's stephanotis in the front of it before she threw a cloak round her and sped along to the stage door.

Outside a grey limousine was waiting, and Blane met her as she emerged.

Max Delorme, waiting too, was about to speak to her, but she took Blane's arm and they got into the car and drove away.

One of her flowers had fallen. Max picked it up and put it reverently into his pocket.

The tragic despair in his soul deepened as he walked away; he was beginning to realise how completely Sylva had passed out of his life. He would have recognised it still more fully if his eyes could have followed his thoughts in pursuit of the car.

Blane, after capturing both Sylva's hands, had lifted them to his neck, and, clasping his arms round her, kissed her fervently.

Then, drawing a jewel-case from his pocket, he showed her the necklace that it held.

"Pearls for my pearl," he said, "as white as her sweet neck," and he kissed her again as he fastened the clasp.

"Oh, Carew! For me, really?" Sylva said. "Why should you give me such a lovely present?"

"Because I love you," he declared passionately, "my white rose of the world. Because I am going to give you everything you want, if you'll let me."

It seemed to be the fulfilment of all her dreams— a rich, adoring husband, the crown of her career!

They had reached the Supper Club, and were descending the stairs to the large room, when Sylva's foot slipped— the chance of an uneven edge to the carpet— and she fell to the landing below.

She gave a little sharp cry of pain, and Blane was beside her instantly, lifting her up and saying: "Not hurt. I hope?"

"Oh, no!" Sylva smiled. "It jarred my ankle, that's all. I'm quite all right."

Yet the color had left her cheeks and even her lips were pale, as she stood up and essayed to walk.

"I'm afraid I've wrenched it," she said faintly. "It doesn't seem to work properly. Oh. how stupid of me! I'm sure I can limp along to our table."

But every movement was torture, and she turned faint with the pain.

Blane's expression was a curious blend of concern and impatience.

He hated being made to look a fool, and the couples hastening to and from the supper room were beginning to notice the little episode.

Two girls whom he knew and who were non-attended, looked back over their shoulders at him and made a gesture of invitation as they hurried on.

"Perhaps there is more damage than you think," he suggested to Sylva. "Wouldn't it be wiser to see a doctor?"

"Yes, I suppose so." She was almost crying. "Do you mind taking me home. Carew?"

"Of course," he answered readily enough. "Lean on me and we'll get along at once."

His car took them to her flat, and he carried her in and directed her maid to telephone for his doctor.

"It's better when I rest," Sylva said, trying to keep up bravely. "Perhaps it's only a sprain, and It he binds it up very tight I could still go to supper with you."

Carew held his peace, except for a muttered remark about bad luck.

He did not care to have his evening spoilt, and the laughing grimaces of the two girls clung to his mind unpleasingly.

When, the doctor had examined the ankle he shook his head. "A compound fracture! What a pity you didn't stay where you were. I could have prevented that."

He busied himself with splints and bandages while Blane, pacing up and down In the passage, looked at his watch continually and swore softly under his breath.

Presently, when the doctor came out. he asked: "Not a serious injury, I suppose?"

"Very serious for her," the doctor answered. "She won't be able to dance for a long time— perhaps never again."

Blane made a hasty movement of dissatisfaction.

"Well, it's very unfortunate," he said, "but it can't be helped. I have to keep an appointment and am late already. Can I drop you, doctor."

Renee, Sylva's French maid, listening to them, turned to Sylva.

"Oh! pauvre madame, monsieur le docteur say that you may per'aps never dance any more."

Sylva stared at her for a moment in silence, scarcely able to realise the stupendous calamity that had befallen her; then, as the front door slammed after the two men, she fainted.

AT THE SUPPER CLUB, Blane, making his way to the table he had booked, was beckoned by the girls who had signalled to him before.

They had been joined by Lord Theophilus Hafton, known as "Toffy," and they called out as Blane approached, "Make a fourth. We want squaring here."

Blane agreed, and dismissed Sylva and the whole untoward incident from his mind.

A life of deliberate resolute pleasure had dulled his capacity for even ordinary sympathy; and chivalry had always been a dead letter to him.

He disliked bother, and was bored by misfortune; poverty and bad luck were crimes in his eyes, and he had no use for anyone or anything that fell short of success.

Sylva's brief day with him was over.

Meanwhile Delorme, in his Soho bedroom, was writing letters, the flower he had picked up outside the stage door, set in a glass of water, beside him.

We used to be good friends, Sylva, before you made your hit. Now you never look my way, and to-night you crushed my lilies beneath your feet. I care for you too deeply to continue playing while you dance. I see that I have lost you for ever, and can be nothing to you now. Yet, I wish you every possible happiness and a brilliant career. I go to America this week, and shall start a new life there.

Tours as ever,

Max Delorme.

P.S.—If you should need a friend— which is not likely— you have only to let me know. I would come to you from the end of the world.

He addressed the note to Sylva at the Brevity Theatre, and it remained there in the rack for many a day to come, being joined later on by one addressed to Max Delorme, in Sylva's writing.

Evil days had come to her following on the doctor's verdict. Her contract cancelled, her power of making money by her art gone for an indefinite period, and the complete desertion of Carew Blane, had crushed her life as a flower is wilted by a thunderstorm.

She had no near relations, and the crowd of pseudo-friends who had been so keen to be on good terms with the star of the moment had forgotten her before the week was out.

"Poor Sylvia White!" they remarked to each other; "wasn't she broken up in some way? One never sees her now."

A brief epitaph, due more to carelessness than callousness!

Sylva herself had found time to do many kind things during her own days of struggle and work; but in the race for success and pleasure there Is little room for memory.

Lonely, and growing poorer every day as her stock of earnings evaporated, she despaired, until a gleam of hope came with the recollection of Max

She wrote a few line, with confident expectation.

Dear Max

You once said that no matter what happened, you would never change to me. You must have heard of my accident, and that I may never be able to dance again professionally. I am very miserable and lonely. No one has been near me all this time. Won't you come?

Sylva.

Her letter joined the one addressed to her at the Brevity from Max. and both waited there with "No address left," pencilled on them.

It was on the day that she moved tram her flat to a cheap lodging that she passed a poster, headed "Brevity Theatre," showing "Julia Joy in her new dance-scena.

Tears flashed into her eyes, and she drew back in the taxi, while an open car passed slowly by, the man and girl in it absorbed in looking at the poster.

It was Carew Blane and Julia, the brown eyes sparkling, the full, vivid lips smiling, and round her neck the pearls that Sylva, in her hurt pride, had returned long since to Blane. It was the last straw to Sylva's burden of unhappiness.

During the weeks that followed, she slid down hill faster and faster towards the valley of despondency.

Her money at an end, her health broken, she lay, alter a bout of rheumatic fever, spent and exhausted.

Only the charity of her landlady stood between her and the workhouse.

Visions came to her of Max— Max in a concert-hall, playing to an enraptured audience, Max besieged by managers— Max signing a contract— Max opening a letter— hers!— Max turning from it to tear up the contract-deed, and tendering bills for two thousand dollars in default.

Finally Max homeward bound on an ocean liner, with his face towards England and her! Delicious fancies, or the telepathic knowledge that is theirs who hover on the great borderland?

Her ragged curtain floating out from the open window over the dingy street below, seemed to someone passing by, in eager, search, to be a flag of distress and surrender.

He halted, drew a violin from under his arm, and began to play— the old melody to which Sylva danced on the fatal night.

Her wandering thoughts concentrated themselves, her restless fingers plucking the coverlet were still—she listened intently.

Presently she raised herself, stepped to the floor, and staggered with feeble steps toward the window.

On the narrow mantelpiece, the little Oriental figure, mended and patched, seemed to pause in its dance and watch her with soft, expectant eyes.

Sylva's feet began to move to the well-remembered measure: it was the wraith of her former self that danced towards death. As she felt herself falling, she caught at the curtain, and a cry of anguish was wafted down to the street— "Max! Max!"

The music ceased suddenly, and an instant later swift footsteps reached her door, and Delorme, laying his violin down, had gathered her up into his arms.

Sylva— his Sylva— found again, after close search, but dead!

He stooped and pressed his lips to the colorless face; and as he did so, a ray of life returned to it and she opened her eyes murmuring his name again.

THE announcement of a new turn at the Brevity Theatre had brought some of its patrons, who were inclined to drop off, back again.

Max Delorme, the New York violinist, was to contribute a special feature with his wife.

There was a sensation of interest as he played a short solo, and said it was a preliminary to an announcement he wished to make to them. The management had advertised him liberally as the artist who had broken a fifteen-thousand-dollar contract to come over and play for them. He laid his violin down as Sylva entered, and, taking her by the hand, led her to the footlights.

In a few impassioned words, he told them that she was their former favorite Sylva White, whose accident, caused intentionally by a member of her company, had debarred her from re-appearing on the stage until now. She would repeat her former dance, he added, and, he hoped, her former success.

Lovelier than ever, with the old witchery of face and form, the heart of the audience was at her command from the moment he finished his speech, and, withdrawing to the side, resumed his violin to play for her.

Carew Blane leant forward in his box, amazed and ashamed. Sylva never glanced at him, even when his plaudits joined the others.

Instead, she smiled divinely at Max, and stretched out her hand for him to take the call at her side.

The house stood up to greet her; some inkling of the truth, which had been current at the time, recurred to the minds of a few of those present, and they gave her a tremendous ovation.

At last, when they allowed her to go, the next turn was indicated, and Julia Joy came on.

A storm of booing assailed her; she looked frightened, and faltered: the gallery jeered and the pit cheered ironically.

Hardly anyone knew the reason, but it made an amusing variation to the evening.

Julia sent an imploring look up to Blane's box.

But Blane had disappeared!

Again Julia began to dance, and the booing started afresh; while some small object was hurled at her derisively from the gallery.

She stamped her feet, raged at them for a moment, and then, bursting into angry tears, made her exit.

The tumult continuing, Max and Sylva were entreated by the management to reappear.

The moment they did so, the disturbance subsided, and clapping all over the house showed its entire approval.

As Sylva took her encore, the past vanished as an ugly dream that dies at dawn.

Only the triumphant present and the smiling future were in the melody that Max improvised as she took her old place on the Brevity stage.

______________________

10: The Philosopher's Mistake.

Francis Gribble

1862-1946

Australian Town and Country Journal 3 March 1909

EARLY IN LIFE Professor Martinmass made a mistake, and recognised it. Indeed, he could not choose but recognise it, his attention being called to it too pointedly for him to do anything else.

He was not exactly what a woman understands by a "musty old professor;" there were other reasons besides his comparative youth why he could not fairly be described in that contemptuous phrase. Though he was short-sighted, he wore a pince-nez instead of spectacles; his dress, if not specially elegant, was at least correct; he was clean-shaven. If he was not a handsome man, his appearance was at least distinguished.

Most of his friends, it is true, were serious. The subject which he professed at a college affiliated to the Victoria University was the Theory of Education; and he was occupied in writing a "magnum opus" on "The faults in the educational methods of Pestalozzi."

But the sap of the spring nevertheless stirred in his blood. The scale of value where women were concerned was not purely intellectual. Sparkling frivolity, when combined with prettiness, attracted him; and he fell in love with a trim figure, a pair of blue eyes, and a fluffy head of hair. That was the mistake. For the girl with the blue eyes and the fluffy hair was a flirt, and, as the vulgar say, a scalp-hunter.

"I'll bet you a pair of gloves," she had said to a companion as frivolous as herself, "that I'll make Professor Martinmass propose to me."

"And then?" asked the other. "Oh! then we'll see," was the reply.

So she set her cap, and quickly won her bet. The professor did propose; and, of course, in order that the fact of the proposal might be established beyond dispute, she had to accept him. The engagement was announced, though the date of the wedding was not fixed.

And then?

Well, then there appeared upon the scene a certain Captain Montressor of the Bengal Lancers— a dashing, though empty-headed warrior, who danced much better than the professor and made love much more boldly. Of course, he carried off the prize, and the professor, after being affianced no more than a month, was jilted, and left lamenting. If he was too much a philosopher to care very deeply, he was too little of a philosopher not to care at all.

"Never again," he said to himself, "I've had my lesson, and I'll profit by it," and he went back with grim determination to his books and cultivated a manner which froze the few friends who ventured to offer him their sympathy and condolence.

"We were both mistaken," he said. "We are both fortunate in having found out our mistake in time;" and the subject was dropped with an understanding that it was not to be resumed.

In the meantime Edna Armitage became Edna Montressor, and left England for India with her husband, and rumors very much to her disadvantage began to reach acquaintances whom she had left behind. She was behaving scandalously, it was said. Her flirtations were conspicuous even at Simla and Mussoorie. She was setting her cap— setting it successfully— at the lieutenant-governor. Captain Montressor had got a staff appointment in consequence of the favor which she had found, but was not happy because people laughed at him. Etcetera.

The incident has no bearing on this story, except in so far as it affected the mind of Professor Martinmass.

"I can see now," he said to himself, "not only that I made a mistake, but also that I had a narrow escape," and once more he buried himself in his books, and occupied himself with the faults in the educational methods of Pestalozzi.

Of course, people made remarks, for everybody's business is everybody else's business in small University towns— especially when professors are eligible, and mothers are anxious to get their daughters married.

"He's hard hit," said some. "Give him time and he'll get over it," said others. "I doubt it," threw in a third. "Once bit, twice shy, is the rule of men of that, sort. They become misogynists—" "And hardened bachelors—" "And end by marrying their cooks—" "And are surprised to find that their wives don't want to do any more cooking."

So the talk ran, and it really looked as if the gossips had, as the Americans say, "sized up" the Professor rightly.

The years passed, and he remained unmarried.

"If he isn't musty yet, he soon will be," women agreed. "He's wrapped up in his books, and cares for nothing else."

Yet they were wrong. It was true that Professor Martinmass was hit rather harder than he liked to confess to himself; but he also knew that it was not good for man to be alone; and that books, however interesting in themselves, were but a sorry substitute for human companionship.

"Even Gibbon found it so," he once said to one of his rare confidants; and he got down the Letters to Lord Sheffield, and turned up the passage in which the historian, after the death of Deyverdun, deplores his loneliness, and threatens to adopt "any means, however desperate, of obtaining the society of a domestic female companion."

"Is that your case?" his friend asked.

"Not yet. But I feel it might easily become so in the course of time," Professor Martinmass replied.

"But you show no sign of an intention to act on Gibbon's suggestion."

"No. Gibbon did not dare to act upon it himself. Let me find you that passage too. Ah, here it is. Sometimes, Gibbon says, he tried to beguile a solitary evening by imagining himself united in matrimony to some one of the least desirable of the ladies whom he was in the habit of meeting at Lausanne. A few minutes of such meditation was always enough for him. At the end of those few minutes he invariably found himself rejoicing in his freedom."

"I see. And that describes your case as well as Gibbon's?"

"I fear so."

"And are you quite sure that you are not generalising from a single instance."

"Perhaps I did so to begin with. But the generalisation is confirmed by all the other instances that I have been able to. observe."

"Yes? But the induction even so is hardly sound."

"Theoretically, no. But it was established a probability, and, in real life, we act on probabilities. Does not the worthy Butler say so?"

"At any rate he was not thinking of marriage when he said it."

"Of course not. But he very well might have been; he was building better than he knew."

It all meant, of course, that, in the small town in which his life's work lay, Professor Martinmass had never met— and therefore did not expect to meet— the woman to whose heart his heart could speak. Women all lived, it seemed to him, on a lower plane than men, fluctuating between the domesticities and frivolities, interrupting men's work and lowering their ideals, without offering them any adequate compensation. He looked around him vainly for the perfect woman nobly planned. One often does in small provincial towns— especially if one is too busy to give much time to the quest; for such women assert themselves and challenge attention as do the imperfect women indifferently planned.

"I suppose," he said, "it is their education that is at fault."

"Then you find faults in the methods of other educators besides Pestalozzi?" asked the friend.

"Assuredly," the professor answered. "From early childhood they are trained to entrap men; and, as the majority of men are poor creatures, their best chance is to be poor creatures too. Hence their two-penny-half-penny 'accomplishments,' as they call them; their—"

"Their parlor tricks," suggested the other.

"Just so; and their illusion, of which they are so fully persuaded, that movement is the same thing as life— that all serious pursuits are dull— that the man who follows them is a dullard."

"I see. Then you are not really a misogynist? Or rather you do not wish to be one?"

"My misogyny, if you will call it so, is only the result of high— or at any rate, of very special— ideals of womanhood, which I do not know how to satisfy."

"It comes to pretty much the same thing in practice, though?"

"I fear it does."

"I should say that there is only one way of escape for you."

"And that is?"

"To have a woman made to order."

"If that were possible. "

"I mean, of course, educated to order. Who should know how to manage that if not a professor of the theory of education?"

Who, indeed? The suggestion was not serious, but Professor Martinmass pondered it quite as gravely as if it had been. Such experiments are not, in a general way, feasible, unless a man is prepared to buy a child, as the gipsies are said to do, or to pick out and adopt a girl of unknown parentage from the workhouse or the Foundling Hospital. And such a girl with an unknown heredity behind her— the child, it may be, of a thief or worse— is more than likely to spring surprises upon the author of the experiment.

It happened, however, that the professor had lately inherited a ward. An old college friend who had married, and lost his wife, had died unexpectedly, and had begged the professor to act as guardian to his 12-year-old daughter.

Theoretically he was not to stand towards the child in the light of a charitable benefactor; practically he might do so if he chose. Minnie Marsland, that is to say, inherited an income of £50 a year; and that sum could perfectly well have been made to suffice for her upbringing. On the other hand, if she was to receive a really good education, a much larger sum must be spent on her; and Professor Martinmass, having private means in addition to his stipend, could afford to spend it.

Why should he not? How could he spend his money better— supposing that 'the child seemed to be worth it? He would send for her and judge. He did send for her. and judged that she was worth it.

Minnie Marsland was pretty, healthy, intelligent, well-behaved, very grateful to the kind gentleman who took her father's place. She was too young for a faulty system of education to have vitiated a naturally charming disposition. Her character, in short, was plastic clay that he could model to his liking. She would be eighteen when he was forty— no very shocking disparity of years. Here then was his chance to educate a child to he his wife a serious wife and an agreeable companion, taking an intelligent interest in his work, exempt from the ordinary vanities and weaknesses of her sex.

"And then." he reflected, "I shall feel like a man who has secured his future from anxiety, and I shall be free to live among my books in peace."

The scheme, of course, was easier to form than to execute. It could not very well be carried out under his own roof and immediate supervision for various reasons. That would have placed him too openly in loco parentis. When the child was naughty, as all children sometimes are, he would have to punish her; and the infliction of punishment, however necessary, was a questionable preliminary to courtship. Minnie must only see him from time to time, so that he might always come into her life like a beam of sunshine.

"She must be brought up by a woman," he reflected, "if only I can find the right one. I shall have to advertise. There seems no other way."

There were many answers to his advertisement— most of them unsuitable; but he selected one at last. She was a Mrs. Harrison, the widow of a doctor, who lived in a village in the Midlands, a woman not only of good birth, but of superior education, at one time a Girton student, full of reverence for professors, singularly devoid of prejudices, and most ready to bow to professional instructions.

"You understand my wishes?" the professor asked her.

"Perfectly."

"I wish my ward to be fully trained in all domestic duties, and, at the same time, to receive the kind of culture which will make her a fit companion for an educated man. I regard calisthenics in moderation as important; and I desire that she should not associate with other children except under supervision. Their vanities, caprices, and flirtations might prove contagious; and that contagion must at all hazards be avoided."

"You may rely upon me," said Mrs. Harrison; and Professor Martinmass relied upon her, and Minnie Marsland was despatched to her new home.

It is the professor's story, and not hers, that is being related; so that there is no need to dwell on all the details of the educational experiment. For five years it was conscientiously carried out in all particulars; and the purpose of it was revealed to Minnie by degrees. The professor visited her at frequent intervals, and was delighted with, the progress which he saw her making. He unbent with her, and bought her presents suitable for her years; he was her best friend, and she was very fond of him. But of the marriage which he contemplated he did not speak.

"Time, enough for that," he said to himself. "I'll wait till she's eighteen. But it's curious how shy I feel about it. Why-should I feel shy?"

Yet perhaps the question ought rather to have been: Why should he not feel shy? Moreover, there was a further cause of embarrassment in the fact that, though Professor Martinmass had not spoken, Mrs. Harrison had discreetly confided to Minnie, as it were, a precious secret; and when the child first heard the secret, she was filled with delight and pride.

"Only fancy!" she exclaimed. "Some people never get married at all, and I'm going to be married for certain;" and her impulse, which Mrs. Harrison had to restrain, was to reveal the secret to all the old maids of the neighborhood, and to gibe at them.

"It's awfully nice," she told that lady, "to be quite sure that you won't be an old maid."

That, however, was when she was little. Afterwards, as she grew older, she also became shy— the more so because she found out that, though she herself had breathed no word of the secret, the neighbors had an inkling of it. The professor could not but notice it.

"But no matter," he said. "It will pass," and he went back, to his books, and waited patiently among them for the appointed hour. He was too fond of his books, however, and worked too hard at them. Certain nervous symptoms declared themselves, and he had to go to Harley Street for advice.

"When did you last take a holiday?" asked the physician. "I mean a real holiday, and not merely a week-end in the country?"

" 'Pon my word, I don't remember," Professor Martinmass replied.

"Then you need one— a long one— the longer the better. Are you a golfer, for instance?"

"No, I play no games."

"Then I suppose games would bore you?"

"Probably."

"In that case you'd better travel. Only you must go somewhere where you'll meet people, or that will bore you too. How long is your long vacation?"

"About three months."

"Spend the whole of it in Switzerland. Don't over-exert yourself with climbing, and don't tie yourself up with fixed plans."

That was the advice which Professor Martinmass got for his two guineas, and excellent advice it was. Not for years had ho been abroad; not for years had he sundered himself from his treatises on the theory of education. And now he was strictly enjoined to leave all his books behind him.

"The less you read the better," was the physician's parting counsel. "But if you must read something, get some improper French novels."

He did so and was surprised to find that they amused him. He was also surprised to find that he felt better when he landed at Calais, and a new man when he breakfasted on the Terrace of the little Schideck Hotel, with Monch, Eiger, and Jungfrau in front of him. A still greater surprise was the pleasure which he found himself taking in the conversation of unacademic fellow creatures; the greatest surprise of all was that, the society of women— of one woman at all events— could attract him.

Her name was Ethel Harborough. She was placed next to him at the table d'hôte, and they talked. It transpired that she was an artist, and they spoke of the difficulty of rendering mountain scenery on canvas. The professor asked if he might see some of her sketches, and she showed them to him. He then asked if he might point out a view not very far from the hotel, which she might like to paint; and she accepted the offer of his escort.

It all went as quickly as that. Things often do in the Alps. Whatever our years we all feel very young at those high elevations; and Ethel Harborough was only twenty-eight, and Professor Martinmass had not yet passed his fortieth birthday.

"It is very wonderful," he said to himself. "Evidently there are things in life which I have yet to learn to understand."

Yet he was learning quickly. A veil was being lifted; a mist was being scattered; and he reflected further.

"It is my holiday. I must not let myself be introspective or self-conscious. That way lies the worry that I am trying to escape from."

And that, too, is easy in the high Alps. Things happen there suddenly and without warning, just as the avalanches fall. But chiefly good things. It is what is best and brightest in our nature that prevails in that pure air.

"I love you!"

"And I you!"

It was said almost before they had dreamed of saying it. They kissed and were happy, and then self-consciousness returned, Never before had the professor known how much a woman's love and companionship might mean. Fled for ever was the memory of the woman who had jilted and soured him in the past, for here were beauty and passion conjoined with loyalty and high ideals. He had found the perfect woman nobly planned; he was quite sure of it, though his own theories of education had contributed nothing to the design. And yet—

"My house of cards!" he exclaimed. "If only I had built it for myself alone!"

But he had built it for Minnie as well as for himself, and Minnie knew that he had built it, and did not know what a frail and unsubstantial edifice it was. He was pledged to dwell in it with her, though with the full confidence that it would fall at once about his ears. The refuge which he had prepared against solitary old age was a ruin; and yet the ruin must be his habitation.

"Poor child! If only she did not know! If only I had kept my secret!" For how, after raising all these expectations, could he turn her, out, with her £50 a year, to face the world? He could never forgive himself— even Ethel could never make him happy— if he did so.

After the first brief ecstasy, the shadow of a crime would lie across their path through life. Yet how, on the other hand, could he tell Ethel, and confess the wrong which he had done to her? Meditation showed him no way out of the impasse.

Flight, before he was more deeply involved in it, seemed the only course. It would be easier, though still hard, to confess by letter than by word of mouth. And his first duty, in any case, was to Minnie. He must keep his word to her, and she must never know what it had cost him.

"I am so sorry," he told Ethel: "I have to go to England unexpectedly on business. It will take me about ten days, I think. Can you tell me what will be your address at the end of that time?"

Naturally she did not guess the nature of the business; and she gave him an address at lnterlaken, and he caught the express, and hurried back to England and to the Midland village in which he had left Minnie, tormented by his thoughts.

"She must never know! She must never know!" was the refrain that he kept repeating; and, reaching the station at noon, after an all night journey, he jumped into a carriage and drove to Mrs. Harrison's house.

Mrs. Harrison heard the approaching wheels, and saw him from the Window, and came down the garden to receive him, with a cloud upon her brow, and words of amazement instead of greeting on her lips.

"You are back? Then you have heard? You can't have had my telegram; there wasn't time."

"Hear what? You don't mean that anything has happened to Minnie?"

Mrs. Harrison dissolved in tears. It was very difficult to extract her story from her; but it came at last.

"No, no— Nothing has happened — nothing of that sort! But— oh, Professor Martinmass, what will you think of me?"

"What is it, madam? For goodness sake, make haste and tell me."

She was a clever woman; but she was too excited to make plain statements easily.

"It was Mr. Ormsby — the vicar's son, you know. He's in the Royal Horse Artillery. He met Minnie at a tennis-party, and I'm sure I never thought that any harm would come of it. How should I? But afterwards, it seems, he used to meet her at the bottom of the garden, when I was out — and— and — oh! Professor Martinmass, I'm ashamed to tell you."

The professor shuddered, for the words seemed to foreshadow the most shameful of calamities.

"You don't mean to say—" he began.

"I do mean to say it. Minnie's run away with him, and got married. She's left a letter for you. Perhaps you'd like to be alone while you read it."

"If you please," and she handed him the missive and he tore it open with eager fingers.

It was very tearful and pathetic, though it said little except that Minnie knew she was treating her guardian shamefully, but couldn't help herself, because Captain Ormsby was so good, and she loved him so much.

Two months before Professor Martinmass would have been staggered by the blow; but now he smiled a smile that was altogether beyond Mrs. Harrison's comprehension.

"Dear little girl," he said. "Her instinct was truer than my wisdom. She's saved me from making a very bad mistake. There's nothing to be done but to forgive, and congratulate, and send a wedding present. She'll never know, and there's no need for her to know."

And Minnie never did know, though perhaps she guessed when her own chance of giving a wedding present occurred only a few months later."

__________________

11: His Strange Inheritance

Druid Grayl

Australian Town and Country Journal 16 Aug 1911

Druid Grayl is clearly a pseudonym, but I could find out very little about him. He wrote several short stories and some poems in the very early years of the 20th century. He also wrote Nonsene Numbers and Jocular Jingles for Funny Little Folk and two or three similar children's books.

TINK! Tink! Tink!-r-r-r-r!  The young man who had approached the farmhouse by way of the gate of the fold-yard, stopped, short before the wicket at the unwonted, sound which began sharp and ended flat, in a curious cadence, which mere characters cannot describe.

"Is the old lady learning the dulcimer?" he said to himself, "or improvising on the zither?"

One fine pencil of rays shone into the darkness of the autumn night through the junction of the shutters, so, with all the curiosity of his time of life, the young fellow mounted the sill— carefully avoiding the flowerpots beneath— and peered into the house.

It was the "best kitchen," a sort of living room beneath the dignity of parlor, into which he looked. He could just see the massive stone fireplace, with the flagged hearth, and a sitting figure at the table as he gazed. The figure was that of a woman— an aged woman— who was bending over a heap of coins on the board. She was lifting the gold pieces high, and loosing them from either hand till they fell to the heap beneath, with a rapt expression on her face. Tink! Tink! Tink-r-r-r-r— the sound was now explained.

"My stars!" ejaculated the newcomer; "so that's what she does with her money. By Jove! I must make a different sort of approach."

He leapt lightly down, and returned to the fold-gate, where he commenced to sing in a full baritone voice:

For all my fancy dwells on Nancy,

And I'll sing- tally-ho!

repeating the words as he slowly neared the door. He had barely rapped with his stick when the portal was flung wide, and the old woman appeared silhouetted in the firelight.

" 'Tis you, then, Wally," she said; "I didn't, expect 'e for half an hour; but here . I be to tend on 'e myself. Martha's abed time ago."

"I got a lift in a cart as far as Over, aunt," answered the young man, "so here I am, and how are you? though I needn't ask you'll never get any older-looking; there's no sere and yellow leaf for you."

"You be your father's own son," replied the old lady, evidently not ill-pleased. "Get along with your gammut, and come into the house. Martha has set your supper on the side table."

"And how's the farm going on, aunt? Nothing to complain of this season, I hope?"

"Crops be promising kind, Wally; but there, the hinds don't work for a woman as they 'ould for a master! But I pays my way, and scratch along somehow, minding every shilling. How long do 'e stay, lad?"

"Till the 10.30 from Gloucester on Sunday night. Then I shall be back in London and have a good night's sleep, ready for my work on Monday morning."

"Stick to it, Wally; there's nought like work for happiness and comfort. The house and land will rent well when I'm gone, and maybe there'll be a few pounds put by to help you to a practice."

A pang of commiseration touched the young man's heart.

"I believe the old soul is stinting herself for my sake," he thought. Aloud, he said, "You're too good to me, aunt. I'm doing as well as a fellow of my age can hope to do, and may the day be very far off when I do better by your death."

"Thank 'e, Wally; that's prettily said, and I believe 'e. You've got your mother's eyes and your father's voice, the truest things under the sun. Tell me, now, is there a sweetheart anywhere yet? You can't do better than practise on your old aunt; she knows the ring of honest words."

"No, indeed, aunt," said Walter Vizor, with a laugh. "At present I'm wedded to literature for a house-mate. I've earned a few pounds from the magazines by some articles on medical lore, and perhaps I shall publish them in book form when I can afford it."

"You're not neglecting your real work, Wally?"

"No, aunt, rest assured of that; but I some lonely evenings, and can't always stick to the old grind."

"Of course not, take care of your health," said the old lady with immediate alarm. "Is your master mindful of 'e?"

"Doctor Sollinger is my best friend, after you aunt. I could keep none of my doings, mental, moral, or physical, from him. He's as sharp as a needle, and almost paternal in his treatment of me."

"That's well. And now will 'e have another mug of cider? You mind the cask."

"Please; it's thirsty weather, this dry autumn, and Gloucestershire dust is like seconds flour. The fire looks pleasant; let me put my cup on the hob, and may I smoke a pipe?"

"Just one; 'tis past my bedtime already, but I'll sit with 'e for half an hour."

"Thank you, aunt. By the way, what are all those phials on the rack? Are you taking to drugging, too, and dosing the parish?"

A curious look came into the old lady's eyes, suggesting cunning and avarice in one; but the slight flush that accompanied it showed that her heart was really foreign to those qualities.

"I'll tell 'e "now," she began rather hesitatingly; "you be a doctor, so 'tis all one. They're samples."

"Samples of drugs?"

"Yes, a few; but mostly foods. I see samples of this and that offered in the Sentinel for a postcard, so I write and get 'em— beef, chocolate, malted milk, jelly squares, custard powders, and all sorts of tablets and extracts. Bless the boy, I almost live on 'em."

Walter began to laugh, and the old lady joined in, a little shamefacedly, be it said "

Then Walter Vizor remarked, "It's really no laughing matter, aunt, if you think these samples will supply; the place of solid food in daily life. They're very well in their way for casual occasions, but you'll soon run down 'if- you depend on; them entirely."

"Well, I feel a sort of emptiness sometimes, now you mention it, Wally, and then I make too big a meal, and there's trouble. That's where the drugs come in."

"Just so, and that's where the great mischief will come in, too, if you persist. Take my advice, aunt, and only sample the samples when you're so inclined. Of the lot you mentioned, the beef chocolate and malted milk are most sustaining, and worthy to be called foods."

"You're right, lad; I'll mind. And now good-night, and God bless 'e! Don't sit up late."

"Good, night, aunt. I shan't be ten minutes. When I unpack my bag, I'll put out some rare flower seeds I've brought for the garden. Your flower, knots will be more than ever the envy of the neighbors ."

"Thank 'e, Wally, 'tis kind of you to think of an old- woman," said his aunt, her face beaming with pleasure. "Good-night, again."

"Good-night, aunt!"

Walter's musings as he finished his pipe were all of gold.

He could hear that Tink, Tink! Tink!— r-r-r-r again and again, as one afflicted with a ringing in the ears; and see, as in vision, those shining gold pieces lifted from and dropped to the heap.

"There must have been hundreds," he mused. "Where on earth did she stow them away so slick?"

He looked for a possible hiding place, but none suggested itself. Walter was the grandson of a substantial yeoman, who had left two sons and one daughter with good portions. The eldest lad aspired to squirearchy and ruined himself with horses and hounds. Finally, he broke his neck in the hunting-field, leaving neither wife nor child.

His sister, Walter's aunt, had managed her own portion with skill and judgment, finding happiness in playing a mother's part to her younger brother and his much younger wife. These were Walter's father and mother; the former a surgeon at Gloucester, the latter the daughter of another medical man. Both were drowned in the Severn by the upsetting of a pleasure boat, through some of the occupants attempting to change places; and a little baby of three years old was left to fill the void in the old maid's heart, for she never married, making the baby her charge and delight.

It was well for Walter, for the father's education, together with the purchase of a practice and the possession of a wife with little or no means of her own, had tried his resources. What was left was carefully expended on the boy, and when that residue went the old lady took up the burden bravely, looking forward to the day when the lad should mount to the position his father missed— that of an honored, scientific doctor, which she regarded as the noblest profession on earth.

Walter spent a very pleasant week-end at the farm; and the Old lady's voice and hands trembled as she bade him good-bye on the Sunday evening.

"There's one thing I want to say to' 'e, Wally," she whispered, as they stood at the gate; "you mind the big Bible; 'tis covered with baize, and under the baize is a letter 'for 'e, if anything, should happen to me. 'Tis for yourself alone. Life is uncertain for us all, and I might never see 'e again."

Tne words were prophetic, perhaps half-divined, who knows? For Walter Vizor took her death-warrant with him as he went. It was the jingle Tink! Tink! tink! r-r-r-r!

"BACK AGAIN, Vizor; glad to see you," said Doctor Sollinger next morning; "and how did you find your aunt?"

"Well as ever, doctor, in body and mind, though I chanced on one or two circumstances that may incline you to a contrary opinion."

"Indeed."

Then Walter unburdened himself on the subjects of the hidden hoard and proprietary articles, to which Sollinger listened intently, though with a half smile on his face.

When the young man had finished, he said, in his gravest manner, "I think I would forget these things, Vizor. The old lady is too sensible to carry her new dietary to excess, I gather; and, as for the money, that's entirely her own affair, though I hope you'll inherit it in due time. But not too soon. Make your own way, as I did, without capital; you'll appreciate the increment better when it comes— if ever. There's many a slip, etc., as the old saw says. Whatever you do, don't let the idea of it render you inergetic in measure even."

Sollinger was a man of commanding presence and impressive address. Women said he was "romantic looking." He had long locks, great frame, and dusky complexion of the late Laureate, whom he resembled, too, in a certain carelessness of attire and blunt speech. One felt his influence straightaway, so Walter, highly impressionable, accepted the wisdom of the advice for the moment, replying, "Certainly not, doctor; certainly not."

But Tink! tink! Oh, hang it all! would the infernal sound never leave off its echoing?

However, there was soon work enough for partial distraction, and gradually, as Christmas approached, the lion's share fell to Walter, for Sollinger himself lost tone, and was plainly suffering; he confessed to heart trouble.

One day he said, "I don't think I shall live long, Vizor, without change and rest. I've always intended to transfer my practice to you on the easiest of terms, or leave it to you in my will, as I've neitner chick nor child. What do you say to a semi-transfer now, on this basis?— You shall pay me half the fees for two years, and the nominal sum of one thousand pounds when you come into your property. The farm and land will be yours, I understand— we must give no thought to that 'hoard' you mentioned. 'Gold is a chimera,' as the man sings in the opera of 'Robert the Devil.' I shall have to insure your life, of course, on mere business principles, but it's very likely that il shan't draw my share of the fees long, or get the purchase money. But I've not been a saving man, so, for a year or so, at least, a comfortable leisure will be a boon to me. What do you say?"

"I think you are offering me most generous terms, Doctor Sollinger; but I hope I'm not going to profit by your early death. Surely you are unduly depressed?"

"Perhaps; but I think not. To come to the point, shall we put the matter in hand? If so, I suggest a private understanding only. Don't worry your aunt with it. The idea of your finding so much money every year would unsettle her. She could not be brought to understand that I could not get the money if you did not make it. Possibly she'd regard it as a moral obligation to find the amount herself."

"I am entirely in your hands, sir."

So the thing was done, and Walter took the burden of the practice on his own shoulders. But they were broad ones, and his heart was big and hopeful. He sent his aunt a Christmas card, with a note saying that he would run down to the farm for the New Year, as had been his invariable custom since taking up his residence in London.

To this he received no reply, and, for the first time in his memory, no little acknowledgment of the season reached him from the old lady. He put these facts down to the very inclement weather, and resolved to wire, if he had no answer before his proposed visit. A letter from Martha, however, caused him to hurry to Gloucester by the first convenient train, Doctor Sollinger doing duty during his absence. The letter ran thus:

Dear Master Walltur,

Yer ant be powerful bad, and spits blud. She would not let me rite before, but come you down at wunst now.

From Martha with respex.

When he reached the fold-gate he saw the blinds of the house all down, and a tight, heavy hand seemed to press on his chest for a moment. But he pulled himself together, and ran to the door, opened it, and entered the kitchen.

There sat Martha, red-eyed and rigid on the settle, whilst a little, portly man, unknown to Walter, occupied the armchair, discussing a mug of hot, spiced cider.

"O, Master Walter, I be that glad to see 'e," cried the maid, "but I must make 'e known to this gentleman, Mr. Fettiplace, the doctor. This be Miss Vizor's nephew, sir; a doctor, too, from London."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir. though under painful circumstances," said Fettiplace. "Very sudden end, your aunt's. Began a week or so ago with hectic fever from a chill— which she made light of— then spitting of blood and other phthisical symptoms followed, and she succumbed to a form of consumption so rapid as to be quite out of my experience. Is it at all hereditary in your family?"

"No," said Walter. "Now, though I do not wish to reflect on your professional skill, I think you should have sent for me, as her sole relative," he added.

"I proposed it over and over again, as the maid will inform you; but Miss Vizor did not wish to spoil your Christmas. Really, I thought with her that she would throw the attack off, but its latest course was a complete surprise."

" 'Twas all they samples," interpolated Martha.

Fettiplace smiled at Walter Vizor. "Phthisis, neither more nor less, I assure you, sir," said he.

"I should like to see her, Martha," said Walter, softly.

"So 'e shall, Master 'Walter; peaceful and beautiful do 'a look."

So she did, and when he kissed the marble brow his hot tears fell upon it. and many little sins of omission and commision came co his mind as he bent over the form of her who had been the only mother he really ever knew.

"She was the sweetest, dearest soul that ever tarried on God's earth," he said.

"Ay, that 'a was, Master Walter," answered Martha; "and she minds you mind it, I'll be bound"— which was a simple belief, who shall gainsay?

It was only in the solitude of the house after the funeral that Walter thought of the old lady's directions as to her letter in the corner of tire family Bible. He found it there as she said. It was addressed,

"For my nephew, Walter Vizor, to be opened only in the event of my death.— Constance Vizor."

He broke the seal, and read the message. Though she dropped insensibly into dialect in speech, she wrote as an educated woman.

"My dear nephew Walter," it ran, "when this comes into your hands after my death, take the long key scratched with a V on the bow from the bunch. Then unscrew the rose from the right-hand side of the fireplace. They key fits the hole behind it. You'll find my savings for you there, dear boy, for I've never trusted a bank since mother lost some money in one. My father said it was. a priest's hole in the old days, and nobody living but myself, not even Martha, knows of it. That you may be successful and happy is the prayer of your loving aunt, Constance Vizor."

it was with a full heart that Walter followed these instructions. Everything was as she said. In the recess which the swinging jamb of the chimney-piece disclosed there was a green bag with a running string, containing his- inheritance. There were packets— 200 in all— sealed and neatly labelled "Ten pounds," with varying dates, and a long wash-leather budget full of loose gold coins. Walter book up a handful of these mechanically, and suffered them to fall through his fingers to the pile. Somehow the old 'Tink! tink! tink!— r-r-r-r-r!' stirred only a painful emotion in him now.

"As my strange inheritance has been safe through all these years, it will be equally so a little longer," he mused. "There must be about £3,000 altogether. I can't carry some sixty pound weight in my handbag all at once comfortably."

He replaced the small bag within the other, and then, taking one of his visiting cards, added the date. The card he tied within the string, which he afterwards sealed.

"Some sort of safeguard if Martha has the slightest inkling of this;" he thought; "but pshaw! she's as honest as the day. However, at present there is proof that I have for the moment, come into my own, and here's aunt's letter to back it."

Before returning to London he arranged with Martha that she should stay in the house with her brother,; one of the farmhands, for company. Martha's mind ran on nothing but her dead mistress; and the "pizen stuff," as she persisted in calling the samples.

Walter asked for the last bottle. It bore the name of a celebrated firm, and contained nuggets of meat chocolate.

"You must give up such a notion, Martha," said the young heir; "this is a well-known firm, and there is nothing in the world of drugs that could possibly cause rapid consumption. Nevertheless, I'll submit the samples for examination to a friend of mine, if that will ease younr mind; but for goodness sake don't mention your suspicions to anyone else, it would only cause gossip, and end in an action for libel."

"I'll keep faith with her," he thought on his journey back to town, "but won't bother Solinger with the matter in his present state of health. Hardie's my only man."

This was the celebrated analyst and bacteriologist, a genial, elderly scientist, from whom he had received many little professional kindnesses.

Hardie cut him short as he began to go' into details. "Don't let me start on a preconcerted notion," he said. "I understand that you wish me to make a certain analysis— that is enough. Come again in three-days, and I will tell you the result."

Walter thanked him and went on his way, to go again at the appointed time; as a mere matter of form, he imagined.

Hardie was brief, but his communication blanched Walter's cheeks, and made of him almost an automaton for the time being.

"The tabloids," said the man of science, "have been tampered with; a small, wedge-shaped piece was taken out of several, and a brown powder from micor phycomyces— a sort of fungus— mixed with coca butter, having been inserted, the outer portion of each wedge was carefully replaced. The powder throws out spores which attach themselves rapidly to the mucous membrane of the throat. AIl the symptoms of phthisis follow, and death ensues in three weeks at most. You will find a full report of a case in the Times of February,  1862. Now, tell me everything."

When he could command himself, Walter did so, omitting no details, though even at the time he wondered at some of Hardie's apparently purposeless questions. He understood all later.

"A lawyer would say, 'Go to the police,' " said Hardie. "I say, tell Sollinger first. I remember him at the Medical College when we were students. We called him 'The Gipsy'— I believe he has some Romany blood in him— so he'll be able to afford you some peculiar information about this specific poison, and a possible cause for its presence in the chocolate, I've no doubt; for the gipsies themselves employ it as dri or drei. Good-day and best wishes."

Walter made some halting thanks, and hurried away to Sollinger, to whom he poured out the whole story. The doctor's lips went strangely blue as the tale progressed, but he listened patiently.

"So Hardie advised you to tell me, before consulting the police," he said at the close.

"Yes, Doctor Sollinger."

"He acted thoughtfully altogether, and I will prepare a little monograph for your use and that of the authorities to-night. Excuse me if I go to my room at once; my heart has been troublesome again, and your news has upset me."

When Walter waked early in the morning, after a restless night, he saw that an envelope had been pushed under his bedroom door. It was addressed to him, and sealed with Sollinger's signet. The "monograph" was inside, and this was its purport:

Dear Vizor, — Forgive me calling you so; it is for the last time, and I liked you better than anyone else on earth, save myself. And what am I? Materialist, opium-eater, and ruined gambler. I wanted that £1000 very much for debts of honor— for my practice, good as it was, has not kept pace with my losses— so the plan of introducing the fungus powder into some samples which I sent to your aunt easily occurred to me— one of the Romany stock, as shrewd old Hardie said. One more thing I wish you to believe, for it is as true as the other. Though I insured your life, I had no designs, present or future, upon it; the arrangement was purely a safeguard in the business sense. I made my will some time ago, leaving you the practice— I have no other heir, so do not hesitate to accept. This letter will clear the air of suspicion gains ground. My dose of opium to-night will be a stronger one than usual, and we shall meet no more. Farewell for ever.

Caleb Smith Sollinger.

The letter dropped from Walter's hands.

"Fooled! deceived!" he stammered. His strange inheritance. Tink! tink! tink!— r-r-r-r! the sound dinned in his ears once more like the reiterated voices of malevolent goblins.

________________

12: The Man Who Sold His Head

Elliott Flower

1863-1920

The Black Cat, May 1904

Another "different" story from The Black Cat

"A REMARKABLE head!" commented Dr. Linscott. "I wish I had it."

"If it's worth anything to you," returned Eugene Freer, gloomily, "you ought to have it, for it's worth nothing to me."

Freer was discouraged. He was not a particularly smart man, and he had lacked regular employment for some time. When a man who is past middle age and who has been a clerk all his life loses his place there does not seem to be much hope for him. Employers want young men for positions that do not require the expert knowledge that comes with experience. So Freer was having a hard time making a living, and he could not see that his head was of any value.

Dr. Linscott had a different opinion, however. Freer had come to him for a prescription for some slight ailment, and in entering had jarred an Indian war-club from its place above the door. The fact that the club landed on his head did not disturb him in the least, so the Doctor's interest was aroused.

He discovered that the head was of unusual shape and apparently of unusual construction. The skull seemed to be about two inches thick, and there were other peculiarities that would be appreciated only by a physician who was making a study of abnormal cranial development.

"Oh, it may be worth something to you," said the Doctor, in reply to Freer's complaint. "How much will you take for it?"

Freer was startled.

"What good would money do me when my head's gone?" he asked.

"But I would expect to make payment in advance," explained the Doctor.

"You'd have to," asserted Freer. "A C.O.D. transaction wouldn't do at all.''

"I can readily appreciate that," said the Doctor. "If I waited to deliver the head before taking the money it would be very awkward," persisted Freer. "And then there is the question of spending the money. A fellow wants to have his head about him when he goes into any financial transactions. Otherwise, he will be cheated, sure."

"Oh, I would expect to leave the head in your keeping," returned the Doctor.

"For how long?" asked Freer, doubtfully.

"As long as you had any use for it."

"I wouldn't like to make one of these call-loan deals of it," explained Freer. "The uncertainty as to when it might be 'called' would be really distressing."

"Don't worry about that," urged the Doctor. "I admit that your head on your shoulders doesn't amount to much, in which it is very much like many other heads in this world; but your head in my hands would be of considerable value to medical science. I would like to examine it at my leisure, inside and out; I would like to see exactly what force is required to crack the skull; I would like to investigate the cause of its peculiar shape— indeed, there are a number of experiments I would like to make with and on that head of yours, and then, too, I think it would make a valuable addition to my collection of curious and abnormal skulls. But I have no desire to be unreasonable. I can quite understand your disinclination to have your skull put on a shelf as long as you have any personal use for it, so all I ask is that it shall come to me when you are dead."

"May I take my own time about dying?"

"So far as I am concerned, you may."

"That's very liberal of you."

"I think it is myself. Some people— in fact, most people— would not be willing to give their property into the keeping of another for an indefinite period, but I always was a generous and considerate man. If you sell me your head, you may have the use of it as long as you live, and I won't even charge you rent for it."

"Suppose you should die first?"

"In that case, I will bequeath it to a professional friend in whom I have the utmost confidence."

"I don't think I would like to have my head figuring in a will contest in the probate court," said Freer. "The judge might insist upon appointing another custodian for it, or he might insist that it be deposited with the clerk of the court. You never can tell what a judge will do."

"We will see that the provisions of the bill of sale guard against that."

"How much is the head worth to you?"

"Five hundred dollars."

"Cash?"

"No; I can't afford to pay that much down, but I'll give you five dollars a week in addition to giving you all necessary medical attention free of charge, and I'll pay you for a full month in advance now."

"Pass over the twenty," said Freer, reaching a sudden decision, "and I'll sign the bill of sale whenever it's ready. Twenty dollars looks mighty big to me just now, and a fellow with five dollars a week can't starve, anyhow."

The fact that he had money in his pocket made Freer reasonably contented when he left the Doctor's office, but later he began to worry a little. It seemed to him that a fellow who had no head of his own was indeed an unfortunate and poverty-stricken wretch, and certainly no self-respecting man would consent to be indebted to another for so important a part of his personal structure. It completely wrecked his independence. He could do nothing by himself, but had to rely on the generosity of a comparative stranger for practically everything. It was the Doctor's property that enabled him to read. If he studied, he was improving the Doctor's mental equipment. The work that he did was a sort of combination— he used his own hands, but they were directed by the Doctor's brains, and he learned of the progress made through the Doctor's eyes.

Sometimes he wondered if the Doctor were not entitled to part of the money he made out of the occasional employment that he secured, but the Doctor's assurance that he would not charge him rent for the head seemed to dispose of this question. Still, it was humiliating to have to make such personal use of another's property.

"Anyway," he argued to himself, ''it was a good bargain, for I also get medical attention free. Now, if I'm sick—'' He stopped with a sudden gasp.

"Great Scott!" he exclaimed, "wouldn't I be a fool to let the owner of this head pour any drugs into me? If he happened to get impatient for it, what kind of a chance would I stand?"

With this idea in mind he took the first opportunity to inform the Doctor that he would not call upon him for any professional services.

"Haven't you confidence in my professional skill?" asked the Doctor.

"I have too much confidence in it," answered Freer. "I have so much confidence in it that I don't like to put temptation in your way. You might want the head, and I wouldn't like to make it too easy for you to get it."

"But it's my head," urged the Doctor," and I have a right to see that it receives proper care and attention. If you have any lung or heart trouble, it may be all right to go to another physician, but if anything goes wrong with my head, you ought to bring it to me."

"You can inspect it from time to time to see that it's in good condition and receiving proper care," suggested Freer, "but really I'm a good deal interested in looking out for that head myself."

"True," admitted the Doctor, "but your interest is divided— the head is not your sole care, as it is mine— and I certainly must caution you to be careful. If you want to break an arm or a leg or a rib, why it's your business, but don't let a brick or anything fall on the head. As the custodian of my property, you must be unusually cautious. If it got smashed it would be valueless to me."

"And to me," remarked Freer.

"Of course, of course," the Doctor conceded. "I guess, on the whole, I can afford to content myself with an occasional examination."

For some time after this all ran so smoothly that Freer became reconciled to his bargain. He was now fortunate enough to have a little work to do, and he went once a week to the Doctor's office to get his five dollars. This was paid without question or comment at first, but later the Doctor became irritable and unreasonable. Very likely this was due to the fact that his investment in the head was becoming considerable, and consequently the risk worried him. The day that Freer appeared with a black eye he was positively angry.

"You've been abusing my head," he exclaimed, "and I won't stand it. You've no right to put it in jeopardy by fighting. Think of how my interests would have been harmed if the other fellow had taken a meat-cleaver to it."

"And my interests, too," suggested Freer.

On another occasion the Doctor called across the street to Freer:

"Hi, there! bring my head over here!" which made people turn and look at Freer, to his great discomfort. And, to make matters worse, the Doctor at once began to upbraid him for passing under a scaffolding that held a number of carpenters.

"Suppose one of them had dropped a hammer on my head ! " exclaimed the Doctor. "I tell you you're not treating me right in this matter. It's outrageous that you should expose my head to such danger."

A crowd naturally gathered.

"I wish to thunder you had your old head!" retorted Freer, angrily.

"Well, why don't you give it to me?" demanded the Doctor. "It's because you're too mean; you're going to live to the end of the hundred payments just to be ugly. Science is nothing to you; the fact that the world waits anxiously for the knowledge that I will glean from that head makes no impression on you at all. You lack consideration— all you can think of is money. But you've got to be careful, or I'll go into court and have you fined for making improper use of my property."

As time passed the Doctor showed many signs of increasing impatience. Whenever and wherever he met Freer he peremptorily ordered him to submit his head for examination— to the great amazement of strangers; and Freer often found other physicians with the Doctor when he called to get his payments. On these occasions the Doctor demonstrated his proprietary interest in the head in a way that was annoying.

"What do you think of my purchase?" he asked one day. "Bring it over here, Freer."

And Freer had to submit to an examination and listen to a learned discussion, after which the Doctor produced a heavy plate and broke it over Freer's head.

"You've no right to do that!" cried Freer.

"Oh, that's all right," returned the Doctor. "It was a risk, of course, but I was willing to take it in order to demonstrate a point to these skeptics."

Then he took them all to an inner room where a row of skulls stood on a shelf.

"There are some very curious specimens there," he explained, "but," and he placed his hand on the head that Freer was using,  "I believe this to be more remarkable than any of them, and you will note that I have reserved a place of honor for it."

He pointed to a vacant space near the middle of the shelf. "When this man," he went on, indicating Freer, "is considerate enough to deliver the goods I shall be glad to have your assistance in the ensuing investigation. It will, I think, prove a delightful and instructive task."

Freer left, with a picture impressed on his mind that was disturbing; he could see his own skull in the centre of that row, and he could also see those cold-blooded doctors deep in the study of it. That isn't a pleasant sort of a vision for a man to have with him always. Added to the annoyance and humiliation of having no head of his own in life, it made his position almost unbearable, and, after some thought, he went to a police station.

"I don't see what we can do," said the Captain, when the matter was explained to him. "A man's head is always worth what he can get for it, and, if he wants to sell it, it's his own business. If some one else sold your head, it would be different. I don't think we could permit a brokerage business in living heads, as a matter of public policy, but—"

"That's it," broke in Freer. "Public policy! Such a bargain as this must be against public policy, and consequently void."

"Perhaps," conceded the Captain, "but you'd have to get a ruling of court on that. So far as I'm concerned, we can only get at the question through the gambling laws, and I doubt very much if that would be satisfactory. As I understand it, if you die before all the payments are made, the Doctor wins that much."

"He gets the head without paying the full price," said Freer, "and that's what makes him so ugly. He thinks I ought to die."

"In that case," asserted the Captain, "it's a gamble, a game of chance."

"Can you raid it?" asked Freer, anxiously. "We can raid anything, but the trouble is that we're compelled to seize all that pertains to the game in progress, and in this instance that would include the head."

"Great Scott!" exclaimed Freer, "I don't want any more people to have claims to that head."

"And, anyway," continued the Captain, " we might not be able to make a case. It's quite possible that this might be considered speculation rather than gambling. I guess the only thing for you to do is to buy back your head."

But what chance had Freer to buy back the head?

The Doctor would probably demand a premium, and where could he get the necessary money? Apparently the only thing of value he had was the head, and he could not hypothecate that while the title rested in another, even if any one else would be willing to accept it as security.

"And, besides," argued Freer, "that wouldn't help matters any. If I  can't have title to the head myself, I might as well leave it with the Doctor. Another owner might be even more disagreeable than he is. No; there's no hope for me. I'll never have a head of my own again, and there's mighty little satisfaction or pleasure in using another man's. If I happened to be married now, I wonder what my wife would say to a headless husband. It's a most extraordinary predicament— and so complicated. Why, if I didn't have to carry this other fellow's head about with me, I could go on exhibition at a dime museum as the headless man and easily get enough money to buy back what is necessary to make a complete man of myself."

Thus a year passed, during which Freer frequently speculated on the joy of being a whole person, for the doctor became more and more dictatorial. He even prepared a set of rules for Freer's guidance, and his references to prospective experiments with his purchased skull were of a nature to produce a most disquieting effect. He also made sarcastic comments on the mercenary spirit that induced Freer to hang on for the full purchase price. Then, too, when discussing the subject with others in Freer's presence, he gloated over his acquisition, and he pointed out the exact spot where he planned to pierce the skull at some later date.

But relief came at last, in the form of a legacy to Freer. It wasn't a large one, being only $10,000 out of a large estate left by a distant relative, but it was a fortune to Freer after his long and hard struggle.

"What are you going to do with it?" asked the lawyer who acquainted him with his good luck.

"Buy a head," answered Freer.

"What kind of a head?" asked the lawyer, puzzled.

"A human head," said Freer.

"Whose?"

"Well, I used to own it, but it's Dr. Linscott's now. Still, I've always had a fondness for it, and I want to get it back."

"Pardon me," said the lawyer, solicitously, "but were you ever in an asylum?"

"Never."

"I suppose it's all right," remarked the lawyer, dubiously, "but this talk about buying a head when you already have one—"

"Oh, hang it all ! a fellow likes to own the head he uses, doesn't he?"

"Of course. I never knew a man who didn't own his head."

"Well, you know one now,'' exclaimed Freer, irritably. "This isn't my head."

"No?"

"No. I have title only from the neck down."

"Then who is it talking to me?" demanded the lawyer.

Here was a new problem, and a startling one. The head was doing all the talking.

"Confound it!" cried Freer, "don't make this tangle any worse than it is now. I've had a year of it, and I'm nearly crazy."

"I believe you," said the lawyer, "but unfortunately I have no discretion in the matter of paying over this money. However, I'll give you a piece of advice: If you wish to retain your liberty, don't say anything to others about the loss of your head."

"Oh, that's all right," returned Freer. "I'll have it back within twenty-four hours."

"I hope so," said the lawyer, but he was very much tempted to send for an insanity expert, just the same.

The moment Freer had his money in bank he went to see Dr. Linscott.

"I want to buy back my head," he announced.

"My head," corrected the Doctor. "Well, your head, then."

"Which one?" asked the Doctor.

"I'd like to buy the one I'm wearing, to use," returned Freer, bitterly, "And I'd like to buy the one you're wearing to play football with. It would give me great joy to try to kick a goal from the field with it."

"I don't believe I care to part with either," said the Doctor.

"Oh, come, now," urged Freer, "don't be miserly and selfish about it. Only a mighty mean man will hang on to two heads when there's a fellow in serious need of one of them. Just put a price on it."

"Only the constituted authorities are privileged to put a price on a man's head," asserted the Doctor. "And, besides, it would be such a loss to science. Why, the value of that head to science is incalculable."

"If you don't sell," threatened Freer, "I'll spend my $10,000 entirely on ocean travel."

"Heavens!" cried the Doctor, " if you should be drowned, the head would be lost."

"Exactly so," said Freer.

"Suppose I give you a life interest in the head," suggested the Doctor.

"I have that now."

"But I mean, free from all interference and criticism— to do with exactly as you see fit."

"Not at all satisfactory," said Freer. "I must have absolute title to the head. Custodianship won't answer, no matter how easy the terms may be. You can't appreciate the situation, because you've never been without a head, but I can't be contented unless I own it absolutely."

The Doctor was troubled. He didn't want to give up the head, and yet.

"My first ocean trip," Freer remarked, "will be from New York to San Francisco in a sailing vessel by way of Cape Horn."

"Can't we compromise this thing?" asked the Doctor. "I'll give you absolute title to the head, if you will bequeath it to me in your will and release me from all further payments."

"It will be wholly and entirely mine?"

"It will."

"You will have nothing to say about it during the term of my ownership?"

"Not a thing."

"Then I agree." The Doctor breathed a sigh of relief, and so did Freer. Furthermore, the latter was so pleased that, as soon as the necessary papers had been drawn up and signed, he went back to see the lawyer.

"I have my own head now," he told him.

"It looks just like the other," asserted the lawyer. "It is the other," said Freer, "but you seemed so troubled about the matter when I was here before that I thought I would come back and tell you that it's mine."

The lawyer puzzled over that problem for a long time, and be finally decided that it beat anything he ever found in a law book. But, if Freer's sanity ever should be questioned in court and the decision should rest upon the testimony of that lawyer, it would be a sorry day for Freer.

______________

13: The Girl on the Platform

Harold Bindloss

1866-1945

World's News (Sydney), 17 July 1920

CARRUTHERS told Blake his story when they travelled down from Liverpool by the night express, and thought him interested. When he told it again, for the last time, he wondered whether the thing was a strange coincidence, or if his friend had meant to make a bold experiment. Tony had certainly led him on, and knew the Railtons.

Carruthers was stopping with Blake in the North on his return from Canada, where he had helped at the reconstruction of a great railroad track. Blake took him to Langrigg, by the tarn, and, when the Railtons asked him to come again. Carruthers went. He liked them all; particularly Alice, the eldest daughter. The strange thing was. she reminded him of somebody he had met; he could not member whom. Then the Railtons knew Canada, although Carruthers noted that they did not talk much about the country. Blake said Railton had retired from the board of a company that transacted business there.

Tea was over when, one afternoon, Blake and Carruthers talked with the Railtons on the lawn at Langrigg. The sun was hot, and the tarn shone like silver against a green larch wood. In the background, rugged fells cut the sky. The lawn was smooth as velvet, the hedge was neatly clipped, and Carruthers felt that order and tranquillity ruled at Langrigg-.All was very calm; one heard a beck splash, and the drowsy hum of bees.

While Blake and Railton talked about foxhunting on the crags. Carruthers mused and studied his host. He had not known much quietness, and the white scar a bullet had left showed on his sun-burned neck. He found Langrigg soothing, and the Railtons' society had charm; somehow the people were like their house. Mrs. Railton was white-haired, old-fashioned, and marked by a gracious calm; the two girls had a well-bred serenity. It looked as if none had been rudely jarred, but Carruthers felt they had pluck to bear and hide a jolt. In Railton alone one now and then got a hint of fire and rashness. For the most part, however, he talked like a sober country gentleman.

"Yon get some thrills following hounds on foot across the rocks, but Jim's the man for real adventures," Blake remarked. "If you want a romantic tale, ask him how he got the bullet scar."

Carruthers felt embarrassed. Although he had built railroads in rude countries, his adventures were not numerous. He did not want to tell the story, and saw afterwards that Blake had rather cleverly forced him to do so.

"Oh, well," he said, at length, "about a year since, I was going back to my construction camp on the Vancouver express. She was making good time through the woods west of Fort William, and the thing began with, my meeting the girl on the car platform. It was dark, the porter was fixing up the berths, but the smoking compartment was hot, and I went out for a breath of air.  There was a moon: I saw a lake flash and dark trees reel by when the cars took a bridge. One of the old wooden trestles we were replacing; I expect you've felt them rock.

"The moonlight touched the back of the car in front, and, while we ran across the long trestle, a girl came out of the vestibule. I was in the gloom, and don't think she saw me, but she was distinct. I noticed her clothes first, because she didn't wear regulation travelling dress; I thought she'd come from a summer camp in the woods. Winnipeg people go off to camp and fish, you know."

"We do know," said Railton, when Carruthers paused. "Please go on."

"The girl turned, and I saw her face. She was young, but looked disturbed, as if she had got a shock. She seized the rails, and, putting her foot on the step, looked down. The car hadn't the new guards some carry; one could get off the platform when the train was running. The trestle was the usual skeleton frame, and you could see the water shine between the metals. Well, the girl was obviously disturbed, and perhaps I ought to have gone, but I imagined if the train slowed at a curve she might try to jump off."

"What grounds had you for thinking this?" Railton asked, in a strangely level voice.

"I really don't know," Carruthers replied. "Her strained look, perhaps. However, I stopped, and when we ran round a curve and the cars rocked, I put my hand on her arm.

" 'Hold fast, or you'll get jolted off," I said.

"She started, and colored up when she looked up. but she was calmer than I thought. One felt she had called her pluck to help. But perhaps you're getting bored, and I'd better hurry on?"

"We are not at all bored," said Railton. and Carruthers saw the others were sitting very still.

Mrs. Railton's pose indicated strain, Marjorie's face was delicately flushed, and Alice fixed her eyes on Carruthers with strange intentness. Blake, however, lighted a cigarette, and, going to the hedge to throw away the match, did not come back.

Marjorie," said Mrs. Railton. "will you tell James about the flowers I promised the vicar?"

The younger girl got up, but Alice looked at her mother.

"I think you know why I mean to stop," she said.

Carruthers was puzzled, but when Railton urged him, he resumed:

"The girl asked me when the train would stop, and I said not until the locomotive ran out of water. She flinched, and looked desperate.

" 'But I mast get off!' she said.

" 'You can't,' I rejoined, and when I pulled her back from the step she glanced at the door, as if she were afraid somebody might come out.

" 'Couldn't the conductor be persuaded or bribed to pull up the train?' she asked.

"I said nothing but a blocked line stopped the Vancouver express. I wanted to indulge her, and knew the train gang, but the company had been cutting down the time schedule, and any delay must be accounted for. All the same, after the June rains wash-outs were numerous, and since the double track wasn't finished. I thought we might be held up.

" 'If we do stop, you'll have to get off in the woods,' I said.

"She said she didn't mind. The only thing that mattered was, she must leave the train. She ought not to have come, and wanted to go East, and not to Winnipeg. It was important. Could I help?

"Well, the thing was puzzling, but I promised. The girl was young, and her distress was obvious. One saw she had grounds for being afraid of somebody on the train. I took her to the conductor and told him she must not be disturbed, and then returned to the platform. Soon afterwards, a man came out of the other vestibule; rather a handsome fellow, but I didn't like his frown, and thought his temper wasn't good. He gave me a keen glance and want into the car I'd left. By-and-by he came back and looked at me again. His face was red, and, when he went on and banged the vestibule door, I smiled. It was obvious he had been looking for the girl and had not found her.

"Half an hour afterwards I heard a whistle and went to the platform. A headlamp shone like a star in the dark woods. The wash-outs had upset the time schedule; I imagined the operator had been forced to run a fast freight over the section, and we were to go through the side track. Reckoning we might stop, I went to the conductor, who took me to the girl. She got up, fully dressed, from a curtained berth.

" 'If you want to go East, I think I can help,' I said. 'It will be a rough trip. Are you afraid?'

" 'I'm afraid to stop on board,' she replied, and I took her out on the platform when the train slowed—"

Carruthers paused and looked about. Blake had gone across the lawn, but the others had not moved at all. Carruthers saw their interest was poignantly keen.

"Our car stopped near the freight locomotive, and I lifted the girl down," he went on. "She trembled and hesitated, but I saw she meant to go. I beckoned the engineer, whom I knew, and told him to put the girl down at a settlement where she could get the next train East. Against the rules, of course, but I was a boss."

"But the girl would need a new ticket. Had sho any money?" Mrs. Railton interrupted.

"She had some." said Carruthers, and tried to resume, but Alice stopped him.

"You gave her some!"

"Well," said Carruthers, awkwardly, "I had seen her look into her purse and frown, and when I helped her on the engine I pushed some bills into her hand. I don't think she knew, till afterwards what they were. You see, it was rather a strained moment; we knew the other fellow might come along before she got off. However, the freight pulled out, and my train rolled on slowly across a big wash-out into the woods. Nobody but the conductor knew the girl had gone.

"Afterwards I didn't feel like sleep. I wondered what the other man would do, and by-and-by he came through the car again. His mouth was set, and he stopped near me for a moment, as if he meant to speak, but went on.  Somehow I felt I'd taken the proper line when I helped the girl to get away from him."

"Then she told you nothing about her object for going?" Mrs. Railton asked.

"Nothing. Of course, I didn't urge her.

When she got into the locomotive cab, she said— but after all, it's not important."

Alice Railton looked up, and her eyes shone. "You are very modest. One can imagine what the girl said, or, at least, what she felt! She was lucky to find a champion like you!"

Carruthers' heart beat, but he resumed his story. "We stopped at a small flag station, and the man jumped down from the car. Somebody stood on the track by the steps, and it looked as if they were arguing. I thought the man on the line wanted the other to leave the train, but, when the locomotive snorted, he jumped back. Afterwards I'd grounds for imagining he got on board because he didn't mean to go without the girl.

"Well, when I was half asleep In a corner of the smoking compartment, we stopped again, and I looked out. The spot was lonely, and small, dark pines grew close up to the track. It's all thick bush for four hundred miles, until you reach the plains near Winnipeg, you know; a desolate wilderness, only pierced by a few loggers' trails. Well, I saw the water tank, and somebody with a lamp, by the agent's shack. Then I heard steps, and turned from the window as the conductor and a North-West policeman came into the ear.

" 'Where's the fellow you told me to watch out for?' the conductor asked

"I said I didn't know, and went with them through the vestibule. It was obvious afterwards that another trooper was searching the front of the train. The North-West Police hunt in couples, bat to leave one to watch the track might have been a better plan. As we went out, the man they wanted opened the door of the car opposite; perhaps he had heard the trooper at the front end questioning the passengers. He stopped when the conductor lifted his lamp, as if he were dazzled by the light, but next moment he saw the trooper's uniform, and backed against the door. It was shut; the spring bolt had engaged when he let the handle go.

" 'Nothing doing that way,' said the trooper. 'My partner's coming along behind you. You're collared all right!'

"The fellow had one hand behind him; I thought he was feeling for the bolt. His face was in the light, and I saw his lips draw back from his teeth, and the veins on his forehead swell. He looked strangely savage, like a wolf in a trap. All the same, his eyes were not Used on the trooper, hat on me.

" '—— you!' he said. 'If you hadn't meddled—. But I'll fix you yet.'

"His hand went up, and there was a flash. I stumbled back, but the trooper jumped forward, across the platform. I think he seized the man, and the pistol dropped, but something hurt my neck, and I began to cough and choke. I had a hazy notion the fellow threw the trooper across the rails, though perhaps they fell through the opening, as they grappled. Anyhow, I sat down with my back against the door, and while I tried to stop coughing thought I heard a rifle shot from the line. Then the conductor pulled me up, and as he helped me into the car, the train rolled on. After this I didn't remember much until in the morning we reached Winnipeg, where somebody put me on board an automobile, and drove me to the doctor's. He cured me soon; the pistol bullet had missed the throat and arteries, and hadn't done much ham. Well. I think that's all."

"I think not,'' said Railton, quietly. "You must have seen we rather forced you to tell your tale, and we had an object. To begin with, there was nothing in the newspapers about your part in the affair."

Carruthers smiled. "This was easily arranged. I was a railroad boss, and, as a rule, a hint front the company's office goes some way with Canadian newspapers." He paused, and hesitated; then he resumed: "You see, it was obvious that the girl's adventure must not be talked about. The conductor was the only man who knew, and when he helped me down at Winnipeg, I warned him he'd better not tell the reporters all."

Mrs. Rail ton gave him a very friendly glance, and Railton asked, with something of an effort: "Can you fix the date and time you first saw the girl on the platform?"

Carruthers told him the date, and added: "I had Just looked at my watch. It was not quite ten o'clock."

He saw Mrs. Railton's keen relief, and that Alice turned her head, but Railton said, "The fellow got off into the woods, and has not been caught. I suppose it was impossible he rejoined the girl?"

"I think so," Carruthers declared. "For one thing, it looked as if she was horribly afraid of him, and when I put her on the freight locomotive, we were fifty miles from the spot where the troopers boarded the train. Then he'd head for the United States, and I saw her, some time afterwards, at Montreal."

Railton started, Mrs. Railton colored, as if with strong emotion, and Alice looked at Carruthers hard.

"You saw her at Montreal!" she said.

"Yes," said Carruthers, "so to speak, by accident. I went into a shop to buy some enamelled silver souvenirs. She was helping at a counter, and looked well. I doubt if she saw me, and, thinking I might embarrass her, I didn't speak. It's a pretty good shop, and the hotel clerk told me it's run by nice people.

"He said he reckoned the hands had nothing to kick about."

"Alice," said Mrs. Railton, "go to my room and bring the pictures Lance took in the woods."

In a minute or two Alice returned, and gave Carruthers a photograph. The picture was good, and the figures distinct. A group of young men and women lounged among the boulders by a lake. In the background were neat tents, and small ragged pines. Obviously a fishing camp for people from Canora or Winnipeg. Carruthers picked out Alice, and then another girl fixed his glance. Now he knew why he had thought Miss Railton like somebody he had met. He put down the picture, and his face got red.

"Oh!" he said, "I didn't know! It was plain you had grounds for curiosity; but I never reckoned on this!"

"Yon have no grounds for embarrassment," Mrs. Railton replied. "My daughter was strangely lucky when she met you, and it was providential Blake brought you to our house. You have broken the suspense that tormented us. I doubt if the debt we owe you can be paid."

"Where is Blake?" Carruthers asked.

Alice Railton looked about, and smiled. "Tony has gone off, and may not come back yet," she said. "I wonder—"

She stopped, and went to her mother, and Railton gave his hand to Carruthers, and took him away.

"My wife is feeling the reaction after a long strain," he said. "You have told us much, and perhaps you ought to know the rest, although it's possible you now see a light. Well, it's a common story; a clever, handsome scoundrel, and an obstinate, romantic girl! He met her at Toronto, and when we made some inquiries, I forbade him to talk and thought it prudent to send the girls to join some friends from Winnipeg at a camp in the woods. Business prevented my going; I was sorry afterwards, for it looked as if the fellow had followed the girls, and lurked about. Well, I expect he knew my daughter would inherit some money, and when he found out that people he had swindled were getting on his track, he made a bold stroke; hoped to get across the frontier from the station in the woods. I expect the fellow on the line had, no doubt, brought a horse for him, but the other knew, if he left the train without my daughter, he would lose her money. Well, you can imagine our relief when your story satisfied me she had found him out in time. All the same, Ruth is proud. I imagine she got a bad jar, and, feeling she had humiliated us, resolved to stop in Canada. Just give me the address of the shop at Montreal; I'm going straight across, to bring her home."

Carruthers got away as soon as he could, but he came back afterwards, and thrilled when Railton's eldest daughter gave him her thanks. He thought the Railtons did, perhaps, owe him something, but he began to hope that by-and-by Alice would pay the debt.

_________________

14: The Storm Centre

J. J. Bell

1871-1934

World's News (Sydney) 27 Oct 1923

ALMOST past was the seventh day of the heat wave which had made meteorological records; and evening had brought no relief to London— to the London, at least, that must work. In the City itself, the roar of traffic had fallen to a muttering; side streets were blank and silent; but mere quiet was no solace in that heavy, enervating atmosphere. Now, however. at eight o'clock, it was growing dark, though the invisible sun was still nearly two hours from its setting. Surely, at last, the oft anticipated storm was at hand.

In a room, high up in a block of offices, two people rat at work— a man and a girl— the one checking typewritten sheets, while the other read aloud from a manuscript. At first sight, the room, with its book-lined walls, suggested a library, rather than a commercial office; yet its furnishings, save for a dainty tea-service on a side table, were businesslike enough.

The girl's voice sounded tired: in the fading light her face— a fair and very charming one— showed weariness, but her utterance, distinct and regular, evinced no lack of interest in her task.

The man. too, looked fagged, haggard, in fact, and at that moment you would probably have credited him with a dozen years more than his age; and,  had you glanced at the bookcase. you might even have added ten more, because one does not associate thirty with a library, mainly composed of statistical works, relating to nothing but commerce.

But the library was Hugh Stanley's through inheritance. and he was sitting in it now, because, nearly two years ago. he had promised his dying father to do nothing with his life until he had completed and prepared for publication, the old man's great work, entitled "A Century of British Commerce." It was a task to appal a young man of less filial devotion, a promise to. be somehow evaded by one of less honesty and conscience.

And now—

The girl stopped. Her mouth quivered, she controlled herself and, with an effort, clearly two words— "The end."

Hugh Stanley laid the page methodically on the heap in front of him, drew his hand across his eyes. and muttered, "Thank God!"

The girl's head dropped. There was no thankfulness in her heart. To her this was more than the end of a great task. It was the end of the happiest companionship she had known in her twenty-three years. But, t next moment she was meeting his eyes, his friendly smile.

"Congratulations, Mr. Stanley," she said quietly.

The smile faded. "Miss Lennox," he said, "but for you I should never have won through. You made this victory possible.

"Oh, please!" she murmured.

"We have come through a desert," he went on. "Dry isn't the name for It. Without your energy and courage. I should have lost heart. And now I thank you with all my heart." He held out his hand.

Silent, she gave him hers, and for a very little longer than usual he held it.

"It was a good day for me when you became my secretary, eighteen months ago," he continued. "I had made a vow, that looked like becoming a millstone round my neck. Now the vow Is fulfilled, and I'm free— free— and all thanks to you." Once more he smiled. "The funny thing is. Miss Lennox, I'm almost sorry the fight is over. How do you feel about it?"

She shook her head. "I don't think I realise yet that it's over. Perhaps, by the sea. to-morrow night, I shall know." She began to gather together her secretarial implements.

"You need a big holiday," he remarked, "and I'm glad you are starting off at once. There are several things we must discuss, but not now. You and I are both too done up with our final effort. If I may"— his voice held a suspicion of tenderness— "I shall come and see you one day next week, when you are rested. Meantime, there is one thins I must mention— and you are not to be offended, but It's vital to my peace of mind. When I began this work. I had no thought of material reward, but now Fargus. the publisher, tells me that the book is going to earn a lot of money. And so I have arranged with Fargus for an agreement whereby you and I share the proceeds "

"Mr. Stanley!"

"Oh, don't be vexed! It's the only way "

"I couldn't!" she cried. "You have been paying me a very handsome salary—"

"Nothing to the handsome help you have given me. So please—"

"It's awfully generous of you. but—"

For an instant they saw each other in a glare.

"Ah, the storm, coming at last!" said Stanley. "Well, let us leave everything till next week. You must get to the Underground before the clouds break— there's the thunder!" He rose. "I'll put things away. Don't delay."

"Let me put those precious papers in the strong-room."

"Please leave them. I'm going to sit here for an hour and do nothing."

"Mr. Stanley," she said, getting up, "You ought to have some food."

He made a grimace, and put his hand to his head. She thought him looking ill, and said so, but he laughed, saying. "Only the weather," and begging her—another flash— to go quickly.

As she hesitated, came a sudden knocking at the door of the outer office.

It was almost dark, and Stanley switched on the lights, saying "A telegram, perhaps. I'll go."

But she was already gone. He heard her unlocking the door, and then a man's gasping voice— "Oh, thank God! Let me go to him," and the secretary's "Mr. Lanceworth!" in astonishment.

Next moment a young man, pale, panting, dishevelled, stumbled into his presence.

"Why, Harry, old man! What's wrong?" Stanley supported the reeling form of his cousin.

"Wrong? Nothing! Everything's right!" sobbed the other. "Everything right at last!"

Then Stanley realised that the exhausted young man was almost beside himself with joy.

"Harry!" he cried; "do you mean to tell me that you've got the proofs at last?"

"That's it! Proofs— full proofs— proofs that I was innocent of the charge that held me in gaol for two years; abundant proofs against the blackguards that sent me there to save themselves! Yes, I've got them all safe, Hugh! I— I—" Lanceworth paused for breath.

"Sit down, old man. This is the greatest, gladdest news—"

"No, no. I must not wait, Hugh." Lanceworth obtained partial control of himself. "Here," he said hoarsely, bringing out a bunch of folded documents, "here they are! Put them in your safe till I can get them to my lawyer. I— I've had a run for it, and I must keep moving. Take them and let me go."

"But, Harry, you've been in a struggle!"

"For God's sake, don't ask me to explain now. I fought Leiter in his rooms, searched his safe, and got these! But I was nearly caught.... The gang is after me.... I managed to dodge them—I think—for the moment.... Oh. take the papers— take them! My future, my mother's life, depends upon their safety.... I'll 'phone you to-morrow." He tore himself free.

Stanley was alone with the papers in his hand. He did not doubt the words of his cousin, whom he had always believed innocent, and loved, and whom he was now eager to serve; but had Harry really— even temporarily— evaded his pursuers, who probably knew of the relationship? What if they had seen Harry enter the building? What if they should suspect Harry's cousin as the keeper of those papers, so vital to Harry, so deadly to themselves?

A peal of thunder coincided with the girl's entrance. She had donned her hat.

"Mr. Stanley, ought you not to get away before the storm breaks? You haven't even a coat in the office. Besides, you are worn out."

"Thanks. It's nice to be thought of," he replied. "Yes; I'll go the moment I've put things straight. Meantime"— he regarded the papers reflectively— "I'll ask you to do one little thing for me. Witness my putting these documents in the safe." He placed them in an envelope, sealed and endorsed it with his cousin's name, and opened the iron door of the old-fashioned strong-room, which, though probably fireproof, would certainly not have given a modern burglar an hour's worry.

They entered the narrow chamber at the end of which stood a small safe of recent pattern. Having deposited the packet therein and locked the door, he removed the key from the bunch and handed it to her, saying:—

"Would you mind taking it with you, Miss Lennox, and posting it to me before you leave town in the morning?"

If she felt curious she did not show it. "Certainly, Mr. Stanley," she said, and put the key in her purse.

Another peal— louder.

"Now you must go." he said, and conducted her to the outer office. At the door he took her hand. "Till next week.'' he added softly.

"Please take care of yourself," she whispered, and was gone.

He listened awhile, then, closing the door, leaned against it. How his head ached— and how he loved her! Somehow he could not have asked her to marry him in the midst of business associations; yet he wished now that he had ventured.

"He returned to the private office and started to put the last chapters of his father's great work into the strong-room. To-morrow they should go to the impatient publisher. The task was complete. Hugh Stanley was a free man— free to return to the beloved science he had relinquished two years ago.... But his head— how it ached!

Leaving the iron door open, he switched off the lights, sank into a chair, and let his heavy eyelids fall... The storm quickened. A blue blaze was followed swiftly by a shattering crash that broke through his torpor. He got up and looked from the window. The deluge had begun. But Lydia, he thought, thankfully, had had time to reach the shelter of the' station. Leaning his arms on the sill, he gazed at the streaming murk, dreaming of her.

Snap!  The sound came from the outer office. It was followed by a jarring one. Stanley turned sharply, suddenly wide-awake, comprehending that the outer door had been forced. A flash came.

His first thought was of the strong-room. Cautiously he tiptoed towards it. Too late!

Two men stood in the doorway. You would see their like any day in the City. Only, one of them held a revolver.

Swiftly Stanley reached to the desk for the heavy ruler.

"Sit down, Mr. Stanley," said the man with the weapon.

Seeing no help for it. Stanley obeyed.

"What do you want?" he asked shortly.

"The papers left by your cousin, Mr. Harry Lanceworth twenty minutes ago."

"Your authority?"

The other made a slight motion with the revolver.

"I can't very well dispute that," said Stanley. "You have my permission to look for the papers. But, may I ask, why are you so certain that they are here?"

"Because your cousin, when lie left this place, did not have them in his possession. Your cousin, I may add, probably thought he was struck by lightning. He is now on his way to hospital, with a concussion that will probably spoil his memory for some weeks—"

"You swine!" Stanley started up.

"Fred," said the man to his companion, "fix him up. We have no time to waste." He forced Stanley back under the weapon's muzzle.

Producing four short straps, the other speedily buckled Stanley's elbows and ankles to the chair.

"Take it quietly, Mr. Stanley," said the leader. "We're the only people in the building, and the street is deserted."

A flash flared.

"Ah," Stanley exclaimed. "I have seen you before. I shall know you again."

"Shall I silence him?'' inquired the man Who had done the strapping.

"Not now," replied the leader. "Come along."

They passed into the strong-room.

Stanley tested his bonds— hopeless! He did not pretend to himself that he was unafraid. Sooner or later they would learn that the papers were not on the shelves of the strong-room, and conclude that they were in the safe. They would demand the key. What then? The safe would not be easily opened— but they had the whole night before them, and they were desperate men.

His head sank. What a crushing disaster for poor Harry! A glimpse of the sun, and then back under the cloud that would surely overhang the remainder of his life. Stanley writhed and cursed in his helplessness, unmindful of his own peril. The office was now in deep gloom. From the strong-room came gleams of electric torches and snatches of angry talk. Every moment he expected the demand for his keys. The storm seemed to be passing over. The thunder was less violent, though the lightning was still fiercely brilliant.

He was facing the half-open door. All at once nerve and muscle leapt under his bonds; he all but called out. In a burst of steely light he glimpsed the white face of Lydia!

Heavens! What was she doing there? Why had she come back?

His first impulse was to shout a warning— but what if those blackguards were too quick and caught her? They could not afford to have another witness. For his own life he had little hope. In a ghastly sweat, he sat waiting for the next flash. Perhaps he could signal.... It came, but there was no face at the door. Had his nerves upset his senses? And yet the white face had been wet with rain. Perhaps she had comprehended and stolen away for the police. He prayed that it might be so.

The leader came from the strong-room, directing his torch at Stanley's face.

"The key of the safe," he said curtly.

"No."

"I said— the key of the safe."

"Haven't sot it," said Stanley, playing for precious moments.

"Don't lie."

"It's the truth."

"Whereabouts in the office?"

"Suppose you have a look round."

The man brought out his revolver. "Answer."

"It is not in the office— perhaps."

"Don't talk rot!"

"Didn't you find it in my cousin's pocket?"

"What?" The man was staggered for a moment.

"Didn't you think of taking his keys?"

The man gripped the revolver by the barrel, and Stanley waited for the sickening smash. But the threatening arm fell away.

"Fred!"

The underling appeared. "Search him for keys."

Fred soon produced the bunch. The other took it, and with it struck Stanley across the face. Then the pair returned to the strong-room.

Despairing, Stanley sank back, closing his eyes. It had been only a vision— his last on earth— that glimpse of Lydia's dear, white face. Disappointed of the keys, they would surely murder him, and then find means of opening the safe at their leisure. But he was glad Lydia was not there. And yet— oh, for one more glimpse...

A tiny sound, not from the strong-room, made him open his eyes. Dimly he saw a form slip round the door and pause, as it hesitating. Lydia, after all, but alone. God! She must not step into the trap! A curse, and the crash of keys flung against the wall informed him that the moments of grace had expired. He opened his mouth to warn the girl— and, in the same instant, divined her intention.

With a rush, Lydia reached the iron door, pushed it shut in the very faces of the scoundrels, wrenched round the key, and drooped against the barrier.

Stanley exploded in a shout.

"You perfectly amazing, wonderful girl!" She gave a little laugh that was half a sob, seemed to pull herself together, and switched on a light.

"You're drenched!" he cried.

"Oh, that's nothing," she said, with an attempt at lightness. "I was afraid there was not time to get help," she went on, faltering a little, "and so I watched, waiting a chance. They haven't hurt you— oh, there's blood on your face— the beasts!"

"A small affair," he replied. "If you could free my arms "

With some effort— for the leather was hard — she did so, and he wiped his face and then attended to the ankle straps. He got up stiffly, saying:—

"How am I to thank you? Those fellows mean mischief—"

"Don't speak of it." she shuddered.

"What brought you back— Lydia?"

Possibly his first utterance of her name caused her color to return.

"I— I had got it into my head that you were ill," she answered shyly. "Also, I couldn't help hearing what Mr. Lanceworth said. But now I'd better run for the police."

"Nothing of the kind! I'll 'phone for them— and for a car, for you must get home to dry things at once."

There fell a frantic beating on the iron door, and a muffled shout came through:—

"We shall suffocate here!"

"Not for an hour or so," Stanley replied, with a laugh. "You'll be in a worse place presently."

But he was grave enough when he turned again to the girl.

"Lydia, do I need to say anything except that I can't wait till next week?" And his arms went out to her.

___________________

15: Myrtle and the Baronets

K. R. G. Browne

1895-1940

World's News (Sydney)  22 Oct 1927

BECAUSE Sir Michael Shenstone, Bart., was one of those vigorous folk who do that kind of thing, he confided his suit-case to the tender care of the railway company, and set out to walk from Waterloo to Mount Street. As a matter of fact, it did not occur to him to travel by taxi, for he was essentially a simple soul, and, moreover, had not been a baronet long.

When old Sir Jervis Shenstone departed quietly and with his usual dignity from this turbulent earth, he bequeathed to his son, heir, and solitary relative the sum of half a million, two country mansions, a flat in Mount Street, the second best collection of miniatures in England, and a middle-aged. Taciturn valet with the unexpected name of Weatherbride. Whereupon young Mike, who, because he chose to see the world in his own way, was at the time punching cows in Wyoming, sold his saddle, assumed a stiff collar, and journeyed to his native land. There he spent two weeks in the bewildering contemplation of the myriad duties attaching to his new estate, and a brief further period in hating heartily his future mode of life. At the end of time he packed a bag again, and, leaving the admirable Weatherbride in charge at Mount Street, boarded the next boat back to New York.

A fortnight later he was back at Waterloo once more, having been overtaken in mid-ocean by an imperative hurry-call from the family solicitors in connection with some matter which he had entirely overlooked.

It will therefore be readily appreciated that Mike Shenstone, sixth baronet, was not in a particularly complacent frame of mind as he set out to walk from Waterloo to Mount Street.

He was, in fact, a prey to harsh thoughts. Why. he asked himself plaintively, should all this be thrust upon him? He was by this time fully aware of the responsibilities that accompanies a high estate, and he found them singularly unattractive. All that he asked of Providence was an independent existence, no unnecessary worry, plenty of exercise, and a horse; and. it seemed to him that, if ha were to be perpetually at the beck and call of fussy solicitors with a passion for telegrams, his chances of attaining his ideal were exceedingly remote. He entered Mount Street in a frame of mind quite out of tune with the haughty calm of that expensive thoroughfare.

Then, as he chanced to glance up at the windows of his flat, solicitors and telegrams faded temporarily from his mind. For every window was brilliantly lighted.

Mike halted upon the kerb, and stood gazing upward, considering this phenomenon. Inasmuch as the worthy Weatherbride was alone upon the premises, this exuberant illumination seemed somewhat unnecessary, and the more so since Mike, in his turmoil of mind, had completely forgotten to notify. the valet of his unexpected return. Mike had not overburdened his retainer with instructions on his departure, announcing merely his intention of remaining abroad , for an unspecified period, and his desire that the valet should take charge in Mount Street during his absence; most certainly he had never expressed a wish for so prodigal an expenditure of electricity.

At this point a thought occurred to him, and he grinned. No doubt the excellent Weatherbride, secure in the belief that the Atlantic separated him from his master, was making use of his freedom to hold some species of party; very probably the entire valetdom of Mayfair was at that moment roystering behind those glowing panes If this assumption were correct, friend Weatherbride was due to sustain something of a shock.

Mike crossed the road, passed in at the entrance door, and climbed the stair to the first floor. At his door he paused and sought for his key, pleasantly visualising the sensation soon to be caused by his unheralded entry upon the revels.

It was as he realised that he had left his keys in another pair of trousers, the said trousers in his bag. and the said bag at Waterloo, that he was aware of the girl's voice. It was a very pleasant voice, even though it came to him muffled by two inches of solid mahogany. Under ordinary circumstances. Mike, who was no misogynist, would have rejoiced to hear it; but to have it thus flung at him, as it were, from within his own flat, shook him to the core. It was, moreover, not at all the kind of voice that he would have associated with any friend of Weatherbride's.

"I'll just run out and post this now, father," it said. And with that the door opened and the speaker stood revealed.

One has to confess, in the interests of truth, that Mike stood there and goggled at her. He had expected a girl, but not a girl like. this. She was tall and slender, fair-haired, grey-eyed, and dressed with an obvious disregard for expense, and an equally obvious taste. She bore a letter in her hand, and the light behind her lent to her hair the appearance of an aureole. At sight of Mike, standing sheepishly upon the mat, she started.

"Oh!" she said. "Did you want somebody?"

One enviable faculty which had accrued to Mike as a result of his wanderings was the ability to think quickly. He had now recovered from his initial surprise, and was thinking so fast that his mental processes were almost audible. It was his custom always to lend a ready ear to the summons of adventure, and it seemed to him that adventure was summoning now with no uncertain voice. Looking past the girl, he saw that his flat offered signs of a prolonged occupation on the part of some person or persons unknown. Male head gear hung in the hall; walking-sticks of unfamiliar design projected from the rack; at the end of the passage loomed a large steamer trunk. Of Weatherbride. however, there was no sign visible.

Clearly it behoved him to institute inquiries, and to do so in a manner guaranteed to yield the maximum both of result and amusement. At this point an ordinary person would probably have done the ordinary and obvious thing— revealed his identity— and clamored for explanation. Mike, however, was not altogether ordinary, and owned to a rooted aversion, to the obvious thing. He needed but; two seconds to select an alternative" and altogether more attractive, course of action.' and embarked upon it forthwith.

"Can I see Sir Michal Shenstone?" he asked.

He was prepared for almost anything, but he was certainly not prepared for the girl's reply.

"He's not here at the moment, but we expect him any minute. Is it urgent?"

Mike swallowed convulsively. "I beg your pardon?"

"We're expecting him any minute now," repeated the girl, a trifle more loudly, as if sympathising with him in his deafness. "Can I take a message for him?"

Mike devoted a rapid instant to some more swift thinking. Manifestly it could not be himself to whom she so airily referred, for not a soul in England, not even Messrs. Fogg, Fogg, Handasyde, and Fogg, knew of his return. He. Was conscious of an increasing curiosity.  The situation seemed to bristle with possibilities; he could know no prea.ee until this mystery was unravelled.

"As a matter of fact," he said, "it is rather urgent. I want to interview him." Which, after all, was no less than the truth.

"Oh, I see. For a newspaper. Well, would you care to come in and wait? Sir Michael's bound to come this evening, because he's leaving England to-morrow, and there's something he has to take away."

"Really," said Mike, now more resolved than ever to see this thing through. "Well, if you're sure I shan't be in the way—"

At this juncture there issued from his flat another voice— a high, somewhat querulous voice, the voice of one who suffers from his liver.

"Myrtle, who is that? Who is that?"

Myrtle, however, was allowed no time for reply, for the owner of the voice followed hard upon his words, emerging from the dining-room in the abrupt manner of a pantomime demon. He was a small, elderly individual, with a hairless head and an indeterminate beard, which gave him a facial resemblance to a peevish goat. He wore large, horn-rimmed spectacles, and an expression of permanent annoyance.

"Who is this?" inquired this person, peering at Mike as at some rare and rather unpleasant beast.

"This gentleman has come from a newspaper to interview Sir Michael, father," said she who answered to the name of Myrtle. "I've asked him to come in and wait."

"Quite right, quite right,'" said the goatlike man, unexpectedly. "Come in, sir, come in. Myrtle, you'll miss the post."

"I'm going now, father," said his daughter, soothingly. She stood aside to allow Mike to enter, passed out, and vanished down the stair.

"Thanks, very much," said Mike, shedding his hat. His interest was growing with every fleeting moment. Who the deuce were these folk, who seemed so completely at home in his flat? Who was this second Sir Michael? Where was Weatherbride? He registered a vow that he would not depart until he knew the truth.

"Come into the sitting-room," said the goat-like man. "I'm only too pleased to have someone to talk to, Mr—" He paused invitingly, and Michael James Rod way Shenstone delved hastily in his repertoire.

"James," he said. The other bowed slightly and ushered him into the sitting-room.

"Take a chair, Mr James. My name is Fotherdick. It was my daughter who admitted you. So you wish to interview Sir Michael Shenstone?"

"I'm very keen on it," said Mike, truthfully.

"Yes, of course. A most charming young man, Mr. James. Most charming. You are aware, no doubt, that he leaves England to-morrow?"

"So I hear. I seem to have come just in time."

"Just in time. Precisely."

"Pardon me," said Mike, courteously; "but are you— er— by any chance related to Sir Michael? A few facts about his earlier years—"

"Unfortunately, no. We are merely acquaintances. Perhaps I should explain that you find us here because we have been fortunate enough to secure this flat from Sir Michael for the period of his absence. Furnished!"

Mike started.

"The devil you— oh, most fortunate, as you say. Just moved in?"

"This morning, to be precise. Our servants arrive to-morrow. We count ourselves favored to have secured such comfortable quarters."

Mike nodded non-committally. His respect for the unknown Sir Michael was momentarily increasing. It is not every man who has the nerve not only to borrow another person's name, but his home as well. Mike felt that the evening bade fair to afford him much innocent entertainment.

He was glad that Mr. Fotherdick appeared disposed to converse. The peevishness of the goat-like man was falling from him like a mantle; it seemed to have been due solely to a lack of people to talk to, and he proceeded now to make up for lost time. Words bubbled from him; verbiage flowed in a ceaseless stream. Unfortunately, very little of it was of any real use to Mike. He learned, among a number of other interesting facts, that Mr. Fotherdick occupied some official position in Hongkong, and was now home on leave; that Myrtle was not to return to China," but to remain in England under the wing of a rural aunt; that Mr. Fotherdick had secured the flat through an advertisement in the Morning Post. These items of news and others of similar calibre he learned, but little or nothing of the second Sir Michael. Mr. Fotherdick, it appeared, had only met him once, and then only for a brief space of time; but he had plainly been much impressed.

"A most affable young man." said Mr. Fotherdick. "Most. He showed us over the Mat personally. Most affable."

Mike nodded absently. He had at first vaguely suspected that the excellent Weatherbride had been impersonating him, but Mr. Fotherdick's description had abolished that theory at once. Yet the second Sir Michael did not scruple to show people over the first Sir Michael's flat. And then there was the missing Weatherbride. From information received, Mike understood that Weatherbride had not so far swum into Mr. Fotherdick's ken; then where the dickens was he? It was all very sinister. For the first time since he landed at Southampton that morning Mike felt really glad that he had come home.

Mr. Fotherdick burbled on.

"—wonderful collection of miniatures. Wonderful. Sir Michael is calling to-night to take them away."

Mr. Fotherdick broke off and glanced at his guest in mild surprise; for Mike had uttered a strangled yelp, and bounded in his chair.

"What?"

"To take them away," Repeated Mr. Fotherdick, in the tolerant tone of one who is prepared to overlook a small breach of good manners. "The miniatures. A most valuable collection, I am told."

Mike said nothing. At the moment he could think of nothing to say; admiration struck him dumb. More and more he yearned to meet his impersonator. The man must be a positive genius.

His meditations were interrupted by the sound of voices in the frail, the closing of the front door, and a masculine laugh— a deep, aristocratic, well-bred laugh. Mr. Fotherdick pointed like a setter.

"Hark!" he said pleasurably. "I fancy this is he."

Mike drew a deep breath, and braced himself for the meeting, as the door opened and Myrtle appeared upon the threshold.

"Here's Sir Michael, father," said she. "I met him in the passage."

Those who lead a roving life from inclination rather than from necessity may in the course of years encounter quite a number of more or less stirring adventures; but it is a tolerably safe guess that but rarely in the world's history has a man undergone an introduction to himself. Mike, rising courteously to greet the newcomer, found it an intriguing sensation.

The man who followed Myrtle was an utter stranger to him, as he had by this time come to expect. Mike saw a tall young man of about his own age, fair-haired, broad-shouldered, and of an athletic habit. He wore a heavy motor-coat and carried a tweed cap.

Mike was compelled to admit that the make-up was perfect.

"I won't keep you long, Mr. Fotherdick," said this gentleman breezily. "I'll  just pack up the miniatures and be off. Hope I'm not bothering you."

It was at this point that his clear blue eyes fell upon' Mike, who was regarding him with the grave absorption of a small boy at the window of a- sweet-shop. The second Sir Michael started very slightly, and his smile assumed a faintly mechanical tinge; he glanced inquiringly at Mr. Fotherdick. But it was Myrtle who spoke.

"Oh, I quite forgot! Sir Michael, this gentleman has come to interview you for a newspaper."

The impersonator's smile vanished as If wiped from his face with a sponge; into his clear blue eyes came a steely glitter. But only for a moment. He recovered almost instantly and favored Mike with a glance of friendly reproof.

"I'm sorry," he said, politely, "but I'm afraid I've no time to spare. I have to catch a train to Liverpool to-night. And  besides, I don't care for interviews."

Mike assumed a conciliatory attitude.

"Oh, I don't want much, sir. Just a few facts for the Daily Sun. I can get them while you're packing up the miniatures. It'll do me a lot of good on the paper if I get the interview, so I hope you won't turn me down."

He smiled winningly, and rejoiced to hear Myrtle add her plea to his.

"Do, Sir Michael. There's heaps of time, and I'd love to hear you interviewed. It will be so interesting to read about it in the paper."

The impersonator glanced at her, hesitated, and then, as if realising that to refuse would be to draw unnecessary attention to himself, began slowly to remove his coat in a resigned manner.

"All right." he said. "What is it you want?"

From the doorway he picked up a suit-case and with it strode over to a tall glass-fronted cabinet that stood in a corner. Mike, watching with a fascinated interest, saw him unlock the cabinet and begin deftly and rapidly to transfer the miniatures therefrom to the harborage of the suit-case. The self-appointed interviewer, conscious of a steadily-rising joy in the situation, drew from his pocket a pencil and note-book, and adopted an attitude of respectful receptiveness.

"Let me see," he said thoughtfully. "We know all about your life in America. That was in the papers when you first came over. What about your plans for the future, Sir Michael?"

The collector of miniatures emerged from the cabinet, and regarded him calmly.

"I have no plans. I am leaving England to-morrow, and may be away for some months."

"Quite," said Mike, writing busily. "Quite. Then I suppose I may take it that your marriage is postponed ?'

There followed an instant or complete silence. The countenance of the second Sir Michael lost its assured expression, and grew suddenly quite pale. He stared at Mike with the fixed gaze of one who encounters some unwholesome spectre. Myrtle and Mr. Fotherdick, discreetly interested, glanced from one to the other.

"Marriage?" said the impersonator. "What marriage?"

"Why, yours," explained Mike, politely surprised. "I quite appreciate your desire for secrecy, Sir Michael, but these things do get about, you know. I had hoped to be present at the church on Thursday, but I suppose you're postponing the affair until you return again."

The second Sir Michael opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and closed it again; a faint frown appeared on his brow, and he moved restlessly. His manner was that of a man who is thinking furiously.

"I have nothing to say about that," he said at length, and turned away again. His face, as he bent over the cabinet, had a slightly harassed look.

"I'm awfully sorry," said Mike penitently. "I do hope I haven't put my foot in it, Sir Michael. But I thought that as your fiancée is calling for you here this evening, there'd be no harm in mentioning it. It would make a beautiful story."

The effect of this simple speech surpassed all his expectations. From the cabinet came a muffled cry, and the collector of miniatures shot upright as if impelled by a powerful spring. The news had obviously moved him deeply. His eyes were now quite wild and held a gleam of pure alarm; he glared at his tormentor in the manner of a man who has just sustained a severe blow from what the newspapers refer to as "some blunt instrument."

"What was that?" he said. "C-calling here? How do you know?"

"Oh, I've just seen her," answered Mike chattily. "A very charming lady, if I may say so. The paper wanted a few words from her, too, you see, so I called on her first. She told me she was coming round to see you after dinner, and would make you give me a nice, long interview."

"Capital! Capital!" observed Mr. Fotherdick suddenly. That eminent conversationalist had been suffering severely from his inability to take part in the exchanges of the past few minutes, and fee leaped at this chance. "We shall be delighted to meet her, Sir Michael. Delighted."

"But, Sir Michael." broke in Myrtle, "won't she be surprised to find us. here? I'm afraid we shall be awfully in the way."

"I understand," put in Mike, in the tone of one anxious to assist to the utmost, "that her mother is also coming."

"Capital!" said Mr. Fotherdick. "Capital!"

The impersonator uttered a quaint choking noise, and glanced rather wildly round the room. The situation was plainly getting beyond his control, a circumstance which Mike noted with a ghoulish satisfaction. With a perceptible effort the second Sir Michael pulled himself together.

"Coming here, is she? That's really rather unfortunate, because 1 must run for my train very soon, and can't wait. I think, if you will excuse me, I will hurry now and see. if I can stop her. It would be a pity for her to make an unnecessary journey here."

He picked up the suit-case and reached for his coat. At that moment there came plainly from without the sound of a key in the lock of the front door.

"Hullo!" said Mike cheerfully. "I'm afraid you're too late."

He moved unobtrusively a pace nearer to his victim. Myrtle said nothing, but sat watching the door. Mr. Fotherdick, wearing an expression of gentlemanly annoyance, was understood to mutter something to the effect that everyone in London seemed to have a key to the flat. "

The impersonator stood as if frozen to the floor, his mouth slightly open, and his eyes glued to the door in the pallid stare of a hunted rabbit.

As the sound of footsteps became clearly audible, Mike began to feel quite sorry for him.

The steps drew nearer and ceased. There was a gentle tap at the door; and upon the threshold appeared a small, middle-aged individual, sombrely clad, and carrying a bowler. The impersonator came back to life with a start, and heaved an audible sigh of intense relief. He became at once positively jaunty.

"Ah, Smith!" he remarked, cheerfully. "You're late— I'm just going. Will you take this bag down and call a taxi?" He turned to Mr. Fotherdick. "This is my man. I'll just—"

A weird noise from the man in the doorway caused him to break off and turn inquiringly. The newcomer was swaying on his feet, staring glassily at Mike in the hypnotised manner of one in a trance. His bowler dropped from his nerveless hand and bounded happily away; his jaw sagged, and his legs wavered at the knees; his naturally solemn visage took on a greenish pallor. It seemed that in another moment he would have begun to gibber. His appearance radiated guilt.

"Well, well!" said Mike, breaking the strained silence. "And how are you, friend Weatherbride? Making hay while the ram keeps off, I see. I'm afraid it was tactless of me not to let you know I was coming back. Still, you know now, don't you?"

The valet moved convulsively. His Adam's apple jerked rapidly, and he achieved speech.

"Glug—"he said feebly.

Mike turned to the collector of miniatures, whose expression was a fairly accurate reproduction of that upon the face of Weatherbride.

"Tough luck!" he said. "Just as you were getting along so nicely, too. This ought to teach you not to take things for granted. Because I go to America, it doesn't follow that I'm never coming back. Weatherbride!" He; whirled round upon the goggling valet. "Fetch a policeman!"

For a brief instant the unhappy Weatherbride still swayed in the doorway. Then slowly he turned, and without a word wavered from the room. The front door was heard to close,  and silence fell again.

"Good!" said Mike briskly. He glanced at the impersonator. "Suppose you go and help your friend to find one? I should find a good big one."

The other started and stared at him blankly.

"Quick!" snapped Mike. "I'm tired of you. You might leave the bag, will you? I see it's one of mine."

The impersonator, still staring, opened his mouth, but no sound came. In a puzzled fashion he glanced from Mr. Fotherdick to Myrtle, from Myrtle back again to Mike. Then slowly he picked up his cap and coat.

"Thanks," he said unexpectedly, and with a sudden movement sprang for the door and was gone. Myrtle gave a little cry.

"But you've let them both get away!"

Mike grinned cheerfully.

"Of course I have. They've done me no real harm. On the contrary, I'm inclined to believe they've done me quite a lot of good."

It was at this juncture that Mr. Fotherdick. who, for the past ten minutes had been sitting like a rustic spectator at a problem play, regained the use of his vocal cords.

"But what does it mean?" he wailed. "What does it mean?"

His daughter turned to him with the air of a mother soothing a fractious but lovable infant.

"Don't you see, father dear? This is Sir Michael Shenstone. The other was a swindler."

Her parent gasped and relapsed into a stunned silence.

"I'm sorry you've had this disturbance," said Mike. "I ought to have known better than to leave Weatherbride in charge. He hadn't been with my father very long." He looked at Myrtle. "And I'm sorry, I— well, pulled your leg. At first, you see, I thought you two were wrong 'uns. Only at first, of course.'' he added hastily. "So I had to deceive you a little."

Myrtle smiled delightfully.

"But you didn't." she said. "At least, not for very long. I knew who you were quite soon."

It was now the turn of Mike to exhibit astonishment.

"You knew? But I don't see how—"

Myrtle smiled again, and turned to the writing-table in the window. From a drawer she took a large photograph, and held it out to him. Mike saw that it was one of himself, as the compleat cow-puncher, seated upon a piebald pony, and wearing an hilarious grin. Across its foot was written, in his father's hand, the word "Mike" and a date. He studied it for a moment in silence.

"I found it this afternoon," explained Myrtle. "They must have overlooked it. It puzzled me rather, because it's not a bit like the other man, you see. When you came I couldn't understand why your face seemed familiar. Then I remembered this, and I knew who you must be. I didn't say anything, of course, because I knew you'd want to deal with him in your own way."

Mike regarded her with open admiration. More and more forcibly it was borne in upon him that this was no ordinary girl.

"I see," he said reflectively. "Well, that's that. Now I'll clear out and leave you in peace. You'll stay here. Of course, as long as you like."

"Oh. but we couldn't! I mean— you'll want the flat when— when you're married." She broke off abruptly and gazed with immense interest at the fireplace. Mike, after a moment of paralysed surprise, smiled and took a step towards her.

"I ought to have explained that," he said. "But you know so much. I thought you'd have guessed that too. I made it all up. I wanted to shake him a bit, and I guessed he'd be posted in everything true about me, so I gave him a fictitious fiancée. It worked, too. But I give you my word I'm not going to be married— yet."

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16: The Building

Seumas O'Kelly

1881-1918

Australian Town and Country Journal, 1 Jan 1913

The Queen, 8 June 1912

MARTIN COSGRAVE walked up steadily to his holding after Ellen Kennedy had read to him the American letter. He had spoken no word to the woman. It was not every day that he had to battle with a whirl of thoughts. A quiet man of the fields, he only felt conscious of a strong impulse to get back to his holding up on the hill.

He had no clear idea of what he would do or what he would think when he got back to his holding. But the fields seemed to cry out to him, to call him back to their companionship while all the wonders of the resurrection were breaking in fresh upon his life.

Martin Cosgrave walked his fields and put his flock of sheep scurrying out or a gap with a whistle. His holding and the things of his holding were never so precious to his sight. He walked his fields with his hands in his pockets and an easy solid step upon the sod. He felt a bracing sense of security. Then he sat up on the mearing. The day was waning. It seemed to close in about his holding with a new protection. The mood grew upon him as the shadows deepened. A great peace came over him. The breeze stirring the grass spread out at his feet was whispering of the strange unexpected thing that had broken in upon his life. He felt the splendid companionship of the fields for the master.

Suddenly Martin Cosgrove looked down upon his cabin. Something snapped as his eyes remained riveted upon it. He leaped from the mearing and walked out into the field, his hands this time gripping the lapels of his coat and a cloud settling upon his brow.

In the centre of the fields he stood, his eyes still upon the cabin. What a mean, pokey, ugly little devil of a hovel it was! The thatch was getting scraggy over the gables and sagging at the back. In the front it was sodden, a rainy brown streak reached down to the little window looking like the claw of a great bird upon the walls. He had been letting everything go to the bad. That might not signify in the past. But now—

"Rose Dempsey would never stand the like," he said to himself. " She will be used to grand big houses."

He turned his back upon the cabin down near the borheen and looked up to the belt of beech trees swaying in the wind on the crest of the hill. How did he live there most of his life and never see that it was a place fashioned by the hand of Nature for a house? Was it not the height of nonsense to have trees there making music all the long  hours of the night without a house inside them and people sleeping within it?

In a few minutes the thought had taken hold of I his mind. Limestone— beautiful limestone— ready at hand in the quarry not a quarter of a mile down the road. Sand from the pit at the back of his own cabin. Lime from the kiln beyond at Larch Hill. And his own two hands! He ran his fingers along the muscles of his arms. Then he walked up the hill.

Martin Cosgrave, as he walked up the hill, felt himself wondering for the first time in his life if he had really been foolish to have run away from his father's cabin when he had been young. Up to this he had always accepted the verdict of the people about him that he had been a foolish boy to go wandering in strange places.

He had walked along the roads to, many far towns. Then he had struck his friend the building contractor. He had been a useful worker about a building house. At first he had carried hods of mortar and cement up ladders to the masons. The business of the masons he had mastered quickly. But he had always had a longing to hold a chisel in one hand and a mallet in the other in face of stones. He had drifted into a quarry. The men did not like him there. After a little while he could not conceal his impatience with the mere dressing of coping stones or the chiselling out of tomb stones to a pattern. Then he saw a man killed in the quarry. He was standing quite near to him. The chain of the windlass went and the poor man had no escape. Martin Cosgrave had heard the crunch of the skull on the boulder and some of the blood was spattered upon his boots. He was a man of tense nerves. The sight of blood sickened him. He put on his coat, left the quarry and went walking upon the road. It was while he walked along the road that the longing for his home came upon him.

He tramped back to Kilbeg. His father had been long dead, but by his return he had glorified the closing days of his mother's life. He took up the little farm and cut himself off from his wandering life when he had fetched the tools from his lodgings in the town beside the quarries. By the time Martin Cosgrave had reached the top of the hill he had concluded that he was not, after all, a foolish boy to have worked in far places. "The hand of God was in it," he said reverently with his eyes on the beech trees that made music on the crest of the hill. He made a rapid survey of the place with his keen eyes. Then he mapped out the foundation of the building by driving the heel of his boot into the green sod. He stepped back among the beech trees and looked out at the outlined site of the building. He saw it all growing up in his minds' eye, at first a rough block, a mere shell, a little uncertain and unsatisfactory. Then the uncertainties were lopped off, the building took shape, touch after touch was added. Long shadows spread out from the trees and wrapped the fields. Stars came out in the sky. But Martin Cosgrave never noticed these things.

The building was growing all the time. There was a firm grasp of the motion and meaning of the general scheme, a realisation of what 'the building would preach, what it would' evolve that no other building ever evolved, what it would proclaim for all time. The passing of the day and the stealth of the night could not claim attention from a man who was living over the dream that was fashioning itself in his mind, abandoning himself to the joy of his creation, dwelling longingly upon the details of the building, going over and, as it were, feeling it in every fibre, jealous of the effect of every stone, tracing the trend and subtlety of every curve, seeing how one touch fitted in and enhanced the other, and how all carried on the rhythm and meaning and motion of the whole. He felt he could not fail. The thing cried out to him, rooted itself in his mind.

When he came down from the hill there was a spring in Martin Cosgrave's step. He swung his arms. The blood was coursing hot and fast through his veins. His eyes were glowing. He would not need to make a map of the building. It was all burned clearly into his brain. From under the bed of his cabin he pulled out the wooden box. It had not been opened since he had fetched it from the far town. He held his breath as he threw open the lid.

There they lay, the half-forgotten symbols of his old life. Worn mallets, chisels, the  head of a broken hod with the plaster still cracked into it, a short broad shovel for mixing mortar, a trowel, a spirit level, a plumb, all wrapped loosely in a light worn leather apron. He took the mallets in his hand and turned them about with the quick little jerks that came so naturally to him. Strength for the work had come into his arms. All the old ambitions which he thought had been stifled with his early manhood sprang to life again.

As he lay in his bed that night Martin Cosgrave felt himself turning over and over again the words in the letter which Rose Dempsey had sent to her aunt, Ellen Kennedy, from America.

"Tell Martin Cosgrave," the letter read, "that I will be back home in Kilbeg by the end of the spring, if he has no wish for any other girl I am willing to settle down."

Beyond the announcement that her sister, Sheela, would be with her for a holiday, the letter "brought no other account." But what an account it had brought to Martin Cosgrave! The fields understood— the building would proclaim!

Early in the morning Martin Cosgrave went down to Ellen Kennedy to tell her what to put in the letter that was going back to Rose Dempsey in America. Martin Cosgrave walked heavily into the house, and put his back up against the dresser. He turned the soft Mack hat about in his hands nervously, and talked like one who was speaking sacred words.

"Tell her," he said, "that Martin Cosgrave had no thought for any other person beyond herself. Tell her to be coming back to Kilbeg. Tell her not to come until the late harvest."

Ellen Kennedy, who sat over the sheet of writing paper on the table, looked up quickly at Martin Cosgrave as he spoke the worlds. He did not give her time to question him.

"I have my own reasons for asking her to wait until the harvest," he said with some irritation.

He stayed at the dresser until Ellen Kennedy had written the letter. He carried it down to. the village and posted it with his own hand, and he went and came as gravely as if he had been taking part in some solemn ritual. That day the building was begun.

Martin Cosgrave tackled the donkey and drew a few loads of limestone from the nearby quarry. Some of his neighbors who came his way found him a changed man, a silent man with his long jaws set, a man in whose eyes a new light shone, a quiet man of the fields into whose mind a great purpose had come.

He struggled up the road with his donkey-cart, his powerful hand gripping the shaft to hasten the steps of the slow brute, his strong limbs bent to the hill, his head down at the work.

By the end of the week a pile, of grey-blue stones was heaped up on the crest of the hill. The walls of the fields had been broken down to make a carway. Late into the night when the donkey had been fed and tethered the neighbors, would see Martin Cosgrave moving about the pile of grey-blue stones, sorting and picking, arranging in little groups to have ready to his hands.

"A house he is going to put up on the hill" they would say, lost in wonder.

The spring came and with it all the strenuous work on the land. But Martin Cosgrave went on with the building. The neighbors shook their heads at the sight of neglect that was gathering about his holding. The neighbors said it was flying in the face of Providence when Martin Cosgrave weaned all the lambs from the ewes one day, long before their time, and sold them at the fall to the first bidder that came his way. Martin Cosgrave did so because he wanted money and was in a hurry to get back to his building.

"What call has a man to be destroying himself like that?" the neighbors asked each other.

Martin Cosgrave knew what the neighbors were saying about him, But what did he care? What thought had any of them for the heart of a builder? What did any of them know beyond putting a spade in the clay and waiting for the seasons to send up growing things from the seed they scattered by their hands? What did they know about the feel of the rough stone in the hand and the shaping of it to fit into the building, the building which day after day you saw rising up from the ground by the skill of your hand and the art of your mind? What could they in Kilbeg knew of the ship that would plough the ocean in the harvest bearing Rose Dempsey home to him? For all their ploughing and their sowing what sort of a place had any of them led a woman into? They might talk away.

The joy of the builder was his. The beech trees that made music all day beside the building he was putting up to the sight of all the world had more understanding of him than all the people of the parish Martin Cosgrave had no help. He kept to his work from such an early hour in the morning until such a late hour of the night that people marvelled at his endurance. But as the work went on the people would talk about Martin Cosgrave's building in the fields and tell strangers of it at the markets.

They said that the like of it had never been seen in the countryside. It was to be "full of little turrets and the finest of fancy porches and a regular sight of bulging windows."

One day that Martin Cosgrave heard a neighbor speaking about the "bulging windows," he laughed a half bitter, half mocking laugh.

"Tell them," he said, "that they are cut-stone tracery windows to fit in with the carved doors."

These cut-stone windows and carved doors cost Martin Cosgrave such a length of time that they provoked the patience of the people. Out of big slabs of stone he had worked them, and sometimes he would ask the neighbors to give him a hand in the shifting of these slabs. But he was quick to resent any interference.

When the shell of the building had been finished, Martin Cosgrave hired a carpenter to do all the woodwork. The woodwork cost money. Martin Cosgrave did not hesitate. He sold some of his sheep, sold them hurriedly, and as all men who sell their sheep hurriedly sold them badly. When the carpentry had been finished, the roofing cost more money. One day the neighbors discovered that all the sheep had been sold.

"He's beggared now," they said.

Everything around him was hard and stubborn but he was the master of it all. In his dreams in the night he would reach out his hands for the feel of the hard stone, a burning desire in his breast to put it into shape, to give it nobility in the scheme of a building.

It was while Martin. Cosgrave walked through the building that Ellen Kennedy came to him with the second letter from America. The carpenter was hammering at something below.

The letter said that Rose Dempsey and her sister, Sheela, would be home in the late harvest.

"With all I saw since I left Kilbeg," Rose Dempsey wrote, "I never saw one I thought as much of as Martin Cosgrave."

When Ellen Kennedy left him, Martin Cosgrave stood very quietly looking through the cut-stone tracery window. The beech trees were swaying slowly outside. Their music was in his ears. Then he remembered that he was standing in the room where he would take Rose Dempsey to his breast. They would be shut in here from the world. It was here he would tell her of all the bitter things he had locked up in his heart when she had gone away from him. It was here he would take her again in the arms that had raised the building that would be about them. It was here he would tell her of the day of resurrection, when all the bitter thoughts had burst into flower at the few words that told of her return. It was that day of great tumult. within him that thought of the building had come into his mind. When Martin Cosgrave walked out of the room he was pale with anticipation of the things to come.

The carpenter and a neighbor boy were arguing about something the foot of the stairs.

"It's too steep, I'm telling you," the boy was saying.

"What do you know about it?" the carpenter demanded.

"I know this much about it," the other persisted, "that if a little child came running down that stairs he'd be apt to fall and break his neck."

Then the two went out, still arguing. Martin Cosgrave sat down on one of the steps -of the stairs. A child running down the steps! His child! A child bearing his name! He would be prattling about the building. He would run across that landing, swaying and tottering. His little voice would fill the building. Arms would be reaching out to him. They would be the soft white arms of Rose Dempsey, or maybe, they would be the arms that raised up the building—his -own strong arms. Or it might be that he would be carrying down the child and handing him over the rails into the outspread arms of Rose Dempsey. She would be reaching out for the child with the newly kindled light of motherhood in her eyes, the passion of a young mother in her welcoming voice. A child with his very name— a child that would grow up to be a man, and hand dawn the name to another, and so on during the generations. And with the name would go down the building, the building that would endure, that would live, that was immortal.

Did it all come to him as a sudden revelation, springing from the idle talk of a neighbor boy brought up to think from one season to another? Or was it the same thing that was behind the forces that had fired him while he had worked at the building? Had it not all come into his life the evening he stood among his fields with his eyes on the crest of the hill. Ah, there had been a great building surely, a building standing up on the hill, a great, a splendid building raised up to the sight of all the world, and with it a greater building, a building raised up from the sight of all-men, the building of a name, the moulding of hearts that would beat while Time was, a building of immortal souls, a building into which God would breathe His breath, a building which would be heard of in Heaven, among the angels, through all the eternities, a building living on when all the light was gone out of the sun, when oceans were as if they had never been, a name, a building, living when the story of all the worlds and all the generations would be held written upon a scroll in the lap of God.

The neighbors were more awed than shocked at the change they saw increasing in Martin Cosgrave. He had grown paler and thinner, but his eyes were more tense, had in them, some of the neighbors said, the color of limestone. He was more and more removed from the old life. He walked his fields without seeing the things that made up the old companionship. His whole attitude was one of detachment and aloofness from everything that did not savour of the grind and crunch of stone, the ring of steel on the walls of a building. He only talked rationally when the neighbors spoke to him of the building. They had heard that he had gone to the money-lender, and mortgaged every perch of his land.

"It was easy to know how work of the like would end," they said.

One day a stranger was driving by on his car, and when he saw the building he got down, walked up the hill, and made a long study of it. On his way down he met Martin Cosgrave.

"Who built the house on the hill?" he asked.

"A simple man in the neighborhood," Martin Cosgrave made answer, after a little pause.

"A simple man!" the stranger exclaimed, looking at Martin Cosgrave with some disapproval. "Why the man is an artist, a poet; a poet to the finger tips. He has put up a— a— a lyric— in stone on that hill."

The stranger hesitated before he hit on the word lyric. He got up on his car and drove away muttering something under his breath.

Martin Cosgrave could have run up the hill and shouted. He could have called all the neighbors together, and told them of the strange man who had called him an artist, a poet, a poet who had put up a lyric in stone on the hill. But he did none of these things. He had work waiting to his hand. A hunger was upon him to feel his pulse beading to the throb of steel on stone.

From the road he made a sweep of a drive up to the building. The neighbors looked open-mouthed at the work for the days it went on.

"Well, that finishes Martin Cosgrave, anyway," they said.

Martin Cosgrave rushed the making of the drive; he took all the help he could get. The boys would come up after their day's work and give him a hand. While they worked he was busy with his chisel upon the boulders of limestone which he had set up on either side of the entrance gate. Once more he felt the glamor of life— the impact of forging steel on stone was thrilling through his arms, the stone was being moulded to the direction of his exulting mind. When he had finished with the boulders at the entrance gate the people marvelled.

The gate had a glory of its own and yet it was connected with the scheme of the building on the hill palpably enough for even their slow minds to grasp it. When the people looked upon it they forgot to make complaint of the good land that was given to ruin. One of them had expressed the general vague sentiment when he said, "Well, the kite has got its tail."

In the late harvest Martin Cosgrave carried up all the little sticks of furniture from his cabin and put it in the building. Then he sent for Ellen Kennedy. When the woman came she looked about the place in amazement.

"Well, of all the sights in the world!" she exclaimed. Martin Cosgrave was irritated at the woman's attitude.

"We'll have to make the best of it," he said, referring to the furniture. "I will be marrying Rose Dempsey in the town the day after she lands."

"Rose Dempsey would never like the suddenness of that," her aunt protested. "She can be staying with me and marrying from my house."

"I saw the priest about it," Martin Cosgrave said, impatiently. "I will have my way, Ellen Kennedy. Rose Dempsey will come up to Kilbeg my wife. We will come in the gate together, we will walk into the building together. I will have my way."

Martin Cosgrave spoke of having his way in the impassioned voice of the fanatic, and of his home-coming with his bride in the half dreamy voice of the visionary.

"Have your way, Martin, have your way, the woman said. "And," she added, rising, "I will be bringing up a few things to put into your house."

Martin Cosgrave spent three days in the town waiting the arrival of Rose Dempsey, The boat was late. He haunted the railway station and with hungry eyes scanned the passengers as each train, steamed in. His blood was on fire  in his veins for those three days. What peace could a man have who was waiting to get back to his building and to have Rose Dempsey going back with him, his wife?

On the third evening he saw a familiar figure struggle from a railway carriage in a flutter and bustle of traps and parcels. He strode up to her while the girl's back was still turned to him.

"Rose!" he exclaimed. His voice shook in spite of him.

The woman turned about sharply. Martin Cosgrave gave a little start back. It was not Rose Dempsey but her sister, Sheela.

"Martin!" she exclaimed, putting out her hand. He gave it a hurried shake and then searched the railway carriage with burning eyes. The people he saw there were all strangers, tired-looking travellers. When he turned from the railway carriage Sheela Dempsey was rushing with her parcels into a waiting-room. He strode after her.

"Where is Rose?" he asked. Sheela Dempsey looked up into the face of Martin Cosgrave and saw there what she had half-dreaded to see.

"Martin." she said, "Rose is not coming home."

Martin Cosgrave gripped the door of the waiting-room. The train whistled outside and glided from the station. He heard a woman's cheerful voice cry out a conventional "Good-bye, good-bye," and through the window he saw the flutter of a dainty handkerchief. A truck, was wheeled past the waiting-room. There was the crack of a whip and some cars rattled away over the road. Then there was silence.

Sheela Dempsey walked over to him and laid a hand upon his shoulder.

When she spoke her voice was full of an understanding womanly sympathy, "Don't be troubling over it, Martin," she said, "Rose is not worth it."

She spoke her sister's name with some bitterness. Vaguely Martin Cosgrave looked into the girl's eyes. He read there in a dim way what the girl could not say of her sister. It was all so strange! The waiting-room was so bare, so cold, so grey, so like a sepulchre. What could Sheela Dempsey with all her womanly understanding, with all her quick intuition know of the things that happened beside her? How could she have ears for the crashing down of the pillars of the building that Martin Cosgrave had raised up in his soul? How could she have eyes for the wreck and ruin of the structure that was to go on through all the generations? What thought had she of the wiping out of a name that would have lived in the nation and continued for all time in the eternities, a tangible thing in among the Immortals when the stars had all been burned out in the sky?

Martin Cosgrave drove home from the railway station with Sheela Dempsey. He sat without a word, not really conscious of his surroundings as they covered the miles.

The girl reached across the sidecar, touching him lightly on the shoulder.

"Look!" she exclaimed.

Martin Cosgrave looked up. The building stood in the moon, light on the crest of the hill. He bade the driver pull up, and then got down from the car.

"Who owns the house?" Sheela asked.

"I do. I put it up on the bill for Rose."

There was silence for some time.

"How did you get it built, Martin?" Sheela Dempsey asked, awe in her tone.

"I built it myself," he answered, "I wonder has Rose as good a place? What sort of a house is she in to-night?"

Martin Cosgrave did not notice the shudder that passed over the girl as he put the question. She made no reply, and the car drove on, leaving Martin Cosgrave standing alone at the gate of the building.

The faint sweep of the drive lay before him. it led his eyes up to the crest of the hill. There it was standing shadowy against the sky, every delicate outline clear to his vision. The beech trees were swaying beside it, reaching out like great shapeless arms in the night, blurred and beckoning and ghostly. A little vein of the music sounded in his ears. How often had he listened to that music and the things it had sung to him. It made him conscious of all the things he had felt while he had put up the building on the hill.

The joy of the builder swept over him like a wave. He was within the rising walls again, his hands among the grey-blue shapes, the measured stroke of the mallet swinging for the shifting chisel, the throb of steel going through his arms, the grind of stone was under his hands, the stone dust dry upon his lips, his eyes quick and keen, his arms bared, the shirt at his breast open, and his whole body tense and tuned to the desire of the conscious builder. Once more he moved about the carpet of splinters, the grateful crunch beneath his feet, his little world a world of stubborn things, rejoicing in his power of direction find mastery over it all. And always at the back of his mind and blending itself with the work was the thought of a ship forging through the water at the harvest, a ship with white sails spread to the winds. A hand, the hand of a woman, had struck out of the dark and cut the builder from his building; the whim of a woman had inspired as it had wrecked a structure that would fain arch to the skies.

Martin Cosgrave turned away from the gate. He walked down where the shadow of  the mearing was faint upon the road. He turned up the borheen, closed in by the still hedges. He stumbled over the ruts. He stood at the cabin door and looked up at the sky with soulless eyes. But the eyes swept the sky for a purpose. It was the look of the man of the fields, the look of the man who had thought for his crops.

He had not looked a final and anxious look at the sky from his cabin door in the night since the building had been begun. He wondered if it was a vague stirring in his heart that made him do it, a vague stirring and craving for the old companionship of the quiet fields this night of bitterness? They were the fields, the sod, the territory, of his forefathers, the inheritance of his blood. What was he that he should put up a great building on the crest of the hill? Who was he that, he should let the name die upon the land?

The night air was heavy with the scent of the late dry harvest and all that the late dry harvest meant to the man nurtured on the side of the wet hill. The sheaves of corn lay hound and stooked in his neighbor's fields. Yesterday he had forfeited the land to the building; to-morrow he would sacrifice the building to the land.

Martin Cosgrave knew, the stars seemed to know, that a wave would come through the generations or his blood sweeping him back to a common tradition. The cry for service on the land was beginning to stir somewhere. It would come to him in a word, a word sanctified upon the land— by the memory of a thousand sacrifices and a thousand struggles, the only word that held magic for his race, the one word— Redemption!

He crossed the worn stone threshold of his people and closed the cabin door.

_________________

17: A Commercial Mermaid

George A. Birmingham

James Owen Hannay, 1865-1950

Australian Town and Country Journal, 8 May 1918

THERE is not in all England a more patriotic place than the little fishing town of Molemouth. The young men being seafarers, are in the Navy or the R.N.R. The young women are making shells or nursing. The middle-aged or elderly women are economising food with ruthless vigor. When the wave of potato-planting enthusiasm swept over the land, the old men of Molemouth felt that their chance had come. They bought or borrowed spades. They dug up tennis courts, strips of the back garden, and every scrap of waste ground of which they could obtain the control.

Of the leading men in the place there were only two who did not plant potatoes. One of these was the vicar, the Rev. Joseph Jellaby. He was as patriotic as any man living, and he failed to dig only because the vicarage stood in the street, and had no land at all attached to it. Mr. Jellaby could not have planted potatoes unless he had set them in the Churchyard, among the graves of his parishioners. Nobody blamed the vicar.

There was a good deal of talk, however, about Mr. Anthony Higson, the solicitor. He had a garden, a small one, devoted in times of peace to the growing of roses which won prizes at shows. Mr. Higson refused to sacrifice his rose bushes. He explained the position carefully to Mr. Jellaby. He was the vicar's churchwarden, and after the sermon on the nation's food supply, which woke the parish up to its duty some explanation from Higson was necessary.

"The fact is," he said, ''that there'll be too many potatoes in. the town next autumn, we shan't know what to do with them. We shall be paying men to bury them below high-water mark. If I grow more I shall simply be creating an additional nuisance."

"But," said the vicar, "if we mean to win the war— Look at those U-boats.. As a patriotic man, Higson— you and I can't do much. We re too old to fight. It's our job to attend to the food supply."

"I'll do my bit for the food supply," said Higson, "if you'll back me up! Potatoes aren't the only things people eat."

"I'll back you up," said the vicar, "in anything reasonable. I feel my own position acutely. Except you, Higson, I'm the only man in the place who doesn't run a potato plot."

After that the Admiral received several letters from Mr. Higson, and a few notes from the vicar. The Admiral does not live at Molemouth, but he has charge of  the sea in that neighborhood. He learnt that owing to the want of young men, the fish in that part of the sea, especially in South Bay, were not being caught as nature meant them to be, and consequently a quantity of valuable food was being wasted.

Three weeks later the Nesta was dragged out of a pool above the town, towed down the river, and fitted out. The Nesta is a trim cutter, no racer, but a good wholesome sea-boat of about six tons. She belongs to Mr. Higson, and before the war he used to sail about in her, often with the vicar as companion, for the vicar is fond of the sea. Since the war began the Nesta lay, a disconsolate looking hull, in a muddy pool above the town.

The Admiral disapproved of pleasure sailing in war time. All admirals do. Trim cutters of six tons or thereabouts would, we may suppose, get in the way of fighting ships intent on their grim business. But admirals are reasonable men, and Higson, backed by the vicar, made a case for the Nesta, dwelling much on the value of fish to a nation likely to be short of food.

There came a day at last, early in June, when, the Nesta stood out on a long tack to seaward. Every sail was set, the sheets stretched taut as bars. She heeled over to the breeze, her, rail awash, the sparkling water bubbling under her bows. The town lay behind her half-shrouded in a haze which promised heat later in the day. The lighthouse on the pier-end Shone white in the sun. The Nesta, close hauled, danced to windward. Two or three miles from the shore she would go about and stand in, making South Bay on the port tack.

Higson, his pipe between his teeth, crouched on the deck, holding the tiller firm under the crook of his right knee. His hands were hollowed round the flame of a match which he held to his pipe.

Higson, as everyone in Molemouth knows, is a solicitor of great respectability, learned in the law, wise with long experience, and knowing more about his neighbors' personal affairs than anyone except a solicitor ought to know. But Higson on the deck of the Nesta did not look like a solicitor. His bald head was bare to the wind. He wore a fisherman's blue jersey and a very dilapidated pair of trousers. He was more proud of being able to light a pipe with a single match in a breeze than of any lawsuit he had ever won.

The vicar sat in the cockpit. His parishioners knew him as a sensible and kindly man, not wanting in dignity. No one had ever accused him of lack of propriety in conduct. But in the cockpit of the Nesta he did not look like the man who, clad in surplice and cassock, followed the choir up the aisle of the parish church on Sundays. His trousers were worse than Higson's. His sweater, once white, was grimy. His grey hair— there was a great deal of it— was blown wildly round his head. At his feet were the backs of three or four large crabs.

He was baiting hooks with yellow pulp  which he scooped out of the crab shells with his fore-finger. Between his lips he held a tuft of sheep's wool. When he covered a hook, he drew a few threads of wool from the tuft and wrapped them round the pulp to keep it firm in its place. Beside him was a wooden box. As hook after hook was baited, he laid it carefully in the front part of the box, and coiled a length of fishing line behind it. The vicar was baiting a long line, a delicate but smelly job. Later on, after the Nesta had made her shoreward tack, he and Higson meant to set that line across the mouth of the sandy bay.

Higson, his pipe well lit and drawing comfortably, unhooked his leg, laid a hand on the tiller, and allowed the boat to edge a little into the wind. He glanced at the luff of the jib, cast an eye on the topsail, and saw that it was drawing properly.

"Nice breeze," he said.

The vicar grunted. He could not open his mouth to speak. If he did, the tuft, of sheep's wool would blow away.

"This," said Higson, "is what I call the brighter side of patriotism. The feeling that we are doing our bit for King and Country, eh, Jellaby? I don't know that I've ever enjoyed a sail more. I suppose that's what you'd call the reward of a good conscience."

The vicar grunted again, and baited another hook.

"Just think what we might be doing," said Higson. "Digging, Jellaby, digging and sweating. Earthing up potatoes. And it's going to be hot on shore to-day."

He glanced over his shoulder. The haze on the town had ceased to look grey. It was a glowing copper color.

"Damned hot," he added. On shore Higson, a very respectable solicitor, seldom said "damned." In the presence of the vicar he refrained from even mild swear words. But on board a small boat a solicitor ceases to be respectable, and a vicar seldom very clerical.

Jellaby baited his last hook, tucked the sheep's wool into his trouser pocket, and spoke.

"I'm rather afraid, Higson, that we've practising a dangerous kind of self-deception. We oughtn't to call this patriotic. We're simply enjoying ourselves."

"Rot," said Higson. "We're going to fish. Fish are a jolly sight more useful than potatoes. What I said to the Admiral when I asked leave to take out the Nesta was—"

"I know what you said to the Admiral. I said the same myself."

"Well," said Higson, "he believed us."

"Perhaps he did."

"Anyhow he let us take the boat out," said Higson, "and here we are. And we'll set that long line. We ought to catch something. What do you say to going about? Should we fetch the bay yet?"

The vicar turned round and peered across I the sparkling water. South Bay lay open on the weather beam.

"The tide's setting pretty strong against us," he said. "We'd hardly make it. Better stand on a bit."

Five minutes later Higson gave an order. "Ready about."

The vicar, stooping under the boom, hauled on the lee runner.

"Hold on a minute," he said, "there's something floating ahead of us on the lee bow."

Higson stooped and stared forward under the sail.

"Queer-looking thing," he said. "Can't quite, make it out. Looks, like a  buoy, but there's no buoy there."

"Could it be a mine?" said the vicar. "Mines do break loose and float about."

"Doesn't look to me like a mine," said Higson. "But then I've never seen one, so it may be. Let's stand on and see, anyhow."

The Nesta held her course. The vicar, stretched on his stomach on, the cabin roof, made reports from time to time.

"It's drifting north pretty fast," he said, "whatever it is, wind and tide carrying it. Let her away a bit."

The Nesta, her sheets eased, rushed along leaving a foaming wake.

"It's a man," said the vicar. "I can see now. A man with a lifebelt.  He's right. under our lee. We must pick him up."

"Right-o," said Higson. "I'll run down past him, gybe, and pick him up on the other tack. You hail him as we pass."

Jellaby crawled forward and stood by the mast, gripping, the lee shrouds.

"It's a boy," he said, "quite a young fellow, and it isn't a life-belt he has, but one of those new life-saving arrangements He doesn't seem to see us. Hullo!" he shouted. "Ahoy there! Stand by to catch the line we throw. Higson," he said. "I'm afraid he's drowned, He's taking no notice of us."

Higson paid out the main sheet rapidly. The Nesta flew along on even keel.

"I see him,", said Higson. "He can't be drowned. His head and shoulders are out of the water. Stand by for the gybe; Jellaby."

The vicar staggered aft to the cockpit and hauled hand, over hand on the main sheet. The boom flew across with a bang! The Nesta, plunging amid showers of spray, shot up into the wind.

The vicar crawled into the cabin. He appeared a minute later through the fore hatch with a coil of light rope in his hand. He made fast one end of it to the bitts. Higson eased the boat cautiously into the wind, and brought her up, her sails flapping, beside the floating figure. The vicar leaned over the bows and gripped it. He got his line round it and made fast. Higson pulled the foresail across the mast, left the tiller, and came forward.

The Nesta lay to, plunging, easing her way slowly to windward. Higson and the vicar dragged the helpless figure on board.

"Drowned," said the vicar.

"I don't believe he is," said Higson. "Can't be. That bathing dress thing he has on kept half of him out of the water. I never saw such a thing."

The life-saving dress was one of the most elaborate kind. It was a complete rubber suit, made apparently all in one piece. A kind of rubber helmet covered the head and ears, coming low down on the forehead and fitting close under the chin. Round the neck the rubber was distended like a sausage. On the shoulders were two large swellings, like footballs. Under the armpits and round the front of the chest was a long, inflated bladder. The rest of the garment fitted tightly to the body and legs. On the soles of the feet were weights, evidently meant to keep the wearer upright in the water.

"Artificial respiration," said Higson, and seized an arm. The vicar took the other arm, but the stiff rubber and the distended bladders made it impossible to raise and lower the arms properly.

"We must get him clear of all this rubber," said Higson. "I wonder how it's  fastened. There aren't any buttons that I can see. I'll have to cut the damned thing off him."

He took cut his knife and cut the rubber collar round the neck. The vicar dragged the helmet from the head. A mass of light brown hair appeared... Five or six hairpins fell from the rubber helmet and lay on the floor of the cockpit.

"Damn it!" said Higson. "It's a girl."

"What on earth are we to do?" said the vicar.

"There's only one thing to do," said Higson.  "You must haul her into the cabin and take the rest of that bathing suit off her. Then you can try artificial respiration again. I'll get the boat sailing and make for home as quick as I can."

"But— I say, Higson. I— I don't think I— ought to. I can't take her clothes off. She's a girl."

"If you don't she'll die," said Higson. He took the tiller, cast off the weather fore-sheet, and set the Nesta sailing again.

"But—" said the vicar. "I— really— She might be very angry if I did that — when she comes to."

"She'll be much angrier if you leave her to die."

"Why shouldn't you do it?" said the vicar.

"I can't. I'm steering. Don't be an ass, Jellaby. She's sure to have something on underneath."

"I'll take the tiller," said the vicar. "If it has to be done at all, you ought to do it! You're a married man, Higson, I'm not."

"I'm not a married man," said Higson. ''My wife died twenty-five years ago. Go on, Jellaby. You're a clergyman. It's plainly your job. Don't waste any more time."

"I wonder," said Jellaby. "if it would be any use trying her with a little whisky. It might revive her, and then, she could take that bathing dress off herself if she wants to."

"There's a bottle in the starboard locker aft. You can try it if you like; but I don't expect it'll be any good."

At first the whisky had no effect  at all, because Jellaby, who was trying to be gentle, allowed it to trickle along the girl's chin. Then, goaded by the fear of having to resort to artificial respiration, he forced her teeth open, and poured some. whisky into her mouth. The result was most encouraging. She choked. Jellaby poured in some, more. Color rapidly returned to her cheeks. She opened her eyes. Jellaby, excited and hopeful, poured another tablespoonful of whisky into her mouth. She sat up and spat this out.

With the wind abeam the Nesta made a fast passage back to the harbor.

An hour and a half after their adventure Higson and Jellaby were sitting together in the Vicarage study. Exceptional mental strain requires exceptional treatment even in war time. A decanter of whisky and a siphon of soda water stood between them. There was a tap at the door, and the vicar's housekeeper came in.

"Miss Perkins would, wish to speak to you, sir, if you're disengaged."

"Oh," said Higson. "Perkins is her name, is it?"

"Ask her to come in," said the vicar. "And you'd better come with her, Mrs. Jones. It will be less embarrassing for her, perhaps."

Miss Perkins was dressed in the housekeeper's clothes, which did not fit her, and were not of a fashionable or decorative kind, but she was unmistakably a pretty girl, and quite young. She smiled pleasantly.

"Thank you so much for saving me," she said, "both of you."

"Won't you sit down?'' said the vicar.

Miss Perkins took a chair, and sat down between the two old gentlemen. Mrs. Jones stood stiffly near the door. The vicar was still nervous. Higson became paternal and playful.

"And now, young lady," he said. "Suppose you give some account of yourself."

"I invented it myself," she said, "and made it myself— all of it."

"It?" said the vicar.

"The bathing dress?" said Higson.

"Perkins' Patent Natatory," said the girl. "Good name that, don't you think? Ought to catch on? And I do so want to get it taken up— by capitalists, you know— and properly advertised; and enforced by the Admiralty on all sailors. I'm sure there's a fortune in it if it's properly run. But I've no money. So I thought that if I gave a practical demonstration—  So I put it on, and last night after dark— I had to wait till it was dark for fear a policeman or some one would stop me— I just slipped off the end of the pier at Peter End."

"Peter End!" said Higson. "Why that's— Peter End is twenty miles off! You drifted twenty miles in that thing?"

"Yes," she said. "Isn't it splendid? Better than I hoped, by far. Of course I was rather cold at times on account of not having much on underneath."

The vicar shuddered.

"And in the end," she said, "I suppose I got unconscious, though not for long. But it's all right now. After doing all that and demonstrating that you simply can't be drowned if wearing a Perkins' Patent Natatory . Not that it is patented yet, on account of my not having any money. But, I'm sure I'll he able to find some one with capital now to take it up." She turned briskly to the vicar. "Are you a capitalist?" she said.

The vicar remembered the selfish way in which Higson had clung to the tiller and refused to have, anything to do with the artificial respiration which at one time seemed necessary.

"I've no money," he said. "But Mr. Higson has. He's a capitalist."

Miss Perkins clapped her hands.

"How splendid!" she said. "I knew one of you must be, on account of the beautiful yacht. I should think," she added, "that three or four hundred pounds would give it a very good start. You'll get any amount of interest on it, hundreds per cent., far more than you're getting, now."

"At present," said Higson, "I can't count on more than five per cent. But I  don't like risky things."

"There's no risk whatever about Perkins' Patent Natatory," she said. "It's a cert, once it's started. Just think of the number of men in the navy— and each man must have one. Once we get the Admiralty to see that—"

"That's your job," said Higson. "The vicar," he explained, "has tremendous influence with the Admiralty. It was really he who got me permission to take my boat out."

"That's all settled then," said Miss Perkins; "You," she turned to Higson, "will get your £400— better say £500, perhaps— ready. And you"— it was the vicar's turn— "will write a strong letter to the Admiralty saying how you picked me up miles from land in a stormy sea, quite safe and even dry."

"I can hardly say dry," said the vicar.

"I was quite dry inside," said Miss Perkins, "which reminds me. Will one of you lend me a shilling. I want to telegraph to my aunt— I live with an aunt, you know— for some clothes. I don't much care for these."

She picked up a fold of Mrs. Jones' skirt as she spoke.

"Well," said the vicar afterwards, "you've let yourself get run in, Higson. That comes of going out sailing instead of planting potatoes."

"When you write to the Admiral," said Higson— "and you'll have to do it sooner or later— you can prove to him that we really were fishing by saying that we caught a mermaid."

_______________

18: The Clutch of the Law

Deas Cromarty

Elizabeth Sophia Watson nee Fletcher, 1850-1918

Australian Town and Country Journal, 5 July 1916

THE DETECTIVE looked at me with his usual detached and frigid glance, which seemed to imply that nothing one might say or do would matter a straw to him unless he discovered criminality in it. He is a small, stout, fair man, with tight lips and ferrety eyes. The eyes rather spoil him; otherwise he would be good-looking, with an air of being in the army.

"You were saying?" I remarked.

"Nothing at all," he answered. "It as you who spoke. You said that if a man once got into the clutch of the law he was a gone coon so far as employment was concerned."

"I don't remember using the expression 'a gone coon,' " I replied.

"Well, if I am on oath I'll put it that you said he 'went under irretrievably.' "

"And you answered me, inside yourself, though you didn't say. a word, that you could tell a different tale."

"So I could. A quite different tale, so far as one case is concerned. I'm part of the law, I suppose?"

"Very much so. As legal and dry and stiff in the joints as if you had been made out at codes and regulations. Just a limb of the law— so to speak; not a bit of human nature in you."

A faint grin flickered on his smooth, round face. "That's why you like me to come here and talk, ain't it?" he said. "But I won't contradict you. Lot it go at that. I'm a limb of the law; a pretty active limb; and I've clutched a good many transgressors in the dozen years I've been at work. Most of 'em go downhill after they've made my acquaintance, I'm afraid, and if I wasn't legal and dry and stiff I should be sorry for that. It's not a thing to boast of, is it?"

I agreed with him.

"But you are a reader of character," he went on. "That's your line;"— he grinned more broadly this time — "so you'll expect me to be ashamed of the one case in my experience that tells a different tale. As a detective I am ashamed of it, certainly, it was an odd business all through."

"Tell this tale," I said. "Never mind my reading of your character. You come here every now and then, and represent yourself as an iron-hearted sportsman whose game is the criminal of civilisation. It isn't my fault if I take you at your own valuation."

"We'll, as a sportsman I've one failure to record, and what's more I was glad to fail. Think of that! I'll tell you about it if you won't interrupt."

"Fire away!" I said. "But first I will make up the fire. It's a bitter cold night."

It was December. Our road was frozen black and still. You can be quieter in some suburbs of London than on a main country road. There was nothing to interrupt the even dry voice, a little husky, in which Griffith told his story. He sat with his hands on the arms of a Chippendale chair, and his head a little forward. He gave me that sleuth glance of his again, and then fixed it on the hearth tiles where they receded under the grate. Apparently, the criminal whom he pursued was in there among the ashes.

"Ever heard of the Honorable Mrs. Dexter?" he said. "That's not her real name, of course. Never mind her real one. What you don't know you can't remember. She's a high-flyer, whatever her name, and all the people who reckon themselves Society know her. Has married a bag of bones called a financier, with a 'bag' of money slung to it; to him, I mean, only he's hardly a man; chiefly bones, and a temper, and money. She is flesh and blood, and also a temper; she's a woman."

He stopped, gave me another glance, and went back to the ashes under the gate.

"Don't interrupt! I say, a woman. There are as many sorts of them as there are of men, I 'spose, and maybe a few over. She's the kind that matches the fellow who must run over to Paris pretty often, and doesn't tell everybody what he does there or when he's in London, and isn't a marrying man, not he! and so on. The Honorable Mrs. Dexter wasn't a marrying woman, but she had to have money, and the financier came along."

He seemed to meditate on the situation.

"It don't come easy though, for the woman in the case, when a financier keeps the purse and mounts guard otherwise; when he wants to know, you know, what a bill is for and where his wife was yesterday, and why she wishes to go somewhere else to-day. Mrs. Dexter is thirty-five years of age, and pines to have her fling while she can have it— for, as John Oliver Hobbes said, 'a woman is pretty for a few years and old for a great many,' and the one I'm talking of is quite curiously pretty— upon my word she is!"

For a Scotland Yard man this was rather striking. He went on: —

"Well, one day, this lady came to a firm of West End jewellers— never mind their names, either; they are well known, and asked to see one of the partners. She had with her a necklace and pendant; a beautiful thing in diamonds, with a big emerald in the pendant and large diamond for the drop; altogether quite a fancy affair, and one you'd recognise in a moment once you'd seen it. The financier had said a good round price for the article, no , doubt, and he liked to see her wear it. You can guess her errand. She wanted a duplicate made in paste, so that the real one might be kept at a bank, and only taken out on great occasions, because, she said, it gave her the fidgets to have it in the house or on a journey. One can believe that or not, as one chooses. The Jeweller listened, and thought it more likely that the woman was in debt and wanted to raise money on the stones while she had the paste to wear. But what business was it of theirs? She gave them all the guarantee they needed for payment— left some more of her jewels with them I suppose— and they booked the order. The financier, it seemed, was just going to South Africa on business, and had meant to have her with him, but an accommodating doctor found that a sea voyage would not suit her health.  She was to take a 'cure' on the Continent during her husband's absence. He didn't half like it, but for once she got her own way and the making of the new necklace was easy."

"Did he not have the real one sent to the bank, since it gave her the fidgets, to—?"

"Now, there you are asking questions that I can't answer! She managed; that's all I know; and some very special workmen were put on to her job. You can figure our jeweller friend bowing to his customer from the pavement and Mrs. Dexter driving away in her victoria; a very pretty woman, thirty-five years of age, and wanting all she can get out of life, not to say a good deal more. The financier is on the bounding ocean, forging off to South Africa to inquire into the welfare of diamonds— more diamonds— all possible diamonds. That's his form of sport. We're all out with the guns for something or other; all except a few. It's one of the few that made my failure."

He shut his lips tight, and I seemed to see the figures of his story play the first little scene of a comedy or tragedy— which?— and go off the stage. The curtain came down for a minute and went up again.

"Well, that understudy of a necklace was made and delivered, and you can fancy you see the firm and their chief assistant examining the two cases laid side by side on a small table in a not much bigger back office. They turned I on the incandescent gaslights and turned them off; they brought electric lamps and then tried common, foggy London daylight, which happened to be decidedly better than usual, for the occasion; and they all agreed that no ordinary person could tell the difference. To anyone who wasn't looking for tricks the understudy necklace was just as good as the real thing. The junior partner expressed this opinion, and the assistant was sure the financier himself wouldn't know one from the other.

" 'Think so?' said the chief partner. 'All the same; I wouldn't advise her to wear it at a garden party. When nature has put a bit o' stuff through her patent mill and ground at it for two or three million years. It's got to have some of her bottled fire in it, and if the sun happens to shine—'

"It shone that minute, they told me, as much as it ever does in London in November; came slithering down between walls and chimneypots, dirtying itself a good deal on the way, and peeped through the narrow window. It saw a place about eight feet square, with a cashier's desk on one side and an iron door on the other, and three men stuck against a small table; and then, to use the senior partner's expression, it jumped at one of the things on the table. 'There!' he said. 'See the difference! The sun knows its own!'

"From what I hear he's a sentimental kind of gentleman and takes his own views. In fact, I know it, and thereby hangs my tale to some extent, as you'll learn by and by. The chief assistant, on the other hand, has no romance in him, and he also takes his own views. 'The sun seems to know 'em both pretty impartially, don't you think, sir?' he said, cocking his head over the cases. 'If we were to get them mixed up I wouldn't trust myself to say which was which.'

" 'You can't get them mixed up if you remember that the slightly darker case is the original and if you take care of the small label under the pendant.'

" 'Yes, sir. Well, I suppose the bank won't make any mistake. Shall I put them away, sir?"

" 'Yes, 'till we hear from the lady how and where she will take delivery. It's a fine piece, of work, certainly; the best I ever saw. — Wonder what game she's got in hand, now!'

"Brown, the assistant, scarcely troubled his head about that, but he maintained to himself that so far as looks went, the one necklace was as good as the other. The firm did not keep him because he understood jewels, but because he was so entirely trustworthy. They would as soon have suspected themselves as Brown. He kept the keys of the shop, saw it opened every morning, and shut every evening, knew the secret of the iron door that covered the big safe, and was sent on all the important— that's to say; the rather risky errands. All over. Brown filled the part of incorruptible, right-hand man and looked it, every sober-minded inch of him.— You know the sort? Middle-aged, half grey, half bald, extremely sensible and douce-looking, and as methodical as a clock; wears a tall hat, and, for most part of the year, a top-coat, and was never late for business in his life; one of those who do their duty by an employer year in, year out, and are only missed once— that's when they die and can't be replaced. Good old Brown! He's a bit obstinate, of course; such a man always is; and he held to his opinion in face of the firm. But they didn't mind that. He was there to keep the keys and do the important errands.

"So the necklaces were handed up and the Honorable Mrs. Dexter was informed of the execution of her order. She had just returned to town, and was expecting the financier shortly. She would take delivery of the paste jewel at once and call for the real stones next day. It seemed that she was to wear the understudy that evening— give it a chance on the boards, so to speak, and see if it could play Its part. No doubt she was a little anxious as to that."

Griffiths stopped, appeared to consider Mrs. Dexter with that soft slow grin of his, then went on.

"Accordingly, Brown was sent to her. It wouldn't do for even the paste necklace to be lost or stolen. In top hat and top coat, the very image of careful respectability and conscientiousness, he set out just as dusk was falling, to be back in time for seeing the shop closed. The junior partner would wait for him and hear if Mrs. Dexter was satisfied.

"The house is in one of the opulent squares of Belgravia, and Brown was shown into her boudoir. She was more than satisfied, if you can ever say that of a woman. The imitation was lovely; it was perfect; no one would ever know; and then she took the case to the mantel-piece where there was an over-mantel with a full-sized central mirror. She was already in evening dress— something black and lacy over pale satiny green, and pretty was a poor word for her; so Brown said. She laid the open case on the mantel-shelf, lifted the necklace and laid it round her throat. The light flashed from it, and Brown thought of what the senior partner had said about the sun knowing its own. The artificial light knew the artificial stones, it seemed.

"Then the lady gave a little cry. 'This is my own! You've brought my own!' she said. Of course, Brown protested, but she wouldn't let him speak. 'I tell you this is my own necklace, the real one! The minute I put it on I knew it. Do you think a woman can't tell the feel of a thing that she's worn? Of course I know!— Besides, there's a tiny flaw in the setting of the pendant. They surely wouldn't copy that?'

"She had it off, and was slipping it through her fingers. Brown we at over and looked at the case, and there was the little label that told him she was right.

" 'What a good thing I tried it on! I wouldn't have It in the house all night for anything. My maid is a temporary, and there are only three servants altogether. You'll take this back, as quick as you can, and bring me the other. Take cabs. I'm going out.'

"I suppose Brown protested again. You see, the junior partner was waiting for him to report. He couldn't slip in and exchange the necklaces quietly; and toeing the conscientious treasure that he was, he couldn't go back and calmly say that the lady was quite satisfied and would be round in the morning. Moreover, would she hold her tongue? Brown is not what you'd call a quick thinker, but he seems to have seen all this in a second or two while Mrs. Dexter was talking. What he did not see was his way out of the blunder. It was such a silly blunder! If the firm got to know they would never too sure of him again. He daren't ask her to keep counsel, however, and she was determined neither to wear the real stones that night nor to have them in the house. She pushed five shillings into his hand for cabs and made him put the case into the inner pocket of his coat and button up. Or perhaps she did it for him. The like of Brown is no more than a useful and (presumably) honest machine to the like of her. The machine was to do her bidding. Brown found himself going down the front steps and heard the door shut after him. What he was to do or say when he got to the shop he had not the least notion. To quote his own words, his head seemed to have been boiled in a cloth. He, Brown, had blundered, and was going to be found out.

"In that state we'll leave him for the present, if you please. Curtain down on second."

He paused to consider Brown, who should have been just hailing a cab.

"That night Brown disappeared," said Griffith. "He did not return to the shop; he did not go home. The junior partner concluded that Mrs. Dexter had delayed him until past closing time. The wife, knowing he had often to go somewhere, was in no special anxiety until midnight, and then she could do nothing before morning. Mrs. Dexter, it appears, thought that he had purposely not returned with the second necklace, and she went out, wearing some other ornament, and storing up wrath for next day. There's the situation: a decent respectable man with a valuable jewel in his possession; his poor wife waiting up for him and seeing all sorts of horrors; the firm that employed him, and even Mrs. Dexter, going to bed quite easy in their minds, while he— well, he didn't take that cab, anyway. He went off on his feet; and the next morning, for the first time in twenty-five years, he was not there to open the shop. It's a wonder that the British Constitution didn't blow up with the start it must have got. That was nothing, however, to the start they all got, tho partners and Mrs. Dexter, when she arrived at the unearthly hour, for her, of 10 o'clock, to claim her necklace. It wasn't there. Brown wasn't there. She went into fits, used society bad language to a degree, and insisted on a detective being sent for at once. The firm informed her that in sending Brown back with the jewel she had acted entirely on her own responsibility. Their messenger had, in effect, delivered the article, and if he had met with an accident and tho stones were lost, or he had been robbed, it would be very unfortunate for Mrs. Dexter. Then there were ructions, as you may suppose.

"And now I come in," Griffith resumed. "Our people were rung up, and they sent me. I found a small back office stuck full of folks, and they all said things and wore more excited and obstinate than was at all good for them. Brown's wife was there, and she was the quietest of the lot; had been crying her eyes out and seeing black ruin before her; so she didn't speak much. A very sensible, good sort of woman; believed in her man right through, and fought for him against the other woman. The firm's position was, as I have said, that Brown had, on their behalf, made delivery of the real stones and been run over on his way back. They regretted his 'error of judgment;' they regretted any hurt to him. The hospitals should be searched and every effort put forth. Meanwhile they must retain the paste jewel. At this, the ruction rose to a height. Her position was that Brown had absconded with the necklace, that the jewellers were liable, and that, anyway, she must have the imitation. She didn't get it. The firm had to think whether they would ever be paid, for one thing. If the financier landed in upon us in the middle of the fray— as he almost certainly would— there was certain to be a heavy settling-day, of a sort, but probably not one that would suit Mrs. Dexter. You'd hardly have called her a pretty woman when she at last swung into her carriage and drove off. I was held bound to report to her that evening; by which she meant that I was to find the necklace and smooth everything over so that her husband should never know. I booked the order so to speak, and then went home with Mrs. Brown. She didn't expect miracles, poor soul, but she wanted her man.

"'Oh, if he isn't killed, Mr. Griffith,' she said, and took me by the arm as if I had been the only plank in a shipwreck. 'If he has only been robbed of that horrid thing and is afraid to come home, the lady can have half our savings to make up. We'll manage some-how. But find him! Find him, quick!'

"Well, everything was done to find that man, and everything failed.  The financier returned, and his wife too0k to her bed. That way, no jewels had to be worn, and I expect she was ill enough, between the terror of losing the necklace and the terror of having the loss known. For me, I wasted my time and my temper in the hunt and began to be very tired of Brown. If he were roaming round in a blue funk, as his wife piteously believed, then he managed it very cleverly, to be the plain, simple-minded chap he was. But it takes such a one to bamboozle smarter people, and I was sort of hypnotised. Mrs. Brown's hand was on my arm all the time, so to speak. Just when you're not thinking you'll come on him, she would say I had to report regularly to her, and every evening there was supper for that man in a comfy room of a small side street near Hammersmith-road. It was interesting, I must say. If I could be sure of a wife like that I'd think of getting married, stiff, dry limb of the law as I am."

He gave me a queer glint of the eye and went on.

" 'When you're not thinking,' she said. One morning I started for Rotherhithe to bring somebody else within the clutches of the law. Brown was having a holiday of a sort at the expense of my reputation, and it made me a bit angry. As we ran out of Fenchurch-street I fixed my mind on the other man. Why on earth, then, did I suddenly remember Mrs. Brown mentioning her husband's fancy for going about the docks and the shipping when he had a holiday? 'Never would go to the country or the seaside if he could help it,' she said. 'He would stay at home and spend his time about the docks if he had his own way.' I hadn't thought of this except in connection with him going abroad! The word holiday must have brought it back in a different way. Anyhow, I got out at Shadwell, and went mooning round in that region, calling myself a fool for my pains and seeing nothing— that is, nothing I wanted to see. After a long prowl I made tracks for a dining-place. You will not find a Holborn restaurant  in that part of London; but I like my food good of its sort and decently served, and so, by the looks of him, did a youngish, middle-aged man, like a clerk from one of the offices, who chose the same place as myself, and went in before me. He sat down in a corner and stayed as long as I did, though he only took soup. Had very black hair, no beard or whiskers, the queerest complexion I ever saw and eyes that made one a bit sorry for him. He was loosely wrapped in a big muffler and heavy top-coat, with a soft felt hat on his black hair, and every two or three minutes he gave a little nervous tap to his chest as if a pain bothered him. As he went out he asked me the time, and then stood about like a fellow who's considering where he can apply for work. All the same, he didn't look as though he had come down to pawning his watch. I kept him in view, and we both ambled about a bit. He turned towards tho Underground Station; so did I. He waited for a train going East; so did I. We both got in, and I sat down, not quite opposite to him. Then it seemed to me that his complexion got queerer still, and the pain in his chest distinctly rose. He tapped the place with the tips of his fingers, and my eyes informed me that they were not the fingers of a clerk. They also told me in the same moment that the tapping was not on woollen stuff only. There was a firm substance underneath; in short, the man was in charge of some valuables. I looked at his hair again, and longing over to him chanced a shot. There was no one else in the compartment. 'You're taking holiday, Mr. Brown?' I said. He didn't stare at me; he just made a bolt for the door. So did I, of course; and he was soon mastered. I unbuttoned his coat and took a case from an inner pocket and 'the horrid thing' winked a dozen eyes at me, as though it gloried in the mischief It could do. 'What in the name of tomfoolery possessed you?' I asked him, and all he said, either then or afterwards, was that he couldn't go back to the shop and own that he had made such a blunder. It would have been as much as my place was worth,' he told me. He'd taken a fine way to keep his place!

"Well, I took him home. It wasn't professional, but this ease didn't go on professional lines anyway. Then, minus the black wig, and fortified by his wife (there was no blue funk about her) he faced the firm. They looked at him, and they looked at her, and the senior partner cleared his throat. 'Mrs. Dexter won't say anything,' he remarked. 'She can carry out her little game now, and— and really— all things considered, we'll call it an error of judgment on your part, Brown— an error of judgment. You've had your holiday for the next twelve-month, and you can go on as usual.'

"He is still doing so, but he will never want to moon about the docks again. We had a rattling good supper in the street near Hammersmith-road that evening, and drank the health of the senior partner, and then Brown proposed his dear wife, and they, kissed each other like a couple of children; and, for a top-up, Mrs. Brown included me. It was rather affecting, to tell the truth, and I like to remember it; especially as the Hon. Mrs. Dexter never so much as said thank you. I daresay she carried out her little game, whatever it was, but it didn't bring her within the clutch of the law."

______________

19: A Witch City Mystery

Frederic Van Rensselaer Dey

1861-1922

The Black Cat, August 1901

JACOB HAWKSLEY was a chemist, having succeeded to the occupation as an inheritance. The Hawksleys had lived and labored at the same location in Salem, for generations, and before that, tradition said, had compounded drugs in the city of London, in the days before the Puritans left England for conscience sake.

The quaint old Hawksley shop and dwelling stood, and part of it still stands, near Salem's water front. Beneath its dingy paint and planking, though remodelled many times, it still retains the stout framework of its colonial days. A generation ago even the old, illegible sign yet hung above its doorway.

Jacob Hawksley, the last of his line, had no assistant and rarely a customer, and, indeed, none but strangers dared to enter his low-ceiled, dingy shop in the early "thirties," when superstition was not so veiled as now, for rumor had woven a web of weirdest horror about the old man and his habitation. Not that he was so very old— three score, perhaps, with a smooth, benignant face, and a shrewd smile for those who feared him most. But tradesmen served him only because they dared not refuse, children fled from him, and strangers, who were mostly mariners, were warned to give his shop a roomy berth. If but half the wonders related of the round-shouldered, studious-looking little man had been true, they were enough to account for the horror in which he was held, while their foundation on facts was undeniable.

Some people said, if any living thing crossed his threshold, it never re-appeared. The grocer opposite, who served the chemist with trembling, told of scores of stray cats and dogs enticed into Hawksley's shop, but they were always homeless, miserable creatures. Ill-natured persons hinted that the old man ate the captured animals, though the butcher declared that Hawksley bought the best of beef and mutton. The charitable argued that the brutes were killed to release them from misery, but immediate neighbors shook their heads at this suggestion, for they remembered many nights— usually wild and stormy— when strange noises of barking and growling dogs, and still more inexplicable animal sounds, came from behind the chemist's door. Never a. sign of anything of the kind was heard or seen by day, however, and if the weather permitted, the shop door stood well ajar, while the windows and curtains of the single story above were wide to the world, and canaries sang merrily there in their cages. Sometimes screaming parrots or frolicsome squirrels took the place of the canaries, and altogether it might have been thought that Hawksley possessed a miniature menagerie but for the fact of lack of space.

There were certainly no animals in the upper story, nor room for so many in the cellar as had been traced to the premises, to say nothing of long periods of unbroken silence, so the generally accepted belief made Hawksley a magician, at whose command birds and beasts appeared and disappeared. Such benevolent actions as were sometimes reported of Hawksley were also attributed to his magical powers.

On one occasion, when a friendless child was knocked down by a horse and taken up with a broken leg, it was the old chemist who bore the little sufferer tenderly away, closed the shop door in the faces of a gaping crowd, afraid to enter, and told them that he would care for and cure the foundling. The very next day the lad came forth completely sound and well, without a scar to tell of the fracture of a limb.

Again, an old cripple, bent with rheumatism, a stranger in Salem— stopped to ask alms of the chemist. He entered without fear, and twenty-four hours later departed, erect and agile. The neighbors called these cures sorcery. The rheumatic beggar could tell nothing of his cure, except that Hawksley had given him something to drink, and that presently he awoke from sleep to find himself free from shooting pains, and well and young again in his feelings. He did not know from his own consciousness whether the cure had taken an hour, a day or a year. He only knew that he was cured and could work instead of beg.

About this time came the crowning mystery. Salem then enjoyed a maritime commerce that rivalled that of any New England port, and the captain of a clipper in the Liverpool trade was seen to enter the mysterious chemist's shop, but, though watched, was not observed to go out again. Higham, the grocer, who knew Captain Simpson and his son very well, saw the captain call upon Hawksley, noticed that they seemed acquainted, and perceived that they had some sort of dispute, though neither the low tones of the chemist nor the captain's loud and angry epithets gave a clue to the matter under controversy. Hawksley, he noted, wore his wonted calm. While the grocer still watched, the door suddenly closed, and the voices could no longer be heard.

An hour later, watching with unrelaxed vigilance, Higham saw Hawksley reopen the door, stand smiling a few moments on the threshold, and then, leaving the door ajar, walk deliberately down the street. But still the captain did not come out. The tradesman was puzzled, but continued to watch, even after Hawksley returned. Then he called one of his clerks to relieve him, and all through that day and the following night the door of the chemist's shop was under observation; but Captain Simpson did not appear. There was no other means of egress from the building, and Higham, still leaving a watching assistant, and believing that a crime had been committed, went at noon to Captain Simpson's ship and told his story to Burke Simpson, the captain's son and first mate.

What follows of this strange tale is told in the words of Burke Simpson, as he wrote it down afterwards :

I WAS beginning to think it strange that the old man did not came back to the ship when Mark Higham, the chandler, came and told me that father had gone into Hawksley's chemist shop the day before and had never come out, so I cleared for the scene at once. A hand was still on watch at Higham's and reported no sail; the old man had not yet got under way. I crossed the street alone, for neither Higham nor his clerk would go. I knew that Hawksley and my father had been friendly in their younger days, before something— I know not what— had come between them, yet I was surprised that father should go into a place with such a bad name. Though I believed Higham's story, I did not then believe that anything serious had happened. Hawksley looked unlike a murderer.

"I believe you know my father, Captain Simpson ?" I said.

"I have known him since we were boys," replied Hawksley. "What can I do for his son?"

"You can tell me where my father is."

"I am sorry I cannot oblige you," he answered calmly. "The captain was here yesterday, shortly after noon. I have not seen him since."

"He left here, then?"

"That would seem to be the logical inference from the fact I have stated. We were together half an hour— possibly an hour— and I have not set eyes on him since."

Then I told the chemist the whole of Higham's story, and how his door had been watched from the moment of my father's entrance, and I added: "I know there was bad blood between you, and I am going to find out, in some way, what you k now about his disappearance."

He looked at me curiously, without replying. I can only compare his expression to that of a cat watching a disabled mouse that tries to crawl away. At the same time he endeavored to get between me and the door, but I was looking for such a move, and headed him off.

"None of that!" I said. "You can't close any hatches while I'm aboard. Now, then, where's the old man ?" He shrugged his shoulders, but kept his hungry eyes upon me. I had to repeat my question.

"I'm sorry I can't tell you," was all he said. There wasn't a thing I could do, but there was one thing more I could say, and as I said it I watched him closely: "If anything has happened to my father in this house, you'll regret it. I'll have the watch kept up, and if the old man doesn't turn up on board ship by morning, your den shall be searched, from cellar to garret."

Well, the captain did not turn up by morning, and a close watch of the chemist's shop had shown nothing out of the ordinary. So I went to the city marshal, and induced him and his constables to make a thorough search of Hawksley's place, but not a sign of a living thing, except Hawksley himself, was to be seen. The upper story was just a comfortable living place. The shop was just as it had looked for years. The cellar was full of casks, with movable lids, each containing liquid.

Hawksley warned us not to put a finger into one of them, on pain of fearful burning. This made me suspicious.

"A body might be hid in one of these big casks," I said to the head constable. "Let's dump the whole cargo."

At this Hawksley showed the first sign of fright.

"Would you ruin me by spoiling the labor of a lifetime?" he cried.

"Then give us something to poke into them," I demanded. He calmed down and fetched an iron rod, with which we stirred up every cask in the cellar, but not one of them contained anything but ill-smelling liquids. After spending more than two hours in searching, sounding walls, rummaging cupboards and corners and finding nothing, we had to give up. The constables called me a fool and Hawksley's curious neighbors idiots, and I could only vent my own vexation on the grocer and chandler, at whose instigation I had caused the search. Yet, I found him as firm in his belief as ever.

Then I began a systematic search of the city, offered a reward, and did everything anybody could suggest to get a trace of my father, but nothing came of it. We had begun to discharge cargo when he disappeared, and had finished and reloaded, and still he was not heard from. He had sometimes remained away from his ship a few days at a time, but never without leaving word, and I came to the conclusion that he had been waylaid on the docks— a common thing in those days— and been thrown overboard, and that I should never see him again. So, when sailing day came, and the owners were willing to give me charge of the ship, I had to go. But before we sailed, I had one more visit from Higham.

"Your father never came out of that place again, Burke," he said with the tone of certainty, "and there'll be other disappearances, as sure as you live! Now, I'm going to keep a watch on that shop, night and day, till you get back—and there'll be something to tell."

"What makes you think so?" I asked, his manner was so solemn. Higham leaned nearer, and said in a low voice: "Hawksley's well off. His father left him plenty to live on. He hasn't taken in a dollar a week, sometimes, these ten years. Then why does he pretend to keep a shop? I'll tell you. He's experimenting! Sure's you're born, he's experimenting, and he must have something living and moving and breathing to try his devilish tricks upon. That's what I think! At first, cats and dogs and birds would do. Now he wants humans— humans! He's got your father and— mark me— he'll want more! And he'll get 'em!"

I thought it over a minute, and then I said:

"Nonsense! If what you hint is true, there would be some trace of it— and there wasn't one. However, if you'll watch the place, I'll be glad, and bear the expense."

Then the clipper slipped her moorings, and the round voyage took us seventy-five days. So it was into October before I went ashore in Salem again, and bore away for the chandler's shop. Higham seemed to be expecting me, and was all excitement.

"What did I tell you before you sailed?" he stuttered, the moment we were alone. I answered his question by another equally eager one:

"Has there been another disappearance?"

"Another!" he cried. "Not only another, but four! Think of it, Burke Simpson, five altogether, counting your father. Three last week, and one only last night!"

I was too amazed to speak.

"Let me tell you the whole story," he said. "That place has been watched every minute since you left port, over two months ago, and last night two constables watched with me, and they're convinced at last. The old devil kept quiet as a mouse until last week— probably suspecting that he was watched. But he yielded to temptation at last. Wednesday afternoon a nigger— looked like a cook off'n a coaster— went in, and I'll swear on a stack of Bibles as high as the South Church steeple that he hasn't come out yet! I reported that to the officers, and got laughed at."

I attempted to speak, but Higham broke in: "Hold on. The very next day, Thursday, a carriage drove up, a gentleman got out and went into Hawksley's and the door closed. I told the driver that if he didn't follow his master immediately, he'd never see him again. He said I was crazy. After he had waited an hour, he went in. Burke, as sure as you're sitting there, neither of them has come out since!"

"But, good heavens, man—"

"Wait. I ain't through yet. It was about three o'clock when the coachman entered. After awhile the horses began to stray away, and my errand boy held 'em till about sundown, when I got on the box myself and drove to the watch-house. I brought pretty good proof that time, I guess, and two constables went back with me, and what do you think we saw? There was old Hawksley on his step, picking his teeth for all the world as if he had just eaten the two men! He told the officers that the coachman and his master had been obliged to go away on foot, because some one had stolen the horses! The constables were for quitting at that cool yarn, but I made 'em wait till my watcher came over and swore by all that's holy that not a soul but Hawksley had come out all the afternoon. That gave them something to puzzle over till they concluded to search the place on their own responsibility, Hawksley being willing, and I went in, too. I wanted to see with my own eyes, even if it was the Old Nick himself."

"And you found just what I did?"

"Just that and no more. Hawksley declared that he didn't know who the gentleman was, and nobody was reported missing till last night— Sunday. Then the city marshal sent for me, and set a watch of two of his men in my store, and now I guess he'll do something— after what they saw."

"And what was that?"

"The fifth disappearance! It was a sailor-man. Looked like he might be mate of a blue-water craft. You know that Hawksley, pretending to be a druggist, keeps his shop alight and his door ajar on Sunday evenings, and about half-past nine along came this mate, half-seas over-begging your pardon— and blessed if he didn't turn in to Hawksley's before we could make a move, and the old spider shut the door on him in a twinkling. I wanted the officers to go right over, but they must needs wait what they called a reasonable time, so it was half an hour before we pounded on the door, which Hawksley promptly opened, picking his teeth, as usual, and smiling his hyena smile. We asked for the sailor.

" 'You're quite mistaken, gentlemen," said Hawksley. " No sailor— no customer at all— has come in this evening.'

"Of course, this bare-faced lie made the constables mad, and they went in at once after the man they had seen disappear, while Hawksley smoked a pipe on the doorstep. Well, they found nothing, but their report to the city marshal made him almost as mad as the rest of us. He's promised to do something by ten o'clock this morning and if he doesn't the citizens will; there's lamp-posts handy. There, Burke, that's the story, up to date."

It was only half-past eight, as you would say ashore, we having made port by dawn, and suddenly I said to Higham: "Lend me your pistol."

"Don't do it, Burke," he said, "don't go in there alone!"

But I was determined, and he let me have the pistol, and I crossed the street, banged the chemist's door behind me, and pocketed the key. Hawksley looked astonished, but not alarmed. When I pointed the pistol at him he even smiled, but he said nothing. I was feeling ugly, and meant every word when I said:

"Hawksley, if you don't within ten seconds tell what's become of these people, and especially my father, I'll shoot you dead, and take the consequences!"

"I wouldn't," he answered, calm as a summer sea.

"Why not?"

"Because you would be a murderer."

"It's no murder to kill a shark," I retorted. " Ah, but your bullet would take five lives besides my own, including your father's!"

I felt obliged to lean against the locked door. "Then he's alive?" I exclaimed.

Hawksley shrugged his shoulders and thrust his hands out palms upward, like a slop-shop clothier. I was about to repeat the question, when he said : "I think, Burke Simpson, that this affair has gone quite far enough. I had determined to explain this morning, and I would like to do so to you first. You may trust me. Put up your pistol— I will not harm you. I never harmed any living thing— never— and I will do the world untold good with the greatest discovery it has ever known. Come with me; you shall be my assistant!"

He rubbed his hands joyously as he talked, and though I thought him crazy, I believed him harmless when watched; and so, with the pistol in easy reach, I followed him to the cellar. Near the centre of the floor was half of a whaler's water cask that I remembered having seen there before, but I was surprised when the old man proceeded to dust it out very carefully with a silk handkerchief. Then he surprised me much more by pointing to another smaller cask, and saying coolly: "Simpson, your father is in there."

I jumped to choke the lie in his throat, reaching for my pistol, but he eluded me, and panting, but calmly as ever, gasped:

"If you injure me you may lose your father. He's alive now, and well— better than he has been since boyhood. You'll thank me for this— though I've kept him longer than I meant to."

"In heaven's name—" I started to say, and stopped. The man was as mad as a hatter.

"Wait; be calm; you shall see. Here, I need your help with this cask. We must pour its contents into the large one I have just dusted. But don't spill the least drop. It might be a finger or toe, or even an eye. One cannot tell. And don't let the liquid touch you; it would injure you. Easy, now, lift together."

Though I was sure he was as crazy as a loon, l thought it best to humor him, and we gently decanted the contents of the cask into the tub, to the last dregs. Then he fetched a tin dipperful of liquid from a barrel that stood just a bit away from the wall. I watched carefully, while he seemed to forget my presence as he poured the contents of the dipper into the huge tub— one so large that a man might lie at length in it. The mixture produced a marvellous effect. The liquid began to boil and seethe and whirl as if stirred by a mighty hand. In amazement I soon discerned a floating substance that gradually took shape, though the whirl was so rapid that I could not define it, and then, with a swiftness that the eye could not follow, and in a manner impossible to describe exactly, the whirling motion ceased as the whole contents of the tub seemed to leap together. And there before me, lying on the bottom of a perfectly dry tub, was the body of my father. I blinked my eyes and looked again—  but there was no mistake. The miracle was a fact, and my father was alive and breathing regularly. Hawksley pushed me aside till he had felt the old man's pulse. Then he bade me help him lift the captain out and carry him up stairs.

"When I awaken him, do not tell him what you know; let me do the talking. Heavy, isn't he? Better flesh and better health than he's had for many a year—  it's perfect now."

Astonishment kept me silent. We placed him in a chair in the shop, and Hawksley put on his clothes, hidden in a most ingenious locker, and held a vial to his nose. Presently he opened his eyes.

"Hello, Burke!" he exclaimed. "When did you come in? I must have had a long nap, Hawks. Devilish fine one, though, for I feel like a new man. Hawksley's remedies beat the world. He said he'd cure my rheumatism if I'd take his medicine, and damned if he hasn't. Hello! What's all that row?"

It was, as I expected, Higham, alarmed at my long absence, backed by a crowd. I showed my face at the glazed and curtained upper panel of the door, and told them to wait. When father had stretched his limbs a bit, he helped us, in the same wondering way I had done, to bring to life the four other men confined in casks in the cellar, and when the city marshal and his men came at ten o'clock to make their search they not only found all whom they sought, but those persons assured them that they had come to Hawksley's and remained of their own free will, in order to be cured of their ills. So there was naught for the officers to do but go with the healed, when they departed; all save my father, who remained with Higham and myself to hear the wonderful tale which Jacob Hawksley had to tell.

"Of course, you think you have witnessed a miracle," he began, "but it was really done in accordance with nature's— and therefore God's— simplest laws, though it has taken generations to discover them. Many generations ago one of my ancestors began the work, so all the credit does not belong to me. I have only completed the task bequeathed from father to son through two centuries. But you comprehend the result— man's complete triumph over disease by this process of dissolution and rehabilitation. The foundation was my ancestor's discovery that every substance— iron, gold, or any metal, flesh, bone, gristle, etc., may be dissolved by some chemical or combination of chemicals, and his inference was that a universal solvent might by their combination, be discovered. He did not succeed, nor his son nor grandson, but four generations back that much was accomplished— the solvent was achieved, but the effort to restore the dissolved substances to their original state always failed. If a combination of metals was dissolved, the restorative fluid gave back no alloy, but the separate metals. If an organic substance— that is, vegetable or animal matter— was put in the solution, it could be restored, but unorganized— a chaotic mass of tissues.

"My grandfather made the next step forward, and his restoring chemical not only gave back iron for iron, but brass— which is an alloy— for brass, bronze for bronze, spelter for spelter, and so on. But when he dissolved an animal— say a sickly cat— he only recovered a great quantity of separate particles, though analysis showed that they contained every substance that the live cat had contained.

"My father— doubtless the greatest chemist that ever lived left little for me to do, for he succeeded where his ancestors had failed, and the fluid which he devised would restore a dissolved animal to its original size and shape. Unfortunately, the restored cat, dog or guinea-pig was always dead. He worked to remedy this fault, on the natural supposition that it lay with the dissolving fluid, the invention of his predecessor. When I took up the labor independently after his death— having been his assistant for years— I did so on the hypothesis, which proved to be correct, that the imperfection was in my father's restorative fluid. It came to me as a revelation one day that, on principles which we had again and again proved to be true, the potentiality of life was still present up to the moment when the Restorative was mixed with the dissolved being, and that death therefore was caused by the restoring agent.

"It is twenty years since I experienced that conviction, and it has taken that score of summers and winters to find the complete remedy. You are eye-witnesses of its success, but you are not chemists nor physiologists, so it would do no good to explain to you in the language of science all the details of the glorious process which will be such a blessed boon to humanity, and which I shall immediately publish to the world. The result has even exceeded my highest expectations. For example, Captain Simpson, suppose that the cask in which you have lived for nearly three months could, with its contents, have been preserved, sealed from the air, a thousand years— which is perfectly possible— and that at the end of that time some one possessing my secret should apply the Restorative, you would awaken as you did an hour ago, full of life and energy, not a day older, and utterly unconscious of the ten centuries of sleep I How would you like to be dissolved again, and try it?"

My father shuddered, but we all laughed when he said drily: "Thank you. I'd rather take my chances on the broad Atlantic than in one of your casks. That fellow, due in a thousand years, might not keep the appointment, you see."

"I shall not soon forget my own feelings the first time I took courage enough to try my discovery on a human being," continued Hawksley. "You can well imagine them. If I failed, I should differ from a murderer only in intention, and not at all in the eyes of the world. Fate brought a drunken sailor to my doorstep with a broken arm. I dragged him inside, gave him a sleeping potion,  worked rapidly while my daring spirit prevailed, and let the man go again within twenty-four hours, whole and well, and never knowing that his arm had been broken. You can see how that success emboldened me. I have practised on many that even my friend Higham did not know about. Then, Captain, you came, and told me about your rheumatism, and I judged that at your age a long rest in solution would be beneficial. You are all beginning to understand the whole thing now, but friend Higham, who has interested himself so much in the matter, has not yet seen the operation. Come to the cellar, where I have still a fine Newfoundland dog dissolved, and I will bring him to life for you, Burke, for a present."

All notions of witchcraft blown to leeward by Hawksley's sensible talk, Higham followed up eagerly, and witnessed with bulging eyes the re-embodiment of the great dog. No sooner had the animal sniffed from Hawksley's vial than he leaped to the floor, wagging his tail. As I patted the pet thus strangely bestowed upon me, the old chemist watched me with an inquiring look.

"Have you faith and courage enough now to do something to please me?" he finally said. Hawksley laughed the first hearty laugh I had ever heard him utter in the dozen years I had known him by sight, when I said emphatically: "If it is to submit to your process, I certainly have not!"

" Oh, no, not that," he answered lightly and cheerfully.  "On the contrary, I wish myself to submit to it, and I want you to be the operator. You have proved to be a man of firmness, nerve and sense. I have overworked myself in this concentrated study, and I need renovation to do the important work of assuring my discovery to the whole world. Besides, none of you have seen the dissolving process. Come, be our chemist."

I still hesitated, but he continued eagerly:  "Though I am not young, my constitution is exceptionally sound, and I shall need but a couple of hours in solution. I will administer to myself the drug that causes unconsciousness, and lie at length at the bottom of this great tub. When I am fast asleep pour over me three pailfuls of the liquid in yonder yellow cask. Yon may watch me dissolve, or cover the tub with this tarpaulin... In from fifteen to thirty minutes I shall be completely dissolved. Counting from that time, wait in the shop for two hours. Then, from that cask, which you have seen me use several times, pour one dipperful, just as you have seen me do. Then you have only to hold this vial to my nostrils till I open my eyes. It is all very simple. You will do it, won't you?"

"We'll do it, certainly," spoke up Higham, who entered into the matter mightily, and I uttered no dissent. Hawksley peered into the cask of Restorative.

"Enough for a dozen small men like me," he said, "but it's getting low."

The goblet of medicine to put him to sleep he fetched from the shop, and when all was ready, and he lay in the big vat, he drank it off and almost immediately lost consciousness, as we could plainly see. Then we proceeded as he had directed, drawing the tarpaulin over the tub, for none of us cared to watch. While we silently waited in the cellar for the passing of a full half hour our hearts beat anxiously—  I know mine did— and we were in such a state as to shrink unnerved when, with a loud bark and ponderous rush, the Newfoundland dog dashed among us, pursuing a rat.  We leaped aside, and I tried to stop the brute, but he dodged me, and as the rat slid in between the Restorative cask and the cellar wall the great beast followed, like a stone shot from a catapult, upsetting the cask, which was but half full and therefore quite light.

It was all over in a moment. Stupefied with amazement and horror, we stood there and saw the last of the priceless liquid vanish, spilled beyond redemption— soaking into the rotting boards of the cellar floor! My father was the first to recover the power of motion. He sprang to the tub and snatched away the tarpaulin. Nothing but a milky-looking fluid met our eyes. Hawksley had disappeared. With shaking steps and trembling voices we left that awful place, followed by the dog. We left it just as it was— never to return—  but in the upper shop we swore an oath of eternal secrecy.

HERE the statement of Burke Simpson stopped, but old newspapers and records show that on that very night Hawksley's shop was burned to a charred framework, and that his opposite neighbor, Henry Higham, the grocer, was supposed to have been its incendiary, in a fit of insanity from which he never recovered.

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20: Auxons

Julia Truitt Bishop

1852-1931

The Black Cat, July 1902

RICHARD FANNING threw down the morning paper and lay out at length on the silk-draped lounge. His hands were clasped back of his head. He was staring at the ceiling with a look of unutterable boredom. The new valet moved a chair slightly and cleared his throat discreetly. He was but a new valet, and doubtless he felt that to look at that face just now was like listening at a keyhole.

"Don't knock the furniture about, if you please, Edouard," suggested Fanning, not turning his eyes from the ceiling. "Upon my honor, I believe my nerves are going."

"Has Monsieur any orders?" asked the new valet softly. It was the softness of his tones that had led Fanning to engage him. His former valet had possessed a hoarse croak that made excellent service of none effect. Of what value was money if one could not buy pleasing voice as well as ready hand?

"Oh, no orders," said Fanning with the same unchanging stare. "I am tired, Edouard— deadly tired. If I knew what to do, I give you my word I'd do it."

Edouard stood respectfully near, looking down.

"Why, for instance, does not Monsieur travel?" he asked with quiet suggestion.

A tired smile curled one corner of Fanning's mouth.

"Because, for instance, my good Edouard," he replied, "I have travelled until I am more tired of that than of anything else. Talk of travel to a man that knows Port Said by heart, and could find his way blindfold about Teheran! Try something else, man."

Edouard laid his hand on a chair-back.

"But while Monsieur has travelled, he has, perchance, never seen Auxons," he suggested again.

"Auxons? what is that?" asked Fanning, turning. his eyes for a moment toward the face of the quiet Edouard.

"It is but a little town, Monsieur— a little town in the mountains of my country,'' Edouard hastened to assure him; "but it is very old, and is not without interest."

Then for the first time Fanning laughed. "Now, why should you imagine," he said, "that I have any desire to see every little old garlic-smelling French town on the map— or not on it? Give me my coat, Edouard— and don't be an idiot."

Receiving his coat, and being duly brushed, he went down to his club, from whose almost empty windows he stared vacantly at the street outside and was consumed with weariness. No one was there whom he cared to meet, and he avoided the smiling old club Nestor with a haste that was almost rudeness. He was on the point of leaving when a certain Mr. Clermont strolled in and met him with evident pleasure.

Mr. Clermont had brought European letters of introduction to the club three days ago.

"Well met!" cried Mr. Clermont. "I have wished to see you to say good-bye, as it may be that I shall leave New York for my own land to-morrow. And when shall I see you in Paris ?"

"I do not think of going soon," said Fanning, with a weary smile that was scarcely at the trouble to smile at all. "You see, I have visited Paris so many times—"

"Ah, but have you seen Auxons?" asked Mr. Clermont with enthusiasm.  "Depend upon it, my friend, it is worth the visit to France merely to see Auxons."

A flash of interest lit Fanning's eyes. Twice within an hour, this place of which he had never heard before had been mentioned by men of very different stations in life. He would have asked further, but at that moment Mr. Clermont was called away, and he did not see him again.

The unutterable dullness of the club drove him out, and in his wanderings he passed a public library, hesitated and turned back. A dark young man who seemed to be a stranger went up the marble steps after him. Fanning chose a book and sat down. Sometimes a book might be found that was fairly endurable. A while later he was aroused by a voice at his side.

"Pardon, Monsieur," the dark young man was saying in French, "but will you assist me in finding if there is a paper here, published in the little town of Auxons?"

For a moment Fanning was dumb with amazement. Then he courteously arose and began the search. But there was no such paper, as he presently communicated to the stranger.

"Ah," said the young man with a look of disappointment; "doubtless that is because Auxons is not one of the large cities. You have, by chance, seen it, Monsieur? True, it is very small, but it is very old, and not without interest, Monsieur."

The repetition of Edouard's words gave Fanning a sudden, uneasy sense that all this had happened long ago, and that he knew what was going to happen next. What did happen next was that the young man disappeared with a murmur of thanks, and that he restored the book to its place on the shelves.

"Why should I?" he kept asking scornfully of the Self that was already resolving upon a certain thing; and the Self replied, "Why not?"

And perhaps it was because there was no reason for doing it that he did it.

"Edouard," he said, half an hour later, "do you know how to reach this Auxons of which you speak?"

"Assuredly, Monsieur," said Edouard, after the slightest pause.

"Then we will start to-morrow," said Fanning. "There's money - take it, and manage the trip, and spare me the worries."

Edouard did not even raise his eyes. There were times when Edouard was very impassive. "Monsieur will find everything ready," he said very quietly.

A LITTLE branch of the Loire tumbled noisily down a gorge; a little old, old village held a scanty foothold on the slanting edge of it. Higher up on the slope, with the torrent a hundred feet down and the cliff a thousand feet up, clung the half-ruined château.

Fanning stood beneath the château and looked up and looked down.

"And this is Auxons!" he said. There was a note of contempt in his voice. He had come such a way— to see this!"

Monsieur is looking upon an old town," said Edouard in the very quiet tones Fanning had liked. "Its foundations were laid by the Gauls— it was old in the days of Caesar, Monsieur. The château has sheltered Clovis and Charlemagne, and has been the abode of one family since before their day.''

"Judging from its looks, they have fallen upon evil times," said Monsieur indifferently.

"It would seem so, Monsieur," said Edouard. "Does Monsieur wish that I tell the château's story in the château itself? One must be careful of the steps— see how the stones fall away! This is the chapel, Monsieur— newer than the remainder of the château, and yet very old— so old that it, too, falls to decay."

They stood in the ruined chapel, its walls crumbling, its roof sagging. At the end was a great stained-glass window, almost entire, but the ivy had grown over it on the outside so that most of the light was shut off. The old chapel would have been in darkness, but that once in a while, the leaves, stirred by the wind, parted and let a dull glow through, as though it shone from the heart of an opal.

After a little, Fanning saw that the dark masses on the floor were heaps of stones fallen from the thick walls. After a little more he saw that the dark something beneath the winking glow of the great window was a tomb, with a marble slab closing it. Edouard stood near him, very quiet.

"It is not a pleasant story, that of the château," he said, when Fanning had turned his eyes upon him and waited for him to speak.

"It was, as I told Monsieur, a very old family— very old and very noble. The men have been great men always— great statesmen, great generals, what you will; —and the time was when they helped kings with their money. Once their lands swept down that valley yonder, and as far as the eye could see in three directions from this hill-top. But the Revolution took away much, Monsieur, and it was only because Auxons was so far away and hidden that it left them even the château."

Monsieur was inclined to find the story a little dull. He rested one foot on a heap of stones and lit a cigar, encircling the flame of the match with his hands. The yellow light, striking up into his face, showed how dull he found the story.

"For a hundred years, Monsieur, they have been poor," Edouard went on, after the match had died out. "Some of them, one may suppose, died broken-hearted; but at last there was left only a broken old man, with his grandchildren. One of these was a girl."

For a single moment Edouard paused again; then the low, inflexible voice went on: "One of them was a girl, and she was in a convent, being educated. But at last the fortunes fell so low that she must be brought home; and then her brothers, grown desperate, left her with the old man and sold themselves as mercenaries to whatever government would buy."

"Is this a continued story, Edouard?" asked Monsieur. "Because if it is, I will take the remainder of it at that little hole-in-the-wall you were pleased to call an inn."

"Monsieur will find that it is near the end," said Edouard with a voice that was like velvet. " Monsieur has but to note that, the brothers being gone away, the old man died; and that the girl, being left penniless, was glad to take a position with an English family as governess. Monsieur has but to remember, also, that she was just out of a convent, with the face of a Madonna and the eyes of an infant."

Monsieur spent some silent moments remembering this statement. During these moments the point of fire on the end of his cigar died out.

"Did you mention the name of this— this family, Edouard?" he asked carelessly. It was a carelessness that was somewhat marred by a certain thickness of utterance, as of a dry tongue. A light sound at the other end of the chapel drew his eyes. He saw two men moving slowly up through the shadows.

"The girl," said Edouard, "was Mademoiselle Adrienne Louise de la Vivaseur. Monsieur will, perhaps, be kind enough to reflect if he has ever heard such a name."

Monsieur had, apparently, not heard such a name. There was silence. The ivy leaves parted and shot down a crimson ray upon the tomb.

"Monsieur finds the story more interesting?" asked Edouard of the velvet voice. "Monsieur will remember that she was the daughter of kings and nobles, and that blood of the Crusaders ran in her veins. Yet her brothers found her one morning lying beside that tomb, dead, with a dead babe in her arms."

The two shadowy figures moved up a step nearer, but Monsieur did not heed them. He was staring as if fascinated at the tomb with the spot of crimson dancing upon it. There was silence so deep and so long that it might have lasted for years. When Monsieur moved, it was toward the tomb. The spot of red wavered and trembled upon a carved lettering.

"To One Forgotten," he read. He still had command of himself.

"They placed that above her? Yet she is not forgotten," he said to Edouard.

"Monsieur takes that for her tomb?" asked Edouard, softly. "But indeed, she was not buried there. She lay down beside it to die, but the tomb was not for her. It is reserved, Monsieur, for the man who played with the little convent girl, and sent her home to die."

To eyes accustomed to the shadows, it could be seen that Monsieur's face had whitened. Yet he spoke lightly. He even smiled.

" 'To One Forgotten,' " he repeated, looking Edouard in the face. "But he is not forgotten. Perhaps he is not even dead."

"Monsieur," said Edouard, softly, "he is both!"

Edouard had stooped and touched something at his feet, and the slab of marble was mysteriously lifted and swung away. Thick darkness lay within. Monsieur was aware that the two shadows had closed up, and were on either hand. He turned his eyes from one to the other of them. Clermont, of the club, and the dark young stranger of the library. A sense came upon him that the club and the library were worlds of space and thousands of years away— that the only realities were these three dark figures and the tomb by whose cold side the daughter of kings and Crusaders had lain down to die.

It could not be more cold within than it had been without. And yet he had not meant—

"I see," he said, wearily, at the end of that long pause. "No doubt you would prefer that I should do this thing voluntarily, Monsieur de la Vivaseur?"

"We should greatly prefer it, Monsieur," said that one who had lately been Edouard.

Monsieur stepped into the tomb and sat down.

"You won't object to my smoking?" he asked, taking out a fresh cigar and a match.

"It will shorten things, maybe." Monsieur de la Vivaseur's face was set.

"Adieu, Monsieur," he said, giving another touch to that mysterious something on the floor. There was the glow of a cigar in the darkness as the stone swung back and settled into its place. At the farther end of the chapel a door opened, and a bent figure found its way among the stones.

"Have you brought the cement, Jean?" asked Monsieur de la Vivaseur.

"It is here, Your Grace,'' said the old man.

"Seal up the tomb— it has been opened for the last time," said Monseigneur; and the three went out, without looking back.

The old man listened for a furtive moment, with his ear at the edge of the marble slab. Silence. Then he took the cement and sealed up every crevice, and went his way. The red glow from the window leaped from the tomb to the floor, and crept along it, over the fallen stones, and up the wall, as though it were eager to get away. Down among the shadows lay the dim gray shape given over to the use of One Forgotten.

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21: A Supernatural Swindle

Tudor Jenks

1857-1922

The Argosy, Feb 1899

SO long as life glides by with unruffled surface men of my disposition are content, whether they be emperors or scullions. Fusses, rows, adventures or happenings are to me bores insufferable, one and all. If fate had made me a reformer or a conqueror, I would have resigned any claim to a quiet life. But on the front of my house my name precedes the letters D.D.S., and in my back parlor is a chair that is meant to receive the victims of cold and hot drinks, candy, and other substances inimical to enamel and dentine.

Being a dentist, I felt aggrieved when selected to figure in a ghost story. Not that my electric drill ever went upon a career of crime, perforating a patron's brain, or that the gas bag slew its victim. It was not the ghost of a friend or even of an acquaintance. A complete stranger's ghost thrust himself upon me without excuse, and long after office hours.

I was working late, on a difficult plate, when I heard a sepulchral groan from the operating room. I know it was sepulchral, for an ordinary groan is, to men of my profession, a mere incident of the day's work. I looked toward the room, which was unlighted, and said, "Dear me!"

The groan was repeated, and I advanced to the door, peering in. I saw a waving light green figure rocking itself to and fro, just within the fancy glass folding doors, it must have seen me, for, with the preface of another groan, it said:

"Oh—h! are you a dentist?"

"Yes," I replied, "what is it? "

"Oh—oo—oh! " it replied, advancing toward me; "I am a ghost, and I have a horrible toothache! Oh—h!"

"If this is a joke," I said severely, "it is one I do not relish. Why do you haunt me with your supernatural toothaches? Go haunt the candy maker, or the cook. You're not one of my patients, are you?"

"No—o—oh! " wailed my visitor. "But you were the nearest dentist, and—ouch! This is worse than dying!"

"But you have no power over me," I insisted boldly. "If you come as a ghost, go haunt some one who deserves it. I haven't slain any one. Go find a vivisectionist. If you come as a patient, you're too late. It's long after office hours. Didn't you see my sign?"

"Yes!" declared the green visitant, in a voice of triumph; "I saw your sign, and therefore do I claim dominion— ow!— over you!"

"In what way?" I demanded.

" Come," said the ghost, in a tone so commanding that I followed involuntarily. Drifting to the front door, which noiselessly opened at its approach, the ghost stationed itself upon the front stoop and pointed meaningly to my sign. Obeying the gesture I read the fatal words: teeth extracted without pain.

"Well?" I said uneasily.

"Well," said the ghost, " by that bold and shameless falsehood I claim the right to haunt you."

"Ah, I see," was the reply: "you make the usual error. That sign is quite correct. It doesn't mean all teeth extracted without pain; it means some teeth."

"Is it so?" asked the poor ghost, as it clapped a nebulous hand to its transparent cheek and rocked again; "and what teeth come out painlessly?"

"Milk teeth," I replied.

"Alas! " cried the shadowy thing," then what shall I do?" and it groaned in pain and despair.

"Come," I said, my professioned pride asserting itself, "you see it is useless to bully me; but though a dentist I am not insensible to human— I mean, inhuman suffering. Float into my operating chair and let us see what is the difficulty."

I followed the green haze as it blew into the room and settled itself upon my cheerful red cushions. I touched the button, and the room was flooded with the electric light. Then, turning to my patient. I saw an empty chair!

"Confound the creature!" I broke out impatiently. "It's gone."

But I was relieved to hear another expression of pain, and I added, "So you're here yet, are you? "

"Yes," said the thing, 44 but I am not visible in the light."

I turned off the current and I saw the filmy presence still in the chair.

"Now, let me see," I said; "open your mouth."

The mouth was opened, much as a smoke ring expands. Then by careful examination I saw that the troublesome tooth was a mere shell.

"Yes, yes," I said; " I see, I see. We'll make it all right in a minute, my dear—"

"Sir—ow!" the ghost interjected.

"My dear sir," I went on, automatically. It was my usual formula for calming my patients while I selected the peculiar forceps indicated— in this case the right premolar. "Now," I said, arranging the instrument correctly in hand, "let me see which tooth it was—"

As the ghostly jaws parted I gripped for the tooth, but to my surprise the forceps went right through it without meeting any resistance, and at the same moment the ghost closed its smoke-like jaws over the instrument, leaving the forceps inserted in its nebulous head. For the first time during the interview I was a trifle unnerved.

"This is—extraordinary!" I gasped. "I don't see just how I am to operate on you. I get no grip at all. I can't pull the wraith of a tooth, you know."

"I feared as much," exclaimed the unfortunate shade, with a cloud of foggy tears. "And what— ow!— am I to do? Am I to go on through countless years with this excruciating pain? Even death would be a relief, and it is denied me!"

It was certainly a trying situation, and I set my wits to work to devise a remedy. But the ghost was beforehand with me.

"Eureka!" it exclaimed. "You must ghostify your forceps!"

"Ghostify? " I asked. "Why, certainly," said the ghost, almost joyfully. "You have a crucible?"

"Yes, several."

"Very good. Put the forceps into the crucible, volatilize it. and then it will belong to my own state of matter."

" We can try, at least," I answered. So we went into the laboratory, and I deposited the forceps in my largest crucible, arranging a bell glass over it to retain the vapor. I turned the Bunsen burner on full blast, and before long was gratified to see the forceps lose its luster, its hardness, its shape, and melt. In a few minutes more I saw a metallic mist condensing upon the bell glass.

"Aha!" the ghost cried (it was invisible because of the light), "let me take it out for you. Extinguish the light, please."

I did so, and saw the ghost insert its shadowy hand beneath the glass, and withdraw an equally vague forceps. "Now," the ghost went on, joyfully, "we have it; " and it preceded me to the operating chair, and was seated before I entered the room.

"Here," said the ghost, extending toward me the ghostified forceps. I reached out my hand and tried to take it. It had no substance, and my hand closed emptily upon some hot— exceedingly hot— space.

"Ouch!" I said, in my turn. "I can't get any hold on the thing!"

"Blame the luck!" the ghost ejaculated, flinging the instrument aside in anger; whereupon the forceps floated gently away, as the ghost nursed its aching jaw.

"Stay," I ventured, after a moment's reflection; "why don't you pull your own tooth?" "By the stroke of midnight, so I will!" responded the suffering spirit, heartily. It wafted itself after the floating tool, grasped it. and returned to the chair.

"How do you work it? " asked the ghost.

"Oh, just anyhow!" I replied, impatiently. "There's no trick about it. Just catch a firm hold, and yank all you know how."

"But won't it hurt?" asked the shade.

"I shouldn't wonder," I said airily; " it often does. But you mustn't mind that. You're the dentist now, and needn't think about the patient."

"That's all very well," said the ghost ruefully, " providing I wasn't the patient, too. I suppose there is no help for it, though."

Then the ghost, with many a wavering twinge, adjusted the sublimated nippers, and pulled with all his vaporous might. The operation was over in a minute, and was entirely successful. It was not long before the ghost was quite his jolly self again. He leaned comfortably back in my chair, and was disposed to chat a little.

"If that last plan hadn't succeeded," it said, reflectively. "there were two others I might have tried."

"Indeed?" I asked, with a yawn, for the night was nearly gone.

"Yes; I might have made a ghost of you, for one thing," the ghost remarked,  with a purplish gleam of humor in its phosphorescent eyes.

"Could you have done that?" was my question, while the second qualm of that night passed along my backbone.

"Easily," said the ghost. "Oh, it's nothing much. You wouldn't have really minded after it was over. Why, if you'd like to try—"

But I interrupted him. "What was your second plan?"

"I might have found the ghost of a dentist. Still, that's not so easy. I should have had little to go on, as we know each other mainly by the inscriptions cut in the epitaphs, and there is nothing said about dentists, so far as I have noticed. I might have gone to all the assemblages for miles around— yes, even to the crematories."

"No matter now," I said. "It is nearly morning, and I'd like to get a little sleep. So, if you will kindly pay for the operation—"

"What operation?" asked the green scamp, with an unconscious expression,

"Extracting the tooth," I replied firmly.

"Indeed!" sneered the ghost. " I certainly shall not pay you for work I did myself. What assurance!"

This argument staggered me.

"But," I went on, rallying to the attack. "I gave you skilled advice."

"Yes," sneered the ghost— " 'Take hold anyhow and yank!'— skilled advice, you call it?" and it laughed most hollowly.

"At least," I burst out in anger, "pay me for the forceps you ghostified."

"There might be some justice in that claim," the green swindler admitted; " but even if I allow the claim, I don't see how I am to pay you— 'there are no pockets in a shroud,' you know." Again that fog horn laugh.

"You are a common swindler!" I broke out, shaking my fist in his face.

"Strike right through me, if you find it relieves your feelings," said the mocking ghost. "I assure you I shall not mind it in the least. In fact, however, you must admit that I am not a common swindler, for ghosts are most uncommon swindlers.

"Still, I do not wish to leave you unrewarded. You have shown me some attention, even if your ulterior object was mercenary. I will in return inform you of a secret that will make your fortune. Listen."

Ascending from the chair the pale mist was borne toward me. I was impressed by the weird intensity of the being's eyes, and listened breathlessly.

"Just beyond the great Washington Bridge, on the Harlem River, is buried—"

But here there came a faint cock crow from the yard of a chicken fancying neighbor, and, with a final shriek of anguish or derision, the ghost vanished.

Next day I removed the inscription relating to the painless extraction of teeth, and I have since been undisturbed.

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22: Behind the Curtain

Don Marquis

1878-1937

Sunday Times (Sydney) 27 July 1913

Putnam’s Monthly, Feb 1907

IT WAS as dark as the belly of the fish that swallowed Jonah. A drizzling rain blanketed the earth in chill discomfort. As I splashed and struggled along the country road, now in the beaten path, and now among the wet weeds by its side, I had never more heartily yearned tor the dullness and comforts of respectability.

Here was I, with more talents in my quiver, it pleased me to think, than nine out of ten of the burglars I had left sleeping snug and smug in the town a few miles behind; with as much real love of humanity as the next man, too; and yet shivering and cursing my way into another situation that might well mean my death.

And all for what? For fame or Riches ? No; for little more than a mere existence, albeit free from responsibility. Indeed, I was all but ready to become an honest man then and there, to turn back and give up the night's adventure. had but my imagination furnished me with the picture of some occupation whereby I might gain the same leisure and independence as by what your precisians call thieving.

With the thought I stumbled off the road again, and into a narrow gully that splashed me to the knees with muddy water. Out of that I walked plump into a hedge, and when I sought to turn from it at right angles, I found myself still following its line. This circumstance showed me that I had come unaware upon the sharp turn of the road which marked the whereabouts of the house that was my object.

Following the hedge, I found the entrance of the gravelled driveway within a hundred yards of my last misstep, and entered the grounds. I groped about me for a space, not daring to show a light, until presently a blacker bulk, lifting itself out of the night's comprehensive blackness, indicated the house itself to my left and a bit in front of me. I left the moist gravel— for there is nothing to be gained on an expedition of this sort by advertising the size and shape of your boots to a morbidly inquisitively public— and reached the shelter of the verandah by walking across the lawn. There, being out of eyeshot from the upper windows, I risked a gleam from my pocket lantern, one of those little electric affairs that are occasionally useful to others than nightwatchmen.

Two long French windows gave on the verandah, and, as I knew, both of them opened from the reception hall. A bit of a way with the women is not amiss in my profession; and the little gray-eyed Irish maid who had told me three weeks before of old man Rolfe's stinginess and brutality toward the young wife whom he had cooped up here for the past four years, had also given me, bit by bit, other information more valuable than she could guess. So, thanks to the maid, I was aware that the safe where the Rolfe jewels were kept— and often a substantial bit of money as well— was situated in the library, which was just beyond the hall and connected with it by a flight of four or five steps. This safe was my objective point.

The wooden window-shutters were but the work of a moment, and the window-fastenings themselves of only a few minutes more. (I flatter myself that I have a very coaxing way with window-fasteners.) The safe itself would  give me the devil's own trouble, I knew. It was really a job for two men, and I ached all over to be at it, to be safely through with it, and away, a good hour before sunrise.

The window opened noiselessly enough, and I stepped within and set my little satchel full of necessary tools upon the floor. But the damp weather had swelled the woodwork, and as I closed the window again, though I pushed it ever so gently, it gave forth a noise something between a grunt and a squeak. And as pat as the report of pistol to the pressure of the trigger came the answer— a sound as of a quickly-caught breath from the warm dimness of the room.

I made no motion, though the blood drummed desperately through my brain and my scalp tingled with apprehension and excitement. For ten, for twenty, for thirty seconds I stood so, and then the silence was broken by the unmistakable rustle of a woman's skirts. The sound came softly towards me through the darkness. It was my turn to let loose my held breath with a gasp, and in another moment I should have been through the window and running for it, when a woman's whisper halted me.

'Is that you Charles? And why did you not rap upon the shutter?'

So someone called Charles was expected? Then, ticked off my thoughts almost automatically, the lady somewhere near me in the dark might have her own reasons for not caring to alarm the house just then! The thought steadied me to action.

'Sh-h,' I whispered, feeling behind me for the window, and gradually opening it again. 'Sh-h! No, it is not Charles'— and I put one foot backward across the sill. 'It is not Charles, but Charles has sent me to say—'

Click! went something by the window, and the room was flooded with sudden brilliance from a dozen electric globes. And again, click! —and I looked with blinking eyes at the muzzle of a cocked pistol, held by the most beautiful, the most bejewelled, the most determined looking young woman it has ever been my lot to meet. ?

'Who are you?' she asked, in a voice that was at once hoarse and sweet. 'Who are you ? And what do you want? And where is Charles?'

As I stood there, dripping moisture upon the oiled floor, with my hands in the air— they had gone up quite involuntarily— I must have been the very picture of idiocy and discomfiture. I wondered if Charles, whoever the devil Charles might be, was always welcomed with a cocked pistol. Probably not; but, I wondered, how did she happen to have a pistol with her? I wondered why neck, breast, hair, arms, and hands should be ablaze with diamonds that accentuated her lithe and vivid loveliness. I wondered why, now that she saw I was not Charles, she did not alarm the house. I wondered everything ; but nothing to the point.

And as I stood wondering, she repeated:— 'Who are you? And what do you want ?'

'Madame,' I stammered, my jarred brain fastening upon the sentence she had interrupted, 'Charles sent me to— to say to you—'

'Charles who?' she asked. And, as tense as was her face, a gleam of merriment shot through her eyes. 'Charles who?' she repeated.

Charles was not one of the points upon which the Irish maid had given me information.

The lady with the pistol considered me for a moment.

'You are not very clever, are you?' she said.

'If you will pardon me,' I said, 'I think I had better be going. I seem to have mistaken the house.'

'You at least seem to have mistaken the proper manner in which to enter, it,' she returned,

'Why, as to the mode of entrance,' I said. 'I might plead that the mistake appears to have been less in that than in the person who employed it.'

I could not resist the retort. A dull red crept slowly' up her neck, and face; a pallid, olive-tinted face, beautiful in itself, beautiful for its oval contour and broad brow, and frame of black hair; beautiful in itself, and yet dominated and outdone by the lustrous, restless beauty of the dark eyes wherewith she held me more surely captive than by virtue of the pistol.

'You will come in,' she said, 'and sit there.' She indicated a seat beside a central table. 'But first you will kindly let me have any weapons you may possess.'

She took my revolver, examined it, and put her own in the breast of her gown. 'Now you may put your hands down,' she said. 'Your arms must ache by now. Sit down.'

I sat. She stood and looked at me for a moment.

'I am wondering what you are going to do with me,' I ventured.

In all of her quick actions, and in the tones of her voice, there was evident a most unnatural sort of strain. She may well have been excited; that was only to be expected in the circumstances. But the repressed excitement in this woman's manner was not that of a woman who is forcing herself to keep her courage up; not that of a woman who would like to scream ; but a steadier, nervous energy, which seemed to burn in her like a fire, to escape from her finger tips, and— almost to crackle in her hair; an intensity that was vibrant. I marvelled. Most women would have screamed at the advent of a man in the dead of night; screamed and fainted. Or the ones who would not, and who were armed as she, would ordinarily have been inclined to shoot, and at once; or immediately to have given the alarm. She had done none of these things. She had merely taken me captive. She had set me down in a chair at the centre of the room. She had not roused the house. And now she stood looking at me with a trace of abstraction in her manner, looking at me, for a moment, less as if I were a human being than as if I were a factor in some mathematical problem Which it was the immediate task of that active, high-keyed brain of hers to solve. And there was a measure of irony in her glance, as if she alone tasted and enjoyed some ulterior jest.

'I am just wondering,' I repeated, 'what you are going to do with me.'

She sat down at the opposite side of the table before she replied.

'I believe,' she said, slowly, 'that I have nearly made up my mind what to do with you.

'Well ?' I asked.

But she said nothing, and continued to say nothing. I looked at her and her diamonds— the diamonds I had come after!— and wondered again why she was wearing them; wondered why she had tricked herself out as for some grand entertainment.

And as the ignominious result of my night's expedition pressed more sharply against my pride. I could have strangled her through sheer disappointment and mortification. The pistol she held was the answer to that impulse. But what was the answer to her hesitancy in alarming the house? Why did she not give me up and be done with me?

At the farther end of the room was a long red curtain, which covered the entrance to a sitting-room or parlor, as I guessed; and by the side of the curtain hung an old-fashioned bell-cord, also of red, which I supposed to communicate with the servants' quarters. It was easy enough, now that she had taken the whip hand of me so cleverly, to pull that rope, to set the bell jangling, to rouse the house. Why did she not do so? Was she a mad woman? There was that in her inexplicable conduct, and in her highly wrought, yet governed mood, as she sat in brooding silence across the table from me, to make the theory plausible. Brooding she was, and studying me, I thought, yet watchful, too. For at any least motion of mine her hand tightened slightly upon the pistol.

We sat thus while the slow seconds lengthened into intolerable minutes; and I steamed with sweat, and fidgeted. Nor was I set more at my ease by her long, searching glances. In fact, my overthrow had been so instant and so complete that my scattered wits had never drawn themselves together again. I continued as one in a haze, as a person half under the power of a hypnotist, as a mouse must feel after the first blow of the cat's paw. And yet one idea began to loom clearly out of that haze and possess me— the idea that she desired the alarm to be given as little as I did myself.

But there was no light in that. It was easy to understand why she did not wish the house aroused while she still believed me to be Charles— whoever Charles might be. But now?— it was too much for me. I could not find a justification in reason for my belief; and yet the conviction grew.

She broke the silence with a question that might have been put with full knowledge of my thought.

'You are still wondering why I do not give you up?' she said.

I nodded.

She learned toward me across the table, and if ever the demons of mockery danced through a woman's eyes it was then; and her lips parted in a kind of silent laughter. She touched the diamonds about her throat.

'It was these you came after?'

I nodded again. Evidently speech was of no avail with this lady. She asked questions at her will, and reserved the right of answering none. 'Tell me,' she said, 'why are you a thief? Why do you steal?'

'Convey, the wise it call,' I quoted, 'Accident, or fate, or destiny, I suppose,' I went on, wondering more than ever at the question, but with a fluttering hope. Perhaps the lady (in spite of Charles— such things have been!) was an amateur sociologist, a crank reformer, or something of that sort. There had been no mockery in the tone when she asked the question; instead, I thought, a kind of pity.

'Fate, or destiny,' I went on, 'or what you please. 'There's a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will,'  I quoted again, in my best actor manner.

'Why,' she said, 'you are a man with some air of better things about you. You quote Shakespeare as if he were an old friend. And yet, you are a thief! Tell me,' she continued, 'tell me— I dare say there were many struggles against that destiny?'

There was a note almost of eagerness in her voice, as if she were a leniently inclined judge who would fain search out and put in the mouth of a condemned man some possible plea for the exercise of clemency.

'Come, were there not? I dare say there were— circumstances of uncommon bitterness that forced you to become what I see you? And even now you hate the thing you are?'

'Why, as to that,' I said, possessed of the sudden whim to be honest with myself for once, 'I am afraid that I can complain of no bitterer usage at the hands of the world than can the majority of those who reap where they have not sowed. When I think of it at all. I am amused to putting it to myself that my life is devoted to a kind of private warfare against the unjust conditions of a hypocritical social order.'

'Warfare !' she flouted, hard and brilliant as one of her own diamonds again. 'And you could justify it, too, could you not?' And then she asked me: 'Have you ever killed a man ?'

'Why, no,' I said, 'but I have tried to.'

'He lived— and you were sorry that he lived ?'

'No,' I said, quite out of my depths in all this moral quibbling, 'I was glad he lived.'

'And yet you hated him ?'

'I would have taken his life in a rage,' I said. 'He had wronged me as greatly as one man can wrong another.'

'And yet you were glad he lived? My dear thief?'

'Higgins is the name,' said I. 'You may call me Higgins.'

'My dear Higgins,' she went on, 'you are inconsistent. You attempt to slay a man in what I should judge to have been a not ignoble passion. It may have been an anger that did you credit. And yet are not bold enough to face the thought of killing him. You are glib with justifications of your thievery; and perhaps that is also because you are too much of a coward to look steadily at it. You creep along a mean and despicable path in life, contentedly, it seems to me, with a dead soul. You are what you are, because there is nothing positive in you for either good or evil. You are negative; you were better dead. Yes, better dead.'

Why should I have felt as if she were seeking self-justification in advance for some death she planned for me? Certainly, my life, or death, was not hers to give or take; she might give me up, and probably would. But just as certainly she had made me feel as she passed her judgment upon me, that she was likely to turn executioner as well as judge. My doubts as to her sanity returned.

'Still,' I said, for the sake of saying something, 'if I killed a man, I should not like to think about it, even if he deserved death.'

'Even if he deserved death?' she repeated, and sprang up, as if the . phrase had touched her; 'You make yourself the judge, you do, of when a man 'deserves' to lose his wealth. Come, what is your idea of when he deserves to die?'

Up and down she swept; yet still watchful. And the emotion which she had so long suppressed burst out into a poisonous lovely bloom that suffused her being with an awful beauty.

'When does he deserve to die?' she repeated. 'Listen to me. I knew a woman once— no matter where— no matter when— who was sold— sold! I say— by the sordid devil she called her father, to the veriest beast that ever trod this earth. Her beauty— for she had beauty— her wit— for wit she had — became this husband's chattels before she turned her 20th year. She would never have loved him, but she would have been faithful to him— she was faithful to him, in fact, in spite of all his drunkenness and bestiality— and abuse.

'It was not neglect alone that she had to complain of— she had never looked for understanding or sympathy. But she had not looked for abuse. Abuse, say, and worse than abuse. Before she had been married a year, she knew what it was, not only to feel the weight of a heavy hand and to hide the bruises from her maid, but to see other women brought into her very house. Pah!— hate. She hated him Hate is not the word. She became a live coal. But she never cried out; she found strength to smile at him even when he beat her; she was proud enough for that. It pleased him, in his hellish humor, and because she was made to shine, to cage her in a country house, and there to taunt her that although she was sold to him, she got little of what money may buy. And still she smiled at him, and still her hatred grew through all the weeks and months, until it filled her whole being.

'And then— love came. For God has ordained that love may enter even Hell. Love, I say; and she loved this lover of hers with a passion that was measured only by the degree in which she hated her husband. And she would have left with him; but on the very night would have flown together her lord and master—' she said the words with an indescribable spluttering sneer, sidewise from her mouth. It is so a lioness may snarl and spit before she leaps. 'Her— lord and master— found it out, and waited up to catch them; and coming upon her alone, taunted her. Taunted her, and struck her.

'Look!' she cried, and tore the diamonds from her breast, and rent the laces, and wrenched the fastenings apart. A new red weal that seemed to throb and pulse with her respiration stood out from the whiteness of her bosom.

'Tell me,' she whispered hoarsely, 'would it have been murder if she had killed that man? Which were the more courageous thing— to kill him, or to step back into her living hell ? If she killed him, would she have regretted it?'

I know not what I might have, answered; but at that instant three raps sounded distinctly upon the window-shutter. I leaped to my feet. Then Charles had come!

An instant she stood as if stricken to a statue in mid-rage. And then she cried out, and there was a furious triumph in her voice— a kind of joy that matched itself to and blended with the fierce and reckless beauty of her shaken jewels possessed her.

'Charles,' she cried, 'come, in! Come in!'

Slowly the window opened and a man entered. He drew back in amaze at the sight of me, and turned to her with an air that was all one question.

'I thought you would never come,' she said. He was a big, blond man, and as he turned from the one to the other of us, with his helpless inquiring face, and eyes that blinked from the outer darkness, he looked oddly like a sleepy schoolboy who has been awakened from an afternoon nap by the teacher's ruler.

'Muriel,' he finally stammered, 'what is this? Who is this man?' He passed his hand across his forehead as one may do who doubts whether or no he dreams, and walked towards the table.

'Charles,' she said, 'I have shot the old man.'

I have seen a beef stricken on the head with a mallet look at its executioner with big eyes for an instant before the quivering in its limbs set in and sank to the ground. So this Charles looked with wide, stupid eyes, and shivered, and dropped the great bulk of him into a chair. His head sank upon his hands. But finally he looked and spoke in a confused voice, as if through a mist.

'Good Lord, Muriel, what do you mean?'

'I mean,' she said, framing the words slowly, as one speaks a lesson to a child, 'I mean that I have killed the old man.'

And moving swiftly across the room, she flung back the heavy red curtain at the end of it; and I saw the answer to my many questionings.

The body lay upon its back, with one arm bent, the hand across the chest, and the fingers spread wide. The face was that of a man of sixty, or thereabouts, but, indeed, so deeply lined and wrinkled and pouched with evil living that the age, even in life, must have been hard to- determine. Blood was coagulating about a bullet wound in the temple, and, there were powder burns on the forehead. The shot had been fired at close range, evidently from the weapon with which I had been confronted on my entrance; and the sound had been so muffled in the curtain that it was little wonder that the servants in the room above, and across the house, had not heard it. He had a monstrous nose, that man upon the floor, and it must have been a red nose in life ; but now it was of a bluish-white color.

'This man,' and she indicated me with the pistol, 'this man takes the blame of this. He is a thief. He came just after— just afterward. And I held him for your coming. Don't you see? Don't you see? His presence clears us of this deed.'

'Us?' queried Charles.

'Not us?' she asked.

'My Heaven, Muriel,' he burst forth, 'why did you do this thing? And why would you heap murder on murder? Why, why, why, did you do it? Why splash this blood upon our love? A useless thing to do! We might have—' He broke down and sobbed.

And then: 'Lord knows the old man never did me any harm,' he said. 'And she's accused the thief, too!' he cried a moment later, with a kind of wondering horror.

'Listen, Charles,' she said, and moved toward him ; and yet, with a sidelong glance, she still took heed of me, 'Listen, and understand me. We must act quickly— but after it happened it was necessary that. I should see you before we could act. This man came to rob; here is his pistol, and in that satchel by the window are his tools, no doubt. He may tell what wild tale he will; but who will believe him? You go as you came; I give him up— and we— we wait a while, and then the rest of life is ours.'

I suppose that it is given, to few men to hear their death plotted in their presence. But I had come to the pass by this time where it struck me as an impersonal thing. I listened; but somehow the full sense of what she said, as affecting me, did not then impinge upon my brain with waking force. I stood as if in a trance; I stood and looked on at those two contending personalities, that were concerned just now with the question of my life or death, as if I were a spectator in a theatre— as if it were. someone else of whom they spoke.

'Go,' she said to Charles, again, 'and I will give him up.'

'Muriel,' he said, 'and you would do this thing?'

'Why,' she retorted, 'what is this man's life beside mine? His soul is dead ! I tell you, Charles, that I have come through hell alive to gain one ray of happiness! But go! And leave the rest to me.'

And she grasped the bell-cord and pulled it. Pulled it again and again. The sound wandered lazily through what remote corridors I know not. She made a step toward him.

He leaped to his feet with an oath, with loathing in his eyes, shrank back from her, and held out a hand as if to ward off some unclean thing. Bewilderment lined her face. She groped to understand. And then, as the full significance of his gesture came home to her, she winced and swayed as if from a blow; and the pistol dropped from her loosened grasp to the floor.

'You— you abandon me?' she said, slowly. 'You desert me, then? Love, love, think how I have loved you, that I did this thing! And is what I have suffered— what I have done— still to purchase— nothing?'

She pleaded for my death ; but I hope that I shall never again see on any human face the look of despair that was on hers. I pitied her! Heavy feet on the stairway woke me from my trance. Unregarded of them both, I grasped my pistol from the floor and sprang for the window. A door opened somewhere above, and a voice asked:

'You rang, ma'am?' From without the window I looked back into the room. She stood with outstretched hands—hands that reached upward from the pit of torment, my fancy told me— and pleaded for a little love.

'In all this world is there no little ray of love for me?'— it was so my imagination, rather than my hearing, translated the slight movement of her lips. And while she and the man called Charles stood thus at gaze with each other, the servant spoke again from the stairway.

'You rang ?' he asked.

She slowly straightened. She steadied herself. And with her eyes still fixed upon those of Charles, she cried : 'Yes, yes, I rang, Jones! Your master is— dead. Your master's murdered. And there, there,' and she stabbed an accusing finger at her erstwhile lover, 'there is the man who murdered him!'

And then I turned from the window and ran from that house; and as I ran I saw the dawn like a wild, fair woman, walk up the eastern sky with blood-stained feet.

__________________

23: The Short Story of Mark Hellinger

Anonymous

The Sun (Sydney) 18 Jun 1944

Mark Hellinger (1903-1947) visted Australia as a war correspondent in 1944.  Sydney Sun, which ran a long series of his short stories, published this article, which reads in style very like Hellinger. Either it's a brilliant pastiche or (more likely) Hellinger dashed it off himself.  The MobileRead Forum Patricia Clarke Memorial Library has three volumes of his short stories: Moon Over Broadway, (1931)  Mark Hellinger's Broadway, 1930s (2018); and Mark Hellinger's Broadway, 1940s (2018) The latter two, each with 100 stories, were produced by Pulpmeister from stories published in the Sydney Sun. Hellinger died prematurely in 1947 after his last and probably most famous movie, The Naked City.

IT WAS ONE of those cheap little New York eating dives in Greenwich Village where nearly everybody speaks Bohemian. You could eat lunch there for 25 cents if you could eat lunch there. It got some pretty queer customers, not counting the newspaper men.

"Hyah, Mark," the newspaper men would say to the nice-looking kid of 19. "Whadya know?"

Mark knew his New York, he was born there. Sometimes he knew something that was news. Mark was the waiter there. Mark Hellinger. Waiter at this joint was the best job he could get after he was asked to leave high school for paying too much attention to the dramatic club and the school magazine and not enough to his studies.

He started sending in little pieces to newspaper columnists like Don Marquis. They printed his stuff Mark liked to write. He'd rather have his thumb around a pencil than in the minestrone. One day an editor met Mark or vice versa and said: "Listen, son, how would you like to work for a newspaper?"

So Mark started on a newspaper about the time Prohibition started on America. He made Broadway his beat. Nobody could dang n firebell or stick up a drug store or rub out a gangster in a speakeasy on Broadway without Mark Hellinger being in and around on it, with a keen eye and a sharp pencil.

Broadway was the Main Stem of the great, gaudy, glamorous, terrible American growth that Prohibition watered with bootleg liquor: Mark knew every leaf and petal and thorn right down the Stem. He was the first- Broadway Reporter.

Then a guy called Walter Winchell got a column about Broadway.

Mark Hellinger got a column. "About Broadway."

One day he put in his column a story with an ironic "twist" in the tail. The readers ate it, and wanted more.

So he concentrated on the story with the twist ending. He went on writing Mark Hellinger short stories until he had written about 5000, and then he went on writing them. He's writing them still, but now he has GI Joe, the American soldier, in where he used to have the elevator boy or the janitor.

You get the ending and write the story backwards, Mark says. He savs it's always the same story.

Well, there he was writing stories for the Hearst newspapers and King Features Syndicate and being read by 25-million readers a day. He didn't kid himself. He didn't think he was the American de Maupassant He didn't try to write the Great American Novel. (He published some books of his short stories. The stories were so American that they sold more copies in England than then did in America.)

For writlng his short stories Mark Hellinger got a lot of dough. There were guys making more money, but most of them worked at the Mint. He had the flair, the formula, the public fancy and fame. He was sitting pretty. So what did he do?

He bust out of newspaper writing (except one story a week to keep his name before the public) and went to Hollywood. A new racket. Lot of writer guys in it who could write better than he could, even Aldous Huxley.

He didn't stick to his last.

So what happened? Well, to make a short story, he was a great big success in Hollywood as a writer. He wrote pictures. The Roaring Twenties and Broadway Bill, which was good enough for Myrna Loy and Frank Capra.

That was eight years ago, around about the time Mark Hellinger decided he could be a picture producer. Now, ask yourself: Could Goldwyn or de Mille write short stories, could these big-shot producers write a film like Broadway Bill?

Anyway, Mark became a producer and made They Drive by Night, High Sierra, Brother Orchid, Torrid Zone, Moontide, Rise and Shine, Thank Your Lucky Stars (which had Errol Flynn, Bette Davis, Ida Lupino, Ann Sheridan and Olivia de Havilland), and lately, Between Two Worlds.

Do you know what those pictures had? BO. In Hollywood it means Box Office. They have been smash hits. Warner Brothers allowed him six months' leave to come down to Australia for Mr. Hearst.

There's Mark Hellinger. Every time he buys a nickel he gets the ace. But Is he happy?

Well, he married Gladys Glad, the most beautiful American girl Flo Ziegfeld ever glorified. They're crazy about each other. Their two-kids, little Mark and little Gladys, are beautiful children. He wanted to go to the war but the Army and Navy wouldn't take him. So he goes to the war with a grandstand view as a correspondent.

He flies over Wake Island on a bombing mission and he doesn't even scare. (He only thinks: "If Winchell could see me nowl") He's 41 and still looks good enough to flutter the pretty pulse when ne walks through the Australia Hotel lobby. He's even kept his waistline. He's got everything. He's even got a bottle of Scotch whisky.

"YOU KNOW," Mark Hellinger said this week, "this Australia is the boom country of Tomorrow. Progress is going to open a big Second Front down here after the war Gosh, this place'll be something."

He made a pass at his cigarette smoke as though he wanted to get hold of it. "You know. I'd like to be about 19 again and a waiter in a cheap cafe in Sydney. What I'm doing now, there's no future in it..."

_________________

24: The Luck of the Trevors

John Strange Winter

Henrietta Eliza Vaughan Palmer Stannard, 1856-1911

Australian Town and Country Journal 24 Feb 1909

EVERYBODY knew the Trevors. There were Dick, and Jock, and Ben, and Barbara, and Magdalen, and Happie, and Mopsy. I perhaps ought to explain that Happie and Mopsy were girls. Mopsy was not quite sixteen at the time of which I am writing; the difference between her and Barbara was nine long years, for Barbara was twenty-four, and the eldest of the Trevor family.

They lived in old Blankhampton. They were in Blankhampton but not of it, as they frequently said themselves. They had not any of them been born there; but under their ancestral roof, just seven miles out of the town.

Why they had let Townley Moor go into the hands of strangers, even as a furnished residence, was a source of puzzle to many persons who did not know the Trevors very well. They were county of the county, one of the oldest families in Blankshire.

Townley Moor had been in the possession of the Trevors from the time of Edward VI. But certain is it that when Mopsy was only a baby Colonel Trevor let Townley Moor on a long lease, furnished, and took the big house at the corner of Little Ogledal, not a stone's throw from the cathedral of Blankhampton, and not five minutes' walk from the Edward VI School, at which most of the youth of town and neighborhood are educated. And there, in that big, roomy, old-fashioned, quaint and rambling house, they had lived ever since.

They were very proud of Townley Moor, but it must be confessed that they looked I forward with not a little dread to the time when they might have to go back and live there. For Townley Moor was seven miles out of Blankhampton, and, as Barbara put it one day, a nice country place seven miles out when you are rolling is one thing, and a nice country place when you keep no more than a pony cart is quite another.

In Blankhampton they made the pony cart do for all occasions, using an ordinary fly when they were going out of an evening.

"But," as Magdalen said, "what is the good of bridging over that trouble? Sufficient unto, the day is the evil thereof."

"Do you know," said Barbara Trevor one day, when the three elder girls were gathered about the fire in their own sitting-room, "this morning I was reading a queer old book that I found in the library, on the county families of Blankshire."

"You don't say so!" cried Happie, flippantly. "Does it give any of our secret history?"

"Well, it does and it doesn't. It's a very old book, with long s's, and faded brown ink on faded yellow leaves, and a musty leather back, and it is called 'Curious Histories of the Landed Gentry of Blankshire.' "

She dived down into the recesses of the big armchair in which she was established, and brought forth a small brown-covered volume.

"Now, listen to this," she said; "I call this distinctly interesting. 'Few families,' " she read, " 'are more ancient, than that of Trevor of Townley Moor. The family was established there in the reign of Edward VI., but what was its history previous to that no man can tell, for there is no record. Still, at that time they were highly placed in the world, had enjoyed great favor at Court, and were a valiant and trustworthy race.' Now you see what you have come from," said Barbara, in an admonishing tone.

" 'That they were already a family of considerable antiquity is without doubt, as, along with the title deeds of the estate of Townley Moor, there is. preserved a jingle rhyme which concerns the family. It is called 'THE LUCK OF THE TREVORS. There shall be seven children born at Townley Moor, Four of them girls, the rest of the other kind, ' With them, there shall be twice seven years of no fulfilment. Then shall there be seven years of glory To the luck of the Trevor family.'  Now you think it out. There are four of us girls and the three boys. It is just fourteen years since we left Townley Moor to come and live here. And I think, my dears, we may look for lively times for the next seven years to come."

"This is thrilling," said Magdalen.

"But," went on Barbara, "there is something else."

Then she referred again to the old book.

" 'The chronicler goes on to say,' " she read, " 'that seven years of luck of the Trevor family is not without its warning note: 'But let the Trevors, one and all, Keep in their minds the warning note of the ancient sybil of the house; To beware of three things: a door in two halves, A dark-haired man with a light beard, And a woman with a cast in her eye.' "

"By-the-bye," said Happie, "where are the title deeds of the house?"

"Oh, my dear, they are at the bank; I saw them the last time I happened to go there with father. Not to read them, you know; they are in a chest that would hold me."

"Well, the title deeds won't make any difference to us, as we have three brothers."

"But it is just as well to know there are such things, and to know where they are," remarked Barbara. "Anyway, this good gentleman," holding up the book, "may have been an expert, and in any case he seems to have known all about us. And it strikes me we have come to the time of glory for the Trevor family. We are in for a spell of sunshine, and we must take care to make hay while it lasts."

Now it happened that the three elder Trevor girls, while extremely good-looking, and extremely popular, were probably the three least flirty girls in the whole of Blankhampton, where flirts as a rule flourish. The only approach to a flirt in the Trevor family was to be found in the person of little 15-year-old Mopsy, who, instead of being educated by a governess, as her sisters had been before her, attended a fashionable school on the outskirts of the town. Among the boys at Edward VI. School, Mopsy had an extensive acquaintance.

"I say, you two," said Barbara, at this point, "supposing we keep this bit of information to ourselves? We don't want it to be blabbed all over the town, and to find ourselves under a very strong microscope for the next seven years. Mopsy can't keep a secret, and the boys would think it the biggest joke of their lives, so let us keep it to ourselves."

"Yes," said the other two, "We'll keep it to ourselves."

ii

NOW, it is not possible for me to tell here in the short space that is at my service the whole story of the seven years' glory which fate had promised the Trevor family. A chronicler who is worth his salt does not attempt to tell the whole history of a family in the space which is only fit for an outline. Therefore I had better tell you at once that the rest of this story deals with the daughter of the house of Trevor who went by the name of Happie. She was the elder of the twins, a pretty girl in the real Trevor fashion; rather below than above medium height, slim and slender, with a nondescript sort of face, indefinite as to the nose, roguish as to the mouth, and redeemed in every way by a pair of dewy, dark-set eyes. She was not a dark girl, Happie Trevor; on the contrary she had hair the color of ripe corn. But her eyes and eyebrows were of the darkest brown.

It happened that one fine day the girl was left to her own devices. Barbara and Magdalen had gone out on their bicycles to take tea with some friends a mile or so out of the town. Mopsy was out of the way. Mrs. Trevor, who was more or less of an invalid, had gone out driving with her husband, and the boys were nowhere to be seen. Happie, who was devoted to music, had been at the piano ever since lunch. She looked up as the Dresden china clock on the mantel-shelf chimed the half hour.

"Half-past four," she said to herself, "I'll have a cup of tea, and then I will go out. It is a sin to waste this glorious day indoors."

She closed the book from which she had been playing, and shut the lid of the piano, and at that moment the door opened, and the butler showed in two visitors.

"Captain Peel and Sir John Davenport."

Captain Peel was one of the cavalry regiment then lying in Blankhampton barracks, and Happie gave a little exclamation of pleasure as she heard his name.

"I'm the only one at home," she said. She knew that Captain Peel was decidedly interested in her twin sister, and her quick thoughts flew to the place, more than two miles away, where, her sister was at that present moment having tea.

"I'm the only one at home."

"My visit is really to you, Miss Happie," he said quietly. He spoke in a wooden kind of voice, and Happie took it that he was merely paying her a prompt and pretty compliment. "I have brought a very old friend of mine, Sir John Davenport, to see you. He has been most anxious to make your acquaintance."

"Mine?" said Happie, opening her eyes.

Sir John Davenport bowed profoundly.

"I prevailed upon Captain Peel to bring me," he murmured, as he touched her hand.

"Well, it was very nice of Captain Peel to bring you, and very nice of you to want to come, but I do wish my sisters had been at home. The day is so fine that everybody has gone out in different directions. Even my mother has gone somewhere with my father."

"Ah, is Mrs. Trevor well?"

"Quite well for her, wonderfully well." Happie went across the big drawing-room and touched the bell twice, the signal to the powers below that she was desirous of having tea.

"You shall have some tea presently," she said. "Are you quartered here, Sir John, or only staying?"

"Oh, I am only staying in Blankhampton," said Sir John. "Peel and I are old chums; we were together as far back as our preparatory for Eton. Then he went into the Army and I into the Navy. He is Still at it; I have chucked it all long since."

"My dear chap, you have been miserable ever since," said Peel, sinking back luxuriously in the big chair.

"Yes, it did make a certain blank in my life, I admit it, but one could not go on in the Navy for ever. I was no good at it, you know."

"Well," said Happie,. "I think both the Army and the Navy are absolutely  delightful. When I am with soldiers I think soldiers are the nicest men in the world; when I am with naval men I think they are nicer than soldiers "

"Oh, come now, Miss Happie," said Peel.

"But when I have them together," Happie went on in a tone of mock severity, "and they quarrel as to their respective callings, I think they're both horrid."

At which they all burst out laughing.

And then Thomas arrived with the tea, and Happie ministered to the two men in the wonted dainty fashion of the house. The two men lingered as long as they reasonably could, and then Captain Peel asked Happie if she and her sisters would have tea with him the following Monday at Bonner's.

Happie gaily accepted for them all, and then they departed, leaving her alone.

"Now I will go into the town and change my books," she said to herself. She went off to her own room to get her hat and gloves.

"I wonder," she said aloud as she put her hat on, "I wonder where I have seen that man before. I have seen him, that I am certain of."

However, she did not come to any elucidation of the mystery, and a few minutes later took her way out of the old house towards the town. Then just as she was crossing the Precincts on her way home she ran almost into the arms of a young man.

"Happie!" he said.

"Why, Jimmy!" exclaimed Happie. "You don't mean to say that's you? I thought you were on the other side of the world."

"I was, a while back, but I got so sick of the other side of the world I came home again."

"Now Jimmy, that was very weak-minded of you," said the girl, quite seriously. "You said you would stay at least a year out there, and learn all there was to be learnt."

"There is nothing to be learnt, Happie," said he. "You can't learn English farming out in the West. You haven't got to farm out there. You've just got to shove a few seeds in and you get a crop that fairly staggers you. Let me carry those books. How are they all? Everybody at the Corner House, I mean?"

"Oh, they're all just the same. They will be very glad to see you, Jimmy."

"The question is, are you glad to see me?"

"I am," said the girl, "I really and truly am, but I do wish you had stayed your year out."

"I don't," said he, "I am so thankful I didn't."

"Poor old Jimmy, you have had a bad time," said she, laughing up at him. "Mind, I think it has improved you."

"You do?" His tone was very eager, and his eyes grew tender as he looked down upon her.

They turned the corner into the quadrangle of the rambling old house, and went across the flagged pathway to the wide old entrance with its great square Jacobean steps.

James St. Aubyn, with the accustomed air of one who knew the ways of the house, turned towards the special corner of the hall which he and Happie had usually occupied. It had a big, roomy old sofa, a marvel of wonderful carving and of luxurious comfort, a pile of cushions in the window seat. A tall screen of Spanish leather partly shut off this corner from draughts and publicity.

"Come and sit here," said he, "and tell me all that you have done during the beastly time that I have been away."

"Oh, how can I tell you all, Jimmy?" said she. "I have done the usual thing. Nothing has happened, none of us are married or buried; we are all exactly as we were. I don't think anybody strange has come into the town. There has been no change among the troops. By the way, a strange man came here to-day with Captain Peel of the 7th."

"A strange man? What sort of a strange man?"

"Oh, a sailor man, or he has been a sailor man. His name is Davenport, Sir John Davenport."

"John Davenport! By all that's wonderful— and here? How extraordinary! You mean he has actually been in this house this afternoon?"

"Yes, here in this house. Why shouldn't he?"

"Oh, no reason that I know of why he shouldn't, but I remember him at Eton. No, I barely knew him, a little chap doesn't know much of the seniors, but I have met him a good many times since. Queer chap— never settles to anything."

"I don't think," said Happie, "that it behoves you to speak about not settling to anything."

iii

ON THE following Monday Captain Peel gave quite a large tea-party at the world renowned Bonner's. Few provincial towns, even though they be cathedral cities, can boast of so palatial an establishment as the great Bonner's, in St. Thomas-street, Blankhampton. One of the smartest ladies of the regiment had come to play chaperon, and, besides the Trevor girls and Sir John there were several officers of Captain Peel's regiment. Happie found herself somehow— certainly without any collusion on her part— sitting by Sir John, who took up the conversation of the previous day precisely where he had dropped it, and then informed her that he had run against an old friend of his that morning, and that Peel had invited him to join them.

"We were all at Eton at the same time," he told her, "but I can't say that I knew much of him. He is a good deal younger than I am."

"You don't mean Jimmy St. Aubyn, do you?"

"His name was Jimmy St. Aubyn," said Sir John.

"Was! Why, what do you mean? I saw him yesterday, he was alive and well then— besides, how can he be coming to tea if he isn't Jimmy St. Aubyn any more?"

"Easily. He went out farming or shooting or ranching or otherwise amusing himself a few months ago, away in the West somewhere; then he got news of this windfall, and came back again straight."

"Jimmy— a windfall! Do you know, Sir John, I don't understand you. Perhaps we are not speaking of the same man."

"I mean St. Aubyn, a young fellow, long and slight, with rather dark hair and a quite fair moustache. Always struck me," he went on, reflectively, "as such an extraordinary thing that a man should have a nearly black head and a nearly white moustache."

"So he has," said Happie. "So— he— has."

Then she looked up.

"And the doors that come into this tea-room are in two halves— and Mrs. Vansittart—" she made a long pause.

"Well?" said he.

"Mrs. Vansittart— squints."

"Oh, come— it isn't fair to call it that. She's a right smart, pretty little woman."

"But she squints," Happie whispered, and into her mind there came the warning lines of the old prophecy anent the house of Trevor. To beware of three things, a door in two halves; a dark-haired man with a light beard, and a woman with a cast in her eye.

"I shouldn't," said Sir John, also under his breath, and murmuring his words with great deliberation. "I shouldn't call it anything so cruel as a squint myself. Just a little cast in the eye."

Happie almost shrieked aloud.

"To beware of three things," she muttered, "a door in two halves, a dark haired man with a light beard, and a woman with a cast in her eye."

If she could only have told the others, but they were flanked on either side by smart young men who were taking all their attention. It was dreadful— it was a terrible situation.

"And here," said 'Sir John, "comes Glendower himself." Happie pulled herself up, looking with scared eyes at the swing doors through which Jimmy St. Aubyn had just passed.

"What did you call him?"

"Well, he is Lord Glendower now. Didn't you know? I thought you said you saw him yesterday."

"I did— I met him, he went back with me and stayed ever so long. He never said a word."

"Well, I'm sorry I have given him away, but, of course, Peel knows, and he is sure to introduce him to everybody by his new name. Did you know him very well, Miss Happie?"

"Yes, very well. I have known him for years, he has lived here off and on for ever so long."

At this moment the newcomer espied the group in the favorite corner, and made straight towards them. Captain Peel had already got up from his seat.

"Let me present you to Mrs. Vansittart," said he. Glendower bowed profoundly to the smart and pretty lady who bore that name, then looked across the well-laden tea-table at Happie Trevor.

"Why, Happie," he said, "what's the matter?"

Poor Happie, with a face ashen to the very lips, had risen from her seat, and was looking blindly round.

"I — I— air," she gasped, "air— give me air— o-h!" and then down she went all in a heap on the floor.

There was a general stir. Everyone of the party jumped to his feet, and Sir John flung open the nearest window. Then the manageress came bustling up.

"I wouldn't keep the young lady here, sir. This room is very warm to-day. Bring her into my private office; we can lay her on the sofa there."

Quick as thought Sir John gathered her up and carried her across the large room through the double doors, followed by her two sisters and Glendower.

It was some five minutes before Happie came to herself again, which she did with a shudder and. a burst of tears.

"Lie still, dear," said Barbara; "you are all right now, or will be in a few minutes. The room was hot."

"No," said Happie, "I don't think it was. It was feeling I must get out, move away, get away. I should have died if I had stopped there," she exclaimed. Then she started up with a scream.

"Oh, what's that?" she exclaimed. "What's that?"

"My dear, I don't know. Never mind; it is nothing to do with us."

From the adjacent room there arose a terrible commotion. The screams of women and the shouts of men broke through the hum of conversation, and the pleasant music of a pianola playing softly in a far corner suddenly stopped. Crash— crash! The breaking of glass, the smashing of pots, the tearing and creaking of woodwork, all served to make a hideous din.

"What is it?" cried Happie. "What is it?"

"Go and see, Sir John—?"

But Happie struggled to her feet, and went herself.

"There, what did I tell you?" she said. "What did I tell you? I should have been killed if I had stayed there. Look, just where I was sitting."

And, sure enough, just where Happie had been sitting in the window, there now was ruin. For a cart, heavily, laden with long planks of wood, had, by some mischance in the narrow street, been backed right into the bow window of Bonner's tea-room, and smashed in woodwork, glass, and iron with equal force. Where Happie Trevor had been sitting the end of the load now thrust its unwelcome presence.

"She couldn't have escaped death," cried Mrs. Vansittart, as Sir John came running in. "Oh my dear girl, thank God every day of your life that you fainted."

Happie was standing staring with scared eyes at the intruding load of wood.

"I should have been dead by now," she said. "Oh! — oh! Babs— I— I must cry; I— I can't help it. It came over me what you read the other day out of that old book, about the door in two halves and the dark-haired man with a light beard and a woman—"

"S—sh!" said Barbara. "Don't say the rest, don't think about it. It has warned you, that's enough. It has done its work. Oh! it is nothing," she said, clasping Happie in her arms and turning to the others.

"I will take her home. You finish your tea-party. Why should an accident like this upset you? I'll take Happie home. She's thoroughly unnerved, and so am I. But it's only an old tradition of our house that has come true to-day, thank God!" she ended, the tears rushing into her eyes.

"Do," said Mrs. Vansittart, in her smart deliberate voice, "do tell us what the third clause was. I see— you don't like to. I believe it was a woman with a squint. I squint frightfully, particularly when I am nervous."

"Come home, Happie," said Barbara. "Good-bye, all of you."

And, followed by Glendower, she hurried Happie from the room through the door in two halves. Once in the street Glendower called a passing cab.

"Babs," said he in an undertone, when Happie had got unsteadily into the vehicle, "I think as I am one of the clauses, I have got a sort of right to take Happie home, don't you? You go back and enjoy your tea-party; I'll take care of Happie." Then he added, under his breath, as he prepared to get into the cab, "For the rest of her life if she will let me."

"Please," said Barbara, a minute later, when she went back to the group who had now settled down in another part of the tea-room, "please I have come back to your party, Captain Peel. The others have gone home together— they don't want me. I hope you don't mind!"

"Mind!" said Sir John. "Miss Trevor, do come and sit by me. It is just my luck that Glendower should have come back and got himself mixed up with a fine old prophecy and cut me out just as I was making the running comfortably and easily."

He looked round with a very heart-whole smile.

"Most curious," said Mrs. Vansittart in her deliberate tones, "that prophecy. A door in two halves, a dark-haired man with a light beard, and a woman— well," looking round with a fascinating smile, "you can put it as you like, but— I am the woman."

_______________

Index to Past Masters Nos 61-95

The "Author Index" to Issues 1-60 has been uploaded separately at MobileRead.  A cumulative index of issues 1-100 will be posted in due course.

Achmed Abdullah

—Grafter and Master Grafter 84

—The Fetish of Remorse 83

—Framed at the Benefactors' Club 73

—A Full House 93

—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 Short Story of Mark Hellinger 95

—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

—The Bent Tree 93

—Straight Griggs 78

F. Britten Austin

—Into the Blue 79

Julia Truitt Bishop

—Auxons  95

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

Edward Ball

—The Floating Beacon 93

James Barr

—The Man in Moccasins  82

Robert Barr

—Death Cometh Soon or Late 94

—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

—The Doom of London 92

—The Understudy 94

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 Arizona Callahan 93

—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

—The Fifth Eye 94

—Not Upon the Sleeve  79

Francis Beeding

—Condemned 94

J. J. Bell

—The Lovely Little Dinner 70

—The Price of a House  63

—"Sir William"  61

—The Storm Centre 95

Elizabeth W. Bellamy

—Ely’s Automatic Housemaid 88

Stephen Vincent Benét

—Floor, Please 94

E. F. Benson

—Negotium Perambulans  64

—The Terrace 69

J. D. Beresford

—The Hidden Beast 75

—The Looking Glass 87

Sarah Bernhardt

—A Christmas Story 93

Harold Bindloss

—The Girl on the Platform 95

—Trooper Jenkins 68

Ottwell Binns

—The Britisher 73

— Dixon's Romance 75

George A. Birmingham

—Jimmy Cassidy's Picture  80

—A Commercial Mermaid 95

—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

—Twice Drowned 96

—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

—Hole-in-the-Wall Barrett 92

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

—Myrtle and the Baronets 95

—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

Reginald Campbell

—The Howling Of Dogs 80

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

—The Chance Clue 94

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

Richard Connell

—The Doctor and the Lunatic 94

—A Friend of Napoleon 95

—The Most Dangerous Game 95

—Pardon This Intrusion 95

—Tested / Richard Connell 95

J. J. Connington

—After Death the Doctor 63

Dorothea Conyers

—Meave's Ride  69

Marie Corelli

—The Sculptor's Angel 88

Leo Crane

—Made in Borneo 95

Anne Crawford

—A Mystery of the Campagna  85

Deas Cromarty

—The Clutch of the Law 95

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

Sam Davis

—Bigler's Barometer

E. M. Delafield

—The Luggage in the Hall  66

Donald Devereux

—Mr. Keeble's Funny Story 83

Frederic Van Rensselaer Dey

—A Witch City Mystery 95

Captain Dingle

—Javelin of Death 95

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

—Murder Tees Off  92

—Not Quite Dead 92

—The Pin-Up Girl Murders 93

—She Loved to Murder 93

—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

—The White Lady of the Snow 92

J. Allan Dunn

—The Screaming Skull 85

Edward Dyson

—A Golden Shanty 65

—The Third Chair 65

Charlton L. Edholm

—Gorilla Girl 84

—The Man Marked For Slaughter 93

—The Man Who Was Damned 94

—Red Evidence 84

—Rose Window 94

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

Thorpe Feesh

—I Married a Torso 93

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

E. Florence

—The Vanished Freight 93

Elliott Flower

—The Man Who Sold His Head 95

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

Richard Garnett

—Madam Lucifer 95

Arthur Gask

—The Judge's Secret 92

—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

—Blind Man's Buff  92

—Not Down on the Bill  82

—The Wicked Flea 92

—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

—Yeggs Florentine 94

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

Druid Grayl

—His Strange Inheritance 95

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

Francis Gribble

—The Philosopher's Mistake 95

C. Ranger Gull and Reginald Bacchus

—The Adventure of the Whisting Omelette  92

—The Automaton 93

—The Dragon of St. Paul's 92

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

—An Inter-Planetary Episode 93

Nathaniel Hawthorne

—The Great Stone Face 66

—The Oubliette Cryptogram  92

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

—The Dancer's Mascot 95

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

Clifford Howard

—The Levitation of Jacob   92

S. B. H. Hurst

—The Ball of Fire  74

—The King of the Jerawahs 93

—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

Tudor Jenks

—A Supernatural Swindle 95

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

Hugh Kingsmill

—The Ruby of Khitmandu 93

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

—The Hollow Lens 94

—Over Billowing Bunkers 94

—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

—At the Pyramid of the Sacred Bulls 93

—The Brigand of Kairouin the Holy  82

—The City of the Scarlet Scarabeus  82

Francis Marlowe

—Hostile Witness 83

Don Marquis

—Accursed Hat!  70

—Behind the Curtain 95

—Leopards 92

—The Table-Cloth Millionaire 92

H. B. Marriott-Watson

—The Devil of the Marsh 89

Richard Marsh

—The Mask 88

—A Silent Witness  77

Herman Howard Matteson

—Safety First 93

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

—It Couldn't be Done 94

—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

—Innocent Bystander 94

—The Passing of an Angel 79

—The Warburton Mystery 82

—Where There Ain't No Ten Commandments 79

C. C. Newkirk

—The Scientific Circle  92

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

Seumas O'Kelly

—The Building 95

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

—"Jadis" 94

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

Marjorie Pickthall

—Freedom 94

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

John E. Rosser

—Notice of Dissolution 93

Anthony M Rud

—The Invisible "Blinker" 73

Rafael Sabatini

—Intelligence 84

G. Morris Sand

—Carnival Killer 84

Frank Savile

—Burning Horseshoe 94

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

Lurana W. Sheldon

12: The Ghost and the Jewels   92

Helen Simpson

—Hotel Evidence 89

—At the Mickleham Arms 92

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

Albert Payson Terhune

—The Clean-Up 94

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—" 93

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 Cult of the Skull 94

—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

John Strange Winter

—The Luck of the Trevors 95

H. C. Witwer

—Money to Burns 71

Mary E Wilkins

—The Shadows on the Wall  64

Lee Willenborg

—The Queen's Emerald  88

Mrs C. N. Williamson

—The Great Boycott at the Hotel D'Angleterre  94

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: Madam Lucifer / Richard Garnett

- 2: Twice Drowned / Christopher B. Booth

- 3: The Most Dangerous Game / Richard Connell

- 4: Pardon This Intrusion / Richard Connell
- 5: Tested / Richard Connell
- 6: A Friend of Napoleon / Richard Connell
- 7: Javelin of Death / Captain Dingle
- 8: Made in Borneo / Leo Crane

- 9: The Dancer's Mascot / Beatrice Heron-Maxwell

- 10: The Philosopher's Mistake / Francis Gribble

- 11: His Strange Inheritance / Druid Grayl

- 12: The Man Who Sold His Head / Elliott Flower

- 13: The Girl on the Platform / Harold Bindloss

- 14: The Storm Centre / J. J. Bell

- 15: Myrtle and the Baronets / K. R. G. Browne

- 16: The Building / Seumas O'Kelly

- 17: A Commercial Mermaid / George A. Birmingham

- 18: The Clutch of the Law / Deas Cromarty

- 19: A Witch City Mystery / Frederic Van Rensselaer Dey

- 20: Auxons / Julia Truitt Bishop
- 21: A Supernatural Swindle / Tudor Jenks
- 22: Behind the Curtain / Don Marquis

- 23: The Short Story of Mark Hellinger / Anonymous

- 24: The Luck of the Trevors / John Strange Winter

- Cumulartive Index 61-95