Past Masters Ninety Seven
Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: Short stories from magazines and newspapers, all in the Life + 70 Public domain, collected from magazines, newspapers, and out of print books, including unexpected entries from S S Van Dine and Theodore Dreiser. 1: Letters of Un-patent / C. J. Dennis 2: The Prodigal Calf / C. J. Dennis 3: The Moon Riders / Laurence Donovan 4: The Terror of Blue John Gap / Arthur Conan Doyle 5: The Street of the Blank Wall / Jerome K. Jerome 6: The Crimp / Henry Leverage 7: The Fighting Heart / W. Alexander 8: After the Inquest / W. W. Jacobs 9: The Sense Of Touch / Ole Luk-Oie 10: A Woodland Wooing / Druid Gra

PAST MASTERS

NINETY-SEVEN

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.

16 September 2022

Contents

1: Letters of Un-patent / C. J. Dennis

2: The Prodigal Calf / C. J. Dennis

3: The Moon Riders / Laurence Donovan

4: The Terror of Blue John Gap / Arthur Conan Doyle

5: The Cruise of the "Idlewild" / Theodore Dreiser

6: The Street of the Blank Wall / Jerome K. Jerome

7: The Crimp / Henry Leverage

8: The Fighting Heart / W. Alexander

9: After the Inquest / W. W. Jacobs

10: The Sense Of Touch / Ole Luk-Oie

11: A Woodland Wooing / Druid Grayl

12: Homicidal Holiday / Laurence Donovan

13: The Two-Handed Sword / Achmed Abdullah

14: The Almost Perfect Murder Case / S. S. Van Dine

15: Blackmail / Robert Hichens

16: The Whole Truth / Vernon Ralston

17: The Rainseller / Vernon Ralston

18: A Temporary Lapse / Vernon Ralston

______________

1: Letters of Un-patent

C. J. Dennis

1876-1938

Punch (Melbourne) 2 Dec 1913

C. J. Dennis was one of the late 19th-early 20th Century Australian poets and writers who used the Australian vernacular and slang in their work. Irish-Australian Dennis is best known for his "The Songs of a Sentimental Bloke", a series of poems by a working class young man about his love, Doreen:

'Er name’s Doreen... Well spare me bloomin' days!

You could 'a' knocked me down wiv 'arf a brick!

He also wrote a small number of amusing short stories, which are very hard to find.

TO the truly sympathetic there is no sight more pathetic than that of a bashful man in love. Young Dr. Armour, whose fortitude and steely nerve had been a byword amongst the students in the operating theatre, became a nervous wreck beneath the scalpel of Cupid, and shrunk from laying bare his secret and tenderest feelings before the object of his adoration.

Adoration, indeed! but mildly describes the attitude of poor Jack Armour towards that sweetest of her sex, Susan Wiggs.

It is regrettable that, for the purpose of this romantic story, the lady did not bear some other, finer name; for the homely Susan, and, alas! the plebeian Wiggs surely but ill-befitted the beauty, the grace, the wit and the truly patrician charm of that altogether delightful girl. But for Jack Armour "Susan" was as music to the ear, and "Wiggs" the appellation of a goddess.

Susan was an artist, whose delicate paintings had already won for her at least some local fame; and Jack had begun by admiring her pictures, and continued by worshipping the painter. This is the history of the third chapter.

Many a bold lover, fretting at his lack of opportunity, would have envied Jack his chances. At week-end parties, at dances, at social gatherings he met her often, and spoke with her alone of everything but love. Once he had sat out a dance with her and talked eloquently on the shocking unreliability of the modern motor car. Once— O heaven-sent opportunity!— he had her alone in a summer-house at a garden party, and had spoken for twenty minutes of the great advantages of frequent vaccination.

Talked shop, ye gods! when the girl and the hour were his. What girl is there who cannot sympathise with Susan? Far be it from us to suggest that Miss Wiggs acted in any unmaidenly fashion in this affair. But she was not blind altogether, and— well, girls will understand. Whenever he was alone with her Jack's courage ran down to his boots, and, at the slightest hint of sentiment in their conversation, he shied like an unbroken colt.

Indeed, her studio was just over the street from his surgery, and it would have been the simplest matter in the world to have walked across on some fine spring afternoon, when he could plump down on his knees, and say "Susan, I love you! Be mine!" But not lie. He would sooner have given himself into the hands of the rawest, clumsiest student at the hospital for a delicate operation.

Love finds a way, 'tis said; but Jack's way was not remarkable for its startling originality. He wrote to her— poured out his heart on three sheets of rather common note-paper, and, emulating the militant suffragette, dropped the burning missive into a prosaic pillar-box.

We are no psychologists that we should attempt to analyse Susan's feelings upon the receipt of this letter. Since she was more than passing fond of Jack Armour, we may assume that she was glad. But that he, who saw her at least thrice a week, should use the post as vehicle to express his love, filled her with righteous anger. What natural girl likes to be cheated of her sacred right of hearing— at least once in life— the tender voice of a beloved lover pleading his cause, and of knowing the thrill of that ecstatic moment that follows the softly murmured "Yes"?

Now, Jack Armour's hand-writing at no time resembled copperplate. I have heard there are doctors who write a yet more illegible fist— but I have never known them. It was ten minutes before Susan got even an inkling of the purport of that letter. When she did, she sigh happily once or twice (with no one to he her), then sat and brooded darkly.

"It's a wonder," mused Susan, "that he didn't telegraph. The cake!" And she set to work to puzzle out the whole of that impassioned scrawl.

"I'll make him ask me properly!" she declared, "or he will never have me at all."

Then, with a most unloverlike expression on her pretty face, Susan sat down and wrote her reply. Rather, to say that she wrote it would be hardly correct. She deliberately filled two sides of her best note-paper with utterly undecipherable hieroglyphics. The date and the name alone were legible. Susan sealed the letter with a determined little frown, and went out and posted it in full view of Jack's windows. She didn't know if he saw her. She did not care, but she rather hoped he did.

Jack got the letter by the late delivery that night. He opened it with trembling fingers, but as he looked through it his eagerness gave way to utter consternation.  He sat down and puzzled over it for a full half-hour, and at the end of that time he had deciphered no more than the date and the signature. Sometimes he thought the letter began with a formal "Dear Dr. Armour." At other times it bore a vague resemblance to an address more friendly and familiar— but he could not he sure. As for the body of the letter, he could make nothing of it whatever. He examined it under a lens without result. He held it before a mirror in the vain hope that there was some trick about it which he could discover. Finally, he flung it aside in despair, and sat, with his head in his hands, reviewing his intolerable position. Here he was, an avowed lover, who did not know whether his suit was accepted or refused— whether he should he living, in the seventh heaven of delight or sunk in the depths of despondency.

He laughed mirthlessly, as a compromise, and went out to do what was Utterly distasteful to him: to consult another in a matter that concerned his own private affections. Of course, he should have gone straight to Susan and demanded an explanation; but he was not built that way. He went, instead, to his friend, Ned Dixon, whom he found in his rooms, spread out before the fire, smoking prodigiously, and deep in the latest sporting news.

"Hullo!" was Ned's greeting. "Been backing a stiff'un, or has a rich patient snuffed it?"

"Don't be be flippant, old man," said said Jack. "I'm in trouble— rather peculiar trouble. In short, I'm in a deuce of a mess."

"Why," said Ned, sitting up with a start, "I thought your practice—"

"Oh, my practice is right enough," answered Jack. "It's worse than that."

"A woman!" diagnosed Ned promptly. "My dear chap, don't let it get vou down. There are plenty more about, you know, even if she has thrown you over."

"But," stammered Jack, "I don't know whether she has thrown me over or not. You see, that's my trouble."

"You don't what?" asked Ned, in amazement.

"Read that, said Jack, handing over the precious letter.

Ned Iook it through with a puzzled frown on his brow. Then he came to the signature, and whistled softly.

"Is this a new puzzle?" he asked, "or has Miss Wiggs been learning Chocktaw?"

"It is her answer," confessed Jack, "to my letter to her, asking her to marry me."

"Then her answer seems to me to be distinctly ambiguous," said Ned. "But why You see her often enough, you write to her, don't you?"

"Yes," admitted Jack; "but, then, you see, she is the sort of girl that one can't very well put such a question to— eh!— verbally, so to speak. It would be— well— rather difficult. So I thought I'd better write."

"Well, you are a cake!" exclaimed Ned, unconsciously repeating Susan's chosen epithet. "And what are you going to do about it now ?"

"I thought, perhaps, you could advise me— if you can't decipher the letter," said Jack helplessly.

"Decipher Sanscrit!" cried his friend. "It is my shrewd opinion it was never intended to be deciphered. As for my advice: go to her, put your arm around her waist, and say: 'Susan, you little devil, what do you mean by it?' It will be all right, you take my tip."

"You don't know what you are talking about," said Jack somewhat stiffly. "You don't seem to appreciate my position. I don't know where I am. That letter might he a request that I never speak to her again. How do I know she is not offended?"

"Because," replied Ned, "being a woman she would take a great deal more pains to say so if she were. But if you won't take my advice—"

"But, listen," said Jack; "couldn't you— couldn't you—"

"Ah! now we're coming to it," said Ned. "You've funked it, and you want me to pump her. Isn't that it?"

"Well, something like that," Jack admitted. "But, of course, it would never do to let her suspect that you came from me."

"Trust me," promised Ned. "I know how to manage 'em. I'll see her to-morrow."

Next day Mr. Edward Dixon called at Susan's studio, ostensibly to inspect a picture. But that astute gentleman had not been talking for five minutes  before the astute Susan had  devined the secret purpose of his visit.

"Oh! Dr. Armour," she said, when he had, by very subtle diplomacy, introduced that gentleman's name. "Why, I haven't seen him for quite a week. I suppose he is very busy?"

"Very," said Ned. "Gone in for a new branch of study. When I saw him last he was trying to read Chocktaw."

"How interesting!" said Susan, without a tremor. "What do you think of this landscape?"

And Ned went away quite unsatisfied.

"It's no go," he said, after he had reached Jack's surgery, by a circuitous route. "She's as close as an oyster."

"Was there nothing in her— eh!— manner," pleaded Jack, "to indicate how she—"

"Not the quiver of an eyelash," declared Ned. "Cool as a cucumber, and politely inquisitive as to the state of your health."

"What am I to do ?" asked Jack, dolefully, gazing at the windows of Susan's studio oppoposite. "I daren't see her. I simply daren't."

"You'll simply have to, in the long run," said Ned. "Get it over, man."

"I wonder," mused the doctor, "whether she will be at the Patterson's dance to-night?"

"No, she won't," lied Ned promptly. "Told me so herself. She has another appointment." Now, as a matter of fact, Mr. Dixon had quite other information. Susan had told him distinctly that she intended to be at the dance; but, seeing that his friend seemed quite helpless in the situation, he had made up his mind to play the cards "on his own," as he expressed it, and leave the rest to Providence— and Susan.

Jack Armour went to the Patterson's dance with very mixed feelings. He did not know whether he was glad or sorry that Susan was not to be there. He knew that an explanation would have to come some time, and at the back of his mind was a vague hope that Fate would, in some way intervene and force him to do what he had not the courage to do of his own accord. One gets rather a poor opinion of Dr. Armour in the circumstances; but many allowances have to be made for the bashful man, and he was, after all, a very estimable fellow, as Susan was quite ready to admit— when she got a chance. Trust Susan.

Jack arrived rather late at the dance. His state of mind had rather delayed him in his dressing. And almost the first person he saw k e came j nt 0 room was— Susan. She greeted him without embarrassment, quite in the old, friendly fashion; and, as he marked her programme, chatted gaily, and appeared to be quite unconscious of his very oblivious confusion. Then a partner claimed her, and Jack breathed freely again for a space. His mind was perfectly blank as to what he should do or say when the time came for his first dance with her.

Susan pleaded fatigue, and suggested that they should sit it out. There was no reason, really, to believe that Susan was not fatigued, or that there was any ulterior motive in her very natural suggestion. And I refuse absolutely to admit that it was Susan who later maneuvred an adjournment to the conservatory. Once there, Jack felt that his hour had come. He braced himself for the shock.

"You got my letter yesterday?" asked Susan, in a voice of sweet and charming innocence.

"Er— yes," said Jack, "I got it."

"Well?" said Susan. And in the pause that followed Jack stopped thinking—absolutely. "Well— eh!— as a matter of fact," he stammered at length, "I'm afraid I couldn't read it. You must have written hurriedly, you know, and—"

"Oh! this is too good," cried Susan. "You mean to say you couldn't read my letter? And here's the one I got from you," she added, producing it. "That's not very well written, either. Is it?"

"Well, no," admitted Jack. "I'm afraid I don't write very distinctly. But do you mind telling me— eh!— what your answer was?"

"No," said Susan. "Let us play fair. Here; you read your letter first, and then I'll read my reply."

Jack held the letter— his first love letter— in his hand very limply. "If— you wouldn't mind," he said lamely, "I would much rather you read yours first. I did not understand a word of it, you see, and—"

"It isn't fair," protested Susan, "because yours was written first, you know. But just as you wish. And," she added to herself, "don't flatter yourself that you are going to get out of it that way."

Then she read:

Dear Dr. Armour,

I received a letter from you to-day. I know it is from you, because it bears your signature, but the remainder of the letter I am quite unable to understand. Why do doctors write such awful hands? Please write very carefully, or employ a secretary, and let me know what it is all about. I am just dying of curiosity.

Yours truly,

Susan Wiggs.

"I really don't see, said Susan, "what difficulty there is in deciphering that, It's perfectly plain to me. And now," she added brightly, "play the game, and read yours."

"Really," stammered Jack in an agony of nervousness, for he was fairlv trapped. "Really— I— I—"

"Why, what are you doing?" cried Susan. "Look, you are crumpling the poor letter all up. You won't be able to read it yourself presently."

"Susan!" cried Jack suddenly, and with startling vehemence. "Susan, I love you! I have loved you for months! Life would be a blank without you—

"That was in the letter," murmured Susan, unguardedly.

"Then you did read it?" exclaimed Jack.

"Oh, only parts of it," said Susan hastily. "Go on, Jack."

"Susan," continued Jack. "I love you more than anything in life. I want you—"

But need we go on? Surely it is sufficient to say that Susan won the right that is the due of every honest maid. She had her thrill. As a matter of fact, she had quite a succession of them— all distinctly pleasurable— before the pair, flushed and happy, returned to the ballroom, with the tale of their blessedness writ plain upon their beaming faces.

Finally, it may be of interest to record that in the list of wedding presents appearing in a report of the wedding, which happened a few months later, was an item that excited not a little comment and some curiosity. It was: "Mr. Edward Dixon, a typewriter."

_________________

2: The Prodigal Calf

With a Few References to the Fatted Son

C. J. Dennis

Weekly Times (Melbourne) 1 May 1915

MR HENRY CHUBB and Mr Barney Doyle, both of them dairy farmers, sat in  Mr Doyle's kitchen and talked business earnestly.

"I'm tellin' yeh, Chubb," said Mr Doyle, "I wouldn't be partin' with that calf for twice iv three pounds if I had the manes iv kapin' her. But 'tis short, iv hands I am, an' that young son iv mine, bad cess to him, will not do wan hand's turn that he can scheme his way out of."

"Thirty shillings is me price," answered Mr Chubb in a monotonous, sing-song voice, that, in him, denoted a stolid obstinacy. He was a stolid man, was Mr Chubb, heavy of mind and body; but it was said in the district that there was no keener hand at a bargain for miles around, unless it was, perhaps, his neighbor, Mr Barney Doyle.

" 'Tis tearin' me sowl out to part wid her at all, at all," said Mr Doyle; "but not wan penny piece under two pounds tin will I take for the baste. Shure, yeh'll not be finding a better heifer in the district, Chubb, an' it's dirt chape I'm lettln' you have her. If 'twas n't for that good fer nothin' son iv mine— I wonder where he is now, be the Same token!"

Mr Doyle went to the door and put his head outside.

"Mickey!" he yelled.

On the far side of the straw stank an extremely fat boy dozed in the shade, and out of sight of the house. He wriggled uneasily at the sound of the voice of authority.

"Mickey! Mickey yeh loafin' varmint!" howled Mr Doyle.

"Wot's ther matter?" said Mickey, hastily picking up a pitchfork, and appearing around a corner of the straw stack with as much appearance of bustling energy as he could muster on short notice.

"Are yen kapin an eye to them, calves, Mickey?" shouted Mr Doyle. ''Did yeh put up the panels whin yeh come in wid the dray? Kape a close watch on that red heifer of Daisy's; Mister Chubb here is after namin' a pice for her, an' maybe he'll be takin' er."

"Orright," answered Mickey, and disappearing around the stack he resumed his broken slumbers.

" 'Tis like pullin' out me eye tooth, Chubb, to be partin' wid that heifer," Mr Doyle resumed. "Did I hear yeh say 'twas settled at two pound tin?"

"You never did," said Mr Chubb. "You heard me say thirty bob. That's the price, an' there I stick."

"Now, listen here to me, Chubb," said Barney, beginning all over again a long catalogue of the calf's marvellous attributes.

Meantime Mickey slumbered peacefully in the shade. In the paddocks below him half a dozen calves wandered amongst the short grass, and, close to them, the forgotten panels lay on the ground. After a while the red heifer, more adventurous, than the rest, sauntered through the panels and stood on the roadway looking about as though undecided which course to take. It was the first time that she had ever been beyond the confines of the farm of her birth; and who shall say that a young, healthy calf, of adventurous disposition would not feel a thrill within her bovine being at the first taste of freedom?

Tempted, perhaps, by the sight of the low green hills in the distance, she decided upon the road to the right, and, with a low bellow of joy, made off leisurely down the road.

" 'Tis not for me to be sittin' here tringin' the praises iv me own baste," Mr Doyle was saying; "but I'm tellin' yer that yer might walk the day through an' not find the aiquil iv that red heifer. Would yer say now, that she might be worth two pounds five to yer?"

"Thirty shillin's I ses, an' thirty shillin's I sticks to," answered Mr Chubb, staring vacantly at an ornament on the mantelshelf.

Outside, in the pleasant shade of the straw stack, Mickey slept on and snored gently at intervals.

Leisurely, with a pause here and there to graze by the roadside, the red heifer pursued her truant way. New scenes of the hitherto unknown world delighted her. Strange cattle in the adjacent paddocks raised their heads to gaze dully at the wayward youngster, and strange dogs came out from the farms to bark at her. It was all so new and delightfully adventurous to a calf of tender years. But the green hills seemed still very far away.

"Mind what I do be tellin' you, now," Mr Doyle was admonishing his neighbor. "The mother iv her is the finest cow in the district. A bucketful she gives night an' mornin'; an', 'tis a sore trile to me to be partin' wid so fine an' promisin' a heifer. Two pounds aiven I'll take for her, an' not wan copper more can yer bate me down, Chubb."

"When I ses thirty bob," growled Mr Chubb, "I means thirty bob; an' you kin take it or leave it."

Attracted by the snores and strange gurglings of the fat boy, the farmyard fowls came near and craned their necks as they gazed with curiosity upon the sleeper.

Grown weary of the monotony of the road, the red heifer now sought for an opening in the wire fences that stretched endlessly on either side. But most of this slip rails were up, and she looked in vain upon the zealously guarded fodder on the other side.

At last, however, she came to an opening. The entire Brady family had driven into town, and had carelessly left the panels down after them though, having taken their horse, that impoverished family, the Bradys, left behind no animals to guard, excepting a few pigs; which, at this season of the year, enjoyed the freedom of the farm, and, incidentally, of the neighborhood. Those pigs just now were enjoying a species of mud bath at the edge of a dam in the middle of the paddock.

The red heifer explored the paddock, not so much now in search of adventure as of something sweet and succulent to eat, and something cool and refreshing to drink. But the paddock of the Bradys was not rich in fodder, and had already been carefully prospected by the pigs, and the truant calf listened in vain for the cheerful rattle of milk pails and the welcome call of "Sukey" that proclaimed the evening meal.

" 'Twill squeeze the heart iv me, I'm tellin' yeh, Chubb, to be losin' that red heifer," Mr Doyle still argued. "Would yeh be splittin' the dif'rence now, an' take her for wan pound fifteen?"

"Thirty bob," replied Mr Chubb, briefly, still staring fixedly at the ornament on the mantelshelf.

"Well, well!" sighed Mr Doyle, rising. "Let's go an' have a look at her anny way. Maybe the sight iv her will be soft'nin' yer heart."

The two men went outside, and instantly Mr Doyle's eye fell on the open panel and the herd of calves, from which the red heifer was missing.

"Mickey!" howled Mr Doyle.

Mickey put a tousled head around a corner of the stack, and asked sleepily what the trouble was.

This exhibition of apathy caused Mr Doyle to dance up and down with suddenly increased ire. For a full minute he was incapable of speech. He waved his arms frantically, and, judging by his pedal exercises, it seemed that the ground beneath him had become suddenly red hot. Then, with a bellow of rage, he snatched up a picket and rushed at the fat boy, whose mouth and eyes were slowly opening to their full extent.

Mickey did not wait for the charge, but dodged behind the stack, around which Mr Doyle chased him in futile fashion for five minutes. Then Mr Doyle paused for breath, and, having regained it, delivered his ultimatum to his son, who received it from a respectful distance.

"See here, yeh young thafe iv the world!" thundered Mr. Doyle. "If that heifer is not found in wan hour I'll have the life iv yeh!"

Mickey waited to hear no more, but turned and went down the paddock, and out through the panels. On the roadway he paused, and after brief hesitation, waddled off in the oposite direction from that taken by the calf.

Two miles away in Brady's paddock, unheard by either the irate Mr Doyle or his sulky son, a plaintive bellow disturbed the pigs that wallowed about the dam.

The red heifer was becoming very uneasy. A search of the paddock had yielded little in the way of food. She approached a small heap of "cocky chaff" that had been left there for the pigs. This she sniffed hopefully, but without reward; then, urged by the pangs of hunger, she sadly ate her fill, and looked about for something to wash it down.

The pigs seemed to hold possession of the dam, but, made brave by necessity, the calf wedged her way amongst them in the mire, and approached the waterhole. The sides were steep and treacherous, and as she stretched forth her head to drink, the bank gave way, and with a bewildered bellow, she went head foremost in to the muddy water.

Up at the Doyle homestead the owner paced the yard muttering alternately lamentations and threats, while Mr Chubb stood impatiently by and made podnted remarks about getting home.

"If that son iv mine," growled Mr Doyle, "comes home widout me red heifer, I'll skin him, so I will."

Mickey, returning from a fruitless quest, beheld his angered father from afar, and deeming approach unwise, sneaked away and hid.

" 'Tis like givin' me life's blood, Chubb," declared Mr. Doyle at length, "but if yeh do be wantin' that heifer so bad I'll give in to yeh, an' take the thirty shillin's, cash down, an' we'll say no more about it."

The stolid Mr Chubb was quite unmoved by this touching liberality, and continued to gaze dreamily into the middle distance.

"I'm not buyin' a pig in a poke," he replied calmly; "nor, fer that matter, a calf on the rampage. When you get 'er back we'll tork business."

"Where in the thunder is that fat, lazy, loafin' son iv mine, an' what detains him?" asked Mr Doyle of the unechoing spaces around him. "See here, Chubb, I'll take wan pound down now, an' the heifer's yours."

Mr Chubb slowly shook his head. "Wot's the good of 'er bein' mine when I don't know where she is?" he asked very reasonably.

"Fifteen shillin's!" urged Mr Doyle.

"Not fifteen pence," replied Mr Chubb, "until I sets eyes on 'er."

"Then come inside an' wait another hour," pleaded Mr Doyle. "Maybe Mickey has found her by now."

The two farmers returned to the house, and talked in a desultory fashion about crops and weather, and waited, and still waited.

With much cautious manoeuvring Mickey had managed to regain his nest on the lee side of the straw stack, and again dozed peacefully.

The sun was dropping to the low western hills when a very hungry, very unhappy, and sadly dishevelled red heifer regained the home sliprails, and, hastening toward the house, bellowed plaintively outside the door.

" 'Tis the voice of her, me darlin'!" cried Mr Doyle, jumping to his feet.

When he beheld the prodigal, Mr Doyle himself bellowed with joy, and, despite her unattractive state, with mud upon her sides, hunger within her, and sorrow, and disillusionment in her sad, sad eye, Mr Doyle flung himself upon her and embraced her in an access of uncontrollable joy.

With a quite regrettable lack of sympathy, Mr Chubb stood by and waited for Mr Doyle's loud endearments, to cease.

"Well," said Mr Chubb, "Wot about finishin' the deal? She don't look worth the half of it now, but I'm still offerin' the thirty bob,"

Mr Boyle looked up with indignation in his face.

"Thirty bob!" he cried. "Thirty bob! To Jerusalem wid yeh, Chubb, and yer dirty thirty bob! Shure, I'd not take five pounds for me beautiful heifer. No, nor yet tin. Have yeh no common dacincy at all, man?"

"An' do you mean to say," asked Mr Chubb, betraying emotion for the first time. "Do you mean to say you've, kept me, here loafin' round all the blessed afternoon just to tell me that? An' me milkin' waitin'!"

"Have yeh no heart, man?" asked Mr Doyle, still caressing his beloved heifer; "that yeh'd be askin' me to part wid her at all, at all. Man, yeh'd tear a child frum its mother to satisfy the avaricious sowl in yeh. Yeh haven't the money, Chubb, nor half the money, to buy me darlin' heifer!"

Mr Chubb said not another word; but with one glance of disgust at the pastoral idyll presented by Mr Doyle and his recovered calf, he turned on his heel and went home to his milking.

AFTER TEA that evening Mr Doyle carefully selected a stout stick and approached his son.

"Come here, Mickey," he said, in a voice that was all too suspiciously caressing.

"Wot cher want me for?" asked Mickey apprehensively, backing away.

Mr Doyle reached suddenly forward and secured a hold of his fat son's collar.

"I'm goin' to take you out into the barn, Mickey, me son," ha said, sweetly, as he carefully hefted the stick; "out into the barn, Mickey darlin', an' the two of us is goln' to cilibrate the return uv the prodigil."

________________

3: The Moon Riders

Laurence Donovan

1885-1948

The Feds, October 1936

1:  Whips Of Death

RAY ALLISON heard the little man's scream of agony. The Federal Agent shivered. Though he had steeled himself to remain inactive during this whipping, now that the cries of tortured flesh echoed from the hillside rocks, Allison grunted an oath, gripped his automatic and started down the hill.

Flaring torches were added to the moonlight. Allison saw vague, moving figures. These were oddly like men without faces or heads, only legs and arms that moved about in hooding sacks.

The Moon Riders!

Charley Hawkins— the mild little fellow who kept the small tourist stand at the crossroads— was being whipped. From the piercing tenor of his cries, it was apparent that the whispered reports of the Moon Riders had not been exaggerated, even among the terrorized, superstitious hill folk of White Horse Valley. The mountain folk said the Moon Riders used whips of red-hot wire. The government department had not been able to confirm this. Allison had not intended to permit the torture to proceed beyond the preliminary stage required for evidence.

But at least a score of the Moon Riders had arrived at the bowl in the mountains in cars from which even the license plates had been removed. Allison could see the little man, his scrawny body standing out white against the flare of the pine torches. He had been stripped of all his clothing and set in the middle of the ring.

The fire burning in a pit of rocks and the heating of the lengths of wire to which wooden handles were attached confirmed the reports of the torture. Allison, concealed in the rocks high above the Moon Riders' bowl, had watched, grim-lipped and blazing with anger, as the score of burly figures had pushed Hawkins from one of the cars. For Allison knew he was one man against the small mob of hooded figures. A miscalculation in time had been responsible for these long odds.

Half a dozen more Government Men were due to arrive in White Horse Valley two days later. Previous attacks by the Moon Riders had always been scheduled by the complete full moon. But Charley Hawkins had been seized two nights before this was due.

CHARLEY HAWKINS had received a letter warning him to settle up his affairs and get out of that part of the country. It was this phase of the reign of terror that had brought the attention of the U.S. Government. Another man had been killed just across the State border. This victim had also received a letter through the U.S. mails. It was now time for the government to take action. The Secret Service desired to link that government missive with an actual whipping at the hands of the Moon Riders. Undercover Agent Allison had been assigned to the case.

Allison had learned that Hawkins had been snatched in the night from his roadside shack. The Undercover Agent had followed as rapidly as possible. But the fire had been burning in the Moon Riders' bowl when he got into the rocks above. Charley Hawkins stood there, his skinny body shivering, but his chin uplifted and defiant.

A guttural voice growled from inside one of the hooding sacks.

"You've been havin' truck with folks comin' at night to your den of iniquity, Charley Hawkins! Such as you must be punished according to the sworn ritual!"

"It's a lie!" blazed Hawkins. "The folks who stop by are tourists who want a bite! All of you know that!"

The Fed heard and he knew this to be true. Allison connected in his own mind a possible reason why other persons in White Horse Valley might not want that roadside stand to remain.

He did not consider this long, for there was little more conversation. Even as Allison was condemning himself for not having armed himself with a sub-gun, and was sliding down the rocks with his single automatic, Charley Hawkins leaped high as the hot whip cut viciously around his stomach and back.

The little man then must have gone completely insane. The slashing of the other wires did not stop him. He screamed crazily, "I know you! I know your voice!"

A heated wire snapped around Hawkins' face and seared his lips. He started to fall forward, but he got out the mumbled syllables of a name, a name that did not reach Allison.

The Federal Agent at this instant was trying for a cleft of rocks where he could command all of the group with the automatic. Most of the riders were armed with shotguns. It was a desperate chance at the best, but even for the sake of valuable evidence the Federal Agent could not stomach any more of this torture.

"So, you know me, huh?"

The voice was a rasped guttural from under the drawn hood. The man's face and most of his body were concealed, for the sack was one used for grain, with suitable holes cut in its side.

Charley Hawkins' bleeding, burned mouth opened wide and he screamed directly at the man who had spoken.

"I know you— I know you—"

Allison's even teeth clicked together. He centered his automatic on the hooded figure who had spoken. Murder was to be read in that muffled guttural. The Federal Agent could see the upward movement of the muzzles of shotguns.

"Stop it, you devils!" shouted Allison, his pistol steadily upon the man he took to be the leader. "Stop it, in the name of—"

Perhaps it was just as well Ray Allison did not complete the sentence "in the name of the law!" He did not finish it for the simple reason of a gun barrel slamming down on the back of his head. The Government Man collapsed.

He was spared seeing Charley Hawkins curl into a knot on the ground and die with his ribs and stomach blasted from his scrawny body.

The Undercover Agent did not know when the topless small cars coasted down the mountain road, leaving him among the rocks. The Moon Riders did not wait to finish off Allison, for his bloody head had the appearance of being completely caved in.

MEN walked through the single dusty street of White Horse Village with lips held tight and eyes slanted upon the faces of all their neighbors. Charley Hawkins had been found this morning.

The mild, little man of the tourist stand had been discovered sitting upright in a chair behind his hamburger counter. Charley Hawkins was minus both his face and his stomach. He was only a bloody carcass, the parts not torn by the shot showing livid welts from burning whips. A printed card was strung by a hempen cord about the man's neck.

WE WILL NOT HAVE SUCH IN OUR MIDST

—THE MOON RIDERS

There were about fifteen hundred persons living in White Horse Village. John Simpson was the marshal, and Curt Roden was the sheriff's deputy. Simpson and Roden necessarily performed the official rites of the law, which were brief.

The truth was that Curt Roden looked into John Simpson's red face and recalled that Marshal Simpson had been drinking heavily since the beginning of depredations by the Moon Riders. And Marshal Simpson avoided Deputy Curt Roden's piercing gaze, tried to forget that Roden had been regarded as a wild one before he had steadied down and taken this job as deputy sheriff.

It is doubtful if there was a single family that fully trusted any other family. Only one man stood out, his joviality attempting to override the furtiveness of his fellow citizens.

He was Joel Romer, proprietor of the village general store. Postmaster, justice of the peace and mayor, Joel Romer was a bald-headed, constantly perspiring, but constantly laughing fellow with a moonlike face.

"We'll never get at this, every man tryin' to see under his neighbor's hide," Joel Romer said to Marshal Simpson. "Dammit! I'm for callin' in the Feds an' havin' them root out this thing bud an' branch."

None of these men knew about Ray Allison; or that the Moon Riders, believing him dead, had left the Federal Agent on the rocks.

ABOUT the time the fussy village doctor was performing his perfunctory services for the remains of Charley Hawkins, a lean, swarthy fellow with big earrings in his lobes and sleek black hair, plodded along the dusty street.

The man was a wandering Syrian peddler, one who sells everything from tinware to calico prints, to the poorer women in the hill cabins. The Syrian had been peddling merchandise from his rattling auto truck. For several weeks now he had been seen around the village. But today, he was without his familiar, rattling truck.

The Syrian's half-lidded gray eyes observed the fat, good-natured Joel Romer standing in the broad porch of his general store, which was also the village post office. Marshal Simpson and Deputy Sheriff Roden were in the knot of a dozen tightmouthed villagers listening to Romer.

"Put in my own post office, right among the other mail!" proclaimed Joel Romer, his usual laugh missing. "Threatening me! If you don't send for the government men, I'm sendin' myself on account of this bein' in the mail!"

Marshal Simpson did not speak. Deputy Roden was silent. So were the others of the few villagers listening. They glanced at each other and they looked at their postmaster and mayor. The Syrian knew without seeing the letter that Joel Romer had received a threat from the Moon Riders.

The sudden movement away from the store porch indicated none of those listening had any comment they wanted to make publicly. It was dangerous to speak, to express sympathy with a man who had been threatened.

2: A Bullet From Nowhere

RAY ALLISON and the Syrian peddler were one and the same man. The Secret Agent was keenly observing every man of perhaps a hundred or more he had passed in the dusty street, and especially those who had congregated about Joel Romer's porch.

Allison was convinced of a simple fact. The men who were the hooded Moon Riders would be here in the village. They would be watching and listening for the reaction over the brutal murder of Charley Hawkins.

In his guise of a Syrian peddler, Allison had become a familiar figure in White Horse Valley. As such he was held in the usual contempt by the men who despised "foreigners" of his type. But this morning, the agent's veiled gaze was looking for surprise in some of the rugged faces around him.

An hour ago another attempt had been made on the Government Man's life. While coming down a winding road along the side of the mountain, someone had loosened boulders on a hill beside him. In a moment a small avalanche had swept down on the pseudo-Syrian and his small peddler's truck. Only by a miracle had the Secret Agent escaped with his life. The truck had been crushed to bits.

Those who might be the hooded Moon Riders would believe he had been killed in the rocks at the time Hawkins was murdered. Others, who probably were also Moon Riders, would think he had died as the Syrian peddler under the wreckage of his truck.

The Federal Agent could feel the antagonism of scores of men. Yet there was less suspicion of him than these villagers held for each other. Allison caught the bulging eyes of Marshal Simpson upon him and it seemed to him the drunken marshal appeared greatly surprised to see the Syrian walking into town.

Allison used a broken English. He said, "My trook she is bust in the heels when the mountain she comes down."

Marshal Simpson growled something about any hard luck happening to a foreigner being good luck all around. Allison was looking at Deputy Sheriff Roden. The lanky, dark-eyed deputy was muttering under his breath. He seemed greatly surprised to see the Syrian, as much so as Marshal Simpson had been.

Allison had to take into account that both the marshal and the sheriff's deputy had been much discredited by the activities of the Moon Riders. There had been a dozen whippings, four outright murders and the disappearance of seven men.

The Federal Agent had listed these. He was seeking to discover if the victims of the Moon Riders did not have some common enemy. And he had found out that, like the ill-fated Charley Hawkins, each of the victims had been engaged in some small enterprise that might possibly afford competition for others in the village.

That had been Allison's idea for assuming the identity of the Syrian peddler. As such, he also was competing with those who might be engaged in trade. He was sure it would be only a question of time until he received a warning from the Moon Riders.

ON his store porch, Joel Romer was almost apoplectic with rage as he held up and read the few typewritten lines of a letter he had received. Allison was close enough to hear most of it. It was the usual warning to close up his affairs and get out of White Horse.

Being the biggest man in the village, from point of standing, the anger of Joel Romer could be well understood. Yet immediately, his friends and neighbors started moving away from that store porch. A Moon Rider or two might be among them, but those who were not wanted no association with a man who had been threatened.

The village could not unite against the scourge, because none knew whom he could trust. This was what had thus far balked Allison.

Any citizen might be a Moon Rider. Allison was convinced that even Marshal Simpson and Deputy Roden were surprised to see him walking down that dusty street. Still, their surprise might have been over the absence of his truck.

Joel Romer had finished reading his threatening letter. The Federal Agent had got close enough to see the typewritten missive. He was near Joel Romer's shoulder and the words were clear enough. The store man did not omit anything that was written.

When he finished, Marshal Simpson stepped forward.

"I'll be takin' that, Joel, for evidence," he announced. "It's the first one I've been able to get my hands on."

Allison was a little surprised when Joel Romer handed over the letter. Allison had seen one other, in fact had it in his possession. That had been written to Charley Hawkins. He judged the typing was the same on both letters.

The group had melted away by this time and the Undercover Agent glanced into the store. He saw the torn envelope from which Joel Romer had taken his letter. It might be advisable to have that envelope, he thought, and edged toward the door.

Joel Romer turned heavily upon him.

"You can see you're not wanted around here," he said. "This is a white man's country and we ain't trustin' any foreigner traipsin' around among the women folks, so if your truck's smashed, you'd better get out now."

As if the words had been a signal, there was first a thudding blow into one of the wooden pillars of the porch, followed instantly by the vicious crack of a rifle. A bullet had struck only a foot or so from Joel Romer's head.

The first rifle shot was followed by a second. That bullet must have passed between the store proprietor and the man he believed to be a Syrian peddler. It whined with the venomous sound of a leaden slug flattened off a spike head in the porch floor.

Joel Romer swore loudly and ducked inside the store door. Allison saw that only Marshal Simpson had remained standing below the porch, and the bulky marshal dropped himself to the ground.

It gave the Federal Agent an opportunity to feign fright. He squawked in an apparently foreign tongue and rolled off the porch. But his eyes were fixed on a spot between two brown, unpainted buildings possibly fifty yards down the street. He made the pretense of running behind the store building, but he toed swiftly around the store and darted across the street, as other villagers slipped hastily into sheltering doorways.

NO man in White Horse, not excepting the marshal, had made any effort to descend upon the hidden marksman. The terror of the Moon Riders had come to that. As Allison got across the street and between the buildings near where the rifleman had been, no other person had come in that direction.

The Federal Agent heard a man's feet shuffling. He reached the corner of the shack and peered cautiously around. Deputy Sheriff Roden was standing in a narrow passage and he was holding a light rifle. Allison remained riveted to his position. The lanky, dark-eyed deputy glanced all around. Then he walked to a gutter that had been partly boarded over, slipped the rifle hurriedly out of sight and went on around a building to emerge into the street from another direction.

The Fed did not move for several minutes. He recalled that Deputy Roden had slipped away while Joel Romer was reading his Moon Rider letter, and was declaring he would summon the government men. Allison made a hasty inventory in his mind of the typewriters, only a few, in the village.

There was a machine in the deputy sheriff's office, one in the office of Marshal Simpson, four others in lawyers' and doctors' offices and one in the Joel Romer store.

Allison glided over to the boarded gutter. In ten seconds he had examined the rifle, noted it had just been fired, and that it was a .25-30, an unusually small caliber for this region, but deadly enough at fifty yards.

The Federal Agent could see where the rifleman had stood. It was a clean fifty yards with nothing to intervene. Joel Romer had been a bulky target.

"Funny," murmured Allison. "Deputy Roden's a crack shot. There's probably not a marksman in White Horse Valley who couldn't hit a silver dollar at fifty yards."

Yet two bullets had gone more than a foot wide of the shining mark Joel Romer had been. It was not improbable that Deputy Roden or any other man could be one of the Moon Riders. Right now, no doubt, his fingerprints were all over this rifle.

Allison's stained face took on hard lines. He replaced the rifle carefully and took a roundabout way to Joel Romer's store. It was evidence of the general fear that no villagers had come rushing into the place.

Only Joel Romer, Marshal Simpson, a pottering, stoop-shouldered clerk and bookkeeper, and Audrey Romer were there. Audrey was the daughter of Joel Romer, and she probably had her good looks from her mother. She had a prettiness and fineness of feature and figure that hardly went with the native mountain type.

Allison dropped altogether into his role of a bewildered Syrian. He spread his hands expressively. He said his truck was wrecked and could he buy one of Joel Romer's small ones.

"I have it the money," he stated in stilted English. "Maybe you will sell to me also the older cooking ware and dry goods?"

It was difficult to judge whether Joel Romer was badly frightened or burning with anger over the threatening letter. Before Allison could lift a hand, the storekeeper's heavy fist crashed into his face.

"You damn foreign skunk!" Romer shouted. "Comin' into the valley stealin' my business!"

Before Romer could have hit him again, Allison could have rolled his head. The lean, whip-muscled Undercover Agent could easily have cut the bigger and heavier man to pieces.

But he was a humble Syrian peddler now. His purpose in sticking to that role included continuing as he was, without arousing suspicion. He heard Audrey Romer cry out in a shocked voice. Joel Romer cursed him again and gave it to him on the chin.

Allison went flat on his back, his hands moving feebly.

"Oh, the poor fellow! You've killed him!" cried out the girl.

"Joel," said Marshal Simpson, "I think it might be safest for you to get home until I can look into this shootin'."

Allison kept his eyes closed and breathed heavily as Marshal Simpson pulled him from the floor and boosted him into a chair. But he was fully aware of Audrey Romer bringing a dampened towel and wiping the blood from his face.

She expressed concern.

"The poor fellow lost his truck this morning," the girl said to Marshal Simpson. "I'll get pa home, marshal, and maybe you'd better get him out of the village. Pa's nearly crazy with the goings on of the Moon Riders."

Allison heard the girl and Joel Romer go out.

3:  That Trick Letter

ALLISON, in the minds of Marshal Simpson and Joel Romer's stoop-shouldered bookkeeper, was all that he seemed. A Syrian peddler who had lost his truck and who had won the dislike of the storekeeper.

The Federal Agent remained sagging in the chair, though he was watching the marshal through slitted eyes. Only Marshal Simpson and the bookkeeper remained in the store.

He heard the bookkeeper hiss a few words.

"Before anybody else comes in, marshal, you got that letter Joel was showin'?"

"I took it offa him," said the marshal. "It's evidence maybe. I'm thinkin' they'll get Joel. That shootin'—"

Allison saw the wizened, gray face of the bookkeeper peering at him over the counter. He was named Jonas Loney and Allison knew he boarded at the Joel Romer home.

It seemed that Jonas Loney was not as loyal to his boss as he might have been.

"Yup, that shootin', marshal!" he interrupted Simpson. "Hit me they ain't nobody around these parts but what could spang a spike buck deer through the heart at a hundred yards. That feller missed twice an' Joel was in plain view."

Allison saw Marshal Simpson turn his bulging eyes toward him.

"I was thinkin' the same thing, Loney," said the marshal, evidently satisfied the Syrian peddler still was out.

Allison made himself limper in his chair, his chin sunk on his breast. Loney and the marshal had voiced his own thoughts. There was something decidedly queer about a native of this region missing a full-grown man at fifty yards, and with two open shots.

Jonas Loney was whispering across the counter to Marshal Simpson.

"You got that letter, marshal, and I got the envelope what it come in," he said. "Before anybody comes in, slip around back here."

Allison elevated himself just enough to look over the counter. He could see an ancient typewriter on an open table used by the bookkeeper. But Jonas Loney glanced out the door into the deserted street and started poking around among some empty packing boxes.

A box slid along the floor. Marshal Simpson said, "Tarnation an' all, Loney! You don't think it could be him?"

LONEY'S husky whisper came to Allison.

"Never saw that old typewriter until a week or so ago, an' look at the 't' and the 'e' on this paper."

The typewriter that had been hidden in the pile of packing boxes clicked a few times. Marshal Simpson pulled out the letter he had taken from Joel Romer.

"Dang it all!" exploded the marshal. "They match! An' them two bullets missed 'im too far! What y' think we should do, Loney?"

"Lay low, marshal," said Loney promptly. "It ain't positive, an' there's bound to be another'n in this same full moon!"

Allison noticed Marshal Simpson's big head turn slowly in his direction. There was no doubt who the marshal and Loney believed would be next on the list of the Moon Riders.

Allison had become the Syrian peddler with the direct purpose of inviting the attention of the Moon Riders. As a Federal Agent, it was all in the day's work. The Moon Riders must be trapped in an act of torture. The leader must be unmasked.

Then these activities must be connected up with the use of the mails. That would make the case complete.

Now he heard boots clumping along the street. He saw Joel Romer through the door, stopping to talk with a man. The man was Deputy Roden. And Roden had had the .25-30 rifle, had hidden it, and there had been no reason to believe he was in pursuit of some other man who might have used it.

Before Joel Romer came on into the store, Allison apparently recovered consciousness. He was now a Syrian peddler, speaking bad English and demanding to use the telephone. He knew when Romer came in behind him, and at that minute he was connected with a city down below.

"Send me the truck by the tomorrow night and the money to pay I have—" Joel Romer heard the hated Syrian peddler saying. "Make it the two gross of the saucepans, an' the four bolts of the red and blue calico— bring him to the Horseshoe Crossroads where I will be to pay the money— "

Romer bellowed at him, one big hand whirling him around.

"So, you think you're stayin' in the peddlin' business around here?" Joel Romer shouted. "You'd better be out of White Horse before tonight or you'll be carried out!"

Allison sputtered, shrank from the big man's gripping hand. Marshal Simpson started to speak, but Romer cut him off.

"You want to keep on bein' marshal, you'll stay out've this! Now, you skunk, get out!"

Allison squawked in realistic terror as Joel Romer slapped him through the door and sent him spinning into the dusty street. He skidded on his nose and hastily picked himself up.

Pretty Audrey Romer came running along the plank sidewalk.

"Please!" she said. "Please, you'll have to do as pa says, or I'm afraid for you! Here! Take this, and please get out before pa does something terrible!"

The Federal Agent was a woebegone figure, with torn clothes and blood trickling from his nose. The girl was thrusting some money into his hand.

Allison muttered thickly and pushed her hand away. He was thinking fast. Audrey Romer's eyes were big and brown. She had an appealing face. But there might be something more in her sympathy and fear for the safety of a humble Syrian peddler than appeared on the surface.

There was the hidden typewriter in the store. The missed rifle shots. The fearful, whispered belief of the old bookkeeper. Allison dropped his head and muttered a thanks to the girl as he shuffled away in the dust.

4:  The Hooded Visitor

RAY ALLISON awoke just after sunset under a tree beside a creek. He grinned through lips swollen by the punches he had taken from big Joel Romer. A Fed had to take it on the chin as well as pass it out.

Allison had confirmed that telephone call made from Joel Romer's store with Marshal Simpson listening. Romer and the others would have been amazed to know how that order would be filled.

Two armored cars, several sub-machine guns and shotguns were— a truck, saucepans and dry goods! Allison had been down to the Horseshoe Crossroads and, through a single contact man, had completed arrangements for delivery of the goods. The mountain bowl habitually used by the Moon Riders was the place.

He had hoped to receive a threatening letter addressed to himself as the Syrian peddler. This he was forced to give up. The letter sent to the murdered Charley Hawkins would have to serve in possible prosecution.

Allison crossed the mountain fields below White Horse Village before the moon had come up. There were only a few lights in the town. Since the reign of Moon Riders' terror, honest citizens did not venture out much after darkness. Not one citizen showed on the single street, though twilight still lingered over the mountain gap to the westward.

Joel Romer's store was in darkness, this not being a village where robbery was feared and good electric light wasted in front of the store safe. Allison grunted as he noted this, for it fitted in with a plan he had been formulating during the afternoon.

As the Syrian peddler, he was aware he was marked by the Moon Riders. Joel Romer's open threat had been heard by others. Allison was checking in his mind the identity and business of all previous victims of the riders.

It was inescapable that each one had in some manner been a competitor of the biggest village store. The rifle shooting, the producing by Jonas Loney of the hidden typewriter, and other incidents seemed to make it apparent why the Moon Riders had succeeded in carrying out their campaign without detection.

Allison had sought for some of the cars without licenses used by the whippers, but had been unsuccessful.

AFTER passing the general store, the Undercover Agent moved like a shadow back toward one of the village barns. He entered and when he emerged he glided swiftly up the hill.

Joel Romer's pretentious stone and beam house was set on a terraced spot well above the level of other buildings along the single street. Its location was ideal for the daring plan the Federal Agent had decided upon.

Allison crouched near some rocks for perhaps half an hour. Finally a stoop-shouldered figure came from the front door and went down the hill toward the village.

The Federal Agent swore under his breath, but Jonas Loney turned and took a direction away from the store. Two minutes later the Secret Agent had pulled a long grain sack over his head and stuck his arms through holes cut in the sides.

Allison could see through the holes cut for his eyes. He might have been one of the Moon Riders as he slipped through the shadows to Joel Romer's door. He rapped softly and waited.

Slow steps came toward the door and a voice inside said, "Who is it?"

Allison stifled an oath. It was the husky, musical voice of Audrey Romer. But he had to go through with it. He thickened his voice as nearly as he could recall the tone and said, "It's me, Simpson, the marshal!"

The door swung open at once. The light in a living room silhouetted the girl's head and willowy figure.

Her eyes were big and utterly terrified as she stared at him. There seemed no doubt but she believed the Moon Riders had come for Joel Romer. Allison jammed the door back and closed a hand tightly over the girl's mouth, hissing a warning in her ear.

The Federal Agent was prepared with tape for just this emergency. Binding and throttling the girl's cries was distasteful, but he got it over with quickly and pushed the girl helplessly into a chair. He regretted doing this.

Though he worked fast, he heard Joel Romer clumping in from the direction of the kitchen.

"Who's it, Audrey?" said the store man's heavy voice.

The girl was able to make a muffled, gurgling sound.

"By damamighty!" shouted Joel Romer. "What's goin' on?"

THE big man had started to cross the living room, sprang toward the open fireplace, hands reaching up for a rifle on pegs.

The Federal Agent enjoyed the following five seconds. He had taken plenty from the ready fists of the big store man. His swinging knuckles caught Joel Romer with hard swung rights and lefts that more than evened the score.

Joel Romer swore wildly, attempted to hold onto the rifle, but before Romer could recover, the Federal Agent was pushing a revolver of the oldfashioned type into Romer's ribs.

Allison said in a muffled voice, "Just walk out ahead of me, Romer. Make any outcry and I'll pulverize your short-ribs.

"You're takin' me— you ain't— you don't understand, you fool!" gulped Joel Romer.

"I understand plenty and you've almost said too much!" snapped Allison, aware the store man's words might be interpreted to mean his last expectation was to be seized by the Moon Riders.

"You'll walk ahead of me along the hill and go into your store the back way!" ordered the Federal Agent.

Allison looked at the white face of the girl as he forced her father from the door. He thought grimly that no matter how this came out, his chance of any future acquaintance with Audrey Romer was less than one in a million.

Due to the virtually besieged state of the village, the two figures crossing the hillside and coming down to the general store were not observed. Allison compelled Romer to unlock the door. He saw there was a small office where the light would not show in the street.

The Secret Service Agent pushed Romer roughly into a chair before the table on which reposed the bookkeeper's typewriter. The crude grain sack he was employing as a disguise hampered Allison's movements, but the revolver covered the storekeeper steadily.

"Romer, you're taking a long trip," he stated harshly. "We are giving you only five minutes to leave any message for your daughter or others."

The Federal Agent was taking a long chance. He had formed his own theory of Joel Romer's possible connection with the Moon Riders. He desired to see the big man use that typewriter on the table.

Romer sputtered, "You ain't one of the Moon Riders! I've heard your voice before somewhere, but you ain't one of them!"

"You ought to know, Romer!" said Allison harshly. "Five minutes to leave a message, and whether you come back depends upon you! You might suggest that your daughter or your bookkeeper have ten thousand handy in cash!"

Sweat broke out on Romer's baldish head.

"It's a kidnappin' and ransom, huh?" he muttered.

"Get busy on that message!"

Joel Romer put a paper in the typewriter. He fumbled for a minute, punching with one finger at letters. Then he swore and took a pen from the table. He dipped it in ink and started to write.

The Federal Agent had noted every fumbling move at the typewriter. Now he stepped over to the packing boxes and pushed them over with his knee. Another old typewriter was in the bottom box of the pile.

5: The Mob in the Night

ABOUT the time Ray Allison brought the second old typewriter under Joel Romer's suddenly bulging eyes, Audrey Romer twisted the tape that had been holding her wrists. She rapidly freed herself. The girl proved she was not one given to hysterics.

Only her brown eyes became blazing agates. She darted into the living room and picked up the rifle Allison had knocked from her father's hands. When she reached the front door, she could see across the hillside to the store. There was a light showing through a back window.

Audrey Romer again proved her mountain training by making sure the rifle in her hands was loaded. She could hear several persons moving beyond her view in the village street, but her curved lips had become a straight line and she did not call out for help.

Perhaps the girl, like other villagers, had no confidence in any of her neighbors. She may have believed the Moon Riders had come for her father. The persons she heard moving might number Moon Riders among them.

The villagers in the street were not Moon Riders, or at least they were not wearing sacks. The moving group was advancing with the purpose of going up the hill to Joel Romer's house. Marshal Simpson was with the group, as was also Deputy Sheriff Roden.

During the past half-hour, Sheriff Simpson had got together only those he felt could surely be trusted, and imparted the suspicion that had been aroused against Joel Romer by Jonas Loney. In fact, Jonas Loney had attended that small secret meeting and had his say for a few minutes.

Joel Romer's customers, his neighbors, men who owed him money and others who owed him only debts of gratitude for helping them out during hard times were going to his house to have a showdown on his standing. They wanted to know about that hidden typewriter in his store on which Moon Rider letters apparently had been written.

They were keen mountaineers, and they wanted an explanation of the very bad shooting of two rifle bullets that day.

They had agreed that Joel Romer was a smart man. His own reception of a threatening letter, and what might have looked like an attempt on his life when he had said he would bring in government men, could all have been a clever plan to mislead the villagers.

Audrey Romer did not know the group had turned into the lane leading to her father's house. Her movements were quick and light-footed as she circled and approached the lighted office of the store.

Had Ray Allison, working out his own idea with respect to Joel Romer, known of the girl's approach, of the stern-visaged group going up the hill, he might not have been so confident he would get at the truth from Joel Romer himself. Allison had pulled the second typewriter into view.

His concealing grain sack impeded his action and the holes cut for eyes slipped momentarily to one side. He heard Joel Romer bellow suddenly with anger or surprise. Allison whirled, shaking his head to clear his eyes.

A numbing blow, of such impact it might almost have been a bullet, caught him between the shoulders. It was followed instantly by the crashing out of his senses with another rap on his skull. The Secret Service Agent had the final vague sensation of hearing a rifle shot, but that might have been only the explosion in his own brain.

ALLISON had the impression he was still in the store office as he tried to shake the numbing pain from his aching head. But he was being roughly jolted and it required only a few seconds to establish his position as in the rear seat of a small automobile, with men beside him concealed in the crude grain sacks.

Two other small cars were moving ahead and two more behind on the rough mountain road. In all of these cars showed only the ghostly, headless figures of men in sacks, the Moon Riders. The men beside Allison were talking.

"This damn heathen will be the last, but the boss rider thinks he knows a lot too much to be let get away."

Allison had been stripped of his grain sack disguise. His coat and shirt had been ripped off. His face and body showed the dark stain that had made him resemble a Syrian. Though his head ached and the speech he had heard held a sinister menace, the Federal Agent had a quick sense of elation.

He remembered now he had been about to fix the status of Joel Romer and he had been knocked out. But he had expected finally to become a victim of the Moon Riders, human bait, and here he was riding to the bowl of torture in the mountains. He had expected to be captured in a different fashion, but this would serve his purpose as well.

Allison thought, rather ruefully, that the connection of Joel Romer with the Moon Riders now was pretty well established. Perhaps the big store man had knocked him out in the office, then saw he was the hated Syrian peddler and summoned the Moon Riders.

Strangely enough, the Federal Agent was not deeply concerned with his own danger. He was thinking of the friendly, pretty mountain girl, Audrey Romer, and his failure to spare her from the inevitable exposure of her father. For it had been largely because of the girl that he had attempted to give Joel Romer a separate chance.

As for himself, Allison maintained the pretense of unconsciousness, secure in his own knowledge that by this time the mountain bowl of torture had become a deadly trap. A trap hedged in by Federal Agents with machine guns and shotguns.

Allison had established by the marks of fires, and by other reports, that the Moon Riders had carried out their torture and their murders in that one secure basin in the mountains, under the full light of a hanging moon. The Federal Agent writhed a little as he thought of the carrying out of the government trap.

He had instructed his men to set the ambush, but to remain undercover until the whipping with redhot wires had actually begun. His evidence must be actual, and Allison had some thought for the fate that the game little man, Charley Hawkins, had experienced.

In a way, the Federal Agent felt responsible for Hawkins' brutal murder because of a change in the Moon Riders' schedule. It would be the only tribute he could pay the little man who had tried to help, if he bore away a scar or two from the trap he had prepared.

The small cars jolted and jounced. The mountain road was rough and little used. None who were not Moon Riders ever traveled that road at night in these past weeks. Allison remained inert and concentrated on attempting to identify the voices of the four men in the car with him.

But the sacks they wore were muffling and their speech was in gutturals. The full moon splashed the road with lights and shadows. Suddenly the lead car was halted. A hooded figure got out and strode back along the line.

"This is the cleanup!" announced this man. "They've been getting together tonight down in the village! Maybe some of 'em will have the nerve to go up to the bowl! So, we'll take the left-hand turn at Bald Eagle Forks!"

THE cars were moving again before Allison had absorbed all of the meaning of that order. Something had happened. Some warning of possible interference had been given.

They were not taking him to the bowl in the mountains. The cars were swinging to the left into another crooked road which led away behind another hogback of the White Horse range.

Allison experienced an empty sensation that almost robbed him of his breath. He was unarmed, of course, and all of his clothing but his trousers and shoes had been stripped off. He had not been identified as other than the Syrian peddler, due to his foresight in having no credentials or badge on his person.

But this case of mistaken identity was poor consolation. It could not prevent the muscles around Allison's heart contracting, or stop the chill like ice sliding down his spine. Even if his captors could somehow be made to believe he was a Federal Agent, his fate would then be only more surely sealed.

The grim procession moved perhaps a mile along the strange road until it reached a beetling overhang of the rocky wall. There the cars swung into what looked like a gouged-out clearing, but which proved to be the entrance to a vaulted sandstone cave.

Allison maintained a semblance of half coma as he was pushed roughly to the floor. He knew there was an egg-like bulge at the back of his head. His neck remained limp and his arms dangled. He saw that the cave was not of great size and had but the single, arched entrance which narrowed to only a few feet.

The cars were parked outside. Allison's slitted gray eyes counted fourteen men, all armed with the close-range, deadly shotguns. He sagged to the floor and two hooded figures squatted beside him with their shotguns across their knees.

Ribald and profane comment accompanied the lighting of a fire. The Moon Riders were working by the light of smoking pine knots. The resinous fumes soon filled the upper part of the cave.

"Have to make it short an' sweet!" proclaimed a muffled voice. "The damn torches'll choke us in here!"

Allison was forced to exercise all his selfcontrol as the strips of wire with their wooden handles went into the fire. One Moon Rider, apparently the leader, walked over and kicked him sharply in the ribs.

"He won't feel much!" complained the man's muffled voice, as the Federal Agent held his breath tightly and remained limp against the grinding pain.

"But we'll mark him anyway, so others like him will know what to expect!"

Apparently a guard or two had been left outside. Allison had definitely fixed the man who had kicked him as the Moon Rider boss, when a man in a sack waddled into the cave. This man spoke.

"I ain't so sure we ain't been trailed! 'Peared like there was someone movin' in the rocks below the road, but it might've been only a damn porky! I went down there, but didn't find nothin'!"

Allison concentrated now upon the figure of the riders' boss, the man who had kicked him. The enveloping grain sack concealed the proportions of the man's body in the smoky cave. The torch fumes were becoming thicker.

TWO Moon Riders received a command and pulled Allison to his feet. They gripped him firmly by the wrists, supporting him and pushing him into position against a rock. Three men were pulling wire whips from the fire and these glowed with a dull red against the smoke in the cave.

The Federal Agent lifted his head slowly, mumbled, "Don't! Don't— you can't—"

He dropped his chin on his bared breast. Though his stomach was shrinking to his backbone, Allison fought his desire to twitch or talk, and compelled the two men to hold onto his wrists.

This made his position worse, as the three men with the glowing whips walked slowly in front of him. A man could take the biting agony of a redhot whip across his shoulders, but Allison could almost feel the searing wire slicing across the more sensitive muscles of his stomach. This was the only place he could be freely hit, and the first hooded figure was chuckling in his throat as he lifted the glowing strands of wire.

The whip was rising, when the riders' boss stepped forward and said, "Just a minute before you let him have it! I'll see if this heathen is as nearly out as he seems! Listen, you skunk! You know why you have to leave White Horse, don't you? You know who told you that you'd be carried out if you stayed around?"

Allison could not forget that Joel Romer had told him that. But he made no reply, showed no evidence of having heard. He thought of the men and guns hedging the torture bowl on the other side of the mountain. Of the Secret Service Men who would learn of his mistake too late, and who probably would find him like they had found Charley Hawkins.

Would he be minus a face, with his body blasted to shreds with the deadly shotguns?

The riders' boss stepped back, swore and said, "Maybe the whip may wake him up for a minute! I ain't altogether satisfied about this damned peddler!"

Allison's slitted eyes took in the clear mouth of the cave with the moonlight outside. Could it be possible some of his men had acted on a hunch, and the Moon Riders had been trailed?

He closed his eyes, for the red-hot whip was rising and Allison didn't want to see it coming. That one cut of the wire he must take. It was the only thing to do, to fit in with his desperate plan.

Yet, as the whip swished viciously and his eyes closed, he was sure he had seen a hooded guard outside the cave in the moonlight struck down by a flashing figure that had come up behind him.

Intense agony shot through Allison's body as the hot wire ripped and sliced across his stomach.

6: The Fighting Federal

IT was as if that flesh-searing wire had touched some galvanic spring in Allison's lean, hardmuscled body. He had counted on a relaxing of the hands gripping his wrists, holding his back against the rock, with the reaction from the first slash of the whip.

It came, and fingers loosened slightly on his arms. Allison let out a roaring scream, set his heels against the rocks and snapped his steel-strong body forward. One man holding him was jerked loose and the other was lifted from his feet.

Another whip sang across Allison's body, but a man feels less when he is in fighting motion. There were sudden cries in the smoky fumes, the shouted order of the riders' boss to "Blast him! He wasn't out! He—"

The boss rider abruptly doubled over a hard fist that seemed to be driven to the depths of the Federal Agent's wrist into his short-ribs. Allison had never let his gaze wander from the leader. He sent that ramrod blow to the man's body, because the folds of the sack around his head made it uncertain where knuckles might connect with his face.

The Undercover Agent knew shotguns were being centered upon him, but his catlike leap had carried him to the leader and among the three men with the wire whips. For the next few seconds he offered no target for blasting shot.

Three times Allison's hard fists drummed into the ribs of the rider's boss, slugging him to the floor of the cave. Twice the wires cut across Allison's back and the whips hissed venomously past his ears. One man was attempting to strike him across the eyes.

The wire came so close to his face that Allison fell. He saw the boss rider crawling slowly toward the mouth of the cave. A shotgun barrel was thrust at the Federal Agent's head, rasping along one ear.

Then it was that Allison put all of his trained strength into the seizing and twisting of the shotgun from the Moon Rider's shoulder. The gun exploded and powder stung Allison's face, but he rolled over with the shotgun in his possession. Other guns started booming in the smoky cave.

The Federal Agent was holding the weapon, and it was of the magazine fowling piece variety. He lay flat on his back close to the rocks and started pumping shells into the firing chamber, holding the trigger and exploding them as fast as the shotgun could be worked.

The three nearest men howled and fell, though Allison had been given no time to aim. Three or four men had been holding the smoking torches and this gave the Federal Agent his first real break, for the lights went to the floor and the smoke-filled cave would have been a dungeon except for the dull glow of the whip-heating fire.

The sacked men were at the disadvantage of having only a single target, while Allison had many. He thought he saw a second hooded figure getting out of the mouth of the cave, then he heard the single crack of a rifle outside and that Moon Rider lay writhing in the entrance.

A nearby gun blasted and the Federal Agent's left shoulder and arm went numb and useless. He could feel the welling of blood down to his wrist and scattered shot stung the muscles of his breast.

A Moon Rider shouted, "Get out! Get out! It's a trap outside!"

This man acted on his own words, but they were his last. Perhaps the rifle bullet was not aimed at him, for it whined wickedly off the rocks before it tore out one great vein in his throat.

ALLISON was given respite enough to crawl along the side of the cave. He secured the shotgun of a dead Moon Rider as he reached the narrow entrance and crouched behind a rock. Bedlam had broken loose inside the cave. Shotguns sent charges rocketing over the Federal Agent's body. He crawled backward, feet first, letting go a single shell when a Moon Rider showed.

Allison was dizzy and being weakened rapidly by the blood flowing from his shoulder. He first doubted if he could make it to one of the cars, then he knew he couldn't. He would have to hang on here as long as possible, and when he passed out that would be the finish.

If the sounds of the shooting carried to the other Federals around the mountain, they would be many minutes locating the cave and getting to it. His senses were fading and he could no longer distinguish the dull glow of the whip fire from the black shadows of the cave walls.

But as he knew consciousness was passing, he propped the shotgun over a rock, lay flat and pumped two shots with his right hand. Allison was not aware when he ceased to know or see anything, or if it had only been an illusion that he was unconscious.

For a husky voice was saying in his ear, "Are you all right? I've got the blood stopped. Please speak to me if you can."

The whole thing seemed a sort of a dream as a girl's pretty face floated near him in the moonlight, and it looked like the face of Audrey Romer, who had been left taped in her father's house.

"I'm all right, but what— "

Allison choked and couldn't finish, but the girl's cool hand touched his face and steadied him.

"How did you get here?" said Allison. "Then it was you— you with the rifle."

"Yes, it was me with the rifle," said the girl calmly. "I stopped two of them. Two others got away. My father— he was— "

"Get 'em up, everybody! Up high! And walk out of there before we turn the Tommies loose!"

That was the incisive voice of Secret Agent Carson, Allison knew. Carson, who had been in charge of the men setting the trap at the torture bowl. He hailed Carson and in half a minute the arriving Government Men ringed the entrance to the cave.

Five unwounded men and four others who were hurt, but alive, came from the cave.

Audrey Romer said to Allison, "I was looking for my father, and I saw them taking you away in a car. The villagers are on their way but I took a short cut across the mountain. I heard them say they were coming to the cave. I hoped to save you, because my father had threatened you."

Carson said to Allison, "Her father's that Joel Romer, isn't he? Well, the villagers are on the road below with the cars. Come here, Al, I want a word with you, if you can listen."

Allison was weak and sick, but feeling better. He got to his feet and said he was all right. Audrey Romer spoke with deadly calmness.

"I know what you're going to tell, and I know the man we thought was a peddler is one of you. They've caught my father with the others, and the villagers believe he was the leader of the Moon Riders. But you've got to save him, for it isn't true."

Allison's whip burns were an agony worse than the pain of the wound in his shoulder. Livid streaks showed across his upper torso where he had been stripped of clothing. But he found strength enough to keep on his feet.

"So, they've got Joel Romer, Carson? We don't stand for lynchings and I'm afraid the White Horse folks are a mad lot tonight. We'd better get down there."

7: The Lynch Mob

RINGED by torches in an open space on the road below the cave, nearly a hundred grim-faced mountaineers stood facing two Federal Men, Marshal Simpson and Deputy Sheriff Roden. In the forefront of the determined, small mob was Jonas Loney, the stoop-shouldered bookkeeper, with his thin lips righteously tight.

Big Joel Romer had a rope caught around his shoulders and the loop was of the kind that could be quickly tightened to the size of a man's neck. Romer's fat face was vacant, as if he had recently come out of a stupor, and he was shaking his head.

"Jonas proved it on Joel Romer before this happened," stated Marshal Simpson. "But I ain't for any lynchin' and you've got to think it over, men."

Jonas Loney's lips tightened.

"I got suspicious of him when I found he was hidin' a typewriter in the packin' boxes," said Jonas Loney grimly. "I showed the marshal, an' the typin' matched them threatenin' letters from the Moon Riders. Tarnation, if he didn't send one of 'em to himself, an' then had one of his Moon Riders pretend to try an' kill him with a rifle to make it look good for him!"

A guttural growl of menace went around the ring of villagers. They had seen several dead Moon Riders, and there were nine others now prisoners. The villagers were no longer suspicious of each other, for all of these Moon Riders they now recognized as men who had always been regarded as a bad lot.

"We're mighty thankful the Government Men stepped in," stated one of the Mountaineers. "But we don't 'low it'd be anything but a waste of good money to cart Joel Romer down to the valley an' have him hirin' high-priced lawyers to save his skin."

"That's right! We'll take care of it!" assented many voices.

Audrey Romer cried out and tried to reach her father. Mountaineers caught the girl's arms. Carson rapped out to Allison, "I'll stop 'em! The Tommies will— "

Allison trapped Carson's wrist with his good hand.

"Hold it, fellow!" he snapped. "They're mad and they mean business! There's been enough blood spilled!"

Joel Romer was staring at the man he had believed to be the Syrian peddler. Allison stepped in front of the big store man. A grain sack with holes cut for the arms and the eyes lay on the ground beside Romer.

"You fellows found Romer wearing this sack?" he said.

"That's right!" growled a villager. "He was climbin' out've one of the cars an' tryin' to get away after that shootin' up in the cave! We nailed him still wearin' the sack!"

Allison glanced at a swelling bruise over Joel Romer's ear. His own body showed the welts of the whips.

"SEEING it was me took the licking, I've got a right to speak," said the Federal Agent. "You've made a couple of mistakes, men. This sack you took off Joel Romer I got from the livery stable and cut for myself. You see, Romer and me had a little session just before I got knocked out."

"You was wearin' that sack?" said the village leader.

"Sure!" grinned Allison. "And before Joel Romer probably was bumped out the same as I was, I found out he couldn't have written those letters on the typewriter found by Jonas Loney! He can't use a typewriter, and I have one of the letters here! It hasn't even a wrong punctuation mark! Now who could use a typewriter that perfectly?"

Jonas Loney sneered and said, "I know Romer could use a machine, and he was just puttin' on like he couldn't!"

"That's a lie!" cried Audrey Romer. "I've done some typing for my father myself, because he could never learn!"

"What was that old typewriter doin' in the store hid among them boxes then?" snarled Jonas Loney.

Allison had stepped close to the stoopshouldered bookkeeper. His elbow suddenly punched into Jonas Loney's short-ribs. The man's snarl died and was replaced by a deep groan. Allison's good arm encircled him and squeezed.

An involuntary scream of agony came from Loney's lips.

"Take him, Carson!" snapped Allison, stepping suddenly to one side to swing his same good right fist in a crashing blow.

The knuckles had connected with the chin of the dark-eyed Deputy Sheriff Roden. The deputy went down and the amazed villagers saw the handcuffs of a Government Man snapping onto his wrists.

Jonas Loney was white-faced, groaning, but still protesting. The villagers were staring at Allison. He rubbed one hand over the red welts across his body.

"I think I managed to smash a couple of Jonas Loney's ribs before he deserted his Moon Riders and got out of the cave," stated Allison. "That will be evidence he'll have to bring to court himself. As for Roden, he was hooked up with Loney in an effort to put the Moon Riding blame upon Joel Romer. Jonas Loney had got Romer's business in such shape he could have taken over most of it. He framed with Deputy Roden for that poor rifle shooting, and the only box of .25-30 cartridges in White Horse are in Loney's desk at the store."

The Federal Men had quickly formed a tight ring about the accused men. Marshal Simpson and the village leader prevailed upon the others to let the law take its course.

Joel Romer said to Allison, a grim smile crossing his broad mouth:

"I never thought I'd be askin' a peddler, much less a black-skinned foreigner to my house, but I figure I've got the best place in White Horse for a busted-up man to recuperate. I'm apologizin' and sayin' my home is open as long as you want to stay."

Audrey Romer smiled from her father's arms.

"We'll see that even a peddler gets the best of care."

"I think," grinned Allison, "I can be a sick man for a long time."

__________________

4: The Terror of Blue John Gap

Arthur Conan Doyle

1859-1930

The Strand Magazine, Aug 1910

THE FOLLOWING narrative was found among the papers of Dr. James Hardcastle, who died of phthisis on February 4th, 1908, at 36, Upper Coventry Flats, South Kensington. Those who knew him best, while refusing to express an opinion upon this particular statement, are unanimous in asserting that he was a man of a sober and scientific turn of mind, absolutely devoid of imagination, and most unlikely to invent any abnormal series of events. The paper was contained in an envelope, which was docketed, "A Short Account of the Circumstances which occurred near Miss Allerton's Farm in North-West Derbyshire in the Spring of Last Year." The envelope was sealed, and on the other side was written in pencil—

DEAR SEATON,—

"It may interest, and perhaps pain you, to know that the incredulity with which you met my story has prevented me from ever opening my mouth upon the subject again. I leave this record after my death, and perhaps strangers may be found to have more confidence in me than my friend."

Inquiry has failed to elicit who this Seaton may have been. I may add that the visit of the deceased to Allerton's Farm, and the general nature of the alarm there, apart from his particular explanation, have been absolutely established. With this foreword I append his account exactly as he left it. It is in the form of a diary, some entries in which have been expanded, while a few have been erased.

April 17.— Already I feel the benefit of this wonderful upland air. The farm of the Allertons lies fourteen hundred and twenty feet above sea- level, so it may well be a bracing climate. Beyond the usual morning cough I have very little discomfort, and, what with the fresh milk and the home-grown mutton, I have every chance of putting on weight. I think Saunderson will be pleased.

The two Miss Allertons are charmingly quaint and kind, two dear little hard-working old maids, who are ready to lavish all the heart which might have gone out to husband and to children upon an invalid stranger. Truly, the old maid is a most useful person, one of the reserve forces of the community. They talk of the superfluous woman, but what would the poor superfluous man do without her kindly presence? By the way, in their simplicity they very quickly let out the reason why Saunderson recommended their farm. The Professor rose from the ranks himself, and I believe that in his youth he was not above scaring crows in these very fields.

It is a most lonely spot, and the walks are picturesque in the extreme. The farm consists of grazing land lying at the bottom of an irregular valley. On each side are the fantastic limestone hills, formed of rock so soft that you can break it away with your hands. All this country is hollow. Could you strike it with some gigantic hammer it would boom like a drum, or possibly cave in altogether and expose some huge subterranean sea. A great sea there must surely be, for on all sides the streams run into the mountain itself, never to reappear. There are gaps everywhere amid the rocks, and when you pass through them you find yourself in great caverns, which wind down into the bowels of the earth. I have a small bicycle lamp, and it is a perpetual joy to me to carry it into these weird solitudes, and to see the wonderful silver and black effect when I throw its light upon the stalactites which drape the lofty roofs. Shut off the lamp, and you are in the blackest darkness. Turn it on, and it is a scene from the Arabian Nights.

But there is one of these strange openings in the earth which has a special interest, for it is the handiwork, not of nature, but of man. I had never heard of Blue John when I came to these parts. It is the name given to a peculiar mineral of a beautiful purple shade, which is only found at one or two places in the world. It is so rare that an ordinary vase of Blue John would be valued at a great price. The Romans, with that extraordinary instinct of theirs, discovered that it was to be found in this valley, and sank a horizontal shaft deep into the mountain side. The opening of their mine has been called Blue John Gap, a clean-cut arch in the rock, the mouth all overgrown with bushes. It is a goodly passage which the Roman miners have cut, and it intersects some of the great water-worn caves, so that if you enter Blue John Gap you would do well to mark your steps and to have a good store of candles, or you may never make your way back to the daylight again. I have not yet gone deeply into it, but this very day I stood at the mouth of the arched tunnel, and peering down into the black recesses beyond, I vowed that when my health returned I would devote some holiday to exploring those mysterious depths and finding out for myself how far the Roman had penetrated into the Derbyshire hills.

Strange how superstitious these countrymen are! I should have thought better of young Armitage, for he is a man of some education and character, and a very fine fellow for his station in life. I was standing at the Blue John Gap when he came across the field to me.

"Well, doctor," said he, "you're not afraid, anyhow."

"Afraid!" I answered. "Afraid of what?"

"Of it," said he, with a jerk of his thumb towards the black vault, "of the Terror that lives in the Blue John Cave."

How absurdly easy it is for a legend to arise in a lonely countryside! I examined him as to the reasons for his weird belief. It seems that from time to time sheep have been missing from the fields, carried bodily away, according to Armitage. That they could have wandered away of their own accord and disappeared among the mountains was an explanation to which he would not listen. On one occasion a pool of blood had been found, and some tufts of wool. That also, I pointed out, could be explained in a perfectly natural way. Further, the nights upon which sheep disappeared were invariably very dark, cloudy nights with no moon. This I met with the obvious retort that those were the nights which a commonplace sheep-stealer would naturally choose for his work. On one occasion a gap had been made in a wall, and some of the stones scattered for a considerable distance. Human agency again, in my opinion. Finally, Armitage clinched all his arguments by telling me that he had actually heard the Creature— indeed, that anyone could hear it who remained long enough at the Gap. It was a distant roaring of an immense volume. I could not but smile at this, knowing, as I do, the strange reverberations which come out of an underground water system running amid the chasms of a limestone formation. My incredulity annoyed Armitage, so that he turned and left me with some abruptness.

And now comes the queer point about the whole business. I was still standing near the mouth of the cave turning over in my mind the various statements of Armitage, and reflecting how readily they could be explained away, when suddenly, from the depth of the tunnel beside me, there issued a most extraordinary sound. How shall I describe it? First of all it seemed to be a great distance away, far down in the bowels of the earth. Secondly, in spite of this suggestion of distance, it was very loud. Lastly, it was not a boom, nor a crash, such as one would associate with falling water or tumbling rock, but it was a high whine, tremulous and vibrating, almost like the whinnying of a horse. It was certainly a most remarkable experience, and one which for a moment, I must admit, gave a new significance to Armitage's words. I waited by the Blue John Gap for half an hour or more, but there was no return of the sound, so at last I wandered back to the farmhouse, rather mystified by what had occurred. Decidedly I shall explore that cavern when my strength is restored. Of course, Armitage's explanation is too absurd for discussion, and yet that sound was certainly very strange. It still rings in my ears as I write.

April 20.— In the last three days I have made several expeditions to the Blue John Gap, and have even penetrated some short distance, but my bicycle lantern is so small and weak that I dare not trust myself very far. I shall do the thing more systematically. I have heard no sound at all, and could almost believe that I had been the victim of some hallucination, suggested, perhaps, by Armitage's conversation. Of course, the whole idea is absurd, and yet I must confess that those bushes at the entrance of the cave do present an appearance as if some heavy creature had forced its way through them. I begin to be keenly interested. I have said nothing to the Miss Allertons, for they are quite superstitious enough already, but I have bought some candles, and mean to investigate for myself.

I observed this morning that among the numerous tufts of sheep's wool which lay among the bushes near the cavern there was one which was smeared with blood. Of course, my reason tells me that if sheep wander into such rocky places they are likely to injure themselves, and yet somehow that splash of crimson gave me a sudden shock, and for a moment I found myself shrinking back in horror from the old Roman arch. A fetid breath seemed to ooze from the black depths into which I peered. Could it indeed be possible that some nameless thing, some dreadful presence, was lurking down yonder? I should have been incapable of such feelings in the days of my strength, but one grows more nervous and fanciful when one's health is shaken.

For the moment I weakened in my resolution, and was ready to leave the secret of the old mine, if one exists, for ever unsolved. But tonight my interest has returned and my nerves grown more steady. Tomorrow I trust that I shall have gone more deeply into this matter.

April 22.— Let me try and set down as accurately as I can my extraordinary experience of yesterday. I started in the afternoon, and made my way to the Blue John Gap. I confess that my misgivings returned as I gazed into its depths, and I wished that I had brought a companion to share my exploration. Finally, with a return of resolution, I lit my candle, pushed my way through the briars, and descended into the rocky shaft.

It went down at an acute angle for some fifty feet, the floor being covered with broken stone. Thence there extended a long, straight passage cut in the solid rock. I am no geologist, but the lining of this corridor was certainly of some harder material than limestone, for there were points where I could actually see the tool-marks which the old miners had left in their excavation, as fresh as if they had been done yesterday. Down this strange, old-world corridor I stumbled, my feeble flame throwing a dim circle of light around me, which made the shadows beyond the more threatening and obscure. Finally, I came to a spot where the Roman tunnel opened into a water-worn cavern— a huge hall, hung with long white icicles of lime deposit. From this central chamber I could dimly perceive that a number of passages worn by the subterranean streams wound away into the depths of the earth. I was standing there wondering whether I had better return, or whether I dare venture farther into this dangerous labyrinth, when my eyes fell upon something at my feet which strongly arrested my attention.

The greater part of the floor of the cavern was covered with boulders of rock or with hard incrustations of lime, but at this particular point there had been a drip from the distant roof, which had left a patch of soft mud. In the very centre of this there was a huge mark— an ill-defined blotch, deep, broad and irregular, as if a great boulder had fallen upon it. No loose stone lay near, however, nor was there anything to account for the impression. It was far too large to be caused by any possible animal, and besides, there was only the one, and the patch of mud was of such a size that no reasonable stride could have covered it. As I rose from the examination of that singular mark and then looked round into the black shadows which hemmed me in, I must confess that I felt for a moment a most unpleasant sinking of my heart, and that, do what I could, the candle trembled in my outstretched hand.

I soon recovered my nerve, however, when I reflected how absurd it was to associate so huge and shapeless a mark with the track of any known animal. Even an elephant could not have produced it. I determined, therefore, that I would not be scared by vague and senseless fears from carrying out my exploration. Before proceeding, I took good note of a curious rock formation in the wall by which I could recognize the entrance of the Roman tunnel. The precaution was very necessary, for the great cave, so far as I could see it, was intersected by passages. Having made sure of my position, and reassured myself by examining my spare candles and my matches, I advanced slowly over the rocky and uneven surface of the cavern.

And now I come to the point where I met with such sudden and desperate disaster. A stream, some twenty feet broad, ran across my path, and I walked for some little distance along the bank to find a spot where I could cross dry-shod. Finally, I came to a place where a single flat boulder lay near the centre, which I could reach in a stride. As it chanced, however, the rock had been cut away and made top-heavy by the rush of the stream, so that it tilted over as I landed on it and shot me into the ice-cold water. My candle went out, and I found myself floundering about in utter and absolute darkness.

I staggered to my feet again, more amused than alarmed by my adventure. The candle had fallen from my hand, and was lost in the stream, but I had two others in my pocket, so that it was of no importance. I got one of them ready, and drew out my box of matches to light it. Only then did I realize my position. The box had been soaked in my fall into the river. It was impossible to strike the matches.

A cold hand seemed to close round my heart as I realized my position. The darkness was opaque and horrible. It was so utter that one put one's hand up to one's face as if to press off something solid. I stood still, and by an effort I steadied myself. I tried to reconstruct in my mind a map of the floor of the cavern as I had last seen it. Alas! the bearings which had impressed themselves upon my mind were high on the wall, and not to be found by touch. Still, I remembered in a general way how the sides were situated, and I hoped that by groping my way along them I should at last come to the opening of the Roman tunnel. Moving very slowly, and continually striking against the rocks, I set out on this desperate quest.

But I very soon realized how impossible it was. In that black, velvety darkness one lost all one's bearings in an instant. Before I had made a dozen paces, I was utterly bewildered as to my whereabouts. The rippling of the stream, which was the one sound audible, showed me where it lay, but the moment that I left its bank I was utterly lost. The idea of finding my way back in absolute darkness through that limestone labyrinth was clearly an impossible one.

I sat down upon a boulder and reflected upon my unfortunate plight. I had not told anyone that I proposed to come to the Blue John mine, and it was unlikely that a search party would come after me. Therefore I must trust to my own resources to get clear of the danger. There was only one hope, and that was that the matches might dry. When I fell into the river, only half of me had got thoroughly wet. My left shoulder had remained above the water. I took the box of matches, therefore, and put it into my left armpit. The moist air of the cavern might possibly be counteracted by the heat of my body, but even so, I knew that I could not hope to get a light for many hours. Meanwhile there was nothing for it but to wait.

By good luck I had slipped several biscuits into my pocket before I left the farm-house. These I now devoured, and washed them down with a draught from that wretched stream which had been the cause of all my misfortunes. Then I felt about for a comfortable seat among the rocks, and, having discovered a place where I could get a support for my back, I stretched out my legs and settled myself down to wait. I was wretchedly damp and cold, but I tried to cheer myself with the reflection that modern science prescribed open windows and walks in all weather for my disease. Gradually, lulled by the monotonous gurgle of the stream, and by the absolute darkness, I sank into an uneasy slumber.

How long this lasted I cannot say. It may have been for an hour, it may have been for several. Suddenly I sat up on my rock couch, with every nerve thrilling and every sense acutely on the alert. Beyond all doubt I had heard a sound— some sound very distinct from the gurgling of the waters. It had passed, but the reverberation of it still lingered in my ear. Was it a search party? They would most certainly have shouted, and vague as this sound was which had wakened me, it was very distinct from the human voice. I sat palpitating and hardly daring to breathe. There it was again! And again! Now it had become continuous. It was a tread— yes, surely it was the tread of some living creature. But what a tread it was! It gave one the impression of enormous weight carried upon sponge-like feet, which gave forth a muffled but ear-filling sound. The darkness was as complete as ever, but the tread was regular and decisive. And it was coming beyond all question in my direction.

My skin grew cold, and my hair stood on end as I listened to that steady and ponderous footfall. There was some creature there, and surely by the speed of its advance, it was one which could see in the dark. I crouched low on my rock and tried to blend myself into it. The steps grew nearer still, then stopped, and presently I was aware of a loud lapping and gurgling. The creature was drinking at the stream. Then again there was silence, broken by a succession of long sniffs and snorts of tremendous volume and energy. Had it caught the scent of me? My own nostrils were filled by a low fetid odour, mephitic and abominable. Then I heard the steps again. They were on my side of the stream now. The stones rattled within a few yards of where I lay. Hardly daring to breathe, I crouched upon my rock. Then the steps drew away. I heard the splash as it returned across the river, and the sound died away into the distance in the direction from which it had come.

For a long time I lay upon the rock, too much horrified to move. I thought of the sound which I had heard coming from the depths of the cave, of Armitage's fears, of the strange impression in the mud, and now came this final and absolute proof that there was indeed some inconceivable monster, something utterly unearthly and dreadful, which lurked in the hollow of the mountain. Of its nature or form I could frame no conception, save that it was both light-footed and gigantic. The combat between my reason, which told me that such things could not be, and my senses, which told me that they were, raged within me as I lay. Finally, I was almost ready to persuade myself that this experience had been part of some evil dream, and that my abnormal condition might have conjured up an hallucination. But there remained one final experience which removed the last possibility of doubt from my mind.

I had taken my matches from my armpit and felt them. They seemed perfectly hard and dry. Stooping down into a crevice of the rocks, I tried one of them. To my delight it took fire at once. I lit the candle, and, with a terrified backward glance into the obscure depths of the cavern, I hurried in the direction of the Roman passage. As I did so I passed the patch of mud on which I had seen the huge imprint. Now I stood astonished before it, for there were three similar imprints upon its surface, enormous in size, irregular in outline, of a depth which indicated the ponderous weight which had left them. Then a great terror surged over me. Stooping and shading my candle with my hand, I ran in a frenzy of fear to the rocky archway, hastened up it, and never stopped until, with weary feet and panting lungs, I rushed up the final slope of stones, broke through the tangle of briars, and flung myself exhausted upon the soft grass under the peaceful light of the stars. It was three in the morning when I reached the farm-house, and today I am all unstrung and quivering after my terrific adventure. As yet I have told no one. I must move warily in the matter. What would the poor lonely women, or the uneducated yokels here think of it if I were to tell them my experience? Let me go to someone who can understand and advise.

April 25.— I was laid up in bed for two days after my incredible adventure in the cavern. I use the adjective with a very definite meaning, for I have had an experience since which has shocked me almost as much as the other. I have said that I was looking round for someone who could advise me. There is a Dr. Mark Johnson who practices some few miles away, to whom I had a note of recommendation from Professor Saunderson. To him I drove, when I was strong enough to get about, and I recounted to him my whole strange experience. He listened intently, and then carefully examined me, paying special attention to my reflexes and to the pupils of my eyes. When he had finished, he refused to discuss my adventure, saying that it was entirely beyond him, but he gave me the card of a Mr. Picton at Castleton, with the advice that I should instantly go to him and tell him the story exactly as I had done to himself. He was, according to my adviser, the very man who was pre-eminently suited to help me. I went on to the station, therefore, and made my way to the little town, which is some ten miles away. Mr. Picton appeared to be a man of importance, as his brass plate was displayed upon the door of a considerable building on the outskirts of the town. I was about to ring his bell, when some misgiving came into my mind, and, crossing to a neighbouring shop, I asked the man behind the counter if he could tell me anything of Mr. Picton. "Why," said he, "he is the best mad doctor in Derbyshire, and yonder is his asylum." You can imagine that it was not long before I had shaken the dust of Castleton from my feet and returned to the farm, cursing all unimaginative pedants who cannot conceive that there may be things in creation which have never yet chanced to come across their mole's vision. After all, now that I am cooler, I can afford to admit that I have been no more sympathetic to Armitage than Dr. Johnson has been to me.

April 27. When I was a student I had the reputation of being a man of courage and enterprise. I remember that when there was a ghost-hunt at Coltbridge it was I who sat up in the haunted house. Is it advancing years (after all, I am only thirty-five), or is it this physical malady which has caused degeneration? Certainly my heart quails when I think of that horrible cavern in the hill, and the certainty that it has some monstrous occupant. What shall I do? There is not an hour in the day that I do not debate the question. If I say nothing, then the mystery remains unsolved. If I do say anything, then I have the alternative of mad alarm over the whole countryside, or of absolute incredulity which may end in consigning me to an asylum. On the whole, I think that my best course is to wait, and to prepare for some expedition which shall be more deliberate and better thought out than the last. As a first step I have been to Castleton and obtained a few essentials— a large acetylene lantern for one thing, and a good double-barrelled sporting rifle for another. The latter I have hired, but I have bought a dozen heavy game cartridges, which would bring down a rhinoceros. Now I am ready for my troglodyte friend. Give me better health and a little spate of energy, and I shall try conclusions with him yet. But who and what is he? Ah! there is the question which stands between me and my sleep. How many theories do I form, only to discard each in turn! It is all so utterly unthinkable. And yet the cry, the footmark, the tread in the cavern— no reasoning can get past these. I think of the old-world legends of dragons and of other monsters. Were they, perhaps, not such fairy- tales as we have thought? Can it be that there is some fact which underlies them, and am I, of all mortals, the one who is chosen to expose it?

May 3.— For several days I have been laid up by the vagaries of an English spring, and during those days there have been developments, the true and sinister meaning of which no one can appreciate save myself. I may say that we have had cloudy and moonless nights of late, which according to my information were the seasons upon which sheep disappeared. Well, sheep have disappeared. Two of Miss Allerton's, one of old Pearson's of the Cat Walk, and one of Mrs. Moulton's. Four in all during three nights. No trace is left of them at all, and the countryside is buzzing with rumours of gipsies and of sheep-stealers.

But there is something more serious than that. Young Armitage has disappeared also. He left his moorland cottage early on Wednesday night and has never been heard of since. He was an unattached man, so there is less sensation than would otherwise be the case. The popular explanation is that he owes money, and has found a situation in some other part of the country, whence he will presently write for his belongings. But I have grave misgivings. Is it not much more likely that the recent tragedy of the sheep has caused him to take some steps which may have ended in his own destruction? He may, for example, have lain in wait for the creature and been carried off by it into the recesses of the mountains. What an inconceivable fate for a civilized Englishman of the twentieth century! And yet I feel that it is possible and even probable. But in that case, how far am I answerable both for his death and for any other mishap which may occur? Surely with the knowledge I already possess it must be my duty to see that something is done, or if necessary to do it myself. It must be the latter, for this morning I went down to the local police-station and told my story. The inspector entered it all in a large book and bowed me out with commendable gravity, but I heard a burst of laughter before I had got down his garden path. No doubt he was recounting my adventure to his family.

June 10.— I am writing this, propped up in bed, six weeks after my last entry in this journal. I have gone through a terrible shock both to mind and body, arising from such an experience as has seldom befallen a human being before. But I have attained my end. The danger from the Terror which dwells in the Blue John Gap has passed never to return. Thus much at least I, a broken invalid, have done for the common good. Let me now recount what occurred as clearly as I may.

The night of Friday, May 3rd, was dark and cloudy— the very night for the monster to walk. About eleven o'clock I went from the farm-house with my lantern and my rifle, having first left a note upon the table of my bedroom in which I said that, if I were missing, search should be made for me in the direction of the Gap. I made my way to the mouth of the Roman shaft, and, having perched myself among the rocks close to the opening, I shut off my lantern and waited patiently with my loaded rifle ready to my hand.

It was a melancholy vigil. All down the winding valley I could see the scattered lights of the farm-houses, and the church clock of Chapel-le-Dale tolling the hours came faintly to my ears. These tokens of my fellow-men served only to make my own position seem the more lonely, and to call for a greater effort to overcome the terror which tempted me continually to get back to the farm, and abandon for ever this dangerous quest. And yet there lies deep in every man a rooted self-respect which makes it hard for him to turn back from that which he has once undertaken. This feeling of personal pride was my salvation now, and it was that alone which held me fast when every instinct of my nature was dragging me away. I am glad now that I had the strength. In spite of all that is has cost me, my manhood is at least above reproach.

Twelve o'clock struck in the distant church, then one, then two. It was the darkest hour of the night. The clouds were drifting low, and there was not a star in the sky. An owl was hooting somewhere among the rocks, but no other sound, save the gentle sough of the wind, came to my ears. And then suddenly I heard it! From far away down the tunnel came those muffled steps, so soft and yet so ponderous. I heard also the rattle of stones as they gave way under that giant tread. They drew nearer. They were close upon me. I heard the crashing of the bushes round the entrance, and then dimly through the darkness I was conscious of the loom of some enormous shape, some monstrous inchoate creature, passing swiftly and very silently out from the tunnel. I was paralysed with fear and amazement. Long as I had waited, now that it had actually come I was unprepared for the shock. I lay motionless and breathless, whilst the great dark mass whisked by me and was swallowed up in the night.

But now I nerved myself for its return. No sound came from the sleeping countryside to tell of the horror which was loose. In no way could I judge how far off it was, what it was doing, or when it might be back. But not a second time should my nerve fail me, not a second time should it pass unchallenged. I swore it between my clenched teeth as I laid my cocked rifle across the rock.

And yet it nearly happened. There was no warning of approach now as the creature passed over the grass. Suddenly, like a dark, drifting shadow, the huge bulk loomed up once more before me, making for the entrance of the cave. Again came that paralysis of volition which held my crooked forefinger impotent upon the trigger. But with a desperate effort I shook it off. Even as the brushwood rustled, and the monstrous beast blended with the shadow of the Gap, I fired at the retreating form. In the blaze of the gun I caught a glimpse of a great shaggy mass, something with rough and bristling hair of a withered grey colour, fading away to white in its lower parts, the huge body supported upon short, thick, curving legs. I had just that glance, and then I heard the rattle of the stones as the creature tore down into its burrow. In an instant, with a triumphant revulsion of feeling, I had cast my fears to the wind, and uncovering my powerful lantern, with my rifle in my hand, I sprang down from my rock and rushed after the monster down the old Roman shaft.

My splendid lamp cast a brilliant flood of vivid light in front of me, very different from the yellow glimmer which had aided me down the same passage only twelve days before. As I ran, I saw the great beast lurching along before me, its huge bulk filling up the whole space from wall to wall. Its hair looked like coarse faded oakum, and hung down in long, dense masses which swayed as it moved. It was like an enormous unclipped sheep in its fleece, but in size it was far larger than the largest elephant, and its breadth seemed to be nearly as great as its height. It fills me with amazement now to think that I should have dared to follow such a horror into the bowels of the earth, but when one's blood is up, and when one's quarry seems to be flying, the old primeval hunting-spirit awakes and prudence is cast to the wind. Rifle in hand, I ran at the top of my speed upon the trail of the monster.

I had seen that the creature was swift. Now I was to find out to my cost that it was also very cunning. I had imagined that it was in panic flight, and that I had only to pursue it. The idea that it might turn upon me never entered my excited brain. I have already explained that the passage down which I was racing opened into a great central cave. Into this I rushed, fearful lest I should lose all trace of the beast. But he had turned upon his own traces, and in a moment we were face to face.

That picture, seen in the brilliant white light of the lantern, is etched for ever upon my brain. He had reared up on his hind legs as a bear would do, and stood above me, enormous, menacing— such a creature as no nightmare had ever brought to my imagination. I have said that he reared like a bear, and there was something bear-like— if one could conceive a bear which was ten-fold the bulk of any bear seen upon earth— in his whole pose and attitude, in his great crooked forelegs with their ivory-white claws, in his rugged skin, and in his red, gaping mouth, fringed with monstrous fangs. Only in one point did he differ from the bear, or from any other creature which walks the earth, and even at that supreme moment a shudder of horror passed over me as I observed that the eyes which glistened in the glow of my lantern were huge, projecting bulbs, white and sightless. For a moment his great paws swung over my head. The next he fell forward upon me, I and my broken lantern crashed to the earth, and I remember no more.

When I came to myself I was back in the farm-house of the Allertons. Two days had passed since my terrible adventure in the Blue John Gap. It seems that I had lain all night in the cave insensible from concussion of the brain, with my left arm and two ribs badly fractured. In the morning my note had been found, a search party of a dozen farmers assembled, and I had been tracked down and carried back to my bedroom, where I had lain in high delirium ever since. There was, it seems, no sign of the creature, and no bloodstain which would show that my bullet had found him as he passed. Save for my own plight and the marks upon the mud, there was nothing to prove that what I said was true.

Six weeks have now elapsed, and I am able to sit out once more in the sunshine. Just opposite me is the steep hillside, grey with shaly rock, and yonder on its flank is the dark cleft which marks the opening of the Blue John Gap. But it is no longer a source of terror. Never again through that ill-omened tunnel shall any strange shape flit out into the world of men. The educated and the scientific, the Dr. Johnsons and the like, may smile at my narrative, but the poorer folk of the countryside had never a doubt as to its truth. On the day after my recovering consciousness they assembled in their hundreds round the Blue John Gap. As the Castleton Courier said:

"It was useless for our correspondent, or for any of the adventurous gentlemen who had come from Matlock, Buxton, and other parts, to offer to descend, to explore the cave to the end, and to finally test the extraordinary narrative of Dr. James Hardcastle. The country people had taken the matter into their own hands, and from an early hour of the morning they had worked hard in stopping up the entrance of the tunnel. There is a sharp slope where the shaft begins, and great boulders, rolled along by many willing hands, were thrust down it until the Gap was absolutely sealed. So ends the episode which has caused such excitement throughout the country. Local opinion is fiercely divided upon the subject. On the one hand are those who point to Dr. Hardcastle's impaired health, and to the possibility of cerebral lesions of tubercular origin giving rise to strange hallucinations. Some idée fixe, according to these gentlemen, caused the doctor to wander down the tunnel, and a fall among the rocks was sufficient to account for his injuries. On the other hand, a legend of a strange creature in the Gap has existed for some months back, and the farmers look upon Dr. Hardcastle's narrative and his personal injuries as a final corroboration. So the matter stands, and so the matter will continue to stand, for no definite solution seems to us to be now possible. It transcends human wit to give any scientific explanation which could cover the alleged facts."

Perhaps before the Courier published these words they would have been wise to send their representative to me. I have thought the matter out, as no one else has occasion to do, and it is possible that I might have removed some of the more obvious difficulties of the narrative and brought it one degree nearer to scientific acceptance. Let me then write down the only explanation which seems to me to elucidate what I know to my cost to have been a series of facts. My theory may seem to be wildly improbable, but at least no one can venture to say that it is impossible.

My view is— and it was formed, as is shown by my diary, before my personal adventure— that in this part of England there is a vast subterranean lake or sea, which is fed by the great number of streams which pass down through the limestone. Where there is a large collection of water there must also be some evaporation, mists or rain, and a possibility of vegetation. This in turn suggests that there may be animal life, arising, as the vegetable life would also do, from those seeds and types which had been introduced at an early period of the world's history, when communication with the outer air was more easy. This place had then developed a fauna and flora of its own, including such monsters as the one which I had seen, which may well have been the old cave-bear, enormously enlarged and modified by its new environment. For countless aeons the internal and the external creation had kept apart, growing steadily away from each other. Then there had come some rift in the depths of the mountain which had enabled one creature to wander up and, by means of the Roman tunnel, to reach the open air. Like all subterranean life, it had lost the power of sight, but this had no doubt been compensated for by nature in other directions. Certainly it had some means of finding its way about, and of hunting down the sheep upon the hillside. As to its choice of dark nights, it is part of my theory that light was painful to those great white eyeballs, and that it was only a pitch-black world which it could tolerate. Perhaps, indeed, it was the glare of my lantern which saved my life at that awful moment when we were face to face. So I read the riddle. I leave these facts behind me, and if you can explain them, do so; or if you choose to doubt them, do so. Neither your belief nor your incredulity can alter them, nor affect one whose task is nearly over.

SO ended the strange narrative of Dr. James Hardcastle.

________________

5: The Cruise of the "Idlewild"

Theodore Dreiser

1871-1945

Free and Other Stories, 1918

This a revised version of a story of the same name which appeared in The Bohemian, Oct 1909.

IT WOULD BE difficult to say just how the trouble aboard the Idlewild began, or how we managed to sail without things going to smash every fifteen minutes; but these same constitute the business of this narrative. It was at Spike, and the weather was blistering hot. Some of us, one in particular, were mortal tired of the life we were leading. It was a dingy old shop inside, loaded with machines and blacksmithing apparatus and all the paraphernalia that go to make up the little depots and furniture that railways use, and the labor of making them was intrusted to about a hundred men all told— carpenters, millwrights, woodturners, tinsmiths, painters, blacksmiths, an engineer, and a yard foreman handling a score of "guineas," all of whom were too dull to interest the three or four wits who congregated in the engine room.

Old John, the engineer, was one of these— a big, roly-poly sort of fellow, five foot eleven, if he was an inch, with layers of flesh showing through his thin shirt and tight trousers, and his face and neck constantly standing in beads of sweat. Then there was the smith, a small, wiry man of thirty-five, with arms like a Titan and a face that was expressive of a goodly humor, whether it was very brilliant or not— the village smith, as we used to call him. Then there was Ike, little Ike, the blacksmith's helper, who was about as queer a little cabin boy as ever did service on an ocean-going steamer or in a blacksmith's shop— a small misshapen, dirty-faced lad, whose coat was three, and his trousers four, times too large for him— hand-me-downs from some mysterious source; immensely larger members of his family, I presume. He had a battered face, such as you sometimes see given to satyrs humorously represented in bronze, and his ears were excessively large. He had a big mouthful of dirty yellow teeth, two or three missing in front. His eyes were small and his hands large, but a sweeter soul never crept into a smaller or more misshapen body. Poor little Ike. To think how near he came to being driven from his job by our tomfoolishness!

I should say here that the Idlewild was not a boat at all, but an idea. She evolved out of our position on Long's Point, where the Harlem joins the Hudson, and where stood the shop in which we all worked, water to the south of us, water to the west of us, water to the north of us, and the railroad behind us landward, just like the four— or was it the six? hundred— at Balaklava. Anyhow, we got our idea from the shop and the water all around, and we said, after much chaffering about one thing and another, that we were aboard the Idlewild, and that the men were the crew, and that the engineer was the captain, and I was the mate, just as if everything were ship-shape, and this were a really and truly ocean-going vessel.

As I have said before. I do not know exactly how the idea started, except that it did. Old John was always admiring the beautiful yachts that passed up and down the roadstead of the Hudson outside, and this may have had something to do with it. Anyhow, he would stand in the doorway of his engine room and watch everything in the shape of a craft that went up and down the stream. He didn't know much about boats, but he loved to comment on their charms, just the same.

"That there now must be Morgan's yacht," he used to say of a fine black-bodied craft that had a piano-body finish to it, and "That there's the Waterfowl, Governor Morton's yacht. Wouldn' ja think, now, them fellers'd feel comfortable a-settin' back there on the poop deck an' smokin' them dollar cigars on a day like this? Aw, haw!"

It would usually be blistering hot and the water a flashing blue when he became excited over the yacht question.

"Right-o," I once commented enviously.

"Aw, haw! Them's the boys as knows how to live. I wouldn' like nothin' better on a day like this than to set out there in one o' them easy chairs an' do up about a pound o' tobacco. Come now, wouldn't that be the ideal life for your Uncle Dudley?"

"It truly would," I replied sadly but with an inherent desire to tease, "only I don't think my Uncle Dudley is doing so very badly under the circumstances. I notice he isn't losing any flesh."

"Well, I dunno. I'm a little stout, I'll admit. Still, them conditions would be more congenial-like. I ain't as active as I used to be. A nice yacht an' some good old fifty-cent cigars an' a cool breeze'd just about do for me."

"You're too modest, John. You want too little. You ought to ask for something more suited to your Lucullian instincts. What do you say to a house in Fifth Avenue, a country place at Newport, and the friendship of a few dukes and earls?"

"Well, I'm not backward," he replied. "If them things was to come my way I guess I could live up to 'em. Aw, haw!"

"Truly, truly, John, you're quite right, but you might throw in a few shovelfuls of shavings just to show that there are no hard feelings between you and the company while you're waiting for all this. I notice your steam is getting low, eh? What?"

"Hang the steam! If the road was decent they'd give a man coal to burn. It takes a hundred tons of shavin's a day to keep this blinged old cormorant goin'. Think of me havin' to stand here all day an' shovelin' in shavin's! Seems to me all I do here is shovel. I'm an engineer, not a fireman. They ought to gimme a man for that, by rights."

"Quite so! Quite so! We'll see about that later— only, for the present, the shavings for yours. Back to the shovel, John!" The tone was heavily bantering.

"Well, the steam was gettin' a little low," John would cheerfully acknowledge, once he was able to resume his position in the doorway. It was these painful interruptions which piqued him so.

Out of such chaffering and bickering as this it was that the spirit of the Idlewild finally took its rise. It came up from the sea of thought, I presume.

"What's the matter with us having a boat of our own, John?" I said to him one day. "Here we are, out here on the bounding main, or mighty near it. This is as good as any craft, this old shop. Ease the thing around and hoist the Jolly Roger, and I'll sail you up to White Plains. What's the matter with calling her the Idlewild? The men will furnish the idle, and the bosses will furnish the wild, eh? How's that for an appropriate title?"

"Haw! Haw!" exclaimed stout John. "Bully! We'll fix 'er up to-day. You be the captain an' I'll be the mate an'— "

"Far be it from me, John," I replied humbly and generously, seeing that he had the one point of vantage in this whole institution which would serve admirably as a captain's cabin— with his consent, of course. It was more or less like a captain's cabin on a tug-boat, at that, picturesque and with a sea view, as it were. "You be the captain and I'll be the mate. Far be it from me to infringe on a good old sea dog's rights. You're the captain, all right, and this is a plenty good enough cabin. I'm content to be mate. Open up steam, Cap, and we'll run the boat up and down the yard a few times. Look out the window and see how she blows. It's ho! for a life on the bounding main, and a jolly old crew are we!"

"Right-o, my hearty!" he now agreed, slapping me on the back at the same time that he reached for the steamcock and let off a few preliminary blasts of steam— by way of showing that we were moving, as it were. The idea that we were aboard a real yacht and about to cruise forth actually seized upon my fancy in a most erratic and delightsome way. It did on John's, too. Plainly we needed some such idyllic dream. Outside was the blue water of the river. Far up and down were many craft sailing like ourselves, I said.

Inside of fifteen minutes we had appointed the smith, bos'n, and little Ike, the smith's helper, the bos'n's mate. And we had said that the carpenters and turners and millwrights were the crew and that the "guineas" were the scullions. Mentally, we turned the engineroom into the captain's cabin, and here now was nothing but "Heave ho-s" and "How does she blow thar, Bill-s?" and "Shiver my timbers-s" and "Blast my top-lights-s" for days to come. We "heaved ho" at seven o'clock in the morning when the engine started, "lay to and dropped anchor" at noon when the engine stopped, "hoisted and set sail" again at one, for heaven knows what port, and "sighted Spike" and "put hard to port" at six. Sometimes during the day when it was hot and we were very tired we took ideal runs to Coney and Manhattan Beach and Newport, where the best of breezes are, in imagination, anyhow, and we found it equally easy to sail to all points of the compass in all sorts of weather. Many was the time we visited Paris and London and Rome and Constantinople, all in the same hour, regardless, and our calls upon the nobility of these places were always a matter of light comment. At night we always managed to promptly haul up at Spike, which was another subject of constant congratulation between the captain and the mate. For if we had missed our trains and gotten home late!—  Regardless of the fact that we were seafaring men, we wanted our day to end promptly, I noticed.

During the days which followed we elaborated our idea, and the Idlewild became more of a reality than is to be easily understood by those who have not indulged in a similar fancy. We looked upon the shop as a trusty ship with a wheel at the stern, where the millwright, an Irishman by the name of Cullen, ran the giant plane, and an anchor at the prow, where the engine-room was. And there was a light in the captain's eye at times which, to me at least, betokened a real belief. It is so easy to enter upon a fancy, especially when it is pleasing. He would stand in the doorway of his small, hot engine-room, or lean out of the window which commanded the beautiful sweep of water so close to our door, and at times I verily believe he thought we were under way, so great is the power of self-hypnotism. The river was so blue and smooth these summer days, the passing boats so numerous. We could see the waters race to and fro as the tides changed. It was such a relief from the dull wearisome grind of shoveling in shavings and carrying out ashes or loading cars, as I was occasionally compelled to do— for my health, in my own case, I should explain. I am sure that, as an ordinary fifteen-cent-an-hour-shaving-carrier, I valued my title of mate as much as I ever valued anything, and the smith, "the village smith," was smilingly proud to be hailed as "Bos'n." Little Ike being of an order of mind that fancied the world ended somewhere abruptly in the Rocky Mountains, and that you really could shoot buffaloes after you left Buffalo, New York, did not grasp the meaning of it all at once, but at last it dawned upon him. When he got the idea that we really considered this a ship and that he was the bos'n's mate with the privilege of lowering the boats in case of a wreck or other disaster, he was beside himself.

"Hully chee!" he exclaimed, "me a bos'n's mate! Dat's de real t'ing, ain't it! Heave ho, dere!" And he fell back on the captain's locker and kicked his heels in the air.

"You want to remember, though, Ike," I said, once in an evil moment— what small things regulate the good and evil fortunes of all things!— "that this is the captain's cabin and bos'n's mates are not much shucks on a vessel such as the Idlewild. If you want to retain your position you want to be respectful, and above all, obedient. For instance, if the captain should choose to have you act as stoker for a few minutes now and then, it would be your place to rejoice at the request. You get that, do you?"

"Not on yer life," replied Ike irritably, who understood well enough that this meant more work.

"That's right, though," chimed in big John, pleased beyond measure at this latest development. "I'm captain here now, an' you don't want to forget that. No back lip from any bos'n's mate. What the mate says goes. The shovel for yours, bos'n, on orders from the captain. Now jist to show that the boat's in runnin' order you can chuck in a few shovelfuls right now."

"Na! I will not!"

"Come, Ike," I said, "no insubordination. You can't go back on the captain like that. We have the irons for recalcitrants," and I eyed a pile of old rusty chains lying outside the door. "We might have to truss him up, Cap, and lay him down below," and to prove the significance of my thought I picked up one end of a chain and rattled it solemnly. The captain half choked with fat laughter.

"That's right. Git the shovel there, Ike."

Ike looked as if he doubted the regularity of this, as if life on the briny deep might not be all that it was cracked up to be, but for the sake of regularity and in order not to be reduced to the shameful condition of a scullion, or worse, "irons," which was the only alternative offered, he complied. After he had thrown in eight scoopfuls we both agreed that this was true order and that the organization and dignity of the Idlewild might well be looked upon now as established.

Things went from good to better. We persuaded Joe, who was the millwright's assistant, back at the "wheel," that his dignity would be greatly enhanced in this matter if he were to accept the position of day watch, particularly since his labors in that capacity would accord with his bounden duties as a hireling of the road; for, if he were stationed in the rear (front room, actually) anyhow, and compelled, owing to the need of receiving and taking away various planks and boards as they came out of the planes and molding machines, to walk to and fro, it would be an easy matter to notice any suspicious lights on the horizon forward and to come aft at once, or at least at such times as the boss was not looking, or when he came to heat his coffee or get a drink, and report.

Amiable Joe! I can see him yet, tall, ungainly, stoop-shouldered, a slight cast in one eye, his head bobbing like a duck's as he walked— a most agreeable and pathetic person. His dreams were so simple, his wants so few. He lived with his sister somewhere in Eleventh Avenue downtown in a tenement, and carried home bundles of firewood to her at night all this great distance, to help out. He received (not earned— he did much more than that) seventeen and a half cents an hour, and dreamed of what? I could never quite make out. Marriage? A little cheap flat somewhere? Life is so pathetic at times.

"Light on the starboard bow," or "Light on the port bow," were the chosen phrases which we told him he was in duty bound to use, adding always "Sir," as respectful subordinates should. Also we insisted on his instantly making known to us at such times as we twain happened to be in the engine-room together, all bell buoys, whistle buoys, lighthouses, passing vessels and most of all the monthly pay car as it rounded the curve half a mile up the track about the fifteenth of every month. The matter of reporting the approach of the pay car was absolutely without exception. If he failed to do that we would be compelled, sad as it might be and excellent as his other services had been, to put him in irons. Here we showed him the irons also.

Joe cheerfully accepted. For days thereafter he would come back regularly when the need of heating his coffee or securing a drink necessitated, and lifting a straight forefinger to his forehead, would report, "Light on the port bow, Sir. I think it's in the steel works jist up the track here," or "Light on the starboard, Sir. It's the fast mail, maybe, for Chicago, jist passin' Kingsbridge."

"No thinks, Joseph," I used to reprimand. "You are not supposed to give your thinks. If the captain wishes to know what it is, he will ask. Back to the molding machine for yours, Joseph."

Joseph, shock-headed, with dusty hair, weak eyes and a weaker smile, would retire, and then we would look at each other, the captain and I, and grin, and he would exclaim:

"Pretty fair discipline, mate."

"Oh, I think we've got 'em going, Captain."

"Nothin' like order, mate."

"You're right, Cap."

"I don't suppose the mate'd ever condescend to take orders like that, eh, mate?"

"Well, hardly, Cap."

"Still, you don't want to forget that I'm captain, mate."

"And you don't want to forget that I'm mate, Captain."

Thus we would badger one another until one of the scullion crew arrived, when without loss of dignity on either side we could easily turn our attention to him.

And these scullions! What a dull crew! Gnarled, often non-English-speaking foreigners against or in front of whom we could jest to our hearts' content. They could not even guess the amazing things we were ordering them to do on penalty of this, that, and the other.

Things went from better to best. We reached the place where the fact of the shop's being a ship, and the engineer the captain, and I the mate, and the smith the bos'n, ad infinitum, came to be a matter of general knowledge, and we were admired and congratulated and laughed with until nearly all the workers of the shop, with some trifling and unimportant exceptions, the foreman for one, began to share our illusion— carpenters, cabinet-makers, joiners, all. The one exception, as I say, was the foreman, only he was a host in himself, a mean, ill-dispositioned creature, of course, who looked upon all such ideas as fol-de-rol, and in a way subversive of order and good work. He was red-headed, big-handed, big-footed, dull. He had no imagination beyond lumber and furniture, no poetry in his soul. But the crew, the hundred-headed crew, accepted it as a relief. They liked to think they were not really working, but out upon a blue and dancing sea, and came back one by one, the carpenters, the tinsmiths, the millwrights, one and all, with cheerful grins to do us honor.

"So you're the captain, eh?" lazy old Jack, the partner of car-loading Carder, asked of the engineer, and John looked his full dignity at once.

"That I am, Jack," he replied, "only able seamen ain't supposed to ask too many familiar questions. Are they, mate?"

"Well, I should say not," I replied, arriving with a basket of shavings. "Able seamen should always salute the captain before addressing him, anyhow, and never fail to say Sir. Still, our crew is new. It's not very able and the seamen end of it is a little on the fritz, I'm thinking. But, all things considered, we can afford to overlook a few errors until we get everything well in hand. Eh, Captain?"

"Right, mate," returned the captain genially. "You're always right— nearly."

Before I could start an argument on this score, one of the able seamen, one who was thus discourteously commented on, observed, "I don't know about that. Seems to me the mate of this here ship ain't any too much shucks, or the captain either."

The captain and I were a little dismayed by this. What to do with an able seaman who was too strong and too dull to take the whole thing in the proper spirit? It threatened smooth sailing! This particular person was old Stephen Bowers, the carpenter from the second floor who never to us seemed to have quite the right lightness of spirit to make a go of all this. He was too likely to turn rough but well-meant humor into a personal affront to himself.

"Well, Captain, there you are," I said cautiously, with a desire to maintain order and yet peace. "Mutiny, you see."

"It does look that way, don't it?" big John replied, eyeing the newcomer with a quizzical expression, half humorous, half severe. "What'll we do, mate, under such circumstances?"

"Lower a boat, Captain, and set him adrift," I suggested, "or put him on bread and water, along with the foreman and the superintendent. They're the two worst disturbers aboard the boat. We can't have these insubordinates breaking up our discipline."

This last, deftly calculated to flatter, was taken in good part, and bridged over the difficulty for the time being. Nothing was taken so much in good part or seemed to soothe the feelings of the rebellious as to include them with their superiors in an order of punishment which on the very first day of the cruise it had been decided was necessary to lay upon all the guiding officers of the plant. We could not hope to control them, so ostensibly we placed them in irons, or lowered them in boats, classifying them as mutineers and the foreman's office as the lock-up. It went well.

"Oh no, oh no, I don't want to be put in that class," old Bowers replied, the flattering unction having smoothed his ruffled soul. "I'm not so bad as all that."

"Very well, then," I replied briskly. "What do you think, Captain?"

The latter looked at me and smiled.

"Do you think we kin let him go this wunst?" he inquired of me.

"Sure, sure," I replied. "If he's certain he doesn't want to join the superintendent and the foreman."

Old Bowers went away smiling, seemingly convinced that we were going to run the boat in shipshape fashion, and before long most of the good-natured members of the crew consented to have themselves called able seamen.

For nearly a month thereafter, during all the finest summer weather, there existed the most charming life aboard this ideal vessel. We used the shop and all its details for the idlest purposes of our fancy. Hammers became belaying pins, the machines of the shop ship's ballast, the logs in the yard floating debris. When the yard became too cluttered, as it did once, we pretended we were in Sargasso and had to cut our way out— a process that took quite a few days. We were about all day commenting on the weather in nautical phrases, sighting strange vessels, reporting disorders or mutiny on the part of the officers in irons, or the men, or announcing the various "bells," lighthouses, etc.

In an evil hour, however, we lit upon the wretched habit of pitching upon little Ike, the butt of a thousand quips. Being incapable of grasping the true edge of our humor, he was the one soul who was yet genial enough to take it and not complain. We called upon him to shovel ashes, to split the wood, to run aft, that was, to the back gate, and see how the water stood. More than once he was threatened with those same "irons" previously mentioned, and on one occasion we actually dragged in a length, pretending to bind him with it and fasten him to the anvil (with the bos'n's consent, of course), which resulted in a hearty struggle, almost a row. We told him we would put him in an old desk crate we had, a prison, no less, and once or twice, in a spirit of deviltry, John tried to carry out his threat, nailing him in, much against his will. Finally we went to the length of attempting to physically enforce our commands when he did not obey, which of course ended in disaster.

It was this way. Ike was in the habit of sweeping up his room— the smith's shop— at three o'clock in the afternoon, which was really not reasonable considering that there were three hours of work ahead of all of us, and that he was inclined to resent having his fine floor mussed up thereafter. On the other hand I had to carry shavings through there all this time, and it was a sore temptation to drop a few now and then just for the devil's sake. After due consultation with the captain, I once requested him to order that the bos'n's mate leave the floor untouched until half past four, at least, which was early enough. The bos'n's mate replied with the very cheering news that the captain could "go to the devil." He wasn't going to kill himself for anybody, and besides, the foreman had once told him he might do this if he chose, heaven only knows why. What did the captain think that he (the bos'n's mate) was, anyhow?

Here at last was a stiff problem. Mutiny! Mutiny! Mutiny! What was to be done? Plainly this was inconveniencing the mate and besides, it was mutiny. And in addition it so lacerated our sense of dignity and order that we decided it could not be. Only, how to arrange it. We had been putting so much upon the bos'n's mate of late that he was becoming a little rebellious, and justly so, I think. He was always doing a dozen things he need not have done. Still, unless we could command him, the whole official management of this craft would go by the board, or so we thought. Finally we decided to act, but how? Direct orders, somehow, were somewhat difficult to enforce. After due meditation we took the bos'n, a most approving officer and one who loved to tease Ike (largely because he wanted to feel superior himself, I think), into our confidence and one late afternoon just after Ike had, figuratively speaking, swabbed up the deck, the latter sent him to some other part of the shop, or vessel, rather, while we strewed shavings over his newly cleaned floor with a shameless and lavish hand. It was intensely delicious, causing gales of laughter at the time— but— . Ike came back and cleaned this up— not without a growl, however. He did not take it in the cheerful spirit in which we hoped he would. In fact he was very morose about it, calling us names and threatening to go to the foreman [in the lock-up] if we did it again. However, in spite of all, and largely because of the humorous spectacle he in his rage presented we did it not once, but three or four times and that after he had most laboriously cleaned his room. A last assault one afternoon, however, resulted in a dash on his part to the foreman's office.

"I'm not goin' to stand it," he is declared to have said by one who was by at the time when he appeared in front of that official. "They're strewin' up my floor with shavin's two an' three times every day after I've cleaned it up for the day. I'll quit first."

The foreman, that raw, non-humorous person previously described, who evidently sympathized with Ike and who, in addition, from various sources, had long since learned what was going on, came down in a trice. He had decided to stop this nonsense.

"I want you fellows to cut that out now," he declared vigorously on seeing us. "It's all right, but it won't do. Don't rub it in. Let him alone. I've heard of this ship stuff. It's all damn nonsense."

The captain and mate gazed at each other in sad solemnity. Could it be that Ike had turned traitor? This was anarchy. He had not only complained of us but of the ship.— the Idlewild! What snakiness of soul! We retired to a corner of our now storm-tossed vessel and consulted in whispers. What would we do? Would we let her sink or try to save her? Perhaps it was advisable for the present to cease pushing the joke too far in that quarter, anyhow. Ike might cause the whole ship to be destroyed.

Nevertheless, even yet there were ways and ways of keeping her afloat and punishing an insubordinate even when no official authority existed. Ike had loved the engineroom, or rather, the captain's office, above all other parts of the vessel because it was so comfortable. Here between tedious moments of pounding iron for the smith or blowing the bellows or polishing various tools that had been sharpened, he could retire on occasion, when the boss was not about and the work not pressing (it was the very next room to his) and gaze from the captain's door or window out on the blue waters of the Hudson where lay the yachts, and up the same stream where stood the majestic palisades. At noon or a little before he could bring his cold coffee, sealed in a tin can, to the captain's engine and warm it. Again, the captain's comfortable locker held his coat and hat, the captain's wash bowl— a large wooden tub to one side of the engine into which comforting warm water could be drawn— served as an ideal means of washing up. Since the bos'n's mate had become friendly with the captain, he too had all these privileges. But now, in view of his insubordination, all this was changed. Why should a rebellious bos'n's mate be allowed to obtain favors of the captain? More in jest than in earnest one day it was announced that unless the bos'n's mate would forego his angry opposition to a less early scrubbed deck—

"Well, mate," the captain observed to the latter in the presence of the bos'n's mate, with a lusty wink and a leer, "you know how it goes with these here insubordinates, don't you? No more hot coffee at noon time, unless there's more order here. No more cleanin' up in the captain's tub. No more settin' in the captain's window takin' in the cool mornin' breeze, as well as them yachts. What say? Eh? We know what to do with these here now insubordinates, don't we, mate, eh?" This last with a very huge wink.

"You're right, Captain. Very right," the mate replied. "You're on the right track now. No more favors— unless—  Order must be maintained, you know."

"Oh, all right," replied little Ike now, fully in earnest and thinking we were. "If I can't, I can't. Jist the same I don't pick up no shavin's after four," and off he strolled.

Think of it, final and complete mutiny, and there was nothing more really to be done.

All we could do now was to watch him as he idled by himself at odd free moments down by the waterside in an odd corner of the point, a lonely figure, his trousers and coat too large, his hands and feet too big, his yellow teeth protruding. No one of the other workingmen ever seemed to be very enthusiastic over Ike, he was so small, so queer; no one, really, but the captain and the mate, and now they had deserted him.

It was tough.

Yet still another ill descended on us before we came to the final loss, let us say, of the good craft Idlewild. In another evil hour the captain and the mate themselves fell upon the question of priority, a matter which, so long as they had had Ike to trifle with, had never troubled them. Now as mate and the originator of this sea-going enterprise, I began to question the authority of the captain himself occasionally, and to insist on sharing as my undeniable privilege all the dignities and emoluments of the office— to wit: the best seat in the window where the wind blew, the morning paper when the boss was not about, the right to stand in the doorway, use the locker, etc. The captain objected, solely on the ground of priority, mind you, and still we fell a-quarreling. The mate in a stormy, unhappy hour was reduced by the captain to the position of mere scullion, and ordered, upon pain of personal assault, to vacate the captain's cabin. The mate reduced the captain to the position of stoker and stood in the doorway in great glee while the latter, perforce, owing to the exigencies of his position, was compelled to stoke whether he wanted to or no. It could not be avoided. The engine had to be kept going. In addition, the mate had brought many morning papers, an occasional cigar for the captain, etc. There was much rancor and discord and finally the whole affair, ship, captain, mate and all, was declared by the mate to be a creation of his brain, a phantom, no less, and that by his mere act of ignoring it the whole ship— officers, men, masts, boats, sails— could be extinguished, scuttled, sent down without a ripple to that limbo of seafaring men, the redoubtable Davy Jones's locker.

The captain was not inclined to believe this at first. On the contrary, like a good skipper, he attempted to sail the craft alone. Only, unlike the mate, he lacked the curious faculty of turning jest and fancy into seeming fact. There was a something missing which made the whole thing seem unreal. Like two rival generals, we now called upon a single army to follow us individually, but the crew, seeing that there was war in the cabin, stood off in doubt and, I fancy, indifference. It was not important enough in their hardworking lives to go to the length of risking the personal ill-will of either of us, and so for want of agreement, the ship finally disappeared.

Yes, she went down. The Idlewild was gone, and with her, all her fine seas, winds, distant cities, fogs, storms.

For a time indeed, we went charily by each other.

Still it behooved us, seeing how, in spite of ourselves, we had to work in the same room and there was no way of getting rid of each other's obnoxious presence, to find a common ground on which we could work and talk. There had never been any real bitterness between us— just jest, you know, but serious jest, a kind of silent sorrow for many fine things gone. Yet still that had been enough to keep everything out of order. Now from time to time each of us thought of restoring the old life in some form, however weak it might be. Without some form of humor the shop was a bore to the mate and the captain, anyhow. Finally the captain sobering to his old state, and the routine work becoming dreadfully monotonous, both mate and captain began to think of some way in which they, at least, could agree.

"Remember the Idlewild, Henry?" asked the ex-captain one day genially, long after time and fair weather had glossed over the wretched memory of previous quarrels and dissensions.

"That I do, John," I replied pleasantly.

"Great old boat she was, wasn't she, Henry?"

"She was, John."

"An' the bos'n's mate, he wasn't such a bad old scout, was he, Henry, even if he wouldn't quit sweepin' up the shavin's?"

"He certainly wasn't, John. He was a fine little fellow. Remember the chains, John?"

"Haw! Haw!" echoed that worthy, and then, "Do you think the old Idlewild could ever be found where she's lyin' down there on the bottom, mate?"

"Well, she might, Captain, only she'd hardly be the same old boat that she was now that she's been down there so long, would she— all these dissensions and so on? Wouldn't it be easier to build a new one— don't you think?"

"I don't know but what you're right, mate. What'd we call her if we did?"

"Well, how about the Harmony, Captain? That sounds rather appropriate, doesn't it?"

"The Harmony, mate? You're right— the Harmony. Shall we? Put 'er there!"

"Put her there," replied the mate with a will. "We'll organize a new crew right away, Captain— eh, don't you think?"

"Right! Wait, we'll call the bos'n an' see what he says."

Just then the bos'n appeared, smiling goodnaturedly.

"Well, what's up?" he inquired, noting our unusually cheerful faces, I presume. "You ain't made it up, have you, you two?" he exclaimed.

"That's what we have, bos'n, an' what's more, we're thinkin' of raisin' the old Idlewild an' renamin' her the Harmony, or, rather, buildin' a new one. What say?" It was the captain talking.

"Well, I'm mighty glad to hear it, only I don't think you can have your old bos'n's mate any longer, boys. He's gonna quit."

"Gonna quit!" we both exclaimed at once, and sadly, and John added seriously and looking really distressed, "What's the trouble there? Who's been doin' anything to him now?" We both felt guilty because of our part in his pains.

"Well, Ike kind o' feels that the shop's been rubbin' it into him of late for some reason," observed the bos'n heavily. "I don't know why. He thinks you two have been tryin' to freeze him out, I guess. Says he can't do anything any more, that everybody makes fun of him and shuts him out."

We stared at each other in wise illumination, the new captain and the new mate. After all, we were plainly the cause of poor little Ike's depression, and we were the ones who could restore him to favor if we chose. It was the captain's cabin he sighed for— his old pleasant prerogatives.

"Oh, we can't lose Ike, Captain," I said. "What good would the Harmony be without him? We sorely can't let anything like that happen, can we? Not now, anyhow."

"You're right, mate," he replied. "There never was a better bos'n's mate, never. The Harmony's got to have 'im. Let's talk reason to him, if we can."

In company then we three went to him, this time not to torment or chastise, but to coax and plead with him not to forsake the shop, or the ship, now that everything was going to be as before— only better— and—

Well, we did.

________________

6: The Street of the Blank Wall

Jerome K. Jerome

1859-1927

The Street of the Blank Wall and other stories, 1917

I HAD turned off from the Edgware Road into a street leading west, the atmosphere of which had appealed to me. It was a place of quiet houses standing behind little gardens. They had the usual names printed on the stuccoed gateposts. The fading twilight was just sufficient to enable one to read them. There was a Laburnum Villa, and The Cedars, and a Cairngorm, rising to the height of three storeys, with a curious little turret that branched out at the top, and was crowned with a conical roof, so that it looked as if wearing a witch's hat. Especially when two small windows just below the eaves sprang suddenly into light, and gave one the feeling of a pair of wicked eyes suddenly flashed upon one.

The street curved to the right, ending in an open space through which passed a canal beneath a low arched bridge. There were still the same quiet houses behind their small gardens, and I watched for a while the lamplighter picking out the shape of the canal, that widened just above the bridge into a lake with an island in the middle. After that I must have wandered in a circle, for later on I found myself back in the same spot, though I do not suppose I had passed a dozen people on my way; and then I set to work to find my way back to Paddington.

I thought I had taken the road by which I had come, but the half light must have deceived me. Not that it mattered. They had a lurking mystery about them, these silent streets with their suggestion of hushed movement behind drawn curtains, of whispered voices behind the flimsy walls. Occasionally there would escape the sound of laughter, suddenly stifled as it seemed, and once the sudden cry of a child.

It was in a short street of semi-detached villas facing a high blank wall that, as I passed, I saw a blind move half-way up, revealing a woman's face. A gas lamp, the only one the street possessed, was nearly opposite. I thought at first it was the face of a girl, and then, as I looked again, it might have been the face of an old woman. One could not distinguish the colouring. In any case, the cold, blue gaslight would have made it seem pallid.

The remarkable feature was the eyes. It might have been, of course, that they alone caught the light and held it, rendering them uncannily large and brilliant. Or it might have been that the rest of the face was small and delicate, out of all proportion to them. She may have seen me, for the blind was drawn down again, and I passed on.

There was no particular reason why, but the incident lingered with me. The sudden raising of the blind, as of the curtain of some small theatre, the barely furnished room coming dimly into view, and the woman standing there, close to the footlights, as to my fancy it seemed. And then the sudden ringing down of the curtain before the play had begun. I turned at the corner of the street. The blind had been drawn up again, and I saw again the slight, girlish figure silhouetted against the side panes of the bow window.

At the same moment a man knocked up against me. It was not his fault. I had stopped abruptly, not giving him time to avoid me. We both apologised, blaming the darkness. It may have been my fancy, but I had the feeling that, instead of going on his way, he had turned and was following me. I waited till the next corner, and then swung round on my heel. But there was no sign of him, and after a while I found myself back in the Edgware Road.

Once or twice, in idle mood, I sought the street again, but without success; and the thing would, I expect, have faded from my memory, but that one evening, on my way home from Paddington, I came across the woman in the Harrow Road. There was no mistaking her. She almost touched me as she came out of a fishmonger's shop, and unconsciously, at the beginning, I found myself following her. This time I noticed the turnings, and five minutes' walking brought us to the street. Half a dozen times I must have been within a hundred yards of it. I lingered at the corner. She had not noticed me, and just as she reached the house a man came out of the shadows beyond the lamp-post and joined her.

I was due at a bachelor gathering that evening, and after dinner, the affair being fresh in my mind, I talked about it. I am not sure, but I think it was in connection with a discussion on Maeterlinck. It was that sudden lifting of the blind that had caught hold of me. As if, blundering into an empty theatre, I had caught a glimpse of some drama being played in secret. We passed to other topics, and when I was leaving a fellow guest asked me which way I was going. I told him, and, it being a fine night, he proposed that we should walk together. And in the quiet of Harley Street he confessed that his desire had not been entirely the pleasure of my company.

"It is rather curious," he said, "but today there suddenly came to my remembrance a case that for nearly eleven years I have never given a thought to. And now, on top of it, comes your description of that woman's face. I am wondering if it can be the same."

"It was the eyes," I said, "that struck me as so remarkable."

"It was the eyes that I chiefly remember her by," he replied. "Would you know the street again?"

We walked a little while in silence.

"It may seem, perhaps, odd to you," I answered, "but it would trouble me, the idea of any harm coming to her through me. What was the case?"

"You can feel quite safe on that point," he assured me. "I was her counsel— that is, if it is the same woman. How was she dressed?"

I could not see the reason for his question. He could hardly expect her to be wearing the clothes of eleven years ago.

"I don't think I noticed," I answered. "Some sort of a blouse, I suppose." And then I recollected. "Ah, yes, there was something uncommon," I added. "An unusually broad band of velvet, it looked like, round her neck."

"I thought so," he said. "Yes. It must be the same."

We had reached Marylebone Road, where our ways parted.

"I will look you up to-morrow afternoon, if I may," he said. "We might take a stroll round together."

He called on me about half-past five, and we reached the street just as the one solitary gas-lamp had been lighted. I pointed out the house to him, and he crossed over and looked at the number.

"Quite right," he said, on returning. "I made inquiries this morning. She was released six weeks ago on ticket-of-leave."

He took my arm.

"Not much use hanging about," he said. "The blind won't go up to-night. Rather a clever idea, selecting a house just opposite a lamp-post."

He had an engagement that evening; but later on he told me the story— that is, so far as he then knew it.

IT WAS in the early days of the garden suburb movement. One of the first sites chosen was off the Finchley Road. The place was in the building, and one of the streets— Laleham Gardens— had only some half a dozen houses in it, all unoccupied save one. It was a lonely, loose end of the suburb, terminating suddenly in open fields. From the unfinished end of the road the ground sloped down somewhat steeply to a pond, and beyond that began a small wood. The one house occupied had been bought by a young married couple named Hepworth.

The husband was a good-looking, pleasant young fellow. Being clean-shaven, his exact age was difficult to judge. The wife, it was quite evident, was little more than a girl. About the man there was a suggestion of weakness. At least, that was the impression left on the mind of the house-agent. To-day he would decide, and to-morrow he changed his mind. Jetson, the agent, had almost given up hope of bringing off a deal. In the end it was Mrs. Hepworth who, taking the matter into her own hands, fixed upon the house in Laleham Gardens. Young Hepworth found fault with it on the ground of its isolation. He himself was often away for days at a time, travelling on business, and was afraid she would be nervous. He had been very persistent on this point; but in whispered conversations she had persuaded him out of his objection. It was one of those pretty, fussy little houses; and it seemed to have taken her fancy. Added to which, according to her argument, it was just within their means, which none of the others were. Young Hepworth may have given the usual references, but if so they were never taken up. The house was sold on the company's usual terms. The deposit was paid by a cheque, which was duly cleared, and the house itself was security for the rest. The company's solicitor, with Hepworth's consent, acted for both parties.

It was early in June when the Hepworths moved in. They furnished only one bedroom; and kept no servant, a charwoman coming in every morning and going away about six in the evening. Jetson was their nearest neighbour. His wife and daughters called on them, and confess to have taken a liking to them both. Indeed, between one of the Jetson girls, the youngest, and Mrs. Hepworth there seems to have sprung up a close friendship. Young Hepworth, the husband, was always charming, and evidently took great pains to make himself agreeable. But with regard to him they had the feeling that he was never altogether at his ease. They described him— though that, of course, was after the event— as having left upon them the impression of a haunted man.

There was one occasion in particular. It was about ten o'clock. The Jetsons had been spending the evening with the Hepworths, and were just on the point of leaving, when there came a sudden, clear knock at the door. It turned out to be Jetson's foreman, who had to leave by an early train in the morning, and had found that he needed some further instructions. But the terror in Hepworth's face was unmistakable. He had turned a look towards his wife that was almost of despair; and it had seemed to the Jetsons— or, talking it over afterwards, they may have suggested the idea to each other— that there came a flash of contempt into her eyes, though it yielded the next instant to an expression of pity. She had risen, and already moved some steps towards the door, when young Hepworth had stopped her, and gone out himself. But the curious thing was that, according to the foreman's account, Hepworth never opened the front door, but came upon him stealthily from behind. He must have slipped out by the back and crept round the house.

The incident had puzzled the Jetsons, especially that involuntary flash of contempt that had come into Mrs. Hepworth's eyes. She had always appeared to adore her husband, and of the two, if possible, to be the one most in love with the other. They had no friends or acquaintances except the Jetsons. No one else among their neighbours had taken the trouble to call on them, and no stranger to the suburb had, so far as was known, ever been seen in Laleham Gardens.

Until one evening a little before Christmas.

Jetson was on his way home from his office in the Finchley Road. There had been a mist hanging about all day, and with nightfall it had settled down into a whitish fog. Soon after leaving the Finchley Road, Jetson noticed in front of him a man wearing a long, yellow mackintosh, and some sort of soft felt hat. He gave Jetson the idea of being a sailor; it may have been merely the stiff, serviceable mackintosh. At the corner of Laleham Gardens the man turned, and glanced up at the name upon the lamp-post, so that Jetson had a full view of him. Evidently it was the street for which he was looking. Jetson, somewhat curious, the Hepworths' house being still the only one occupied, paused at the corner, and watched. The Hepworths' house was, of course, the only one in the road that showed any light. The man, when he came to the gate, struck a match for the purpose of reading the number. Satisfied it was the house he wanted, he pushed open the gate and went up the path.

But, instead of using the bell or knocker, Jetson was surprised to hear him give three raps on the door with his stick. There was no answer, and Jetson, whose interest was now thoroughly aroused, crossed to the other corner, from where he could command a better view. Twice the man repeated his three raps on the door, each time a little louder, and the third time the door was opened. Jetson could not tell by whom, for whoever it was kept behind it.

He could just see one wall of the passage, with a pair of old naval cutlasses crossed above the picture of a three-masted schooner that he knew hung there. The door was opened just sufficient, and the man slipped in, and the door was closed behind him. Jetson had turned to continue his way, when the fancy seized him to give one glance back. The house was in complete darkness, though a moment before Jetson was positive there had been a light in the ground floor window.

It all sounded very important afterwards, but at the time there was nothing to suggest to Jetson anything very much out of the common. Because for six months no friend or relation had called to see them, that was no reason why one never should. In the fog, a stranger may have thought it simpler to knock at the door with his stick than to fumble in search of a bell. The Hepworths lived chiefly in the room at the back. The light in the drawing-room may have been switched off for economy's sake. Jetson recounted the incident on reaching home, not as anything remarkable, but just as one mentions an item of gossip. The only one who appears to have attached any meaning to the affair was Jetson's youngest daughter, then a girl of eighteen. She asked one or two questions about the man, and, during the evening, slipped out by herself and ran round to the Hepworths. She found the house empty. At all events, she could obtain no answer, and the place, back and front, seemed to her to be uncannily silent.

Jetson called the next morning, something of his daughter's uneasiness having communicated itself to him. Mrs. Hepworth herself opened the door to him. In his evidence at the trial, Jetson admitted that her appearance had startled him. She seems to have anticipated his questions by at once explaining that she had had news of an unpleasant nature, and had been worrying over it all night. Her husband had been called away suddenly to America, where it would be necessary for her to join him as soon as possible. She would come round to Jetson's office later in the day to make arrangements about getting rid of the house and furniture.

The story seemed to reasonably account for the stranger's visit, and Jetson, expressing his sympathy and promising all help in his power, continued his way to the office. She called in the afternoon and handed him over the keys, retaining one for herself. She wished the furniture to be sold by auction, and he was to accept almost any offer for the house. She would try and see him again before sailing; if not, she would write him with her address. She was perfectly cool and collected. She had called on his wife and daughters in the afternoon, and had wished them good-bye.

Outside Jetson's office she hailed a cab, and returned in it to Laleham Gardens to collect her boxes. The next time Jetson saw her she was in the dock, charged with being an accomplice in the murder of her husband.

THE BODY had been discovered in a pond some hundred yards from the unfinished end of Laleham Gardens. A house was in course of erection on a neighbouring plot, and a workman, in dipping up a pail of water, had dropped in his watch. He and his mate, worrying round with a rake, had drawn up pieces of torn clothing, and this, of course, had led to the pond being properly dragged. Otherwise the discovery might never have been made.

The body, heavily weighted with a number of flat-irons fastened to it by a chain and padlock, had sunk deep into the soft mud, and might have remained there till it rotted. A valuable gold repeater, that Jetson remembered young Hepworth having told him had been a presentation to his father, was in its usual pocket, and a cameo ring that Hepworth had always worn on his third finger was likewise fished up from the mud. Evidently the murder belonged to the category of crimes passionel. The theory of the prosecution was that it had been committed by a man who, before her marriage, had been Mrs. Hepworth's lover.

The evidence, contrasted with the almost spiritually beautiful face of the woman in the dock, came as a surprise to everyone in court. Originally connected with an English circus troupe touring in Holland, she appears, about seventeen, to have been engaged as a "song and dance artiste" at a particularly shady cafe chantant in Rotterdam, frequented chiefly by sailors. From there a man, an English sailor known as Charlie Martin, took her away, and for some months she had lived with him at a small estaminet the other side of the river. Later, they left Rotterdam and came to London, where they took lodgings in Poplar, near to the docks.

It was from this address in Poplar that, some ten months before the murder, she had married young Hepworth. What had become of Martin was not known. The natural assumption was that, his money being exhausted, he had returned to his calling, though his name, for some reason, could not be found in any ship's list.

That he was one and the same with the man that Jetson had watched till the door of the Hepworths' house had closed upon him there could be no doubt. Jetson described him as a thick-set, handsome-looking man, with a reddish beard and moustache. Earlier in the day he had been seen at Hampstead, where he had dined at a small coffee-shop in the High Street. The girl who had waited on him had also been struck by the bold, piercing eyes and the curly red beard. It had been an off-time, between two and three, when he had dined there, and the girl admitted that she had found him a "pleasant-spoken gentleman," and "inclined to be merry." He had told her that he had arrived in England only three days ago, and that he hoped that evening to see his sweetheart. He had accompanied the words with a laugh, and the girl thought— though, of course, this may have been after-suggestion— that an ugly look followed the laugh.

One imagines that it was this man's return that had been the fear constantly haunting young Hepworth. The three raps on the door, it was urged by the prosecution, was a pre-arranged or pre-understood signal, and the door had been opened by the woman. Whether the husband was in the house, or whether they waited for him, could not be said. He had been killed by a bullet entering through the back of the neck; the man had evidently come prepared.

Ten days had elapsed between the murder and the finding of the body, and the man was never traced. A postman had met him coming from the neighbourhood of Laleham Gardens at about half-past nine. In the fog, they had all but bumped into one another, and the man had immediately turned away his face.

About the soft felt hat there was nothing to excite attention, but the long, stiff, yellow mackintosh was quite unusual. The postman had caught only a momentary glimpse of the face, but was certain it was clean shaven. This made a sensation in court for the moment, but only until the calling of the next witness. The charwoman usually employed by the Hepworths had not been admitted to the house on the morning of Mrs. Hepworth's departure. Mrs. Hepworth had met her at the door and paid her a week's money in lieu of notice, explaining to her that she would not be wanted any more. Jetson, thinking he might possibly do better by letting the house furnished, had sent for this woman, and instructed her to give the place a thorough cleaning. Sweeping the carpet in the dining-room with a dustpan and brush, she had discovered a number of short red hairs. The man, before leaving the house, had shaved himself.

That he had still retained the long, yellow mackintosh may have been with the idea of starting a false clue. Having served its purpose, it could be discarded. The beard would not have been so easy. What roundabout way he may have taken one cannot say, but it must have been some time during the night or early morning that he reached young Hepworth's office in Fenchurch Street. Mrs. Hepworth had evidently provided him with the key.

There he seems to have hidden the hat and mackintosh and to have taken in exchange some clothes belonging to the murdered man. Hepworth's clerk, Ellenby, an elderly man— of the type that one generally describes as of gentlemanly appearance— was accustomed to his master being away unexpectedly on business, which was that of a ships' furnisher. He always kept an overcoat and a bag ready packed in the office. Missing them, Ellenby had assumed that his master had been called away by an early train. He would have been worried after a few days, but that he had received a telegram— as he then supposed from his master— explaining that young Hepworth had gone to Ireland and would be away for some days. It was nothing unusual for Hepworth to be absent, superintending the furnishing of a ship, for a fortnight at a time, and nothing had transpired in the office necessitating special instructions. The telegram had been handed in at Charing Cross, but the time chosen had been a busy period of the day, and no one had any recollection of the sender. Hepworth's clerk unhesitatingly identified the body as that of his employer, for whom it was evident that he had entertained a feeling of affection. About Mrs. Hepworth he said as little as he could. While she was awaiting her trial it had been necessary for him to see her once or twice with reference to the business. Previous to this, he knew nothing about her.

The woman's own attitude throughout the trial had been quite unexplainable. Beyond agreeing to a formal plea of "Not guilty," she had made no attempt to defend herself. What little assistance her solicitors had obtained had been given them, not by the woman herself, but by Hepworth's clerk, more for the sake of his dead master than out of any sympathy towards the wife. She herself appeared utterly indifferent. Only once had she been betrayed into a momentary emotion. It was when her solicitors were urging her almost angrily to give them some particulars upon a point they thought might be helpful to her case.

"He's dead!" she had cried out almost with a note of exultation. "Dead! Dead! What else matters?"

The next moment she had apologised for her outburst.

"Nothing can do any good," she had said. "Let the thing take its course."

It was the astounding callousness of the woman that told against her both with the judge and the jury. That shaving in the dining-room, the murdered man's body not yet cold! It must have been done with Hepworth's safety-razor. She must have brought it down to him, found him a looking-glass, brought him soap and water and a towel, afterwards removing all traces. Except those few red hairs that had clung, unnoticed, to the carpet. That nest of flat-irons used to weight the body! It must have been she who had thought of them. The idea would never have occurred to a man. The chain and padlock with which to fasten them. She only could have known that such things were in the house. It must have been she who had planned the exchange of clothes in Hepworth's office, giving him the key. She it must have been who had thought of the pond, holding open the door while the man had staggered out under his ghastly burden; waited, keeping watch, listening to hear the splash.

Evidently it had been her intention to go off with the murderer— to live with him! That story about America. If all had gone well, it would have accounted for everything. After leaving Laleham Gardens she had taken lodgings in a small house in Kentish Town under the name of Howard, giving herself out to be a chorus singer, her husband being an actor on tour. To make the thing plausible, she had obtained employment in one of the pantomimes. Not for a moment had she lost her head. No one had ever called at her lodgings, and there had come no letters for her. Every hour of her day could be accounted for. Their plans must have been worked out over the corpse of her murdered husband. She was found guilty of being an "accessory after the fact," and sentenced to fifteen years' penal servitude.

That brought the story up to eleven years ago. After the trial, interested in spite of himself, my friend had ferreted out some further particulars. Inquiries at Liverpool had procured him the information that Hepworth's father, a shipowner in a small way, had been well known and highly respected. He was retired from business when he died, some three years previous to the date of the murder. His wife had survived him by only a few months. Besides Michael, the murdered son, there were two other children— an elder brother, who was thought to have gone abroad to one of the colonies, and a sister who had married a French naval officer. Either they had not heard of the case or had not wished to have their names dragged into it. Young Michael had started life as an architect, and was supposed to have been doing well, but after the death of his parents had disappeared from the neighbourhood, and, until the trial, none of his acquaintances up North ever knew what had become of him.

But a further item of knowledge that my friend's inquiries had elicited had somewhat puzzled him. Hepworth's clerk, Ellenby, had been the confidential clerk of Hepworth's father! He had entered the service of the firm as a boy; and when Hepworth senior retired, Ellenby— with the old gentleman's assistance— had started in business for himself as a ships' furnisher! Nothing of all this came out at the trial. Ellenby had not been cross-examined. There was no need for it. But it seemed odd, under all the circumstances, that he had not volunteered the information. It may, of course, have been for the sake of the brother and sister. Hepworth is a common enough name in the North. He may have hoped to keep the family out of connection with the case.

As regards the woman, my friend could learn nothing further beyond the fact that, in her contract with the music-hall agent in Rotterdam, she had described herself as the daughter of an English musician, and had stated that both her parents were dead. She may have engaged herself without knowing the character of the hall, and the man, Charlie Martin, with his handsome face and pleasing sailor ways, and at least an Englishman, may have seemed to her a welcome escape.

She may have been passionately fond of him, and young Hepworth— crazy about her, for she was beautiful enough to turn any man's head— may in Martin's absence have lied to her, told her he was dead— lord knows what!— to induce her to marry him. The murder may have seemed to her a sort of grim justice.

But even so, her cold-blooded callousness was surely abnormal! She had married him, lived with him for nearly a year. To the Jetsons she had given the impression of being a woman deeply in love with her husband. It could not have been mere acting kept up day after day.

"There was something else." We were discussing the case in my friend's chambers. His brief of eleven years ago was open before him. He was pacing up and down with his hands in his pockets, thinking as he talked. "Something that never came out. There was a curious feeling she gave me in that moment when sentence was pronounced upon her. It was as if, instead of being condemned, she had triumphed. Acting! If she had acted during the trial, pretended remorse, even pity, I could have got her off with five years. She seemed to be unable to disguise the absolute physical relief she felt at the thought that he was dead, that his hand would never again touch her. There must have been something that had suddenly been revealed to her, something that had turned her love to hate.

"There must be something fine about the man, too." That was another suggestion that came to him as he stood staring out of the window across the river. "She's paid and has got her receipt, but he is still 'wanted.' He is risking his neck every evening he watches for the raising of that blind."

His thought took another turn.

"Yet how could he have let her go through those ten years of living death while he walked the streets scot free? Some time during the trial— the evidence piling up against her day by day— why didn't he come forward, if only to stand beside her? Get himself hanged, if only out of mere decency?"

He sat down, took the brief up in his hand without looking at it.

"Or was that the reward that she claimed? That he should wait, keeping alive the one hope that would make the suffering possible to her? Yes," he continued, musing, "I can see a man who cared for a woman taking that as his punishment."

Now that his interest in the case had been revived he seemed unable to keep it out of his mind. Since our joint visit I had once or twice passed through the street by myself, and on the last occasion had again seen the raising of the blind. It obsessed him— the desire to meet the man face to face. A handsome, bold, masterful man, he conceived him. But there must be something more for such a woman to have sold her soul— almost, one might say— for the sake of him.

There was just one chance of succeeding. Each time he had come from the direction of the Edgware Road. By keeping well out of sight at the other end of the street, and watching till he entered it, one might time oneself to come upon him just under the lamp. He would hardly be likely to turn and go back; that would be to give himself away. He would probably content himself with pretending to be like ourselves, merely hurrying through, and in his turn watching till we had disappeared.

Fortune seemed inclined to favour us. About the usual time the blind was gently raised, and very soon afterwards there came round the corner the figure of a man. We entered the street ourselves a few seconds later, and it seemed likely that, as we had planned, we should come face to face with him under the gaslight. He walked towards us, stooping and with bent head. We expected him to pass the house by. To our surprise he stopped when he came to it, and pushed open the gate. In another moment we should have lost all chance of seeing anything more of him except his bent back. With a couple of strides my friend was behind him. He laid his hand on the man's shoulder and forced him to turn round. It was an old, wrinkled face with gentle, rather watery eyes.

We were both so taken aback that for a moment we could say nothing. My friend stammered out an apology about having mistaken the house, and rejoined me. At the corner we burst out laughing almost simultaneously. And then my friend suddenly stopped and stared at me.

"Hepworth's old clerk!" he said. "Ellenby!"

IT SEEMED to him monstrous. The man had been more than a clerk. The family had treated him as a friend. Hepworth's father had set him up in business. For the murdered lad he had had a sincere attachment; he had left that conviction on all of them. What was the meaning of it?

A directory was on the mantelpiece. It was the next afternoon. I had called upon him in his chambers. It was just an idea that came to me. I crossed over and opened it, and there was his name, "Ellenby and Co., Ships' Furnishers," in a court off the Minories.

Was he helping her for the sake of his dead master— trying to get her away from the man. But why? The woman had stood by and watched the lad murdered. How could he bear even to look on her again?

Unless there had been that something that had not come out— something he had learnt later— that excused even that monstrous callousness of hers.

Yet what could there be? It had all been so planned, so cold-blooded. That shaving in the dining-room! It was that seemed most to stick in his throat. She must have brought him down a looking-glass; there was not one in the room. Why couldn't he have gone upstairs into the bathroom, where Hepworth always shaved himself, where he would have found everything to his hand?

He had been moving about the room, talking disjointedly as he paced, and suddenly he stopped and looked at me.

"Why in the dining-room?" he demanded of me.

He was jingling some keys in his pocket. It was a habit of his when cross-examining, and I felt as if somehow I knew; and, without thinking— so it seemed to me— I answered him.

"Perhaps," I said, "it was easier to bring a razor down than to carry a dead man up."

He leant with his arms across the table, his eyes glittering with excitement.

"Can't you see it?" he said. "That little back parlour with its fussy ornaments. The three of them standing round the table, Hepworth's hands nervously clutching a chair. The reproaches, the taunts, the threats. Young Hepworth— he struck everyone as a weak man, a man physically afraid— white, stammering, not knowing which way to look. The woman's eyes turning from one to the other. That flash of contempt again— she could not help it— followed, worse still, by pity. If only he could have answered back, held his own! If only he had not been afraid! And then that fatal turning away with a sneering laugh one imagines, the bold, dominating eyes no longer there to cower him.

"That must have been the moment. The bullet, if you remember, entered through the back of the man's neck. Hepworth must always have been picturing to himself this meeting— tenants of garden suburbs do not carry loaded revolvers as a habit— dwelling upon it till he had worked himself up into a frenzy of hate and fear. Weak men always fly to extremes. If there was no other way, he would kill him.

"Can't you hear the silence? After the reverberations had died away! And then they are both down on their knees, patting him, feeling for his heart. The man must have gone down like a felled ox; there were no traces of blood on the carpet. The house is far from any neighbour; the shot in all probability has not been heard. If only they can get rid of the body! The pond— not a hundred yards away!"

He reached for the brief, still lying among his papers; hurriedly turned the scored pages.

"What easier? A house being built on the very next plot. Wheelbarrows to be had for the taking. A line of planks reaching down to the edge. Depth of water where the body was discovered four feet six inches. Nothing to do but just tip up the barrow.

"Think a minute. Must weigh him down, lest he rise to accuse us; weight him heavily, so that he will sink lower and lower into the soft mud, lie there till he rots.

"Think again. Think it out to the end. Suppose, in spite of all our precautions, he does rise? Suppose the chain slips? The workmen going to and fro for water— suppose they do discover him?

"He is lying on his back, remember. They would have turned him over to feel for his heart. Have closed his eyes, most probably, not liking their stare.

"It would be the woman who first thought of it. She has seen them both lying with closed eyes beside her. It may have always been in her mind, the likeness between them. With Hepworth's watch in his pocket, Hepworth's ring on his finger! If only it was not for the beard— that fierce, curling, red beard!

"They creep to the window and peer out. Fog still thick as soup. Not a soul, not a sound. Plenty of time.

"Then to get away, to hide till one is sure. Put on the mackintosh. A man in a yellow mackintosh may have been seen to enter; let him be seen to go away. In some dark corner or some empty railway carriage take it off and roll it up. Then make for the office. Wait there for Ellenby. True as steel, Ellenby; good business man. Be guided by Ellenby."

He flung the brief from him with a laugh.

"Why, there's not a missing link!" he cried. "And to think that not a fool among us ever thought of it!"

"Everything fitting into its place," I suggested, "except young Hepworth. Can you see him, from your description of him, sitting down and coolly elaborating plans for escape, the corpse of the murdered man stretched beside him on the hearthrug?"

"No," he answered. "But I can see her doing it, a woman who for week after week kept silence while we raged and stormed at her, a woman who for three hours sat like a statue while old Cutbush painted her to a crowded court as a modern Jezebel, who rose up from her seat when that sentence of fifteen years' penal servitude was pronounced upon her with a look of triumph in her eyes, and walked out of court as if she had been a girl going to meet her lover.

"I'll wager," he added, "it was she who did the shaving. Hepworth would have cut him, even with a safety-razor."

"It must have been the other one, Martin," I said, "that she loathed. That almost exultation at the thought that he was dead," I reminded him.

"Yes," he mused. "She made no attempt to disguise it. Curious there having been that likeness between them." He looked at his watch. "Do you care to come with me?" he said.

"Where are you going?" I asked him.

"We may just catch him," he answered. "Ellenby and Co."

THE OFFICE was on the top floor of an old-fashioned house in a cul-de-sac off the Minories. Mr. Ellenby was out, so the lanky office-boy informed us, but would be sure to return before evening; and we sat and waited by the meagre fire till, as the dusk was falling, we heard his footsteps on the creaking stairs.

He halted a moment in the doorway, recognising us apparently without surprise; and then, with a hope that we had not been kept waiting long, he led the way into an inner room.

"I do not suppose you remember me," said my friend, as soon as the door was closed. "I fancy that, until last night, you never saw me without my wig and gown. It makes a difference. I was Mrs. Hepworth's senior counsel."

It was unmistakable, the look of relief that came into the old, dim eyes. Evidently the incident of the previous evening had suggested to him an enemy.

"You were very good," he murmured. "Mrs. Hepworth was overwrought at the time, but she was very grateful, I know, for all your efforts."

I thought I detected a faint smile on my friend's lips.

"I must apologise for my rudeness to you of last night," he continued. "I expected, when I took the liberty of turning you round, that I was going to find myself face to face with a much younger man."

"I took you to be a detective," answered Ellenby, in his soft, gentle voice. "You will forgive me, I'm sure. I am rather short-sighted. Of course, I can only conjecture, but if you will take my word, I can assure you that Mrs. Hepworth has never seen or heard from the man Charlie Martin since the date of"— he hesitated a moment—"of the murder."

"It would have been difficult," agreed my friend, "seeing that Charlie Martin lies buried in Highgate Cemetery."

Old as he was, he sprang from his chair, white and trembling.

"What have you come here for?" he demanded.

"I took more than a professional interest in the case," answered my friend. "Ten years ago I was younger than I am now. It may have been her youth— her extreme beauty. I think Mrs. Hepworth, in allowing her husband to visit her— here where her address is known to the police, and watch at any moment may be set upon her— is placing him in a position of grave danger. If you care to lay before me any facts that will allow me to judge of the case, I am prepared to put my experience, and, if need be, my assistance, at her service."

His self-possession had returned to him.

"If you will excuse me," he said, "I will tell the boy that he can go."

We heard him, a moment later, turn the key in the outer door; and when he came back and had made up the fire, he told us the beginning of the story.

The name of the man buried in Highgate Cemetery was Hepworth, after all. Not Michael, but Alex, the elder brother.

From boyhood he had been violent, brutal, unscrupulous. Judging from Ellenby's story, it was difficult to accept him as a product of modern civilisation. Rather he would seem to have been a throwback to some savage, buccaneering ancestor. To expect him to work, while he could live in vicious idleness at somebody else's expense, was found to be hopeless. His debts were paid for about the third or fourth time, and he was shipped off to the Colonies. Unfortunately, there were no means of keeping him there. So soon as the money provided him had been squandered, he returned, demanding more by menaces and threats. Meeting with unexpected firmness, he seems to have regarded theft and forgery as the only alternative left to him. To save him from punishment and the family name from disgrace, his parents' savings were sacrificed. It was grief and shame that, according to Ellenby, killed them both within a few months of one another.

Deprived by this blow of what he no doubt had come to consider his natural means of support, and his sister, fortunately for herself, being well out of his reach, he next fixed upon his brother Michael as his stay-by. Michael, weak, timid, and not perhaps without some remains of boyish affection for a strong, handsome, elder brother, foolishly yielded. The demands, of course, increased, until, in the end, it came almost as a relief when the man's vicious life led to his getting mixed up with a crime of a particularly odious nature. He was anxious now for his own sake to get away, and Michael, with little enough to spare for himself, provided him with the means, on the solemn understanding that he would never return.

But the worry and misery of it all had left young Michael a broken man. Unable to concentrate his mind any longer upon his profession, his craving was to get away from all his old associations— to make a fresh start in life. It was Ellenby who suggested London and the ship furnishing business, where Michael's small remaining capital would be of service. The name of Hepworth would be valuable in shipping circles, and Ellenby, arguing this consideration, but chiefly with the hope of giving young Michael more interest in the business, had insisted that the firm should be Hepworth and Co.

They had not been started a year before the man returned, as usual demanding more money. Michael, acting under Ellenby's guidance, refused in terms that convinced his brother that the game of bullying was up. He waited a while, and then wrote pathetically that he was ill and starving. If only for the sake of his young wife, would not Michael come and see them?

This was the first they had heard of his marriage. There was just a faint hope that it might have effected a change, and Michael, against Ellenby's advice, decided to go. In a miserable lodging-house in the East End he found the young wife, but not his brother, who did not return till he was on the point of leaving. In the interval the girl seems to have confided her story to Michael.

She had been a singer, engaged at a music-hall in Rotterdam. There Alex Hepworth, calling himself Charlie Martin, had met her and made love to her. When he chose, he could be agreeable enough, and no doubt her youth and beauty had given to his protestations, for the time being, a genuine ring of admiration and desire. It was to escape from her surroundings, more than anything else, that she had consented. She was little more than a child, and anything seemed preferable to the nightly horror to which her life exposed her.

He had never married her. At least, that was her belief at the time. During his first drunken bout he had flung it in her face that the form they had gone through was mere bunkum. Unfortunately for her, this was a lie. He had always been coolly calculating. It was probably with the idea of a safe investment that he had seen to it that the ceremony had been strictly legal.

Her life with him, so soon as the first novelty of her had worn off, had been unspeakable. The band that she wore round her neck was to hide where, in a fit of savagery, because she had refused to earn money for him on the streets, he had tried to cut her throat. Now that she had got back to England she intended to leave him. If he followed and killed her she did not care.

It was for her sake that young Hepworth eventually offered to help his brother again, on the condition that he would go away by himself. To this the other agreed. He seems to have given a short display of remorse. There must have been a grin on his face as he turned away. His cunning eyes had foreseen what was likely to happen. The idea of blackmail was no doubt in his mind from the beginning. With the charge of bigamy as a weapon in his hand, he might rely for the rest of his life upon a steady and increasing income.

Michael saw his brother off as a second-class passenger on a ship bound for the Cape. Of course, there was little chance of his keeping his word, but there was always the chance of his getting himself knocked on the head in some brawl. Anyhow, he would be out of the way for a season, and the girl, Lola, would be left. A month later he married her, and four months after that received a letter from his brother containing messages to Mrs. Martin, "from her loving husband, Charlie," who hoped before long to have the pleasure of seeing her again.

Inquiries through the English Consul in Rotterdam proved that the threat was no mere bluff. The marriage had been legal and binding.

What happened on the night of the murder, was very much as my friend had reconstructed it. Ellenby, reaching the office at his usual time the next morning, had found Hepworth waiting for him. There he had remained in hiding until one morning, with dyed hair and a slight moustache, he had ventured forth.

Had the man's death been brought about by any other means, Ellenby would have counselled his coming forward and facing his trial, as he himself was anxious to do; but, viewed in conjunction with the relief the man's death must have been to both of them, that loaded revolver was too suggestive of premeditation. The isolation of the house, that conveniently near pond, would look as if thought of beforehand. Even if pleading extreme provocation, Michael escaped the rope, a long term of penal servitude would be inevitable.

Nor was it certain that even then the woman would go free. The murdered man would still, by a strange freak, be her husband; the murderer— in the eye of the law— her lover.

Her passionate will had prevailed. Young Hepworth had sailed for America. There he had no difficulty in obtaining employment— of course, under another name— in an architects office; and later had set up for himself. Since the night of the murder they had not seen each other till some three weeks ago.

I NEVER saw the woman again. My friend, I believe, called on her. Hepworth had already returned to America, and my friend had succeeded in obtaining for her some sort of a police permit that practically left her free.

Sometimes of an evening I find myself passing through the street. And always I have the feeling of having blundered into an empty theatre— where the play is ended.

_____________________

7: The Crimp

Henry Leverage

1885-1931

Argosy All-Story Weekly, 13 Nov 1920

THE LAW as set down for sailing masters offers a fair measure of protection for seamen.

Captain Gully, of the steam whaler Bowhead, was familiar with this law. It prevented him from completing his crew. Men of any kind were scarce in San Francisco. Cargoes rotted in ships' holds while the wages of ordinary seamen mounted to impossible heights.

The Bowhead was ready to steam for the Arctic and Bering Sea whaling grounds. Her boat-steerers, harpooners, mates, engineers, and twelve of a crew were aboard. Captain Gully dared not cat the anchor without eighteen men before the mast. He needed six more hands in the fo'c's'le.

"Hansen," he told his first mate, "lower the dingey and go to the Blubber Room on East Street. Ask for Abie Kelly. Bring Abie out with you."

"The crimp?"

"You know him."

"Ja! I dank I know him."

"Bring him to me!"

Hansen returned at nightfall. He steadied the bosun's ladder that hung from the taffrail and watched Abie Kelly climb to the deck.

Captain Gully greeted the crimp like a long-lost son. They descended to the whaler's cabin while Hansen was hooking the dingey's bow to a dangling fall.

"To be brief as possible," said Gully after pouring out a generous portion of rum, "I want six men before midnight, when the tide turns."

"What kind of men, cappin?"

"Any kind, so long as they are husky— Chinks, Kanakas, dock-rats, mission-stiffs."

Abie the Crimp, as he was known along the Barbary Coast, upended the rum, wiped his mouth, and stared at the skipper of the Bowhead.

Captain Gully was tall, thin, and weather-beaten. Abie was slight. He had hawk eyes, black as beads; a hawk's long nose and a disappearing chin. He had been born in San Francisco. His mother owned the dive known from the Golden Gate to Vladivostok as the Blubber Room.

"Cap," said Abie, "I'd like to assist you, but you know the law."

"Time was when you didn't speak to me of any law."

"That time is gone, cap. The Seamen's Union is hostile to shanghaiin'. The crews of all ships going out must sign before the proper authorities."

Captain Gully knew Abie's former price.

"There's a hundred dollars advance for every man you bring aboard who won't care what he signs."

"Blood money?"

"Yes. I'll pay it to you out of hand." Captain Gully touched his right breast, where a bulging pocket showed.

Abie the Crimp needed money. Six hundred dollars was a fair figure to pay for six men.

"There's only one way to get them," he said.

"What is that way, Abie?"

"Th' same way I fixed up old Cappin Pike of th' Norwhale, season before last. He went north with twenty-two good men. I furnished them all except three."

There was pride in Abie's voice. Captain Gully worked on this. He suggested:

"I only want six. Why, that ain't many for a runner like you."

"Not many? I should say it was, the way things are ashore— Seamen's Union, Coaster Unions, Shipping Board paying eighty dollars a month for ordinary sailors. No, it isn't many, but they are going to be hard to get. Make it one hundred and twenty-five dollars a man."

"How are you going about getting them aboard, Abie?"

"A new idea with me. I'm a government detective, see. I know the hangouts and scatters of all the crooks in San Francisco. I know where they're coinin' the queer. I know of a few stills. I heard yesterday of two new hop joints right on Dupont Street."

"You'll represent yourself as an officer of the law?"

"I've got a gold badge. I'll make the pinch, turn them over to an assistant detective who will bring them out to this ship, and you can do the rest. They'll be glad enough for getaway when I get done with them."

"I'll make it one hundred and twenty-five, Abie, if you hurry."

The crimp paused with one foot on the ladder which led to the quarter-deck of the Bowhead.

"There's a detective in town, cap, nobody ever saw as far as I can find out. His name is James Keenon. They're afraid as hell of him. I'll be Keenon to-night. I'll make six quiet pinches and send the men out to you."

"But they might start trouble before they sign on for the voyage."

Abie the Crimp laid his hand over his heart.

"Cap," he declared, "there's men ashore— Chinks and crooks— who would pay you five hundred dollars to get away from Keenon. See the point?"

Captain Gully nodded.

"All right, I'll be waiting, Abie. Do you need a boat?"

"Lend me your dingey. Let me have that mate, Hansen. He's got a pair of blue pants on— just the thing to imitate a copper's."

"Where will the boat be if I want it?"

"At the foot of Meigg's wharf."

"What time are you going to send out the first men?"

"God knows, cap; but it's an awful crooked part of town where I'm going to make those phony pinches in."

Captain Gully followed Abie up the ladder. Hansen took the skipper's orders, touched his cap, pulled the dingey alongside the rudder-post, and motioned for the crimp to slide down.

The seaman hitched the painter to a pile at the foot of Meigg's wharf after a swift row over the bay, and followed the gliding figure of Abie along East Street until the Blubber Room was reached.

"We'll get some hardware," explained Abie. "Come in the back room. Sit down. If you want a drink, tell my mother you're with me."

The crimp appeared within ten minutes. A black, soft-brimmed hat hid his sharp eyes. A long raincoat reached to his heels. He looked the part of a sleuth, except his weak chin.

"Where are you going, Abie?" asked his mother.

Abie the Crimp leaned over the bar and touched his lips to a muscular arm. He was a good son in many ways.

"We'll try a place I heard of in Jackson Street," he told Hansen after they had climbed the stairs from the Blubber Room. "Here, take these handcuffs and this badge. It's a building inspector's. Nobody will know the difference where we're going."

The seaman crammed two pairs of rusty handcuffs in the side pockets of his pea-jacket. He pinned the badge on his vest.

"I'm James Keenon," explained Abie. "No crook or Chink knows Keenon in this town. He's the man behind. He works up the case, scouts around, and lets somebody else do the pinching. He don't testify at the trials. He's the brains. The detectives you hear about are his tools."

"I dank that's a good way," said Hansen.

"Of course it's good— for me! All I have got to do is say I'm Keenon, flash my badge, and you make the arrest."

Abie opened his raincoat. He ran a finger through an armhole of his vest. A gold insignia flashed beneath the shielding coat as the crimp pulled out a suspender strap.

"That's where all the good ones wear it," he explained. "But you want yours in sight. You're the tool, to-night."

The mate was a big man. He would have made two of Abie. He lacked the crimp's energy and assurance. He dropped back one stride and followed Abie up a hill, through an alley and over a roof.

"Nothin' doing," said Abie after glancing at three windows. "This used to be a creepin' joint where sailors were trimmed. The creepers have crawled away. Guess the police were wise."

The crimp led Hansen through a maze of courts, covered arches and hallways. They started descending cellar steps. Musty bales loomed before them. It was the place of Wan Fat, dealer in li-she nuts.

Abie recalled a brief-caught conversation which he had overheard in the rear of the Blubber Room. Wan Fat, and his brother Sing Fat, observed the law. Next door, however, lived Hong Kee, who was known to have a supply of choice Victoria opium. The matter of the opium was common gossip along the Barbary Coast. Hong Kee did not know Abie.

The crimp's pride had been awakened by Captain Gully. Here was a chance. He tiptoed between Wan Fat's bales of nuts, drew Hansen to his side, and pointed to a low door.

"Bust through there," he whispered. "You won't need no gat. I'll go all the way up-stairs. We'll trap the rats."

Hong Kee and two of his patrons were enjoying themselves around a layout tray when Abie, armed with a rusty revolver, dropped through a roof-scuttle and Hansen broke down the door.

The placid faces of the Chinamen underwent several changes after the crimp ripped open a chair's cushion and pulled out five toys of opium. He had learned of the hiding-place while listening to the conversation of two hop fiends in his mother's dive.

He convinced the Celestials that he meant business. He explained that he was the much-feared Keenon. The mere possession of five cans of hop called for years in prison. Hong Kee and two coolie friends were taken by a roundabout route to Meigg's wharf. Hansen did not need to handcuff them.

Captain Gully, on watch, held up three fingers when Abie was rowed from the dingey whaler. The crimp had half filled the contract.

"I dank it will be easy to get the others," said the mate, whose slow brain had finally grasped Abie's big idea.

"We should have no trouble at all," Abie answered. He relaxed into silence and was rowed ashore.

Rain fell athwart the city. A mist rested on top of Knob Hill. Abie, hidden beneath the slouch hat and raincoat, entered several opium dens in hopes of catching some one napping. He was recognized in one of these. This would not do. He was supposed to be Keenon, a detective.

"We'll try for a big haul," he told the faithful mate. "We'll break in where men are making money."

The method pursued by the crimp to find the location of the coiners he had in mind was an involved detour which took all of an hour of precious time.

Mother Kelly, on duty as barmaid at the Blubber Room, supplied the necessary information. The Yetsky Wop, who had fortunately tried to pass a smooth two-bit piece on Abie's mother the day before, had never met Abie. His address was on Lower Mission Street, between a Chinese laundry and a ship's outfitter.

The crimp acted energetically. He dragged the mate out from a crowd that surrounded a soap-box preacher at Mission and East Street. He crossed the sidewalk, loosened his revolver, and started mounting flights of stairs which were steep as the shrouds to a topmast.

The Yetsky Wop, a meek-eyed Italian and his assistant coiner, had a crucible on a stove and three plaster-of-Paris molds ready for filling. Both raised their arms when Abie, backed by the mate, came around by a fire-escape.

The crimp took no chances with the coiners. Yetsky's brother was known in the city as Angel Face. He was credited with five murders.

Hansen securely handcuffed the prisoners. He waited while Abie searched the room. A plating outfit, a box of copper and zinc, and a double handful of smooth quarters were hidden beneath the floor.

"I'm Keenon of the Secret Service!" said Abie. "My man will take you out to the revenue cutter. You go to the Federal prison."

Yetsky and his brother had feared Detective Keenon for over four years. They were plastic as their own plaster-of-Paris in the mate's hands. They jumped to his proposal of letting them get away on a whaler. Had not they been caught red-handed? It was bad enough to have queer money in one's possession, but double worse to have both the money and the molds. The sentence given by the Federal courts on similar charges had been five years for each offense.

Abie waited at the shore end of Meigg's wharf for the mate to return from the whaler Bowhead. He had done remarkably well in the matter of getting Captain Gully a crew. There remained one more man to secure. The crimp had his pride. He had promised six.

The rain was a dampener to his hopes of getting this man. It would be useless to send out anybody except one who feared the law more than a whaling voyage.

Yetsky, Angel Face, Hong Kee and the two coolies would sign any paper at midnight. They did not need to be urged to leave San Francisco.

"Having put the fear of Keenon into their hearts," Abie told Hansen, when the mate came ashore, "we'll proceed to find the last man. What did Captain Gully say?"

"I dank he say nothin'. He is sitting on the booby-hatch holding down the crew."

Abie led the mate toward Mission Street. The two men paused a moment in the shelter of an awning. The soap-box preacher had guided his flock of derelicts into the Beacon Room.

The Beacon Room was a long saloon made over into a mission hall. The windows were silvered with Rochelle salts. A tramp stood at the entrance. He shivered in the rain, opened the door, and went inside. The sound of voices came through the transom. They were pitched in many broken keys.

"Holy Joe's Place," was the name given to the Beacon Light by the denizens of the Barbary Coast. Holy Joe had long been a figure of prominence along the water-front. He took in seamen, runaway apprentices from British ships, and the flotsam of the West Coast. He fed them, prayed for them, and sent them forth strengthened in body and spirit.

Abie knew Holy Joe by sight. The missionary and preacher had frequently visited the Blubber Room. It was rumored that he was not averse to taking a drink.

There existed an antipathy between the crimp and the preacher. Abie Kelly believed Holy Joe to be a sickening fraud. He had told his mother so. The missionary's visits to dives and saloons led the crimp to presume he was seeking whisky. Moreover, on one occasion, Abie had seen Holy Joe staggering.

"I've got my man!" said the crimp. "I won't need you any more, Hansen. Go to the boat and wait for me."

"I dank I better stay around."

Abie drew himself up to his full height of five feet four inches. "I've my man located," he said. "He's the preacher— Holy Joe!"

The mate shook his blond head. "Did he break a law?"

"Break th' law? He's lucky to stay out of San Quentin— what I know about him."

Abie knew nothing more about Holy Joe than the Barbary Coast gossip that the missionary was a gad-about and a nuisance. He was anxious to get rid of the mate. The time was short for him to supply Captain Gully with the sixth man.

"At the foot of Meigg's Wharf."

Hansen strode stiffly toward East Street. He vanished around the corner. Abie dived toward the Blubber Room. He went through the back door, reached under an old icebox, and pulled out a tiny vial. It was filled with a mixture of chloral-hydrate and morphia— two drugs which would produce a deep sleep if taken in quantity.

Mother Kelly supplied Abie with a half-pint of bar whisky. Into this the crimp poured a tablespoon of the drug. He estimated the knockout dose for an average man to be fifteen drops of chloral and morphia. He had some experience in that line. The flask he pocketed and carried back to the Beacon Light was known as a "shoo-fly."

Abie's new idea was to get rid of Holy Joe and satisfy Captain Gully at the same time. His professional pride had changed to the soul-pleasing belief that the skipper of the Bowhead should be handed something as a reminder of the old days of shanghaiing. It would not be good ethics to let him get off without a hot one. The hot one being Holy Joe, who most certainly would make trouble.

From Abie's view-point all men were equal. He slipped into the Mission Hall like an eel. He took a shaky seat between a frowsled seafarer and a water-rat. He stared over the swaying heads of the congregation to where Holy Joe loomed upon a platform.

The preaching went on after a suggestive pause. The presence of Abie, the crimp, had almost brought forth a remark from the missionary. He recognized Mother Kelly's unsavory son. He changed the text and spoke of prodigals.

Abie was all eyes. He pretended to be deeply interested. Back in his brain his plan took form. He reviewed exactly what he was going to say to Holy Joe. It would take finesse to land the last man on the deck of the whale-ship. The service closed with the hymn:

"Salvation, Salvation— " changed to "There's a Light in the Window."

The meeting began to disperse. Abie waited until Holy Joe descended the platform and started down the aisle.

"A minute, preacher," he said. "You know me, don't you?"

Holy Joe, so called along the water-front, dropped a lambent glance upon Abie's glossy hair.

"How are you, boy?" he asked. "I'm glad you came to-night. I hope to— "

"Cut that," said Abie, remembering his role. "You see, I came to you because you was the only man who could help."

"Help what?"

Abie paused a suggestive minute. He stared around the rapidly emptying mission room.

"There's a man dyin' out in th' fo'c's'le of th' whaler Bowhead, preacher. He ain't got nobody to pray for him. His name is Yetsky. He was hit by a Chink. He'll die and they'll throw him overboard to th' fishes."

Holy Joe, as Abie the Crimp expected, became interested.

"I'll be with you in a minute," he said, glancing at his flock going out the door.

"No! It's life or death, preacher. The Yetsky Wop—"

"The Yetsky Wop?"

"Sure, preacher. D'ye know who I mean now?"

"Yes. I've been watching his progress for years. He's one of my particular— converts."

"He's in bad now. Keenon, of the Secret Service, pinched him for makin' queer money. The detective let him go when he promised to stay aboard the whaler until it went out."

The lambent light in Holy Joe's eyes died to a restrospective glitter. Abie, keenly alert, detected a resolute movement of the missionary's lips. They closed in a straight line.

"I've heard of Keenon, Abie. So he arrested one of my converts? That is too bad!"

"Got him dead, bang right! Caught him with th' goods— molds and copper an' a platin' outfit. Then this Keenon lets him go."

"Were there any witnesses to the raid, Abie?"

"Sure! A mate of th' Bowhead saw th' whole thing."

"What is the mate's name?"

"Hansen."

"How— did the Yetsky Wop get injured?"

"A Chink hit him on th' head. The Chink's name is Hong Kee."

Abie thought he might as well pile matters on thick enough to make sure of getting Holy Joe out in the dingey. Hong Kee was a well known Barbary Coast character. The crimp was not surprised when Holy Joe started buttoning up a long black coat and looking about for a hat.

"You're comin' with me, preacher?"

"Most certainly! I shall be of some service, I hope. You haven't explained how Hong Kee came to go to the whaler."

"Oh, Keenon caught him with five cans o' hop. It was good hop. I saw it with my own eyes."

Abie was the only man in San Francisco who knew where the five cans were hidden at that particular minute. He intended selling them when the Bowhead was well out from shore soundings.

"You get me," he told Holy Joe after they left the mission hall. "You get me, preacher, when I tell you that I am Keenon. It's not generally known."

The missionary did show some surprise.

"Why, I never suspected that," he said.

"Are you the government detective?"

Abie opened his coat, ran a thumb within the armhole of his checked vest, and showed the gold insignia that was pinned to his suspender strap.

"United States Secret Service," whispered Holy Joe. "I never knew it, Abie."

"Sure! I pinched those guys to-night, then I changed m' mind an' let 'em go— to th' whaler. They started fightin' among themselves— there's some more out there— an' Captain Gully sent word to me that Yetsky Wop was dyin' an' needed a preacher. I thought of you."

Abie searched for sign of Hansen at the shore end of Meigg's wharf. He whistled shrilly. The mate, sleepy and damp, emerged from the shelter of a shed.

"Right out to th' Bowhead!" commanded the crimp. "I've kept my promise to Captain Gully. This is the man!"

The mate was a silent soul. He started rowing with long whalerman's strokes.

Abie sat on the after thwart with Holy Joe. They faced the seaman whose glance was directed toward the Market Street ferry-house.

The Bowhead was some little distance from the shore. It showed a pale riding-light on the foremast. No other ship was near the whaler.

"So you are Keenon?" said the missionary suddenly.

"Bet I am, preacher! Even my mother don't know it."

"It's a bad thing for a son to keep anything from his mother."

"Got to! My life's always in danger." Abie reached into his hip-pocket, brought out the half-pint of whisky, and pulled the cork with his teeth.

"Have some?"

Holy Joe moistened his straight lips. Abie could not see the preacher's expression on account of the darkness. A light smacking indicated that the bait was acceptable. Holy Joe had been seen in too many dives and saloons along the coast of Barbary to refuse a drink.

"With my blessing," said the preacher, handing back the flask.

Abie pretended to take an enormous swallow. He pressed his tongue over the mouth of the bottle. Even then he tasted the bitterness of the chloral-hydrate and morphia. He wondered how Holy Joe stood the decoction. The preacher commenced swaying on the thwart. He rocked the small boat slightly. Hansen glanced at him.

"Abie," said Holy Joe in a low voice, "I'm not pleased with that whisky."

"Oh, it's all right, preacher. You know we make it in the cellar. We got a private still. You see, me being a government man allows us to do it."

"It was bitter, Abie."

The crimp realized that he would have to be careful if he wanted to deliver Captain Gully's last man. Holy Joe was apparently going under. There was a quarter-knot to be rowed before the Bowhead could be boarded.

"What's the matter, preacher?" he asked. "Are you prayin'?"

"I'm thinking, Abie, of what you told me about Yetsky Wop. Did Hong Kee strike him with provocation?"

"The Chink ran amuck. He tried to kill Yetsky's brother."

"Angel Face?"

"Sure! The one they want for five murders. I found him with Yetsky when I made the pinch. I'm going to let them go. I've changed heart, preacher."

Holy Joe wound his arms around Abie's waist, and lurched to an erect position. Abie experienced the sensation of having his pockets picked. He wondered if the preacher had been seeking the flask of whisky. It was a strange action for a missionary. He attributed it to the effects of at least fifteen drops of chloral-hydrate.

The dingey swung its bow. Hansen drew in an oar. The dark outlines of the Bowhead were ahead. Captain Gully stood on the forepeak. He lowered a bo'swain's ladder.

"Up we go," said Abie. "Go right into the fo'c's'le, preacher. There's Yetsky Wop an' Angel Face an' Hong Kee waitin' for you."

Captain Gully unbattened the booby-hatch. He stepped aside. He leaned against a pinrail. Holy Joe, staggering and mumbling, crossed the whaler's planks, turned, and descended the greasy steps.

Abie grinned at the pleased skipper. "Six," he whispered. He reached for the rusty revolver which should have been in his pocket.

He had lost it during the boat ride! It was the weapon he intended using on the missionary. A light tap behind the ear would finish the work of the narcotic.

Abie was resourceful. He thought in split seconds. He heard voices below. One was Yetsky Wop's.

"My last man's all right," he assured the captain. "I'll put him in a bunk."

The scene in the fo'c's'le of the whaler was not exactly to the crimp's liking. He turned from the foot of the ladder and searched the gloom for Holy Joe.

The missionary struck a match. The yellow flame passed from bunk to bunk. Evil, vice-stamped faces, answered the search. The match went out. Abie, crouching with a belaying-pin in his hand, suddenly felt his wrist gripped with compelling fingers.

He writhed. His arm was bent back. Holy Joe's voice was low and demanding.

"Drop that! Now turn. Now go up the ladder. Follow me. Don't twist. It's no use at all, Abie."

The astonished skipper of the Bowhead was a witness to Abie's forced exit from the booby-hatch. Holy Joe, so called along the Barbary Coast, hurled the crimp against the fife-rail on the foremast.

The preacher's smile was bland. He swiftly closed the hatch. He drove in a holding-pin with his right heel.

He turned to Abie:

"I didn't drink the knockout drops. I poured it down my shirt-front. I didn't leave the mission because I like the atmosphere of this whaler. You see, I am interested in Yetsky Wop and Yetsky's brother, Angel Face, the coiner. He is wanted by the government. I'll be promoted for capturing him."

Abie did not need to be told Holy Joe's right name. He pieced events together. They dove-tailed. The reason for the missionary showing interest in Yetsky Wop— his habit of visiting the hangouts of crooks— the adept manner in which he picked pockets, all pointed to a crushing conclusion.

"You're Detective Keenon!" declared the crimp.

The Secret Service man turned up the lower left-hand corner of his vest and showed the insignia of his office.

He said with the politest kind of a bow, after glancing at the hatch:

"Thanks, Abie!"

__________________

8: The Fighting Heart

W. Alexander

Amazing Stories, Feb 1928

"W. Alexander" produced half a dozen science fiction short stories on improbable medical themes for the Gernsback Amazing Stories in the late 1920s, featuring Dr Wentworth, and a final Wentworth story in 1934. Nothing else is known. The titles give a clue to their light-hearted nature: "One Leg Too Many"; "The Ananaias Gland"; "New Stomachs for Old"....

TOM WILSON was a worm, he knew he was a worm, but in spite of the knowledge he seemed unable to remedy the condition. As he walked toward the warehouse, where for the past ten years he had held the position of shipping-clerk, he reflected with bitterness on his down-trodden, brow- beaten, hen-pecked existence. Here was a man of forty in good health, with an inferiority complex so strongly developed, that he was forever cringing and debasing himself before people. . It was only day before yesterday that he had said"Yessir"to the colored porter on the train as he and his wife were returning from the beach. It made her mad and she promised to bounce a rolling pin off his head when she got him home, but fortunately, in the stress of getting supper, she forgot it.

He was hen-pecked at home by his wife and brow- beaten and bullied at the warehouse by every one with whom he came in contact, from the truck drivers to the foreman. Tom was really not a bad sort at all. He was of medium height, with a round, jolly he face and a bit of girth around the equator. He would have liked to be friendly with every one, but his advances were usually received with contempt by his associates.

A tremendous piece of luck had befallen him the day before— which was the cause of his unusual introspection and self- contempt on this particular morning. Just before his lunch hour on the previous day, he had received a telephone message asking him to call at once oh a certain firm of lawyers. Hurrying through his lunch, he repaired to their offices and was informed that he was heir to the estate of an uncle, who had recently died in Alaska. They stated that the estate approximated one million dollars, and while .it would take a few months to comply with legal formalities before the estate could be turned over to him, they would be happy to be allowed to advance him any sums he might require.

On the impulse of the moment he "touched" them for five thousand dollars, not because he had any particular use for such a sum, but just to convince himself that he was awake and listening to a true story. He swore the lawyers to secrecy for no very well defined reason, except that he feared to have it become known that he was rich until he had time to adjust himself to the idea.

During the afternoon, after returning from his meeting with the lawyers, whenever Jim Lang, the foreman, scorched him with an extra nasty bit of sarcasm, he would slip a hand into his pocket and finger the crisp certified check for five thousand dollars, and wonder what fat Jim would say if he flashed it before his eyes, Then, after supper that night when Ann, his wife, gave him a terrible tongue lashing: for breaking one of her blue saucers while wiping the dishes, he almost, but not quite, grinned in her face as he fingered the check in his pocket and he wondered what she would say, if he handed her the check in a nonchalant maimer, saying :

"Here, Ann, old girl, take this and buy all of the blue saucers that you want."

A few evenings later, when he had finished wiping the supper dishes, he told Ann that he was going to step across the street to Dr. Wentworth's home, to consult him about a pain he was having in his side.

"Pain, fiddlesticks," snorted Ann. "You've been stuffing yourself with pie for lunch again, I suppose. Now don't you stay over there gossiping with that doctor, because I want you to scrub this kitchen tonight."

"Yes, my love," answered Tom meekly, "I won t be long."

"Doc," said Tom, when he was seated in Dr. Wentworth's library, "I ran over to have a little talk with you, as my friend rather than as my doctor. I told my wife that I was coming over to consult you about a pain in my side, but that was a lie, for I never felt better in my life. I don't want you to mention it to any one for the present, hut I have just fallen heir to one million dollars from an uncle's estate. Here is a check for five thousand the lawyers gave me and they said I could have more if I wanted it while they were attending to the legal requirements preliminary to turning the estate over to me. I never before worried much about my 'inferiority complex' as you have called it, but now when people find out that I am rich, they will jump on me harder than ever, trying to brow-beat money out of me. I thought perhaps you could suggest something to help me."

"Well, Tom," said the doctor, "I am glad to hear that you have fallen heir to a fortune. Now about your condition; as I have told you many times, it is largely mental. You are in good health and a rather strong man for your size. In a matter of fisticuffs, you could give a very good account of yourself, if you would fight. Do I understand that you have told no one of your inheritance, not even your wife?"

"No, you and the lawyers are the only ones who know. Doc, you have an international reputation for performing unusual operations, like those stomach exchanges, for instance. Can't you do something for me— change something in me, that will rid me of this craven fear of everyone who says 'boo' to me?

"If you are to be Cured by an operation," said Dr. Wentworth, as he looked fondly at him, "there is only one that I know of that would fit your case, namely, an exchange of hearts— the exchange being made with a man possessed of what is usually referred to as a 'fighting heart.' "

"BUT my goodness, Doc, you couldn't exchange my heart with another man's without killing us both, could you ?"

"Oh, yes," said the doctor with a smile; "that operation is not at all uncommon now. You see, in theory, we surgeons have always been able to per form that operation successfully, hut in actual practice, the patients always died. This was true up to a couple of years ago, when Doctor Zambi, the noted French scientist, invented, or discovered, Xerolla. This chemical is a very powerful anesthetic, which enables us to place a patient in a state of complete suspended animation for a period of forty-eight hours, with no deleterious reaction.

"Dr. Zambi also invented, or discovered, Collodiansy, a combination of chemicals which, when applied to the lips of an incision, causes it to commence healing rapidly at once— is almost healed in twelve hours, entirely healed in twenty-four hours and in thirty-six hours the scars are almost invisible. With those two agents, Xerolla and Collodiansy, it has become such a simple operation that we no longer consider it in the major class. In thirty-six hours the veins and arteries, where we have made the connection with the new heart, are completely healed and in forty-eight hours, when the patient comes out of his deep sleep, it is almost impossible to find even the cicatrix of the incision in the chest."

"That sounds fine, but could you find a man with what you call a 'fighting heart' that would be willing to make the exchange? Then, too, I wouldn't want any one to know that I had undergone such an operation."

"Yes, I could find a man willing to make the exchange for a price. That is where your new wealth will come in handy. The exact nature of your operation need not be known. It could he given out that you had undergone an operation for the removal of your appendix."

"Doc," said Tom earnestly, "above all things, my wife must not know the nature of this operation."

"That can be arranged. Tomorrow morning do not' go to work. Complain, to her of pains in your abdomen and have her call me in. I will advise your removal to the hospital. Later she can be informed that an operation for appendicitis is necessary."

The following day these plans were carried out and from the hospital Tom sent for his lawyers and se- cured a further advance of funds. The next three days were spent by Dr. Wentworth, so he-informed Tom, in finding just the right man for the exchange operation. During these three days Ann. showed a solicitude for Tom's welfare that surprised and touched him. She called at the hospital three times each day, but by the doctor's orders was only allowed to remain a few minutes.

On the morning of the operation the doctor said to Tom :

"In these exchange operations we think it best that the patients do not meet, as it might be a source of embarrassment later, but I am going to give you a sight of the man from whom you will acquire the 'fighting heart,' because he is such a fine specimen of young manhood."

The doctor led him down the corridor and into a room in which was a door leading into the next room. The upper part of this door was of glass covered with a lace curtain.

"Look through the curtain," said the doctor. "The man with whom you are to make the exchange is standing in the next room."

Tom looked through the curtain and saw a fine looking young man, apparently an athlete. He seemed almost like a composite picture of Firpo, Dempsey and Tunney.

As they walked back up the corridor Tom said:

"That sure is a fine looking young fellow. I'll bet he can whip his weight in wild-cats. But say, Doc, when he acquires this heart of mine, how will it affect him ?"

"It will have no effect whatever on his actions. There is nothing organically wrong with your heart, as I have often told you. Your trouble is largely mental. This man has the fighting mental attitude and will carry on just as he has before and your heart will function perfectly for him."

WHEN Tom came out of his deep sleep and Dr. Wentworth informed him that the operation was a complete success, he was as happy as a lark. A week later the doctor said to him :

"Tom, my conduct in the matter of your operation has been most unethical, not letting your wife know, and so on, but out of friendship to you, I am going to continue on the same lines. I am going to take a month's vacation and you and I are going to Bermuda, without your wife. When we return in a month you will be in top-hole form. We leave tomorrow, so make whatever explanations you think best to your wife."

Tom found unexpected difficulty in persuading Ann that the trip to Bermuda without her was the proper thing, but finally, with the doctor to back him up, he convinced Her.

The month at Bermuda with Dr. Wentworth was a revelation to Tom, who had found little time for play in his life. The doctor taught him to play golf and they put in their days golfing, swimming and fishing.

On the morning of their return to the city Tom said to the doctor.

"Doc, the man from whom I got this heart must have been a fighting fool, for I am never so happy as when I am about to get into a scrap. Sure different from the way I used to be."

"Use a little discretion, Tom," Dr. Wentworth answered, smiling quizzically at him. "If you don't, one of these days some little fellow will come along and half kill you."

TOM went at once to his home, greeted his wife rather casually, changed to his working clothes and reported to the warehouse for work.

As soon as Jim Lang, the foreman, found a moment of leisure, he approached Tom, who was seated on his high stool at the billing desk, and took up his usual line of bickering and brow-beating.

"Say, runt," said Lang, "do you think we are going to wait all day for those bills-of-lading?"

"Now Fatty," said Tom, looking the foreman over with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, "if you think you can make these bills out faster, climb on this stool and go to it."

"Why you insignificant pencil pusher," roared the surprised Lang, for never before had this worm dared to give him a sharp answer, "if you give me any of your lip, I'll knock you for a row of ash cans."

"Atta boy Fatty," said Tom with a grin, as he climbed down from the high stool, "that's the talk I've been waiting for. Now just for that, I'm going to give you a smack."

Tom slapped him with his open hand, but so forcibly, that the unprepared Lang sat down with a bounce.

"You will notice, my dear Fatty," said Tom, as he stood, over him, "that I merely patted you with my open hand."

"When I get up," said the fat foreman, as he struggled to get his feet under him, "I am going to tear you apart."

"Oh no you are not," answered Tom, laughing happily, "because I am next going to lay my fist carefully on the side of your jaw, to help pay for all these years of misery you have caused me."

When Lang finally succeeded in regaining his feet, he made a rush at Tom, swinging his arms wildly, but missed him and received a resounding whack on the jaw, that dropped him as though he had been shot.

"Now you truck-hogs," yelled Tom, at the truck drivers who were looking on in amazement at this unexpected conduct of the heretofore worm of a shipping-clerk, "carry this carrion over to that corner out of the way and then snap into, getting these goods for the depot on your trucks. Lively now."

The truck men went to work with a will, loading the packing cases on their trucks, casting side-long glances of bewilderment at the belligerent shipping- clerk.

"Here you, Jones," called Tom to one of the men, who had paused for a moment to rest, "what do you think this is, a picnic?"

The man looked at him insolently, spat on the floor, hitched up his pants, but made no move to resume work.

"I was just hoping that you would give me an excuse," said Tom, with a happy laugh as he walked toward him. "It's many years you have been step- ping on the worm. Now the worm has turned."

With that he struck the fellow a clout on the ear, that caused his head to rock and made him see stars,

"Get busy," chortled Tom, with huge enjoyment, "or I'll give you the other barrel."

One barrel was evidently enough, for the fellow proceeded at once to load his truck. As Tom returned to the billing desk, he noticed Mr. Davis, the president of the company, standing just back of it with a grin on his face.

When the last truck was loaded, Tom addressed the men :

"You truck-hogs have been taking entirely too much time to make the trip to the depot and back. I am giving you just one hour to make the round trip, one half of the time that you have been taking. The man that is late in getting back, is going to have a fight and I will add that there are three of you that I am hoping will be late. Now get going."

"Tom," said Mr. Davis, the president, as he was climbing back to his stool, "come into my office for a minute. I want to talk to you."

"I noticed how you handled those drivers," said the president, when they were seated in his office.

"You have been with us for ten years and in ap- preciation of your faithful service I am going to promote you to foreman, at double your present 'wages."

"Oh you are," said Tom, with a menacing glare, "it's taken you a damned long time to find out what a faithful fellow I am. You have never raised my wages a nickel since I have been with you. You have never even seen me in the warehouse enough to say 'Good-morning.' I don't like you, I don't like your face and especially your nose. I have dreamed many times in the past years of pulling it and right now is when I make one dream come true."

Tom reached across the desk and took a firm grip on the president's aristocratic nose and gave it several severe tweaks. Then he slowly twisted it until the tears ran down the man's face and a groan or, anguish escaped him.

"Eye, bye, old dear," said Tom, as he walked to the door. "As Barney Google would say, T hope you don't feel hurt.* "

HE walked home through a drizzling rain and when he entered the house, he smiled as Ann greeted him with her usual avalanche of abuse.

"Say, do you think you are coining into a barn?" demanded Ann. "Go right hack out on the porch and wipe your dirty feet. Do you think I have nothing else to do but clean up after you?"

"Whom do you think you are talking to," ex- claimed Tom, as he took hold of her shoulders and shook her until her teeth rattled. "I'll teach you to stand around jawing instead of getting my supper. Now get it on the table and make it snappy and after this you had better have it ready when I get home. What's the idea of a tired man having to wait for his supper when he gets home from work?"

"Sit down dear," whimpered Ann, as she banged pots and pans around on the stove in mad haste, "I'll have it on the table in just a jiffy."

As Tom ate his supper in dignified silence, she hovered around him like an uneasy mother.

"Is the soup hot enough, Tom dear?" she asked. "Wouldn't you like another piece of this pie? It's your favorite kind."

"No more," said Tom, glancing at her in astonishment, for it had been a long time since she allowed him to have more than one piece of pie at a meal.

"Get these dishes washed and wiped in a hurry," he told her when he had finished, "then come into the front room; I want to talk to you."

"All right dear, I'll be through in a moment." But she said not a word about his wiping the dishes, which had been his custom for years.

When she came into the front room, she seated herself on the arm of his chair, ran her fingers through his hair, then pressed her cheek against his head. He tilted back his head so that he could see her and began :

"Now Ann," but got no further for she stooped swiftly and pressed her lips to his in a kiss, such as he could not remember receiving since the days of their honeymoon. Finally she slid into his lap and he proceeded.

"Ann I am now a wealthy man, an uncle whom I had not heard of for years died in Alaska and left me a fortune. I have engaged passage for you and me on a boat that leaves for Europe in three days. To- morrow I want you to go to a beauty parlour, get your hair bobbed and your face prettied up like other women do. Then get yourself some proper traveling clothes; you can get more when we reach Paris. You have gotten too careless about your appearance. You are a darned good-looking woman and need only fix yourself up properly, which is just what you must do in the future."

"All right, my love," cooed Ann with a happy laugh. "I'll get dolled up tomorrow so you won't know me."

Three days later they stood by the rail and waved to Dr. Wentworth as their ship glided away from the wharf.

"Oh, I almost forgot," said Ann, handing Tom a slip of paper, "Dr. Wentworth asked me to give this to you after the ship left the wharf."

Tom took .the paper and examined it with a puzzled expression. It was a certified check made out to Dr. Wentworth for the sum of five thousand dollars. Tom had gotten it from his lawyers for the Doctor, to pay for the operation. He turned it over and on the back it was endorsed: "Pay to Tom Wilson" and was signed "Dr. Wentworth."

Below the signature was written "in the doctor's line hand: "I can't accept this, Tom; wouldn't he ethical, as I have not yet hung out a shingle as a Psychologist, but the point is, you are cured, even if you still have your own heart — which, by the way, you have proved to be equal to any."

__________________

9: After the Inquest

W. W. Jacobs

1863-1943

Short Stories, Nov 1894

IT was a still, fair evening in late summer in the parish of Wapping. The hands had long since left, and the night watchman having abandoned his trust in favor of a neighboring bar, the wharf was deserted.

An elderly seaman came to the gate and paused iiresolute, then seeing all was quiet, stole cautiously on to the jetty, and stood for some time gazing curiously down on the deck of the billyboy Mary Ann lying alongside.

With the exception of the mate, who, since the lamented disappearance of its master and owner, was acting as captain, the deck was as deserted as the wharf. He was smoking an evening pipe in all the pride of a first command, his eye roving fondly over the blunt bows and untidy deck of his craft to the clumsy stem, when a slight cough from the man above attracted his attention.

"How do, George," said the man on the jetty, somewhat sheepishly, as the other looked up.

The mate opened his mouth, and the pipe fell from it and smashed to pieces unnoticed.

"Got much stuff in her this trip?" continued the man, with an obvious attempt to appear at ease.

The mate, still looking up, backed slowly to the other side of the deck, but made no reply.

"What's the matter, man," said the other testily; "you don't seem over and above pleased to see me,"

He leaned over as he spoke, and laying hold of the rigging, descended to the deck while the mate took his breath in short gasps.

"Here I am, George," said the intruder; "turned up like a bad penny, an' glad to see your hansum face agin, I can tell you."

In response to this flattering remark, George gurgled.

"Why," said the other, with an uneasy laugh, "did you think I was dead, George? Ha, ha! Feel that!"

He fetched the horrified man a thump in the back which stopped even his gurgles.

"That feel like a dead man?" asked the smiter, raising his hand again. "Feel—"

The mate moved back hastily.

"That'll do," said he, sulkily. "Ghost or no ghost, don't you hit me like that again."

"A' right, George," said the other, as he meditatively felt the stiff gray whisker which framed his red face. "What's the news?"

"The news," said George, who was of slow habits and speech, "is that you was found last Tuesday week off St. Katherine's stairs, you was sat on a Friday week at the Town o' Ramsgate public house and buried on Monday afternoon at Lowestoff."

"Buried!" gasped the other. "Sat on! You've been drinking, George."

"An' a pretty penny your funeral cost, I can tell you," continued the mate. "There's a headstone being made now— 'Lived Lamented and Died Respected,' I think it is, with 'Not Lost, but Gone Before,' at the bottom."

" 'Lived respected and died lamented,' you mean," growled the old man. "Well, a nice muddle you've made of it between you. Things always go wrong when I'm not here to look after them."

"You ain't dead, then?" said the mate, taking no notice of this unreasonable remark. "Where've you been all this long time?"

"No more than you're master o' this 'ere ship," replied Mr. Harbolt, grimly; "I've been a bit queer in the stomach an' I took a little drink to correct it. Foolish like, I took the wrong drink and it must have got into my head."

"That's the worst of not being used to it," said the mate without moving a muscle.

The skipper eyed him solemnly, but the mate stood firm.

"After that," continued the skipper, still watching him suspiciously, "I remember no more distinctly until this morning, when I found myself sitting on a step down Poplar way and shiverin' with the morning newspaper and a crowd around me."

"Morning newspaper!" repeated the mystified mate. "What was that for?"

"Decency. I was wrapped up in it," replied the skipper. "Where I came from or how I got there I don't know no more than Adam. I s'pose I must have been ill. I seem to remember taking something out of a bottle pretty often. Some old gentleman in the crowd took me into a shop and bought me these clo's, an here I am. My own clo's and the £30 o' freight money I had in my pocket is all gone."

"Well, I'm hearty glad to see you back," said the mate. "It is quite a home-coming for you. Your missis is down aft."

"My missis ? What the devil's she aboard for?" growled the skipper, successfully controlling his natural gratification at the news.

"She's been with us these last two trips," replied the mate. "She's had business to settle in London, and she's been going through your lockers to clean up like."

"My lockers!" groaned the skipper. "Good heavens! there's things in them lockers I wouldn't have her see for the world; women are so fussy an' so fond o' making something out o' nothing. There's a pore female touched a bit on the upper story what's been writing love letters to me, George."

"Three pore females!" said the precise mate; "the missis has got all the letters tied up with blue ribbons. Very far gone they was, too."

"George," said the skipper in a broken voice, "I'm a ruined man. I'll never hear the end o' this. I guess I'll go an' sleep for'ard this voyage and lie low. Be keerful you don't let on I'm aboard, an' after she's gone 'ome I'll take the ship again and let the thing leak out gradually ; come to life bit by bit, so to speak. It won't do to scare her, George, and in the meantime, I'll try an' think o' some explanation to tell her. You might be thinking, too."

"I'll do what I can," said the mate.

"Crack me up to the old girl all you can; tell her that I used to write to all sorts o' people when I got a drap o' drink in me; say how thoughtful I always was of her. You might tell her about that gold locket I bought for her an' got robbed of."

"Gold locket?" said the mate, in tones of great surprise. "What gold locket? First I've heard of it."

"Any gold locket," said the skipper, irritably; "anything you can think of; you needn't be pertikler. Arter that, you can drop little hints about people being buried in mistake for others, so as to prepare her a bit— I don't want to scare her."

"Leave it to me," said the mate.

"I'll go and turn in now. I'm dead tired," said the skipper. "I 'spose Joe and the boy's asleep."

George nodded, and meditatively watched the other as he pushed back the forescuttle and drew it after him as he descended. Then a thought struck him, and he ran hastily forward and threw his weight on the scuttle just in time to frustrate the efforts of Joe and the boy, who were coming on deck for a little yelling space. The confusion below was frightful, the skipper's cry of "It's only me, Joe!" not possessing the soothing effect which he intended. They calmed down at length after their visitor had convinced them that he really was flesh and blood and fists, and the boy's attention being directed to a small rug in the corner of the foc'sle, the skipper took his bunk and was soon fast asleep.

He slept so soundly that the noise of the vessel getting under way failed to arouse him and she was well out in the open river when he awoke, and after cautiously protruding his head through the scuttle, ventured on deck. For some time he stood eagerly sniffing the cool, sweet air, and then after a look around gingerly approached the mate, who was at the helm. "Give me a hold on her," said he.

"You'd better get below ag'in if you don't want the missis to see you," said the mate. "She's gettin' up— nasty temper she's in, too."

The skipper went forward grumbling. "Send me down a good breakfast, George," said he.

To his great discomfort the mate suddenly gave a low whistle and regarded him with a look of blank dismay.

"Good gracious!" he cried, "I forgot all about it. Here's a pretty kettle of fish. Well, well!"

"Forgot about what?" asked the skipper uneasily.

"The crew take their meals in the cabin, now," replied the mate, " 'cos the missis says it's more cheerful for 'em, and she's larnin' 'em to eat their wittles properly."

The skipper looked at him aghast. "You'll have to smuggle me up some grub," he said at length. "I'm not going to starve for nobody."

"Easier said than done," said the mate; "the missis has got eyes like needles. Still, I'll do the best I can for you. Look out, here she comes!"

The skipper fled hastily and, safe down below, explained to the crew how they were to secrete portions of their breakfast for his benefit. The amount of explanation required for so simple a matter was remarkable, the crew manifesting a denseness which irritated him almost beyond endurance. They promised, however, to do the best they could for him and returned in triumph after a hearty meal and presented their enraged conunander with a few greasy crumbs and the tail of a bloater.

For the next two days the wind was against them, and they made but little progress. Mrs. Harbolt spent most of her time on deck, thereby confining her husband to his evil-smelling quarters below. Matters were not improved for him by his treatment of the crew who, resenting his rough treatment of them, were doing their best to starve him into civility. Most of the time he kept in his bunk— or, rather, he kept in Jimmy's bunk— a prey to despondency and hunger of an acute type, venturing on deck only at night to prowl uneasily about and bemoan his condition.

On the third night Mrs. Harbolt was later in retiring than usual, and it was nearly midnight before the skipper, who had been indignantly waiting for her to go, was able to get on deck and hold counsel with the mate.

"I've done what I could for you," said the latter, fishing a crust from his pocket, which Harbolt took thankfully. "I've told her all the yarns I could think of, about people turning up after they was buried, and the like."

"What'd she say?" queried the skipper eagerly, between his bites.

"Told me not to talk like that," said the mate; "said it showed a want o' trust in Providence to hint at such things. Then I told her what you asked me about the locket, only I made it a bracelet worth £10."

"That pleased her?" suggested the other, hopefully.

The mate shook his head.

"She said I was a born fool to believe you'd been robbed o' it," he replied. "She said what you'd done was to give it to one o' them pore females. She's been going on frightful about it all the aftemoon ; won't talk o' nothing else."

"I don't know what's to be done," groaned the skipper despondently. "I shall be dead afore we get to port if this wind holds. Go down and get me something to eat, George; I'm starving."

"Everything's locked up, as I told you afore," said the mate.

"As the master of this ship," said the skipper, drawing himself up, "I order you to go down and get me something to eat. You can tell the missis it's for you, if she says anything."

"I'm hanged if I will," said the mate, sturdily. "Why don't you go down and have it out with her like a man. She can't eat you."

"I'm not going to," said the other, shortly. "I'm a determined man, and when I say a thing I mean it. It's going to be broke to her gradual, as I said. I don't want her to be scared, pore thing."

"I know who'd be scared the most," murmured the mate.

The skipper looked on him fiercely, and then sat down wearily on the hatches with his hands between his knees, rising after a time to get the dipper and drink copiously from the water cask, then replacing it with a sigh, he bade the mate a surly goodnight and went below.

To his dismay, he found when he awoke in the morning that what little wind there was had dropped in the night, and the billyboy was just rising and falling lazily on the water, in a fashion most objectionable to an empty stomach. It was the last straw, and he made things so uncomfortable below that the crew was glad to escape on deck, where they squatted down in the bows and proceeded to review a situation which was rapidly becoming unbearable.

"I've 'ad enough of it, Joe," grumbled the boy. "I'm sore all over with sleeping on the floor, and the old man's temper gets wuss. I'm going to be ill."

"Whaffor?" queried Joe, dully.

"You tell the missis I'm down below ill. Say you think I am dying," responded the infant Machiavelli, "then you'll see something if you keep your eyes open."

He went below again, not without a little nervousness, and, clambering into Joe's bunk, rolled on his back and gave a deep groan.

"What's the matter with you?" growled the skipper, who was lying in the other bunk, staving off the pangs of hunger with a pipe.

"I'm very ill-r-dying," said Jem, with another groan.

"You'd better stay in bed and have your breakfast brought down here, then," said the skipper, kindly.

"I don't want no breakfast," said Jem faintly.

"That's no reason why you shouldn't have it sent down, you unfeeling little brute," said the skipper indignantly. "You tell Joe to bring you down a great plate of cold meat and pickles an' some coffee— that's what you want."

"All right, sir," said Jemmy. "I hope they won't let the missis come down here in case it's something catching. Better close the scuttle, sir."

"Eh?" said the skipper in alarm. "Certainly not. Here, you go up and die on deck— hurry up with you."

"I can't. I'm too weak," said Jemmy.

"You can go up on deck at once, d'ye hear me?" hissed the skipper in alarm.

"I c-c-c-can't help it," sobbed Jemmy, who was enjoying the situation amazingly. "I b'leeve it's sleeping on the hard floor's snapped something inside me."

"If you don't go I'll take you," said the skipper, and he was about to rise to put his threat into execution when a shadow fell across the opening, and a voice which thrilled him to the core said softly, "Jemmy."

"Yes'm," said Jemmy, languidly, as the skipper flattened himself in his bunk and drew the clothes over him.

"How do you feel?" inquired Mrs. Harbolt.

"Bad all over," said Jemmy. "Oh, don't come down, mum, please don't."

"Rubbish," said Mrs. Harbolt, tartly, as she came slowly and carefully down backward. "What a dark hole this is, Jemmy. No wonder you're ill. Put your tongue out."

Jemmy complied.

"I can't see properly here," replied the lady, "but it looks very large. S'pose you go in the other bunk. Jemmy. It's a good bit higher than this and you'd get more air and be more comfortable altogether."

"Joe wouldn't like it, mum," said the boy, anxiously. The last glimpse he had of the skipper's face did not make him yearn to share his bed with him.

"Stuff and nonsense," said Mrs. Harbolt, hotly. "Who's Joe, I'd like to know? But you come."

"I can't move, mum," said Jem, firmly.

"Nonsense," said the lady. "I'll just put it straight for you first, then in it you go."

"No, don't, mum," shouted Jem, now thoroughly alarmed at the success of the plot. "There's— there's a gentleman in that bunk. A gentleman we brought from London for a change of sea air."

"My goodness gracious!" ejaculated the surprised Mrs. Harbolt. " I never did— why, what's he had to eat?"

"He, he didn't want nothing to eat," said Jemmy, with a woful disregard for facts.

"What's the matter with him?" inquired Mrs. Harbolt, ey- ing tlie bunk curiously. "What's his name? Who is he?"

"He's been lost a long time," said Jemmy, "and he's forgotten who he is. He's a oldish man with a red face an' a little white whiskers all around it— a very nice-looking man, I mean," he interposed hurriedly. "I don't think he's quite right in his mind, cos he says he ought to have been buried instead of some one else. Oh!"

The last word was almost a scream, for Mrs. Harbolt, staggering back, pinched him convulsively.

"Jemmy," she gasped, in a trembling voice, as she suddenly remembered certain mysterious hints thrown out by the mate. "Who is it?"

"The Captain," said Jemmy, and, breaking from her clasp, slipped from his bed and darted hastily on deck just as the pallid face of his commander broke through the blankets and beamed anxiously on his wife.

FIVE minutes later, as the crew, gathered aft, were curiously eying the foc'sle, Mrs. Harbolt and the skipper came on deck. To the astonishment of the redoubtable mate the eyes of the redoubtable woman were slightly wet, and she clung fondly to her husband as they walked slowly to the cabin, regardless of the presence of the men. Ere they went below, however, she called the grinning Jemmy to her, and, to his indignant grief and shame, tucked his head under her arm and publicly kissed him.

______________

10: The Sense Of Touch

Ole Luk-Oie

Ernest Dunlop Swinton, 1868-1951

The Strand Magazine, Dec 1912

YES, perhaps in some ways it may appear ludicrous. But on the whole the unpleasant side swamped the other, and in reality it was a ghastly experience. At all events, I have no wish to go through anything of the sort again. Once is enough. Why, I've hardly been able to sleep for bad dreams ever since. I'll tell you about it, since you insist; but I must do it in my own way, which means recalling the whole thing bit by bit as it occurred, and you'll have to listen to all sorts of unimportant details, for I'm not up to making an artistic story of it. But that will be an advantage, because you will be the better able to appreciate my mental state at the time— how the affair appealed to me— and will not judge of it by the way it strikes you, sitting here safe in the club, in broad daylight, and in God's fresh air.

'Pon my word, I really don't know what made me go into the place. I've never been keen on cinemas. The ones I went to when they first came out quite choked me off. The jiggling of the pictures pulled my eyes out till they felt like a crab's, and the potted atmosphere made my head ache. I was strolling along, rather bored with things in general and more than a bit tired, and happened to stop as I passed the doors. It seemed just the ordinary picture palace or electric theatre show ivory-enamelled portico, neuralgic blaze of flame arc-lights above— and underneath, in coloured incandescents, the words, "Mountains of Fun."

Fun! Good Lord!

An out-sized and over-uniformed tout, in dirty white gloves and a swagger stick, was strolling backwards and forwards, alternately shouting invitations to see the "continuous performance" and chasing away the recurring clusters of eager-eyed children, whose outward appearance was not suggestive of the possession of the necessary entrance fee. There were highly-coloured posters on every available foot of wall-space— sensational scenes, in which cowboys, revolvers, and assorted deaths predominated— and across them were pasted strips of paper bearing the legend, " LIFE-REPRO Novelty This Evening."

I confess that, old as I am, it was that expression which caught me— "LIFE-REPRO." It sounded like a new metal polish or an ointment for "swellings on the leg," but it had the true showman's ring. I asked the janitor what it meant. Of course he did not know— poor devil!— and only repeated his stock piece: "Splendid new novelty. Now showing. No waiting. Continuous performance. Walk right in."

I was curious; it was just beginning to rain; and I decided to waste half an hour. No sooner had the metal disc— shot out at me in exchange for sixpence— rattled on to the zinc counter of the ticket-window than the uniformed scoundrel thrust a handbill on me and almost shoved me through a curtained doorway. Quite suddenly I found myself in a dark room, the gloom of  which was only accentuated by the picture quivering on a screen about fifty feet away. The change from the glare outside was confusing and the atmosphere smote me, and as I heard the door bang and the curtain being redrawn I felt half inclined to turn round and go out. But while I hesitated, not daring to move until my eyes got acclimatized, someone flashed an electric torch in my eyes, grabbed my ticket, and squeaked, "Straight along, please," then switched off the light.

Useful, wasn't it? I couldn't see an inch. You know, I'm not very touchy as a rule, but notes, the little incurable cripple che-ild in the tenement house was just being restored to health by watching the remarkably quick growth of the cowslips given to her by the kind-hearted scavenger. Completely as boredom had been banished by the manner of my entrée, it quickly returned while I suffered the long-drawn convalescence of "Little Emmeline."

As soon as this harrowing film was over and the lights were. raised I took my chance of looking round.

The hall was very much the usual sort of place— perhaps a bit smaller than most— long and narrow, with a floor sloping down from the back. In front of the screen, which was a very large one, was an enclosed pit containing some artificial palms and tin hydrangeas, a piano and a harmonium, and in the end wall at its right was a small door marked "Private." In the side wall on the left near the proscenium place was an exit. The only other means of egress, as far as I could see, was the doorway through which I had entered. Both of these were marked by illuminated glass signs, and on the walls were notices of "No smoking," "The management beg to thank those ladies who have so kindly removed their hats," and advertisement placards— mostly of chocolate. The decorations were too garish for the place to be exactly homely, but it was distinctly commonplace, a contrast to the shambles it became later on. What?

Yes! I daresay you know all about these picture palaces, but I've got to give you the points as they appealed to me. I'm not telling you a story, man. I'm simply trying to give you an exact account of what happened. It's the only way I can do it. The ventilation was execrable, in spite of the couple of exhaust fans buzzing round overhead, and the air hung stagnant and heavy with traces of stale scent, while wafts of peppermint, aniseed, and eucalyptus occasionally reached me from the seats in front. Tobacco smoke might have increased the density of the atmosphere, but it would have been a welcome cloak to some of the other odours. The place was fairly well filled, the audience consisting largely of women and children of the poorer classes— even babies in arms— just the sort of innocent holiday crowd that awful things always happen to.

By the time I had noticed this much the lights were lowered, and we were treated to a scene of war which converted my boredom into absolute  depression. I must describe it to you, because you always will maintain that we are a military nation at heart. By Jove, we are! Even the attendants at this one-horse gaff were wearing uniforms. And the applause with which the jumble of sheer military impossibility and misplaced sentiment presented to us was greeted proves it.

The story was called "Only a Bugler Boy." The first scene represented a small detachment of British soldiers "At the Front" on "Active Service " in a savage country. News came in of the "foe." This was the occasion for a perfect orgy of mouthing, gesticulation, and salutation. How they saluted each other, usually with the wrong hand, without head-covering, and at what speed! The actors were so keen to convey the military atmosphere that the officers, as often as not, acknowledged a salute before it was given.

After much consultation, deep breathing exercise, and making of goo-goo eyes, the long-haired rabbit who was in command selected a position for "defence to the death" so obviously unsuitable and suicidal that he should have been ham-strung at once by his round-shouldered gang of supers. But, no! In striking attitudes they waited to be attacked at immense and quite unnecessary disadvantage by the savage horde. Then, amid noise and smoke, the commander endeavoured to atone for the hopeless situation in which he had placed his luckless men by waving his sword and exposing himself to the enemy's bullets. I say "atone," for it would have been the only chance for his detachment if he had been killed, and killed quickly. Well, after some time and many casualties, it occurred to him that it would be as well to do something he should have done at first, and let the nearest friendly force know of his predicament. The diminutive bugler with the clean face and nicely-brushed hair was naturally chosen for this very dangerous mission, which even a grown man would. have had a poor chance of carrying out, and after shaking hands all round, well in the open, the little hero started off with his written message.

Then followed a prolonged nightmare of crawling through the bush-studded desert. Bugler stalked savage foe, and shot several with his revolver. Savage foe stalked bugler and wounded him in both arms and one leg. Finally, after squirming in accentuated and obvious agony for miles, bugler reached the nearest friendly force, staggered up to its commander, thrust his despatch upon him, and swooned in his arms. Occasion for more saluting, deep breathing, and gesticulation, and much keen gazing through field glasses-notwithstanding the fact that if the beleaguered garrison were in sight the sound of the firing must have been heard long before! Then a trumpet-call on the harmonium, and away dashed the relief force of mounted men.

Meanwhile we were given a chance of seeing how badly things had been going with the devoted garrison at bay. It was only when they were at their last gasp and cartridge that the relief reached them. With waving of helmets and cheers from the defenders, the first two men of the relieving force hurled themselves over the improvised stockade. You know what they were? I knew what they must be long before they appeared. And it is hardly necessary to specify to which branches of His Majesty's United Services they belonged. The sorely-wounded but miraculously tough bugler took the stockade in his stride a very good third. He had apparently recovered sufficiently to gallop all the way back with the rescuers— only to faint again, this time in the arms of his own commanding officer. Curtain! "They all love Jack," an imitation of bagpipes on the harmonium, and "Rule Britannia" from the combined orchestra.

As I say, this effort of realism well received with great applause, even by the men present. As soon as the light went up I had a look at my neighbours. The seats on each side of me were empty, and in the row in front, about a couple of seats to my right, there was one occupant. He was a young fellow of the type of which one sees only too many in our large towns— one of the products of an overdone industrialism. He was round-shouldered and narrow-chested, and his pale thin face suggested hard work carried out in insanitary surroundings and on unwholesome food. His expression was precocious, but the loose mouth showed that its owner was far too unintelligent to be more than feebly and unsuccessfully vicious. He wore a yachting cap well on the back of his head, and on it he sported a plush swallow or eagle— or some other bird— of that virulent but non-committal blue which is neither Oxford nor Cambridge. It was Boat-Race week. He was evidently out for pleasure— poor devil! and from his incidental remarks, which were all of a quasi-sporting nature, I gathered that he was getting it. I felt sorry for him and sympathized in his entire absorption in the strange scenes passing before his eyes— scenes of excitement and adventure far removed from the monotonous round of his squalid life. How much better an hour of such innocent amusement than time and money wasted in some boozing-ken— eh?

Well, I'm not quite sure what it means myself— some sort of a low drinking-den. But, anyway, that's what I felt about it. After all, he was a harmless sort of chap, and his unsophisticated enjoyment made me envious. I took an interest in him— thought of giving him a bob or two when I went out. I want you to realize that I had nothing but kindly feelings towards the fellow. He comes in later on— wasn't so unsuccessful after all.

Then we had one of those interminable scenes of chase in which a horseman flies for life towards you over endless stretches of plain and down the perspective of long vistas of forest, pursued at a discreet distance by other riders, who follow in his exact tracks, even to avoiding the same tree-stumps, all mounted on a breed of horse which does fortyfive miles an hour across country and fifty along the hard high road. I forget the cause of the pursuit and its ending, but I know revolvers were used. The next film was French, and of the snow-ball type. A man runs down a street. He is at once chased by two policemen, one long and thin and the other fat and bow-legged with an obviously false stomach. The followers very rapidly increase in number to a mixed mob of fifty or more, including nurses with children in perambulators. They go round many corners, and round every corner there happens to be a carefully arranged obstacle which they all fall over in a kicking heap. I remember that soot and whitewash played an important part, also that the wheels of the passing vehicles went round the wrong way.

Owing to the interruption of light, was it? I daresay. Anyway, it was very annoyng. Then we had a bit of the supernatural. I'm afraid I didn't notice what took place, so I'll spare you a description. I was entirely engrossed with the efforts of thewretched pianist to play tremolo for ten solid minutes. I think it was the ghost melody from "The Corsican Brothers" that she was struggling with, and the harmonium did not help one bit. The execution got slower and slower and more staccato as her hands grew tired, and at the end I am sure she was jabbing the notes with her aching fingers straight and stiff. Poor girl! What a life !

At about this moment, as far as I remember, a lady came in and took the seat in front of mine. She was a small woman, and was wearing a microscopic bonnet composed of two strings and a sort of crepe muffin. The expression of her face was the most perfect crystallization of peevishness I've ever seen, and her hair was screwed up into a tight knob about the size and shape of a large snail-shell. Evidently not well off— probably a charwoman. I caught a glimpse of her gloves as she loosened her bonnet-strings, and the fingertips were like the split buds of a black fuchsia just about to bloom. Shortly after she had taken her seat my friend with the Boat-Race favour suddenly felt hungry, cracked a nut between his teeth, spat out the shell noisily, and ate the kernel with undisguised relish. The lady gathered her mantle round her and sniffed. I was not surprised. The brute continued to crack nuts, eject shells, and chew till he killed all my sympathy for him, till I began to loathe his unhealthy face, and longed for something to strike him dead. This was absolutely the limit, and I should have cleared out had not the words "LIFE-REPRO" on the handbill caught my eye. After all it must come to that soon, and I determined to sit the thing out. After one or two more films of a banal nature there was a special interval— called "Intermission" on the screen— and signs were not wanting of the approach of the main event of the show.

Two of the youths had exchanged their electric torches for trays, and perambulated the gangways with cries of " Chuglit-milk chuglit." A third produced a large garden syringe and proceeded to squirt a fine spray into the air. This hung about in ,a cloud, and made the room smell like a soap factory. When the curtain bell sounded the curtain was not drawn nor were the lights lowered. A man stepped out of the small door and climbed up on to the narrow ledge in front of the screen, which served as a kind of stage or platform, and much to my disgust made obvious preparation to address the audience. He was a bulky fellow, and his apparent solidity was increased by ttie cut of his coat. His square chin added to the sense of power conveyed by his build, while a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles gave him an air of seriousness and wisdom. I at once sized him up as a mountebank, and thought I knew what sort of showman's patter to expect. He did not waste much time before he got busy. Looking slowly all round the room, he fixed my sporting friend with a baleful glare until the latter stopped eating, then cleared his throat and began.

I think I can repeat most of his discourse almost word for word— it is nearly all printed on the handbill which I have since been studying. I can also give you his pronunciation and accent fairly well, but unluckily I cannot reproduce his manner nor his delivery. Just pass me the whisky— and the siphon, please— before I start. I haven't talked so much since I was ill. That's better. Well, this is the gist of what he said:—

"Ladies and gentlemen, I will not detain you vurry long. Before the next item of the programme, I wish, as representative of the producers, the Stegomeyer P. Fiske Life Repro Syndicate of N'York City, to make you acquainted, in a few introductory words, with one or two facts. The next series of films that wilI show are the productions of the laboratory of that firm, and will— I venture to think— be something quite noo to you. In fa-act, as they have— never— until this evening— been exhibited in public, I may say that this presentation is their dress rehearsal. lf they were ordinary films there would be call for me to take up your valuable time, but, ladies and gentlemen, they are most extra-ordinary films, and it is to some special points of their extra-ordinary nature that I shall endeavour to draw your kind attention. " In the first place, the productions of the Life-Repro Syndicate are all scientific and instructive in their character. They are, also, the vurry latest de-velopment of colourphotography in its most perfect form, and pre-sent objects in their true natural colours. As projected in this auditorium— I should say, hall— this evening, the objects shown will be magnified anywheres from six to forty diameters. As far as the optical effect goes, we do claim that our films are superior to all others produced up to date, in definition, in chiaroscuro"— he took rather a toss over that word— "in the values and abso-lute truth of tint, and in entire absence of flicker. I might say that, for smooth running, our pictures bear the same relation to anything you have yet seen that kümmel trickling from a bottle does to the jet from a soda fountain, or that a spin in an auto-mobile down your Bornd Street or Northumberland Avenoo does to a ride in a spider over a corduroy road. So much for what we do for one sense-that of sight. Besides that sense, however, we cater, as many inventors have attempted to do, with more or less success, for the sense of hearing. By means of our automatic, self-registering, self-recording, synchronic, micro-mega - audiphonic booster, patented in sixteen different countries, we are able to give you, together with a feast for the eye, an ex-act re-production of the sounds or noises which are appropriate to the ob-ject being viewed. With our equipment the register is perfect, the sound record synchronizes ab-solutely with the picture-record, and there is no race or struggle between the acoustic and optical pre-sentation.

"There is no accidental noise to distract, for our machines run as silent as a skunk on velvet, while the sound which impinges upon the tympanum is magnified or diminished in volume and intensity in pre-cisely the same pro-portion as the image pro-jected on to the retina. Thus, if you should see in the picture a mouse about two feet in length— that is, magnified about twelve times— you will hear the animal squeak a dozen times as loudly as does the actual little ro-dent doing a Marathon behind the hard wood skirting of your best parlour. That is two senses we cater for. But are we content? No! We also appeal to a third sense— that of smell!"

He paused for a moment, as if aware that this statement would produce an effect. There was some movement and whispering amongst the adults of the audience.

"I mean it, ladies and gentlemen. I am not presooming to be gay with you. I am simply handing out the cold truth! You will see; you will hear; you will smell! By means of our 'odorator'— also patented in sixteen countries— the natural scent appertaining to whatever is on the screen, and appropriately magnified in intensity, will be wafted over you with the pictures. There is no need for any alarm, ladies. There can be no danger of infection, for this is not a case of repro-duction— it is a matter of imitation. The real smells are not caught, canned, and released. They are just cleverly imitated. This is one more triumph, and the latest, achieved by the science of synthetic chemistry. I can promise you that the odours you will perceive will be harmless, but I cannot guarantee that they will all be pleasant. We must remember that our endeavour is to repro-duce Nature as realistically as possible. Nature, ladies and gentlemen, is marvellous, curious, interesting, fascinating, cruel, even brutal, but rarely pleasant."

He paused again to take a sip of water and polish his spectacles. And the remarkable thing was that the audience, which had not understood one-fifth of what had been said, sat silent, attentive, and expectant. By his manner or personal magnetism-or whatever you call it-the man had gripped a whole crowd of strange, mostly ill-educated, people. Besides being above the heads of the great majority of his hearers, what he had said might have been spoken by any clever "ad." writer.

It was the man's personality that did it. Even I felt his influence. Apparently impassive, he spoke deliberately and very clearly. His nationality was, of course, obvious from his first few words, but the twang was almost imperceptible. The curious weighty pauses with which he punctuated his sentences, even his words, only served to add to the impressiveness of his delivery. I am not a believer in your "strong, silent men," but as this square-jawed, bull-necked, goggle-eyed fellow stood talking he seemed the embodiment of cold knowledge and brutal strength. I could have imagined him an inquisitor, a vivisector. His spectacles were of high magnifying power, and his eyes, looming huge through them, seemed compelling and malevolent. When the lenses caught and reflected the light in a blaze— why, talk of Charcot's revolving mirrors at the Salpetriere, the effect was hypnotic! Though a good deal of what he said— especially the nonsense about the "odorator"— would ordinarily have made me smile, somehow it was not amusement that I then felt. I wanted to hear more— to see.

Even the nut-eater forbore to feed and fidgeted uneasily in his seat. And what could he have understood? The acid lady kept patting her back hair and muttering, "Well, I never! What next?" She could not have expressed my own feelings better if she had tried.

The man put his handkerchief back into his pocket and spoke again.

"It is now up to me to prove my words, ladies and gentlemen, and in a moment I hope to do so. But first I wish to explain our title of 'Life-Repro.' As I say, as far as four senses are concerned, we have solved the problem of the reproduction of life— sight, hearing, smell, and taste; I include the latter as it is so intimately bound up with smell. But one sense— that of touch— remains unsatisfied. And now, to leave accomplished facts and enter into the realms of anticipation"— his tone now grew more impressive— "I wish to state that. it is the present aim of the Stegomeyer P. Fiske Syndicate to fill that gap in their appeal to the human intelligence and sensibilities, and to cater for the sense of touch. We have not yet succeeded, and I need hardly remind you of what that stage of perfection would imply, beyond saying that it will be a case of dealing in three dimensions, and not in two. Though we have not got to it, there are now, in a certain laboratory on the island of Manhattan— away on the other side— quite a number of the brightest intellects of the time working day and night to arrive at a solution. At their service they have all the resources of science, and behind them they have the backing of unlimited capital. Millions of dollars are being spent, and millions more are, if necessary, at their disposal. It's a big proposition!

"No one can ever tell when an epoch-making discovery is going to be made. It is largely a matter of chance. Given the favourable conditions, we may stumble upon it by a lucky accident at any moment."

As he touched upon finance the man's plump hands slowly fluttered to the level of his shoulders like flat fish swimming to the surface of the water in a tank. For the moment the spell was broken. He almost seemed to be persuading us to buy something "dirt cheap." He continued, in a more conversational tone:-

"This evening we are only presenting one film— a study in natural history portraying a life-and-death combat between two insects— a praying mantis and a scorpion. The mantis is not, as might be imagined from its popular name, a benevolent animal. It is the most ferocious creature known to science, and might with justice be called the 'Thug' of the insect world. It scraps for pleasure, and kills from the lust of slaughter. Without any poison fangs or sting, it slays its victims by crushing them to death with its huge spiked fore-legs. The actual specimen whose actions you will be able to study was obtained from the mahogany forests of Honduras, where these insects reach an immense size. It is a female, which, in the case of this insect only, ladies, is the more ferocious sex. The particular scorpion with which it fights was caught by A-rabs in the Sokoto Desert. The venom of a scorpion is well known to produce the most intense pain in the world. This African variety has, on several authenticated occasions, caused the death of human beings.

"I will not give the show away by telling you now which wins the battle. You can— as you say over on this side— wait and see. But I warn you to observe one peculiarity of both these insects— so long as there is no movement to attract their attention they are sluggish and passive; so soon, however, as one moves, he trips up on a live wire, and gets it in the neck good and plenty. Then, unless he side-steps pretty nimble, it's a cinch for Eustace!"

The speaker's sporting instincts had evidently got the better of him— his last words were a bit of a relapse! With a bow he stepped down from the platform and switched off the lights, and the following announcement was at once thrown upon the screen in flamecoloured letters:—

MANTIS RELIGIOSA v. SCORPIO AFER

A Tragedy of the Wild.

1.—Reconnaissance

There followed a marvellously-coloured picture of a patch of earth and stones, to the right of which were some dried-up twigs. It was in such bright sunlight that the glare even of this sober-coloured earth was almost dazzling, and the shadows of the twigs cut it with bars of black. The man had said no more than the truth about his "productions." There was only the most minute quiver to show the movement of the film; and, in contrast to the previous rattle, the projecting mechanism worked without even a buzz. It really was remarkable. However, for some moments I could not discern the slightest sign of life. Then I did discover among the stones on the left the form of a scorpion. It was very much the tint of its background, and was clinging to the ground with tail stretched out, so flat that there was no shadow to betray its position.

On all sides I heard whispers: "I carn't see anything. Where are they?"  "There he is by the stones." "That's the mantis, ain't it?" "No, that's the scorpion." "Well, where is afer then?"

There were also subdued noises of disgust and many little shrieks from the feminine portion of the audience. As the remarks grew louder the showman, who was standing by the door on one side of the stage, intervened:—

"Ladies and gentlemen, please do not talk or make any noise, or you will not be able to hear the insects, and a large part of the illusion will be lost."

The whispering ceased ; but there were slight movements and rustlings which I felt were born of horror and repulsion, and I was sure that many of the girls were trying to curl their feet up on to their seats. I sympathized. I loathe creeping things myself. For a little time nothing happened. The scorpion lay quite still, sunning himself amongst the dust and stones, as magnified, about nine feet away from the collection of twigs. Suddenly he either moved a leg or wriggled, for I saw a pebble slip and heard it rattle. And at that mstant one of the thickest of the twigs flipped away from the rest and appeared about two feet from the scorpion. I say "appeared" because its motion across the intervening space was too quick to follow. At one moment one of the bunch of twigs, the next it was half standing on end facing the scorpion, with its arms or fore-legs folded in front of it.

I then appreciated the name of "praying mantis." It was browny-green in colour, and its appearance was so benign, not to say devout, that it was difficult to believe what the lecturer had said about its true character. Indeed, as opposed to its enemy, the mantis actually attracted sympathy; it suggested a benign, if foolish, temperament. The scorpion, from being passively repulsive, had changed to an embodiment of venomous malice. It gave the disagreeable impression of a monstrosity or deformity, and yet it was not easy to say exactly to what this was due. Murder was clearly expressed in every line of its body, in the curve of its tail, in the gape of its halfopen claws. It was truly horrible, and a child in a front seat wailed out: "Take it away, mummie; I don't like it."

I don't know whether it really was so, or whether my imagination was playng me tricks, but at that instant there seemed to be a glimmer of light round the two insects, and they appeared to turn their heads towards the body of the hall. If this really did happen it was over in the fraction of a second; but I was more startled than I cared to confess to myself, and I rubbed my eyes. I noticed also that a musty smell had now replaced the variegated odours in the hall. It was faint, but distinctly unpleasant.

When the film ended, a few moments later, with both insects still on the watch, subdued sighs of relief arose from all parts of the hall. The nut-eater murmured "Time," in an effort at jocularity; but even his tone rang false. One or two sensible women took their children out of the hall. Before the announcement of the next scene was given us the showman's voice again rang out:

"So far the camera has been at some distance from the insects, and their peculiar odour has not been vurry marked. You will now see the combatants at much closer range and will get the full value of the odorator."

In scene two, which was labelled "Contact," the insects had approached quite close and were immensely magnified. I should say at a guess that they were each about six feet long. The mantis was now standing erect on her four thin hind-legs, with the end of her body curled upwards, while her two massive armed fore-legs, serrated, or, rather, set with long spikes, were stretched on in front above her head. Though almost ludicrous, she was as terrifying as some absurd monster in a nightmare. Her flat, inadequate, triangular head on its long neck was furnished with two large projecting eyes set at the upper corners, and ·at this close range these dull orbs could be seen to be fixed in a pompous but baleful glare of stupid ferocity. There was more than a hint of the "wolf in sheep's clothing" in their expression. Tremulously waving above were two slender antennae. There was no animal grace in the beast's attitude. It suggested the angular clumsiness of a girder or agricultural machinery, or an iron garden seat.

Not two feet from her face— on the picture— was the vicious sting of the scorpion poised over his head ready to strike, like a semi-transparent calabash with its stalk pointing forward. He was quivering with rage, and his gigantic lobster claws were wide open. I now saw what it was that gave this beast its air of morbid grotesqueness. It was deformed. Its body did not end in a decent head and face like that of a lobster, as one might have expected; it ended square at the shoulders, as if it had been sawn off. And all along this sawn-off edge shone eyes— lots of eyes— perhaps six or eight— no two of which seemed to look in the same direction. This manifold and compound squint was painful, and made my aching eyes water in sympathy. A feeling of nausea crept over me, increased by the stench which now pervaded the air. I can' l tell you what it was like. It suggested cockroaches, a hyena's cage, and oil gas. What with the smell and the heat, I really began to feel quite faint and drowsy.

So far there had been no movement between the combatants, and there had been no sound except the ejaculations of the hypnotized and semi-asphyxiated crowd.

Suddenly the scorpion made a jump, seized one hind-leg of its enemy with its claw, and darted its sting forward. With the quickness of thought the mantis dodged and brought its two thighs together in an endeavour to catch its enemy. But it was too late; the scorpion had backed just out of reach. As the feet of the beasts scrambled amongst the stones— about the size of my head— it sounded like men scuffling on a beach of large pebbles.

Disagreeable as the spectacle was, it was certainly exciting, and I could not take my eyes off the monstrous brutes. They again stood watching. They were still for so long that I was wondering if they bad gone to sleep, when I noticed from the absence of any tremor in the picture that the film was not moving. I then heard at the back of the hall the tapping of some tool upon metal, and came to the conclusion that one of the spools must have stuck or that something had gone wrong with the projecting mechanism. But it seemed to me somehow that though the film itself was stationary, there was a curious sparkling . efflorescence about the outline of the insects. Perhaps the atmosphere was affecting me. The audience got a bit restive, and began to whisper and fidget. The nut-eater ejaculated, u Time, Archibald ! Blow the whistle, ref I" and started to eat nuts again. A child in the front cried. Whether it was the same infant that had protested before I don't know. But the woman with it began to dance it up and down.

Then it happened!

The sparkle round the outline of the monsters in the picture changed all at once to a definite prismatic halo, and with a crackling noise each insect deliberately turned its head towards the woman and child. Before you could whistle they were out of the picture, scrambling over the little well where the orchestra had previously been playing. I heard horny feet scratching over the polished top of the piano, and a great discordant arpeggio struck on the bass notes. It was all so quick that I'm not sure in what order things occurred. A sort of collective groan arose from the audience, but, paralyzed by the suddennesss of the thing, no one moved. The beasts clambered over the partition, and while the mantis darted up the gangway to the back of the room, the scorpion pounced on the woman with the baby. In the dark I could not see what it did, but shrieks of mortal agony at once drowned the feeble cries of the child. A panic then began, and everyone got up. It was a hopeless situation, for the mantis was ncar one entrance and the soorpion guarded the other. I could just see the beast seize on someone in the front row who had shrunk back from it, and then there were more horrible screams. I don't know what would have happened in the dark, but at that instant there was a shout from the American, who at any rate was a brave man:—

"My God I It's happened. Sit still. It's your only chance."

He then moved to a switch close by and turned on the lights. In doing so he caught the eye of the scorpion, who made a dart for him. The man just had time to rush into the little doorway near the stage and bang the door in the face of the beast. Its great claw missed him by six inches, sheared off the brass door-handle, crushed it like lead-foil. It then turned and faced the room, waiting for someone else to move. By this time the screams of the woman and baby and of the other victim had died away, and they already lay rigid. When you think of it, the speed with which the poison had acted is not so wonderful after all. I daresay half a pint of venom had been injected into the veins of each person. The rest of us had had our lesson, and we sat motionless, silent, hardly daring to breathe. What the mantis was doing behind I don't know. I dursen't look.

Well, this awful suspense seemed to last for a long time. Two more people— women— got hysterical from the strain. They tittered, moved, attracted attention, were at once seized and stung, and died in convulsions— in the full glare of the electric light— before our very eyes. Occasional cries from the upper end of the hall showed that the mantis was not idle. I wondered how long this horrible one-sided stalemate would continue. Would the creatures be drawn back on to the screen if the film started moving again ? I heard no more of the hammering noise up by the projector, but I prayed that the mechanism might be repaired speedily. I also prayed that the American had gone out to fetch assistance, and would shortly return with police, armed men, or even the fire brigade. And I wondered if the pressure of water at the average hydrant was enough to cope with these monsters.

Then the nut-eater met his doom. Like the rest of us he had sat still and silent, breathing hard; he had not even eaten the nut which he had started to convey to his mouth. But the poor devil was hoist by his own petard, for he put one of his feet on a nutshell. It was enough; the scorpion was on to him like a tiger. The way that the youth met the crisis of his life was pitiable. He made no sensible resistance. He did not accept his fate in dignified silence, nor did he mark the special occasion with any exclamation of despair. He simply put his hands over his head like a small boy about to be cuffed, and, ineffective to the end, whined out to this pitiless armoured monster:

" 'Old 'ard! 'Ere, 'old 'ard!"

The scorpion gripped his arms with its claws and stung him on the right side of the neck near the jugular vein twice. I saw the curved sting enter the flesh just above the silk neckerchief, and then come out all covered with blood. The youth shrieked with agony and writhed; his neck swelled, became bloated and shining; his attitude stiffened, and his head dropped forward.

The poor little drab lady must have subsided on to the floor some time before this. There was no sign of her above the back of her chair; and I was the next person to the scorpion, who still hung on to the body of the nut-eater and rolled his eyes successively round the room. Faint and sick as I felt, a desire for revenge seized me and overcame all other sensations. I noticed something like a pointed mahogany table leg between the red plush "flap-up" of the seat just in front of me and its back. It was one of the brute's legs! An inspiration struck me. By sacrificing myself I might save perhaps half the roomful of women and children. The mantis could not alone guard two doors. If I did nothing we should all be killed in turn— I being the first.

Summoning all my strength, I braced myself in my seat, planted my foot firmly against the scorpion's leg, and pressed it with all my force against the edge of the seat. I felt the smooth, shining leg sink into the plush, and for one dreadful instant thought that I hadn't got a grip— that it was going to slip. Thank Heaven, I was wearing my golfing brogues with nails! The leg moved round slightly beneath my foot, then I felt it grate against the nails, which bit into the flesh, or horn, or whatever it was. I was holding it! I then yelled out: "All get out of the front door— quick!"

I heard a sort of scrimmage round me. I imagine that the people in front were trying to escape before the mantis could reach them; but I don't really know what did happen. I was fully employed with my own affairs. Wrenching and tugging at its leg, the scorpion sprawled over the body of the dead youth and seized my left arm in one claw. It was painful, but all my thoughts and energy were so concentrated on keeping up the pressure of my leg that I did not much notice it. As the brute stretched forward it ·tried to reach me with its sting. Not being able to do so, it made an immense efforts to pull me closer; but, luckily, I had my left arm twined round the arm of the seat. The strain was awful, and the perspiration poured down my forehead. Of course, I was in rank bad condition. As we struggled my one prayer was that my foot would not slip; that the scorpion's leg would not tear or be pulled out of its socket; that the seat would not break.

In front, and quite close to me, was the unspeakable apology for a head, and the beast's breath— foul as an alligator's— came into my face in hot, fetid puffs. But it was the sting which fascinated me. Like a gigantic yellow pear-drop it quivered not a foot from my neck, its point dripping venom and smeared with blood for at least three inches. And in the central duct I could see the poison as plain as the nicotine in the amber mouthpiece of this pipe. As the beast made efforts to reach me I felt the strain in its leg, and saw the venom pulsate up and down like water dancing in a gauge-glass. My right arm being free, I lunged at its squinting eyes with my umbrella. I think I must have put out two or three. At any rate I broke the creature's shell. It smashed like a crab's, and a horrid, creamy substance oozed out. As I worked the umbrella about to enlarge the wound, the beast seemed to feel the pain. It groaned, quivered all over, tightened its grip on my left arm, and got its sting to within six inches of my throat. It crushed my arm till I almost screamed.

"COME ON, mister ! What's the game? We carn't 'ave this row 'ere."

One of the attendants was shaking me by the arm; the lights were up; the piano and harmonium were having the usual ding-dong race; and there was no scorpion! I rubbed my eyes. The peevish lady, now hatless, was regarding me over her shoulder with considerable disfavour.

"I dunno what the gentleman wants, I'm shewer. I took me bonnet orf the first time 'e kicked me— not that me matinee 'at could 'ave done 'im much 'arm."

"Where has it gone? I mean, what's the matter?" I gasped.

"W'y, you've been asleep for the last ten minutes, and 'ave been carryin' on a fair treat. Won't do, yer know— not in this 'all."

Perspiring, dazed, and trembling, I put my hand to my pocket to get out my watch. It had gone.

So had the nut-eater!

________________

11: A Woodland Wooing

Druid Grayl

Hillston Spectator and Lachlan River Advertiser 20 April 1901

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.

THROUGH the woodlands, rich in golden brown and green of autumn, Phyllis Shirley took her way at early noon, a fitting figure for the landscape as she passed along with swift, light steps, in her simple walking-costume of fawn colour. The light of happiness was over her face, and centred itself in full radiance within her eyes— the light which comes but once in a life with the heyday of first love. She threaded the glades and labyrinths of breast-high bracken with the unaltering directness of one at home in the place, and made for a gigantic oak, true king by ancestry, and in majestic presence, of the woods.

After looking carefully around for a possible woodman or berry- gatherer, she mounted an immense natural protuberance at the base of the tree, took a letter from her pocket, and slipped it into a small cavity high above her head. Then she put her arms as far as they would go around the grand old monarch, kissed his rugged cheek, leaped lightly down, and took her way back.

The echo of her footsteps had scarcely died away on the fallen leaves, when a tall, powerfully built man clad in tweeds, strode from amidst a clump of hollies, and, reaching up to the cavity in the trunk, fished out the letter and proceeded to compare the envelope — which was without superscription — with an unused one he took from his pocket-book. After assuring himself that the covers were similar, he tore open the girl's missive, and slowly read the contents, which ran thus:—

Darling,

I cannot say how delighted I am to know you are back again, and with good hopes for us; It seems too good to be true. You come in good time, for the same person is still here, and has quite won over the griffin with his traveller's tales. I must admit they are very good ones, but I don't admire the teller, though I think there must be some mistake as to what you have heard respecting him. His good manners still hold, in fact he is much too respectful and devoted for my liking; and the griffin keeps dropping hints as to his wealth and accomplishments, but the seed falls on barren ground, dear. If you meet a strong looking person with a long stride, heavy black moustache, and very blue chin, you will know who it is. The chin has a cleft which worries me, but he's a good-looking fellow on the whole.

With love from your little 'Fawn.'

P.S. — It will seem an age till the evening.

'It's as well to begin with a little aversion, so the saw tells,' said the stranger, grimly, as he fingered his chin in a vain attempt to smooth out the long, ' deep dimple which the girl in her letter had called a cleft. 'But I must act, and swiftly, for this neighbour fellow seems to be on the scent of something. Well, I'll get out into the heath on my back, in the full glare of the sun, and hatch out something with a cigar.'

He put the epistle in the unspoiled envelope, which he sealed carefully and deposited in the lovers' pillar-box. Then he crushed through the undergrowth, in an opposite direction to that which the girl had taken, to his cogitations on the heath.

MEANWHILE Phyllis had reached The Chase, her home amidst the woods, and the residence of a bachelor brother, Algernon Shirley, her guardian— the 'griffin' of the letter, though the term must be taken entirely as a facetious one, for he was a very amiable and somewhat simple-minded man whose ill-health kept him much indoors. The luncheon bell was ringing as she neared the house, so she deposited her little felt hat on a stand and walked straight into the room, for Algernon was always a little testy if she did not appear in time to coddle his wayward appetite.

' Ah. Sis, been a-walkin', I see,' he said. 'Didn't meet Davenport, I s'pose? He's out somewhere, but we won't wait. A globe-trotter can manage on a chocolate cream or a handful of acorns, as right as pie. I wish I'd his health and strength; I'd show this big game killer and mountain climber something. But he's a marvel, pon honour. Don't you think so?'

'I think Mr. Davenport a very accomplished storyteller,' replied Phyllis, ambiguously.

'So he is, by Jove. I hope you'll let him tell you his best one of the days,' said her brother, uncannily.

'I don't think he'll ever surpass the one about the grizzly bear and the packet of snuff,' the girl answered, demurely.

'Ah! ah! Just so; capital story. But, ahem! I didn't quite mean— ahem. By the way,' he continued, in a transparent, off-hand manner, 'I bear that young Desborough is home again fooling with his precious inventions. There was some boy-and-girl nonsense between you, wasn't there? Of course, I'm not narrow-minded enough to harbour any ill-feeling about that old boundary feud, but really, Sis, he's impossible. These inventors always want money, and— ahem— your fortune is known to— ahem— everybody.'

'My dear Algernon,' said his sister, looking him straight in the face, ' I can honestly assure you that there will be no nonsense between Mr. Desborough and myself, and as for my fortune, I shall take care that neither he nor another has it without something else which is only mine to give. Shall we change the subject?'

'Certainly, Sis, certainly— my awkward expression— not intended to convey— ahem— you understand.'

'Yes, Algernon, I understand you perfectly,' said the young lady, calmly; and the topic was dropped.

The 'griffin,' could he have witnessed the rapturous meeting between the young couple at the oak that evening, would certainly have assured himself that there was no nonsense between them. Their clinging, wordless embrace was more significant than a thousand pretty phrases. When language came to them, it was on the practical side of things, and must of necessity be recorded.

' And you're successful at last, dear,' said the girl. 'I always knew you would be. Which is it, the breastplate or the pistol?'

'The breastplate is too heavy at present, I'm sorry to say ; but I intend to follow it up: must do something for defence as well as offence, you know. The Government have taken the pistol, and the treasury people are to pay me munificent terms. It's all settled, sweet, and now I can approach the griffin on something like equal terms.'

'But you know, dear, I would have married you any day, if you had never a chance to extend what you call your "labouring freehold," ' said the girl, with the least tone of reproach in her voice.

'Yes, and without it, love,' said the young fellow, tenderly, 'I know that very well. But it is pleasant to save you these little Unpleasantnesses which would have been inevitable.'

He felt the close pressure of the arm within his own, and went on, 'But now for your news: What of this Davenport, as he calls himself?'

'What was that, dear?' interrupted the girl, with a sudden start.

'A falling leaf — sounded just like a footstep, didn't it? There goes another.'

The girl nestled closer to his side, and asked, 'What do you mean by saying 'as he calls himself' is your suspicion wellfounded ?'

'Absolutely. I have asked about the real Davenport, at the Travellers' Club, and he is a modest, wiry little man, they tell me, at present supposed to be in Central Australia. This yarn-spinning braggart is someone who has assumed the name to impose on your brother and others of like easygoing nature, for his private ends. I'll soon settle him. When is the griffin in his most amiable mood? I can call any time to-morrow.'

'Just after lunch, you old diplomat,' said the girl, with a pleasant, low laugh. 'And when all's satisfactorily settled, I suppose the old woodland wooing will be over,' she added, with a little sigh.

'Over! Nothing of the kind,' answered her lover fervently; 'we'll have the lovers' hour here as of old. This grand old tree. Who would forsake him? We have always found peace and security beneath his shade.' He touched the gnarled sides affectionately as he spoke, and there came something like an answering whisper from the old forest monarch — the wind through his leafy crown, or a real voice from his breast, who can tell?"

Then silence fell about the lovers in their last moments at the tryst, the same happy silence that had surrounded their meeting.

'And now we must surely be going,' said Phyllis, at length, 'or I shall be missed.' So, with arms interlaced, they took their way along the mossy paths.  As they threaded a still leafy avenue, sudden as a panther from ambush a form sprang from the dense shadow beside them, and a fierce, hoarse voice yelled, Darn yer, tek that for courtin' my missis!'

Instinctively Desborough threw up his arm and took a blow from a cudgel. The limb dropped useless at his side, but his other arm, the left, slipped mechanically from the girl's waist, and struck out swiftly and surely at the black form of the intruder. The fellow went over like a ninepin, his head striking the knotted bole of a tree as he fell. He never moved again. All had passed so quickly that the girl was scarcely conscious of anything till her lover's arm left her waist, and she heard the fall.

Her heart stood still for a moment, then she cried out bitterly, 'Where are you, darling; oh, where are you?'

'Here, sweet, and safe save for a bruised arm,' answered her lover, cheeringly: 'please take out my match-box and strike a light.'

The girl did as she was directed, and the prostrate form showed a man wearing trousers tied outside below the knees, a rough pilot coat turned up at the collar, and a tweed cap drawn low over the brows.

'Some wretched mistake,' said Desborough; 'he said something about "his missis." We'll leave him as he is for gossip's side: he's only stunned, and will come round.'

But Phyllis trembled in every limb, and let the match fall, for she had seen the face.

'It's Davenport,' she gasped.

'Nonsense,' said Desborough; 'strike another light, and look again.' Once more the girl obeyed, and her lover saw clearly that the clothing was merely a disguise, as the savage speech had been— for the trouser were of broadcloth, tied about with string, and, under the pilot jacket, was the white front of an evening shirt.

'The cowardly hound,' said Desborough, 'but I think he'll avoid us in the future. Can you get at my card-case, dear? If so, stick a bit of pasteboard in his pocket. We shan't hear of him again.'

The last match was expended in this, then Desborough said:

'Your nerves are shaken, dear: I must take you to your brother, and tell him the truth. And I shan't be sorry to let him have a look at my arm; the blow has numbed it.'

He knew that it was badly broken, but wisely and patiently bore the agony without further remark.

It was only when they stood in the light of the hall lamps that Phyllis guessed. Her lover's face was ghastly, and the broken limb hung limply with a painful suggestiveness.

The astounded griffin was awakened from a nap by a hand shaking his shoulder, and a voice crying, 'He's hurt— arm broken— oh! oh!'

'Good gracious, whatever is the matter?— ha, Desborough, rather unusual hour for a call, isn't it ?' he murmured, with a series of blinks.

Desborough stammered something about 'Pardon me, and permit'— when he had to seat himself, unasked, for a feeling of faintness was overmastering him. 'I am hurt— arm broken,' he said, quietly.

The griffin rose to the occasion manfully, and won his sister's eternal admiration and respect. He rang the bell vigorously, sent off a mounted man for a doctor, and gave the young fellow a modicum of spirit.

'Oh, you old dear,' said his sister, with a hug and a kiss; and proceeded to launch into the story with some incoherence.

'Yes. I see,' said the griffin, 'and Mr. Desborough did the proper thing throughout in the matter. It will— ahem avert scandal. I will send Davenport's traps to his hotel— I suppose I must call him Davenport: don't know his other name, you know— and now, Sis, as I hear wheels, perhaps you will leave us awhile.'

The girl kissed him again, and then embraced her lover proudly and frankly— and went without a word.

The break was an ugly one, but the young fellow bore the setting without a murmur.

'I must put you up to-night, Desborough,' said the griffin; 'any further explanation— ahem— will keep till then, I suppose. Rare pluck, 'pon honour.'

'Certainly, and thank you,' said the younger man, with a faint smile.

'Then I'll go and give the necessary orders. Have a cigar, doctor, to light you home.'

He and the medico left the room together, and Phyllis stole in on tiptoe.

'Poor old darling, are you better; did it hurt much?' she said, softly, the tears running down her fresh young face.

'Oh, dear, no, very little,' said the young fellow, with pardonable evasion; 'and I've still one good arm to hold you with, you know.'

'Then pull me to your heart, tight, said she.

'You've been there this many a day, love,' Desborough said, but he did as she bade him.

_________________

12: Homicidal Holiday

Laurence Donovan

Hollywood Detective, Nov 1946

IF Tom Kent had been less bemused and puzzled by the girl driver's story of murder he had been listening to, he might have prevented the topless sport convertible from skidding and diving over the 500-foot grade toward Porcupine Creek. As it was, Kent's mind was both intent and bewildered by the story of the strange killing of Howard Travis, multi-millionaire mine owner and rancher.

Kent's reaction was too slow when the explosion of the blown-out tire slapped his big ears. Jane Travis, as neat and lovely as any small package of femininity ever fashioned by nature, was telling of her father's death, She was calmly reciting details that could have made her number-one suspect.

At the same time Jane Travis was shooting her sports car along at fifty or more, because she was familiar with the twisting S curves of the hard, two-car road that literally overhung the drop to the rocks of Porcupine canyon. The daughter of the late Howard Travis had, by impulsive action, reached Kent, private dick and all-around sportsman, with a phone call a few minutes before he would have left his San Francisco office for the day. It had made Kent curious.

Jane Travis had been calm, perhaps too cool, for a girl whose father had been discovered murdered within the hour before. Moreover, her keenness had been expressed in her startling message.

"You would be coming up to the Klamath for the steelhead fishing in a week or two, Tom," she had said. "I need you at once. On the next plane leaving S. F. for our only airport. I'll meet you just before dark. I can't tell you much, Tom, but my dad has been killed. It seems a woman did it, and it can be made to appear as if I were that woman."

Thus it was that within two hours after that phone call, Tom Kent was looking with reflective gray eyes at the sunset glitter of the Mount Shasta snow-caps, and putting his mind almost fully upon Jane's story of the murder. The exploding front tire was on the side above the creek canyon.

KENT'S instinctive grab for the wheel to help the girl hold the open car on the road between the precipitous wall above and the dangerous space below was slowed for two or three seconds by his own thinking, Jane didn't cry out, and, knowing her for two previous years, Kent could understand her cold nerve.

Jane's calm effort to control the slithering car was not enough. Kent's big, capable hands went to the wheel, but he snapped himself erect and his hands traveled on to encircle the girl's slim body. The hood of the open car was already dipping over the shoulder of the road when Kent exerted his full strength, threw himself sidewise, and carried Jane Travis with him in a smashing fall to the flat concrete at the canyon's edge.

Kent wasn't sure that his shoulders and spine hadn't been crushed when he landed. Jane Travis was small but as compact a bundle of sweetly-curved body as could be put into the female form. Kent had a dizzying, nauseous sensation that would have meant a complete fade-out if he hadn't put all of his will toward averting a further roll over the edge of the shoulder.

Jane's fall had been broken by Kent's heavily-muscled body, The shamus must have closed his eyes to help collect his senses, for he opened them to the touch of the girl's small hands rubbing at his temples.

"I would drive crazy and not have my mind on it!" the girl exclaimed miserably. "Tom? Can you hear me? What'll I do now?"

Perhaps it was the swift brushing of her warm lips over his cheek that made Kent fully aware of what had happened. Jane was making her speech loud so she could be heard above the metallic crashing and splintering of the convertible down upon the first outcropping of rocks,

"I'm—I guess I haven't busted anything important," said Kent, exploring his shoulders and the back of his head with a cautious hand. "Break o' luck, Jane, we're not down there in that heap."

Kent sat up, climbed to his feet slowly. The girl broke for the first time with half a sob and half a relieved laugh. Kent stood there looking down where the shattered chassis of the car had piled up on the first rocks, but a hundred feet or so down.

Jane's curved mouth was like a white line in her nut-brown face,

"If it hadn't been— well, in two ticks of a watch it wouldn't have mattered if I was suspected in my father's death, or that I'd called you in over the head of the county law to get at the real truth—"

Jane broke off what she was saying, and she was staring down at what had been a sports convertible. The mountain highway was already darkened, although the sun in the west was still gleaming upon the Shasta snow-caps.

Kent made sure his .38 was still under his armpit and that his clothes were not too badly torn. Jane hadn't mentioned why she might not have trusted the law as administered in the rich mining and dude ranch county up here near the Oregon line. Kent waited.

Jane's piquant face drew into a frown of concentration.

"Tom, that's funny, and maybe I'm only upset by dad's death and everything!" she exclaimed. "But both front tires were brand new and they weren't synthetic either. I wouldn't have been driving like a fool if I hadn't known that."

Without replying, Kent walked up the road a few yards, taking in the canyon side of the curve. He could see about one hundred yards back where a clump of laurel bushes grew on a narrow shelf just below the level of the highway.

For the moment, in the mountain empire of the Siskiyous, where the high Shasta dam had created a blue lake, and wealth had made the county one of the richest in the state, Kent felt as if Jane Travis and he were alone in another world. There was no sound of any other car on the road either way.

"Stay here, Jane," directed Kent ' quickly. "There are bushes and cracks in the rock. I'm having a look at that ear."

"No, please, Tom—" But the girl's protest was lost,

KENT was already letting himself down the precarious natural ladder, Then he was beside the wreckage. All of the tires had been torn and blown out by the car's plunge, Kent crawled up beside the front wheels. It was so dark that he was forced to depend upon his sensitive fingers, but he found what he had been looking for.

Kent used his pocketknife to dig into a piece of the rubber and fabric of the front tire. He was able to mark where the tire had been blown out and he found the bullet of a small caliber gun that had lacked sufficient force to pierce both sides of the new and resistant tire. He placed the small bit of lead in his pocket, swearing to himself,

Tom Kent was thinking of Jane's story of the death of Howard Travis as he climbed slowly back to the highway.

Howard Travis had become wealthy through a mine in the Mule Tail mountains near Gold Beach, and the conversion of his big mountain property into a popular dude ranch, In this case, wealthy sportsmen, fishermen from Southern California and outside, flocked to the Klamath River country during late summer and early fall.

Steelhead trout ran the Klamath and tributary creeks, Of all the gamy fish, the big sea-run steelheads were the gamiest. It had been this attraction that had brought Tom Kent, private investigator, to the Travis ranch for two past seasons.

Only the year before, more of the Hollywood movie colony with "income tax" time on their hands, had been drawn to the Klamath. It had almost influenced Tom Kent to pass up the steel-head season this year.

Kent was thinking this out before he again reached Jane on the highway. The girl had asserted that her father had keen killed by a small caliber gun, such as a woman might use. Jane had said that Sheriff George Walling, who was also a rich ranch owner, had hinted at finding evidence, other than the death slug's caliber, that a woman had committed the crime.

GETTING back to the road, Kent said nothing of the bit of lead that he was convinced had been meant to end the life of Jane Travis or himself, probably of both. The highway was still deserted and Kent realized a hidden ambusher would have had time to make a getaway when the car plunged.

Kent made a wry grimace and said: "Looks like we're in for a long hike to your ranch, Jane. You haven't indicated that some other woman than yourself might be under suspicion."

"I haven't," stated Jane. "It would look like being catty to mention this, but you'll have to know, Tom. Before I mention the name, one of the best known in Hollywood, I want you to know it is fantastic to suspect her, and that Sheriff Walling hasn't mentioned the name."

Kent rubbed his hard chin reflectively.

"It has been in the newspapers that Marva Durant, star of Superba pictures, had been about to give up her career to marry your father, Jane," said Kent gravely. "She's been up here for the fishing, with Rod Chalmers, her director. That also has been news."

Jane nodded, but she said quickly; "I didn't like the idea of dad marrying Marva Durant, who is about my own age or younger. But in spite of it probably cutting off most of what I might inherit, I don't believe Marva had either the meanness or the opportunity to kill my dad, because Marva was fifty miles away at the time at the Rainbow Lake resort. Chalmers, her director, was with her, but he was going on to fish another lake yesterday and early today."

Kent juggled with this idea. His own impression of the recent pictures had been that Marva Durant was about washed up, and would have been one of the movies now if it had not been for good parts and the able direction of Rod Chalmers.

Kent expressed his thought.

"Marrying your father's millions would have been an out for Marva Durant that she must have known she must have in a short time," he said,

Jane nodded to that. Kent was thinking then what would have been the motive for seeking the death of Jane Travis, Once married to Howard Travis, Marva would have legally come in for practically all of his estate. Even if the movie star now knew of Travis' death, the killing of Jane could have gained her nothing.

Kent's line of thought was broken. A ear hummed, coming up the highway fast from the direction of Klamath and the Travis ranch. It was a sedan and it carried two men. When it pulled up, the first man out was Sheriff George Walling.

Walling was a stocky man with a blunt chin, and much too well dressed for an average sheriff.

Kent identified the other man as none other than Rod Chalmers, the director who had built Marva Durant into a star. Chalmers wore a fisherman's outdoor attire, but managed to maintain the general air of a master of ceremonies.

"What the thunderation happened, Jane?" demanded the sheriff, but his cold eyes were upon Tom Kent.

"A tire blew out and I lost control," explained Jane. "I had met Mr. Kent at the airport."

Sheriff Walling had thin lips that chewed off his words. His attitude was distinctly hostile.

"Have some special reason for being up here, Kent?" demanded Sheriff Walling. "Or did you just come fishing?"

"Fishing," bit off Kent, but he didn't specify what kind.

"Better be," declared Sheriff Walling. "We have some trouble on hand, an' I'm reminding you your license doesn't count in my county."

2: Jane Awaits Star

"NEVER mix business and fishing, sheriff," said Kent cheerfully. "At the same time I'm not liking your tone, and I don't see any reason for liking you either, Walling."

Rod Chalmers cut in with his smooth voice.

"Let's not make trouble where there isn't any reason," said Chalmers quietly. "The sheriff and I were on the way to the airport. The sheriff is looking for my star, Marva Durant, and he has an idea that she might be taking a night plane south. You folks would have met up with her if she had that plan."

"She wasn't at the airport and we haven't met any car," said Jane Travis. "Don't tell me, Sheriff Walling, you think Marva Durant may know something about the— about my father's death?"

"Huh!" grunted Sheriff Walling. "A woman did it. I'm not yet saying you didn't have the biggest motive, Jane, seeing you might have been losing a fortune. Fortunately for you, I've certain clues that put the finger on Marva Durant."

"Isn't that a little thick, sheriff?" said Jane, "Marva was at Rainbow Lake, four hours' driving over these roads. Also, it isn't likely she'd cut off her own chances at the fortune she might have had by marrying my father."

Kent was amazed at what came next! Rod Chalmers spoke up.

"Marva told me she had a pre-marriage settlement of eighty grand from Travis," he said, "She didn't want to give up her picture career, and I didn't want her to."

"More than that," interrupted Sheriff Walling. "Marva Durant was away from Rainbow Lake in her car last night, and your father was not found in his library until late this afternoon. The library was locked and the servants thought Travis had gone fishing."

"I suppose you have the bullet that killed Howard Travis?" inquired Tom Kent. "How can you be sure it was from a woman's gun?"

"Which ain't none of your business," snapped Sheriff Walling. "However, the slug's been taken out and it is being mailed to Sacramento for a ballistic's check up. You think I ought to explain?"

"No," drawled Kent. "I was just fishing, if it was a target rifle or a lady's gun." He was thinking of the bit of lead that had gone through one part of a tire and lodged in the other part of the rubber.

"How would I know?" snapped Sheriff Walling. "Travis was shot in the throat and so close up that there were powder marks. That means he must have trusted whoever fired that slug. Now it would please me very much, Kent, if you would stay out of our county business and get along with your fishing. I suppose all your fishing junk is smashed up in Jane's car down there?"

"Nope," said Kent good-naturedly. "I didn't want any excess on the plane, and since I was needing some new steelhead things anyway, thought I'd buy some at Klamath."

Jane Travis was watching Kent with a puzzled air. He was deliberately baiting Sheriff Walling, and the girl could not understand why, not knowing of the bit of lead in his pocket that apparently had come from a .22 long.

"Anyway," observed Rod Chalmers, "it doesn't look as if Marva had come this way. She was probably far up the lake, fishing, when your deputies went up the Rainbow."

So Sheriff Walling really had deputies out for Marva Durant, the movie star, thought Kent. Jane Travis broke in,

"I knew my dad had settled eighty thousand on Marva," said Jane coldly. "That still doesn't make me believe she'd sacrifice a chance at the Travis ranch and mine for what wouldn't be more than peanuts."

Again Rod Chalmers, who might have been expected to loyally defend his star, handed out a jolt.

"Marva is pretty big stuff, but still you know she originated over where Hollywood calls 'across the tracks.' Eighty grand might look like one hell of a bite to Marva," said Chalmers,

KENT had never had any reason especially to like or dislike Marva Durant. The past year when he had been fishing, she had been snooty toward the common fishermen at the Travis ranch. But just now his knuckles itched.

"Heel!" he muttered, and he wasn't talking about the back end of a shoe. The sheriff was looking down at the wrecked convertible. "Couldn't get down there if we should want to," he said. "Get in and I'll take you back to Klamath, and I'd advise you, Kent, to stick right to fishing— for steel-head trout."

They got into the car. Sheriff Walling was backing it on the tricky highway to turn around. A coupe came roaring down the road from the direction of the airport. Coming round the curve, it all but piled into the sheriff's car, then cross-wise on the road. Brakes screamed as the driver prevented a collision, Sheriff Walling piled out, cursing. Jane gripped Kent's arm.

"It's Marva Durant," she whispered.

Kent saw that it was Marva Durant when Sheriff Walling jerked open the door of the coupe. Kent saw the .22 target rifle on the seat beside Marva.

The sheriff had jammed the rear of his sedan into the highway wall before he had climbed out. That left a narrow space for any other car to pass close to the canyon rim.

Evening had become almost full night. Kent therefore had his glimpse of Marva Durant and the little rifle propped up beside her in a circle cast by Sheriff Walling's suddenly produced flashlight. As he jerked open the coupe's door, the sheriff had bathed the face of the film star fully in the blinding light.

Marva Durant's hair was currently red. Kent recalled that last year it had been black. Marva was beautiful, but the probing flash did something to her, rather than for her. It brought out the hard twist of lips that were a little too heavy. Without makeup and with her hair in disorder, the face of Marva showed strain, perhaps of the moment, but more indelibly as the result of too fast living.

Then, too, Marva's voice was harsh, grating, when she spoke. She beat Sheriff Walling to any verbal punch,

"What the so-and-so's the big idea blockin' the road, you hick copper?" demanded Marva, adding a few words that were far from refined. "Take your hand off my car!"

"Move over, Miss Durant!" barked the sheriff, then called out of the corner of his mouth, "Pull my car outta the way, Chalmers, and I'll follow you back to Klamath."

Kent thought the film star was moving to obey the sheriff's command. But Marva spat out some real "across the tracks" language and acted with surprising speed.

"If you're thinkin' this rifle belongs to me, you're guessin' wrong!" Marva shrilled out the words, "I saw it in the road an' picked it up, an' you can have it."

The film star picked up the small rifle as if to hand it to Sheriff Walling, and she did. She cracked the gun stock between the sheriff's eyes, knocking him backward into the highway.

Kent pulled in a sharp breath, Rod Chalmers swore shortly, and Jane Travis gasped with momentary fear. Marva Durant shot her little car ahead, driving through that tricky, narrow space between the sedan and the canyon rim. The coupe got by and Kent would have sworn its outside running board was projecting into space.

Possibly Rod Chalmers, the director, was excitable. For he jumped the sheriff's car ahead and Kent was seizing Jane Travis with the hope of again missing a plunge into the canyon in the part of a second that Chalmers twisted the wheel and turned the sedan down the highway.

"You gone nuts, Chalmers?' rasped Kent. "Trying to dump us all down there, or—"

Kent acted then, seeing the immediate danger was past. His big fist caught Chalmers under the ear as he dived over the back of the front seat, seized the rim of the steering wheel, and cut off the ignition.

Chalmers cursed and partly slumped under the impact of the blow. Then the sheriff's car was stopped and the red tail of Marva Durant's coupe winked out of sight around the winding curve.

What Tom Kent had intended to say before he had jolted Chalmers with his fist remained in his mind, For Chalmers had missed the rear of the film star's coupe by a margin of inches. It struck Kent as incredible that Chalmers had meant to send Marva Durant's car off the shoulder where it would have been certain death.

Then it came to Kent's mind that his idea was not too fantastic. Hadn't Rod Chalmers needlessly mouthed an eighty grand motive that could pin the murder of Howard Travis on his star?

3: Make It Murder

"PICK up Marva Durant! Block the Pacific highway! She has to go through the town! And Jenkins! Keep an eye on the two witnesses; They're movie extras, so don't take any chances!"

It was the clipped voice of Sheriff Walling, the words falling as if his thin lips were cutting shears. His forehead showing a blackening bruise, the sheriff was back behind the wheel of his car, having tempered his cursing some be- cause of Jane Travis.

Sheriff Walling sported the latest two-way radio, not often found in a country law officer's car. He had rapped out his order to a deputy named Jenkins at the jail in Klamath.

Kent was back beside Jane and the girl had cold fingers tight upon his wrist. Rod Chalmers was silent now, his good-looking face marred by a swollen jaw— where Kent had clouted him.

There was an electrical tension in the sheriff's car. Kent believed the sheriff had intended to order him out, but had decided it would be smarter to keep an eye upon the private dick.

Having given an order to arrest Marva Durant, the sheriff was driving too fast and muttering. Kent spoke up without raising his voice.

"Mind tellin' me the charge against Marva Durant?" drawled Kent.

"None o' your damn'—" Then Sheriff Walling changed his mind, "For the present the charge is felonious attack upon a law officer, I'm not so sure, Kent, but  what I'll lock you up for unprovoked assault and battery."

Kent glanced at Rod Chalmers and heard the director utter a low, husky, "Don't." It was meant for the sheriff only.

Kent laughed with cold mockery. He was wondering about two movie extras who had been named as witnesses by Sheriff Walling.

"Lock me up in your crummy jailhouse, Walling," taunted Kent suddenly. "Seeing he missed killing Marva Durant in Porcupine canyon, I'd like that. Maybe you don't trust Hollywood either, seeing you want a couple of movie extras under the official eye. Hold it, hick copper, as Marva said. See, I'm tossin' away my private badge, Walling. From here out, I'm only a private citizen of the glorious commonwealth of California. Perhaps you don't know enough law to be informed that any private citizen has the same right as a sworn officer to stop a crime or make an arrest if he sees a crime committed."

Sheriff Walling's reply sounded like a bullfrog with its leg in a trap.

THE Pacific highway formed the main street of Klamath. It was lined with knots of citizens in excited discussion. It wasn't every day a famous Hollywood star occupied their dinky jail house.

Sheriff Walling drove straight to the jail. Ruddy-faced Jenkins met him.

"We grabbed her, chief, Holding her without charge until you come in."

"The charge will be murder!" stated Sheriff Walling with cold finality, and with defiant eyes turned toward Kent, as the private dick and Jane Travis climbed out of his car.

Then Sheriff Walling added: "Have you got boys on the two witnesses, Jenkins? We can't trust any of these Hollywood folks too far."

Kent nudged Jane Travis with an elbow and glanced at Rod Chalmers who was trying to make his swollen jaw as inconspicuous as possible. Kent then spoke to Chalmers.

"I suppose, Chalmers; you'll have an attorney up here from Hollywood?"

Rod Chalmers swung on his heels and there was hate in his eyes as he failed to reply to Kent's question.

"About these movie extras," continued Kent with a cheerful casualness. "Eye witnesses to the murder, sheriff?"

"One block up Shasta Street, on the corner, you'll find a fishing tackle store, Kent," was Sheriff Walling's reply. "There's a good run of steelhead in the Klamath River right now. Some of my boys may be handy to be sure that you don't take more than your daily allowance from the river."

Kent shrugged his big shoulders, grinning at the sheriff and started to turn away. Jane Travis laid a hand on his arm,

"Come on, Tom," she said. "We'll pick up a ride out to the ranch."

Sheriff Walling heard the girl's words and whirled.

"You're staying away from the Travis ranch, Kent!" rasped the sheriff. '"You're buying your fishing tackle and you're doing only what the law says while you're in Klamath! Jane had no right to call—"

Kent brought his big knuckles all the way from the level of his knee. It is doubtful if Sheriff Walling had ever been hit so hard on the chin. Then Kent followed up, yanking the sheriff's revolver from its holster. Kent circled facing a score or more of the citizens of Klamath,

"I'd advise you to keep your sheriff in line if you want to retain him as chief law officer of this county," he said.

There was a combined mutter that died. Kent saw the rippling of exposed white teeth throughout the crowd. It convinced him that at least a few Klamath citizens were not pally with their sheriff, who was reported to have made a fortune because of the building of the Shasta dam.

Seeing that no one made a move, not so much as to pick up the recumbent Walling, Kent turned on his hard heels, took Jane's arm and was starting to walk away.

"We'll hire a car, Tom," said Jane. "I take it you're disregarding Sheriff Walling's order to stay away from our ranch."

"Come on, Jane," said Kent. "Let's get the car."

THE Travis ranch lay in a wide bowl of the valley with the snows of Mt. Shasta feeding two crystal creeks that ran through it. The old log ranch house was a center for forty or more individual cabins built among the mountain pine and ash trees. When they left the hired car, Jane furtively removed a tear from under one eye. It seemed legitimate enough.

"You'll want to see dad's library, Tom?" she asked. "Sheriff Walling and his deputies and County Attorney Barney Fields haven't left much for anyone to find."

"No, Jane," said Kent. "I take it that Marva Durant had a separate cabin. I suppose that the cabin also has been searched ?"

"That seems a little strange, Tom," replied Jane. "But until I left today, neither the sheriff's men nor Attorney Fields appeared to have any interest in Marva's cabin. I think I saw Rod Chalmers, her director, visit it briefly. That was all."

"We'll have a look," said Kent,

It was well after dark now with a big moon coming up over the range to the eastward. Here and there, fishermen and women in rough clothes, carrying rods and creels that seemed well filled with steelhead, were gathered about some out-door fires they had built, lying with complete abandon to each other about their day's catch.

Jane had a key and unlocked the film star's cabin. There was a heavy, almost sickening, scent of the kind of perfume that a girl from "across the tracks" might be expected to favor. Jane gripped Kent's arm before he struck a light.

"I'd. forgotten to tell you, Tom, that when we broke into dad's library this afternoon, alarmed at his long absence, the air reeked with that same perfume. It attracted a maid on the outside."

Kent rubbed his bluish-black jaw a moment.

"Sounds a bit obvious— too damn' obvious, Jane," he said, "for a girl killer who, by what I gather, was roughly dressed for fishing the landlocked trout at Rainbow Lake or, maybe she used that musky smell to stun the fish."

Jane would have flashed on the electric light switch but Kent stopped her. He produced a brilliant flash. The interior of Marva's cabin was a key to the character of the actress. It would seem that when Marva undressed, she simply stepped out of everything and left both outer and intimate garments in a heap on the floor.

Kent went on a prowl. There was jewelry, much of it cheap, and some worth a lot of dough, left openly on the top of the dressing table.

Kent surveyed the baubles for a moment and then, for no apparent reason, picked up a jewel that was like a shining green eye under his flashlight. If Jane noticed she made no comment, Kent opened drawers and went through the closet.

He found no weapon but he came upon two boxes of .22 longs in a drawer of the dresser, That did not quite match with what Marva had said about finding the small rifle on the highway.

Kent pocketed the green stone but not before he had made a thorough search for what should have been a companion piece of the jewel.

"Would you know, Jane, about the witnesses that Sheriff Walling called movie extras?"

"I wouldn't know about that," stated Jane. "It was the first time I had heard that Sheriff Walling suspected anyone but myself."

Kent flicked out his flashlight. He had not missed the slight scuffling sound outside the door of the cabin.

"Stay back, Jane," he said in a low voice, "I think we may have visitors."

Kent palmed the .38 from his shoulder holster. He held his flashlight ready in his left hand and stepped carefully into the doorway. He was prepared for any surprise that might come from the out- side and that was where Kent made his mistake,

He felt as if a split-log wall of the cabin had crashed upon his head, From inside the doorway he stumbled and his nose plowed the dirt outside the door. He did not lift his face because he did not even know that he had all but smashed his nose.

JANE TRAVIS was bathing Kent's forehead with a cold towel. She said, "Please, wake up, darling," or that was the first that the shamus heard. It surprised and pleased him, for their relationship during his fishing vacations had been strictly friendly and no more.

Perhaps it was the note of panic in Jane's voice that really brought Kent around, She had switched on the bright lights of the cottage. As soon as she was sure Kent was able to sit up, Jane's voice lost its almost habitual calmness.

"Tom!" she exclaimed. "There's another killing! It's awful! Dolores, who was Marva Durant's maid, has been stabbed! Her body is lying behind the couch, and that's why your flash missed it."

4: Strange Figures

THE nice-looking legs of Dolores, the maid, showed at the end of the cabin couch. The filigreed half of a dagger that Jane said had been Marva Durant's letter-opener was all that showed in the scarlet blossom of life blood on the maid's breast.

Evidently Dolores had put up a brief struggle before the blade had been driven into her heart. She had been wearing a silken blouse and it had been ripped from her white shoulders,

Kent straightened from the body, looking into Jane's troubled eyes and seeing that her tanned face was almost gray. He forgot his own aching head. This was vital.

"You said it was decided that your father was killed during last night and left locked in the library?"

"That was the coroner's decision when he arrived with Sheriff Walling this afternoon," said Jane in a strained voice. "He said dad had been shot possibly twelve hours before we became worried that he hadn't returned from early morning fishing and finally opened the library."

Kent was considering a new pattern for the murder. He had been conjecturing that Rod Chalmers was too ready with incriminating words concerning that eighty grand pre-marriage settlement. And he had been convinced that Chalmers had intended to jam his film star's coupe into Porcupine Creek canyon,

"This is a queer complication," said Kent. "Anyone with a skeleton key could have entered this cottage. It hasn't been much more than an hour or so since Marva Durant showed up mysteriously on the road to the airport."

Jane gave him a puzzled frown. She said she didn't understand.

"The maid's body is still warm," said Kent quietly. "She was killed within the past two hours. From Sheriff Walling's appearance, looking for Marva at the airport, the whereabouts of Marva was not known to the law at that time. That means—"

Jane's lips were compressed as she spoke,

"It might be that a woman's intuition is equal to a detective's cold analysis, Tom. I've every reason to dislike Marva, but I'm convinced she didn't kill either my dad or her maid. There's something out of line, as I see it, in Sheriff Walling's persistence and in Rod Chalmers' backing up the sheriff with a motive for jailing Marva. And I never knew Marva to have a .22 rifle."

Kent had already reached that same theory. Moreover, the killing of the maid could have involved one of two things—

Either the maid had known of Marva Durant returning from Rainbow Lake during the previous night— Or the maid could have possessed some information that made it important that Marva Durant be removed and that was a threat to some other killer.

In the meantime Kent had been trying to guess at the identity of whoever had knocked him out at the cabin doorway. It could be Sheriff Walling's deputies or others who must be closely associated with the killings.

In either case, Kent knew that the intent had been to block any evidence he might have discovered in the cabin. For Kent's pockets had been explored and but one thing was missing.

This was the gleaming emerald he had taken from Marva Durant's carelessly displayed collection of jewels. The emerald was set in an earring. It gave Kent an idea of the evidence Sheriff Walling must be employing to connect the film star with the Howard Travis murder.

Kent was turning toward the phone in the cabin. He was about. to call the sheriff's office, wondering to himself how the roughly handled law officer would like having Kent add another murder to his troubles. Especially since the filigreed dagger handle probably would show no prints, and if it could, the prints of Marva Durant would mean nothing on her own letter opener.

Kent didn't have to use the phone.

"By damn!" rasped the hard. voice of Sheriff Walling in the cabin doorway. "Guessed you'd be here when I saw the lights. Didn't I warn you, Kent, to stay away from the Travis ranch?"

"The war's over, sheriff," said Kent. "There's no martial law around Klamath, And I've something that might add to your morbid spirit and possibly your case against Marva Durant."

KENT stepped to one side and gestured to the body of the maid be- hind the couch, Deputy Jenkins. and another man had accompanied the sheriff. This other man was as close to a fashion plate of what well dressed men should wear as could be found in all of the state. He was a small man, precise in voice and manner and attire.

Barney Fields, the county attorney, was everything he imagined a big time politician should be. And he was the county prosecutor because he was the kind of a boss who had built up a fair personal fortune.

In keeping with his affected manner, Fields wore eyeglasses on a black cord. He never seemed to use the glasses, but a well kept hand constantly fingered the cord.

It was Kent's instant idea that Sheriff Walling had arrived with his deputy and Attorney Fields to arrange for Kent's arrest. You couldn't go around bopping the county law on the chin and making threatening gestures with the law's own revolver.

The discovery of the murdered maid postponed whatever else Sheriff Waling might have had in mind, When he had tentatively examined the body and directed Deputy Jenkins to call Coroner Haskins from Klamath; the sheriff confronted Kent and Jane Travis with his lips so thinned he didn't seem to have a mouth.

"Even a dumb private snoop from the big town can see that I wasn't guessing when I put the finger on Marva Durant," stated Sheriff Walling with a self-satisfied tone. "This adds one more count on which I'm taking you into custody, Kent, In discovering this killing you're a witness I wouldn't trust outside. It has been found out that you're guilty of felonious assault, since you broke Rod Chalmers' jaw with a sneak punch, and there is the further attack upon myself as sheriff."

Sheriff Walling had reached back to his belt and the steel of handcuffs jingled. County Attorney Fields stepped forward quickly and, for once, he put his eyeglasses upon his nose.

"In my opinion, Sheriff Walling, there is nothing to be gained by detaining Mr. Kent," said Fields with his usual concise pursing of his rather small mouth. "Thinking it over, I would have to refuse to issue a warrant for the alleged offenses named. In fact, I would regard it as a favor if Mr. Kent remains with us and gives us the benefit of his wide experience in cases of homicide."

Kent could have been knocked over with a powder puff before he recovered from the surprising attitude of Attorney Fields.

"Thanks, Fields," he said shortly, watching Sheriff Walling show all the symptoms of a man about to have an epileptic fit. "In that case, may I point out that the unfortunate killing of Marva Durant's maid took place many hours after Howard Travis' death."

Sheriff Walling fought for control and sheared off a few words.

"Yeah, an' Marva Durant was seen around here late in the afternoon when we were looking for her," stated Walling. "She was supposed to be in a cabin at Rainbow Lake last night, too, all night. But I've got two witnesses who saw her driving back to Rainbow Lake shortly before daylight in the morning."

"Sheriff Walling!" ejaculated Attorney Fields with a note of reproof. 'As a law officer it isn't wise to be spreading such evidence as you may have in any case. I am the one to investigate the proof you may have come upon."

Kent's broad mouth tightened in a hard grin.

"Would you regard two tough movie extras from Hollywood as unimpeachable witnesses against Marva Durant?" said Kent quietly. "Or are you depending upon the emerald earring which your sheriff probably found near the body of Howard Travis?"

Sheriff Walling swore fluently.

"I haven't mentioned finding an earring!" exploded the sheriff.

"Sorry, Walling," murmured Kent. "Maybe my brain is a bit curdled by having my skull almost bashed in by someone who wanted the mate to such an emerald earring. You wouldn't know about that, of course?"

"Why, you cheap snoop, I'll—"

Sheriff Walling started to swing a fist, but he was blocked by the quick- movement of Attorney Fields,

"I would suggest that we are confronted with two murders and we'll have o work together and solve them if the whole Klamath country isn't to be given a bad reputation," stated Fields, "Mr. Kent, I would suggest that you and Sheriff Walling pursue your investigations without having any further brawling."

"Suits me fine," agreed Kent and left the cabin with Jane Travis clinging to his arm.

As all of the county law was being delayed temporarily waiting for the coroner and further inquiry into the killing of Marva Durant's maid, Jane and Kent were clear of spying eyes in the unusual library of the Travis house. Howard Travis had been a devotee of metallurgy and had possessed hundreds of books on that subject.

Jane made sure the window drapes were closed. She produced a small, black notebook,

"I saw the edge of this sticking from one of Dolores' slippers and I permitted curiosity to overcome the shock of her death," stated Jane. "It seemed to me that someone had searched the cabin before we were there and the maid had been clever enough to hide this. It probably cost her life." Kent flipped open the little book. Its strange notations made no sense at first. Then it dawned upon him that here might be the key to the murders and, especially, to Marva Durant being in jail under a charge that would make any story she told sound fantastic, Kent was looking at initials and figures—

RC— 5-8-45— Savoy LA

RC—10-3-45— Sunset Cabins Laguna

TY— 6-5-45— Savoy LA

GW—8-11-45— Plant SF

RC—12-11-45— Weekend Laguna

JG— 7-3-46— Savoy LA

GW— 11-4-46— Plant SF

BF— 6-5-46— Park Sacram

RC—9-6-46— Savoy LA

BF—11-7-46—Park Sacram.

Kent's eyes rambled on and then he snapped the book shut. He glanced at the clear, innocent eyes of Jane Travis. His mouth was lined and he debated what he should say. Jane was a wee bit of precious womanhood in size, but she was grownup enough to surprise Kent. She had been looking over his shoulder.

"Initials, dates, hotels, and cabins?" said Jane musingly. "I wonder if Marva Durant couldn't produce witnesses for each place and date? She was smart enough to hold her starring role, although gossip columnists have been talking about Rod Chalmers wanting to star a youngster named Lora Dean, and have hinted that there is a romance between them."

KENT didn't reply for a moment, reflecting. RC could be for Rod Chalmers. It was ugly, so bad it smelled. Then the other initials could stand for other men, and the kind of smart, wealthy suckers who would know better than to write incriminating letters, no matter what their association with the film star had been.

Kent was thinking of the currently redheaded Marva, with her sultry beauty that was beginning to fade with the strain of living. Unless he was guessing far wrong, the shapely Marva had been making the most of her free and easy morals.

"If this is what it appears to be, I don't want to discuss it, Jane," said Kent slowly. "This evening there was every evidence that Rod Chalmers wouldn't miss his star if she were dead in a canyon, or if she happened to face a murder rap that would disqualify anything she might tell. I want a few minutes to think."

Jane touched Kent's cheek with a caressing hand,

"After all, darling, I'm a big girl now," she said softly. "There are other initials that can be matched, with dates, places and probably witnesses. Initials of a few men who aren't exactly poor."

Kent clicked his teeth and spoke with savage fury.

"GW could be George Walling, wealthy sheriff," he said. "As for the other initials, I don't know—"

"There's BF," suggested Jane quickly.

KENT shook his head. He said: "That seems incredible. There's TY and JG noted down. I must find out the names of the pair of plug-uglies, movie extras, Sheriff Walling counts on to testify that Marva Durant was away from Rainbow Lake for hours during the time your father was killed."

"But the BF, Tom?"

"That remains to be developed," said Kent.  Many men have the same initials. Jane, can you tell me just where your father was found and anything else you remember?"

Jane's eyes were liquid, but they were also bright with growing anger.

"Yes, I can tell you," she said. "I didn't say anything at the time, but Sheriff Walling lied. I kept quiet because I thought he was trying to trap someone, perhaps Rod Chalmers, even me. But Sheriff Walling didn't find any bullet to send out for a test, and there were no powder marks on my father's throat."

Kent swore under his breath.

"You mean the bullet inflicted a death wound and passed out, and couldn't be found?" demanded Kent,

Jane nodded and tears flooded then.

"Dad's throat was torn by the bullet and it must have lodged somewhere among all those books," she said.

5: Murder Rifle

TOM KENT slipped a hand to a small pocket under his belt. He had been searched and an emerald earring had been taken. But there was a small, hard lump still in the little pocket.

"Don't be surprised at what I'm about to do, Jane," warned Kent.

"I've never been surprised when you seemed the craziest," replied Jane. "Walling and the others are coming from the cottage."

Possibly anyone but Jane Travis would have doubted Kent's sanity at this moment. In sixty seconds he had pulled down several rows of books, scattering them.

The county lawmen were grinding their boot heels in the gravel walk out- side when Kent seized one thick book and opened it. Then he ripped out pages, crumpling and tearing them. He scattered the despoiled book within seconds, then he used the small blade of his pocketknife to jab a hole with uneven edges into the leather back of the volume that had been facing from the shelf.

Kent dropped the book just as Sheriff Walling appeared in the library door way, flanked by Deputy Jenkins, County Attorney Fields and half a dozen others whom Kent did not recognize.

"Wotinell's the big idea, you crackpot snoop?" slapped out Sheriff Walling. "Jane Travis! You gone plumb crazy, seeing your dead father's books ruined?"

Kent had backed until he was touching the drapes over an open window,

"I've just been proving you're a damn' liar, Walling," stated Kent. "You didn't have any death bullet to send to Sacramento. And finding that out, I don't believe you have two witnesses ready to swear Marva Durant drove down here from Rainbow Lake last night. If so, you don't dare name them."

Sheriff Walling's big hand had his revolver half out of its holster and Kent had one hand in his side coat pocket.

"I admit tryin' to trap a killer by lying about that bullet," rasped the sheriff, "Of course I can name my witnesses, They're being held in custody until we have a hearing. They're Thad Young and John Graves, both from Hollywood, and knowin' Marva Durant long enough. not to make any mistake."

Kent added up initials and names m the flash of a second, The TY in Marva's little book of misspent nights and lost weekends could be Thad Young, and the JG could be John Graves. And it came to Kent now that both Young and Graves were script writers for Rod Chalmers.

Tom Kent gave forth a laugh that was wild enough to confirm the sheriff's charge that he was a crackpot.

"That's fine, sheriff!" rapped out Kent and his blue .38 came from his pocket.

"So you have the witnesses and I have— the bullet you didn't send to Sacramento. No. Don't move. I've a little errand of my own."

One of Walling's companions jerked off the switch, darkening the library. But Kent was already through the window when Sheriff Walling's revolver exploded and lead whined off the window frame.

Kent had been fast, but not too fast to hear the clipped precise voice of County Attorney Barney Fields.

"Stop it, Walling, you fool! Kent isn't a criminal! Turn on those lights!"

Kent was moving with shadowy quickness when the Travis library again flared with illumination. Kent swore to himself, knowing that Jane Travis probably would be in for a bad few minutes with Walling raging and questioning her.

KENT cut straight for the town of Klamath, a mile away. Only one car passed him, coming at high speed from behind. It whizzed by and Kent could see it contained only the driver but it was too dark to identify him.

Kent could well imagine the tangle in which he had projected several men, It was highly probable that each of those involved knew little or nothing of the other men's relations with Marva Durant.

He moved swiftly in the darkness until he came to the county jail and sheriff's office. This was in an annex of the county courthouse.

Kent glanced sharply about. He saw no car nor any other visible sign that he had been followed. A middle-aged, bulky man had been left acting as jailer. He was seated behind the desk. Kent opened the sheriff's office door and stepped inside.

"Stay put!" he commanded before the jailer could arise from the chair behind the desk,

Kent's .38 was level. He had not the slightest intention of shooting the man, but the jailer had no means of knowing that, and he lifted his hands.

"I want just one thing from you," said Kent tersely. "Unlock the storage closet over there and bring me any or all target rifles that may be held."

"Yeah, sure," drawled the jailer.

His voice was so easy-like that it rung a little bell of warning in Kent's brain. The jailer moved, fumbling with a bunch of keys. Kent took a few steps nearer to him, his eyes upon the darkness of a corridor that apparently led back to the cells.

The jailer clicked a key into the storage closet's lock. Kent stepped behind him and pushed his gun into the man's back.

"If there's a trick, mister, you'll get it first," he said in a hard voice, wondering what he should do.

The lock of the storage closet opened, banged to the floor and Kent heard the scuffling rush of feet along the corridor. He had just time to crack his automatic across the back of the jailer's head and drop him, hoping that he had not hit too hard.

Kent turned. Two bulky, hard-faced men with guns in their fists plunged from the corridor into the jail office. When Kent had entered he had marked the location of the light switch.

"Drop your rod, yuh damn' snoop!" ordered one of the oncoming men,

Kent made a movement as if to drop his .38, jumped sideways and snapped the office into darkness. Gunfire blossomed with red viciousness from the guns of both men. Lead whanged and whined from the stone walls of the jail office.

But Kent was flat on his stomach. In the final seconds of light, he had marked his targets. The .38 jolted three times in his hand. One man screamed. Both men thudded to the floor. Kent had marked the position of their legs and. cut them down.

He was on them with an animal bound, slashing at their heads in the darkness with the barrel of his automatic. Half a minute later, he was back and had thrown on the lights.

There was but one .22 target rifle in the collection of weapons in the storage closet. Kent grasped it and was coming out. He didn't hear the slithering foot-steps but again the lights went out. This time, when a gun cracked, Kent felt the tug of the bullet across his shoulder and his neck was scored by another shot. He dropped and rolled.

The killer was shooting with wild abandon, emptying an automatic. It was Kent's guess that the shooting was panicky and he counted the shots. He came to his feet when he heard the gun click on an empty chamber. Hurtling forward toward where the gun had blazed, his hands grasped the gunman.

Kent was not in the least surprised when his greater strength and weight lifted the other man and hurled him headlong over his shoulders. The other man struck the floor with a deep groan and then was still.

THE lights came on again. A rush of cold air came from the doorway. Sheriff Walling and Deputy Jenkins were standing there with drawn guns. But Kent now was just inside the door of the storage closet, his own .38 covering the two men.

"I wouldn't, sheriff," drawled Kent easily. "Without going into a lot of details you might not think I know, I'm handing you the murderer of Howard Travis and of Marva Durant's maid."

His gun flicked sideways toward the groaning figure on the floor. Two bulky men with their legs cracked were huddled on the floor of the cell corridor.

For a suspended few seconds, it seemed that Sheriff Walling might lose his head but Kent's gun was unwavering. Underneath all of it, Sheriff Walling was either smart or yellow.

"Lord in Heaven!" he exclaimed, "It couldn't be— Barney Fields?"

"It could be and is!" snapped Kent. "It's your duty to arrest him. I've the bullet that killed Howard Travis; also the target rifle that Barney Fields dropped on the highway hoping Marva Durant would spot it in her headlights and pick it up, which she did. A bullet from that same gun almost dumped Jane Travis and myself into Porcupine Canyon."

The only bullet Kent had was the one he had dug from the tire.

Sheriff Walling's face turned scarlet.

"But I can't hold the county attorney—"

Kent's voice was easy. "Yes, Walling, you will hold the county attorney until a prosecutor can be summoned. You boys should get together when you want to play around, You might not remember, Walling, the 8th day of November, last year, at the Plant Hotel in San Francisco or the 11th day of April, this year, at the same hotel? It might be you want to keep on paying—"

"Shut up, Kent!" said Sheriff Walling huskily. "I'll burn you down where you are!"

"And if you do, Walling, you wouldn't want to murder Jane Travis. Jane has a little book filled with initials and dates."

"For heavens's sake, Walling!" came the voice of the crumpled Barney Fields, county attorney, who was still lying on the floor. "Turn Marva Durant loose. We can fix this up some way."

"By hell!" roared Sheriff Walling, "You fix it up!"

His revolver blasted once, Kent's .38 jumped and Walling's shattered wrist was torn loose from his weapon. Deputy Jenkins jumped and ran out the door.

There was a commotion outside the jail. Jane Travis carried a .25-30 rifle in the crook of her arm. Behind her were a dozen of the boys from the Howard Travis ranch.

Kent stepped from the storage closet. He held a target rifle in one hand.

"Hold it, Jane," he said quietly. "Sheriff Walling is about to arrest Barney Fields for the killing of your father and of Marva Durant's maid. Another attorney will have to be brought in to see that justice is meted out. As for these two boys with their busted legs, Rod Chalmers with his broken jaw, and Marva Durant, I think it would be wise if they were permitted to take the morning bus heading for Southern California. We'll have Graves and Young patched up.

"Marva Durant has her punishment for the blackmail she undoubtedly practiced upon all of these men and it would be hard to prove."

"I'm for all of that, Tom," stated Jane Travis. "Being a woman, I know that Marva Durant's punishment— loss of her career, her necessary fading into obscurity— will be worse than any sentence a court could mete out."

Barney Fields was suddenly precise and silent as he walked back into the cell corridor ahead of Sheriff Walling. Walling turned back toward the office and there was hate in his voice.

"Mind telling me what comes next, Tom Kent?" he asked huskily.

Kent was over beside Jane Travis and her hand was on his shoulder.

"You paid out plenty, Walling, for taking your fun where you found it," said Kent. "Barney Fields paid, too, but he saw his political future ruined. As for these others, they were blackmailed into keeping Marva Durant a star. As for me, Walling, I'm just going fishing."

_________________

13: The Two-Handed Sword

Achmed Abdullah

Alexander Nicholayevitch Romanoff, 1881-1945

Collier's 11 May 1918

HE JUDGED each act of the passing days by three pictures in the back cells of his brain. These pictures never weakened, never receded; neither during his meals, which he shared with the other students at Frau Grosser's pension in the Dahlmannstrasse, nor during his hours of study and research spent over glass tubes and crucibles and bottles and retorts in the Royal Prussian Chemical Laboratory overlooking Unter den Linden, with Professor Kreutzer's grating, sarcastic voice at his left ear, the rumbling basso of the professor's German assistants at his right.

There was one picture which showed him the island of Kyushu rising from the cloudy gray of the China Sea, black-green with cedar and scarlet with autumn maple, and the pink snow of cherry fluffing April and early May; the island which stood to him for princely Satsuma, and Satsuma; since he was a samurai, permitted to wear two swords, the daito and the shoto for the whole of Japan.

There was the picture of his grandfather, the Marquis Takagawa— his father had gone down fighting his ship against the Russians under Makarov— who in his youth had drawn the sword for the Shogun against the Mikado in the train of Saigo, the rebel chief, who had finally made his peace with his sovereign lord and had given honorable oath that he would lay the lives, the courage, and the brains of his descendants for all time to come on the altar of Nippon to atone for the sin of his hot youth.

There was, thirdly, the memory of his old tutor, Komoto, a bonze of the Nichiren sect who had made senaji pilgrimages to the thousand shrines, who had taught him the Chinese classics from the Diamond Sutra to the King-Kong-King, later on the wisdom of Ogawa and Kimazawa and the bushi no ichi-gon the lessons of Bushido, the lore of the two-handed sword, the ancient code of Nippon chivalry.

"The spiritual light of the essential being is pure," Komoto had said to the marquis when the governors of the cadet school at Nagasaki had decided that the young samurai's body was too weak, his eyes too short sighted, his blood too thin to stand the rigorous military training of modern Japan. "It is not affected by the will of man. It is written in the book of Kung Tzeu that not only the body but also the brain can raise a levy of shields against the enemy."

"Yes," the marquis had replied; for he, too, was versed in the Chinese classics. "Ships that sail the ocean, drifting clouds, the waning moon, shores that are washed away these are symbolic of change. These, and the body. But the human mind is essential, absolute, changeless, and everlasting. O Takamori-san!" He had turned to his grandson. "You will go to Europe and learn from the foreigners, with your brain, since your body is too weak to carry the burden of the two-handed sword. You will learn with boldness, with patience, and with infinite trouble. You will learn not for reward and merit, not for your self, but for Nippon. Every grain of wisdom and knowledge that falls from the table of the foreigners you will pick up and store away for the needs of the Rising Sun. You will learn— and learn. But you will learn honorably. For you are a samurai, O Takamori-san!"

And so the young samurai took ship for Europe. He was accompanied by Kaguchi, an old family servant, short, squat, flat-nosed, dark of skin and long of arm. A low-caste he was who had sunk his personality in that of the family whom his ancestors had been serving for generations, who had never considered his personal honor but only that of his master's clan which to him stood for the whole of Nippon.

If Takagawa Takamori had been small among the short, sturdy daimios of Kyushu, he seemed wizened and diminutive among the long-limbed, well-fleshed men of Prussia and Mecklenburg, and Saxony who crowded the chemical laboratory of Professor Kreutzer. Gentlemen according to the stiff, angular, ram rod German code, they recognized that the little parchment-skinned, spectacled Asian was a gentleman according to his own code, and so, while they pitied him after the manner of big blond men, lusty of tongue, hard of thirst and greedy of meat, they sympathized with him. They even liked him; and they tried to help him when they saw his narrow-lidded, myopic eyes squint over tomes and long-necked glass retorts in a desperate attempt to assimilate in six short semesters the chemical knowledge which Europe had garnered in the course of twice a hundred years.

Professor Kreutzer, who had Semitic blood in his veins and was thus in the habit of leaping at a subject from a flying start and handling it with consciously dramatic swiftness, was frequently exasperated at Takagawa's slowness of approach and comprehension. On the other hand, his German training and traditions made him appreciate and admire the student's Asiatic tenacity of purpose, his steel-riveted thoroughness and efficiency which made it impossible for him to forget a fact which he had once mastered and stored away. Perhaps his method of learning was parrotlike. Perhaps his memory was mechanical, automatic, the fruit of his early schooling when, with the mountain wind blowing icy through the flimsy shoji walls, he had knelt in front of Komoto and had laboriously learned by heart long passages from the Yuen-Chioh and the erudite commentaries of Lao-tse. Whatever the basic cause, whatever his method, the result was peculiar and startling to his fellow students. Given a certain discussion, a certain argument which sent his German class-mates scuttling for library and reference books, the young samurai seemed to turn on a special spigot in his brain and give forth the desired information like a sparkling stream.

"Sie sind ja so'n echter Wunderknabe, Sie Miniatur gelbe Gefahr!" (for that's what he called him: a "miniature yellow peril") the professor would exclaim; and he would give him a resounding slap on the back which would cause the little wizened body to shake and smart.

But, sensing the kindliness beneath rough words and rougher gesture, Takagawa would bow old-fashionedly, with his palms touching his knees, and suck in his breath noisily.

He was learning— learning honorably; and at night, when he returned to his rooms in the pension, he would go over the garnered wisdom of the day together with Kaguchi, his old servant. Word for word he would repeat to him what he had learned, until the latter, whose brain was as that of his master— persistent, parrotlike, mechanical— could reel off the chemical formulae with the ease and fluency of an ancient professor gray in the craft. He had no idea what the barbarous foreign sounds meant. But they amused him. Also he was proud that his young master understood their meaning— his young master who stood to him for Kyushu and the whole of Nippon.

Summer of the year 1914 found Takagawa still at work under Professor Kreutzer, together with half a dozen German students who like himself were using the Long Vacations for a postgraduate course in special chemical research, and a Prussian officer, a Lieutenant Baron Horst von Eschingen, who on his arrival was introduced by the professor as "a rara avis indeed— pardon me, baron!" with a lop-sided, sardonic grin— "a brass-buttoned, much-gallooned, spurred, and booted East-Elbian Junker who is graciously willing to descend into the forum of sheepskin and learned dust and stinking chemicals, and imbibe knowledge at the feet of as humble a personage as myself."

The German students laughed boisterously, while the baron smiled. For it was well known throughout the empire that Professor Kreutzer was a Liberaler who disliked bureaucratic authority, sneered at the military, and was negligent of imperial favor.

From the first Takagawa felt a strong liking and even kinship for Baron von Eschingen. He under stood him. The man, tall, lean, powerful, red-faced, ponderous of gesture and raucous of speech, was nevertheless a samurai like himself. There was no doubt of it. It showed in his stiff punctiliousness and also in his way of learning— rather of accepting teaching. For the professor, who welcomed the opportunity of bullying with impunity a member of the hated ruling classes, took a delight in deviling the baron's soul, in baiting him, in putting to him sudden questions hard to solve and pouncing on him when the answer did not come swift enough, with such remarks as: "Of course, lieber Herr Leutnant, what can I expect? This is not a hollow square, nor a firing squad, nor any thing connected with martingale or rattling scabbard. This is science the humble work of the proletariat and, by God, it needs the humble brain of the proletariat to understand it."

Another time— the baron was specializing in poisonous gases and their effect on the human body— the professor burst out with: "I can't get it through my head why you find it so terribly difficult to master the principles of gas. I have always thought that the army is making a specialty of— gas bags!"

Von Eschingen would bite his mustache and blush. But he would not reply to the other's taunts and gibes; and Takagawa knew that the baron, too, was learning; learning honorably; nor because of reward and merit.

They worked side by side through the warm, soft July afternoons—while the sun blazed his golden panoply across a cloudless sky and the scent of the linden trees, drifting in through the open windows, cried them out to field and garden— cramming their minds with the methodical devices of exact science, staining their hands with sharp acids and crystals, with the professor wielding his pedagogic whip, criticizing, sneering, mercilessly driving. More than once, when Kreutzer's back was turned, Takagawa would help the baron, whisper him word or chemical formula from the fund of his tenacious Oriental brain, and then the two would laugh like naughty schoolboys, the German with short, staccato bursts of merriment, the Japanese discreetly, putting his hand over his mouth.

Finally one afternoon as they were leaving the laboratory together and were about to go their separate ways at the corner of the Dorotheenstrasse, Takagawa bowed ceremoniously before the officer and, painfully translating in his mind from the Chinese book of etiquette into Japanese and thence into the harsh vagaries of the foreign tongue, begged him to tie the strings of his traveling cloak and deign to set his honorable feet in the miserable dwelling of Takagawa Takamori, there to partake of mean food and entirely worthless hospitality.

Baron von Eschingen smiled, showing his fine, white teeth, clicked his heels, and accepted; and the following evening found the curious couple in Takagawa's room: the former in all the pale-blue and silver glory of his regimentals, the latter, having shed his European clothes, wrapped in a cotton crêpe robe embroidered on the left shoulder with a single pink chrysanthemum, queer and hieratic— the mon, the coat of arms of his clan.

To tell the truth, the baron had brought with him a healthy, meat-craving German appetite, and he felt disappointed when all his host offered him was a plate of paper-thin rice wafers and some very pale, very tasteless tea served in black celadon cups. His disappointment changed to embarrassment when the Japanese, before filling the cups, went through a lengthy ceremony, paying exaggerated compliments in halting German, extolling his guest's nobility, and laying stress on his own frightful worthlessness.

"And the funny little beggar did it with all the dignity of a hidalgo," the baron said the next morning to a major in his regiment who had spent some years as military attaché in Japan. "Positively seemed to enjoy it."

The major laughed. "Why," he replied, "you ought to feel highly honored. For that Jap paid you no end of a compliment. He has initiated you into the cha-no-yu, the honorable ceremony of tea sipping, thus showing you that he considers you his equal."

"His his equal?" flared up the other, who, away from the laboratory, was inclined to be touchy on points of family and etiquette.

"To be sure. Didn't you say his name is Takagawa Takamori?"

"Yes."

"Well— the Takagawas are big guns in their own land. They don't make 'em any bigger. They are relatives of the Mikado, cousins to all the feudal houses of Satsuma, descendants of the gods, and what not—"

It was not altogether snobbishness which caused the German to cultivate the little Asiatic after that. He really liked him. At the end of a few weeks they were friends— strangely assorted friends who had not much in common except chemistry, who had not much to talk about except acids and poisonous gases. But they respected each other, and many a sunny afternoon found them strolling side by side through the crowded thoroughfares of Berlin, the baron swinging along with his long, even step, the tip of his scabbard smartly bumping against the asphalt, while Takagawa tripped along very much like a small, owlish child, peering up at the big man through the concave lenses of his spectacles.

Only once did the samurai mention the reasons which had brought him to Europe. They were passing the Pariser Platz at the time, and stopped and turned to look at the half company of Grenadiers of the Guard who were marching through the Brandenburger Thor to change the castle watch, shoulders squared, rifles at the carry, blue-clad legs shooting forth at right angles, toes well down, the spotless metal on spiked helmet and collar and belt mirroring the afternoon sun, while the drum major shook his horse-tailed bell tree and a mounted captain jerked out words of command:

"Achtung! Augen links! Vorwarts! Links an! Links an! Marsch!"

Takagawa pointed a lean, brown finger.

"The scabbard of my blue steel spear is the liver of my enemy," he quoted softly, translating from the Japanese. "I carry the red life on my fingertips; I have taken the vow of a hero!" and when the baron looked down, uncomprehending, asking astonishedly: "Hero? Hero?" the other gave a little, crooked smile.

"The mind too fights when the body is too weak to carry the burden of the two-handed sword," he explained. "The mind too can be a hero. Mine is!" he added, with utter simplicity. "For my body aches for the touch of steel, while I force my mind to drink the learning of books. My mind bends under the strain of it. But I do it— for Japan."

The baron's hand descended on his friend's lean shoulder.

"Yes," he said. "I understand, old boy. I have an older brother. No good for the King's coat— lost a leg when he was a kid. Family shot him into the Foreign Ministry. Works like a slave. But, auf Ehrenwort, he hates it, the poor old beggar!"— and, seeing a drop of moisture in the other's oblique eyes, he went on hurriedly: "Now, as to that gas— that new one Kreutzer is driveling about— with some unearthly, jaw-breaking Greek name and that fine, juicy stink to it— do you remember how—" And a moment later they were deep once more in the discussion of poison gases.

July swooned into August and, overnight, it seemed, the idyl of peace was spattered out by a brushful of blood. Excitement struck Berlin like a crested wave. People cheered. People laughed. People wept. A conjurer's wand swung from Spandau to Kopenick, thence east to Posen, and north and northwest in a semicircle, touching Kiel, Hamburg, Cologne, and Mayence. A forest of flags sprang up. Soldiers marched in never-ending coils down the streets, horse and foot, foot again, and the low, dramatic rumbling of the guns. They crowded the railway stations from Lehrter Bahnhof to Friedrichstrasse Bahnhof. They entrained, cheered, were cheered, leaned from carriage windows, floppy, unstarched fatigue caps set jauntily on close-cropped heads, singing sentimental songs:

Lebt wohl, ihr Frauen und ihr Madchen,

Und schafft euch einen And r en an.…

The cars pulled away, bearing crudely chalked leg ends on their brown sides— "This car for Paris!" "This car for Brussels!" "This car for Calais!"— and, twenty-four hours later, the world was startled from stupid, fattening sleep through the news that Belgium had been invaded by the gray-green hordes, led by generals who had figured out each chance of victory and achievement with logarithmic, infallible cunning, and that already the Kaiser had ordered the menu which should be served him when he entered Paris.

The wave of war struck the laboratory and the pension in the Dahlmannstrasse together with the rest of Berlin.

People assumed new duties, new garb, new language, new dignity— and new psychology. The old Germany was gone. A new Germany had arisen— a colossus, a huge, crunching animal of a country, straddling Europe on massive legs, head thrown back, shoulders flung wide; proud, defiant! And sullen! Takagawa did not understand. He had come to Berlin to learn honorably. He was not familiar with European politics, and Belgium was only a geographical term to him.

War? Of course! War! It meant honor and strength and sacrifice. But—

There was Hans Grosser, the only son of Frau Grosser, the comfortable, stout Silesian widow who kept the pension. Long, lean, pimply, clumsy, an underpaid clerk in the Dresdner Bank, he had been heretofore the butt of his mother's boarders. When at the end of the meal the Kompottschale, filled with stewed fruit, was passed down the table, he was the last to help himself, and then apologetically. The day after war was declared he came to dinner his last dinner before leaving for the front in gray-green, with a narrow gold braid on his buckram-stiffened collar, gold insignia on his epaulet, a straight saber dragging behind his clicking spurs like a steel-forged tail. Overnight the negligible clerk had become Herr Leutnant second lieutenant in the reserves, detailed to the 124th Infantry. The butt had become the potential hero.

He was listened to, bowed to. He was the first to dip the battered silver spoon into the Kompottschale.

Dinner over, cigars and cigarettes lit, he held court, leaning over the piano in all his gray-green glory. He received congratulations which he accepted with a yawn. But when Takagawa bowed to him, saying something very kindly and very stiltified in his awkward German, Grosser looked him up and down as he might some exotic and nauseating beetle, and it was clear that the other boarders approved of his strange conduct.

It was the same in the laboratory. When he entered the students who were already there turned stony eyes upon him.

"Good morning, gentlemen," he said. A harsh, rasping sound, something between a cough and a snort, was the reply.

Only the professor seemed unchanged.

"Good morning, miniature yellow peril!" he said, while the German students formed into a group near the window whence they could see the soldiers file down Unter den Linden, with the hollow tramp-tramp-tramp of drilled feet, the brasses braying out their insolent call.

They seemed silent and grave and stolid, though at times given to unreasonable, hectic fits of temper. They talked excitedly among themselves about "Weltpolitik" about "Unser Plats in der Sonne" and "Deutsche Ideate." Every once in a while one of them would whisper something about "die Englander," pronouncing the word as if it were a dread talisman. Another would pick up the word: "die Englander," with a tense, minatory hiss. Then again they would all talk together, excitedly; and once Takagawa, busy with a brass crucible and a handful of pink crystals, could hear: "Japan— the situation in the Far East— Kiauchau—"

Baron von Eschingen, usually punctual to the minute, did not make an appearance at the laboratory that morning.

"Getting ready for the wholesale butchery," the professor explained to Takagawa in an undertone. "Sharpening his cleaver and putting a few extra teeth in his meat saw, I've no doubt."

Takagawa felt disappointed. He would have liked to say good-by to his friend, ceremoniously. For he remembered how his father had gone forth at the outbreak of the Russo-Japanese War. He had only been a small child at the time, but he recollected everything: how his mother and grandmother had bowed low and had spoken unctuously of naijo, of inner help; how the little girls of the household had brought their kai-ken dirks to be blessed by the departing warrior; how Komoto had quoted long passages from the Poro-po-lo-mi, reenforcing them with even lengthier quotations from the Fuh-ko; how his father had taken him to his arms with the true bushi no nasaké, the true tenderness of a warrior, and how immediately after his father had left the women had put on plain white linen robes, without hems, as the ancient rites prescribe for widows.

"You— you don't think he'll come back here before he leaves for the front?" he asked the professor.

"Certainly," laughed the other. "He isn't through yet with these!" indicating a wizardly array of tubes and pipes whence acrid, sulphurous fumes were rising to be caught, yellow, cloudy, whirling, in a bulb-shaped retort which hung from the ceiling.

"But— he is a samurai, a soldier!" stammered Takagawa. "What have these— these gases to do with—"

"With war?" Kreutzer gave a cracked laugh. "Don't you know?"

"I know the ingredients. I know how the gas is produced."

"Oh, you do; do you?"

"Yes."

And Takagawa, turning on the right spigot in his fact-gathering brain, reeled off the correct formula in all its intricacies.

The professor laughed again. "And you mean to say," he asked in the same sibilant undertone, "that you have no idea what the gas is for— that you have no idea why Baron von Eschingen has honored us these six weeks with his spurred and booted presence?"

"Why— no!"

Kreutzer slapped his knees. "Blessed innocence!" he chuckled. "Blessed, spectacled, yellow-skinned, Asiatic innocence! It is— Well, never mind!"

He turned to the German students who were still talking excitedly among themselves.

"Silentium!" he thundered. "War is all very well, gentlemen. But we are not here to kill or to remake the map of Europe. We are here to learn about…" And then a lengthy Greek word and the hush of the classroom.

The baron, who had shed his pale-blue and silver regimentals for a uniform of gray-green, came in toward the end of the lesson. He spoke courteously to the students, who instinctively stood at attention, shook hands with Takagawa with his usual friendliness, and drew the professor into a corner where he engaged him in a low, heated conversation.

"I won't do it!" Takagawa could hear Kreutzer's angry hiss. "The lesson is over. I insist on my academic freedom! I am a free burgess of the university! I—" and the baron's cutting reply: "This is war, Herr Professor! I am here by orders of the Ministry of War. I order you to—"

Takagawa smiled. Here was the real samurai speaking; and he was still smiling ecstatically when, a moment later, the professor turned to the class.

"Go downstairs, meine Herren," he said. "I have a private lesson to give to— to—" he shot out the word venomously— "to our army dunce! To our saber-rattling gray-green hope! To our so intelligent East-Elbian Junker! To—"

"Shut up!" came the baron's harsh voice. "Don't you dare, you damned—" At once he controlled himself. He forced himself to smile. "I am sorry, gentlemen," he said, "to disturb you and to interfere with your lessons in any way. But I have some private business with the professor. War— you know— the necessities of war—"

"Yes—yes…"

"Naturlich!"

"Selbstverstandlick!"

"Sie haben ganz Recht, Herr Leutnant!" came the chorus of assent, and the students left the laboratory together with Takagawa, who went last.

"Wait for me downstairs, old boy," the baron called after him as he was about to close the door.

Arrived in the street, without civil words or touching their hats, the German students turned to the left to take their "second breakfast" at the Café Victoria, while Takagawa paced up and down in front of the building to wait for his friend.

Troops were still marching in never-ending files, like a long, coiling snake with innumerable, bobbing heads, and crowds of people were packing the sidewalks in a dense mass, from the Brandenburger Thor to beyond the Schloss.

They whirled about Takagawa. A few noticed him—only a few, since he was so small—but these few glared at him. They halted momentarily, mumbling: "A Japanese!"

"Ein Ausladnder!" ("A foreigner!")

There was sullen, brooding hatred in the word where, only yesterday, it had held kindliness and hospitality and tolerance.

Takagawa stepped back into a doorway. Not that he was afraid. He did not know the meaning of the complicated emotion called fear, since he was a samurai. But something intangible, something nauseating and hateful, seemed to float up from the crowd, like a veil in the meeting of winds the air, the people, the music, everything, suddenly shot through with peculiar, disturbing, prismatic diffractions.

He was glad when the baron's tall form came from the laboratory building.

"Sorry I kept you waiting," said the officer, slipping his white-gloved hand through the other's arm. "I've only a minute for you at that. Got to rush back to headquarters, you know. But a word to the wise— is your passport in order?"

"Yes. Why?"

The baron did not seem to hear the last question. He took a visiting card from his pocketbook and scribbled a few rapid words. "Here you are," he said, giving the card to Takagawa. "Take this to my friend Police Captain von Wilmowitz, at the Presidency of Police— you know— near the Spittelmarkt. He'll see to it that you get away all right before it's too late—you, and your old servant, Kaguchi—"

"Get away? Too late? You mean that—"

"That you'd better wipe your feet on the outer doormat of the German Empire. Get out of the country, in other words. Go to Holland, Switzerland— anywhere."

"Why?"

"War!" came the baron's laconic reply.

"Yes, but Japan and Germany are not at war!"

The baron had put back his pocketbook and was buttoning his tunic. "I know," he said. "But England declared war against us three hours ago, and Japan is England's ally. Hurry up. Do what I tell you. I'll drop in on you tonight or tomorrow and see how you're making out." He turned and came back again.

"By the way," he went on, "be careful about any papers you take along. Destroy them. Your chemistry notebooks the notes you made during class. There's that poison gas, for instance." He was silent, hesitated, and continued: "I'm sorry about that, Takagawa. Puts both you and me in a devilishly embarrassing position. You see, I had no idea— honestly— that war was due when the powers that be detailed me on that chemistry course. I thought it was all a tremendous bluff. Otherwise I would never have dreamt of working side by side with you, comparing notes on these poison-gas experiments, and all that. Well—" he shrugged his shoulders "what's the use of crying over spilt milk? Burn your notebooks— chiefly those dealing with the gas." And he was off.

Takagawa looked after him, uncomprehending. The poison gas! Here it was again. The same mysterious allusion. First Professor Kreutzer had spoken of it, and now the baron.

But what did they mean? What did it signify?

Finally, obeying the suggestion of the dusty laboratory windows looking down on him from their stone frames, Takagawa re-entered the building and went straight to Professor Kreutzer's lecture room.

He found the latter seated at his desk, his chin cupped in his hands, his haggard face flushed and congested. The man seemed to be laboring under an excitement which played on every quivering nerve of his body; the hand supporting the lean chin showed the high-swelling veins, and trembled.

He looked up as Takagawa entered, and broke into a harsh bellow of laughter. "Come back, have you, you stunted yellow peril!"

"Yes. I want to ask you about— about the gas."

Again the professor laughed boisterously.

"The gas!" he cried. "The poison gas! To be sure! Not quite as innocent as you made yourself out to be a while back, are you? Well, by God, I'll tell you about the poison gas! Got a remarkable sort of brain, haven't you? Retentive faculty abnormally developed— don't need written notes or any other sort of asses' bridge, eh? Just as good! Couldn't take anything written out of Germany. But your brain— your tenacious Oriental brain—they can't put that to the acid test! All right! Listen to me!"

Professor Kreutzer did not stop to dissect himself or his motives. He obeyed, not a feeling, a sudden impulse, but a pathological mood which was the growth of forty years. For forty years he had hated autocratic, imperial Germany. For forty years he had battled with his puny strength against militarism. Now the steel-clad beast had won. The shadow of war had fallen over the land. His gods lay shattered about him.

Forty years of ill-suppressed hatred— brought to a head, half an hour earlier, by Baron von Eschingen's curt command: "This is war, Herr Professor. I am here by orders of the Ministry of War. I order you to—"

That uniformed, gold-braided jackanapes to order him, a scientist, a thinker!

Kreutzer swore wickedly under his breath. He turned to the Japanese, and talked to him at length, going with minute care over the whole process of making poison gas, from the first innocuous-looking pink crystal to the final choking cloudy yellow fumes. He made Takagawa repeat it, step by step, formula by formula. Finally he declared himself satisfied. "You know it now, don't you?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"You'll never forget it?"

"No, sir."

"All right. You have what you came here to get. In one respect at least you know as much as the German War Office. Go back to Japan as soon as you can." He returned to his desk and picked up a book.

Takagawa went after him. "Herr Professor!" he said timidly.

"Well? What is it now?"

"I— I—" the samurai hesitated. "I know the gas. I know how it is produced, how it is projected, how it affects the human body. I understand all that. But what is it for?"

"You you mean to say you don't know?"

The professor twirled in his chair, utter incredulity in his accents. Then, reading the question in Takagawa's oblique eyes, sensing that the man was asking in perfect good faith, in perfect innocence, he rose, took him by the arm, and led him to the window. He pointed. Afternoon had melted into a soft evening of glowing violet with a pale moon growing faintly in the north. The linden trees stood stiff and motion less as if forged out of a dark-green metal. But still the soldiers tramped. Still there was the glitter of rifle barrel and sword tip and lance point. Still crowds packed the sidewalks, cheering. The professor made a great gesture. It was more than a mere waving of hand and arm. It seemed like an incident which cut through the air like a tragic shadow.

"They are going out to kill— with bullet and steel. But gas, too, can kill— poison gas, projected from iron tanks on an unsuspecting, unprepared enemy! It can win a battle, a campaign, a war! It can change the course of world history! It can ram imperial Germany's slavery down the throat of a free world! Poison gas— it is a weapon— the newest, most wicked, most effective weapon!" The professor was getting slightly hysterical. "Take it back with you— to Japan— to France, to England— anywhere! Fight us with our own weapons! Fight us— and give us freedom— freedom!" And, with an inarticulate cry, he pushed the Japanese out of doors.

Takagawa walked down the Dorotheenstrasse like a man in a dream. His feelings were tossed together into too violent confusion for immediate disentanglement. "You will learn, not for reward and merit, not for yourself, but for Japan!" his grandfather, the old marquis, had told him. And he had learned a great secret for Japan. And Japan would need it. For, passing the newspaper kiosk at the corner of the Wilhelmstrasse, he had glanced at the headlines of the evening edition of the Vossische Zeitung.

"Japan Stands by England. Sends Ultimatum. War Inevitable!"

War inevitable— and he was a samurai, a man entitled to wield the two-handed sword, though his body was too weak to carry the burden of it.

What of it? The professor had told him that poison gas, too, was a weapon, the most modern, most effective weapon in the world; and he had its formula tucked snugly away in his brain.

The poison gas! It was his sword! But first he must get out of the country. He hailed a taxicab and drove straight to the Presidency of Police. A crowd of foreigners of all nationalities— anxious, nervous, shouting, gesticulating—was surging in the lower entrance hall of the square, baroque building. But the baron's card proved a talisman, and in less than half an hour Takagawa had seen Police Captain von Wilmowitz, had had his passport viséed and had received permission for himself and his servant Kaguchi to leave Berlin for Lake Constance on the following day.

Captain von Wilmowitz repeated the baron's warning: "Take nothing written out of Germany. Neither yourself nor your servant. They'll examine you both thoroughly at the Swiss frontier. Be careful," and Takagawa had hidden a smile.

Let them search his person, his clothes, his baggage. They would not be able to search his brain. He started figuring rapidly. He would go to Switzerland, thence via Paris to London. The Japanese ambassador there was a second cousin of his. He would give him the precious formula, and then—

He returned to the pension in the Dahlmannstrasse, settled his bill, and ordered Kaguchi to pack. Note book after notebook he burned, and as he worked he was conscious of a feeling of power. There was no actual presentiment, no psychic preliminaries. It simply was there, this feeling of power, as if it had always been there. He was a samurai, and his was the two-handed sword— a two-handed sword forged in a stinking, bulb-shaped glass retort and shooting forth yellow, choking, sulphurous fumes.

In the next room a half dozen Germans were smoking and drinking and singing. He could hear Hans Grosser's excited voice, and now and then a snatch of song, sentimental, patriotic, boastful, and he thought that he too would soon again hear the songs of his fatherland, back in the island of Kiushu, in the rocky feudal stronghold of the Takagawas. The bards would be there singing the old heroic epics; the uguisus would warble the old melodies. Komoto would be there, and he himself, and his grandfather, the marquis.

"You will learn honorably!" his grandfather had told him. And he had learned. He was bringing back the fruit of it to Nippon.

He turned to Kaguchi with a laugh.

"I have learned, Kaguchi, eh?"

"Yes," replied the old servant, "you have learned indeed, O Takamori-san!"

"And"— he said it half to himself— "I have learned honorably."

Honorably?

He repeated the word with a mental question mark at the end of it.

Had he learned— honorably?

He stood suddenly quite still. An ashen pallor spread to his very lips. He dropped the coat which he was folding. Doubt floated upon him imperceptibly, like the shadow of a leaf through summer dusk. Something reached out and touched his soul, leaving the chill of an indescribable uneasiness, and indescribable shame.

"Honorably!" He whispered the word.

He sat down near the window, looking out into the street. Night had fallen with a trailing cloak of gray and lavender. The tall, stuccoed apartment houses on the Kurfurstendamm, a block away, rose above the line of street lamps like a smudge of sooty black beyond a glittering yellow band. Still people were cheering, soldiers tramping.

Kaguchi spoke to him. But he did not hear. He stared unseeing.

He said to himself that he had come to Germany, to Berlin, as a guest, to partake of the fruit of wisdom and knowledge. Richly the foreigners, the Germans, had spread the table for him. Generously they had bidden him eat. And he had dipped his hands wrist-deep into the bowl and had eaten his fill in a friend's house, giving thanks according to the law of hospitality.

Then war had come. Belgium, France, England, Russia— and tomorrow Japan. Tomorrow the standard of the Rising Sun would unfurl. Tomorrow the trumpets would blow through the streets of Nagasaki. Peasants and merchants and samurai would rush to arms.

And he was a samurai; and he had a weapon, a weapon of Germany's own forging— the formula for the poison gas, safely tucked away in his brain.

They had taught him in good faith. And he had learned. Nor would he be able to forget.

Professor Kreutzer? He did not count. He was a traitor. But his friend, Baron von Eschingen, the Prussian samurai who had worked side by side with him, who had even helped him get away?

Takagawa walked up and down. His labored, sibilant breathing sounded terribly distinct. From the next room there still came excited voices, the clink of beer steins, maudlin singing:

Von alien den Madchen so blink und so blank…

winding up in a tremendous hiccup. But he did not hear. In his brain something seemed to flame upward, illuminating all his thoughts.

They were very clear. He could not stay here, in the land of the enemy, while Nippon was girding her loins. Nor could he go home. For home he was a samurai, entitled to wield the two-handed sword. And he carried that sword in his brain, the formula for the poison gas. He would be forced— forced by himself, forced by his love of country— to give it to Nippon, and thus he would break the law of hospitality, his own honor.

He had learned the formula honorably. But there was no way of using it honorably.

A great, tearing sob rose in his throat. Then he heard a voice at his elbow: "O Takamori-san!"

He turned. "Yes, Kaguchi?"—and, suddenly, the answer to the riddle came to him. He looked at the old servant.

"You love me, Kaguchi?" he asked.

"My heart is between your hands!"

"You trust me?"

Kaguchi drew himself up.

"You are a samurai, O Takamori-san. The sword of Kyushu is unsullied."

"And unsullied it shall remain! And so," he added incongruously, "you will speak after me the foreign words which I shall now teach you, syllable for syllable, intonation for intonation"; and, step by step, formula by formula, he taught Kaguchi the meaningless German words.

For hours he worked with him until the old man reeled off the strange sounds without hitch or error.

"You know now?" he asked him finally, even as the professor had asked him earlier in the afternoon.

"Yes."

"You'll never forget it?"

"No."

Takamori Takagawa smiled.

"Kaguchi," he said, "you will go from here to London, using this passport." He gave him the official paper which Herr von Wilmowitz had viséed. "In London you will seek out the ambassador of Nippon, who is my cousin. You will tell him word for word what I have just taught you, adding that it is the formula of a poison gas and that this gas is mightier than the two-handed sword and will, perhaps, win the war for Nippon and her allies. You will furthermore tell him— and let this message be transmitted by him to my respected grandfather— that I learned this formula honorably, but that I could not take it back with me to Nippon without sullying the law of hospitality, since the foreigners taught me in good faith. I myself, being thus caught between the dagger of my honor and the dagger of my country, have tried to make a compromise with fate. Honorably I tried to do my duty by Nippon, honorably I tried to keep the law of hospitality untainted. I do not know if I have succeeded. Thus—" he made a gesture, and was silent.

Kaguchi bowed. His rugged old face was motion less. But he understood and approved.

"You! Ah—" the word choked him.

"Yes." Takamori inclined his head. He used the old Chinese simile which his tutor had taught him. "I shall ascend the dragon."

He put his hand on Kaguchi's shoulder. "Come back here in half an hour," he said. "Fold my hands as the ancient customs demand. Then notify my friend, the German samurai. He will help you get over the frontier— with the formula safe in your brain."

And the servant bowed and left the room without another word.

The young samurai smiled slowly. An old quotation came back to him: "I will open the seat of my soul with a dagger of pain and show you how it fares with it. See for yourself whether it is polluted or clean."

He walked across the room, opened the mirror wardrobe, and took from the top shelf a dirk a splendid, ancient blade in a lacquer case, whose guard was of wrought iron shaped like a chrysanthemum. Then he took off his European clothes and put on a voluminous white hemless robe with long, trailing sleeves.

Very slowly he knelt. Carefully, according to the rites, he tucked the sleeves under his knees, to prevent himself falling backward, since a samurai should die falling forward. He took the dirk from the scabbard.

The next moment it had disappeared beneath the flowing draperies. He made a hardly perceptible movement. One corner of his mouth was slightly twisted, the first sign of great suffering heroically borne. His right leg was bent back, his left knee too. Then he drew the dirk slowly across to his right side and gave a cut upward.

Crimson stained his white robe. His eyes, glazed, staring, held a question a question, a doubt to the last. Had he acted honorably? Had he—?

He fell forward.…

________________

14: The Almost Perfect Murder Case

S. S. Van Dine

Willard Huntington Wright 1887–1939

Cosmopolitan, July 1929

In 1929 Van Dine wrote a series of articles in which his detective Philo Vance analysed celebrated murder cases of the era. This is the 6th of the series. They all appeared in Cosmopolitan.

PHILO VANCE lay back in his chair and smiled sardonically.

'You're much too trustin' for this wicked world, Markham,' he said. 'There are any number of perfect crimes. Only, because they are perfect the world doesn't hear of them. It's the failures that come to our attention. And it's not always the murderer's fault that he is caught. Fortuitous circumstances often counteract the best laid plans. Very sad…'

Vance and John F.X. Markham— New York's district attorney— and I were seated in the lounge-room of the old Stuyvesant Club. We had fallen into the habit, after the solution of the Bishop murder case, of coming together on Sunday nights; and Vance, who at the time was deeply interested in criminology, often discussed famous cases with us.

He had already related on previous Sunday nights the Germaine Berton case, the Pruscha case, the Jaroszynsky case and the Ebergényi case— all of which I have set down in these columns— and tonight, apropos of Markham's comments on 'the perfect crime', he told us of the Wilhelm Beckert murder which took place in Chile in 1909— an almost incredible record of a carefully plotted crime, the detection of which hinged on a mere misunderstood connotation of a simple Spanish word.

'I like to see genius succeed, don't y'know,' Vance remarked lazily, lighting one of his adored Régie cigarettes; 'whether it be in art or commerce or crime. And somehow, I'll always feel that the murderer in the Beckert case was, as the doughty Sergeant Heath would say, given the needle by an unkind fate.'

EARLY in 1909 (Vance began, settling himself luxuriously in his chair), the town of Santiago de Chile was the scene of a crime which, for various reasons, holds unusual interest, both psychological and criminological.

Imprimis, the crime was committed on the premises of the Imperial German Legation. Not only did it give rise to many absurd and fascinatin' complications, legal and otherwise, involving the exchange of letters, notes and memoranda, such as only the ponderous punditic minds of diplomats could have conceived, but the circumstances in themselves were such that, under ordinary conditions, the criminal would probably never have been apprehended.

Its chief interest, however, lies in the astonishing foresight and uncanny powers of minute scheming developed by the perpetrator— qualities which stamp him as one of the world's most distinguished murderers, despite the paltry motivation of the act.

Moreover, only an almost infinitesimal oversight prevented the success of his plot. It was almost a perfect crime. Eheu! …

The German Legation in Santiago was situated on the ground floor of a two-storey building in the Via Nataniel near the Avenida de las Delicias. The premises consisted of two rooms— a front office and a rear room used for the storage of the diplomatic archives. The staff was composed of the minister, Baron von Boodmann, the secretary, Baron von Welseck, and a clerk named Wilhelm Beckert.

In addition, there was a messenger, porter and general factotum, Exequiel Tapia, who was an ex-sergeant of the Chilean army.

The duties of this little staff were not arduous: they consisted mainly, I imagine, of friendly luncheons and dinners with various government officials.

In 1907 this dolce-far-niente life was temporarily disturbed by an incident which, though rather unimportant in itself, was to have the most astonishin' consequences.

In the little village of Caleu the native peasants had attacked a party of German settlers, who indignantly appealed to the Legation for redress. The matter was investigated with that charmin' leisure so characteristic of diplomatic affairs; but nothing much came of it.

The next year, however, members of the German Legation began to receive sinister letters signed 'Various Chileans'— varios chilenos. In these letters the minister was accused of having unjustly prosecuted innocent peasants who had acted in ignorance rather than malice. The letters warned Baron von Boodmann against continuing the suit, and threatened the lives of the members of his staff. Black Hand letters, in fact.

A little later— September of the same year, to be exact— a similar letter was sent to the minister himself, who straightway turned it over to the Chilean police authorities. These noble upholders of the law, anxious to avoid any unpleasantness with the representatives of a foreign government, made a valiant though futile effort to find the author of the sanguinary epistles.

Neither the minister nor Baron von Welseck paid much attention to these threats. But Beckert, who was rather a timid, good-natured soul, was torn asunder. His anxiety mounted by leaps and bounds: repeatedly he expressed his conviction that he was a doomed man. His state of nerves, to judge from the records, was rather pitiful. He was thoroughly convinced that the varios chilenos were thirsting for his blood and would some day swoop down on him and end his earthly career.

Beckert was then in his thirty-ninth year. He was a Bavarian by birth, the son of a well-to-do merchant. In 1889 he had emigrated to the new world and entered a Jesuit monastery in Santiago. Two years later, however, he decided that what we euphemistically call marital bliss was more to his liking than a career of pious meditation, and leaving the order, he turned Protestant. In 1899 he married the daughter of a Chilean merchant— a lady named Natalie López— and entered the diplomatic service of his native country as clerk of the Legation.

A few months after the receipt of the threatening letters Beckert dashed excitedly into the office of Baron von Boodmann and reported that three suspicious-looking Chileans had, on the preceding night, chased him for several hours through Santiago's deserted streets. The minister thereupon insisted that this timorous and terrified clerk carry a revolver— much to that gentleman's distress; for Beckert had an instinctive horror of all death-dealing devices.

At this time Beckert developed an almost morbid anxiety for his wife, and at the end of October, 1908, he entrusted to a friend a letter addressed to the German Minister, with instructions that it be delivered after his death, which he believed imminent. In it he thanked his chief profusely for the many considerations shown him, and asked that an enclosed communication be forwarded to Señor Manuel Montt, who was then the President of the Chilean Republic.

In this communication to President Montt, Beckert requested that his murder be not avenged, giving as his reason the fact that, above everything else, he was desirous of avoiding any animosity between his native and his adopted country. He stated that he was convinced that the varios chilenos had acted from a mistaken sense of patriotism. His one concern was for his wife, and he asked that she be provided for.

In all, the letter was a rather pathetic outpouring of a man who, as he worded it, considered himself a reo en capilla— to wit: a man under sentence of death.

(Vance sighed lugubriously and crushed out his cigarette.)

On Friday, February 5th, 1909, about eleven forty-five a.m., the minister and the secretary appeared at the Legation, where they found Beckert at work as usual. The legationary messenger, Exequiel Tapia, had, at half past ten, gone to the residence of Baron von Boodmann and had departed therefrom a quarter of an hour later, ostensibly to return to the Legation. The minister was therefore surprised not to find Tapia at the office. Beckert, in fact, said he had not seen Tapia that morning.

At a quarter of one Baron von Boodmann and Baron von Welseck departed from the Legation, leaving Beckert behind.

Half an hour later, several neighbours saw smoke issuing from the windows of the Legation, and instantly turned in a fire alarm. But the apparatus arrived too late— the roof had already collapsed and the entire building was tottering. The minister himself was informed of the fire about three p.m., and when he arrived it was impossible to save anything. The building had been destroyed.

Baron von Boodmann was naturally anxious about Beckert, especially as the chap was known to have suffered from fainting spells. He feared the worst, and at nine o'clock that night his fears became a certainty when, in the ruins of the rear office, under a stack of office files, a body was discovered totally carbonized. Near the body were found Beckert's silver cigarette case, a nickel watch with fragments of a chain, and a pince-nez.

In view of the threatening letters which had been received, of Beckert's morbid fears, and of the fact that Tapia still remained perdu, Baron von Boodmann requested a judicial investigation and demanded that a post-mortem be performed by the Chilean police surgeon.

On the fingers of the charred body were found Beckert's diamond and sapphire ring and his wedding ring bearing the initials 'N.L.' (Natalie López) and the wedding date: 13.3.99. In the ruins of the building a number of telltale articles were unearthed: fragments of clothing, a bloodstained handkerchief, a dagger which had been used as a paper cutter, a blackjack and a blow-lamp.

The result of the post-mortem was far from satisfactory. The official surgeon declared that the state of the body made it impossible to ascertain the cause of death. There was apparently little mystery about the fire, for it was Beckert's habit to burn all office memoranda each day after answering the Legation's correspondence; it seemed obvious that the fire had started in this manner and that Beckert had been stunned by a falling filing cabinet, as the top of his head was badly battered.

On February seventh, Baron von Boodmann received another letter from the varios chilenos, which had been posted in Santiago on the morning of the tragedy. In this letter the murder of Beckert and the burning of the Legation were mentioned and held up as a warning against further prosecution of the peasants in Caleu.

As it was known that a few days before the fire Beckert had received a similar communication, the minister felt that further investigation was called for.

Moreover, Tapia had not yet put in an appearance. He was known to have left his home at ten on the morning of the tragedy, and had stated that he had to leave the city that afternoon on official business— a statement which turned out to be untrue. After his visit to the residence of Baron von Boodmann at ten-thirty a.m., he had disappeared.

The minister, in order to quiet persistent rumours that Beckert had been assassinated, requested two German members of the faculty of the university to repeat the post-mortem.

Their report was a model of Teutonic thoroughness and brought to light several important bits of evidence. A piece of the left tibia, about three inches long, was missing: it appeared to have been burned off, probably with a blow-lamp. Also the bone of the left elbow was missing. The skin and the flesh of the skull had been completely destroyed, and the crowns of all incisors and canines in the upper jaw were missing, as well as the crowns of the left incisors and the left canine in the lower jaw. All the other teeth were in perfect condition, with the exception of a small caries in the upper right wisdom tooth.

There was an oval wound about one inch long in the chest. and it was now plain that the dead man had been the victim of foul play. Since the examination was only of a semi-official character, the minister requested that a new and official investigation be undertaken by a mixed body of physicians.

The Chilean authorities, however, anxious to avoid even a suspicion of partisanship in so delicate a matter entrusted the examination to Doctor Westenhoffer and Doctor Aichel, and merely appointed as an assistant the Chilean physician, Doctor Carlos Oyarzún.

The result of the post-mortem was this: the aorta had been severed, and the heart had been penetrated. In the thorax a metal splinter, evidently from a dagger or knife, was found. The injury to the skull had preceded the stabbing. There was a strong probability that the dead man had been struck over the head with a blunt instrument and subsequently stabbed to death. The lower part of the body had lain under some damp office files and had therefore escaped complete destruction; and there remained fragments of a green and white striped shirt bearing the initials 'G.B.'— to wit: Guillermo, or Wilhelm, Beckert.

Mrs Beckert unhesitatingly identified the shirt as her husband's. She was questioned in regard to her husband's teeth, and stated that they had been in perfect condition with the exception of some gold inlays in the upper incisors.

The following day, February ninth, a medical-legal-diplomatic meeting was held to discuss the findings. The Chilean police surgeon, who performed the first autopsy, spent a most uncomfortable half-hour, and finally admitted that he himself had not carried out the autopsy, but had turned over the uncongenial task to a servant at the morgue.

The testimony of Mrs Beckert referring to her husband's clothes and teeth was read, and it agreed in every particular with the findings of the second autopsy. Beckert had, years before, suffered from a fracture of the left tibia and was known to have had a conspicuous scar on his left elbow. It was obvious that these parts of the murdered body had been destroyed in order to make the identification impossible.

The conclusion of the conference, therefore, was that the charred body was that of Beckert, and that he had been stabbed and his body destroyed by fire in order to hide all traces of the crime.

Well, well. It was a most unpleasant situation for the Chilean authorities. Not only had the victim been a member of a foreign government, but the police surgeon had been lax in his examination.

At once there was a feverish activity on the part of the various Chilean government departments. Every possible effort was made to lay hands on the missing messenger, Tapia, whose guilt now appeared conclusive.

But there was one cynical gentleman who was unimpressed. He was the Examining Magistrate, Manuel Bianchi. He passionately resented the slur cast upon the Chilean judicial procedure, and proceeded to con all the reports with a suspicious and eagle eye. After hours of intensive study he discovered one item which seemed to hold out some hope of turning the tables on the gringos. And to this doubting magistrate must be given the credit for solving this most amazin' crime.

On the afternoon of February ninth, half an hour before the funeral was to take place, he sent Doctor Germán Valenzuela, the director of the Santiago School of Dentistry, to make a final examination of the teeth of the deceased. The German Minister magnanimously permitted the coffin to be reopened. But nothing was found that disagreed in any particular with the post-mortem findings and the casket was then resealed.

It was a most touching funeral, Markham. At five o'clock in the afternoon the cortège set out for the cemetery. President Montt sent his personal adjutant to attend the obsequies. The coffin was lowered into the grave by eminent Chileans, who had acted as pallbearers by way of showing their sorrow and esteem. Baron von Boodmann emitted various winged words of eloquent eulogy. And to confer upon the occasion an aesthetic atmosphere, the German Liederbund gave musical voice to several mournful dirges.

The same day the Chilean Cabinet called a special meeting, and after the reading of Beckert's letter addressed to President Montt, those assembled in solemn conclave voted unanimously to petition Congress for a grant of twenty thousand pesos for the bereaved widow.

It was most impressive and quite correct. But there was one sceptical gentleman who took the episode with tongue in cheek— to wit: the cynical Magistrate Bianchi. Shrewd fella! While the Liederbund were speeding their departed Landsmann into the Beyond with vocal harmony, this Bianchi and his friend, Doctor Valenzuela, were discussing a most startling discovery!

When the erstwhile Natalie López had been questioned regarding her husband's teeth, the two German professors had employed a Spanish-speaking German as interpreter; and this Teuton linguist had made use of the word dientes for teeth— a word which, in common Chilean usage, connotes only the incisors, or the teeth that are visible when one laughs. Molars, in Chilean usage, are called muelas; and the human teeth in their totality are referred to as dentadura.

Now, Mrs Beckert had truthfully answered that her husband's dientes— namely his visible incisors— had been perfect, and since she had not been asked about his muelas, she had volunteered no information on the subject …

Forgive me this little linguistic interlude, Markham old dear. The whole case hangs on it; and it simply goes to show that even 'the perfect crime' is, after all, a matter of chance.

The Chilean members of the commission had apparently overlooked this little difference between dientes and dentadura; but the perspicacious Bianchi had thought it worth a bit of scrutiny.

Doctor Valenzuela, at Bianchi's suggestion, now asked Mrs Beckert to describe her husband's dentadura; and she gave him the satisfyin' information that several of his molars had been missing. Whereupon Bianchi went to Doctor Juan Denis Lay, the dentist who had attended Beckert, and, with the help of the latter's records, ascertained beyond any doubt that five of Beckert's molars had been extracted only a few months previous.

(Vance grinned a bit sadly.)

Because of a philological nuance (he sighed), a lovely crime went to pot. It's most discouragin'. Since the charred body in the burned Legation possessed a complete set of molars, it now became obvious that the corpse was not that of Beckert. Furthermore, it became increasingly evident that the victim was none other than Tapia; for Madame Tapia informed Bianchi that all of her husband's molars had been intact with the exception of small caries in the upper right wisdom tooth!

In addition, Bianchi recalled, with chauvinistic delight, that Beckert and Tapia had been of similar physical build.

On February tenth, the day after the funeral, the morning papers of Chile published these disclosures. Baron von Boodmann promptly admitted to the Department of Justice that the body of the deceased could no longer be regarded as that of Beckert, and was, in all probability, none other than Exequiel Tapia.

It was now recalled that on February sixth a johnny named Otto— I forget his last name— had come to the police with the information that he had seen and spoken to Beckert between midnight and one a.m.— ten hours after the fire. But as Otto had an unsavoury reputation and was known to have been on bad terms with Beckert, he was not believed and was told to run along and mind his own business.

The German Minister and Baron von Welseck now remembered that, when they visited the Legation offices on the morning of February fifth, the floor had been newly washed, and that Beckert was not wearing his custom'ry pince-nez. The deduction appears inevitable that at that time the unlucky Tapia had already passed to his Maker and that his mortal remains lay hidden behind the office files— a supposition which agreed with the result of the post-mortem. It had been ascertained that death could not have been later than eleven-thirty a.m.

There was no longer any question that the charred body was that of Tapia; and the unescapable corollary was that Beckert had been the murderer, for the latter's belongings found by the body could have been placed there only by Beckert himself.

The German government immediately waived all diplomatic immunity for Beckert, and thus turned the case over to the jurisdiction of the Chilean authorities, who at once launched forth on the man-hunt with great gusto.

The body, which had been buried amid the inspirin' vocal strains of the German Liederbund, was now disinterred, and a third autopsy performed. A microscopic examination of the skin and hair proved that the dead man was of swarthy complexion and had dark hair, whereas Beckert was conspicuously blond.

Immediately following the fire a general alarm had been sent out for Tapia; and on February tenth, simultaneously with the discovery of the true identity of the corpse, a report arrived from the Chief of Police of Chillan, a little town on the Southern Railroad about two hundred miles south of Santiago.

The report stated that a traveller had appeared before the Chillan police with the information that on February seventh he had met a man on the train who, though representing himself as wealthy, had travelled second-class.

The chief of police had regarded this information as suspicious and had sent an inspector to Victoria, the train's destination. The inspector found and talked to a man bearing a passport made out in the name of Ciro Lava Motte, which had been issued by the State Department the preceding January for a voyage to the Argentine. But as the passport seemed to be in order, the inspector had returned to Chillan.

However, on the arrival of the news about Tapia the chief of police, thinking that the mysterious Señor Motte might be the missing messenger, telegraphed to Santiago for Tapia's description.

In Santiago the police immediately checked up on Señor Motte and discovered that in January Beckert had applied to the Foreign Office for a passport for his brother-in-law, giving as that mythical gentleman's name Ciro Lava Motte.

But even this was not sufficient evidence for the Santiago police. They were most careful and thorough. Within a few hours they had discovered that on the day in January when Beckert had applied for the passport he had also bought a blackjack at a local hardware store, had ordered three false boards and a brunet wig, and had bought a travelling suit, leather puttees, a trunk, and a rifle with a leather case— all of which he had inscribed with the initials 'C.L.M.' Beckert had also bought a revolver and cartridges and twenty yards of lamp wick.

While the police were thus engaged in checking up on the preparations of Beckert's perfect crime, the German Minister was endeavouring to find a motive for the murder. It didn't take long, for in going over the missing man's accounts it was discovered that for more than a year Beckert had been forging drafts and discounting them at the bank. It was estimated that he had diverted to his own pocket nearly 50,000 marks ($12,000).

But even this mass of corroboratory evidence did not entirely satisfy the Santiago police. They were treading on delicate ground— the honour of their fair nation was at stake— and so they turned their suspicious eyes upon Beckert's private life. They discovered that he had not been the virtuous family man and model husband that everyone had thought him. He was, indeed, a gay dog, and had spent many leisure hours in the company of charming but fragile señoritas.

To one of these light-o'-loves he had written several letters in a disguised hand, signed 'Tito Bera'. He had later confessed to his dulcinea the authorship of these amat'ry epistles. The lady produced the letters, and the chirography proved to be the same as that of the author of the letters signed by the varios chilenos.

In fact, all these threatening letters had been part of the preparation of Beckert's astoundin' plot. With them he had prepared everyone for his approaching murder. So well had he planted the whole idea that after the crime the identity of the body was hardly questioned.

There was now enough evidence even for the squeamish Santiago police, and a telegraph order for Beckert's arrest was sent to all stations along the Southern Railroad. Beckert had by this time quitted Chillan and was proceeding toward the Argentine border. But on February thirteenth, barely six miles from the frontier, the carabinieri overtook their quarry; and on February sixteenth the author of the almost perfect crime was safely lodged in the bastile at Santiago.

The preparation for Beckert's trial took over six months— the Chilean authorities wished to have an absolutely clear case to present to the court. Also, the legal aspects of the case had to be gone into with great care, for the question of extraterritorial immunity was raised by the defence.

The trial, however, took place on September 2nd, 1909, and ended with Beckert's conviction on all counts. He was not only sentenced to death but given thirty-eight years' penal servitude and fined sixteen hundred pesos— a sweet bit of legal inconsistency, but quite characteristic of legal procedure, don't y'know.

Beckert naturally appealed. Even in Chile such processes are part of the noble game of jurisprudence. But the Supreme Court denied the appeal; and after several stays of execution— so reminiscent of our own legal procedure— the unfortunate gentleman faced a firing squad on the fifth of July, 1910.

Vance lighted another Régie.

'Y'know Markham, my sympathies are all with Beckert. He did a noble and thorough piece of work. He spent almost two years concocting a perfect crime. Really, he should have succeeded … No, I fear that I shall never go in for murder. The fickle goddess of chance … The perfect crime! Yes, yes. The cards were stacked against the unfortunate Wilhelm. Most distressin', eh what?'

'Yes, very distressin',' mocked Markham. Then: 'There have been curious parallels of the Beckert case in America. There was the H. H. Holmes case, for instance, and the Udderzook case— both attempted insurance swindles.'

'Oh, quite,' Vance returned indolently. 'Criminals are not original. Circumstances, don't y' know. There are parallels in most crimes, human nature bein' what it is. Especially is this true of crimes passionnels. They're based on the caressin' theory that one woman differs from another. Silly notion, what?

'Regard our own Snyder-Gray case. Lovers eliminatin' a husband. Very sad. And yet, lovers have been eliminatin' husbands since time immemorial. I shall never be a husband, Markham. Much too dangerous.'

_______________

15: Blackmail

Robert Hichens

1864-1950

Cosmopolitan Oct 1929

"THIS is an unbelieving age," said Jenkins, leaning back in his armchair and glancing round at the small group of men who were gathered about him that night in the upstairs smoke room of the Belgrave Club in London.

"Another of your sweeping general statements!" said Mansfield, lighting another cigar carefully and screwing up his eyes. "What do you mean exactly?

That religious belief is on the decline?"

"I was thinking rather of belief in human nature."

"Belief in ourselves?" said someone.

"That's about it. Let's say belief in man, his capacity for good, his idealism, his straightness, his worth- whileness, his power to mount. Wherever I go, and I go about a good deal as you know, I hear a voicing of cynicism, especially among the young.

"Only last week I was staying at Pansmuir with the Claverings. One of their big gatherings with lots of boys and girls as well as men of my age. I was there for the shooting. Well, I never heard more incredulity expressed in my life than I heard expressed there by the youngsters."

"A pose!" said Mansfield. "The very young like to seem worldly-wise, and they think it's worldly-wise to be skeptical. Gives the impression, they hope, that they can see through everything."

"It's more deep-seated than that, I fancy. The young of our day show a general inclination to suspect humbug underneath every profession, or even every apparent exhibition of high-mindedness.

"For example! One day at Pansmuir a discussion came up about a disgraceful attack that was published not long ago on the character of a famous man, now dead. Lord Clavering denounced it hotly. But did the young 'uns back him up? Not a bit of it.

"Young Berriedale was there and he said, 'Ten to one he was a rascal under the rose, and small blame to him. Who isn't, if it comes to that? I don't believe in your so-called saints. My definition of a saint is a man who's lucky enough never to have been found out.' "

"And what was youthful opinion on that?" asked Lock, a short, dark man of about thirty, who had been listening to the conversation with a slight smile on his lips, a faint twinkle in his brown eyes.

"Berriedale's remarks were enthusiastically indorsed! 'Humbug rules the world,' was the verdict. 'And the biggest humbugs are those miscalled saints.' But it was added that a greater frankness is on the way, and that if it comes into its own saints will disappear. We are made what the pious call sinners, and the only way of salvation is to acknowledge thai cardinal fact, be cheery sinners and have done with pretense."

"Much of a muchness! All in the same boat! That's about it, eh?" said Lock.

"Exactly," said Jenkins. "You're as dirty as I am. We're all in the mud together."

There was an instant of silence. Then Jenkins said, rather brusquely:

"What the devil are you smiling at, Lock?"

"Was I?"

"Were you? You are now."

I was just thinking of an episode— an episode."

"Conneced with the subject in hand?" asked Manseld.

"With saintliness, with sin—I suppose so. But it was tragic. All the same, it was horribly comic. But that's life all over, isn't it?"

"Let's have it," said Jenkins.

"Yes, go ahead, Lock!" said two or three voices.

"But Jenkins will be angry."

"Rot!" said Jenkins. "I suppose the episode you're thinking of backs up the skepticism I was speaking of."

"I'm afraid it does."

"Never mind. A good story's always worth having."

"I didn't say it was a good story. I said it was tragic and horribly comic, too."

"That's good enough. Go ahead."

MY FATHER used to have a place up in Northumberland called Lamsfield Park (Lock began). We've had to sell it now, owing to the bad times. But we had it Up to five years ago. There's a village of Lamsfield with a fine old church. The living was in my father's gift. When I was just over twenty the rector died and my father had to exercise his prerogative. He appointed Arbroath, the Reverend Cyril Arbroath.

I must tell you that the living was worth a good deal, as such things go, over six hundred a year, and the rectory was a fine old house with a charming garden. Altogether, the position was what you might call a desirable one for a sky pilot who was fond of the country. Arbroath accepted it right away and came up north at the beginning of summer.

When I say "came up," I mean that Arbroath came up from London. He'd been senior curate in a vast London parish in West Kensington, where he had worked hard. My father had a house in London and had got to know him there. But I'd never set eyes on the fellow till he came to settle in Lamsfield.

He seemed an awfully good chap. He wasn't in the least like the stage curate, the novelist's curate, what you might call the cliché curate. He wasn't pale; he wasn't willowy; he hadn't long white hands; he didn't wear pince-nez; and if he was mad about tea parties I never heard of it. He was what I should call an excellent specimen of public-school and varsity man— fair, strong, active, full of health and energy. One felt that he had plenty of red blood in his veins.

He looked rather like—let's see—rather like a cheery policeman, who hadn't been in the force long enough to get one of those tremendous sloping chests on him. One could imagine him holding up all the traffic in Piccadilly with his outstretched thumb. He was handsome, I think. But he had one peculiarity that I've never seen in any other man. His eyes were different colors. The right eye was gray-blue; the left eye was as brown as a berry.

Arbroath was a gentleman, a cheery soul—as far as one could judge—and, I suppose, what is usually called a good Christian. As a preacher I thought him dull when I occasionally went to hear him on Sunday. But he played a good game of lawn tennis and had a handicap of seven at golf.  He could sit a horse, too.

In fact, he was distinctly "it" for a padre. But he never gave himself any airs. I quite liked the man, and so did a pretty girl in our neighborhood whom I'm going to call Miss Smith. She liked Arbroath, too, and that's how the trouble began.

Miss Smith, who was a delightful and smart and popular girl, evidently fell for the new rector. She was by no means churchy. Quite the contrary. Clergy- men weren't at all in her line, I should say. But there was something about the Reverend Cyril that got her. I remember she said of him, "One can forgive him his goodness because he's so jolly." Sounds flippant, doesn't it? But there's a good deal in it, really.

At that time I had an intimate friend. I'll call him Leven, Jack Leven. Poor fellow! He's dead now— died two years ago. He was five years older than I was— twenty-five when I was twenty. He often stayed with us in the country, and he was madly in love with Miss Smith.

He was not only madly in love with her; he'd made up his mind to marry her. And he had a strong will. What he meant to get he usually did get, one way or another. When the Reverend Cyril settled into the rectory Leven was biding his time. Leven hadn't proposed to Miss Smith, hadn't given her to understand that he wanted to marry her. Fact is. he'd only just gone on the Stock Exchange, and meant to make his way a bit further before he went for a girl with money. She had some money of her own. And as she was young, only twenty-one, no doubt he thought there was plenty of time.

But he'd reckoned without our sky pilot. I never shall forget his language when he came down to stay at the Park and found that the girl he'd already begun to look on as his was enthusiastic about a blackbird. (Leven always called the clergy the blackbirds.) He was an awfully good fellow, but he was rather violent also, and he wasn't at all fond of the clergy. I should call him a civilized heathen, rather like your young 'uns at Pansmuir, Jenkins. He thought we were all much of a muchness, too, and wasn't in clined to believe in your uncom mon good man. As to blackbirds, he wouldn't take them at the current valuation at all.

I remember once, when something was said about the bishops, he sang out, "A bishop is simply you or I in a pair of gaiters and an apron. And what's our piety to boast about? Give us a dog's chance for a sin to our taste and we'll jolly well take it. And so'd a bishop if he was dead sure his diocese hadn't its eye on him."

Poor Leven! He was an impossible chap. I was fond of him. But really his language about Miss Smith and the Reverend Cyril was as bad as a Sailor's.

I tried to soothe him, but it was no good. What irritated him particularly was the fact that I had such a high opinion of our padre. And I really had. I couldn't help it. He'd beat me at both lawn tennis and golf. I was only twenty, and he'd been so charming about it that he was half a hero in my eyes.

My opinion of Arbroath, I must tell you, was shared by everyone in our neighborhood, rich and poor alike..

The fellow had made himself a universal favorite. And he wasn't one of those men who work hard to be popular and give the show away. He seemed a thoroughly simple and unpretentious man, brimful of cheery energy and sheer downright natural goodness.

Everybody said what a good man he was. But the wonderful thing was that no one resented his being good. No one, that is, except poor Leven, when came to stay with us, which was about seven months after Arbroath had taken up the living.

But Leven—by Jove, Leven resented it. And yet— no, perhaps that's not strictly true. For I suppose you can't exactly resent a thing you don't believe in. And Leven from the first swore that he didn't believe in Arbroath's wonderful goodness.

I remember a conversation we had up in my bedroom one night after Arbroath had been dining at the Park, and everyone had been singing his praises. Leven had played up of course downstairs, but when he was alone with me he let go. He began by asking me questions, He wanted to know where Arbroath had come from. I told him he'd come from a certain parish in the West End of London, where he'd been senior curate. Next thing was what was his age. I said he'd told me that he was thirty-four, (He looked much younger, more like twenty-eight.) After a moment Leven said:

"What made him leave West Kensington?"

"Why, my father's offering him the living down here," I said. "What a question to ask!"

"I dare say that's what you think," Leven said. "And of course he wouldn't have come here without that. But as he's so infernally strong and healthy and energetic, and as he's supposed to be such a splendidly good and earnest man— that's the word, I believe— doesn't it strike you as odd that at the age of thirty-four he should give up hard work in London and bury himself in place like this, where there's practically nothing to do? Why, how many people are there in Lamsfield Parish all told?"

There were only about four hundred, and I said so.

"And this is your marvelously good man!" he exclaimed.

"Leaves hard work in London where heaven knows there are thousands of heathen waiting for the good news, and comes up here to bring four hundred country souls to God!"

When he said that, for the first time it did strike me that Arbroath had been very ready to jump in the feathers, as you may say. But after all, as I said, were we to blame him for preferring country life toiling as a curate in London? To this Leven retorted that he wasn't blaming Arbroath, but was just pointing out that such an action scarcely backed up the general idea of the man's wonderful goodness and devotedness.

"Unless," Leven presently added "the fellow had some special private reason for wishing to get away from London in a hurry."

This remark struck me as hopelessly prejudiced and even malicious. A curate is offered a good living and he accepts it. What sort of foundation does such a fact make for a mountain of evil suspicions? I couldn't help laughing, but I told Leven I thought he was being carried away into an unfairness unworthy of him.

"Go to bed. Have a good sleep. And you'll feel less suspicious in the morning," was my advice to him.

But I couldn't get him away. He was too embittered to think of sleep.

Sprawling in a chair, he listened morosely to my well-meant remarks and indulged in tirades against the clergy.

"Why is it," he finally said, "that women fall for the long coat?"

"Short jackets in the country," said I.

"What's the fascination in a jam-pot collar?" he cried.

"Arbroath never wears it except on Sunday," said I.

Suddenly he turned on me and blew me up sky-high for not having warned him about what was going on between Miss Smith and our rector. I said it was none of my business; that even now I couldn't swear that she was in love with him. She'd never said so to me. As to Arbroath, I didn't know he was a marrying man.

"She is in love with him and he means to marry her," said Leven. "And what's more he will marry her unless something's done about it."

The last words struck me, I remember, as almost sinister, and I asked Leven to tell me what on earth he meant by them.

"Nothing— at present," was his enigmatic reply. "But if you think I'm going to let a splendid girl like that be taken away from me by a confounded black-bird without making a fight of it, you don't know much about me. That's all."

I told him he'd better get in a left and right straightway if that was his idea.

He asked how I proposed his bringing that off.

"Go for her! Make love to her," I said.

Looking down on my twenty years from the Olympian heights of his twenty-five, he jeered at my schoolboy crudity, as he called it.

"In her present state of blackbird eroticism," he explained, "she'd turn me down. She's under the spell of his masculine goodness. You know nothing about women."

That put my back up thoroughly, as you may imagine, and I believe I was fool enough to explain elaborately my intimate comprehension of the nature of woman. When I stopped, his comment was:

"And you know nothing about black- birds, either."

At this point in the conversation I think I swore. One's such a fool at twenty. But the final insult was still to come. It came, like a bullet to the heart. He informed me that I was an innocent.

This gross and unpardonable accusation must have stunned me, or I should never have done what I did— asked him why. And then out it came. I was an innocent because I believed in Arbroath's good faith; because I considered him an exceptional man, not in the way of intellect but in the way of virtue.

"Like all the rest up here," said Leven, with a sneer, "you've taken him at his own valuation. Because he's a clergyman you think he's a saint.

"You're babes up here!" he added. "And I'll find a way to prove it to you before I'm many weeks older."

Again the slightly sinister sound came into his voice. I felt he was on the track of a plan, a plan hostile to Arbroath. But just then the clock struck one and suddenly he shut up, gave me what they call in detective stories "a significant look," and made off at last to his room.

Leven didn't give me a hint as to what was in his mind after that. He couldn't stay much longer then, but during the remaining few days he was with us he was perpetually harping to me on the duplicity of human nature.

He was, as I've said, five years older than I was. But he was about ten years older in knowledge of the world. He was one of those fellows whose minds mature early. I wasn't. He'd called me an innocent. And I suppose I really was a bit of an innocent in those days, though naturally I was furious at being given the name. He was by nature sardonic and disinclined to take things and men at their face value.

Of course he had his reason for disliking Arbroath. But even if he hadn't had it, I believe the mere fact of the parish's ardent belief in Arbroath's virtue would have made him disbelieve it. He was the sort that isn't uninfluenced by the singing of praises, but is influenced in the wrong way by it. The cry "Hallelujah!" drew from his lips the homely but expressive word, "Rot!"

He went away from Lamsfield swearing to me that the Reverend Cyril was a sham. "And remember what I say," were his last words to me. "I'll prove he's a sham."

"How on earth?" I asked.

"Trust me to find a way," was his answer.

And it was spoken with such hard conviction that, upon my word, I began to think perhaps he would.

The next time I saw Leven was about three months later in London. He had rooms in Mount Street, and as I had to come up to see a doctor— I'd had a touch of pneumonia and it had left me with a slight weakness of the lungs— he asked me to stay with him.

I've often wished since that I hadn't gone. But perhaps if I hadn't it would have made no difference.

I had something to report to him. It was this: the intimacy between Miss Smith and the rector was thickening and deepening. I had come to the con- clusion that before long it would end in a formal engagement.

MISS SMITH had developed an interest in church matters which she never had shown before.. She never missed an evening service, whereas till Arbroath had arrived in our midst she had even shirked churchgoing on a Sunday morning. And she was becoming full of zeal about "the welfare of the parish."

"Exactly!" said Leven. "Like thousands of women, she's found religion through a good-looking man. Not that I think the Reverend Cyril good-looking! But she does, no doubt."

"She thinks him the best man she ever met," I said.

"Best! You mean best-looking," he said bitterly.

I was injudicious enough to retort that though I was sorry about Miss Smith's apparent affection for our pastor, I was sure she had been tremendously impressed by his transparent goodness. I think I added something about goodness being a great power in the world when it was totally free from goodiness. (In those days I must have been an enthusiastic young ass. But really there was something about poor Arbroath that got you.)

Leven turned and rent me. But I stuck to it. I said at last I'd met a good Christian who was a thoroughly fine man, and whom even the godless couldn't help respecting. I wasn't keen on churchgoing myself, and sermons sent me to sleep, even in the morning. But there it was. Arbroath got me and I was bound to acknowledge it.

"I don't care a hang about his getting you," Leven said, almost savagely. "But this other business— I'm not going to take that lying down."

I asked him what he could do. If a girl's honestly in love with a man, even if he is a blackbird, what can any decent fellow, who naturally can't stoop to intrigue, do to break her of it?

When I asked him that he gave me a look that struck me as impressive and unnatural. There was something out of character in it, but it had power. And I realized that poor Leven was more in love with Miss Smith than even I had known. His love had given a twist to his character, I thought, but it had cer- tainly intensified him in an extraordinary degree. That look gave me a bit of a shock, made me sit back, as it were,

But I didn't get my answer at once. He began by a sort of dissertation on masks— human masks, the masks we are all supposed to wear. He spoke of the lawyer mask; the doctor mask; the genial good-fellow mask of the man who's out to get all he can for himself at the expense of his neighbors; the bluff business-man mask; and of course the ecclesiastical mask.

I must say he said some true things. That was the worst of it. Didn't I know the ecclesiastical mouth? Well, confound it, I did! Didn't I know the sweet smile that didn't seem to affect the eyes?— and so on.

By degrees he made me uncomfortable.

Of course he was out to make me uncomfortable. Gradually, as he talked— he was a clever chap— I began to see nothing but masks. No sincere faces, no truthtelling faces at all!

He struck at my foundations, I suppose. When we are young, somehow we seem to have foundations, and it's rather jolly resting on them, or thinking we do. He made me feel that perhaps it's folly to trust any man, and especially any man who seems to be better than his neighbors. He soused me in the hypocrisy. of the world until, upon my word, I didn't know whom a man could think well of.

And finally he said to me flatly: "Your parson's a man I don't believe in. I never believed in him from the first moment I clapped eyes on him."

I protested at that. In spite of my perturbation, I hit out in defense of Arbroath. I told Leven that if a cer- tain pretty and charming girl hadn't been living in Lamsfield he never would have had these preposterous doubts about our rector, who was the straightest man I'd ever seen, and the least ostentatious.

I told him he was governed by prejudice. I rammed it into him; rammed it home. I said it was unworthy to attack a man's character with nothing to go on, not a shred of evidence that he was anything but a first-rate man.

"I've only spoken to you," he said. "Can't I say what I think to my friend? What's the use of friendship if you have to consider your words even when the doors are shut?"

He was right there, and I acknowledged it. But nevertheless I continued to stick up for Arbroath and to combat Leven's unreasonable prejudice. And there I was right.

I believe I was almost violent then. And I think the reason for my heat lay in a fact that I didn't care to acknowledge even to myself— the fact that Leven's specious remarks about masks and human duplicity, which he'd represented as almost universal, had made a strong impression on my youthful mind; had made me see masks everywhere instead of truthtelling faces; had even made me see Arbroath's straightforward, manly face and honest eyes as, possibly, a mask.

I suppose I was putting up a sort of fight against the ugly doubts with which Leven had managed to infect me. At any rate, I see it that way now.

Leven listened to all I said with a smile that I believe was malicious. It was evident to me that my ardor didn't cut much ice with him. When at last I'd finished he said:

"You may be right about the Reverend Cyril or I may be right. Assertions one way or the other don't do much good."

"No," said I. "Don't do any good at all."

"Exactly," he said. "Now I'm going to make a proposal. Shall we have a try to see whether I'm right?"

I knew at once by his look and the way he said it that at last he was going to disclose a plan that he'd probably had in his mind ever since he'd got to know Arbroath.

"A try!" I said. "What sort of try? How can we?"

"Shoot an arrow into the air," he said. "And see if it happens to hit a mark."

I asked him to explain himself.

He then told me that one fact in Arbroath's life had struck him from the first. It was Arbroath's prompt acceptance of my father's offer to appoint him to the living of Lamsfield. Lamsfield Park was beautiful, but I must admit that Lamsfield was out of the way; that to ordinary people, who hadn't a fine old family home there, it must seem a dead-alive hole, the last place in which an energetic, ardent and still quite young man would care to bury himself. Yet Arbroath had jumped at it. Why?

I said I supposed because it was a step up. He was a curate. He was offered a good living. What more natural than that he should accept it?

"D'you think he's a worldly man?" asked Leven.

"No, certainly not," I said.

"Yet he leaves a great London parish where, so you've told me, he was doing splendid work among a vast population, in order to look after four hundred villagers. Isn't that rather odd?"

"He likes the country," I said.

"You mean, then, that he considers himself first, this marvelous good man!"

I was rather stumped by that.

"D'you think he's an ambitious man?" said Leven.

I said no, except that he was certainly ambitious to do good.

"That's another reason why he would have refused to accept stagnation and limited opportunities unless—"

"Unless what?" I said.

"My guess— or intuition, if you prefer the word," said Leven, "is that your father happened to make his offer when Arbroath, for some reason unknown, found it advisable, or necessary, to get out of London, and that's why he jumped at it."

"Necessary!" I said. "Why should it be necessary?"

"There are a great many reasons which might cause a man to wish to get away from some particular place. Can't you think of even one?" said Leven, with a bit of a sneer.

"If he'd done something wrong," I said, after a minute.

"Well, yes. And, say, if the wrong people had got to know of it."

"Blackmail?" I said.

And then I remember laughing. The melodrama of it struck me. And what had we to go upon? Absolutely nothing.

"This is all too ridiculous," I said. "You're trying to make a mountain without having a handful of earth."

"Perhaps. But suppose we have a try— to see?"

"Go ahead!" I said, still half laughing.

And then he made his proposal. It was this. He proposed sending a tele- gram from the parish in Kensington where Arbroath had been curate, from the post office nearest the church where he'd ministered, a telegram of an alarming character, a telegram containing a threat or a warning, to see what came of it, whether it had any effect on the Reverend Cyril, "caused anything to happen"— as I remember Leven put it.

That was his proposal.

IT STRUCK me, I remember, as futile, but it also struck me as objectionable. I turned it down. But he didn't give in. He'd evidently been thinking about his plan for a long time, and it had taken a tight hold upon him.

I said to do such a thing would be on a par with writing an anonymous letter. He replied that there were clichés about acts as well as about everything else. Considered dispassionately, without re- gard to current opinion, where was the abominable wickedness in sending such a telegram as he proposed?

It wouldn't be followed by any action. He had called it an arrow shot into the air, and it would be just that and nothing more. If no result ensued, the whole thing would drop. The arrow would fall to earth having found no target.

"Then," I said, "what's the object in sending it?"

"Merely to see if there is a result," he answered.

"What result could there be?" I said.

"I leave it to you to imagine," he said.

And again I thought there was something sinister in his voice.

At last, after a lot more talk which I can't remember, though I know that on his side it was persuasive and seemed subtle to my immature mind, I was brought to this: I'd promise not to give the show away to Arbroath if the telegram was sent, but there must be no further attempt at a testing of his character. To tell the truth, I honestly thought the whole suggestion absurd, and a symptom of Leven's having gone almost potty from dwelling perpetually on jealousy in connection with Miss Smith and the rector.

I was a fool to give in, perhaps a little more than a fool. But I never thought it possible that any harm could come of it. And Leven was so dead set on it that— well, I gave in.

Leven wrote the telegram out. It ran like this:

"I know where you are at last and shall be down in a few days to settle up with you money talks but if it is silent this time someone else will talk in the wrong quarter for you if you are not keen to see me better make a bolt of it."

The signature to the telegram was "West Kensington." Leven also said that he'd send the telegram on the first Saturday after I returned to Lamsfield. He wished me to be there when it came.

Three weeks later I was back at the Park and Leven knew it. When Satur- day arrived I felt a most awful sweep. On Sundays Arbroath always came to luncheon at the Park after the morning service.

I went to church with my people that Sunday morning and it seemed to me that Arbroath didn't looe quite as usual. He always had rather a high color, but I thought he looked feverish that day and had the eyes of a worried man. But that might be my fancy, I thought guiltily, till I heard my mater say:

"Mr. Arbroath doesn't look himself today. I'm pretty sure he's unwell."

"Looks a bit off!" said my dad. "I'll make him drink a glass of my old sherry after lunch."

If you'll believe me it was only then for the first time that I realized Leven's telegram would have been read from the wire and taken down by the post- mistress in our village post office! I'd actually been fool enough to think of the telegram as being read by some girl in the big Kensington post office, who'd be far too busy and carcless to think anything of it. And now our postmistress—! I felt fairly sick, I can tell you.

Arbroath turned up for luncheon and we all realized that he wasn't himself. He looked seedy and seemed nervous and fidgety, and often preoccupied. Of course he made an effort and all that, but no, he wasn't at all himself, and even the old sherry didn't mend matters.

When he was leaving after luncheon my mater asked him if he was unwell. This seemed to put him out extraordi- narily. He looked startled and said, and reiterated, that he was perfectly well, "feeling splendid," as he always did.

"He's sickening for something," said my mater, who was always a regular dodger about illness.

But she was wrong. Arbroath wasn't sickening. Nothing happened except that he continued to look down in the mouth, nervous and preoccupied. Cheerfulness had gone out of him.

I stood this for a few days and then I got so sick about it, and about what had been done, that I went up to London to see Leven. My intention was to persuade him to let me blow the gaff, tell Arbroath we'd done what we had as a stupid joke, beg his pardon and put the whole thing right— even with our postmistress, if necessary.

I got to Leven's rooms late in the eve- ning, and found him at home.

"What's up?" he exclaimed, surprised at seeing me.

I told him. I told him, too, that I was such a fool that it never had occurred to me that the beastly telegram would be taken down by our postmistress. Now, no doubt, she was thinking unutterable things, and for all I knew might have spoken about the telegram all over the village.

"We've got to apologize," I said, "and put the thing straight. We shall come out of it moth-eaten, but that can't be helped now."

His rejoinder gave me the start of my life. He said:

"You should have come to me this morning."

"This morning?" I said. "Why?"

"I sent the Reverend Cyril another telegram this afternoon," he said.

"Another!" I said, pretty well aghast, I can tell you.

"Yes, another."

"What the devil did you wire this time?" I said.

"This: 'Better get away at once while there is time. Happen to know he is going Lamsfield this week. Wellwisher.' "

I was furious then, and I told him he was mad to go on that way, and that I wouldn't stand for the second telegram. I should go back within twenty-four hours and put things right, with Arbroath and the postmistress. We had a quarrel over it, but I was firm. Unfortunately I was too late. When a got to Lamsfield he wasn't there."

"Wasn't there? Where was he, then?" asked Jenkins.

"I don't know."

"But when he came back?" said someone.

"He didn't come back."

"D'you mean to say—?"

"I do. He never came back to Lamsfield."

"Well, but you must have found out—"

"We didn't! None of us ever found out. We don't know to this day where he went, where he is, what became of him. He had packed up his ordinary belongings, clothes and so forth, taken the train and disappeared."

"He took the train, you say," said Jenkins. "Well, then, you must know—"

"Oh, as far as Newcastle we knew! But what's that? That was only half an hour away. I don't count that. He bought a ticket for Newcastle. But we never knew— after that."

"But then— but he must have done something, then!" said a young soldier who had been listening. "When he was a curate in London!"

"Seems so!" said Lock. "But we never knew what it was."

"And— Miss Smith?" questioned Mansfield.

"Oh, she didn't marry Leven."

"That's something, at any rate," said Jenkins dryly.

"She didn't marry anyone. Our padre had hit her hard."

"I wonder where the poor chap went to," said the soldier.

"So do I," said Lock.

"Funny thing," said Hesketh, speaking for the first time. "Funny thing about the fellow having eyes of different colors, one gray-blue and one brown. I was in Dalmatia lately, in a little place called Zara. And I went over one day to see Trau. D'you know it, Lock?"

"I'm afraid I never heard of it," he answered.

"Oh, it's a place to see. Tiny, but wonderful old houses. Quite a unique little place in its way. I saw a fellow there, an Englishman, painting. They told me he'd lived there for years. He had eyes such as you describe. I had a talk with him and noticed it. I'd never seen anything like them before."

"How old was he?" said Lock.

"I couldn't say exactly. But he looked about fifty. He was tall."

"Yes," said Lock, in an assenting voice.

"He had a fair beard and mustache," added Hesketh.

"Oh!"

"Well, it's easy to grow that," said someone.

"I wonder whether—" said Lock, and stopped.

"Did Arbroath paint?" said the soldier.

"Not that I ever heard of."

"Well, but men take up things," Mansfield said.

"Yes," said Lock. "A man can grow a beard and a man can take up painting."

"But a man can't change the color of his eyes that I know of," said Jenkins. "If I were you, Lock, I should have a look at Trau, some day. I think it's the least you can do under the circumstances."

"I believe I will," said Lock. I will."

________________

16: The Whole Truth

Vernon Ralston

Gordon, Egerton and Ballan Advertiser, 10 April 1914

Mr. Ralston was active as a short story writer between about 1906 and 1917. Most of his stories appeared in The Weekly Tale Teller.

WILLIAM ARNOTT came out of the offices of Sollenherg, Steinthal and. Company in despair. He had had recommendations from half-a-dozen people when he came from Canada to London. He had expected that the keen London business men would have jumped at the chance he put before them. Three of the six firms had declined to see him at all. The great Jacob Rothstein, the famous promoter, had heard him for live minutes and then had remarked:

"This is wild-cattery, mein young friend. That sort of business we do not touch."

Arnott had told him wrathfully that he was so used to floating shady companies that he did not know a sound business proposition when he saw it. And now Sollenberg, Steinthal and Company had frankly laughed at him. Sollenberg himself had got up in the midst of his explanations to telephone to a friend to meet him to supper at the Ritz the next evening, and then had turned to Mr. Arnott.

"Nothing doing. We've twenty mines offered us a week."

Arnott shook his fist at the building as he came out and growled, "Some day I'll have you crawling after me."

He was not going to be beaten by London. Had he not toiled, prospecting In Canada for five years through countless disappointments, till at last he had found a copper property of undoubted value. His pockets bulged with certificates from mining engineers and assayers— and yet he could not raise the £50,000 in London he needed to develop the project.

And as he turned away he saw Mr. James Harrop looking into a flower shop window.

There was nothing extraordinary about this. It was the custom of Mr. Harrop to spend part of his lunch hour in looking at the windows of flower-shops. Every day at one o clock he strolled majestically out of the big tailor's shop where he was first salesman. None of the staff knew, where he lunched. Mr. Harrop always declined their company on the ground that he would not too tempted to talk of business during meal-times. He said that it was bad for his digestion. So he went solemnly to the Guildhall Library and ate six biscuits whilst immersed in some huge tome. There were enough of his biscuit crumbs in the Guildhall volumes to support a respectable family of mice for years

After this light repast Mr. Harrop inspected all the shops that sold flowers and horticultural implements, and returned to business precisely at two , o'clock. Then he solemnly drank a glass of water, with the invariable remark, "Never drink till half-an-hour after a heavy meal. It was Prince Bismarck's safeguard against dyspepsia and corpulence."

From the lightness of Mr. Harrop's repast you might judge that he was miserly. However, when on an income of two hundred a year one has to support a wife and three pretty daughtera in a respectable villa at Finsbury Park there is no margin for lunches.

So Mr. Harrop consumed biscuits and consoled himself by admiring plants and flowers, and gardening implements which he knew he could never afford to buy.

Mr. Harrop was lost in admiration of a lawn-mower when Arnott saw him. He watched him for a momont and detected the glow of covetousness in his eye.

"Smart machine that, sir," he ventured to say.

"Yes," returned Mr. Harrop, "I am almost tempted to buy It, but I have a smaller machine which answers my purpose, and after all it is no use spending money for the sake of spending."

So Mr. Harrop delicately disguised the fact that every Saturday afternoon he went over his small grass plot on his hands and knees with a small pair of grass shears, and, as a consequence of the fatigue, slumbered in an armchair all Saturday evening.

"Those are superb geraniums," continued Arnott. "If I had a garden in England I should he sorely tempted to buy some. We have nothing like them in Canada."

"A great country, Canada, said Mr. Harrop, patronisingly. "There is a future before it. But when you have had a little experience of London suburban gardening you will find that these expensive greenhouse plants invariably fail."

Nevertheless Mr. Harrop would have given one of his fingers for a couple of dozen of the certain failures.

They walked along chatting about plants. Mr. Harrop gave much information on horticulture to the young man. In fact, considering that in his own garden he could only afford to grow Virginia stock, sweet peas and asters, his knowledge was wonderful.

At last they reached the tailor shop.

"My business place," said Mr. Harrop loftily. "I must leave you here."

"I've enjoyed our little chat about flowers so much," said Arnott, "that I should like to see you again. I know very few people in Loudon, as I am fresh from Canada. I hope you won't consider it a liberty if I ask you to he I my guest at lunch tomorrow.

Mr. Harrop hesitated. The idea of lunch at someone else's expense appealed to him. Yet he had all the born Londoner's— especially the Londoner who has nothing to lose— distrust of strangers. Still the young man seemed very friendly and respectful.

"If my advice to you on gardening matters can be of any service to you—" began Mr. Harrop.

"Then you'll come. That's good. Shall I call for you here to-morrow. At what time?"

"I shall be going out at one o clock precisely."

"Right. Till one to-morrow then. Good morning." .

"I do hope that young man won't try to work the confidence trick on me," thought Mr. Harrop. "Well, well, even if he does, as I never have any money with me, I can't lose very much.

At one o'clock the next morning Arnott was waiting at the entrance to the shop. He saw Mr. Harrop get rid of a customer, take up his hat, and come towards the door.

"Good-morning, Mr. Harrop," he said. "You're very punctual. Knowing your fondness for flowers I took the liberty of buying you a button-hole that struck me."

"Thank you," said Mr. Harrop, looking admiringly at the fine white carnation, and mentally resolving that he would tell acquaintances in the train that night that he had grown it himself. "A very fine specimen. I must admit that I have never grown a better."

Come this way," said Arnott. "I've found out a very decent restaurant round here. Don't mind if the customers stare when we go in. There are a set of regular customers, and very few strangers come in."

He led the surprised Harrop into a famous city restaurant.

Certainly the customers did stare. A most obsequious waiter came up bowing. Mr. Harrop felt that the frock coat he always wore at business was so smartly cut that it had made an impression.

"A quiet table at the end of the room," said Arnott. "As much away from the others as possible."

The waiter bowed as if he would readily create a soitude for such Honored customers.

Then began a lunch such aa Mr. Harrop had never known before. He enjoyed it immensely, and his enjoyment was only tempered by the fear lest this agreeable young man should try to borrow the money from him to pay for it. Now Mr. Harrop only had ninepence in his pocket, and he felt that would be inadequate even as a tip for the waiter. He could not help noticing that the people at the other tables were watching them. Could this young man be a miserable swindler who enticed people into lunch with him, then left them to pay the bill? Great was his relief at the end of the meal when Arnott called for the bill, paid it, and presented the waiter with half-a-crown. Then he turned to Mr. Harrop and said: "You will have a cigar in the smokeroom with me before you go back?"

Mr. Harrop was so happy that the lunch had been duly paid for that he would have assented to anything, even though he knew he was almost due back at business.

"A most enjoyable repast," said Mr. Harrop as he selected a cigar with inexperienced lingers.

"The obligation is on my side, sir. I am indebted to you for the pleasure of your company. Would you increase your indebtedness by obliging me in one small matter?"

"Now it's coming," thought Mr. Harrop. "He's going to borrow money."

"Anything in my power, my dear sir," he replied diplomatically.

"Will you come with me to the Empire tonight and be my guest at supper at the Ritz afterwards?"

"I should have to send word to my wife," said Mr. Harrop.

"That's easily done— an express letter."

"And about evening dress," continued Mr. Harrop, thinking that his suit was some twenty years old.

"Don't worry about dress. You'll do splendidly as you are. Why, you're the best dressed man in the room here."

"In my profession," explained Mr. Harrop, "one has to maintain a certain standard."

"You'll do just as you are. Ony keep that button-hole in your coat. It suits you so well. What time shall I call for you?"

"The shop closes," began Mr. Harrop, "that is, I shall be at liberty at six-thirty."

"I'll wait for you then at the door."

"Dear me!" exclaimed Mr. Harrop, I shall be late. It's two o'clock now." And he hurried from the restaurant in a panic.

The second salesman had already concluded that Mr. Harrop was another victim of the motor-bus juggernaut when to his disappointment that gentleman arrived. In the intervals of business Mr. Harrop gave hints about the wealthy Canadian friend he had been dining with, and how they proposed to make a night of it at the Empire and the Ritz. The staff was half incredulous and half envious.

At six-thirty promptly Mr. Harrop's young friend was waiting for him. They dined at Simpson's and then went on to the Empire. At the close of the Revue Mr. Harrop confided to Arnott that he had written to his wife that he was going to a lecture with a friend.

"She regards this kind of thing as frivolous. Unjustly, to my mind. I think it is highly restful to the jaded business mind."

"So do many others apparently," replied Arnott. "Now I want you to oblige me in one little matter at the Ritz. There are a good many pushing, impertinent people in the supper room anxious to claim acquaintance with anyone they may meet. They might presume to try and borrow money from you. If any stranger speaks to you will you say to him sternly: 'Can't you see that I'm busy talking over important matters with my friend Arnott?' "

"I shall certainly do it. I regard it as an intrusion that any stranger or even an acquaintance, should try and borrow money from me."

"That's right. We'll get a taxi and go there."

Soon they walked into the supperroom at the Ritz. Certainly a good many people stared hard at Mr. Harrop. He held himself haughtily aloof from them all. A stout man, who chanced to pass his table, alone dared to speak to him.

"Fancy you here!" he said.

"Sir, can't you see that I'm discussing important business matters with my friend Arnott?" snapped Mr. Harrop, and the stout man crept away severely snubbed.

They had a delightful supper. Mr. Harrop at the beginning of the meal discussed profoundly and at the end of the meal obscurely on horticulture. Arnott listened to him intently, though quietly conscious that Marcus Sollenberg, the head of Sollenberg, Steinthal and Co., was watching them from an adjacent table.

At last it was closing-time. Arnott put his guest in a taxi where he instantly went to sleep, paid the fare to Finsbury Park, and murmured to himself, "I never want to hear another word about plants or flowers again."

THE NEXT MORNING Arnott called at the offices of Sollenberg, Steinthal and Co. When he sent in his card he was instantly admitted to Mr. Sollenberg's presence.

"Pardon this intrusion," said the young man, "but when I was here the other day did I leave one of my assayers reports behind? I am sorry to trouble you if I did. It is entirely my fault. You do not chance to have seen such a paper?"

"Do sit down, Mr. Arnott," said the financier. "I have seen nothing myself, but I'll ask my clerks to make enquiries. By the way, I have been thinking about the proposition you put before us."

"Pardon me, I think we finished with that matter."

"Oh, no, no! Perhaps I was taken a bit aback at first. By the way, didn't I see you at the Ritz last night?"

"Yes, with a friend of mine— Mr Harrop."

"Oh, Mr. Harrop," said Mr. Solenberg thoughtfully,

"Yes; we were having an interesting chat on— let me see— ah, horticulture.

"Perhaps you are getting your friend Mr. Harrop—" Mr. Sollenberg  emphasised the name curiously— "to take this matter up of yours."

"I did not say so," replied Arnott sharply.

"Well, I've been thinking, Mr. Arnott, that if this proposition is as good as you say, we should be glad to have the chance of helping you,"

"Not on the terms I mentioned two days since. I have learnt something more of the city since then."

"Well, well, do come and talk things I over with myself and my partners. If it really is a good thing— well, remember that you offered it to us before you did to your friend, Mr. Harrop."

"And you refused it."

"No, no; we wished for time to consider it. Now, if this matter of yours is not finally settled, will you come to lunch with us today and talk it over? I may warn you that you cannot be too careful about the people you have dealings with in the city."

Reluctantly, Arnott admitted that his mining proposition was not finally settled, and that he could give Sollenberg, Steinthal a chance, though he let it be understood that he did not wish to.

It took an hour's steady arguing over lunch to induce him to give way and let the firm have the handling of his promotion, and then only on very different terms from those he had named two days before.

When it was finally settled and an agreement drawn up and signed, Arnott said: "Well, I must be off now. I have a little business to transact on account of my friend Mr. Harrop."

"I hope he won't be disappointed," smiled Mr, Sollenberg.

"I hope not," said Arnott gravely.

He left the office and went straight to the shop where he had seen the famous lawn-mower which had begun his acquaintance with Mr. Harrop. He bought it, also a garden roller, watering-carts and syringes of all sizes, a roll of garden hose, and a profusion of plants. He stipulated that a cart was to be sent up with them to Mr. Harrop's Finsbury Park address at once, and that a receipted invoice should be delivered with the goods.

And when Mr. Harrop arrived home from business that night he felt sure that the millennium had begun.

However, when his wife arrived she blew him up as being recklessly extravagant for half-an-hour before he could get a word of explanation in, he decided that the millennium had not quite come yet.

It was the last day of Arnott's stay in London. Sascatchewan Copper Mines had been successfully floated, and he was returning to Canada with ample capital to develop his mine. He felt confident that in a year he would be a millionaire, and that the mine would be paying a 20 per cent dividend.

MR. SOLLENBERG was in high spirits about the successful flotation.

"We've made you, my boy," he repeated again and again. "A lucky thing that you put yourself in our hands. Had you gone elsewhere you'd have found yourself in the cart by now. Still, you're all right. You can go ahead with confidence now. You know that you've got Steinthal and Company at the back of you."

"Come this way, will you, Mr. Sollenberg?" said Arnott. "I want to call somewhere in Cheapside."

He paused outside a large tailor's shop till Mr. Harrop came to the door to show the effect of trousering in broad daylight to a faddy customer.

"You see that man at the door with the cloth, Mr. Sollenberg?"

"Yes," said the financier, indifferently.

"It's my old friend, Mr. Harrop. You saw me with him at the Ritz."

Mr. Sollenberg gave a start. "You don't mean to say that that's the fellow I saw you with, and not Jacob Rothstein?"

"I told you that I was with Mr. Harrop at the Ritz. You did not seem to believe me, but I could not help that. It isn't my fault that he looks like Jacob Rothstein— though I'll admit that I asked him to wear a white carnation because old Jacob wears one. It seemed to me to complete him. And, after all, my friend Harrop has a much better right to wear the white flower of a blameless life than old Jacob."

"And you've bluffed us with a tailor's assistant," cried Mr. Sollenberg.

"No bluff about it, Mr. Sollenberg. I told you the truth and the whole truth. After all, if you're dealing with a very clever man the best thing to deceive him with is the whole truth."

________________

17: The Rainseller

Vernon Ralston

Bathurst Times (NSW) 24 June 1913

There's nothing quite so British as discussing the weather.  Reminds me of an old, old joke:

Two rustics sitting on a bench outside a pub. One looks up at the sky and observes, "Looks like rain."

The other, staring moodily into his beer mug, growls, "Aye, and tastes like it."

THE EVENING was stifling— there was no doubt about it. By one consent the customers of the Arley Arms had left the tap room— which strongly resembled a Black Hole of Calcutta plus spittoons. Even the fanatics who used the smoke room had left its luxurious seats covered with American cloth, and its pictures which showed, how the art of the age had concentrated itself on the decorative aspects of whisky, and had taken refuge on a humble bench at one side of the inn door.

The tap-room customers sat on a bench on the other side, and one or two nondescripts like the blacksmith and shoemaker stood in the doorway as connecting links between tho agrarian aristocracy and tho democracy. The landlady panted as she hurried to and fro attending to the wants of her customers and her husband.  There was little conversation at first. The great bond of a common thirst united the company. They had beer and society, and being true Britons had little need to talk.

Mr. Wallop, after some moments, opened the floodgates of conversation. He looked at his beer with appreciative eyes, and said:

'It'd be a terrible thing if beer'd never been invented.'

A thrill ran through the company as they contemplated the hideous possibility of a beerless universe.

'Beer,' replied Mr. Cogers, in philosophic fashion, 'is one of the neccesities of our systems, an' the things we needs always comes if we waits long enough.'

'They'd wait a long time 'bo'd wait for you to stand 'em any,' broke in the cynical Harcus.

'It's not out of meanness I never stands anythin',' explained Mr. Cogers; 'it's on principle. Once I stood a man a pint 'oo didn't stand me one back again. That set me thinkin',' an' I come to see that standin' drinks was wrong.'

'You said everything comes to 'them oo' waited,' remarked Mr. Wallop, who had been deeply pondering this remark of Mr. Cogers; 'well, I wish rain'd come. We've waited long enough for that, 'eaven knows.'

'I tapped that glass o' mine this mornin',' said Mr. Smole, the landlord, 'an' it never stirred.'

As the barometer had remained fixed at 31 for two years, it may be assumed that either there was a remarkable regularity about Dulcombe's atmospheric pressure or that the instrument was defective.

'That tappin's all the work he's done this day,' interposed Mrs. Smole.

Mr. Wallop was not to be drawn from the subject of the weather into a discussion, of the landlord's character.

'Talk about 'ay,' he declared tragically; 'it'll be no thicker on some o' my fields than Cogers' 'air there.'

Mr. Cogers hurriedly put on the hat with which he had been fanning his bald pate.

'Roots is dryin' up an' corn's pitiful, to see,' added Mr. Tupp.

'Milk,' broke in Mr. Sadler.  'Ow can you expec' milk when there's no grass? With this weather, an' the trouble the inspectors make, it's enough to make a man give up dairy-farmin' an' take to pig-keepin'.'

'The 'orse pond's dried up,' said the blacksmith, addressing his remark to the universe at large, in order that former should think that he was too presuming.

'An' every drop o' water for my sheep 'as to be carted two mile up 'ill,' continued Mr. Tupp.

'If the Rector'd anythin' about 'im 'e'd 'ave been prayin' for rain long since.'

'Not 'im,' grunted Mr. Wallop. 'His glebe is all river meadow. Too much rain don't suit 'im. You don't expect 'im to want rain. It ain't Christian, p'raps, but it's 'uman nature.'

'We could get rain i' the old days,' said the feeble voice of Mr. Ruston, the village patriarch. 'You could go to half a dozen an' get it. There was wise men then. There ain't now. The police is set against wise men.'

'That's it,' agreed Mr. Wallop. 'What with cattle movin' regulations an' one thing an' another the police takes too much on, themselves. If a feller could make rain, why, shouldn't 'e. What 'arm is there in it to man or beast?'

'Aye,' said the landlord, 'they're always after you. There's more laws you can break about a licensed 'ouse than I could tell you in a week. That's why I does no work 'ere. It's a bit of artfulness, not that I'm lazy. Then if anythin' goes wrong I can' tell the magistrates I've got a fool' of a wife. An' when Policeman Green comes 'ere for 'is supper beer— o' course I don't charge 'im— 'e's told me ways I could lose my license till my very blood's run cold.'

'But why don't they let us get rain when we wants it?' persisted Mr. Wallop.

'There's a stranger comin' across the green,' broke in the biacksmith.

Everyone shaded his eyes and surveyed the approaching person with a kind of bovine curiosity.

'Is off leg's a game 'un,' commenced tho blacksmith.

'It's strange, but 'e's comin' 'ere,' remarked Mr. Cogers.

'Well, a public does draw in this weather. You don't need no rain, Mr. Smole. It's the dry weather that makes the beer go down. Get me another pint, Mrs. Smole, an' as I'm sittin' outside 'ere I'll trouble you not to charge me me smoke-room price.'

The stranger was a lanky, middle aged man, who wore a rather green frock coat and a straw hat. He observed the watchers with a calmly humorous eye.

'Fine weather for young ducks, gentlemen,' he observed, as he took the only vacant place on the farmer's bench.

Mr. Cogers scratched his head.

'Couldn't be worse, to my mind, with all the ponds dried up.'

'Where's your sense, Cogers?' remarked Mr. Wallop. ' 'E's jokin'.'

'I am not joking, madam,' said the stranger to the landlady, 'when I ask for a pint of your mild ale in a tankard instantly.'

The stranger took a refreshing draught, and then beamed on the company.  'May this be the worst of our days, gentlemen. It is worth walking five miles on a dusty road for the bliss of this moment. Country needs rain, gentlemen.'

'It's rain or ruin with us— rain or ruin,' said Mr. Wallop, with pride in his pointed saying.

'It ain't 'like my young days,' grumbled the veteran Ruston, 'when you could get the weather you wanted for the askin'.'

Mr. Cogers smacked his thigh indignantly.

'I wouldn't 'ave minded, payin' rates if the police'd left them wise men alone. Where's the 'arm in buyin' weather! My old uncle always said the best ten shilling 'o ever spent was in the 'ot weath'er of '49'. 'E bought a thunderstorm then that just saved his corn from dryin' up.'

The stranger's eyes twinkled. He drained his tankard, lose to his 'feet, and addressed tho company.

'Gentlemen, I am the well-known Berkshire weather specialist. If you wish for weather I can provide it at moderate charges.'

Mr. Tupp gave a scoptical whistle.

'You have all heard of wireless telegraphy,' proceeded the stranger. 'You know that it is possible to send messages by utilising the electrical currents of the atmosphere. But you do not know that by electrical power clouds can be formed and dispersed. For a small sum I will guarantee that every farm in the district shall receive a proper rainfall.'

'And 'ook it when you're paid,' remarked Mr. Tupp.

'No, sir,' replied the stranger.  'I only receive payment when I have delivered tho goods. I do not accept money in advance. This is Dulcombe's only chance. If you do not wish to take advantago of modern science I will move on to Swainswick directly I have had another pint of beer.'

'What's your charge?' murmured Mr. Wallop.

'Ten shillings a farm— payable only when you admit that the rainfall is satisfactory.'

'Not for me,' cried Mr. Tupp.

'There's a bit 'o sense in what you say, sir,' proceeded Mr. Wallop, shaking his head at the doubting Tupp. 'But when do you reckon that the rain would start?'

The stranger pulled out a rather copppery-looking' Watch.

'Within twenty four hours from now, if you accept my terms.'

'Look 'ere, I'm going 'in for it,' cried Mr. Wallop. 'If it does come off it's worth a mint o' money. If it don't there's nothin' to pay. We can't lose nohow. 'Oo else's comin' in?'

Half a dozen farmers joined, and the stranger took solemn note of their names and the situation of their farms.

'From what you tell mo your farms cover the entire district, except Mr. Tupp's farm on the hill-top. I make a special note of the fact that Mr. Tupp is not to have rain.'

'Look 'ere, my man,' said Mr. Tupp, 'if I catch you 'oldin' a umbrella over my farm I'll summons you for trespass.'

'I shall not go near thefarm, sir,' replied the stranger. 'Only when the rain does begin in other places you will be filled with deep regret. Ah, Mister Landlord, can you give me a bed tonight? I must stay here now to look after the interests of these gentlemen.'

'There's a very good bed,' said the landlord. 'No better bed within ten miles of 'ere. My mother-in-law died iu it, an' you'll understand that we'd not let 'er die anywhere. I'll only charge you—'

'Don't worry about the charge,' said the stranger in painful anxiety, lest he should be called upon to pay upon in advance. 'One glance at your honest face tells me that you would never overcharge me. Now if you could let me have a little cold beef or ham for my supper. Anything you have got, however simple, will do, and bring another pint of that excellent mild beer.'

In a few minutes the stranger's wants were supplied. He ate his supper with many compliments to Mrs. Smole on the quality of her fare, and then returned to the company outside the door just as the farmers were about to separate.

'To-morrow night, gentlemen, at this time you will be rejoicing (with the exception of Mr. Tupp) in saved crops and a splendid rainfall.'

WHEN THE stranger came down for breakfast the next morning.it was hotter than over.

'Just pourin' down, the sun is,' sais the landlord.  'I've just been tellin' my wife I shall 'ave to take things easy today. You'll 'ave your work cut out to bring rain on.'

'Wait and see,' responded the stranger cheerfully as he sat down to a large dish of ham and eggs.  When he had concluded a very satisfactory repast he approached the landlord.

'I'm going out in the fields on my scientific work. You might let me have a flask of whisky to take with me. If I should bring on the rain sooner than I expect I don't want to get chilled.'

'You don't tell me it's as certain as all that,' exclaimed the landlord as he filled. the flask.

'I have given my word, 'sir, and anyone in the counties of Berks, Bucks, or Oxford will tell you that Ezra Jakes' word is better than another man's bond.'

Mr. Jakes wandered out into the fields, chose a secluded and shady corner, tested the whisky, and settled himself for a nap.

'I suppose it'll come off,' he murmured. 'It's never failed yet. But if it does fail— well, I can hook it, and I've had bed, supper, breakfast, a quart or so of beer, and a flask of whisky free of charge. Government ought to make them provide better whisky at these country pubs.'

HE SLEPT till one o'clock, and then woke up conscious of hunger. On the horizon he saw a large black cloud advancing towards Dulcombe.

'What ho, that deserves a dinner,' cried Mr. Jakes. 'Let me see, cold beef, pickles, a lettuce from the garden— that will do. And only yesterday at this time I dined lightly, if romantically, on wild strawberries in the hedge-rows.'

The landlord was at the door watching the cloud when Mr. Jakes returned.

'Ah,' said Mr. Jakes, 'I've had to work very hard this morning, but you see!'

'You're a wonder,' replied the landlord.

'I've a wonderful appetite,' said Mr. Jakes smilingly. ' Bid thy better half produce the cold beef and pickles, and, say a quart of beer. This scientific work is a terriblr strain.'

He had hardly concluded his meal when a peal of thunder brought him to the window. In a minute a few heavy drops fell. Then came another crash, and the downpour set in.

In half an hour the road was swimming and half the spouts were choked. Mr. Jakes sat in the taproom window surveying tho scene with modest triumph.

All the afternoon it contiuued, and in the evening when the farmers came to the Arley Arms it was heavier than ever.

'Does this suit you?' inquired Mr. Jakes as each of his clients entered. And every man showed his gratitude for the rainfall by providing Mr. Jakes with liquid refreshment.

When all had come Mr. Jakes modestly suggested that his fee of ten shillings per farm should be paid. Everyone produced his half-sovereign, though Mr. Cogers disgraced himself by trying to cut off half-a-crown on the ground that the damp weather had brought on his rheumatism, and that would mean a two-and-sixpenny bottle of embrocation.

Mr.Tupp fell into a fit of laughter when he saw the money handed over.

'Ah,' he said, 'I wasn't going to waste my money. I knew that if it rained in the valley 'ere I was bound to get it on the 'ill. I was sure of what you others got, any'ow.'

'That's what I call takin' advantage,' said Mr. Wallop. 'If you'd any sense o' decency you'd put down your ten bob for this scientific gentleman.'

'He needn't unless he likes,' said Mr. Jakes. 'If his conscience don't make him do the proper thing let him go.'

'Look 'ere,' grumbled Mr. Cogers,' you said as 'ow Tupp's farm was to 'ave no rain. Yet it's rainin' up then. It ain't fair. 'E ain't paid.'

'It's because I've got a soft heart,' replied Mr. Jakes. 'I thought of his farm  ruined by the drought, and I said to myself,' I'll save it, and then he'll show his gratitude. I see I was mistaken in him, but it does not matter.'

'The whole world's cryin' shame on you.Tupp,' said Mr. Wallop severely.

There was a chorus of ' 'Ear 'ear,' and all the company gazed angrily on the base person who had got the same benefits and paid nothing.

'Let the world cry,' said the shameless Tupp. 'As long as I gets rain for nothin' they can cry what they please.'

The happy rainmaker was obliged to stay at the Arley Arms for the night, as the downpour still continued. Once or twice he woke in the night and heard the water gurgling down the spouts.

'Good for my rustic friends,' he thought.

HE WAS breakfasting the next morning when Mr. Wallop dashed in, dripping with water, and in a very bad temper.

'Where's your sense? Don't you know where to stop? I've 'ad a dozen lambs drowned i' the night, an' the corn's gettin' washed up. Stop it at once.'

He had hardly completed his speech when Mr. Cogers entered.

'Four pigs, four pigs,' shouted Mr. Cogers, and then became for a moment inarticulate with wrath. At last he recovered and explained himself:

'Four pigs gone down the river. I shall never see 'em again. 'Oo's to pay for them pigs? that's what I want to know?'

'You go out and stop it this minute,' said the angry Wallop.

'It can't be stopped,' exclaimed Mr. Jakes. 'We scientists can make clouds break, but when they've once, started breaking they've got to go on.'

'You've got to stop it,' cried the angry Wallop.

'If you don't, I wants my money back,' said the equally angry Cogers.

Mr. Sadler burst in and shook his fist in Mr. Jakes' s face.

'Do you call it weather when lightning burns down my 'aystack?'

Each moment another indignant person came in. Fields were under water, stock drowned, crops ruined, bridges swept away.

'I tell you, go an' stop it,' persisted Mr. Wallop.

'I tell you I can't,' replied Mr. Jakes.

'If you can bring it on you can turn it off,' said Mr. Sadler. 'That stands to reason. Do you mean to say that you wants payin' to stop it?'

'You've done no good. You've just ruined everybody,' said Mr. Cogers. 'We'd 'ave been a sight better off if you'd let us alone. Stop it, or I'll set about you.'

'E's done some good,' said the blacksmith, who, having no crops to be ruined, was not indisposed to be a peacemaker. ' 'E's filled the 'orse-pond.'

'Four-pigs!' cried Mr. Cogers, as the recollection of his wrongs came to him once more.

'Look 'ere, stop that rain in five minutes, or we'll chuck you i' the 'orse-pond you've filled!'

ALL turned their eyes to the window. Mr Coger held a ponderous watch  with one hand, and the rain-maker's coat collar with the other.

'Time's up,' he cried, 'an' it's rainin' 'arder than over. Catch 'old o' 'im, you fellers. If 'e's that fond o' rain 'e shall have enough for once.'

The struggling, body of Mr. Jakes was. borne through, the torrent to the horse-pond.

'One, two, three, off!' said Mr. Wallop solemnly.

There was a resounding splash as Mr. Jakes dropped in the centre of the horsepond.

'If we set eyes, on you again we chuck you in with a sack-full o' bricks tied round your neck,' cried Mr. Wallop as the fanners hurried back to the inn.

Mr. Jakes crept out— a dripping, woebegone object. As he stood by the roadside shaking himself Mr. Tupp drove past.

' 'Ello,' he said, pulling up his trap. 'What's this? Ain't it wet enough for you outside the pond to-day!'

'Those ungrateful rascals have thrown me in because they've got too much rain.'

Mr. Tupp chuckled. 'Well, I haven't got too much. I could do with a week's rain. It so soon runs off the 'ills.  Jump in, an' I'll take you 'ome to get dry. One o' my men'll be drivin' over to Swainswick this afternoon, an' 'e can take you with 'im. l don't grudge you a dinner an' a dryin' because I paid you no ten bob.'

AFTER dinner, as Mr. Jakes sat in a suit of his host's clothes, Mr. Tupp fixed him with his eye and said, 'Look 'ere, what puzzles me is 'ow did you know that rain-storm was comin', the forecast was good, an' there was no signs to my mind.'

Mr. Jakes winked.

'Well, they've treated me very bad, though in their hurry they forgot to take their money back again. That's lettin' temper run away with you. And since you've treated me pretty decent, I should like you to have a laugh against them. It happened this way. Two years since I was coming out a public-house in London—'

'Look 'ere, I want the truth,' said Mr. Tupp satirically.

'Truth it is. I was coming out at closing-time—'

'Ah, this sounds like truth,' interrupted Mr. Tupp.

'And I fell down the steps and broke my leg. A very bad break it was. And ever since, when there's goin' to be a change o' weather my leg aches. It was aching two days since, so as they wanted rain I promised it them. I only charged 'em ten bob each. A greedy man would have made it more. And just because I can't regulate it to their fancy they throw me in the horse-pond.' A beautifully placid smile passed over Mr. Jakes' face as he spoke.

'You seem to take it all as a joke,' observed Mr. Tupp.

'I have just remembered that when these violent men carried me out of the public-house and threw me in the horse pond they did not give me a chance of paying my bill to the landlord. Well, well, there's a bright side to everything if you only look for it. When I've gone, Mr. Tupp, you might go and remind the landlord about it. I cannot grudge you another excellent joke at your friend's expense.'

______________

18: A Temporary Lapse

Vernon Ralston

Hobart Mercury, 2 April 1938

First published in Cassell’s Magazine,  Dec 1914
as "The Skeleton in the Cupboard"

MR. RUSTON at his desk in his private office in the centre of Ruston's Stores. Opposite him was Burgess, his trusted manager. Every moment one of the departmental telephones on the desk rang. Mr. Ruston would take up the instrument listen intently to the message, and snap out a brusque order.

The tiny office was the brain-centre of the huge establishment.

"The silks seem overstocked, sir, compared with this time last year," said Burgess.

"What!" cried Mr. Ruston. "Give me the returns and stock-sheets. H'm, they've been doing a bigger business, so they've had to carry bigger stocks. Still, 'phone the advertising manager to run a great silks sale for next week. We'll lighten the stocks for the balance sheet. Tell the silks buyer to explain to me why he did not suggest a sale."

Just then the commissionaire, who guarded the office against persistent commercial travellers and smart young men desiring positions, came in with a card.

"A Mr. Arnold Compton, sir, to see you on urgent personal business, sir," he said.

"Don't know him from Adam," grunted Mr. Ruston.

"I saw from his card thal he was a solicitor, sir," continued the commissionaire, "and l thought it best to bring it in."

"I'll bet he made it worth your while," remarked Mr, Ruston glancing shrewdly at the office guardian.

"I thought, sir, if it were legal business—" began the commissionaire.

"Stop talking," said Mr. Ruston. "You've got your half-sovereign or whatever it is. Who is he? Arnold Compton, Lincoln's Inn Chambers. Show him in."

The next moment a smart looking young man entered.

"Well, sir. what's your business, Sit down."

"If you will excuse me, sir, my business is of a private nature."

Mr. Ruston looked keenly at the young man and then said, "Mr. Burgess, Just go and ask that silk buyer for his explanation, and rush the ads. for the big sale."

When they were alone Mr. Ruston said, "What did you give that man of mine to get in here?"

"My business was exceedingly important, sir."

"What did you give him?"

"If you must know, half a sovereign."

Mr. Ruston chuckled. "I thought so. Wouldn't have dared to do it, unless he'd got gold. Now, your business."

"In the first place I am a member of the Belsize Golf Club."

"You might spend your spare time better, young man."

"I mention that just to explain where I first met your daughter. We have played together on many occasions. We became very friendly. To be quite candid with you, sir, I fell in love with her and proposed to her."

"Well, that is a natural thing. Mabel is a nice girl. That would be on Saturday, wouldn't it? She seemed a bit above herself on Saturday night."

"Yes, it was on Saturday."

"Well, what did she say? That's important."

"She told me that she would never marry me unless you approved."

"Meaning that she would if I did, I suppose."

"That is the case, Mr. Ruston."

"Well, she showed her good sense. She's 18, and is no judge of a man. I've been judging men all my life. Now we'll take this thing from a business standpoint. First of all, I'll put my cards on the table. I can say that Mabel is a pretty girl and a good girl. She's been a good daughter and she'll make a good wife. Some day this concern will all be hers. That means she'll be one of the wealthiest women in England. On the other hand she's no connections. I started life as an errand boy. Now let me see what you've to offer. You're a university man, I suppose?"

"Oxford, sir."

"Ah, my education stopped when I was ten. I know what education's worth better than you, for I know the want of it. Well, what about your business?"

"I flatter myself that I am quite able to support a wife. My profession brought me in £1,000 last year."

"Call it £700," said Mr. Ruston. "Figures always stretch a bit. Not so bad for a young fellow. Been steady?"

"If you wish, sir, I can give you the highest references as to my character. There is nothing in my past that I'm ashamed of."

"That's good," remarked Mr. Ruston. "Wish I could say the same. Who are your people?"

"My father is actuary to a leading Insurance company. He is a churchwarden at Norden Green and I may say highly respected by all who know him."

"Brothers?"

"I have two, sir. One is in the Indian Civil Service and the other rector of Bestford, in Essex."

"Sisters?"

"One of them supervises things at home, and the other is mathematical mistress at the Northern High School."

"Let me see, where do they live?"

"Annerley Villa, Norden Green."

"That all sounds well enough, but look here, young man, where's the skeleton in your cupboard? That's what I look for when I'm dealing with a man. Weil, well, p'raps it'll turn up. I don't see any objection to this engagement at present, but give me a week to think it over. In the meantime you may write to Mabel, but don't see her."

"I fully appreciate your position, sir. I will write to her explaining just what you have said. May I thank you for the very courteous hearing you have given me. In the meantime, If you wish for any references regarding my character, I could, name a dozen people―"

"Don't trouble," said Mr. Ruston. "A man never gives references who are likely to give him away. Wouldn't waste time on them."I'll think things over. You've been straightforward in coming to me, and I'll say that's in your favour. Now I'm very busy, so I'll say 'Good morning.' "

"Good morning, Mr. Ruston. I am indebted to you for the patience with which you have listened to me."

Mr. Ruston looked at the card his visitor had left behind him.

"Lincoln's Inn Chambers," he murmured, "that's where Craddock has his offices."

In another moment he was ringing up his old friend and solicitor on the telephone.

"That you, Craddock?"

"Yes, who's that?"

"Ruston. Do you know anything about a young solicitor called Compton who has offices in your chambers?"

"Oh, yes, smart-looking young chap."

"What sort of a business does he do?"

"Very good for a youngster, I think. Want to transfer your business to him?"

"Not just yet. Want a few personal details about him. Is he disreputable or hard up?"

"Oh, no, perfectly respectable. As much vice in him as in an old sheep."

"You disappoint me."

"It's a fact."

"Isn't there anything wrong about him? I like to know a man's faults."

"Don't believe he ever swore. You switch your business on to him. He's much less likely to swindle you than I am."

"Right. Shan't change. Believe in having a bit of a rascal for a solicitor, myself. Good morning."

Mr. Ruston put down the receiver as his manager entered.

"Excuse me sir, there's been rather a bad case of shop-lifting in the silks."

"If they've caught her with the stuff give her In charge. Can't afford any mistake, though. I don't want any more visits from solicitors today. One's enough."

ARNOLD COMPTON called at his office for a few minutes and then resolved to go home to lunch. He knew that it was the afternoon his father took off for golf and guessed that he would just catch him at lunch.

He met his sister Olive in the hall as he entered.

"Hallo, Arnold, you away from business?"

"I've Just been to see old Ruston," he replied. ,

"What did ne say?"

"He's thinking it over, but, of course, he could make no objection. In fact,  Olive, it's practically a settled thing. And he said that some day she would have all his money."

"Why, you'll be a millionaire."

"Very likely," said the young man modestly. "It'll please the pater, won't it? He was always so keen about us marrying well."

"I hope, Arnold, I really hope— "

"Well, what do you hope?"

"I hope you are not marrying her just for her money. There's been so much talk about what Mr. Ruston would say. And you know, Arnold, you're so keen about getting on."

"Nothing of the kind. Mabel's a most attractive girl. Any money she may have makes no difference to me."

"You'd marry her without a penny, then?"

"Yes, yes. Where's the pater?"

"In the dining-room. You're just in time for lunch."

Arnold Compton hurried into the dining-room and found his father pacing up and down with all the anxiety of the goiter who was losing precious minutes away from the course.

"Hallo, Arnold. Change to see you at this time. Lunch is very late to-day."

"Thought I'd run up to see you. I interviewed old Ruston this morning."

"Well," said his father eagerly.

"On the whole he was very favourable. He's taking a week to think it over, and he could make no objection."

"Good," said old Mr. Compton, rubbing his hands. "I am fortunate in my sons. Blessed in them, in fact. There's Jim well married to the daughter of the squire of his parish. There's Walter with a wife who's £800 a year of her own. And now you. You'll be a millionaire. I am delighted. I expected much from you, Arnold, and you've fulfilled my highest expectations."

"Is mother in?"

"No, she's gone into town today."

"Well, don't let her talk about it yet. There's a possibility of talk getting to old Ruston's ears, it might aggravate him, and, of course, it's not absolutely settled yet. If he thought we were bragging, you know!"

"Quite so, quite so. You can't be too cautious when so much is at stake. This good news of yours will quite put me off my game this afternoon. Come, here's lunch at last. Sit down, my boy."

A SERVANT came to the door in a minute and said, "Excuse me, sir, but the Vicar wants to see you on important business."

"Show him in, show him in," said Mr. Compton, glancing at the clock.

The Vicar entered with an unusually solemn face.

"Good morning, Miss Olive. Good morning, Mr. Compton. Glad to see you, Mr. Arnold. I regret that I am the bearer of bad news― very bad news."

"Why, what's the matter?" cried Mr. Compton.

"My wife was in town shopping this morning, and while she was in one of the shops she saw a lady arrested for shop-lift— er— I should say for having goods in her possession that were unpaid for. Unfortunately the lady was Mrs. Compton."

"Impossible," cried Mr. Compton. "I make my wife an ample allowance."

"I wish I were mistaken, but my wife has Just come home in a taxi with the news. She says there is no doubt whatever. She did think of interfering, but she remembered in time that she might be involved in the case. Of course, a clergyman's wife must be above suspicion. But she heard one thing. Mrs. Compton gave the name of Jones, and said she lived at Bayswater."

Olive Compton burst into tears. "I understand now," she sobbed. "Mother would never let us go shopping with her, and she always brought home such bargains."

"Impossible," repeated Mr. Compton. "I made her an ample allowance Where was it?"

"At Ruston's Stores."

"Good heavens!" cried Arnold Compton. "She's ruined me."

"My poor boy," said Mr. Compton. "Only this minute, Vicar, he was telling me that Mr. Ruston was considering favourably his proposal for Miss Ruston's hand. What is to be done? How can we keep it from becoming public?"

"You may trust me," said the Vicar. "My wife is pledged to absolute secrecy."

"There's only one thing to be done," said Arnold Compton. "Since she has given the name of Jones we mustn't let her run any additional risk. It would tell against her if it came out that she had given a false name. We must instruct a solicitor to defend her as Mrs. Jones. He will be able perhaps to get her off on the grounds of kleptomania."

"But she'll go to prison," cried his sister. "We can't risk mother going to prison. They'll regard her as a systematic thief if she's given a name and can't give a proper address."

"What can we do without involving the whole family in her disgrace?" said Mr. Compton. "I will spend any money to defend her, but if the worst comes to the worst you must go to the seaside, Olive, and everybody will believe that your mother has gone with you for a month or so."

"I won't have it. She shan't go to prison," said Olive decidedly. "We must say who she is and bring evidence about her character. She'd influenza in the Spring. That must have affected her. The doctor could prove it. We could get the case dismissed."

"But you'll ruin all our lives," protested Arnold Compton.

"It's your life you're thinking ot, not ours. I care nothing about your prospects. I care tor my mother's. I'm going to stand by her in the police court. Or why can't you go to Mr. Ruston and ask him to let her go? He knows you and would do it to oblige you."

"And what about my marriage afterwards?"

"You'll ruin your brother's life, Olive," said Mr. Compton. "And I see a way out. She went by the name of Jones. Suppose you call on him, Arnold, and state that she is a valued client of yours. It's true, you do manage her bit of property for her. Then Mr. Ruston won't know that she's given a false name. It will be a great point in her favour."

"Well, if Arnold won't go I shall go to Mr. Ruston," declared Olive.

"It's a terrlble predicament," said Arnold. "Simply terrible."

"You, Vicar, could go to back him up," appealed Mr. Compton.

"Certainly," said the Vicar. "I could say that I had known the accused lady for many years, and that she was of the very highest character. Her work for the New Rectory Bazaar when I first came here proved that to me. Of course, i could not use the name of Jones. But there would be no absolute necessity for me to mention the name."

"It's the best way," said Mr. Compton.

"It would be better to be straightforward," argued Olive. "Still, do as you wish. Preserve the family reputation since it is so important. But I tell you this, Arnold, that if he won't let her go for you, I shall go to him and tell him everything. But if you are going— go at once. Can't you realise that she's in prison and that every moment must be an agony to her."

"Come along," said Arnold Compton to the Vicar. "We'd better get lt over."

"I'll wait here," said Mr. Compton. "Telephone to me, Arnold, I can't go to golf. My nerves are quite upset"

AS Mr. Ruston was running over the stock-sheets after lunch the commissionaire entered.

"The Mr. Compton who called this morning and a clergyman, sir. Will you see them?"

"A clergyman?" cried Mr. Ruston. "What's he bringing a parson for?"

"I could not say, sir, but he explained that his business was most urgent and important."

"That's a sovereign you've made today. Bates," remarked Mr. Ruston. "Don't ask for an advance this year. Show 'em in."

Arnold Compton and the Vicar enter-ed the room solemnly.

"Mr. Ruston, may I introduce my friend the Reverend Mr. Hollins?"

"Pleased to meet you," snapped Mr. Ruston, looking very much otherwise. "Sit down, will you? What's the business?"

"We've called about a very painful matter," said Arnold Compton. "A client of mine, a Mrs. Jones, was taken into custody this morning on a charge of theft from your establishment."

"Well, that's a relief," said Mr. Ruston. "I thought when you brought your clerical friend you were going to insist on being married on the spot. Go on with your appeal. I've heard a lot of 'em."

"I wish to say, sir, that Mrs, Jones is most respectably connected."

"They all are," interposed Mr. Ruston.

"She is a lady of the very highest character."

"They all are," sighed Mr. Ruston. "In fact,I'd be disposed to let one off who declared that she was a professional thief."

"She has had a bad attack of influenza this year, and her family have been very nervous about her."

"Well, well, I prefer influenza to kleptomania. And what has your reverend friend got to say?"

"My dear sir," began the Vicar, "the lady in question has been a member, a valued member, of my congregation for many years. Her purse has always been open to every good cause."

"Isn't my shop a good cause?" inquired Mr. Ruston. "She didn't open her purse much here."

"A temporary lapse, my dear slr. She has brought up her family in a way that has compelled my admiration. They are all regular attendants at my church."

"Watch your collection boxes, then," said Mr. Huston. "Anyhow, a church-going lady like this ought to have heard of the Ten Commandments."

"Well, sir," appealed Arnold Compton, "is a single slip like this to ruin an estimable lady and all her innocent relations? Think of her poor husband, far too overcome even to uccompahy us here. I ask you, sir, whether in this case you could not temper justice, with mercy."

"Well," said Mr. Ruston, rising to his feet. "I'll just look into the matter and see if it's a bad case. Just wait here while I go to the department. I must say, young man, I respect you for the way you've stuck up for your client. It must have been a bit rough on you to call on such an errand immediately after our interview this morning. Especially as you must have guessed how I hate all this backstairs business of people appealing to me to save thieves from prison. Won't keep you five minutes."

WHEN Mr. Ruston had left the room Arnold Compton sighed with relief. "I think he'll let her go," he said.

"You see," said the Vicar, "all things work together for good. You have shown courage, Arnold, and it will not go unrewarded."

Very soon Mr. Ruston came back.

"Usual case," he said. "Big pocket fitted under skirt. You may be quite sure it wasn't the first time your highly respectable client tried this game on."

"But, sir," pleaded the clergyman, "consider the innocent family of the poor lady. Can't you be merciful?"

"l can be merciful enough; the question is whether I want to be. Got anything more to say for this Mrs. Jones, Mr. Compton?"

"If any pecuniary compensation— if the goods taken are paid for at once and a handsome subscription sent to any charity you choose."

"That's all right. But have you anything more to say?"

"Only, sir, to make the strongest appeal I can for a very respected client."

"Right," said Mr. Ruston. "Don't say I didn't give you a chance. I'll tell you something. This highly respectable client of yours left a handbag on the counter. There were two or three things in it— obviously stolen."

"Dreadful, dreadful. What a deplorable mental breakdown," cried the clergyman.

"That's not all," said Mr. Ruston slowly. "There were bills in it with her proper name and address on them. I know your Mrs. Jones."

ARNOLD COMPTON turned white as a sheet.

Mr. Ruston's keen eyes, searched him through and through.

"A pious fraud, sir," interposed the clergyman. "A loving son anxious to hide the weakness of an erring mother."

"I can see the fraud," snapped Mr. Ruston, "but I'm dashed if I can see the piety. And you were in it, too."

"Pardon me. Mr. Ruston, I never made use of the name of Jones, and your language is highly objectionable."

"Truth always is. Look here, young man, if you'd come to me first of all and told me straightforwardly about your mother I'd have respected you for it. I should never have held it aganst you. No man's responsible for his parents. Mine left me to shift for myself when I was ten. I'd not like to be held responsible for what they'd done. But when you came to me on false pretences― the parson needn't wriggle― that ends it.

"Of course, your mother can go free. But you go too. l wanted to have the week to see what your weak point was. I've got it. You'd rather risk your mother than your chance of a rich marriage. I'll tell my daughter tonight precisely what's happened and I'll put it to her that a mean, cowardly son'll make a mean, cowardly husband. If she likes to marry you after that she can, when she's of age. But she'll never get a. penny of my money. That tells, doesn't it? Clear out, and take your parson with you. I told you this morning that I'd look for the skeleton in your cupboard. I never thought I'd find it so soon."

______________

Table of Contents

- 1: Letters of Un-patent / C. J. Dennis
- 2: The Prodigal Calf / C. J. Dennis
- 3: The Moon Riders / Laurence Donovan

- 4: The Terror of Blue John Gap / Arthur Conan Doyle

- 5: The Cruise of the "Idlewild"

- 6: The Street of the Blank Wall / Jerome K. Jerome

- 7: The Crimp / Henry Leverage
- 8: The Fighting Heart / W. Alexander
- 9: After the Inquest / W. W. Jacobs
- 10: The Sense Of Touch / Ole Luk-Oie
- 11: A Woodland Wooing / Druid Grayl
- 12: Homicidal Holiday / Laurence Donovan
- 13: The Two-Handed Sword / Achmed Abdullah

- 14: The Almost Perfect Murder Case / S. S. Van Dine

- 15: Blackmail / Robert Hichens
- 16: The Whole Truth / Vernon Ralston
- 17: The Rainseller / Vernon Ralston
- 18: A Temporary Lapse / Vernon Ralston