Past Masters Ninety Eight
Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: Issue 98 of Past Masters, with some 100,000 words. There is no cumulative index in this issue, as a complete index of numbers 1-100 will appear when the 100th issue is completed, along with an index to the original collections I have made which are not part of the Past Masters series. In this issue: 1: The Disappearance of the Duke / Vernon Ralston 2: Nerves / Fred M. White 3: The Black Spine / Anonymous 4: The Heralds of Fame / Robert Barr 5: Falling Downstairs / Ethel Lina White 6: Jim Dickinson's Head / Harold Ward 7: The Valley Where Dead Men Live / Harold Ward 8: The Strange Story of Mart

PAST MASTERS

NINETY-EIGHT

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.

20 September 2022

Contents

1: The Disappearance of the Duke / Vernon Ralston

2: Nerves / Fred M. White

3: The Black Spine / Anonymous

4: The Heralds of Fame / Robert Barr

5: Falling Downstairs / Ethel Lina White

6: Jim Dickinson's Head / Harold Ward

7: The Valley Where Dead Men Live / Harold Ward

8: The Strange Story of Martin Colby / Ward Sterling

9: Told in Glass / C. S. Montanye

10: A Brother of the Leopard / William J. Makin

11: Khyada / Georges Surdez

12: Bogus Gems / Gordon Young

13: The House Of The Seven Heads / A. Schade Van Westrum

14: Following The Sea / Ambrose Bierce

15: The Trammel Fork Pearls / Raymond S. Spears

16: Clean Sweep / Roger Torrey

17: Much Fandango / H. Bedford-Jones

_________________________

1: The Disappearance of the Duke

Vernon Ralston

Bathurst Times 26 Nov 1913

Mr. Ralston was active as a short story writer between about 1906 and 1917. Most of his stories appeared in The Weekly Tale Teller. Nothing else is known.

THE DUKE of Dulshire sat in the great library of Dulham House. His venerable uncle, Lord Hubert Dulham, stood on the hearthrug addressing him as if he were a public meeting.

'It's quite time, my dear fellow, that you took a more active part in political work.'

'I can't stick it,' said the duke. 'The other meetings are bad enough, but that House of Lords is the limit.'

Lady Augusta Dulham interposed at once, 'I have often heard your father and grandfather, who consecrated their lives to public duty, say that their happiest hours were spent in the House of Lords.'

'Besides,' said his uncle, 'there is the Dulham sense of duty. You ought certainly to take up some subject and make it your own. Why not cotton growing in Nigeria? Quite noncontroversial. It would be maintaining the Dulham tradition.'

'It's not in my line,' protested the duke. 'I want to go and shoot big game.'

'But your public engagements, Edgar,' protested his uncle. 'It is not one of our traditions to drop public work to shoot wild beasts. To pheasant and grouse shooting in moderation I do not object.'

'Remember the statue of your grandfather in Dulham Market Place,' said his aunt. 'I always thrill when I read  "In memory of fifty years' faithful service to Dulham and England." '

'I'll speak to your secretary about that speech,' said Lord Hubert. 'We must positively get into the next ministry. In the mean time, I must take your aunt to the Academy. You have not missed one for forty-five years, have you Augusta?'

The duke groaned when he was left alone. Then eager to forget his troubles he took from beneath a pile of blue-books on his desk a decidedly thrilling detective story. Just as he was about to settle himself he heard a step and hid his treasured book.

'That you, Vavasour,' said the duke.

'Yes, your Grace,' replied the secretary. 'I am going to look up the facts about cotton growing in Nigeria at once.'

'Don't talk about it. What have I got on today?'

'Opening of the Aged Pets Bazaar at two, meeting of the Society for Promotion of Social Service at halfpast three, and annual meeting of the Middle Class Defence League at four thirty.'

'Right. I'll lunch at the club. Send the car for me. Got the cackle ready?'

'The speeches are prepared,' said the surprised secretary.

'Not too long I hope. I hate to see the poor blighters who've got to listen to them,' said the duke as he left the library.

THERE WAS a fashionable crowd at the opening of the Aged Pets' Home Bazaar. The secretary of that admirable institution was in a state of flurry. He had charge of a countess, a viscount, a bishop, and two baronets, and had the responsibility of introducing all of them to the twenty-five ladies on the committee. He knew well that if one lady were omitted she would at once, become an advocate of economical administration, which, broadly expressed, meant 'no advance in the secretary's salary.'

Yet in the midst of his introductions he had to keop perpetually, sprinting to the front entrance. The Duke of Dulshire might arrive at any moment and if the secretary were not there to meet him the consequences might be tremendous. The minutes passed away but no duke came. Mr. Vavasour arrived, but he could throw no light on the delay.

'You are sure his Grace is coming?' said the secretary.

'Certain,' replied Mr. Vavasour. 'I've got his speech here and he's never missed a meeting yet. He's two more after this. You may rely on him.'

The hour for opening came, but no duke. The crowd grew restless. At last the secretary, in desperation, had to get the Countess to open tho bazaar, anouncing that the Duke of Dulshire had been unfortunately delayed. The audience was disappointed. They had come to see the bachelor duke. Still, the Countess's unique furs were a consolation, and the Bishop made a funny speech which won all hearts.

When the opening ceremony was over and the mad rush for bargains had begun, the committee gathered round Mr. Vavasour to express their intense regret.

'Perhaps the dear duke could come and open the bazaar for us to-morrow,' suggested a vice-president.

'I could scarcely ask his Grace to open a bazaar on the second day,' said Mr Vavasour reprovingly.

The tactless vice-president was hustled into the background and the other members of the committee all chorused their sympathy with the dear duke in the sudden indisposition which had (doubtless) kept him away.

'Influenza, no doubt,' began one lady. 'My attack this year leapt upon me like a tiger.'

Then, whilst the rest of the committee explained the exact ways in which influenza had leapt upon them, Mr. Vavasour stole away. He hurried off to the  Working Class Social Service meeting but the duke was not there. Nor was he to be found at the annual meeting of the Middle Class Defence League.  Mr. Vavasour returned to Dulshire House a little upset. Hitherto he had regarded the duke as a reliable automaton. It would be very awkward if he developed erratic habits.

However, when ho reached Dulshire House he inquired casually if the duke had returned. No one had seen him, and the secretary sat up till three in the morning but the duke never came.

Directly the post arrived in the morning the secretary came downstairs. There were fifty inventions and two hundred begging letters but nor a word of explanation from the duke. Next he turned to the newspapers and found that most of them reported that the duke had opened the Aged Pets' Bazaar and had taken the chair at the other meetings.

However, Mr. Vavasour knew enough of the workings of of our great press to guess that the reporters had  drawn their information from the programmes of the meetings and had not troubled to attend them in person.

Very soon Lord Hubert Dulham arrived.

'How is this, Vavasour? The Bishop of Boghampton tells me that my nephew missed his engagement yesterday. The family expects that you will keep him in hand. The Dulham traditions must be maintained. Is my nephew up yet?'

'Pardon me, my lord, the duke has vanished.'

'Vanished! Preposterous!'

'He has not returned here since he left yesterday. I have telephoned to his other residences and he is not there.'

'Dear me, dear me. Make tactful inquiries and don't let the servants talk. What have you said?'

'I have hinted at influenza.'

'Excellent. I command you, Mr. Vavasour. Now be most tactful, mind.'

The secretary was most tactful, but could find out nothing. The duke had apparently walked out of his club and vanished into the air.

After a day or two he called in Scotland Yard, but the detectives could find nothing and their suggestions that the news be made public were set aside by Lord Hubert as tactless. Still, the attack of influenza could not be indefinitely prolonged and at last the truth came out.

It was all owing to a devoted footman. He, like all other servants, had been sworn to secrecy. However, this particular footman was so overwhelmed by  the family misfortune that he stepped into a public-house for consolation. He consoled himself too much and finally laid his head on the counter and wept to think of his dear, lost duke.

Just by chance a reporter happened to be in the bar. He listened, put a few sympathetic questions, took a taxi to Fleet Street and swaggered into the managing editor's office with his hat on the back of his head:

'Got that interview with Sir Joseph Poggles?' snapped the managing editor.

'No,' returned Mr. Snell. 'Couldn't see him.'

'Couldn't see—' began the chief.

'Stop it, stop it, sir,' said Mr. Snell patronisingly. 'I've got a catch— the catch of the season. Lock the place up. Don't let it slip. How's this for you. The Duke of Dulshire has been missing for a week. I've got all the facts. Been missing since he failed to turn up at the Aged Pets' Bazaar. Now let it rip.'

His chief stepped across the room and slapped the reporter on the back.

'Good. The boss will be delighted write it up. As many columns as you like.  I'll put the crime man on to doing a theory. Kidnapped by anarchists— there's nothing libellous about that.'

Later that night the junior reporter who had done the Aged Pets' Bazaar came in.

'Here, you,' shouted the managing editor. 'Didn't you do the Aged Pets last Friday?'

'Yes,' replied Allen.

'You gave the Duke of Dulshire as being in the chair when he wasn't. He was missing. He's still missing. I want men who can nose out news, not write up fake reports in pubs. Snell nosed it out in a crack. Out you go. There'll be no more engagements for you here.'

Allen went away disconsolate. He depended for the greater part of his income on the odd engagements he got from the Echo. It was with sadness that he read the Echo's huge poster the next morning: 'The Kidnapped Duke— Supposed Anarchist Conspiracy.'

Hordes of reporters descended on Dulham House. Mr. Vavasour gave official contradictions to everything, but was obliged to admit that he could not produce the duke.

The evening papers took up the Echo's boom. The duke had been kidnapped; he had left the country in disgust with the Government; he had gone to meet an American milionairess. There were scores of explanations vouchsafed. However, a picture postcard actress who was 'resting' saw her chance. She hastily instructed her relations to say that she had been missing for a week, and then vanished.

The next morning the papers had: 'Another Remarkable Disappearance—Gertie Gladeye Gone.' Gertie Gladeye, in her quiet seaside lodgings, read the news with considerable interest, and rejoiced to see that one or two daring papers hinted that she had run off with the duke.

'That's worth five thousand,' she meditated. 'A libel action's worth two breaches of promise. And if I'm not a bill topper for the rest of my time my name's not Gertie Gladeye.'

The theatrical world, of course, thrilled with sensation. The other picture postcard Iadies wished they had had the sense to vanish. Managers had scouts out hunting for Gertie Gladeye. It was a great boom, but what made it even greater was the success of Billie Bower.

This almost unknown comedian took the tide at the flood. His topical song on tho subject of the hour, 'Lost, stolen or strayed,' a duke and a beautiful maid,' made his reputation in ten minutes. By the next night he was engaged for five years by one of the combines at a hundred a week.

The only person who took no interest in the duke boom was Allen of the  Echo. He had lost his job. The papers were so occupied discovering various ways in which the duke might have been murdered that they had few openings for 'odd articles'.

So he stayed in his lodgings at Brixton, and wrote short stories. Each of them had as villain a chief sub-editor, and he fondly hoped that Cartwright of the Echo would read them some day and be paralysed by their sarcasm. But then after two days he remembered that Cartwright never read ahything but the daily papers; so that his vengeance would be thrown away.

Just as he was thinking of a new type of villain, Mrs, Jenkins, his landlady, came into his  sitting-room. Allen always kept on good terms with his landlady. Not that he owed her anything, but the possibility was on the horizon.

'You'll excuse me looking in on you like this, Mr. Allen,' began Mrs. Jenkins, 'but I've something on my mind. I've not had a wink of sleep for two nights.'

'Try bottled stout, Mrs. Jenkins. Bottled stout and an easy conscience will send anyone to sleep.'

'Not me, Mr. Allen, not me. Now, could you oblige me by telling me the date of the Whitechapel murders.'

'About twenty-five years since.'

'Twenty-five years! Then it can't be the first floor sitting-room. He'd hardly be out of long clothes then, and though boys is trying, as I know, having brought up four, still they don't do much wickedness till they're breeched. Now what murderers are missing this year, Mr. Allen?'

'Do you think that your first floor lodger is a murder then?'

'I'm sure of it.'

'Then you'd be quite justified in giving him notice. Murder is a disagreeable habit in a fellow-lodger. It hinders good feeling in the house. But why do you think he is a murderer?'

'He stays in the house all day and never goes out. He's letting his beard grow. He reads nothing but sporting papers and detective stories he sends my Tommy for.'

'Well, that doesn't prove absolutely that he is. a murderer.'

'Why won't he go near the window then? I tried him yesterday when I took his dinner in. I just said: "Oh, look at that pretty girl, how she's got up." Any gentleman would have jumped to the window right away. He never moved. Then he will have steak and onions for dinner every day. I ask him what else he wants, but I tell you he's afraid of giving trouble.'

'Anything else, Mrs. Jenkins?'

'Well, he kissed my Jane when she took his tea in. A liberty no gentleman staying here ever took before.'

'If that's a proof he's a murderer,' began Allen, and stopped suddenly. He could scarcely say to Mrs. Jenkins that all the male lodgers had kissed her daughter, and were therefore under suspicion of homicide.

'I wish you'd go and have a look at him, sir. You being a, gentleman connected with the Press and used to murderers. It'd make my mind a lot easier if I'd your opinion of him.'

'Right. I'll drop in on him to borrow a paper.'

The next minute he knocked at the door of the first floor sitting-room. ' Come in, Mrs. Jennings,' said a lazy voice.

Allen entered, and found a man of about his own age sitting in an armchair with his feet on the mantel-piece. He was apparently absorbed in a detective story.

'What do you want?' said the stranger, startled when he saw that the newcomer was not the landlady. Allen stared at him for a moment, and then locked the door. He had seen the duke at public meetings before, and knew him at a glance.

'I'm a pressman,' said Allen. 'Sorry to intrude, but our landlady took you for a missing murderer. She did not know that she was entertaining a distinguished nobleman.'

The duke got up.

'Here, what do you want to keep your mouth shut? I've seen the silly fuss the papers are making. I've not been kidnapped. And none of the picture postcard women have run off with me. I've just gone on strike to get a bit of peace from any family. Have you got a lot of relations worrying you?'

'I don't think I've got a single near relation living,' said the reporter.

'You're lucky. Now because my ancestors have bored the public by addressing public meetings I'm run in to do the same thing. You don't know how those meetings give me the pip.'

'Don't I! I've had to sit through some of them.'

'Well, to come to business, what do you want to keep quiet?'

'I don't want anything, but if these meetings bother you why the dickens do you go to them? I'd never go near a single meeting— barring Newmarket and Ascot meetings— if Iwere you.'

'Wouldn't you? You're a lucky beggar. You don't know what it is to be born a Duke of Dulshire. There's a beastly lot of uncles and aunts chivvying me into all kinds of things just because I've got a lot of ancestors who've had statues put up to them. It isn't as if I wanted a statue put up to me. Here am I run in for opening bazaars when I want to go shooting big game.'

'Then go and shoot big game.'

'How can I get off when all the blessed relations would come and weep at my feet, and say that I was disgracing my family?'

'Anyhow, you've got them on toast now,' said Allen.

'They've had me on toast for years. Now I hope you'll be a sport, and not give me away.'

'Not unless you agree. Look here, make me your Ambassador to your people. Let me tell them that you'll reappear provided no objection is made to your going to shoot big game.'

'I don't know,' said the duke dubiously. 'There's this beastly disappearance to explain. I never thought there would be such an infernal fuss made. With all respect to you, old fellow, next to a rhinoceros I'd like to shoot a reporter.'

'Leave that to me. I can see a way out if you'll trust the affair in my hands.'

'You seem a good sort,'' said the duke. 'I'll trust you. Only, if you let my confounded family loose upon me it'll be a confoundedly shabby thing.'

'I give you my word of honor not to tell them where you are, Now, you want no objection to your big game expedition.'

'Yes, and I want to be rid of that beastly secretary they've shoved on to me. He's not going with me to East Africa. He'd organise a public meeting in a desert.'

'Right, I understand. Trust me. A man who's endured as much at public meetings as I have wouldn't be guilty of betraying you into the hands of   meeting organisers.'

'Go along then and get it over. By the way, Mrs. Jennings isn't a bad sort, is she. There's a dish she cooks of steak and onions that's ripping. Never had it before. I shall miss that when I go back to that beastly Dulham House.'

AN HOUR later Allen drove up to Dulham House. He handed his card to the footman at the door and demanded to see Lord Hubert Dulham.

'His Lordship has nothing to communicate, to the Press,' said the footman for the twentieth time that day.

'In this case I have something to tell his Lordship. I have information as to the criminals who are keeping the duke under restraint. Take that card in at once.'

The footman stared at Allen's imperious tone and decided to go in

'He'll tell all the other servants,' thought Allen, 'It'll leak out to the boys and all the evenings will get on the wrong track.'

In a minute the footman returned and ushered Allen into the big library. There all the members of the Dulham family were sitting in solemn conclave.

'May I ask, sir, what you have to communicate?' asked Lord Hubert Dulham haughtily.

'In the first place I must ask yourself to secrecy. It must be understood that only communication which is to be made to the Press must be made through me.'

'Certainly,' said Lord Hubert, 'in fact, I think it mighty desirable that no information should appear in the Press at all.'

'Well, then, I'll tell you shortly the state of affairs. The duke is on strike. He declines to return to Dulham House if he has to fulfil any more public duties. His engagements must be cancelled and he wishes to be relieved from the supervision of his secretary. Then, without any trouble or objection from any member of his family, he must be allowed to go abroad and shoot big game.'

'But the traditions of the family!' protested Lord Hubert.

'The motto of the Dulhams is Labour vincit omnia,' cried Lady Augusta.

'That is the duke's ultimatum. I am ready to take your answer to him.'

'It is impossible that a Dulham should be allowed to forget his duty to the community,' said Lord Hubert.

'Then the duke will remain in concealment. And I may mention one thing for your information. Already he is on friendly terms with the daughter of his landlady. On one occasion, at least, he has kissed her. There is the danger of a matrimonial complication.'

'He must have his way,' groaned Lord Hubert. 'But what are we to say to the public? After all, some explanation must be given. The disappearance of that disreputable actress has made scandal in the degraded minds of the lower classes.'

'That must be left to me according to our agreement,' said Allen. 'I propose to announce that the duke has spent a quiet week investigating the conditions of life in South London, and has been so absorbed in his work that he never even glanced at a paper and was unaware of the outcry.  When he has concluded his investigation he proposes to examine the conditions of life in the British Colonies, beginning with East Africa.'

Lord Hubert Dulham beamed on the reporter.

'I perceive, sir, that you possess tact. We are indebted to you, sir. Above all things the doings of the head of the Dulham family must be treated tactfully in the Press.'

'Then you pledge yourselves not to interfere with the duke in any way.'

'If he will only come away from that dreadful landlady's daughter,' said Lady Augusta. 'I will even come down to the boat and see him off myself.'

'I am quite sure that the duke would not wish your ladyship to inconvenience yourself so far. Well, as all is arranged I will return to the duke. He will come back here today.'

LATE that night Allen strode into the managing-editor's office of the 'Daily Echo.'

'What do you want,' roared the chief. 'Didn't I tell you not to show your face here?'

'If the story of the discovery of the missing duke does not, interest you I can take it across to the Courier.

'You've got it?' exclaimed the chief.

'A cert. Do you want it?'

'My dear fellow, you're the man we want. Make as big a story of it as you like.'

He hung over him waiting anxiously for the first slips of copy.

'Good,' he shouted, when he had read Allen's article. 'But there's one omision, my dear fellow. I'll just write in at the head  "By the Daily Echo's special representative." You belong to our staff now.'

'Excuse me,' said. Allen. 'I just run my pen through that. I'm not your special representative. I wouldn't be on your beastly rag for worlds.  Do you understand I'm giving you this story? I'm off to East Africa on Saturday as secretary to the duke. He's a gentleman anyway, and doesn't lose his temper with his employees.'

And Allen walked out of the office, gloriously avenged on his enemy.

_________________

2: Nerves

Fred M. White

1859-1935

Warwick Examiner and Times (Qld) 24 July 1916

REX BRUNELL drummed on the table with carefully polished finger-nails.

"Pinero," he said, "has aptly described a capitalist as a pawn broker with an imagination. Now, I regard that as essentially true. I have had considerable experience with the fraternity in question, and incidentally I have been ruined by one of them. I can afford to tell you men this now, because I am about to get my own back— and more. I never met a capitalist yet who was not a nervous man, or one with a good digestion. Goldmark is no exception to the rule.

James Goldmark smiled. The great man was entertaining a select circle of friends in his suite of rooms at the Majestic Hotel. There were four of them, all intimates of Rex Brunell, all of them with fingers more or less scarred by contact with high finance.

"A fool had his money are soon parted," Goldmark said cynically. "Brunell was bound to lose his money."

He grinned behind his glasses, his teeth were taut over the inevitable black cigar. A water came into the dining-room and laid a card on the table before Goldmark.

"I'll get you to excuse me for one moment," the capitalist said, and vanished.

Three pairs of glittering eyes were turned on Brunell. He waved his hand carelessly.

"Patience," he said. "No explanation is needed. "That man was going to make our fortunes. Instead of which he has practically beggared the lot of us. He is not in the least ashamed of himself. He has used us as a blind to deceive others. In a less effete civilisation than ours we should shoot him like a dog. Now we dine with him instead. After all, it is only a question of financial methods. I have thought it all out, and that is why we are here to-night. Watch me, play up to my lead and all will be well."

Goldmark returned to the dining-room again, followed by a dapper little man with a waxed moustache and a wonderfully broomed exterior. He brought the genuine Parisian flavor with him.

"It was not me, but you, that this gentleman wanted to see, Brunell," the financier explained.

"The waiter delivered the card to me by mistake. I explained to Dr. Chassier that any friend of yours was a friend of mine. Doctor, a glass of champagne?"

"This is a pleasant surprise," Brunell cried. "Regan and Powel and Hartigan, this is my friend Dr. Chassier, of Paris University, the great authority of the eye. Of his reputation I say nothing, be-cause I mentioned that certain un-pleasant symptoms of mine—"

"Well, partly," the doctor admit-ted with a smile. "The astigmatism you mentioned— nothing serious, of course, but still.... I am glad to hear that you have drop-ped the cigarettes."

"Tobacco is bad in certain cir-cumstances?" Goldmark asked. "Do have a glass of champagne."

The cxpert began to talk, at first quietly, till he warmed to his subject. It was 'shop' of the kind that this neurotic age takes to so kindly. He spoke of the marvels of his branch of surgical science. He had them all quivering before long as to particular form of ocular weakness they were suffering rom. Goldmark sprawled across the table puffing at his black cigar.

"Uph? How it gets on one's nerves!" he shuddered.

"To think of it! " Brunell murmured. "Chassier told me that I should lose my sight if I didn't chuck the cigarettes."

Goldmark laid down his cigar, gazed at it, and took it up again.

"Of course that is all bosh," he said uneasily.

"By no means, my dear sir," Chassier said gravely. "Cases of smoker's blindness are by no means uncommon. I had one case the other day. A man came to me so far gone that I nearly paralysed him with strychnine. I had to. It was a long struggle, but I cured him. Another week later—"

Chassier shrugged his shoulders. The room had suddenly grown quiet. Goldmark pitched his cigar into the fireplace. He was pale and anxious.

"You could tell the symptoms at a glance?" he asked. "In my case, for instance?"

The specialist nodded. He crossed the room and touched Goldmark on the forehead and chin with the tips of his long white fingers. The gesture was typically professional. The sleek dark head of the capitalist was turned up to the light as Chassier lifted an eyelid.

"Heavens!" he muttered under his breath.

"Man alive, but there is— Still—" Goldmark caught the whispered words. They gripped his heart, he was suffocating. The room swam around him, the damp beads broke out on his face like a gentle rain.

"A pawnbroker with an imagination,"

"Nothing of the sort," Chassier said dryly. "Monsieur Goldmark. I should like to make a little test.

There are certain things— drugs— that I always carry with me.... Just a spot or two in a glass of water. No ill effect, I assure you... Merely to exaggerate cer-tain features so that I may be better able to judge of your— er—"

Goldmark watched the clear yel-low drops measured into a cham-pagne glass like a man who dreams.

"Please to drink this," Chassier said professionally.

When Goldmark came to himself again, he was in a darkened room. Everything was waved and blurred; strangest things seemed to be in motion. In a way his surroundings were familiar; he was in his own armchair in his sitting-room at the hotel; he could dimly make out the outline of the table. This gripping paroxysm of fear passed pre-sently ; his scattered thoughts were growing coherent. What were they saying about all this in the City?

"Is there anybody here?" he asked.

"I am here," the voice of Chassier responded. "There is nothing to be alarmed about."

"I must have fainted ?" Gold-mark groaned. "What is the matter with my eyes ? And where are the others?"

"Well, they went home last night, of course. I asked them to leave me here. Your eyes will be quite normal in a day or two. I had to use belladonna at once. Not a whisper of this has got out, of course. We thought that you would prefer it. But you'll have to cut those cigars off altogether. Another week or two, and you would he beyond my assistance."

"Never mind that," Goldmark cried. "I gather that I have been here all night. What time is it now?"

"About two o'clock on Wednesday afternoon."

"Good Heavens! I should have been in the City at ten. My people there will think that I have gone mad. Have they been here?"

"Your secretary called you up, of course. Several other inquiries, as a matter of fact. It seemed to me to be discreet to put them off. You are supposed to be suffering from acute gastritis brought about by eating some impregnated oysters. The people here are under the impression that I am a doctor who was specially summoned to attend you."

"By Heavens, if my enemies in the City got hold of this I shall be ruined!" Goldmark groaned. "They'd be at my throat in a moment. If anything happens to the Santa Anna group of mines just now, I'm done. I may not be able to see, but, by Jove, I can do business! Push my chair over to the telephone, please. I must call up Gregory."

Chassier rained no objection. So long as the patient made no use of his eyes, all would be well. Possibly they might have to be bandaged for a day or two, but, at any rate, they would be saved. Goldmark snatched up the telephone savagely.

"Give me 99976 London Wall," he said. "What? Oh, you ! Is that you, Gregory. Here's a nice mess. Something gone wrong with my eyes. What? I've got to stay in a darkened room for a day or two. Supposed to be suffering from acute gastritis. For Heaven's sake, keep this to yourself. What? What? Rather serious that. I can only just hear you. See Razoli as to those mines. You might get 'em up at least two points before closing-time. Keep the game going till Saturday, when that matter over the Mexican concession is settled. Mind I am posted from time to time during the day. And tell everybody that I shall be in the City certain to-morrow."

The slow day dragged on, with frequent calls on the telephone. A nurse appeared presently and brought Goldmark food. She put him to bed in due course, with the intima-tion that she was dose at hand in case he needed anything.

"It's all very good for you doctor," Golduiark groaned. "You won't find me haggling over your fees when the time comes for payment. What a lucky thing it was that you happened to look up Brunell? Another week, and it would have been too late!"

"Another week and it would have been too late," Chassier said gravely.

"Well, I am grateful," Goldmark replied. "On the whole, I'm not doing so badly. I never appreciated the telephone as I have done the last two days. Rather bad instrument, but I can just make out what Gregory says.

''A not uncommon peculiarity of telephones," Chassier replied. "Any way, you can comfort yourself with the assurance that you are making rapid progress towards recovery."

The telephone went utterly wrong about five o'clock, and Goldmark grizzled for the rest of the evening. It was quite early when the nurse insisted upon putting Goldmark to bed, followed by the administration of a medicine that filled him with a feeling of sublime contentment.

He turned over contentedly and fell asleep.

A golden bath of sunshine filled the bedroom as Goldmark awoke in the morning. The queer sensation had gone from his eyes; familiar objects had assumed their proper proportions.

As a matter of fact, there was not one familiar object to be seen. Here was a strange bed in a strange room sparely furnished. On a chair Goldmark's clothes lay neatly folded. On the dining-table was his breakfast flanked by a Thermos flask of hot coffee. On the bed lay a copy of "The Times" as yet unfolded.

In his pyjamas Goldmark sprang from the bed and rushed into the sitting-room. There was nothing there but a table and arm-chair, together with a telephone in the corner. The rest of the house was empty. Down in the basement was the other end of the telephone into which Goldmark had been speaking for the past two days.

Now, what had happened to him, and why? How had those fellows contrived to move him from the Majestic in the dead of night and bring him to this desolated house?

Possibly that day's "Times" might throw a light on the darkness.

It did.

The Strange Disappearance of

Mr. James Goldmark

Little doubt is now expressed that Mr. Goldmark had been the victim of some accident, or that he has deliberately made away with himself. Since he so mysteriously vanished from the Majestic Hotel on the night of Wednesday last, nothing has been seen or heard of him. This disappearance has created something like a panic in the city, especially in the mining market. Taking advantage of Mr. Goldmark's absence, the bears for the last two days have kept up a vigorous attack on the Santa Anna group, so that the stock was quoted yesterday as low as 11;— a striking contrast to the prices of Monday last. Scotland Yard is at present silent in the matter.

Jabez Goldmark was a man of nerves and imagination, nevertheless he kept his head at that crisis. He was so far awake to the situation that he presently took his cigar-case from his pocket and lighted one of the big black weeds. He would very much like to have met Dr. Chassier at that moment.

The cool and immaculate Gregory nearly fell off his padded chair as Goldmark strode into his office. The latter poured out a tornado of questions.

"Tell you all about it later on," he said. "Call it one of my little games if you like. This affair is going to cost over half a million, but it can't be helped. We've got to get those shares back to par again, and a few points over. Please phone our bankers to come here at once."

FRIDAY, October 19, 19—, was a day long remembered in the City. The sight of Goldmark, cool and stern outside the Stock Exchange, gave the bears cold fits. Then there were excursions and alarums, followed by a battle which lasted till three o'clock and a subsequent flight of the hears, having their dead and murdered on the field. Goldmark figured it all out.

"Cost me half a million, all the same," he said. "Only nobody need know that. And it 's nobody's business where I have been the last two days. Gregory, ring up Mr. Brunell, and ask him where I can conveniently see him this evening."

"That's all right, sir," Gregory said a few minutes later. "Mr. Brunell will be yery pleased to see you at his rooms to dinner this evening at eight o'clock."

Goldmark nodded his approval.

AT EIGHT O'CLOCK he strode into Brunell's room, to find himself confronted by Regan and Powell and Hartigan, as well as his host.

"I should like," he said quietly— "I should like a little explantion."

"Only natural," Brunell said politely. "I ordered dinner for 8.15 on purpose. We are not going to quarrel over this matter, my dear sir. And you are quite at liberty to make it public if you like. But, unless I am greatly mistaken, you will do nothing of the kind. The last thing in the world you want is for people to laugh at you. Now, you robbed me quite in the way of business, and no doubt enjoyed it. So I decided to fight you with your own weapons. It seemed to me that if it came to scheming, I could scheme as well as you. That is why I invented a double for Dr. Chassier, and very well he acted his part. An I am fond of saying, a financier is a pawnbroker with an imagination. You have a most vivid imagination, and I played on it. When the sham Chassier gave you those drops to take, he drugged you. Chassier had a room at the hotel close to yours, and we carried you there. You were placed in a big packing-case and smuggled over to Charing Cross, whence you were fetched to the house where the comedy was played out. Hartigan, who is great at theatricals, acted the part of your nurse. We had only to keep you quiet for a day or two, and the thing was done. As you may imagine, your disappearance created the wildest excitement. All sorts of things were said. You had committed suicide, you had absconded, you could not face your creditors. Your mines hardly needed the efforts of the bears to send them down with a bump. At the lowest point we all bought steadily. We know that by to-day everything would be up again, and we bought till we could buy no longer. No, you are not going to teach us a lesson, as that flash in your eyes indicates, because we have unloaded already."

"You are a clever lot!" Goldmark sneered.

"I flatter myself that we are," Brunell said coolly. "That little artistic touch as to the telephone was quite smart. Give you a telehone, and you could be more or less content. Regan fitted the 'phone, and added a few thicknesses of flannel over the transmitter so as to deaden the voice of Powell, who successfully played the part of your man Gregory. We got our knowledge of the drug business from a doctor whom we carefully pumped for information. I put the belladonna in your eyes, and the sham Chassier— whom you do not know even by sight, though he is one of your victims— administered the sleeping draught that put you all right again. Now, you must admit that all this is infinitely more artistic and civilised than taking you by the scruff of the neck and giving you the thrashing that you so richly deserve, Goldmark. We have got our own back, and a lot more. We have fined you half a million, and, so far as we are concerned, we are quite prepared to let bygones be bygones. What do you say?"

"I could get you five years if I liked!" Goldmark uttered.

"Precisely. The facts are beyond dispute. But are you going to do it? Are you going to let the whole world know how delightfully you have been fooled?"

Goldmark capitulated at discretion.

"Let us go to dinner," he suggested.

"By all means," Brunell smiled. "I've got some special cigars for you to try presently— very strong, but in the circumstances, I know you won't mind that."

___________________

3: The Black Spine

Anonymous

Catholic Advocate (Brisbane) 19 July 1913

"AYE, AYE, SIR, sometimes. It is not always plain sailing, though; rather the contrary, I should say. Very pleasant for fresh-water sailors, a smooth sea like this, and sunshine with the rest of it."

The speaker was an old, weather-beaten sailor: and at that particular moment was steering a small pleasure boat, while I was baiting my fishhooks.

"And you have seen a good deal of the unpleasant sort, I suppose," said I. The old man pointed to a line of breakers showing a mile or more out.

"You have heard of the 'Black Spine' haven't you?" he asked.

"No. I think not," I replied.

"Well, it doesn't matter; that's it."

"A ledge of rocks, I should judge."

"Yes; but you can't see 'em, now that the tide is coming in. It's only at low water they show themselves; as ugly a reef as you could see any day, and worse by half in the night time."

"Doubtless," I rejoined. "And have many ships been wrecked there?"

"Why, you see, there's no vessel has any business out there, hugging the shore so close as that, right in the bay here, with the lights to warn it off. A skipper must be mad to run in so close, night or day. But then, there are mad skippers. I have seen one vessel wrecked there, anyhow."

"When was that?" I asked. "And how?" And, being the "fresh-water" sailor he had covertly made light of a few moments before, I imagine he was a good deal more than willing to tell me some of his hazardous experiences.

"When? It was twenty-nine years ago, come November. As for the how, that's more than anybody knows, for there wasn't a soul of the crew left to tell. I was aboard of her, too; but it was after she struck."

"How was that?" I asked, taking a fine whiting off one of my hooks.

"Well, I'll tell you, sir," said the old .sailor, and, except that it may lose somewhat of its interest in being dribbled through the pen of a "fresh-water" seaman, this is the story:

"IT WAS as cold and blustering a November evening as I ever saw, sir. The wind was blowing something fearful, and the rain was coming down in floods. I was a young chap then; hadn't been long spliced— not above a year or so. Our first young one was asleep in its cradle, and the mother had drawn up to the fire. 'How glad am I, Tom, you aren't out to-night !' I had part share then in a small boat, and I and my partner were to have been out that night fishing, if the storm had not come on.

"It wasn't five minutes after she had said that when I heard a gun, and after that another. And while I was listening to hear still another, the door opened and in came my partner, Larkins. 'Tom,' said he 'there's a craft of some sort out there on the Black Spine.'

"I wasn't long in putting on my oilskins. I can tell you, and was just going out of doors when Mary caught hold of me. Poor girl, she was pale as a sheet, and she said: 'Tom, don't— don't go!'

" 'What!' said I— 'when there are men in danger and I can help save 'em?'

" 'I didn't think of that." she replied; 'but, whatever you do. take care of yourself for my sake and his,' and she pointed to the cradle.

"Well, sir, I promised I wouldn't run into any unnecessary danger; and just then another gun came booming across the water, and I could see the flash. 'That's from the Black Spine, all right,' I said; and, giving Mary a kiss, I followed Larkins down to the beach. It wasn't a pleasant place by any means. The waves were coming in three abreast, and dashing up the spray enough to blind one; while to windward was a great gathering of black clouds, that showed there was yet more storm to come. Some of our people were already at the shore, looking out towards the Black Spine and the doomed ship; but that was all they were doing.

" 'Tom,' said Larkins, laying his hand on my shoulder, poor fellow— 'Tom, ours is a tough boat.' That was all he said, but I knew what he meant. He was a brave fellow, sir, was Larkins, and a strong oarsman; and none the worse for being religious, though he had to bear a good deal because if it sometimes. 'Tom, ours is a tough boat,' he said.

" 'Aye, tough enough,' I replied; 'and we could get her afloat and man her, something might be done, perhaps.'

"Well, sir, to make short work of the story, we did finally get the boat afloat, but there was not a man there who would join us. They all said we were crazy to think of getting out to the Black Spine on such a night, with the sea running as it did. And what could we do anyway, if we got there?'

"But it didn't matter. 'Pull away, Larkins,' I said. And a few strokes carried us a good bit from the shore.

"I shall never forget that moment. If was too dark to see much that was going on, but just then I heard a scream, and a cry of 'Tom, Tom!' It was Mary. Some one had gone to my house and told her what was going on, and she had run down to the beach, half beside herself; though whether it was lo stay me or cheer my going was more than we could have said at the time. I stood up in the boat and shouted out as cheerful as I could, and then we began to pull away in earnest. Our little boat floated like a cork, though we had shipped water enough at first to make us doubt whether we should ever reach the rocks or not; but after we had gotten well out, she went like a seagull. Of course we did not do much talking. Larkins spoke a word or two. 'Tom,' said he, 'I am almost sorry I tempted you to do this. If anything happens, there's nobody much to miss me; but you have a wife and baby.'

"Of course, as you may suppose, I had been thinking about Mary and the young one; but before I could say a word, another gun was fired from the ship, which we now and then caught sight of when our boat was on the top of a wave.

"I don't know how long it was, but we reached the wreck at last, and they hove us a line to make fast by. The rocks were well under water then; for the tide was in, and our little boat floated alongside the ship to leeward; and somehow I managed to board her, leaving Larkins to look after the boat. It was a bad move that, sir, as it turned out; for the men aboard were all half crazy with drink and fear. The wreck was a middling-sized brig, a foreigner— that was plain enough. And it was plain enough, too, that it was all over with her. It was a wonder to me how she had lived so long; for she was stove in at the bow, and her stern hung over deep water. But she was settling down fast, and the crew was crowded together forward, except one or two who were hanging on to the shrouds.

"There was not much light by this time, but there was enough to show that no time was to be lost; and the brig's crew saw that too. Although I shouted and shouted, it did no good; one after another they sprang over the side of the wreck— some into the boat, and some into the sea. It was not five minutes before the deck was clear. How many there had been aboard I couldn't tell, nor how many missed the boat and were washed away; but when I looked down, there was our boat sunk almost to the gun'l, and the madmen crowding and tumbling over one another in the boat. I saw at once how it would be, and hailed them as loud as I could, to get some of them to come back to the ship again.

"You see, sir, there would have been some hope, for the wreck might hold together, as it did, for a while; and in two trips with the boat the vessel would have been cleared. But whether the men did not hear me or did not heed, . I can't say; perhaps they did not understand me; for, as I said, they were foreigners. However, let that be as ii. may, not one of them would listen to reason. Then I called to Larkins to quit the boat; for there was more hope of life by keeping to the wreck than there was in keeping to the small boat. I think he heard me, for he made a move toward the brig, but it was too late. Just then there came a swell; the line parted, the boat broke loose, and I was left with the sinking ship on the Black Spine.

"In less than a minute" it was out of sight, and I knew it was lost; for no boat could live with such a sea running. And I was right, sir; it wasn't another minute before I heard such shrieks as I hope I shall never hear again. The wind and the roar of the waves was loud enough, and yet I heard that shriek above the noise of the wind and the sea. It was horrible, sir.

"Up till then I had not thought of my own case, things had passed so quickly; but now it came to me— what was I to do? There I was, alone on that wreck, its timbers groaning like a shivering thing in agony, and likely at any moment to part under my feet. It was getting darker, too, every minute; for before there had been a moon, although it had been behind a thin bank of cloud; but now it was going down.

"What was I to do? Fortunately for me, the wind began to sink a little, but the rain continued to come down in torrents, and the waves rolled in great, heavy swells. Anyhow, I never expected to see the morning; for nothing seemed more certain than that the falling of the tide would allow the wreck to lurch over and sink like a stone.

"And that's exactly what happened. I had time only to jump overboard when I felt her going. In some way I got hold of a point of the rock that was by this time above water, and clung to it for dear life. How I managed to do it I can't think to this day. My senses were almost gone, and it appeared as if all the waters of the sea were pulling at me to get me under. When I came to my right senses again, I found myself on my knees, with the rock under me, and the sea every moment dashing over my head. Well, after a time, I managed to raise myself on my feet, and turned around to look for the wreck— it was gone!

"Through the rest of the night I was on the rock, just able to keep my hold; but I knew that when the tide came in again all would be over with me. I can't tell you what my thoughts were: I seemed like one in a dream. Morning came at last, and the tide was rising again.

"This is the last morning I'll ever see"— I remember thinking that; and thinking, too, of Mary. It was a strange notion; but my mind would keep running upon how it would be when my body was picked up, maybe, and carried ashore. Who would break the news to Mary, and what would be said? And then I fancied I saw her in widow's weeds, and the baby and the house all in black. How long I might have gone on in this way I can't tell, if I had not soon had something else to think about. It was a black speck on the water, sir— no bigger than a hat it looked. I watched it and watched it, and it came nearer and nearer. It was our boat, bottom upward. Encouraged now, I managed to get off my shoes and heavy jacket and struck out for the old boat. And it was about time I left the rock; for in less than half an hour it would be under water. I could see that plainly enough.

"Well, I reached the boat pretty well exhausted, and clung to it till my breath came again, and I got strength enough to raise myself on its keel, which I did at last."

"Then, I suppose, you felt pretty safe?" I ventured.

"Aye, for a little while I fancied something of the kind; but you may guess I should have felt a trifle safer had I known in what direction I was being carried."

"But the tide was coming in. Were you not being carried toward the shore?" I asked.

"I hoped so, sir, and kept up a good heart for a while; but the wind was against me, and I was going out to sea. There wasn't a sail in sight. I was faint with fatigue and parched with thirst, and I almost envied Larkins; at least I should have envied him if I had been as fit to die as he was. All that day I was on the water, holding on to the old boat. It was a dark, gloomy day, but that was a mercy, for if the sun had been hot upon me, I should certainly have gone mad. As it was, I was only chilled to the bone, while the showers that now and then fell, though they soaked me to the skin, also helped to quench my thirst.

"About noon that day I looked around and saw a sail, maybe two miles to the windward of me. I need not say how intently I watched it, and how I prayed that it might come within hail. It came nearer, and I shouted; then nearer still, and I shouted again. For a minute or two I thought they heard me, as I saw that the ship had changed its course a point or so; and I kept hailing until my voice was gone. And then I saw the vessel— a schooner— sailing off in another direction, when there wasn't more than half a mile between us. That afternoon another sail and another passed me, but too far out for me to make myself heard; while I knew I was being carried every minute farther and farther out to sea.

"It was getting toward night again, and I was almost perishing of cold and hunger. A sort of feeling came over me that there was no use to hold on any longer; it was better to die at once than to die by inches. I think my senses must have gone for a little then, or perhaps I swooned— I can't say— but I know I had hold of the keel with both hands, and my head was across one of my arms, when all at I once I was aroused by the flapping of a sail; and then I heard a shout: 'Ahoy, there! Boat ahoy!' I never heard such a blessed sound as that before in all my life. In five minutes more I was safe on board the vessel— a coal brig.

"Well, sir, three days afterwards I was landed within fifty miles of home, and you may guess that I was not long on the road. It was nightfall when I stepped softly up to the door of my house. A light was burning and the curtains were not drawn. I looked in. There was Mary, pale and worn with grief and watching, nursing the baby and hushing it to sleep; beside her sat a neighbour, busy with some kind of needlework: and on the table was a heap of black stuff, mostly crepe. I did not wait to see any more— the next moment Mary was in my arms. A happy night that was for us, you may believe. But it was months before I could get out of my brain the fright of the night that I spent on the Black Spine."

________________

4: The Heralds of Fame

Robert Barr

1850-1912

From 'One Day's Courtship' and 'The Heralds of Fame', 1896

NOW, when each man's place in literature is so clearly defined, it seems ridiculous to state that there was a time when Kenan Buel thought J. Lawless Hodden a great novelist. One would have imagined that Buel's keen insight into human nature would have made such a mistake impossible, but it must be remembered that Buel was always more or less of a hero-worshipper. It seems strange in the light of our after-knowledge that there ever was a day when Hodden's books were selling by the thousand, and Buel was tramping the streets of London fruitlessly searching for a publisher. Not less strange is the fact that Buel thought Hodden's success well deserved. He would have felt honoured by the touch of Hodden's hand.

No convict ever climbed a treadmill with more hopeless despair than Buel worked in his little room under the lofty roof. He knew no one; there were none to speak to him a cheering or comforting word; he was ignorant even of the names of the men who accepted the articles from his pen, which appeared unsigned in the daily papers and in some of the weeklies. He got cheques— small ones— with illegible and impersonal signatures that told him nothing. But the bits of paper were honoured at the bank, and this lucky fact enabled him to live and write books which publishers would not look at.

Nevertheless, showing how all things are possible to a desperate and resolute man, two of his books had already seen the light, if it could be called light. The first he was still paying for, on the instalment plan. The publishers were to pay half, and he was to pay half. This seemed to him only a fair division of the risk at the time. Not a single paper had paid the slightest attention to the book. The universal ignoring of it disheartened him. He had been prepared for abuse, but not for impenetrable silence.

He succeeded in getting another and more respectable publisher to take up his next book on a royalty arrangement. This was a surprise to him, and a gratification. His satisfaction did not last long after the book came out. It was mercilessly slated. One paper advised him to read "Hodden;" another said he had plagiarized from that popular writer. The criticisms cut him like a whip. He wondered why he had rebelled at the previous silence. He felt like a man who had heedlessly hurled a stone at a snow mountain and had been buried by the resulting avalanche.

He got his third publisher a year after that. He thought he would never succeed in getting the same firm twice, and wondered what would happen when he exhausted the London list. It is not right that a man should go on for ever without a word of encouragement. Fate recognised that there would come a breaking-point, and relented in time. The word came from an unexpected source. Buel was labouring, heavy-eyed, at the last proof-sheets of his third book, and was wondering whether he would have the courage not to look at the newspapers when the volume was published. He wished he could afford to go to some wilderness until the worst was over. He knew he could not miss the first notice, for experience had taught him that Snippit & Co., a clipping agency, would send it to him, with a nice type-written letter, saying—

Dear Sir,

As your book is certain to attract a great deal of attention from the Press, we shall be pleased to send you clippings similar to the enclosed at the following rates.

It struck him as rather funny that any company should expect a sane man to pay so much good money for Press notices, mostly abusive. He never subscribed.

The word of encouragement gave notice of its approach in a letter, signed by a man of whom he had never heard. It was forwarded to him by his publishers. The letter ran:—

Dear Sir,

Can you make it convenient to lunch with me on Friday at the Métropole? If you have an engagement for that day can you further oblige me by writing and putting it off? Tell the other fellow you are ill or have broken your leg, or anything, and charge up the fiction to me. I deal in fiction, anyhow. I leave on Saturday for the Continent, not wishing to spend another Sunday in London if I can avoid it. I have arranged to get out your book in America, having read the proof-sheets at your publisher's. All the business part of the transaction is settled, but I would like to see you personally if you don't mind, to have a talk over the future—always an interesting subject.

Yours very truly,

L. F. BRANT,

Of Rainham Bros.,

Publishers, New York.

Buel read this letter over and over again. He had never seen anything exactly like it. There was a genial flippancy about it that was new to him, and he wondered what sort of a man the New Yorker was. Mr. Brant wrote to a stranger with the familiarity of an old friend, yet the letter warmed Buel's heart. He smiled at the idea the American evidently had about a previous engagement. Invitations to lunch become frequent when a man does not need them. No broken leg story would have to be told. He wrote and accepted Mr. Brant's invitation.

"You're Mr. Buel, I think?"

The stranger's hand rested lightly on the young author's shoulder. Buel had just entered the unfamiliar precincts of the Métropole Hotel. The tall man with the gold lace on his hat had hesitated a moment before he swung open the big door, Buel was so evidently not a guest of the hotel.

"My name is Buel."

"Then you're my victim. I've been waiting impatiently for you. I am L. F. Brant."

"I thought I was in time. I am sorry to have kept you waiting."

"Don't mention it. I have been waiting but thirty seconds. Come up in the elevator. They call it a lift here, not knowing any better, but it gets there ultimately. I have the title-deeds to a little parlour while I am staying in this tavern, and I thought we could talk better if we had lunch there. Lunch costs more on that basis, but I guess we can stand it."

A cold shudder passed over the thin frame of Kenan Buel. He did not know but it was the custom in America to ask a man to lunch and expect him to pay half. Brant's use of the plural lent colour to this view, and Buel knew he could not pay his share. He regretted they were not in a vegetarian restaurant.

he table in the centre of the room was already set for two, and the array of wine-glasses around each plate looked tempting. Brant pushed the electric button, drew up his chair, and said—

"Sit down, Buel, sit down. What's your favourite brand of wine? Let's settle on it now, so as to have no unseemly wrangle when the waiter comes. I'm rather in awe of the waiter. It doesn't seem natural that any mere human man should be so obviously superior to the rest of us mortals as this waiter is. I'm going to give you only the choice of the first wines. I have taken the champagne for granted, and it's cooling now in a tub somewhere. We always drink champagne in the States, not because we like it, but because it's expensive. I calculate that I pay the expenses of my trip over here merely by ordering unlimited champagne. I save more than a dollar a bottle on New York prices, and these saved dollars count up in a month. Personally I prefer cider or lager beer, but in New York we dare not own to liking a thing unless it is expensive."

"It can hardly be a pleasant place for a poor man to live in, if that is the case."

"My dear Buel, no city is a pleasant place for a poor man to live in. I don't suppose New York is worse than London in that respect. The poor have a hard time of it anywhere. A man owes it to himself and family not to be poor. Now, that's one thing I like about your book; you touch on poverty in a sympathetic way, by George, like a man who had come through it himself. I've been there, and I know how it is. When I first struck New York I hadn't even a ragged dollar bill to my back. Of course every successful man will tell you the same of himself, but it is mostly brag, and in half the instances it isn't true at all; but in my case— well, I wasn't subscribing to the heathen in those days. I made up my mind that poverty didn't pay, and I have succeeded in remedying the state of affairs. But I haven't forgotten how it felt to be hard up, and I sympathise with those who are. Nothing would afford me greater pleasure than to give a helping hand to a fellow—that is, to a clever fellow who was worth saving— who is down at bed rock. Don't you feel that way too?"

"Yes," said Buel, with some hesitation, "it would be a pleasure."

"I knew when I read your book you felt that way— I was sure of it. Well, I've helped a few in my time; but I regret to say most of them turned out to be no good. That is where the trouble is. Those who are really deserving are just the persons who die of starvation in a garret, and never let the outside world know their trouble."

"I do not doubt such is often the case."

"Of course it is. It's always the case. But here's the soup. I hope you have brought a good appetite. You can't expect such a meal here as you would get in New York; but they do fairly well. I, for one, don't grumble about the food in London, as most Americans do. Londoners manage to keep alive, and that, after all, is the main thing."

Buel was perfectly satisfied with the meal, and thought if they produced a better one in New York, or anywhere else, the art of cookery had reached wonderful perfection. Brant, however, kept apologising for the spread as he went along. The talk drifted on in an apparently aimless fashion, but the publisher was a shrewd man, and he was gradually leading it up to the point he had in view from the beginning, and all the while he was taking the measure of his guest. He was not a man to waste either his time or his dinners without an object. When he had once "sized up" his man, as he termed it, he was either exceedingly frank and open with him, or the exact opposite, as suited his purpose. He told Buel that he came to England once a year, if possible, rapidly scanned the works of fiction about to be published by the various houses in London, and made arrangements for the producing of those in America that he thought would go down with the American people.

"I suppose," said Buel, "that you have met many of the noted authors of this country?"

"All of them, I think; all of them, at one time or another. The publishing business has its drawbacks like every other trade," replied Brant, jauntily.

"Have you met Hodden?"

"Several times. Conceited ass!"

"You astonish me. I have never had the good fortune to become acquainted with any of our celebrated writers. I would think it a privilege to know Hodden and some of the others."

"You're lucky, and you evidently don't know it. I would rather meet a duke any day than a famous author. The duke puts on less side and patronises you less."

"I would rather be a celebrated author than a duke if I had my choice."

"Well, being a free and independent citizen of the Democratic United States, I wouldn't. No, sir! I would rather be Duke Brant any day in the week than Mr. Brant, the talented author of, etc., etc. The moment an author receives a little praise and becomes talked about, he gets what we call in the States 'the swelled head.' I've seen some of the nicest fellows in the world become utterly spoiled by a little success. And then think of the absurdity of it all. There aren't more than two or three at the most of the present-day writers who will be heard of a century hence. Read the history of literature, and you will find that never more than four men in any one generation are heard of after. Four is a liberal allowance. What has any writer to be conceited about anyhow? Let him read his Shakespeare and be modest."

Buel said with a sigh, "I wish there was success in store for me. I would risk the malady you call the 'swelled head.' "

"Success will come all right enough, my boy. 'All things come to him who waits,' and while he is waiting puts in some good, strong days of work. It's the working that tells, not the waiting. And now, if you will light one of these cigars, we will talk of you for a while, if your modesty will stand it. What kind of Chartreuse will you have? Yellow or green?"

"Either."

"Take the green, then. Where the price is the same I always take the green. It is the stronger, and you get more for your money. Now then, I will be perfectly frank with you. I read your book in the proof-sheets, and I ran it down in great style to your publisher."

"I am sorry you did not like it."

"I don't say I didn't like it. I ran it down because it was business. I made up my mind when I read that book to give a hundred pounds for the American rights. I got it for twenty."

Brant laughed, and Buel felt uncomfortable. He feared that after all he did not like this frank American.

"Having settled about the book, I wanted to see you, and here you are. Of course, I am utterly selfish in wanting to see you, for I wish you to promise me that we will have the right of publishing your books in America as long as we pay as much as any other publisher. There is nothing unfair in that, is there?"

"No. I may warn you, however, that there has been no great competition, so far, for the privilege of doing any publishing, either here or in America."

"That's all right. Unless I'm a Dutchman there will be, after your new book is published. Of course, that is one of the things no fellow can find out. If he could, publishing would be less of a lottery than it is. A book is sometimes a success by the merest fluke; at other times, in spite of everything, a good book is a deplorable failure. I think yours will go; anyhow, I am willing to bet on it up to a certain amount, and if it does go, I want to have the first look-in at your future books. What do you say?"

"Do you wish me to sign a contract?"

"No, I merely want your word. You may write me a letter if you like, that I could show to my partners, saying that we would have the first refusal of your future books."

"I am quite willing to do that."

"Very good. That's settled. Now, you look fagged out. I wish you would take a trip over to New York. I'll look after you when you get there. It would do you a world of good, and would show in the pages of your next book. What do you say to that? Have you any engagements that would prevent you making the trip?"

Buel laughed, "I am perfectly free as far as engagements are concerned."

"That's all right, then. I wish I were in that position. Now, as I said, I considered your book cheap at £100. I got it for £20. I propose to hand over the £80 to you. I'll write out the cheque as soon as the waiters clear away the débris. Then your letter to the firm would form the receipt for this money, and— well, it need not be a contract, you know, or anything formal, but just your ideas on any future business that may crop up."

"I must say I think your offer is very generous."

"Oh, not at all. It is merely business. The £80 is on account of royalties. If the book goes, as I think it will, I hope to pay you much more than that. Now I hope you will come over and see me as soon as you can."

"Yes. As you say, the trip will do me good. I have been rather hard at it for some time."

"Then I'll look out for you. I sail on the French line Saturday week. When will you come?"

"As soon as my book is out here, and before any of the reviews appear."

"Sensible man. What's your cable address?"

"I haven't one."

"Well, I suppose a telegram to your publishers will find you. I'll cable if anything turns up unexpectedly. You send me over a despatch saying what steamer you sail on. My address is 'Rushing, New York.' Just cable the name of the steamer, and I will be on the look-out for you."

It was doubtless the effect of the champagne, for Buel went back to his squalid room with his mind in the clouds. He wondered if this condition was the first indication of the swelled head Brant had talked about. Buel worked harder than ever at his proofs, and there was some growling at head-quarters because of the numerous corrections he made. These changes were regarded as impudence on the part of so unknown a man. He sent off to America a set of the corrected proofs, and received a cablegram, "Proofs received. Too late. Book published today."

This was a disappointment. Still he had the consolation of knowing that the English edition would be as perfect as he could make it. He secured a berth on the Geranium, sailing from Liverpool, and cabled Brant to that effect. The day before he sailed he got a cablegram that bewildered him. It was simply, "She's a-booming." He regretted that he had never learned the American language.

ii

KENAN BUEL received from his London publisher a brown paper parcel, and on opening it found the contents to be six exceedingly new copies of his book. Whatever the publisher thought of the inside of the work, he had not spared pains to make the outside as attractive as it could be made at the price. Buel turned it over and over, and could almost imagine himself buying a book that looked so tastefully got up as this one. The sight of the volume gave him a thrill, for he remembered that the Press doubtless received its quota at about the same time his parcel came, and he feared he would not be out of the country before the first extract from the clipping agency arrived. However, luck was with the young man, and he found himself on the platform of Euston Station, waiting for the Liverpool express, without having seen anything about his book in the papers, except a brief line giving its title, the price, and his own name, in the "Books Received" column.

As he lingered around the well-kept bookstall before the train left, he saw a long row of Hodden's new novel, and then his heart gave a jump as he caught sight of two copies of his own work in the row labelled "New Books." He wanted to ask the clerk whether any of them had been sold yet, but in the first place he lacked the courage, and in the second place the clerk was very busy. As he stood there, a comely young woman, equipped for traveling, approached the stall, and ran her eye hurriedly up and down the tempting array of literature. She bought several of the illustrated papers, and then scanned the new books. The clerk, following her eye, picked out Buel's book.

"Just out, miss. Three and sixpence."

"Who is the author?" asked the girl.

"Kenan Buel, a new man," answered the clerk, without a moment's hesitation, and without looking at the title-page. "Very clever work."

Buel was astonished at the knowledge shown by the clerk. He knew that W.H. Smith & Son never had a book of his before, and he wondered how the clerk apparently knew so much of the volume and its author, forgetting that it was the clerk's business. The girl listlessly ran the leaves of the book past the edge of her thumb. It seemed to Buel that the fate of the whole edition was in her hands, and he watched her breathlessly, even forgetting how charming she looked. There stood the merchant eager to sell, and there, in the form of a young woman, was the great public. If she did not buy, why should any one else; and if nobody bought, what chance had an unknown author?

She put the book down, and looked up as she heard some one sigh deeply near her.

"Have you Hodden's new book?" she asked.

"Yes, miss. Six shillings."

The clerk quickly put Buel's book beside its lone companion, and took down Hodden's.

"Thank you," said the girl, giving him a half sovereign; and, taking the change, she departed with her bundle of literature to the train.

Buel said afterwards that what hurt him most in this painful incident was the fact that if it were repeated often the bookstall clerk would lose faith in the book. He had done so well for a man who could not possibly have read a word of the volume, that Buel felt sorry on the clerk's account rather than his own that the copy had not been sold. He walked to the end of the platform, and then back to the bookstall.

"Has that new book of Buel's come out yet?" he asked the clerk in an unconcerned tone.

"Yes, sir. Here it is; three and sixpence, sir."

"Thank you," said Buel, putting his hand in his pocket for the money. "How is it selling?"

"Well, sir, there won't be much call for it, not likely, till the reviews begin to come out."

There, Mr. Buel, you had a lesson, if you had only taken it to heart, or pondered on its meaning. Since then you have often been very scornful of newspaper reviews, yet you saw yourself how the great public treats a man who is not even abused. How were you to know that the column of grossly unfair rancour which The Daily Argus poured out on your book two days later, when you were sailing serenely over the Atlantic, would make that same clerk send in four separate orders to the "House" during the week? Medicine may have a bad taste, and yet have beneficial results. So Mr. Kenan Buel, after buying a book of which he had six copies in his portmanteau, with no one to give them to, took his place in the train, and in due time found himself at Liverpool and on board the Geranium.

The stewards being busy, Buel placed his portmanteau on the deck, and, with his newly bought volume in his hand, the string and brown paper still around it, he walked up and down on the empty side of the deck, noticing how scrupulously clean the ship was. It was the first time he had ever been on board a steamship, and he could not trust himself unguided to explore the depths below, and see what kind of a state-room and what sort of a companion chance had allotted to him. They had told him when he bought his ticket that the steamer would be very crowded that trip, so many Americans were returning; but his state-room had berths for only two, and he had a faint hope the other fellow would not turn up. As he paced the deck his thoughts wandered to the pretty girl who did not buy his book. He had seen her again on the tender in company with a serene and placid older woman, who sat unconcernedly, surrounded by bundles, shawls, straps, valises, and hand-bags, which the girl nervously counted every now and then, fruitlessly trying to convince the elderly lady that something must have been left behind in the train, or lost in transit from the station to the steamer. The worry of travel, which the elderly woman absolutely refused to share, seemed to rest with double weight on the shoulders of the girl.

As Buel thought of all this, he saw the girl approach him along the deck with a smile of apparent recognition on her face. "She evidently mistakes me for some one else," he said to himself. "Oh, thank you," she cried, coming near, and holding out her hand. "I see you have found my book."

He helplessly held out the package to her, which she took.

"Is it yours?" he asked.

"Yes, I recognised it by the string. I bought it at Euston Station. I am forever losing things," she added. "Thank you, ever so much."

Buel laughed to himself as she disappeared. "Fate evidently intends her to read my book," he said to himself. "She will think the clerk has made a mistake. I must get her unbiased opinion of it before the voyage ends."

The voyage at that moment was just beginning, and the thud, thud of the screw brought that fact to his knowledge. He sought a steward, and asked him to carry the portmanteau to berth 159.

"You don't happen to know whether there is any one else in that room or not, do you?" he asked.

"It's likely there is, sir. The ship's very full this voyage."

Buel followed him into the saloon, and along the seemingly interminable passage; then down a narrow side alley, into which a door opened marked 159-160. The steward rapped at the door, and, as there was no response, opened it. All hopes of a room to himself vanished as Buel looked into the small state-room. There was a steamer trunk on the floor, a portmanteau on the seat, while the two bunks were covered with a miscellaneous assortment of hand-bags, shawl-strap bundles, and packages.

The steward smiled. "I think he wants a room to himself," he said.

On the trunk Buel noticed the name in white letters "Hodden," and instantly there arose within him a hope that his companion was to be the celebrated novelist. This hope was strengthened when he saw on the portmanteau the letters "J. L. H.," which were the novelist's initials. He pictured to himself interesting conversations on the way over, and hoped he would receive some particulars from the novelist's own lips of his early struggles for fame. Still, he did not allow himself to build too much on his supposition, for there are a great many people in this world, and the chances were that the traveller would be some commonplace individual of the same name.

The steward placed Buel's portmanteau beside the other, and backed out of the overflowing cabin. All doubt as to the identity of the other occupant was put at rest by the appearance down the passage of a man whom Buel instantly recognised by the portraits he had seen of him in the illustrated papers. He was older than the pictures made him appear, and there was a certain querulous expression on his face which was also absent in the portraits. He glanced into the state-room, looked for a moment through Buel, and then turned to the steward.

"What do you mean by putting that portmanteau into my room?"

"This gentleman has the upper berth, sir."

"Nonsense. The entire room is mine. Take the portmanteau out."

The steward hesitated, looking from one to the other.

"The ticket is for 159, sir," he said at last.

"Then there is some mistake. The room is mine. Don't have me ask you again to remove the portmanteau."

"Perhaps you would like to see the purser, sir."

"I have nothing to do with the purser. Do as I tell you."

All this time he had utterly ignored Buel, whose colour was rising. The young man said quietly to the steward, "Take out the portmanteau, please."

When it was placed in the passage, Hodden entered the room, shut and bolted the door.

"Will you see the purser, sir?" said the steward in an awed whisper.

"I think so. There is doubtless some mistake, as he says."

The purser was busy allotting seats at the tables, and Buel waited patiently. He had no friends on board, and did not care where he was placed.

When the purser was at liberty, the steward explained to him the difficulty which had arisen. The official looked at his list.

"159— Buel. Is that your name, sir? Very good; 160— Hodden. That is the gentleman now in the room. Well, what is the trouble?"

"Mr. Hodden says, sir, that the room belongs to him."

"Have you seen his ticket?"

"No, sir."

"Then bring it to me."

"Mistakes sometimes happen, Mr. Buel," said the purser, when the steward vanished. "But as a general thing I find that people simply claim what they have no right to claim. Often the agents promise that if possible a passenger shall have a room to himself, and when we can do so we let him have it. I try to please everybody; but all the steamers crossing to America are full at this season of the year, and it is not practicable to give every one the whole ship to himself. As the Americans say, some people want the earth for £12 or £15, and we can't always give it to them. Ah, here is the ticket. It is just as I thought. Mr. Hodden is entitled merely to berth 160."

The arrival of the ticket was quickly followed by the advent of Mr. Hodden himself. He still ignored Buel.

"Your people in London," he said to the purser, "guaranteed me a room to myself. Otherwise I would not have come on this line. Now it seems that another person has been put in with me. I must protest against this kind of usage."

"Have you any letter from them guaranteeing the room?" asked the purser blandly.

"No. I supposed until now that their word was sufficient."

"Well, you see, I am helpless in this case. These two tickets are exactly the same with the exception of the numbers. Mr. Buel has just as much right to insist on being alone in the room as far as the tickets go, and I have had no instructions in the matter."

"But it is an outrage that they should promise me one thing in London, and then refuse to perform it, when I am helpless on the ocean."

"If they have done so—"

"If they have done so? Do you doubt my word, sir?"

"Oh, not at all, sir, not at all," answered the purser in his most conciliatory tone. "But in that case your ticket should have been marked 159-160."

"I am not to suffer for their blunders."

"I see by this list that you paid £12 for your ticket. Am I right?"

"That was the amount, I believe. I paid what I was asked to pay."

"Quite so, sir. Well, you see, that is the price of one berth only. Mr. Buel, here, paid the same amount."

"Come to the point. Do I understand you to refuse to remedy the mistake (to put the matter in its mildest form) of your London people?"

"I do not refuse. I would be only too glad to give you the room to yourself, if it were possible. Unfortunately, it is not possible. I assure you there is not an unoccupied state-room on the ship."

"Then I will see the captain. Where shall I find him?"

"Very good, sir. Steward, take Mr. Hodden to the captain's room."

When they were alone again Buel very contritely expressed his sorrow at having been the innocent cause of so much trouble to the purser.

"Bless you, sir, I don't mind it in the least. This is a very simple case. Where both occupants of a room claim it all to themselves, and where both are angry and abuse me at the same time, then it gets a bit lively. I don't envy him his talk with the captain. If the old man happens to be feeling a little grumpy today, and he most generally does at the beginning of the voyage, Mr. Hodden will have a bad ten minutes. Don't you bother a bit about it, sir, but go down to your room and make yourself at home. It will be all right."

Mr. Hodden quickly found that the appeal to Cæsar was not well timed. The captain had not the suave politeness of the purser. There may be greater and more powerful men on earth than the captain of an ocean liner, but you can't get any seafaring man to believe it, and the captains themselves are rarely without a due sense of their own dignity. The man who tries to bluff the captain of a steamship like the Geranium has a hard row to hoe. Mr. Hodden descended to his state-room in a more subdued frame of mind than when he went on the upper deck. However, he still felt able to crush his unfortunate room-mate.

"You insist, then," he said, speaking to Buel for the first time, "on occupying this room?"

"I have no choice in the matter."

"I thought perhaps you might feel some hesitation in forcing yourself in where you were so evidently not wanted?"

The hero-worshipper in Buel withered, and the natural Englishman asserted itself.

"I have exactly the same right in this room that you have. I claim no privilege which I have not paid for."

"Do you wish to suggest that I have made such a claim?"

"I suggest nothing; I state it. You have made such a claim, and in a most offensive manner."

"Do you understand the meaning of the language you are using, sir? You are calling me a liar."

"You put it very tersely, Mr. Hodden. Thank you. Now, if you venture to address me again during this voyage, I shall be obliged if you keep a civil tongue in your head."

"Good heavens! You talk of civility?" cried the astonished man, aghast.

His room-mate went to the upper deck. In the next state-room pretty Miss Carrie Jessop clapped her small hands silently together. The construction of staterooms is such that every word uttered in one above the breath is audible in the next room; Miss Jessop could not help hearing the whole controversy, from the time the steward was ordered so curtly to remove the portmanteau, until the culmination of the discussion and the evident defeat of Mr. Hodden. Her sympathy was all with the other fellow, at that moment unknown, but a sly peep past the edge of the scarcely opened door told her that the unnamed party in the quarrel was the awkward young man who had found her book. She wondered if the Hodden mentioned could possibly be the author, and, with a woman's inconsistency, felt sure that she would detest the story, as if the personality of the writer had anything whatever to do with his work. She took down the parcel from the shelf and undid the string. Her eyes opened wide as she looked at the title.

"Well I never!" she gasped. "If I haven't robbed that poor, innocent young man of a book he bought for himself! Attempted eviction by his room-mate, and bold highway robbery by an unknown woman! No, it's worse than that; it's piracy, for it happened on the high seas." And the girl laughed softly to herself.

iii

KENAN Buel walked the deck alone in the evening light, and felt that he ought to be enjoying the calmness and serenity of the ocean expanse around him after the noise and squalor of London; but now that the excitement of the recent quarrel was over, he felt the reaction, and his natural diffidence led him to blame himself. Most of the passengers were below, preparing for dinner, and he had the deck to himself. As he turned on one of his rounds, he saw approaching him the girl of Euston Station, as he mentally termed her. She had his book in her hand.

"I have come to beg your pardon," she said. "I see it was your own book I took from you to-day."

"My own book!" cried Buel, fearing she had somehow discovered his guilty secret.

"Yes. Didn't you buy this for yourself?" She held up the volume.

"Oh, certainly. But you are quite welcome to it, I am sure."

"I couldn't think of taking it away from you before you have read it."

"But I have read it," replied Buel, eagerly: "and I shall be very pleased to lend it to you."

"Indeed? And how did you manage to read it without undoing the parcel?"

"That is to say I— I skimmed over it before it was done up," he said in confusion. The clear eyes of the girl disconcerted him, and, whatever his place in fiction is now, he was at that time a most unskilful liar.

"You see, I bought it because it is written by a namesake of mine. My name is Buel, and I happened to notice that was the name on the book; in fact, if you remember, when you were looking over it at the stall, the clerk mentioned the author's name, and that naturally caught my attention."

The girl glanced with renewed interest at the volume.

"Was this the book I was looking at? The story I bought was Hodden's latest. I found it a moment ago down in my state-room, so it was not lost after all."

They were now walking together as if they were old acquaintances, the girl still holding the volume in her hand.

"By the way," she said innocently, "I see on the passenger list that there is a Mr. Hodden on board. Do you think he can be the novelist?"

"I believe he is," answered Buel, stiffly.

"Oh, that will be too jolly for anything. I would so like to meet him. I am sure he must be a most charming man. His books show such insight into human nature, such sympathy and noble purpose. There could be nothing petty or mean about such a man."

"I— I— suppose not."

"Why, of course there couldn't. You have read his books, have you not?"

"All of them except his latest."

"Well, I'll lend you that, as you have been so kind as to offer me the reading of this one."

"Thank you. After you have read it yourself."

"And when you have become acquainted with Mr. Hodden, I want you to introduce him to me."

"With pleasure. And— and when I do so, who shall I tell him the young lady is?"

The audacious girl laughed lightly, and, stepping back, made him a saucy bow.

"You will introduce me as Miss Caroline Jessop, of New York. Be sure that you say 'New York,' for that will account to Mr. Hodden for any eccentricities of conduct or conversation he may be good enough to notice. I suppose you think American girls are very forward? All Englishmen do."

"On the contrary, I have always understood that they are very charming."

"Indeed? And so you are going over to see?"

Buel laughed. All the depression he felt a short time before had vanished.

"I had no such intention when I began the voyage, but even if I should quit the steamer at Queenstown, I could bear personal testimony to the truth of the statement."

"Oh, Mr. Buel, that is very nicely put. I don't think you can improve on it, so I shall run down and dress for dinner. There is the first gong. Thanks for the book."

The young man said to himself, "Buel, my boy, you're getting on;" and he smiled as he leaned over the bulwark and looked at the rushing water. He sobered instantly as he remembered that he would have to go to his state-room and perhaps meet Hodden. It is an awkward thing to quarrel with your room-mate at the beginning of a long voyage. He hoped Hodden had taken his departure to the saloon, and he lingered until the second gong rang. Entering the stateroom, he found Hodden still there. Buel gave him no greeting. The other cleared his throat several times and then said—

"I have not the pleasure of knowing your name."

"My name is Buel."

"Well, Mr. Buel, I am sorry that I spoke to you in the manner I did, and I hope you will allow me to apologise for doing so. Various little matters had combined to irritate me, and— Of course, that is no excuse. But—"

"Don't say anything more. I unreservedly retract what I was heated enough to say, and so we may consider the episode ended. I may add that if the purser has a vacant berth anywhere, I shall be very glad to take it, if the occupants of the room make no objection."

"You are very kind," said Hodden, but he did not make any show of declining the offer.

"Very well, then, let us settle the matter while we are at it." And Buel pressed the electric button.

The steward looked in, saying,—

"Dinner is ready, gentlemen."

"Yes, I know. Just ask the purser if he can step here for a moment."

The purser came promptly, and if he was disturbed at being called at such a moment he did not show it. Pursers are very diplomatic persons.

"Have you a vacant berth anywhere, purser?"

An expression faintly suggestive of annoyance passed over the purser's serene brow. He thought the matter had been settled. "We have several berths vacant, but they are each in rooms that already contain three persons."

"One of those will do for me; that is, if the occupants have no objection."

"It will be rather crowded, sir."

"That doesn't matter, if the others are willing."

"Very good, sir. I will see to it immediately after dinner."

The purser was as good as his word, and introduced Buel and his portmanteau to a room that contained three wild American collegians who had been doing Europe "on the cheap" and on foot. They received the new-comer with a hilariousness that disconcerted him.

"Hello, purser!" cried one, "this is an Englishman. You didn't tell us you were going to run in an Englishman on us."

"Never, mind, we'll convert him on the way over."

"I say, purser, if you sling a hammock from the ceiling and put up a cot on the floor you can put two more men in here. Why didn't you think of that?"

"It's not too late yet. Why did you suggest it?"

"Gentlemen," said Buel, "I have no desire to intrude, if it is against your wish."

"Oh, that's all right. Never mind them. They have to talk or die. The truth is, we were lonesome without a fourth man."

"What's his name, purser?"

"My name is Buel."

One of them shouted out the inquiry, "What's the matter with Buel?" and all answered in concert with a yell that made the steamer ring, "He's all right."

"You'll have to sing 'Hail Columbia' night and morning if you stay in this cabin."

"Very good," said Buel, entering into the spirit of the occasion. "Singing is not my strong point, and after you hear me at it once, you will be glad to pay a heavy premium to have it stopped."

"Say, Buel, can you play poker?"

"No, but I can learn."

"That's business. America's just yearning for men who can learn. We have had so many Englishmen who know it all, that we'll welcome a change. But poker's an expensive game to acquire."

"Don't be bluffed, Mr. Buel. Not one of the crowd has enough money left to buy the drinks all round. We would never have got home if we hadn't return tickets."

"Say, boys, let's lock the purser out, and make Buel an American citizen before he can call for help. You solemnly swear that you hereby and hereon renounce all emperors, kings, princes, and potentates, and more especially—how does the rest of it go!"

"He must give up his titles, honours, knighthoods, and things of that sort."

"Say, Buel, you're not a lord or a duke by any chance? Because, if you are, we'll call back the purser and have you put out yet."

"No, I haven't even the title esquire, which, I understand, all American citizens possess."

"Oh, you'll do. Now, I propose that Mr. Buel take his choice of the four bunks, and that we raffle for the rest."

When Buel reached the deck out of this pandemonium, he looked around for another citizen of the United States, but she was not there. He wondered if she were reading his book, and how she liked it.

iv

NEXT morning Mr. Buel again searched the deck for the fair American, and this time he found her reading his book, seated very comfortably in her deck chair. The fact that she was so engaged put out of Buel's mind the greeting he had carefully prepared beforehand, and he stood there awkwardly, not knowing what to say. He inwardly cursed his unreadiness, and felt, to his further embarrassment, that his colour was rising. He was not put more at his ease when Miss Jessop looked up at him coldly, with a distinct frown on her pretty face.

"Mr. Buel, I believe?" she said pertly.

"I— I think so," he stammered.

She went on with her reading, ignoring him, and he stood there not knowing how to get away. When he pulled himself together, after a few moments' silence, and was about to depart, wondering at the caprice of womankind, she looked up again, and said icily—

"Why don't you ask me to walk with you? Do you think you have no duties, merely because you are on shipboard?"

"It isn't a duty, it is a pleasure, if you will come with me. I was afraid I had offended you in some way."

"You have. That is why I want to walk with you. I wish to give you a piece of my mind, and it won't be pleasant to listen to, I can assure you. So there must be no listener but yourself."

"Is it so serious as that?"

"Quite. Assist me, please. Why do you have to be asked to do such a thing? I don't suppose there is another man on the ship who would see a lady struggling with her rugs, and never put out his hand."

Before the astonished young man could offer assistance the girl sprang to her feet and stood beside him. Although she tried to retain her severe look of displeasure, there was a merry twinkle in the corner of her eye, as if she enjoyed shocking him.

"I fear I am very unready."

"You are."

"Will you take my arm as we walk?"

"Certainly not," she answered, putting the tips of her fingers into the shallow pockets of her pilot jacket. "Don't you know the United States are long since independent of England?"

"I had forgotten for the moment. My knowledge of history is rather limited, even when I try to remember. Still, independence and all, the two countries may be friends, may they not?"

"I doubt it. It seems to be natural that an American should hate an Englishman."

"Dear me, is it so bad as that? Why, may I ask? Is it on account of the little trouble in 1770, or whenever it was?"

"1776, when we conquered you."

"Were we conquered? That is another historical fact which has been concealed from me. I am afraid England doesn't quite realise her unfortunate position. She has a good deal of go about her for a conquered nation. But I thought the conquering, which we all admit, was of much more recent date, when the pretty American girls began to come over. Then Englishmen at once capitulated."

"Yes," she cried scornfully. "And I don't know which to despise most, the American girls who marry Englishmen, or the Englishmen they marry. They are married for their money."

"Who? The Englishmen?"

The girl stamped her foot on the deck as they turned around.

"You know very well what I mean. An Englishman thinks of nothing but money."

"Really? I wonder where you got all your cut-and-dried notions about Englishmen? You seem to have a great capacity for contempt. I don't think it is good. My experience is rather limited, of course, but, as far as it goes, I find good and bad in all nations. There are Englishmen whom I find it impossible to like, and there are Americans whom I find I admire in spite of myself. There are also, doubtless, good Englishmen and bad Americans, if we only knew where to find them. You cannot sum up a nation and condemn it in a phrase, you know."

"Can't you? Well, literary Englishmen have tried to do so in the case of America. No English writer has ever dealt even fairly with the United States."

"Don't you think the States are a little too sensitive about the matter?"

"Sensitive? Bless you, we don't mind it a bit."

"Then where's the harm? Besides, America has its revenge in you. Your scathing contempt more than balances the account."

"I only wish I could write. Then I would let you know what I think of you."

"Oh, don't publish a book about us. I wouldn't like to see war between the two countries."

Miss Jessop laughed merrily for so belligerent a person.

"War?" she cried. "I hope yet to see an American army camped in London."

"If that is your desire, you can see it any day in summer. You will find them tenting out at the Métropole and all the expensive hotels. I bivouacked with an invader there some weeks ago, and he was enduring the rigours of camp life with great fortitude, mitigating his trials with unlimited champagne."

"Why, Mr. Buel," cried the girl admiringly, "you're beginning to talk just like an American yourself."

"Oh, now, you are trying to make me conceited."

Miss Jessop sighed, and shook her head.

"I had nearly forgotten," she said, "that I despised you. I remember now why I began to walk with you. It was not to talk frivolously, but to show you the depth of my contempt! Since yesterday you have gone down in my estimation from 190 to 56."

"Fahrenheit?"

"No, that was a Wall Street quotation. Your stock has 'slumped,' as we say on the Street."

"Now you are talking Latin, or worse, for I can understand a little Latin."

"'Slumped' sounds slangy, doesn't it? It isn't a pretty word, but it is expressive. It means going down with a run, or rather, all in a heap."

"What have I done?"

"Nothing you can say will undo it, so there is no use in speaking any more about it. Second thoughts are best. My second thought is to say no more."

"I must know my crime. Give me a chance to, at least, reach par again, even if I can't hope to attain the 90 above."

"I thought an Englishman had some grit. I thought he did not allow any one to walk over him. I thought he stood by his guns when he knew he was in the right. I thought he was a manly man, and a fighter against injustice!"

"Dear me! Judging by your conversation of a few minutes ago, one would imagine that you attributed exactly the opposite qualities to him."

"I say I thought all this—yesterday. I don't think so to-day."

"Oh, I see! And all on account of me?"

"All on account of you."

"Once more, what have I done?"

"What have you done? You have allowed that detestably selfish specimen of your race, Hodden, to evict you from your room."

The young man stopped abruptly in his walk, and looked at the girl with astonishment. She, her hands still coquettishly thrust in her jacket-pockets, returned his gaze with unruffled serenity.

"What do you know about it?" he demanded at last.

"Everything. From the time you meekly told the steward to take out your valise until the time you meekly apologised to Hodden for having told him the truth, and then meekly followed the purser to a room containing three others."

"But Hodden meekly, as you express it, apologised first. I suppose you know that too, otherwise I would not have mentioned it."

"Certainly he did. That was because he found his overbearing tactics did not work. He apologised merely to get rid of you, and did. That's what put me out of patience with you. To think you couldn't see through his scheme!"

"Oh! I thought it was the lack of manly qualities you despised in me. Now you are accusing me of not being crafty."

"How severely you say that! You quite frighten me! You will be making me apologise by-and-by, and I don't want to do that."

Buel laughed, and resumed his walk.

"It's all right," he said; "Hodden's loss is my gain. I've got in with a jolly lot, who took the trouble last night to teach me the great American game at cards—and counters."

Miss Jessop sighed.

"Having escaped with my life," she said, "I think I shall not run any more risks, but shall continue with your book. I had no idea you could look so fierce. I have scarcely gotten over it yet. Besides, I am very much interested in that book of yours."

"Why do you say so persistently 'that book of mine'?"

"Isn't it yours? You bought it, didn't you? Then it was written by your relative, you know."

"I said my namesake."

"So you did. And now I'm going to ask you an impudent question. You will not look wicked again, will you?"

"I won't promise. That depends entirely on the question."

"It is easily answered."

"I'm waiting."

"What is your Christian name, Mr. Buel?"

"My Christian name?" he repeated, uncomfortably.

"Yes, what is it?"

"Why do you wish to know?"

"A woman's reason— because."

They walked the length of the deck in silence.

"Come, now," she said, "confess. What is it?"

"John."

Miss Jessop laughed heartily, but quietly.

"You think John commonplace, I suppose?"

"Oh, it suits you, Mr. Buel. Goodbye."

As the young woman found her place in the book, she mused, "How blind men are, after all— with his name in full on the passage list." Then she said to herself, with a sigh, "I do wish I had bought this book instead of Hodden's."

v

AT FIRST Mr. Hodden held somewhat aloof from his fellow-passengers; but, finding perhaps that there was no general desire to intrude upon him, he condescended to become genial to a select few. He walked the deck alone, picturesquely attired. He was a man who paid considerable attention to his personal appearance. As day followed day, Mr. Hodden unbent so far as to talk frequently with Miss Jessop on what might almost be called equal terms. The somewhat startling opinions and unexpected remarks of the American girl appeared to interest him, and doubtless tended to confirm his previous unfavourable impressions of the inhabitants of the Western world. Mr. Buel was usually present during these conferences, and his conduct under the circumstances was not admirable. He was silent and moody, and almost gruff on some occasions. Perhaps Hodden's persistent ignoring of him, and the elder man's air of conscious superiority, irritated Buel; but if he had had the advantage of mixing much in the society of his native land he would have become accustomed to that. People thrive on the condescension of the great; they like it, and boast about it. Yet Buel did not seem to be pleased. But the most astounding thing was that the young man should actually have taken it upon himself to lecture Miss Jessop once, when they were alone, for some remarks she had made to Hodden as she sat in her deck-chair, with Hodden loquacious on her right and Buel taciturn on her left. What right had Buel to find fault with a free and independent citizen of another country? Evidently none. It might have been expected that Miss Jessop, rising to the occasion, would have taught the young man his place, and would perhaps have made some scathing remark about the tendency of Englishmen to interfere in matters that did not concern them. But she did nothing of the kind. She looked down demurely on the deck, with the faint flicker of a smile hovering about her pretty lips, and now and then flashed a quick glance at the serious face of the young man. The attitude was very sweet and appealing, but it was not what we have a right to expect from one whose ruler is her servant towards one whose ruler is his sovereign. In fact, the conduct of those two young people at this time was utterly inexplicable.

"Why did you pretend to Hodden that you had never heard of him, and make him state that he was a writer of books?" Buel had said.

"I did it for his own good. Do you want me to minister to his insufferable vanity? Hasn't he egotism enough already? I saw in a paper a while ago that his most popular book had sold to the extent of over 100,000 copies in America. I suppose that is something wonderful; but what does it amount to after all? It leaves over fifty millions of people who doubtless have never heard of him. For the time being I merely went with the majority. We always do that in the States."

"Then I suppose you will not tell him you bought his latest book in London, and so you will not have the privilege of bringing it up on deck and reading it?"

"No. The pleasure of reading that book must be postponed until I reach New York. But my punishment does not end there. Would you believe that authors are so vain that they actually carry with them the books they have written?"

"You astonish me."

"I thought I should. And added to that, would you credit the statement that they offer to lend their works to inoffensive people who may not be interested in them and who have not the courage to refuse? Why do you look so confused, Mr. Buel? I am speaking of Mr. Hodden. He kindly offered me his books to read on the way over. He has a prettily bound set with him. He gave me the first to-day, which I read ever so many years ago."

"I thought you liked his books?"

"For the first time, yes; but I don't care to read them twice."

The conversation was here interrupted by Mr. Hodden himself, who sank into the vacant chair beside Miss Jessop. Buel made as though he would rise and leave them together, but with an almost imperceptible motion of the hand nearest him, Miss Jessop indicated her wish that he should remain, and then thanked him with a rapid glance for understanding. The young man felt a glow of satisfaction at this, and gazed at the blue sea with less discontent than usual in his eyes.

"I have brought you," said the novelist, "another volume."

"Oh, thank you," cried Miss Duplicity, with unnecessary emphasis on the middle word.

"It has been considered," continued Mr. Hodden, "by those whose opinions are thought highly of in London, to be perhaps my most successful work. It is, of course, not for me to pass judgment on such an estimate; but for my own part I prefer the story I gave you this morning. An author's choice is rarely that of the public."

"And was this book published in America?"

"I can hardly say it was published. They did me the honour to pirate it in your most charming country. Some friend— or perhaps I should say enemy— sent me a copy. It was a most atrocious production, in a paper cover, filled with mistakes, and adorned with the kind of spelling, which is, alas! prevalent there."

"I believe," said Buel, speaking for the first time, but with his eyes still on the sea, "there is good English authority for much that we term American spelling."

"English authority, indeed!" cried Miss Jessop; "as if we needed English authority for anything. If we can't spell better than your great English authority, Chaucer— well!" Language seemed to fail the young woman.

"Have you read Chaucer?" asked Mr. Hodden, in surprise.

"Certainly not; but I have looked at his poems, and they always remind me of one of those dialect stories in the magazines."

Miss Jessop turned over the pages of the book which had been given her, and as she did so a name caught her attention. She remembered a problem that had troubled her when she read the book before. She cried impulsively—"Oh, Mr. Hodden, there is a question I want to ask you about this book. Was—" Here she checked herself in some confusion.

Buel, who seemed to realise the situation, smiled grimly.

"The way of the transgressor is hard," he whispered in a tone too low for Hodden to hear.

"Isn't it?" cordially agreed the unblushing young woman.

"What did you wish to ask me?" inquired the novelist.

"Was it the American spelling or the American piracy that made you dislike the United States?"

Mr. Hodden raised his eyebrows.

"Oh, I do not dislike the United States. I have many friends there, and see much to admire in the country. But there are some things that do not commend themselves to me, and those I ventured to touch upon lightly on one or two occasions, much to the displeasure of a section of the inhabitants— a small section, I hope."

"Don't you think," ventured Buel, "that a writer should rather touch on what pleases him than on what displeases him, in writing of a foreign country?"

"Possibly. Nations are like individuals; they prefer flattery to honest criticism."

"But a writer should remember that there is no law of libel to protect a nation."

To this remark Mr. Hodden did not reply.

"And what did you object to most, Mr. Hodden?" asked the girl.

"That is a hard question to answer. I think, however, that one of the most deplorable features of American life is the unbridled license of the Press. The reporters make existence a burden; they print the most unjustifiable things in their so-called interviews, and a man has no redress. There is no escaping them. If a man is at all well known, they attack him before he has a chance to leave the ship. If you refuse to say anything, they will write a purely imaginative interview. The last time I visited America, five of them came out to interview me— they came out in the Custom House steamer, I believe."

"Why, I should feel flattered if they took all that trouble over me, Mr. Hodden."

"All I ask of them is to leave me alone."

"I'll protect you, Mr. Hodden. When they come, you stand near me, and I'll beat them off with my sunshade. I know two newspaper men— real nice young men they are too—and they always do what I tell them."

"I can quite believe it, Miss Jessop."

"Well, then, have no fear while I'm on board."

Mr. Hodden shook his head. He knew how it would be, he said.

"Let us leave the reporters. What else do you object to? I want to learn, and so reform my country when I get back."

"The mad passion of the people after wealth, and the unscrupulousness of their methods of obtaining it, seem to me unpleasant phases of life over there."

"So they are. And what you say makes me sigh for dear old London. How honest they are, and how little they care for money there! They don't put up the price 50 per cent. merely because a girl has an American accent. Oh no. They think she likes to buy at New York prices. And they are so honourable down in the city that nobody ever gets cheated. Why, you could put a purse up on a pole in London, just as— as— was it Henry the Eighth—?"

"Alfred, I think!" suggested Buel.

"Thanks! As Alfred the Great used to do."

Mr. Hodden looked askance at the young woman.

"Remember," he said, "that you asked me for my opinion. If what I have said is offensive to one who is wealthy, as doubtless you are, Miss Jessop, I most sincerely—"

"Me? Well, I never know whether I'm wealthy or not. I expect that before long I shall have to take to typewriting. Perhaps, in that case, you will give me some of your novels to do, Mr. Hodden. You see, my father is on the Street."

"Dear me!" said Mr. Hodden, "I am sorry to hear that."

"Why? They are not all rogues on Wall Street, in spite of what the papers say. Remember your own opinion of the papers. They are not to be trusted when they speak of Wall Street men. When my father got very rich once I made him give me 100,000 dollars, so that, should things go wrong— they generally go wrong for somebody on Wall Street— we would have something to live on, but, unfortunately, he always borrows it again. Some day, I'm afraid, it will go, and then will come the typewriter. That's why I took my aunt with me and saw Europe before it was too late. I gave him a power of attorney before I left, so I've had an anxious time on the Continent. My money was all right when we left Liverpool, but goodness knows where it will be when I reach New York."

"How very interesting. I never heard of a situation just like it before."

vi

THE BIG vessel lay at rest in New York Bay waiting for the boat of the health officers and the steamer with the customs men on board. The passengers were in a state of excitement at the thought of being so near home. The captain, who was now in excellent humour, walked the deck and chatted affably with every one. A successful voyage had been completed. Miss Jessop feared the coming of the customs boat as much as Hodden feared the reporters. If anything, he was the more resigned of the two. What American woman ever lands on her native shore without trembling before the revenue laws of her country? Kenan Buel, his arms resting on the bulwarks, gazed absently at the green hills he was seeing for the first time, but his thoughts were not upon them. The young man was in a quandary. Should he venture, or should he not, that was the question. Admitting, for the sake of argument, that she cared for him, what had he to offer? Merely himself, and the debt still unpaid on his first book. The situation was the more embarrassing because of a remark she had made about Englishmen marrying for money. He had resented that on general principles when he heard it, but now it had a personal application that seemed to confront him whichever way he turned. Besides, wasn't it all rather sudden, from an insular point of view? Of course they did things with great rapidity in America, so perhaps she would not object to the suddenness. He had no one to consult, and he felt the lack of advice. He did not want to make a mistake, neither did he wish to be laughed at. Still, the laughing would not matter if everything turned out right. Anyhow, Miss Jessop's laugh was very kindly. He remembered that if he were in any other difficulty he would turn quite naturally to her for advice, although he had known her so short a time, and he regretted that in his present predicament he was debarred from putting the case before her. And yet, why not? He might put the supposititious case of a friend, and ask what the friend ought to do. He dismissed this a moment later. It was too much like what people did in a novel, and besides, he could not carry it through. She would see through the sham at once. At this point he realised that he was just where he began.

"Dear me, Mr. Buel, how serious you look. I am afraid you don't approve of America. Are you sorry the voyage is ended?"

"Yes, I am," answered Buel, earnestly. "I feel as if I had to begin life over again."

"And are you afraid?"

"A little."

"I am disappointed in you. I thought you were not afraid of anything."

"You were disappointed in me the first day, you remember."

"So I was. I had forgotten."

"Will your father come on board to meet you?"

"It depends altogether on the state of the market. If things are dull, he will very likely meet me out here. If the Street is brisk, I won't see him till he arrives home to-night. If medium, he will be on the wharf when we get in."

"And when you meet him I suppose you will know whether you are rich or poor?"

"Oh, certainly. It will be the second thing I ask him."

"When you know, I want you to tell me. Will you?"

"Are you interested in knowing?"

"Very much so."

"Then I hope I shall be rich."

Mr. Buel did not answer. He stared gloomily down at the water lapping the iron side of the motionless steamer. The frown on his brow was deep. Miss Jessop looked at him for a moment out of the corners of her eyes. Then she said, impulsively—

"I know that was mean. I apologise. I told you I did not like to apologise, so you may know how sorry I am. And, now that I have begun, I also apologise for all the flippant things I have said during the voyage, and for my frightful mendacity to poor Mr. Hodden, who sits there so patiently and picturesquely waiting for the terrible reporters. Won't you forgive me?"

Buel was not a ready man, and he hesitated just the smallest fraction of a second too long.

"I won't ask you twice, you know," said Miss Jessop, drawing herself up with dignity.

"Don't— don't go!" cried the young man, with sudden energy, catching her hand. "I'm an unmannerly boor. But I'll risk everything and tell you the trouble. I don't care a— I don't care whether you are rich or poor. I—"

Miss Jessop drew away her hand.

"Oh, there's the boat, Mr. Buel, and there's my papa on the upper deck."

She waved her handkerchief in the air in answer to one that was fluttering on the little steamer. Buel saw the boat cutting a rapid semicircle in the bay as she rounded to, leaving in her wake a long, curving track of foam. She looked ridiculously small compared with the great ship she was approaching, and her deck seemed crowded.

"And there are the reporters!" she cried; "ever so many of them. I guess Mr. Hodden will be sorry he did not accept my offer of protection. I know that young man who is waving his hand. He was on the Herald when I left; but no one can say what paper he's writing for now."

As the boat came nearer a voice shouted—

"All well, Carrie?"

The girl nodded. Her eyes and her heart were too full for speech. Buel frowned at the approaching boat, and cursed its inopportune arrival. He was astonished to hear some one shout from her deck—

"Hello, Buel!"

"Why, there's some one who knows you!" said the girl, looking at him.

Buel saw a man wave his hand, and automatically he waved in return. After a moment he realised that it was Brant the publisher. The customs officers were first on board, for it is ordained by the law that no foot is to tread the deck before theirs; but the reporters made a good second.

Miss Jessop rushed to the gangway, leaving Buel alone. "Hello, Cap!" cried one of the young men of the Press, with that lack of respect for the dignitaries of this earth which is characteristic of them. "Had a good voyage?"

"Splendid," answered the captain, with a smile.

"Where's your celebrity? Trot him out."

"I believe Mr. Hodden is aft somewhere."

"Oh,— Hodden!" cried the young man, profanely; "he's a chestnut. Where's Kenan Buel?"

The reporter did not wait for a reply, for he saw by the crowd around a very flushed young man that the victim had been found and cornered.

"Really, gentlemen," said the embarrassed Englishman, "you have made a mistake. It is Mr. Hodden you want to see. I will take you to him."

"Hodden's played," said one of the young men in an explanatory way, although Buel did not understand the meaning of the phrase. "He's petered out;" which addition did not make it any plainer. "You're the man for our money every time."

"Break away there, break away!" cried the belated Brant, forcing his way through them and taking Buel by the hand. "There's no rush, you know, boys. Just let me have a minute's talk with Mr. Buel. It will be all right. I have just set up the champagne down in the saloon. It's my treat, you know. There's tables down there, and we can do things comfortably. I'll guarantee to produce Buel inside of five minutes."

Brant linked arms with the young man, and they walked together down the deck.

"Do you know what this means, Buel?" he said, waving his hand towards the retreating newspaper men.

"I suppose it means that you have got them to interview me for business purposes. I can think of no other reason."

"I've had nothing to do with it. That shows just how little you know about the American Press. Why, all the money I've got wouldn't bring those men out here to interview anybody who wasn't worth interviewing. It means fame; it means wealth; it means that you have turned the corner; it means you have the world before you; it means everything. Those young men are not reporters to you; they are the heralds of fame, my boy. A few of them may get there themselves some day, but it means that you have got there now. Do you realise that?"

"Hardly. I suppose, then, the book has been a success?"

"A success? It's been a cyclone. I've been fighting pirates ever since it came out. You see, I took the precaution to write some things in the book myself."

Buel looked alarmed.

"And then I copyrighted the whole thing, and they can't tell which is mine and which is yours until they get a hold of the English edition. That's why I did not wait for your corrections."

"We are collaborators, then?"

"You bet. I suppose some of the English copies are on this steamer? I'm going to try to have them seized by the customs if I can. I think I'll make a charge of indecency against the book."

"Good heavens!" cried Buel, aghast. "There is nothing of that in it."

"I am afraid not," said Brant, regretfully. "But it will give us a week more at least before it is decided. Anyhow, I'm ready for the pirates, even if they do come out. I've printed a cheap paper edition, 100,000 copies, and they are now in the hands of all the news companies— sealed up, of course— from New York to San Francisco. The moment a pirate shows his head, I'll telegraph the word 'rip' all over the United States, and they will rip open the packages and flood the market with authorised cheap editions before the pirates leave New York. Oh, L. F. Brant was not born the day before yesterday."

"I see he wasn't," said Buel, smiling.

"Now you come down and be introduced to the newspaper boys. You'll find them jolly nice fellows."

"In a moment. You go down and open the champagne. I'll follow you. I— I want to say a few words to a friend on board."

"No tricks now, Buel. You're not going to try to dodge them?"

"I'm a man of my word, Mr. Brant. Don't be afraid."

"And now," said the other, putting his hands on the young man's shoulders, "you'll be kind to them. Don't put on too much side, you know. You'll forgive me for mentioning this, but sometimes your countrymen do the high and mighty act a little too much. It doesn't pay."

"I'll do my best. But I haven't the slightest idea what to say. In fact, I've nothing to say."

"Oh, that's all right. Don't you worry. Just have a talk with them, that's all they want. You'll be paralysed when the interviews come out to-morrow; but you'll get over that."

"You're sure the book is a success in its own merits, and not through any newspaper puffing or that sort of thing, you know?"

"Why, certainly. Of course our firm pushed it. We're not the people to go to sleep over a thing. It might not have done quite so well with any other house; but I told you in London I thought it was bound to go. The pushing was quite legitimate."

"In that case I shall be down to see the reporters in a very few minutes." Although Buel kept up his end of the conversation with Brant, his mind was not on it. Miss Jessop and her father were walking near them; snatches of their talk came to him, and his attention wandered in spite of himself. The Wall Street man seemed to be trying to reassure his daughter, and impart to her some of the enthusiasm he himself felt. He patted her affectionately on the shoulder now and then, and she walked with springy step very close to his side.

"It's all right, Carrie," he said, "and as safe as the bank."

"Which bank, papa?"

Mr. Jessop laughed.

"The Chemical Bank, if you like; or, as you are just over from the other side, perhaps I should say the Bank of England."

"And did you take out every cent?"

"Yes; and I wished there was double the amount to take. It's a sure thing. There's no speculation about it. There isn't a bushel of wheat in the country that isn't in the combination. It would have been sinful not to have put every cent I could scrape together into it. Why, Carrie, I'll give you a quarter of a million when the deal comes off."

Carrie shook her head.

"I've been afraid of wheat corners," she said, "ever since I was a baby. Still, I've no right to say anything. It's all your money, anyway, and I've just been playing that it was mine. But I do wish you had left a hundred dollars for a typewriter."

Mr. Jessop laughed again in a very hearty and confident way.

"Don't you fret about that, Carrie. I've got four type machines down at the office. I'll let you have your choice before the crash comes. Now I'll go down and see those customs men. There won't be any trouble. I know them."

It was when Mr. Jessop departed that Buel suddenly became anxious to get rid of Brant. When he had succeeded, he walked over to where the girl leaned on the bulwark.

"Well?" he said, taking his place beside her.

"Well!" she answered, without looking up at him.

"Which is it? Rich or poor?"

"Rich, I should say, by the way the reporters flocked about you. That means, I suppose, that your book has been a great success, and that you are going to make your fortune out of it. Let me congratulate you, Mr. Buel."

"Wait a minute. I don't know yet whether I am to be congratulated or not; that will depend on you. Of course you know I was not speaking of myself when I asked the question."

"Oh, you meant me, did you? Well, I can't tell for some time to come, but I have my fears. I hear the click of the typewriter in the near future."

"Caroline, I am very serious about this. I don't believe you think, or could think, that I care much about riches. I have been on too intimate terms with poverty to be afraid of it. Of course my present apparent success has given me courage, and I intend to use that courage while it lasts. I have been rather afraid of your ridicule, but I think, whether you were rich or poor, or whether my book was a success or a failure, I would have risked it, and told you I loved you."

The girl did not look up at him, and did not answer for a moment. Then she said, in a voice that he had to bend very close to hear—

"I—I would have been sorry all my life if you hadn't— risked it."

______________________

5: Falling Downstairs

Ethel Lina White

1876-1944

Table Talk (Melbourne) 13 Dec 1934

Pearson’s Magazine July 1934

MISS WING had a dread of altitude. She used to dream that she was falling downstairs— not ordinary stairs, but an endless flight of narrow steps, leading down, down— to unseen depths. When she stood at the top of this ghastly drop, her head began to swim, and her heart to leap.

Then— she fell.

There was one awful moment of suffocation as she spun over and over in space; but, even as she fought for breath she always woke up, safe and sound in bed.

This nightmare plagued her, whenever she was worried or run down, so of late it had become such a faithful nocturnal feature that she almost dreaded going to sleep.

It was, therefore, with a disproportionate throb of terror that she stood inside London's newest Tube station, and looked downwards at the long flight of the escalator.

Immediately, she felt the unpleasant prelude to vertigo— shaking knees and a faint singing in her ears. Not knowing what to do, she walked away, staring desperately at the paper she clutched.

It was essential that she reached the address typed upon that slip without any loss of time. At least, it seemed of deadly importance to her.

She had been so unusually insistent at the West End Employment Bureau that morning that the secretary had told her of the post, to get rid of her.

"Take the Tube. Mrs Malvoisin will not interview applicants after twelve, and you've cut it very fine," she said, speaking as though it were Miss Wing's fault that she was late.

Miss Wing had rushed and taken her ticket, only to stampede before the unforeseen peril of the escalator.

Her eyes filled with tears, for she had eaten no breakfast. She had no money to pay for a taxi. The fact was, she had been out of work for so long that she could not budget for rent after the end of week. She did not know what to do; but she did what other people sometimes did.

Feeling suddenly desperate, she turned and charged the escalator. To her joy and surprise, it. was now filled with other passengers, who blocked her view of the long drop. Squeezed behind the screen of a blessed portly lady, she sailed lightly down to the train.

Not long afterwards she stood in the vestibule of a luxury hotel, and stated her business to a reception clerk.

"What name?" he asked.

"Miss Wing."

It was second nature to think of herself as "Miss Wing," because she was used only to the official title. No one had called her by her Christian title for about fifty years. That is to say, when one is young one year seems as long as. ten; and it was five years since the last of her friends and relatives had faded out.

All the same, she missed her Christian name. On the rare occasions now when she dreamed of romance, she told herself that it would begin when a man wanted to know that name.

As she waited in the splendor of the lounge, she began to realise the forlorn nature of her quest. Mrs Malvoisin was an American lady of old family and immense wealth, and would naturally insist on the highest qualifications and credentials.

She told herself that she had not even a chance of success, when she was conducted to a magnificent suite and into the presence of Mrs Malvoisin, who was a stately dame with a faultless silver water-wave.

"It is after twelve," she said. "But I always allow three minutes' grace to everyone. Not a second longer."

Miss Wing's heart sank still lower at this unpromising beginning. But, as the interview progressed, she gradually began to grasp the fact that all this overpowering pomp and circumstance was in her favor.

Mrs Malvoisin was sufficiently a personage to dispense with precedent. She applied only the personality test to the applicants for the post of companion to her only daughter on their European tour.

In her eyes, Miss Wing was a most suitable candidate. Although young, she somehow did not suggest youth. It was difficult to credit her with affairs of her own. She knew, too, the importance of showing a good front at all costs. Her grey suit was fashionably tight on her thin figure; she also wore high heels and used a discreet lipstick.

Miss Wing soon grasped the essential facts. The daughter— who, unlike Miss Wing, was called exclusively by her Christian name— was engaged to an entirely desirable and wealthy youth in New York. A beautiful and attractive girl, however, is bound to attract masculine society— which was, indeed, essential to her pleasure— so Baba was always accompanied by some young man.

This escort was an asset, since he was as much protection as an irksome detective, but his presence made some kind of chaperonage a necessity.

"You understand, Miss Wing," explained Mrs Malvoisin. "Although the risk of kidnapping is comparatively slight over here, it is safer for her to go about with some young man of our personal acquaintance. Baba is not likely to lose her head or her heart. But we cannot run risks. You must never leave her. If you neglect your duty even once, I must tell you plainly that your services will be no longer required."

"I will never leave her," promised Miss Wing fervently. She added: "But won't she hate having me always with her?"

"You must use tact. Besides, Baba has always been used to good companionship. It is very hard to be a rich girl, Miss Wing."

It does credit to Miss Wing's imagination that, even in her special circumstances, she was able to agree, without a touch of irony.

She left the hotel, engaged to enjoy a luxurious Continental holiday at a very high salary. All she had to do in return was to be a limpet and stick to Baba, without suspicion of unpleasant suction.

"There must be a string to it, she thought, as she walked exultantly back to her room. "I expect the girl will be a cat."

In her experience of nouveaux riches, she had learned to connect wealth with insults. But Baba was the most charming rich girl she had ever met— beautiful, accomplished, and gay. Since she had been brought up with more pomp than a princess, it was impossible for her to view life from quite the same angle as an ordinary citizen; but she was actually elevated by her wealth above petty standards.

In her turn, she found Miss Wing her nicest companion. She was tireless, sensible, and discreet. Very soon she was accepted as part of the heiress's background.

For all that, she was a clog on complete freedom, and Baba took a sporting view of the position. If she could get rid of Miss Wing by fair means, it was up to her to profit by the opportunity.

Miss Wing soon found out that Baba was trying to discover her weak spot; and she knew that, if it were tapped, she would exploit that special inhibition whenever she wanted a brief flutter of liberty.

She tested Miss Wing in a variety of ways. They went to swimming pools, where— however chilly the water— Miss Wing swam with Baba, stroke for stroke. They patronised the dansants, but the most fascinating partner could not tempt Miss Wing to dance. They took strenuous excursions, where they stumbled through the dark, stony, underground passages of ruined chateaux and abbeys. Miss Wing often got headaches, and she cracked the heels of one shoe; but she always emerged into daylight outwardly fresh as paint.

IN spite of these hectic interludes, she enjoyed every minute of her wonderful holiday.

Every day, too, she saw increasing possibilities in her job. She noticed that, when Baba spoke of the future, she included her as a permanent member of the household. "I must show you this or that when we're back in New York," was a frequent remark.

Miss Wing's imagination widened the loophole, until she grew to hope that the job might prove her old-age pension. She might stay on, after Baba's marriage, to help oil the wheels of staff management. Baba, too, might be starting a nursery.

But when they motored through glamorous valleys, dim and green as faded tapestry, winding down long hairpin bends to the river of long grass which rippled through the narrow gorge, and up again to the opposite crest— always crowned with a chateau— she dreamed of other things. Under the influence of the mediaeval landscape, she thought of that fabulous lover who— with his magic formula— would rend the shrivelled sheath of "Miss Wing," and draw out from it a girl with a name of her very own.

At such times she was unconscious of Baba and her young man. Although he was charged nearly as frequently as the water of the average swimming bath, he always seemed the same youth to her— tall, athletic, with thick, wavy hair and a jutting chin. He wore long, baggy plus fours, breathed physical energy, and answered to some short name, such as "Jim" or "Bill."

These escorts often resented Miss Wing, although the first sign of discourtesy was severely crushed by Baba. The last escort of all seemed to feel the cramping element most keenly. He had more definite personality than the others— less chin and more brow— and his name was "Meredith."

As a matter of fact, he was a romantic, and the scenery was calling him to use it as atmosphere in an episode which should make a perfect memory. Although he was not in love with Baba, he wanted to be, since her beauty and engagement ring invested her with the glamor of a lost cause.

One day he tackled Miss Wing on the subject.

"Do you never fade out, Miss Wing?"

"Never." Her reply was prompt. "I'm paid to protect Baba."

"Why has she got to be protected?"

"Because she's young and beautiful— and rich."

With slight amusement, he glanced down at the fly-weight, Miss Wing.

"And who protects you?" he asked.

"I don't need protection. I'm just a— a sort of a limpet. And I mean to stick."

"Until we find a way to shake you off."

At the hint of a threat Miss Wing looked anxious.

"You needn't mind me," she assured him. "You can say anything you like, just as if I wasn't there. I don't listen."

"Why not? Haven't you ears?"

As he spoke he noticed that her hair was tucked in curls, behind ears which were small and attractive. Although his approval was not lost upon Miss Wing, she continued to protest.

"Of course, I have the usual features. But I want you to understand this. I'm just official. I don't register."

IN spite of Meredith's determination to dislodge her, Miss Wing felt happy and secure. The fact that there were no more attempts to probe her weak spot was evidence that Baba had grown discouraged. It was, therefore, with the fatal confidence which heralds a fall, that she got out of the car, one darkish autumn afternoon, and stood on the cobbled pavement of a small, ancient town. All around the square loomed antique buildings, like derelict vessels in a dead port, while mist arose from the river which flowed turgidly through the valley.

"What do we do here?" asked Baba, who was thorough in her travels.

"There's only one thing to do in this live burg," replied Meredith, who had been there before. "We climb up to the citadel."

Miss Wing looked up at the dim stone battlements, just visible at the top of a bosky precipice, and reflected that they were faced with a stiff uphill walk. It was rather a shock, therefore, after Meredith had escorted them through a door, and paid a small entrance fee, to see, rising up before her, two unusually long flights of steps.

They were so steep that, when they reached the top, the party sat down on a stone bench to recover their wind. Already they had risen far above the houses, whose roofs were smudged with beaten-down smoke rising from the chimneys. Looking down, they had a view of the river and the steamers churning the yellowish water.

"Is it a stiff pull up to the top?" asked Baba, who did not like walking.

"No," replied Meredith. "It's steps all the way up."

"That's better. How many?"

"Over four hundred. I counted them once, but I forget the exact number."

Miss Wing's heart dropped a beat. Four hundred steps. She imagined a staircase, composed of fifty steps, and she put eight of these staircases on end. The result was a veritable nightmare vision.

To her joy, Baba shrugged and lit a cigarette.

"If this town wants me to take their citadel they must install a lift," she declared. "I'm parking here."

"But you must do it," protested Meredith. "When you get back home and tell people you've been here, the first thing they'll ask is: Did you go up to the citadel?'"

"Don't care if they do."

"Yes, you will. You hate to be beaten.... Anyway, I'm going."

Springing up, he swung along a plank bridge, fringed with mountain ash, and disappeared.

It was quiet after he had gone. Miss Wing realised the fatal blank, and was about to propose a descent to the town for tea, when Baba jumped up from the bench.

"That boy's right," she said. "I hate to be beaten. We'll catch him up."

Miss "Wing did not betray her discomfiture; her face was set like a stone, but she felt as shrinking within as a bit of ice on a fishmonger's slab in midsummer. She obediently followed Baba around the corner, where another long flight of steps was built into the precipice.

Looking up, she saw other staircases rising, one above the other, in a giddy perspective. They were broken up into flights, but Miss Wing thought of the inevitable descent, when she would be forced to look down at the town, so far below. Instantly her head began to spin at the threat of altitude.

If she were suddenly overpowered by vertigo and fell, at the best she might sprain her ankle. It was about equal to a broken neck, for, if she were incapacitated, she would be of no more use to Mrs Malvoisin.

Miss Wing had no illusions about her employer. She had not proved her value yet, and was still on trial with the august lady.

Miss Wing remembered those last ghastly days of unemployment and resolved to hang on to her luck, at whatever risk. The pity of it was that when she crashed— as she knew she would— and was met at the Door by St. Peter, he would ask her a question

"What name?"

And she would have to answer, "Miss Wing".

The fear of losing her job was greater even than her dread of the steps. Even while she was conscious of every foot she rose took her up further from the ground, she led the way, climbing grimly, with the tireless precision of a machine.

Her mechanical movements were noticed, with ironical amusement, by Meredith, who was resting about half way up.

"I knew you wouldn't bilk," he called out to Baba. "Sit down and admire the view. Now, isn't that worth a little effort?"

His enthusiasm was somewhat forced for visibility was poor, and part of the town was wiped out by mist. Miss WW stared down on to a confused huddle of buildings— ominously dwarfed-and a coil of the river, spanned with miniature bridges. It was rather like looking at a picture through a reducing-glass, and she moistened her lips nervously.

Baba was swift to sense her discomfort.

"Tired, Miss Wing?" she asked. "Would you rather rest here while we go on?"

The honey-sweet voice put Miss Wing on her guard. If once Baba suspected her obsession, this would be merely the beginning of a series of dizzy adventures which would lead inevitably to the sack!

"No, thanks," she replied. "I don't feel my legs a bit."

"Of course not." Meredith spoke quickly. "She never does. Miss Wing feels nothing. And she doesn't see and doesn't hear."

Miss Wing could not know that his bitterness was inspired by annoyance at any frustration of Nature. She thought it arose from his personal dislike of the chaperon. Biting her lip, she turned her back on her companions and watched the procession of tourists down the steps.

It was evident that she was alone in her obsession, for the citadel had been stormed by a number of visitors. She noticed, too, something else which gave her a flutter of hope.

"Everyone seems to be going down," she said. "No one's coming up. I wonder if we are too late to get in."

Meredith ruthlessly slew her excuse.

"Then we'd better push off again," he said. "Follow me, my children."

They followed him. Up... up. Higher and higher, with the town dropping lower at every step. Even to sound hearts and lungs it was a gruelling ascent to make against time, and, before very long, they were forced to rest again on a stone slab.

"Good drop," remarked Meredith approvingly, looking over the side. We can't be far from the top.

Clinging to her seat Miss Wing saw that a sinister change had indeed taken place in the view. The bridges now appeared as black filaments, spanning stream. Steamers had shrunk to water beetles, while the buildings had dwindled to misted suggestions of mushrooms.

Unluckily, Baba put her vague fear into words. "Are we as high as the Roman Catholic Cathedral in London?" she asked.

"Higher than that," replied Meredith. "We're about on a level with the top of the Empire Building.

His statistics were of no value, he had forgotten the height of either building. But he knew that Baba wanted to be thrilled, so he obliged.

Had he known the effect of his careless words upon the other girl he would chivalrously have kicked himself all the way down those impressive stairs.

They had made Miss Wing realise the exact position, as she remembered photographs of the Empire building.

"When you're at the top you can feel it sway, can't you?" she asked in a small, controlled voice.

"Of course," replied Meredith. "It wouldn't be safe if it didn't give. "

In that case, Miss Wing, too, was secure, for she felt herself suddenly rock, as though in the throes of violent  disintegration

Meredith glanced at his wrist watch, and then urged them on again.

"There's rather a dizzy bit ahead of us," he warned them.  "Watch your step."

THEY came to it at the top of the next staircase,  when they had climbed clear of the bushes and small trees which clung to the bluff,  and reached the sheer rock.

Just above them rose the high wall of the fort, and, clinging to it on  one side, was built  the last flight of steps.

It swung directly over a gulf of vacancy high above the town, the trees, the Cathedral. An iron hand-rail was the only protection from the drop down into the abyss. Miss Wing felt exactly as though she were in her special nightmare. Every fibre seemed to weaken, every muscle relax. Her legs doubled under her weight, like wax tapers. She was conscious of a horrible sensation at the base of her spine, as though a steel finger were prodding an exposed nerve,

For one ghastly moment she felt as though she must faint.... Then she realised that Baba had pushed past her and was mounting the steps, forcing a thrill the while, with shrill cries of excitement.

"Meredith, look down. There's the top the cathedral. Oh, what a way below! Meredith, I'm going to drop my handkerchief. Oo! Look at it, miles below. It looks like a bit of confetti. Oh! I can't see it now." .

Baba. Her job. With a stupendous effort Miss Wing forced herself to go on. She found that she could just manage to pull herself upward, step by step, if she looked up into the woolly sky, and never relaxed for a second her grip of the rail.

Suddenly she thought she heard footsteps coming toward her, and she wondered vaguely what would happen if someone came down just as she was fling up. They would meet— and neither could give way. They would be stranded in mid-air, between the earth and the sky.

A; ghastly thought, which made her look down from the clouds. She saw no one  on the steps, but below her was a terrible chasm of misted air, pricked by twin spires.

It was the top of the cathedral, far below her. At the sight, her stomach seemed to turn over. Everything began to spin round. The sky was growing black.

She shut her eyes desperately and clung to the rail. As her strength returned she continued to pull herself up, automatically, like the reflex movements of a dead snake, until her foot reached the level.

Looking up, she saw before her, an ancient door in the  wall, and a dangling below which was painted "SONNEZ".

The others had just entered, so the official was prompt to answer her ring. Directly she had passed through the ponderous portals, into the courtyard, she experienced a blessed sense of safety.

Massive stone buildings ringed her, enclosing a quadrangle of vivid green grass, where the flowers of summer lingered in autumnal decay. On one side  was a hind of makeshift refreshment room, filled with chattering children in charge of two nuns and an elderly priest.

Baba, as usual, insisted on a tour of the museum and the fort, so Miss Wing accompanied her like a faithful shadow.

Presently they returned to the quadrangle, where the priest was photographing  his flock. Baba and Meredith few sat down at a small table, to drink beer, while Miss Wing carried her black coffee a discreet distance away.

She stared listlessly across at the shrivelled red rambler roses on the opposite wall. The afternoon was grey and cheerless, as though the very air were draped in cobwebs. Her heart heavy with foreboding, when the priest finished photographing the children, and plumped himself down on the same bench as herself.

Presently Miss Wing felt compelled to speak, indirectly, of her fear.

"Isn't it dangerous to bring children up here?" she asked.

"Why?" The priest was surprised. "It is not a mountain climb. There is no danger in walking upstairs."

"But that last bit," Miss Wing shuddered in retrospect. "The side is quite open, and you look down on such an awful drop."

"There is a rail to hold on by. Naturally, we caution the little ones and help those who are smallest. We take reasonable care, and we know the Saints will protect them."

Miss Wing— who was a Protestant— felt a surge of envy for a religion which could ensure invisible protection. Looking into the priest's kindly face, she spoke impulsively.

"Do you believe in miracles?"

"Certainly," he replied. "They are happening every minute. Of course, they are not spectacular supernatural events, but everyday trifles which are projected divinely, to meet a special crisis."

"Ah! Then a miracle could happen, to save me?"

"If you have faith." The priest looked intently at her pale face, and added: "Surely miracles have happened to you before? Think, Madame!"

Suddenly Miss Wing's face lit up. She remembered her job, which she had always placed in the class of supernatural luck. But now, she realised that the actual miracle was a trifle of everyday occurrence, when an opportune straggle of passengers had lined up before her on the escalator.

It was not so haphazard as it appeared. It was a slack time, and the station was rarely crowded. Had it remained deserted for only a brief period longer, Mrs Malvoisin's precious three minutes of grace would have run out, and she would have refused to grant an interview.

Meredith, who chanced to be glancing in Miss Wing's direction, surprised the glow which transfigured her face. His pulse suddenly quickened in response. It called to some vital need within himself, reached some hidden sanctuary, which Baba, for all her beauty and charm, had never penetrated.

For a moment the machine had actually turned into a girl. An attractive girl, charged with the vitality of youth and health, and also refined by spirit. But, even as he watched her, the flame was blown out.

Miss Wing had just remembered the ordeal in front of her. Again, she asked herself however she was going to get down that first awful flight. It was true that she had once seen a stout lady descend the steps of a pier backwards; but, were she to follow her example, she would betray her vulnerable spot to Baba.

And she knew that, while Baba would be sweet and sympathetic, her perfect companion would' drop in her esteem. It would be impossible for her to understand a weakness which she would connect with cowardice. If she wanted to keep her job, she must never expose the fatal heel of Achilles.

Conscious of the priest's sympathetic gaze, she tried to explain her discomfort.

"The air is not very bracing up here," she said.

"But you are only on a level with most of the countryside," he reminded her. "It is the town which is buried in a pit."

Miss Wing, who had foolishly imagined herself perched on the top of a tower, laughed faintly.

"Silly of me. Then I suppose there are other ways of reaching the citadel?"

"There is a winding road at the back, used by the waggons which bring up the army stores," he told her.

For a mad second she again glimpsed release. She could return to the town by that road. Only— it meant leaving Baba, who certainly would not wish to accompany her. And if she deserted her charge, it meant the sack.

She clung passionately to her job. It was her salvation. It had driven away the spectres of the past, given her a grip on the present, inspired her with hope for the future.

Conscious that Baba was catching her eye, she crossed over to her table.

"Nearly time to go," said the girl. "So stop flirting with your priest."

"He was only telling me that there is a road at the back for army lorries," explained Miss Wing gravely.

To her surprise, Baba's eyes began to sparkle.

"I'll sell you an idea," she cried. "It's dull to come back the same way. We'll ride down in a lorry."

"I don't buy," declared Meredith. "For you'll want to drive. Hairpin bends on a greasy road. Not on my life."

"Then Miss Wing and I will go without you."

AS the young couple began to bicker, Miss Wing— discreet even before the threat of Eternity— slipped back to her bench.

Her heart was bursting with a newborn hope. A miracle might happen, to save her. Her future hung on Baba's whim, and also on the outcome of that clash of wills. She cared nothing for motoring perils, and could take her chance of any as lightly as a dirt-track racing ace.

"I must have faith," she thought.

Closing her eyes, she shut out the grim old walls and the shrivelled screen of crimson roses. Dimly conscious of the shrill voices of children and the soft cooing of doves, she concentrated.

"I will believe. It will happen. I have faith."

She lost all sense of time. Presently she became aware that the priest was wishing her good-bye. She sat up with a start, and noticed that it was perceptibly darker.

"I was thinking of miracles," she said. "Mercy, what a fog!"

"That, alas! is no miracle, but a misfortune," laughed the priest. "We get them constantly in autumn. When the wind is in a certain quarter it blows the smoke from the chemical factory right into the damp air."

"Then we ought to be getting down," said Miss Wing, turning towards the small table.

To her dismay it was empty.

"My friends," she cried. "Have you seen them?"

"A pretty young lady in green and a young man?" he asked. "Yes, they have already left."

The priest nodded towards the ancient door in the wall, and added: "The young lady beckoned to you. I thought you saw her."

"How long ago?"

Miss Wing could understand French; but he answered her in a language which she could not translate.

He shrugged and turned away.

Miss Wing's heart seemed to stop beating. How long? The answer was a shrug. Half a minute— five— or even longer? She knew that her fate hung on the difference.

It would never occur to Baba to wait for her below. In spite of her charm, she was a spoiled young autocrat. All her life she had been waited on and accompanied everywhere. Others waited for her, but she did not wait for them.

Besides, there was no reason for her to wait, in view of the fact that Miss Wing knew their rendezvous.

While it appeared simple, Miss Wing remembered that Mrs Malvoisin had arranged to meet the party at the prearranged hotel on their way to another town. When Baba came with her escort and minus the companion Miss Wing's job would be gone.

In a panic, she rushed outside and stood looking down on to a thick bank of baffling mist. Straining her eyes, she could see no looming shadows. The fog had swallowed up Baba completely.

Immediately her brain began to boil with horrible possibilities. She remembered that Meredith—unlike the other escorts— was not a friend of the family, but a hotel acquaintance, introduced by a  mutual friend. In spite of his engaging personality— in fact, probably because of it — he might be a fortune  hunter.

Or— he might even be one of a kidnapping gang, who had made the fog his opportunity.

At the thought, Miss Wing lost her last shred of self-control. She did not know where she was, or what she did, although she tried to run. Yet she not seem to advance as the fog swirled around her in a dun blanket— muffling her, binding her, confusing her senses.

Only one thing was clear m
she arrived at the hotel without Baba, or whether Baba arrived, unharmed, without her, she had lost her job.

So great was her mental agony she appeared actually afflicted with symptoms of physical distress. She was sick and giddy; her heart was leaping madly, while iron bands clamped her temples.

Her job was gone. She had no money to face the future, for her first salary  had been spent in buying clothes necessary for her position. And the fog was everywhere—all around her, below her, inside her.

Her job was gone. As she paused for breath, suddenly she heard Baba laugh a few yards below her. Instantly her fear of unemployment was swept away, and she became aware that she was standing at the top of a flight stairs, walled with vacancy, lead down to unseen depths.

Her knees began to shake violently, as all the familiar sensations of vertigo rushed at her in a mass attack. Then, to her horror, like a liner looming up, through a fog, appeared the magnified figure of a gigantic black-clad female, who was pulling herself upwards by the

They met, and neither would give in a short but desperate encounter, Miss Wing clung, like a limpet to the slippery bar of iron, but the woman's superior weight won the day. Forcing the girl aside, she rolled on, like a relentless machine, still holding on

Pushed out into the middle of the stairway, Miss Wing felt her heel give way under her. She stumbled, balanced, clutched the empty air, and fell.

She fell....

It was like her nightmare a ghastly moment of breathless agony. She knew  that the cathedral spires, the trees, the houses, must all be rushing up to her. Then she felt herself caught in a pair of tweed arms and heard Meredith laugh.

"Good tackle" he said.

Unable to believe in her safety,  she clung to his neck. ,

"Did I fall far?"she panted.

"Not far to fall," was the reply. "We're nearly at the bottom.".

Miss Wing could hardly believe her ears, although she vaguely remembered her brain-storm and how, while it lasted, it blotted out everything else.

"Did I— I must have come down very quickly," she said.

"Like an avalanche," declared Baba. "No wonder you slipped on those slimy steps."

"No wonder," echoed Meredith. "Look at her broken heel. She threw that in just to make  it more difficult. What a mountaineer you'd make."

Suddenly Miss Wing began to laugh, while she thrilled with triumphant life. The Priest had said that the fog was no miracle. Yet in spite of her mental turmoil, she knew she could never have made that perilous descent if the  empty gulfs of space around her had not been mercifully veiled.

Meredith watched her transformed face with a thrill which welcomed romance. And since he naturally wanted to know the name of a girl who had awakened his pulse, he spoke on impulse.

"Next time you feel like falling, let me know, and I'll be waiting around,  Miss— What's your Christian name?"

Miss Wing told him...  Exit Miss Wing

_________________

6: Jim Dickinson's Head

Harold Ward

1879-1950

The Black Mask, Aug 1920

JIM DICKINSON'S head, pickled in a jar of alcohol, reposes in the dishonored fastness of a dusty closet in Doctor Wright's office. It has been all of a half century since I assisted the doctor's father, old Doc. Wright, in separating it from its trunk that dark, stormy night out in the weed-grown potters' field. Yet, last night, when I looked at the grisly relic, the face wore the same wolfish grin that it had borne in life, the fangs were skinned back ferociously like the tusks of an angry boar, and the one good eye— the other had been gouged out in a fight years before— glared malevolently, insolently, leeringly, as if, even in death, the owner found a certain grim pleasure in cheating the law which had declared that head and body must remain intact.

Jim Dickinson's body has, in the natural course of events, long been incorporated with the black earth slime from which it came. Over it, the loathsome worms have long since ceased to hold their ghoulish revelry. His filthy soul is without doubt in the hell it created for itself. As for his head— the head he lost to Doc. Wright in a poker game, and which the whisky-sodden old physic dispenser claimed from the grave rather than brave the unspeakable wrath of the dead outlaw— that is another story. Doc. wanted the head because of the thickness of the skull which had withstood, without cracking, a tattoo from the butt end of a revolver in the hands of a frenzied man. And Dickinson wanted him to have it, because it had been fairly won and the only point of honor he ever observed was the payment of his gambling debts. It is of Jim Dickinson's malformed head— and the black cat with the devil's temper, and Creole May, the outcast, that this story is written.

i

WHERE Jim Dickinson was spawned, or whelped— or whatever the inception of an anomaly like him can be called— is a question. My personal opinion is that he was never born— that he was created from the slimy, green frog spit that gathers in a scum on stagnant muck— but the preachers will probably take issue with me on that point. At any rate, I know of my own knowledge that there were more maggots of deviltry squirming inside the blackness of his skull than could ever exist in the same space in hell.

Jim Dickinson made his first bid for our attention by appearing in Black Peter's saloon one dark, stormy night— a big, hulking figure of a man with a broken, hooked nose and a black, tangled thatch of whiskers. His huge, misshapen head stuck out, turtle-wise, on a thick, bull neck. His thin, cruel lips were drawn back in a snarl of vindictive hatred of the world in general, over yellowed fangs so large as to almost appear artificial. One socket was empty. From the other blazed an orb, so badly twisted out of shape by the scar from the wound that had destroyed the other, that it looked to be almost in the center of his forehead, giving him a horrible, ogre-like appearance. There was nothing human about him. He was an animal.

Black Peter's den was crowded that night. Finding no open space at the bar, Didkinsbn made one for himself by shooting, in cold blood, a poor Swede whose place he coveted. Before the murmur of anger and astonishment had fairly started, he stepped across his victim's twitching body to the blood bespattered bar and downed the liquor which the latter had just poured out. His baleful eye gleamed from under his mop of hair, challenging the world to dispute his right. The Swede was a stranger in the camp, and the ferocious cruelty and simian-like appearance of the slayer was such as to make the average man think twice before taking up a dead man's quarrel.

Where he had come from no one knew. Nor did his attitude towards the world at large tend to encourage familiarity. By that one venomous deed he became the bully of the camp. From then until his death he held his sway over the scum of the earth that had gathered there by sheer devilishness and wanton cruel- ties. He was a thief, a crook, a gambler and a red handed killer— a beast— a thing of evil.

The only sense of decency he had was in the payment of his gambling debts. He would murder a man in cold blood without a pang of remorse in order to filch from his pocket the money with which to pay a debt of honor. His philosophy of life was as warped and crooked as his twisted soul. And yet, we allowed him to live because we feared him.

Take the affair with the gang from Devil's Gulch. Originally, there had been six of them pitted against him, as a result of some mixup with one of the partners. By shooting straight, Dickinson whittled the number down to three before they caught him at the edge of camp with a bullet through his leg and a horse that dropped dead in its tracks.

He had no friends. He expected no assistance. Those of us who were at leisure gathered around to enjoy the spectacle, and to see that the strangers handled the affair in a strictly ethical manner. The only tree in that part of the state was a stunted cottonwood, the lower limbs of which were but a few feet above his head as he stood erect. His gun was empty and he was apparently exhausted. Hence, they attempted to send him into the presence of his maker without going to the trouble of binding him, thinking, no doubt, that he would die game and save them any unnecessary trouble. They were not as well informed on the general cussedness of the man, however, as they should have been— a fact which resulted disastrously for the visitors. For Dickinson, instead of giving up the ghost without a fight, made a mighty leap and seized the lower limb with both hands, taking the strain off his neck.

Doc. Wright, drunker and more vitriolic than usual, was among the spectators. The dissipated old reprobate chuckled gleefully and hammered the outlaw smartly over the knuckles with his cane.

"Leggo that tree!" he yelled. "Why the hell can't you die like a man? You yellow dog! You're trying to cheat me out of your head!"

With the speed of a panther, Dickinson hung by one hand, slipped the noose over his head with the other, kicked one of his captors in the face as he hung there, and vanquished the other two in a fair fight, fists against gun. And, when he had completed the job, he humbly apologized to Doc. Wright for not allowing them to hang him so that the bonesetter could claim his honest winnings.

ii

TO CAVE MEN like Jim Dickinson, love comes but once— and in ways that are peculiar and dark. That he loved Creole May in his own fashion there is not a doubt. And, like his aboriginal ancestors, he demonstrated his affection by beating the lady of his choice whenever opportunity offered. And she, recognizing, in the subtle way that women have, that his display of brutality was only a cover for the flame of love that smoldered in his heart, took her beatings, whimpering, but uncomplainingly, and, seeking an outlet for her feelings, lavished her affections on Michael.

Michael was an ugly brute of a cat, black of fur and short of temper— in short, a feline double of Dickinson. Dickinson hated him with a deep, jealous hatred— hated him because Creole May loved him. With the peculiarity of a woman, she treated her lord with humbleness and humility, fighting his battles and cooking his meals in a true wifely way— until he laid hands on the cat. That, she would not allow. And Dickinson, loving the swarthy strumpet who shared his bed and board, feared to vent his feelings on the animal, lest he drive the female creature from his side.

Cheeta, the squaw, who was reputed to be a witch, had warned him against black cats— warned him as she cursed him for the killing of her husband. Dickinson sought to close her mouth by knocking her down. But she refused to be silenced.

"It'll get ye, curse ye! It'll get ye !" she howled, shaking her skinny fist at the one-eyed man. "A black cat'll be the death of ye! A black cat'll send ye to hell, and'll spit at ye while ye'r roastin'! Damn ye! Ye spawn of the devil!"

In self-defense, he was compelled to choke her into unconsciousness. But her screams still echoed in his ears. Nor could he drown them in drink. For the maggots in his head were the kind that alcohol stimulates, rather than deadens.

We had our priest, Father O'Laughlin, a warm-hearted little chap who sought, with every means at his command, to regenerate the place and bring its inhabitants into the fold. He met with scant success to say the most. But he persisted and, because he was a man among men, measured by men's standards, he gained our respect and love, even though we refused to follow the cross.

In some mysterious manner, Father O'Laughlin learned that Cre- ole May had once been baptized in his faith. Immediately, he set about seeking a way to win her back to the church. But she had slipped too far down the scale of righteousness and virtue. She gave no heed to the messages the good padre sent her, time after time, begging her presence at the little church in the valley, with its cross of spotless white. Of two evils, she had been taught to fear Jim Dickinson worse than the threat of hell. And Dickinson, his soul already forfeited to the devil and his head honestly lost in a poker game, waiting only his death to be claimed, forbade her responding to the priest's appeal. But, to the latter, she was  brand to be plucked from the burning, and after several weeks had elapsed, he determined to visit her in person and appeal to her better nature. For Father O'Laughlin loved humanity and to him none had dropped so low that he eould not be saved.

On the evening selected by Father O'Laughlin for his visit, Dickinson, who was violently jealous, having been called away on some expedition outside the law, had taken precautions tending to keep any of May's admirers away from the cabin, by planting a bear trap in the dirt just outside the door. To this May submitted dumbly, and without bitterness. She was a woman, and her philosophy taught her that a woman is the rightful prey of the man strong enough to take her. The method of taking did not enter into her thoughts.

They lived in a tumbledown shack far up the mountain side and approached by a single, narrow path, nicked high in the cliff. For Dickinson was a bit of a strategist, and in building looked forward to a possible siege following some new outrage.

When she saw the little priest slowly puffing up the path, she realized for the first time that something of evil might result from Dickinson's efficient though brutal attempt to capture his rivals. She was willing to stand his abuse, but sight of the priest brought remembrances of her better days, and over her swept a sense of shame. She rebelled against the man of God seeing her in her squalor and misery. There was no way to flee, for the path over which he was approaching was the only way from the place. And that path would bring him directly into the jaws of the trap.

Creole May, for the first time in her long career of shame and sorrow, was panic stricken. There was but one door to the shack. To dodge out of it, even in the dusk of the swiftly falling twilight, would betray her presence to the visitor. Nor was there a bush or a rock in the vicinity, behind which she could take refuge. Yet she could not remain. She was not given to analyzing her sentiments. She had a vague feeling that she was not fit to meet the man who represented in that wild territory the church of her innocent youth— not for the punishment he might bring— for she knew that he brought only a message of love— but as an erring child fears the parent who governs by kindness. Physical pain she could endure. But she knew that Father O'Laughlin ruled his flock by love. And love, except the love she lavished on Michael, was missing from her strange life.

So, like a child caught in some mischievous prank, she peeped around the doorway and watched the head of the priest just appearing over the little knoll. Her foot rested on the chain which, fastened to the bed and dragging across the floor, was attached to the bear trap. To leave the snare in its present location meant injury to the priest. Even if the jaws did not break his leg, Dickinson might return ere she could free him. And Dickinson, in a jealous rage, cared nothing for God, man nor devil. He might even kill the good Father.

In spite of her fear of Dickinson's vengeance over the removal of his snare, the religion of her girlhood surged forward in her thoughts. Father O'Laughlin must be saved. To think was to act. Hastily grasping the chain, she gave a mighty heave and pulled the trap out of the dirt and dragged it into the house. Pulling down the blanket on the battered bed, she laid the trap on the mattress, and laid the covering over it again. Then, she dived hastily under the bed, just as she heard the priest's step outside the door.

Father O'Laughlin, receiving no answer to his repeated rappings, turned sadly and wended his way back again down the mountain path.

With fear and trembling, Creole May listened to the padre's retreat- ing footsteps. Then, as they died away in the distance, she arose and, seating herself in one of the two broken chairs the cabin afforded, she gave way to meditation and tears, sharing her troubles with black Michael, her only friend.

Dickinson, returning earlier than usual, found the cabin in darkness and May in tears. The moon, shining brightly on the front of the shack, showed him that the trap had been removed, ere he reached the spot.

With a bellow of rage, he leaped through the open doorway. He stood for a second, his single, bloodshot eye accustoming itself to the darkness of the interior. Then, with a snarl, he turned upon the woman.

"Where is he?" he demanded, shaking her as a terrier shakes a rat. "Damn you, tell me! Where's the man you had in here?"

She attempted to answer— to explain. He refused to listen. The words were choked off in her throat by the pressure of his huge muscular fingers. Then, holding her at arm's length with his left hand, he smashed blow after blow into her face with his right until, tiring, he hurled her into the corner, a dying, battered, unconscious heap.

The cat, true to its nature, spit angrily at the invader. Roaring like a maddened bull, Dickinson aimed a kick at the animal. Michael, attempting to dodge out of the crazed man's way, became tangled between his legs. In the darkness, Dickinson stumbled and fell, sprawling, across the bed.

His huge head struck the trigger of the bear trap hidden beneath the blanket, squarely, and with the force of a battering ram. The jaws flew together with a snap, closing about the thick neck with a grip that had been made to hold a grizzly king.

Dickinson threshed about spasmodically for a second, his eye bulging out of its socket.... His finger worked convulsively... then, twitching slightly, he lay quiet.

On the foot of the bed Michael, his greenish-yellow eyes gleaming like twin fires, humped his back and spit in accordance with the prophecy of Cheeta, while Jim Dickinson's worthless soul entered into Hell.

Two nights later I helped Doc. Wright claim the head he had won, and which Jim Dickinson was ready to pay.

_____________________

7: The Valley Where Dead Men Live

Harold Ward

The Black Mask, Aug 1920

"I HAVE passed through The Valley Where Dead Men Live. My eyes have looked upon sights which God did not intend that man should see. My life must pay the forfeit. As a man of science, you may be interested in hearing what I have to say— and I must unburden myself to someone before I pass out into the Great Unknown. But five days have passed since I said good-bye to old Sourdough Jamison. It seems as many centuries."

Professor Parmalee gave the speaker a quick glance. "Did I understand you to say that you left Jamison's five days ago? Are you sure about that ?"

The man on the cot nodded. "On the twentieth of June, to be exact."

"There is no possibility of your being mistaken?"

"None whatever. My diary will prove it. I made my last entry the night before I left Sourdough's place— on the nineteenth."

The professor sat silent for a second. "There is something wrong with your story, Blake. The nearest route over the mountains, from here, is by way of Chicahoochie pass, which would make the distance from this point to Sourdough Jamison's cabin a matter of over a hundred and fifty miles. This is the twenty-fifth of June. A well man couldn't do it. It is an impossibility for you to have made it in five days in your weakened condition. Not that I wish to dispute your word, but— "

The sick man smiled wanly. "Don't you see, professor, that your own statement helps to support my story? I tell you that I wandered into an undiscovered route through the mountains. You say that you picked me up half an hour ago lying exhausted and unconscious a few rods from your camp. That being the case, the entrance to The Valley Where Dead Men Live, on this side of the range, must be near at hand."

"You'll say I'm crazy when I tell you that I have seen living dead menl Dead men who do not know that they are dead. Can you imagine it? No? Neither could I if I had not seen it myself. I've been through the Valley of the Living Dead and came out alive! I've seen them— living dead men— by the millions and millions, fighting, stabbing, shooting— tearing at each other's throats like maddened beasts! And beasts they are, maddened by blood ! Blood flows in rivers in the valley where the dead men live. It's the rage they were in when they died. They carried it on with them beyond the grave and they're fighting it out in there!

"Can't you hear the rumble of cannon? Listen! You think that it's thunder. But it's not. And those flashes that you notice just over the brow of the mountain! The flashes of the big guns, man— spirit guns! No, no. It's not lightning. I'm telling you the truth. I know that you think I'm insane. I don't blame you."

He stopped suddenly, his nostrils dilating. "Take a whiff of that breeze, professor. Don't you smell anything?"

Parmalee sniffed. "The air from the mountains does have a peculiar, acrid odor. It's reminiscent of something."

"Gunpowder!"

"By George! That's what it is. Somebody must have fired a weapon close at hand. And yet, why didn't we hear the report?"

The scientist gazed out of the tent door. "It was none of my party. They are all accounted for. Yet I could have sworn that there was not another human being within fifty miles."

Blake smiled again. "I merely called it to your attention, Professor, so that you would give more credence to my story. It is so strange— this story of the living dead— that it will stretch your imagination to the utmost. I am a sick man. I doubt if I survive the day. You, as a scientific man, may be able to discover the solution of the puzzle. Perhaps you may even be able to do something to help release those poor devils in there from the tie of hatred that is binding them to this earth. At any rate, I would like to tell you my yarn if yon care to listen. Just give me another sip of thaf moose broth, will you?"

Raising the sick man's head, Professor Parmalee fed him a small quantity of the warm soup. Then he sat down again beside the cot in an attitude of attention.

ii

"YOU are going to put me down as the greatest liar since the world began," Blake said, wearily. "Yet every word that I tell you is the absolute truth. My mind was never clearer than at the present time, so don't think that what I say to you is the raving of a disordered brain, either.

"You have heard the theory advanced by believers in spiritualism that some people who die suddenly persist in keeping in touch with the earth, while others go directly on to their reward. I have seen enough to prove— but I digress. My time is short. Let me start at the beginning.

"When the war broke out, I attempted to enlist, but was rejected on account of my physical condition. Nerves. But I finally succeeded in hooking up with the Red Cross and got over. I was gassed and later got a dose of shell shock. You know what that means? Nerves, pure and simple. It is needless to tell you that I suffered all of the torments of hell. So we'll pass that up and go on.

"I landed in the States a physical wreck. The doctors sent me to the mountains. I am a wealthy man, but it suited my mood to travel light and alone. I wandered here and there until I finally reached this north country. I studied geology once and, while I don't need the money, I decided to do a little prospecting.

"A week or so ago I reached the cabin of Sourdough Jamison, having canoed up the river nearly two hundred miles. I remained with the old man three days, resting up, then announced my intention of striking out directly into the mountains. Jamison tried his best to dissuade me. He claimed that the Indians had a legend that there was a valley located somewhere in the middle of the range which was the abiding place of spirits— 'The Valley Where Dead Men Live' they called it— and that nobody who entered it ever came back alive. I've been through it and I'm out of it. But I'm no better than a dead man, so the old legend holds good. But I hope when I do pass out that my soul can rest in peace. Godl I don't want to spend an eternity in that hell hole back yonder.

"I will not bore you with the details of my trip up the mountains— for I started early next morning in spite of Jamison's objections. That night I camped half way up the side of the range. Next morning— that would be four days ago— I chanced upon a little canyon that wound in and out among the rocks. There were signs of gold, and I determined to explore it thoroughly before going further.

"As I continued, the air grew colder. From somewhere ahead came a dull, indescribable roar. I put it down to a waterfall somewhere in the distance.

"Suddenly, after a two hours' tramp, I reached the end of the narrow path- way and found myself on the edge of a steep decline, ice covered, slippery— a veritable man trap— which seemed to surround a huge, deep basin. The entire place was buried under a pall of smoke which hid everything from view. On all sides rose the mountains, rugged, their peaks covered with snow, offering an impassable barrier. The path by which I had entered seemed to be the only means of getting in or out.

"Up, out of the basin, there came to my ears a steady, rumbling booming. The air was filled with it. The earth seemed to tremble under my feet at fre- quent intervals. Sometimes the noise would die out for a second, only to start again with renewed violence. There was nothing to be frightened at, yet I confess that the goose pimples came to the surface and I felt the icy chills run up and down my spine. My hair stood up like the quills of a porcupine. The very atmosphere seemed filled with despair— with a vague something the human mind could not grasp.

"Suddenly the wind brought to my ears a shout. Then came the shrill, piercing, agonized scream of a woman— a shriek that was filled with terror and helplessness. Again and again it assailed my ears. Shouting in answer, I ran along the edge of the precipice, looking for a pathway that would lead me to the rescue of her who called.

"As I ran along the narrow shelf of ice, I threw off my heavy pack and carried only my rifle. Then, I slipped and lost my footing. My gun flew from my grasp. I struggled to save myself, but without avail. Over the slippery edge I slid— down— down— down! It seemed to me that I rolled for miles. There was absolutely nothing which I could grasp to stop my wild plunge. Nothing but ice— ice— ice— cold and smooth as glass. Faster and faster I went, until my speed was that of an express train. I almost lost consciousness. I could not think. Suddenly I struck the bottom with a force that knocked me senseless.

iii

"I WAS awakened from my stupor by a peculiar rat-tat-tat that sounded like the rattle of a drum. I opened my eyes. The air was filled with acrid smoke. It hung over me like a great gray blanket. Was I dead? I raised myself on my elbows and looked about me. For an instant I imagined that I was back in Flanders. Then I remembered my fall. But where was I?

"The ground was covered with bodies, heaped up in grotesque attitudes, lying in odd-shaped piles. It was a veritable charnel house— a page torn from Dante's Inferno. And such bodies! Peculiar, transparent, crystalline. I could see through them as one looks through a heavy plate-glass. Heavens! It was horrible— hideous. And blood! Blood everywhere. The air rang with shrieks and groans and laughter— wild, haunting laughter that froze the marrow in my bones.

"Close beside me a machine-gun was rattling, served by a sergeant and two privates wearing the olive drab. All three were of the same peculiar, grayish cast of pellucidness as were the bodies lying around. On all sides guns were booming. The ground rocked beneath them.

"Was I dreaming ? Was I the victim of a horrible nightmare in which my subconscious mind was again living the scenes I had gone through across the seas? I pinched myself to make sure. I was at a loss for an explanation. I shook like an aspen leaf; I was filled with supernatural terror.

"Then something happened that gave me a better light on the matter. Just at my right was a small knoll, scarred and pitted with machine-gun nests. Through the drab, smoky haze, I could see the ill-fitting German uniforms on the men who manned them. Across the gap which separated them from me a man was crawling— dragging himself along on hands and knees. He turned his head toward me for an instant. I recognized Howard Prestin, an old friend— a captain of infantry, who had been killed in the Argonne after silencing a number of German guns which had stopped the American advance.

"Did he still live? But no. I had seen his body the day it was buried. Was I crazy? My head whirled. I was unable to move, so transfixed was I by what was going on around me.

"Suddenly I saw Prestin leap forward. A dozen guns opened on him. Yet they failed to stop him. I saw him fire from the hip. Then he leaped among the Germans with the butt-end of his rifle. A second later he hurled the weapon aside, and, drawing his automatic from its holster, he sprang into a second nest. The man seemed to bear a charmed life. The Germans swarmed over him time after time. But after each effort he emerged triumphant. His clothes hung on him in tatters. He was bleeding from a dozen wounds. His face was a red smear through which his eyes gleamed like burning coals.

"A German officer — a great, hulking, blond man— fired a pistol point-blank at him. It failed to stop his rush. Both reached for their trench knives. They came together, locked in a death struggle, their weapons plying like mad. Slowly the German dropped to the ground, a peculiar, dazed look on his flat, round face. Prestin turned wearily away and beckoned, as if waving for his men to move forward. Then he crumpled up and fell forward across his victim's body.

"Then, I knew the truth— the horrible truth! The legend of the Indians was not fiction. This was the valley where dead men lived. Here men, who could not break their earthly ties, came back to fight on and on until their Berserker rage had expended itself. Here they were enacting over and over again the final tragedy of their lives. God! It was the most diabolical thing that the human mind could imagine.

"Think of it. All over that vast plain, in the midst of that ice-bound valley, similar tragedies were being enacted by men— dead men. Wraiths were grappling here, there and everywhere. The peculiar feature of it all was that I seemed to be able to see each individual feat of valor at the same time, although they were transpiring over miles of territory. It was like looking at an immense moving picture which unreeled itself before me. I can liken it to noth- ing better than one of the huge, old-fashioned panoramas that were in vogue a few years after the Civil War, some few of which still remain in Southern cities. I seemed to be floating over the entire basin. The guns seemed to be real guns, shooting real bullets, the cannon were the monsters of steel that I had seen in France. Yet I swear that several times I pissed directly through barrages unscathed. The weapons, like the men who served them, were only phantoms.

"God in Heaven! It was the most horrible scene of carnage I have ever witnessed— more awful than the hell of France and Belgium. For every detail was the result of the terrible fire under which the combatants labored when they met their death. As fast as they had played their parts, they started in at the beginning and went through it again and again, over and over, like automatons— held to their posts by a divine decree of some kind.

"Words fail me. It was so unspeakably ghastly, weird— a futurist nightmare— a bedlam of noise and confusion— a kaleidoscopic phantasmagoria of light and color. Death walked everywhere. Remember, Professor, on a battlefield, the men do not die in great numbers and lie around in heaps. Hours, days— sometimes weeks— pass without carnage. Even in the heat of conflict only a small percentage of those engaged meet death. Here it was dif- ferent. For miles in every direction there was death— death— DEATH! Nothing but cold, stark death— death and blood!

"Explain? I can't. My idea is, as I stated before, that man must work out his own salvation— that those who died in the heat of anger must work that hatred off before their spirits can quit this earth. God, in His infinite wisdom, did not care to inflict the horror upon the entire world, so He set aside this barren hole, as a place where dead men might sever the ties which bind them here, and, with their passion cooled, pass on to a better life.

"No, the man never lived who could describe it— that cold, ice-bound hell. The air tingled with madness. And the look of awful malignancy on the faces of those poor souls as they went on and on and on through the same monoto- nous performance of killing and being killed. It was butchery. The place was a slaughter-house. Ah, the deeds of valor that I saw performed! Wonderful! Magnificent! History will never be able to record the actual happenings— the cold-blooded bravery.

"Through the hazy heavens phantom aeroplanes manned by ghostly pilots dipped and maneuvered, dodging— falling to the earth in tangled masses, often burning. Gigantic balloons, in flames, tossed amidst the clouds.

"Among a heap of stones — the remains of what had once been a tiny church located in the center of an ancient graveyard— a sniper carried on his nefarious trade, his hiding-place a tomb from which the bodies had been hurled aside. I saw a group approach the place, grim determination written on their faces. Their beloved colonel had been a victim of the sniper's bullets. They found him after a long search. A youngster— he had been the colonel's orderly— leaped upon him. A knife plunged up— down— up— down, slowly, monotonously, while the screams of him into whose body it was sinking made the night hideous. And when he had completed his work on that dead thing with the glassy eyes that gazed upward, unseeingly, the youngster calmly wiped his weapon upon the tunic of the vanquished foe.

"Oh, the look of vengeance that was upon the countenances of diat little group! A shell came screaming through the heavens! They attempted to dodge to cover. But too late. And so the awful drama went on and on and on.

"There is no rest for those who dwell in the Valley Where Dead Men Live!

"Men fought with the ferocity of wild beasts. They were blood mad, frenzied. A little detachment of Englishmen were laboring with automatic rifles just at the edge of a woods. In front of them was a tiny vale through which wound a sunken road. On the opposite side of the valley was another thicket in which were a seemingly equal number of Germans. It was a duel to the death between the two groups. Both seemed to exhaust their ammunition at the same time. By what appeared to be mutual consent they left their guns and charged at each other, meeting in the middle of that once peaceful little dell.

"There were not over twenty men on either side. Grappling, they fought hand to hand, using knives, clubs, stones, their revolvers— their bare hands. They were like cave-dwellers, giving no quarter and asking none. At the end, there was no one left on either side. Only a heap of dead and dying. When it was all over the dead arose and again went through the monotonous performance.

iv

"I WAS hypnotized, held by a spell I could not break. Try as I would, I seemed unable to drag myself away from the ghastly sights. I don't know how long I remained in the valley of horrors. You say it was four days. Look at my hair— snowy white! When I left Sourdough's cabin my locks were dark. I am just past thirty years of age. Yet, from my appearance, one would swear that I had passed the three score years and ten allotted to man.

"I have not slept. For the hellish panorama continued on and on and on. Only, at night, a different group of actors filled the stage. The darkness was hideous with the roar of the big guns, the screech of shells. Signal rockets filled the air. As if by magic, trenches appeared here and there— little sectors each with its own melancholy drama of life and death. Here was a stretch of no man's land with its grisly tenants. Men hung on barbed-wire entanglements, their clothes in tatters, swaying to and fro in the breeze like scarecrows in a farmer's field.

"Often I lost consciousness— fainted,

I suppose. Much of the time I wandered about in a daze. I knew not which way to turn. Dead men— living dead men— everywhere!

"I dragged myself into a tiny house that seemed to stand in the center of the valley. It was empty. I threw myself on the floor, thinking to gain a minute's respite from the horrors around me. I dropped into a deep sleep.

"I was awakened by the sound of voices. I crouched farther back in the darkness of the corner, frightened, not daring to make a move. What was I afraid of? I do not know. One need not fear spectres, need he? There was a sound of a match being scratched. And then a candle flared up. By its uncertain light I made out the figures of two men wearing the German uniform.

"They groped about until they found a trap door cut in the floor. Raising it, they lowered themselves through the opening. Seized by some impulse which, even now, I am unable to explain, I determined to follow them. The events that transpired are inexplicable to me. The only solution that I have for the puzzle is that, for the time being, I was someone else— some poor devil who lost his life in the attempt to avert a German surprise on Verdun. For I swear that I was propelled by some force stronger than my own will.

"Cautiously I waited until I heard their voices trailing off in the distance. Then I sprang to the trap and, a second later, dropped through into the darkness of the cellar.

"I stumbled about until I found the wall. Following it with my hands, I came to an opening. Far ahead in the darkness, I saw a tiny speck of light bobbing up and down. It was the candle carried by the men I was following. Without thought of the future, I followed in their wake.

"On, on, on they went. Then, suddenly, the passageway widened out into a huge cavern. Relying on the darkness, I crept closer until I was only a few yards away from them. Hiding behind a huge pile of boxes and barrels heaped up aL.one side, I listened to their conversation. At first I was unable to understand what they were about to do. Then, with a muttered 'Shhh!' one of them cautiously drew aside a small block of what appeared to be solid rock, and, peeping out over my hiding-place, I gazed through the little opening into a brilliantly-lighted passageway. I caught a glimpse of uniforms; through the opening came scraps of conversation in French.

"The truth flashed over me. I was looking into the underground defenses of Verdun. The Germans had tunneled up to them and were waiting only for the minute that the defenders were the fewest, to break down the thin barrier which held them back and throw their hordes into the very vitals of the French defense. Even as the thought came to me, the watcher closed the opening softly and, with a muttered word to his companion, lighted a lantern and waved it across his body like a signal torch. And a signal it was. For instantly a distant whistle sounded. Then lights leaped up as far as the eye could see. And from the distance came the tramp, tramp, tramp of marching feet.

"I forgot that I was dealing with phantoms. The thing was too horribly real. I searched about me for a weapon for some way to warn the unsuspecting men on the other side of that frail partition. In the semi-darkness to which I was rapidly growing accustomed my eyes fell upon an open box. It was heaped up with hand grenades. I made out the markings of other boxes. I almost shouted for joy. For the pile was a huge ammunition dump, placed there by the invaders in readiness for the crucial moment.

"Seizing a grenade in either hand, I pulled the pins with my teeth and held them in readiness. Closer and closer came the German hordes. The whole cavern and passageway was filled with them. There were thousands, it seemed. The air was thick and heavy with the odor of their sweat. Then, just as the head of the column reached me, I hurled the bombs — not at the advancing enemy, but straight into the big pile of ammunition. The leaders heard me, saw me. They came at me with a rush.

"The ground trembled.... A concussion!... I felt myself being hurled through the air.... Around me rang screams and cries of mortal agony.... Then came oblivion.

"There is nothing more that I can tell you. How I came here, I have no recollection. Evidently, my mind a blank, I found some exit on this side of the valley. I only know that you found me here, outside. My secret is yours. As a man of science, you will probably try to find the way into the place from which I have come. Take my advice and stay away. Now I am tired, Professor. I must rest."

v

(Extract from the report of Professor Phineas Parmalee, AB., LL.D., etc.)

"Mr. Blake passed away shortly after completing his strange narrative. The members of the Parmalee Scientific Expedition spent nearly a week searching the vicinity in the hope of discovering the opening through which he came from the valley. But our efforts were fruitless. I would be tempted to put his story of 'The Valley Where Dead Men Live' down as an hallucination resulting from his terrible experiences during the war, but for one thing: I sent a courier by way of Chicahoochie Pass to interview Jamison. The latter says that the date given by Blake was correct. He crossed the mountains, as he stated, in five days. I confess myself puzzled... We buried poor Blake where we found him. Requiescat In Pace!"

___________________

8: The Strange Story of Martin Colby

Ward Sterling (Harold Ward)

The Black Mask, Aug 1920

THIS is Martin Colby's story, not mine. Three of us heard him tell it— Willoughby, the eminent English clergyman, who is now filling a number of lecture engagements in this country, Mosby, the attorney, and myself— and we are all firmly convinced that he spoke the truth. I write it just as he gave it to us.

We were spending a few days in early spring at Mosby's country place.

Possibly the weather had something to do with the way the story impressed us. It was a dark, stormy night, with drizzling gusts of rain and a shrieking, howling wind that shook the window panes and whistled and moaned through the leafless trees— one of those nights that make the shivers run up and down your backbone in pleasurable anticipation of the scare that never comes— a night created especially for tales of yawning graves and spiritual manifestations.

Seated in front of the huge, open fireplace in Mosby's big living room — a room so large that there were shadows in every corner — it was only natural that the talk should drift onto haunted houses, life after death and the supernatural in all its varying phases.

Mosby, who is something of an amateur psychologist, had been reading Sir Oliver Lodge, Sir Arthur Doyle and other writers on spiritual lines and was filled with enthusiasm and a working idea of Ouija boards, spirit rappings and table tipping. On the other hand, Willoughby, like most clergyman, was an open scoffer. The argument continued for an hour or two without result.

Finally Colby, who had been listening and saying nothing, was appealed to.

"There is no question in my mind," he answered, weighing his words carefully, as he always does when he speaks seriously, "that our departed friends watch over us and, given half a chance, will offer us a helping hand."

"Bosh !" shouted the clergyman. "Give us proofs, man ! Don't deal in generalities. Offer us something tangible!"

Colby hesitated before answering.

"What I am about to tell you," he said, finally, "is a true story. I have never repeated it to anyone before, because I do not care to have people doubt my word— and the average man is prone to scoff at what he can- not understand. To me, there is only one explanation— that of spirit intervention. Perhaps you, as a clergy- man, with a supposedly better knowledge of the hereafter than is given us ordinary mortals, can offer a solution to the puzzle."

And this is the story that Martin Colby told:

ii

"I WAS suffering from brain fag. The novel on which I was at work— my latest, by the way— threatened to be a dismal failure, as a result. For weeks I had not touched the typewriter, lacking ideas to put on paper. My publishers were clamoring for the manuscript. The book had been announced through the press and the advance royalties were already banked to my credit. I owed it to them as well as myself, to bring my work to a close.

"But I was dissatisfied. The plot, itself, was the best thing that I had ever done. But the story lacked that indescribable something that marks the really finished product from the machine-made drivel. It sounded forced and strained. In other words, it had no punch. And my heroine! Heavens, what a woman! She had as much life as a wilted rag doll.

"Anyone who is familiar with my work knows that I write of the wilds, the prairies, the forests, the icy barrens. But this story was to be a departure. It was to be a tale of human emotions— a drama seething with passion and depicting the under side of life among the dwellers of the great city. But my heroine was to be a woman of the Northland, transplanted from her native snows and ice, hedged in on all sides by wickedness, yet keeping herself clean and pure in spite of her surroundings.

"I wanted to make her a girl of unusual strength of character, one who dominated every page of the book and held the reader's undivided love, rather than the insipid, white-livered anaemic who wandered through the story like an automaton. But, in spite of everything, I was unable to concentrate on her— to inject any life into her. Every writer has such experiences at times. I have had them before and I expect to have them again.

"And then, one afternoon, like a bolt of lightning out of a clear sky, came a working streak. I tackled the story with renewed vim and enthusi- asm. For hours I wrote and rewrote, hacked and edited. From somewhere in the hidden recesses of my brain evolved a new heroine— Edith Morley— a sweet-faced, golden haired, full-breasted, red-blooded woman— a lovable girl and a true daughter of the Vikings I love so well.

"Far into the night I worked. Under my flying thoughts, Edith Morley grew, developing with every change, blossoming forth into radiant womanhood. I tell you, I was obsessed with her. And, gentlemen, without egotism, I say frankly that she became so real to me that she walks through the pages of my book a living, pulsating character instead of a creature of my imagination. But as for that, you can judge for yourselves when the story comes out next month.

"I forgot dinner, everything, in the enthusiasm of my work. I have no idea how long I worked. It was far into the night and, sometime during the evening, I had automatically switched on the lights. But, finally, flesh and blood could stand it no longer. I fell across the table, my head pillowed in my arms. Whether I fainted or whether it was the sleep following exhaustion, I do not pretend to say.

"Was I really asleep? I do not know. I'll swear that I could hear the clock ticking in the adjoining room and the thousand-and-one other odd, mysterious, little sounds that come in the middle of the night. Yet I must have been asleep. There is no other explanation."

"Suddenly, I heard a scream— a piercing, terror-stricken shriek— coming out of the darkness of the night.

"Edith Morley stood before me!

"Have you ever seen a poor, hunted creature at bay? She was panting desperately. Her arms were out-stretched towards me, her fingers working convulsively. Her dress was torn so that a glimpse of the round, white shoulder showed. In her eyes was a look of despair, of helpless appeal. Her long, golden hair hung about her waist in tangled disarray. I knew that she was asking me for help. I attempted to arouse myself from the horrible, paralyzing constriction that held me to my chair. But I was helpless, bound down by invisible bands.

"And then, into the focus leaped a man— a human beast— a thick-lipped, coarse-featured creature with snapping black eyes that glowered and blazed between red, swollen lids, and a bluish-dark growth of whisker that only served to emphasize the brutal viciousness of his undershot lower jaw. I tell you, he was a creature straight from the Inferno.

"At sight of the girl, the bestial lips parted, showing a glimpse of decaying, tobacco-stained teeth. He raised one black, hairy hand and beckoned. The girl drew back a trifle further, the look of desperation kindled anew in her eyes, one white, slender hand pressed against her pal- pitating breast.

"As Heaven is my witness, I saw that tragedy unfold itself in front of my eyes with all the vividness of a motion picture thrown upon the screen. I struggled with every bit of strength at my command to tear myself loose from the invisible bands that glued me to my chair. But in vain. I watched the beast slowly drawing himself forward like a snake about to strike. I could not move. Nearer and nearer he came, passing so close to me that I could smell his whiskey-and-tobacco-laden breath, moving with cat-like stealth. And, as he approached her, she drew farther and farther away until she found her back against the wall. Her wild, blue eyes looked into mine, tense with fear, desperate— and I was helpless.

"God! The sweat poured from every pore in my body. Then, suddenly, he launched himself at her. What a fight she put up to keep him from her, striking, clawing, biting. She was like a wounded tigress at bay. Her waist was torn into shreds. On the white flesh of her arms, the bruises stood out with startling vividness.

"With an almost superhuman effort, she twisted herself from his grasp and leaped away. Once more he drove her into a corner. Again that look of piteous appeal to me. Then, before he could seize her again, her convulsive fingers reached into the bosom of her dress and returned with a tiny bottle on which the death's head showed a brilliant scarlet under the electric lamp.

"Before she could convey it to her mouth, the beast was upon her, his talons tightened about her wrist. She battled now with the energy of despair. Backward he bent her arm until I listened for the snap that tells of the agony of broken bones. But again, through some strange twist of fate, she tore herself from his grasp. Her freedom was but for an instant. Yet it was long enough for her to carry the tiny vial to her lips.

"Then she crumpled up in a little heap on the floor. And, gentlemen, I will swear that there was a smile of happiness on her face.

"I awoke with a start. For a second I gazed about me, wide-eyed, trying to collect myself even in the midst of my own apartments. Then, with every nerve tingling in response to some psychic force, I rushed out of the building into the blackness of the night.

"Of course, up to this point, you will simply say that I had been dreaming— that so strong, an impression had the character of my brain made upon me that it was a case of self-hypnosis. Wait until you have heard my story to the end. It will prove to you, if your minds are open, that there is some unknown, subtle force at work in our behalf, of which we know nothing. To me, the only explanation is that our loved ones who have gone before us are constantly seeking to serve us if we will but give them the opportunity.

"That Edith Morley was a real woman of flesh and blood, I am willing to testify. I never saw her until I met her in my dream, vision, or whatever you care to call it, yet I had described her accurately, even to her little traits of character, hours before when my sudden working streak had brought her into my story. It may have been telepathy, but to me it was the work of the unseen forces I have just mentioned. I will show you that she had been thinking of me at the very minute I was writing of her— or, at least, there is no doubt of it in my mind. And, too, my mind was open to suggestion. But I digress.

"Drawn by unseen hands, I walked on and on through the blackness of the night until I reached an un- familiar part of the city.

"I swear that I had never been in that vicinity before, yet I knew exactly where to turn and what streets to take. I am not a sleep walker; I have a perfect recollection of making that long trip across the town, and on foot, mind you, yet I am certain that I was not fully awake. I was more in the condition of a man in a daze.

"My feet carried me to the door of a battered old brick tenement house. I climbed up four flights of stairs, rickety and dirty, lighted by smoky kerosene lamps. I had no idea where I was going, yet unseen hands were guiding me, pulling me along whenever I seemed to hesitate.

"Before one of the doors on the fourth floor, I stopped. I rapped. Receiving no answer, I opened the door and entered.

"She— Edith Morley— the girl of my dream— lay in a crumpled heap on the floor! Every detail, even to the torn dress and the dark bruises on her white flesh, was just as it had appeared in my dream. Scattered about, near where she had fallen, were the pieces of glass from the broken bottle. On one of them the death's head grinned up at me as if chuckling at the grimness of it all. The pungent odor of bitter almonds filled the air.

"In the corner stood a battered old dresser. Tucked in the cracked mir- ror was my picture, clipped from a newspaper review of one of my books. Below it was spread a letter, face upwards. It read:

"I have done everything possible to fight off the inevitable. Death is all that remains. I am without money and without friends. If Twiggs comes again tonight, I will kill myself. Please notify Mr. Martin Colby, the novelist. He knows the North— my North! He does not know me, but I would like him to know that I died like a true daughter of God's country— the land we both love so well.' "

iii

COLBY arose and stretched his long arms above his head.

"If you care for further proof, I have the letter that she left behind."

For a second there was silence.

Then Willoughby broke the strain.

"Was she—"

Colby nodded and said:

"We never learned her name. I paid the expenses of her funeral and for the headstone over her grave. On it I had carved the only name I knew her by, 'Edith Morley.' And beneath it I had these words engraved :

" 'She left the world as clean as she came into it.' "

_________________

9: Told in Glass

C. S. Montanye

1892-1948

The Black Mask, Nov 1920

THE neighbors on Christopher Square called him Old Man Johnson. He had a little basement shop where he dealt in second hand automobile parts. He lived in the, rear of the store and the Square knew him as an inventor. It did not know what he invented, but it was accustomed to seeing a light in the store at all hours. If one looked down into the black areaway they could see the old man at work among his tools, his ragged gray beard drooping over his bench.

One day Christopher Square hummed with news concerning Old Man Johnson.

Big Harry Westley, the King of Con Men, discussed the news with Lefty Blumfeld, alias Morrison Taylor, over a table in the front room of the West Side Social Club, located at the end of the Square. Westley was large, florid and impressive. Crookdom respected his genius. It was said that Westley could cut Central Park up into building lots and sell them for cash. He had served two jail terms, but had lost none of his nerve or pompous exterior.

Lefty Blumfeld, alias Morrison Taylor, was undersized. He was built along the lines of a gorilla. He had a low, bulging forehead and beady black eyes. His bull neck was short and thick. His hands were covered with coarse black hair. They were gnarled and pitted from laboratory work. He made nitro-glycerine for petermen and blasters when he was not out on a job himself. He had done a stretch of six years in the State penitentiary and was as rapacious and merciless as a coiled cobra.

"Did you hear the news about Old Man Johnson?" Westley inquired, lighting a fat cigar with a flourish.

Blumfeld tossed off three fingers of underground rye whiskey. He dried his lips on the back of his hand.

"No. What about him?"

The big con man tilted back his chair and chuckled.

"Everyone is talking about Old Man Johnson. He sold an invention to some big company up the state. He's been paid ten thousand dollars in advance royalties. Charlie Hill saw the check and so it's not air. The old geezer has cleaned up. Ten grands— I guess that's rotten."

Blumfeld ran his finger around the inside rim of his whiskey glass.

"What's the invention?" he asked after a pause.

Westley shook his head and shrugged.

"Search me. Nobody seems to know. Charlie Hill asked him, but Johnson said it was a secret. It must be something good or he wouldn't have got such dough."

Blumfeld nodded moodily.

"Yes, it must be," he said.

Westley flicked the ash from the end of his cigar and chuckled again.

"Ten thousand dollars," he observed reflectively, "is a lot of dough. I'll have to wander up to Moy Ling's after awhile and smoke a couple of pipes of scamish. Poppy makes me dream clever schemes. I was full of hop the time I took that Florida lawyer for his currency kick. Old Man Johnson isn't used to sudden wealth. I'll dream out a way to separate him from his cush. When I get it I'll buy you the best dinner in town, Lefty."

"Like hell!" Blumfeld grunted.

Westley smiled and looked at his watch. He stood up and pulled down his waistcoat. He placed seventy-five cents on the table to pay for the liquor he had consumed and fingered his closely shaven chin.

"Well, I've got to be moving. Be good to yourself and be leary of the red-necks. I've just got about six minutes to grab a short."

He nodded affably and moved away. Through the front windows of the club Blumfeld saw him stride briskly across the square. The nitro-glycerine expert sat stiffly still. Ten thousand dolars! He hardly knew there was so much money in the world. And it was in the possession of a doddering inventor who lived in a mean cellar!

Blumfeld's beady eyes glittered. When he considered the magnitude of the sum he felt dazed. For a long interval he sat with expressionless face and staring eyes. After a time he got up. He took a few steps toward the door, returned and picked up the seventy-five cents Big Harry Westley had laid on the table. He shoved it into his pocket, deciding he needed it more than the waiter.

Slouching out of the club, he descended the front steps and stepped onto the cracked pavement of Christopher Square. The late September afternoon was dying in a conflagration of sunset fire. The sky was brazen with raw scarlet, amethyst and silver-and-purple. Lights were winking in the waterfront rigging, a block distant. The river was boisterous with the voice of sirens and the shrill of whistles. The wraith of evening shook out her black draperies that were pinned with stars.

Blumfeld turned east. He walked two blocks. He came in sight of the building in the cellar of which Old Man Johnson maintained his shop. He saw the inventor's ancient sign hanging from its metal stanchion like a one-legged acrobat. Drawing close to the areaway, Blumfeld leaned over and peered down. Somewhere in the shop below an oil lamp burned. In its uncertain radiance Blumfeld observed the stooped figure of the proprietor.

Turning to the iron stairway that led steeply down into the basement, Blumfeld drew his lips back over his teeth and smiled. He descended the steps and opened the front door. He entered and closed it after him. The shop was warm and stuffy with the odor of paint and grease. Blumfeld hardly noticed it. His quick gaze darted to the work-bench over which Old Man Johnson hung. He saw the inventor was old and feeble. The eyes of the man were blue and faded. His skin was wrinkled like yellow parchment. He wore a disreputable old pair of oil-stained trousers, a collarless flannel shirt that exposed his turkey neck and a pencil-stuffed vest held together by one button.

"You got a second hand drive shaft for a Brown and Blue taxi?" Blumfeld said, as the inventor looked up.

Old Man Johnson shook his head.

"No, I haven't," he said in a thin husky voice.

Blumfeld allowed his gaze to wander about the place.

"Got any gears or transmission parts?"

The inventor shook his white head again.

"No; I don't think I have. All the parts are piled up in the corner over there. I'm going out of business, so if you find anything you can use you can have it at your own price."

He indicated a heap of metal stacked up in one corner. Blumfeld shuffled across to it. He pawed idly over it. While he did this he plumbed the room with his beady eyes. He made a mental photograph of the way the shop was arranged, of a single window that opened on to an alley running past it, and of a door that went into what was presumably the living quarters of the inventor.

When he had observed all that interested him, Blumfeld straightened up and turned his back on the heap of metal.

"Find anything?" Old Man Johnson asked.

Blumfeld shook his head.

"No. I'll come around next week. Maybe you'll have a shaft picked up by then."

The inventor smiled faintly.

"I won't be here next week. I'm selling out. I'm going out of business. I'm leaving for Rochester on Monday. I'm an inventor and I only kept this little place here until I struck oil."

Blumfeld allowed himself to look impressed.

"Is that right? So you struck oil. I guess that means you sold an invention. You must have knocked out large kale if you're going to Rochester."

The interest of his caller appeared to please the old man. He wiped his hands on a piece of cotton waste and put some tobacco in the bowl of his black pipe.

"It took me twenty years to perfect my invention," he explained, with a touch of pride. "Many times I thought I had made it, only to discover some hidden flaw. People I told about it said it couldn't be done and thought I was crazy to even try it. Three months ago I knew I had triumphed. I put the invention to every possible test and it made good. I applied for a patent and sent my work to a big manufacturing concern in Rochester. They tested
it for two months and then agreed to purchase the right to manufacture it. They sent me ten thousand dollars and a contract. I'm going to Rochester, as I said, to take charge of the making of them."

Blumfeld, receiving verification of Big Harry's statement, felt satisfaction tingling keenly within him. He had almost believed that it was opium that put the words in the mouth of the big con man.

"So you got ten thousand dollars," he murmured. "That's a lot of money. You want to hold on to it tight. I guess you know the Square is a pretty tough place. Don't let no one bunk the jack away from you, or stick you up for it."

Old Man Johnson looked, serious.

"Never fear, I won't. I have it hidden where no one can find it. It's safe."

Blumfeld smiled.

"That's the eye! Hang onto it. I'm sorry you ain't got what I'm after. Good luck to you when you get to Rochester.

At the door Blumfeld stopped, seized by a sudden thought.

"By the way," he said, "what was it you invented?"

The inventor picked up a file from the bench.

"It's a secret," he replied slowly. "It's a secret until it's put on the market—"

ii

AT ELEVEN o'clock Blumfeld emerged from the east side stuss house where he had run his purloined seventy-five cents up to six dollars. A pleasant sense of success swam in his blood. His good fortune was an omen that fickle Luck smiled upon him. On such a night as this he might conquer in any deed in which he figured or any endeavor he applied his hand to.

At the corner of the street he traversed he boarded a surface car. He rode twelve blocks and transferred to a cross-town car. The second car took him as far as Harrigan Avenue, where he alighted. He continued east, treading a labyrinth of side streets that emptied like sewers along the waterfront. Where the river's breath was damp, foul and cold, Blumfeld turned south. A few minutes later he entered Christopher Square by its west termination.

He passed the social club where he had sat and talked with Big Harry. The strains of jazz crept out through lighted windows. Evidently a dance was in progress. He wondered if it was all right to stop off for a hooker of illicit whiskey. He decided not to and quickened his step as if to outpace temptation. When the ten thousand dollars of Old Man Johnson's was his he could buy a hundred cases of hootch. He could fill a tub full of rye and bathe in it if he so desired.

The pleasant stream of imagination he floated down emptied him into the bayou of Broken Dreams. He shook himself as he sighted his destination. The hanging sign of the inventor loomed before him— the black area-way of the basement shop which was as dark as the inside of a pocket. Blumfeld made sure his movements were not being observed and squatted down. He looked into the shop as far as he could but saw no trace of any light.

Arising, he surveyed the Square. Music still seeped out from the club. No loiterer shuffled through the shad- ows. He descended the areaway stairs. The door he had opened earlier in the evening confronted him. Quick inspec- tion told Blumfeld it was locked and bolted on the inside in such a way as to make forcing it impossible. He mut- tered a curse and crept down the area-
way. He climbed a fence and dropped down into an alley that fringed the building. He came upon the single window of the shop and drew a breath of satisfaction when he found the top pane was lowered an inch or two. . It was the work of a minute to draw the lower sash up, swing quietly across the sill and step down onto the floor of the store.

So much accomplished without mishap, Blumfeld grew cautious. Old Man Johnson was an inventor. It was likely he had rigged up some device that would make known the presence of an intruder. Blumfeld knew he would have to be wary or he would stumble into a snare. He opened the blade of a large, heavy knife and felt his way to the door that opened into the living rooms beyond. Twice he stubbed his foot on some bit of metal lying about. He reached the door without accident otherwise and felt about the frame. At first he discovered nothing, then as he dug his nails into the plaster he found the presence of a number of fine, silk-covered wires. He cut them one at a time and dropped a hand to the knob of the door.

It opened at his touch with scarce a creak.

Blumfeld passed into stark blackness perfumed with the reek of a kerosene lamp. Its odor took him carefully across the room. He discovered the location of the lamp and felt its chimney. Its warmth told him it had been extinguished only a short time.

Blumfeld turned slowly. He must learn if this room was the bedchamber of the inventor or not. He longed to kindle a match, but knew its glare would betray him if Johnson was awake. He began to step forward, laying his hand against the furniture it encountered. He touched a chair and a small table, but they told him nothing. He had no way of knowing where he was until his knees suddenly came in contact with something cold and hard and investigation caused him to expel a breath of relief. His exploring hands felt a mattress and a blanket.

While he considered the next move, Blumfeld stiffened cautiously. The bed creaked with the weight of some one turning over in it. After what seemed an eternity, a thin, husky voice came out of the staring murk.

"I have a fully loaded revolver covering you! I will—"

Blumfeld did not wait to hear the rest of it. With a snarl he flung himself forward. He crashed against a figure that fell back with a soft cry, a cry that was abruptly shut off by the grip of his fingers. Something hard clattered to the floor with a dull, metallic ring. Wisps of beard scratched Blumfeld's face. With his free hand he ripped a piece from the blanket, wadded it together and stuffed it into the man's mouth, forcing his jaws open and digging a knee into his stomach so that no scream might awake discordant echoes. When he had neatly gagged his victim he ended weak struggles with a vicious blow and using other strips of the blanket bound Johnson's wrists and ankles tightly together.

Stepping away from the bed Blumfeld struck a match.

He turned up the wick of the oil lamp and lighted it. The room boasted two windows and both displayed drawn shades. It was sparsely furnished as a bedroom, containing a bureau with a mirror, table, chair and trunk. Blum- feld dropped down on the top of the trunk. He dug out the stub of a cigarette from his pocket and after kindling it looked casually at the trussed up man on the bed. He grinned when the faded blue eyes met his bravely and steadily.

"I came back," Blumfeld said. "I came back to get them ten thousand smackers you were bragging about. If you come clean with me you won't get hurt. If you try any funny stuff you'll never go to Rochester. You'll go to a place where money ain't no use. Nod your head if you understand."

The inventor nodded. Blumfeld picked up the revolver from the floor and pocketed it.

"Are you ready to tell me where the money is at? Nod yes or no."

The old man inclined his head. Blumfeld crossed to him and leaned over.

"I'm going to slip the gag out of your peep. If you open your trap to yell I'll cave in your conk!"

He removed the makeshift gag and the inventor licked his lips.

"C'mon, spit out the dope!" Blumfeld ordered impatiently.

"I will tell you nothing!" the old man said huskily. "What it took me twenty years to earn I will share with no one ! No matter what you do to me no information will pass my lips! I will meet my fate unafraid! And I will know that you cannot escape the consequences of your crime! The work of my hand and the child of my brain will reach out, even from the grave, and overtake you!"

With a snarl Blumfeld jammed the gag back into the inventor's mouth. He pushed the old man savagely back among the pillows and struck him again with his fist. For a few minutes he sat silent, his face dark with thought. At length he stood up, slapped his thigh with a exclamation and walked to the lamp. He opened the blade of his heavy knife and laid it across the mouth of the chimney, looking back at the cot with a wide grin.

"Maybe a little burning on the soles of your feet will make you loosen up ! I'll torture you before I croak you, and even if you don't tell me what I want to know I'll find out! I'll turn these rooms upside down !"

He lifted the knife from the chimney and saw that its blade had turned white-hot. He wrapped his handkerchief around the handle and with a single move drew the sheets and blankets off the bed....

iii

THREE days later as Blumfeld slouched out of the east side lodging- house where he roomed, a man stepped across the pavement and laid a hand on his arm. Synchronously another man stepped out of the passing crowd and caught hold of his left arm, moving it up and out.

Before Blumfeld could draw a breath, something cold encircled each wrist— a sharp click sounded.

"You are wanted, Lefty!" the first man said briefly. "Charge of bumping off Old Man Johnson, the inventor, down on Christopher Square last week."

Blumfeld lifted his face, his lips drawn back over his yellow teeth.

"You're crazy with the heat!" he snarled. "I haven't been on Christopher Square in two weeks. I've been away. I've been in Chi— "

The second man smiled.

"There is no use of lying, Lefty. We have Old Man Johnson's invention down at headquarters. It showed us who croaked him and told us who to look for. We've got the man— you are he!"

Blumfeld licked his lips. "What invention are you talking about?"

His first captor exchanged a look with his companion.

"Something that's going to stand this country on its ear when it hears about it," he answered. "The old man invented a mirror. He had one in the bureau in his bedroom. It's a mirror that retains the reflection of the last person who passes before it."

_________________

10: A Brother of the Leopard

William J. Makin

1894-1944

Blue Book, May 1934

WHEN you met the man, you inevitably met the leopard....

Man and leopard contemplated everyone through greenish eyes shining with predatory, jungle instincts. What could they get out of you? When you paid your bill to Ramón da Costa, proprietor of the white-ant-ridden hotel misnamed the Splendide, at Mozambique, the half-caste's approving smirk was also reflected in the purring of the leopard couched at his feet.

"Doesn't that leopard frighten away your guests, Da Costa?" I once asked him.

Both man and beast eyed me closely. Then the half-caste smiled.

"No, I think not, sair," he replied. "Men who like me, like my leopard. Is it not so, Ramón?"

He had named the beast after himself. The leopard lifted his fierce head, opened a pair of lazy green eyes for a second, and then sank into immobility.

"You don't like my leopard, senhor?" challenged Da Costa.

I shrugged my shoulders.

"I suppose it keeps the rats out of the place."

"Ramón is a good killer," he replied. "He prowls only at night."

I took my change and a sardonic chuckle from Da Costa. Both he and the cursed leopard knew that I was a prisoner in that ant-ridden hotel of Mozambique until the Portuguese officials had signed a certain concession I was seeking. I couldn't afford the more expensive hotel, two hundred yards along the coral reef. Therefore the chuckle.

When Da Costa laughed, the white scar across his cheek where the leopard had once stroked him, would redden against his café-au-lait complexion.

"I had knifed him," explained the half-caste. "He clawed me. Our blood mingled. So we became blood-brothers— man and leopard."

And with an almost feline gesture, he dropped a ringed hand and stroked the beast at his feet.

"That's a mighty queer pet to meet in a hotel lobby," drawled an American voice, over my shoulder one blistering morning. "Guess he's tame enough, eh?"

I turned with a start. Europeans are rare enough in Mozambique, but an American was unique. I found myself facing one of the tamest-looking men I've ever seen.

He was a little, portly, bald-headed individual blinking benevolently through tinted sun-glasses. He carried a sun-shade in one hand and a large silk handkerchief in the other. Constantly he mopped his perspiring brow. But what seized my attention were his gloved hands.

Only once before had I seen gloved hands in the tropics. They were possessed by that extraordinary Frenchman, Georges Clemenceau, who wore them throughout his journeys in India and Malaya. He even went tiger-shooting wearing the famous gloves. Those who knew, realized that they hid his eczema-scarred hands. But for an American to be seen wearing gloves on a coral reef in Africa was indeed startling.

As this little portly figure entered the hotel, I caught a glimpse of the Indian Ocean beyond, as blinding as a nickel bath.

"The cursed leopard is a pest, not a pet," I said, turning and eying the beast distastefully. "Have a drink, will you?"

"Thank you," he replied, flopping with a sigh into one of the cane chairs. "I think I might have a sarsaparilla. "

"I doubt it," I said; "but we'll shock Da Costa by asking. Did you land from that German freighter that arrived this morning ?"

"Yes, I've booked a return passage aboard her on her next call."

"That's ten days hence."

He nodded his bald head.

"I know. Ten days here will just suit me."

I regarded the little man with pity.

"Let me whisper a word of advice," I began. "Both the hotels in this place are pretty awful. But the other is paradise compared with this. If you've a few dollars to spare, I should grab your baggage and—"

He smiled, a timid smile through false teeth. At the same time he raised a protesting gloved hand.

"I like this hotel, the Splendide. I like the proprietor, Ramón da Costa. Yes, and I like his leopard."

As though they had been announced in ceremonious fashion by the ringmaster of a circus, both man and leopard shuffled into the sun-faded lounge of the hotel at that moment.

"All nice people like me and my leopard, sair," he smirked. "And we like nice people, Ramón?"

The leopard lifted up its head, and its white whiskers twitched in the awful semblance of a grin.

"Have you any sarsaparilla, Da Costa?" I asked, abruptly.

"What in 'ell is sarsaparilla?" asked the half-caste.

"I'm afraid soft drinks are unknown here," I apologized to the American.

"Soft drinks!" ejaculated Da Costa. "I have somewhere a sirop."

"A sirop sounds good to me," said the little man blithely.

"One sirop—and something else." I nodded to Da Costa.

"Yes, senhor."

He shuffled away with the leopard in his wake.

The tired, perspiring face of the American watched them go. He indi- cated their departure with a gesture of a gloved hand.

"Just like brothers," he murmured.

"They are brothers, blood-brothers," I growled. "It's a great pity that the native superstition of blood-bond doesn't work in practice."

"Why?"

"Because if the leopard died, then the blood-brother would also die," I replied.

THE man with the gloved hands mopped his brow and blinked at me through his tinted spectacles,

"That's a strange idea," he murmured. "To tell me more about it."

"Oh, it's only an African witchcraft story that the blacks believe in." I yawned. "Some of the natives claim a blood-bond with one or another of the beasts. Perhaps it is a lion, a leopard, or even a jackal. It's even believed that the man changes into the beast, or the beast into man, at will. But if the beast dies, so does the man. Black magic."

"I find it thrilling," he breathed.

I looked up in surprise.

"I think it's revolting," I said bluntly. "It's the basic idea behind those secret African societies, the chief of which is that known as the Leopard Men. But that's another story. I'm merely outlining the African ju-ju idea. In Europe they have labeled it, professionally, as 'lycanthropy.' If you're really interested I suggest that when you get back to civilization you read Frazer's Golden Bough. He's got a lot to say about it."

"And so has Petronius," murmured the little fat man.

Once again I narrowed my eyes at this strange character. He did not appeal to be the type of man who read Petronius in leisure moments.

"What exactly is your business?" I asked him pointedly.

"I make a modest living selling cuff-buttons and such like," he replied.

"And your name?"

"Dell. Er— Dwight Dell."

I had to smile. Both the name and the occupation appeared innocuous.

He smiled back at me.

At the same moment Ramón da Costa carried in a tray containing our drinks. The leopard padded behind him. Seeing us smile, Da Costa also smirked. Even the leopard twitched its whiskers. Three foolish men and a leopard!

Those gloved hands fascinated me. The little, bald-headed American was never without them. But before many days passed, those gloved hands seemed to me as ordinary as the black paws of the native servants as they placed dishes before us.

In the same way I accustomed myself to the tinted spectacles. That he wore them constantly, beneath lamplight as well as sunlight, became as matter of fact as the malaria-shot eyes of our half-caste hotel proprietor. After all, the American who said his name was Dwight Dell was a typical synthetic product of the modern business world— false teeth, spectacles, gloves and, I felt sure, a false name too.

But what I could not accustem myself to was the man's preoccupation with the subject of lycanthropy. It is astonishing how an old idea, coming new to man, will be taken up with enthusiasm and harden into an obsession. And so it was with Dwight Dell, in the idea of a man changing by some magic into a beast.

"Tt fascinates me," he apologized meekly, when after an hour's question- ing on the subject one day I had asked him to change the conversation. "Can you visualize the strange metamorphosis in the moonlight, the human form changing slowly into a slinking, hungry beast? Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in the jungle. I must study the subject thoroughly and write an article for the Smithsonian."

"Let me advise you to stick to selling shirt-links," I suggested. "It's much safer, more practical and, I've no doubt, more profitable. By the way, you're not out here in Africa to sell shirt-links, are you?"

THE little man stroked his bald head and smiled benignantly at me.

"I should be bankrupt in a month if I tried. I'm here on vacation.... And when I discover a man and a leopard so closely related as our friend Da Costa and the beast that pads after him— well, I guess I'm like a boy entering a circus tent for the first time."

I groaned, as he brought back the conversation to that one inevitable topic.

"Da Costa has made the beast worship him by clever trickery," I said. "He will pet it or whip it— as the mood seizes him. The leopard cringes, for it realizes it has a master. And De Costa is master because of his tricks."

The fat little man adjusted his spectacles and shook his head.

"I don't agree," he said mildly. "A trick is a trick, and can be explained. That is bluff, and you cannot bluff a beast. For example!" His podgy hands grasped the full pack of cards that was stacked on the table. "I take this pack of cards in my hand, and in a moment, they are so—"

There was a sudden flash of his wrists, and the whole pack was torn in half. I stared with astonishment. The fellow must have had wrists of steel. He smiled apologetically and dropped his podgy hands out of my sight.

"That was a trick," he went on. "But it proves nothing. I cannot play a single game of cards. If you insisted upon an evening at poker, for example, it is probable that you would own my cuff-button factory in Connecticut before the morning."

I laughed.

"I should hate to own a factory, anyhow. Let's have a drink."

"I will have a— sirop," Dwight Dell bravely announced.

"That bottle of sirop is almost feenished, senhor?" smirked the voice of Da Costa in the background. He had pended silently into the room, followed by the leopard.

"It will probably last out my stay," remarked the fat little man. "The freighter sails tomorrow night."

"And you depart, sair?" asked Da Costa, sopping some deadly pink stuff into the fellow's glass.

"For New York," nodded Dwight Dell.

"And is beesness, then, it is feenished—like my sirop?" smiled Da Costa.

"I shall have finished it before morning," murmured the other, spurting seltzer into his glass.

"I thought you said this was a vacation," I said idly, holding out my glass for the whisky-bottle.

For a moment there was a shrewd glance at me through those spectacles.

"An American business-man can't resist a deal, even on a vacation," he said quietly.

It was at that moment the leopard snarled. Both Da Costa and myself swiveled round in surprise. The beast was crouched on the floor, its tail swinging, and the whole of its spotted body quivering for the spring. The whiskers spouting from its soft nose quivered. And the teeth were bared, showing the ugly yellow fangs.

"Good God, Da Costa!" I almost screamed. "Hold him!"

BUT even as I cried out, and my glass crashed to the floor, the leopard was transformed. The fierce, hungry look of a hunting beast died in those greenish eyes. Anger was smoothed from its snouted visage. The leopard cringed, even as Da Costa cringed before the mild Dwight Dell. "I am veree sorry, sair," he whimpered. "Such a thing has never 'appened before. —Ramón, you disgrace me!"

The leopard slunk aside. It crawled in abject submission. With a snarl of sudden rage Da Costa loosed his foot at it. The thud of his boot into the soft body of the leopard sickened me. But the beast cringed even more.

"A thousand apologies, sair," gabbled Da Costa. Then once again he turned to the leopard. "Ramón, you come with me!"

The beast followed him out of the room, crawling on its stomach. I grabbed a glass and helped myself liber- ally to the whisky. I drained the glass, and then regarded that little fat man with a curious stare. The incident had photographed itself with almost stereo- scopic clarity on my mind. And what I had remarked most of all was the calm, indifferent stare with which Dwight Dell had regarded that leopard as it was quivering to spring. He might have been regarding a leopard-skin rug, rather than a ferocious beast hungry in tooth and claw. It was that calm stare which had reduced the leopard to its cringing state even before Da Costa had spoken.

"MOST interesting," Dell murmured, and sipped his sirop and seltzer.

"Interesting!" I gabbled, smoothing the sweat from my forehead. "That was the worst minute I've known in Africa for some months."

He did not seem to hear me. His mild blue eyes behind the tinted glasses were lost in cloudy speculation.

"Would you say that lycanthropy was common in Africa?" he asked, pursing his lips. "Do the natives laugh at their own legends of men changing into beasts, or do they really believe in them?"

I lit a cigarette with a shaking hand. The calm of this man who made his living out of shirt-links was shattering to my nerves.

"If you wish in earnest to penetrate below the black, swampy surface of Africa," I said sternly, "I'll tell you of the worst type of murderer in the world—the Leopard Man."

"Ferocious, eh?"

"As ferocious and ruthless as that real leopard that a few moments ago was anxious to claw open your throat," I went on. I was determined that this flabby fool should know some of the horrors of the country into which he had stepped as mildly as though it were a beach in Florida. "The Leopard Man disguises himself as the beast. Oh, no, there is no transformation. All he does is to fling a leopard-skin across his shoulders, draw a cowl over his head, affix steel claws to his hands; and then he waits, lurking in the deep shadows, until his victim appears. Then out he leaps. He kills like those ruthless insane murderers of Europe, Jack the Ripper
and the Diisseldorf fanatic. No mercy, no regrets. Sheer blood lust."

"But isn't the murder premeditated ?" asked Dwight Dell. "Surely he is pay- ing off a score against an enemy?"

"The African never premeditates mur- der," I pointed out. "Crime in this continent is an affair of one passionate moment. It is only the European, the cold, calculating European, who can plot murder in advance."

"And of course, the American," snick- ered the little fellow. 'Don't leave the American out of your calculating crim- inals."

"Once the Leopard Man assumes the skin of the beast, his victim will be the first one to cross the path where he lurks. It may be man, woman or child. Fate alone decides, for the Leopard Man has become as ruthless as the beast he imi- tates."

The man who called himself Dwight Dell stifled a yawn and drained his beastly sirop.

"All of which emphasizes that lycan- thropy does exist," he murmured. "Man here becomes a beast. If he does not do so physically, he can in spirit. Interest- ing—most interesting. I must write that down. Meantime, I think I'll toddle off to bed. Good night."

I nodded casually to this Babbitt in Africa as he shuffled out of the room.

AFRICAN nights keep me awake. In Europe darkness causes men and beasts to droop their heads in sleep; in Africa it brings them quivering and alive. Only the intellectual elect go hunting at night, hunting for ideas. Their eyes glow in the darkness as truth is seen showing through the tangled jungle of the mundane.

It was an idea that sent me hunting that night in the darkness of my bed- room. Why had this little podgy man with the gloved hands insisted upon spending a week in this ant-ridden hotel built upon a coral reef? He had said that his business would be finished that evening. His voice had interpreted that business as though he were some young African passing through the novitiate stage of savagery arranged by some witch-doctor. He was expecting the revelation that comes in the night.

Dwight Dell had lived for business. His podgy form and lack-luster skin assured me of that. But I was already convinced that his business in Mozambique was not connected with shirt-links. He might just as well have sat on the edge of that coral reef tossing his imitation gold links into the livid ocean that laved the coast.

I lit cigarette after cigarette in that hot darkness. Striking a match gave the impression that the whole night might easily flare about me like a sheet of magnesium. And the mingled sounds of Africa awakening in the night, beasts and men, came to me in the hazy confused fashion of a badly tuned wireless set.

A whining and snarling note persisted. I heard the sound of bared claws tearing the sun-baked earth. It drew me to the window overlooking the cactus garden which, in the moonlight, gave the im- pression of a dead landscape on another planet. But something moved. I looked again. Glittering green eyes were lifted toward me. At first I thought it was a jackal. Then the moonlight caught the ripple of the spotted body. Ramon the leopard— loose in the garden.

But I could have sworn that it was Ramón da Costa, half-caste, that looked into my face at that moment. Moonlight trickery— the haze of my cigarette. It had gone, and it was a clawing beast that whined and spat a few yards below me. As I turned my back upon it and regarded my bed, draped ghostly with the mosquito net, a cold chill suddenly gripped me. For out of that hot darkness came a howl, a dying howl of something half beast and half human. I shivered, as though with fever. Then a curse rose to my lips. That damned leopard, loose in the garden, was making the night hideous.

FROM that moment, events came to me as through the acute consciousness of a blind man. I had closed the shutters of my window. Darkness enveloped me. And following upon that dying howl, there ensued deep silence— the silence of snow. Then I heard a lazy shuffle. So Dwight Dell was awake too. His room was next to mine. His shuffle reminded me of an elephant moving cautiously in the long grass. I almost laughed at the simile. But the next moment the laugh died away!

Another sound had followed that shuffle. The pad-pad of a beast. There was a beast in the passage. I could even scent it. And the paws moved with the swift determination of a beast hunting its prey. Velvet paws in the night. In three strides I reached the little table in my room and groped in a drawer for my revolver. The cool feel of it within my fingers steadied my nerves.

T hesitated. At the same time I listened. Gently I pushed open the shut- ters of my window and glanced down at that garden now stark in the moonlight. It was empty. I stared, like a mes- merized man, seeking those glittering orbs that a few moments ago had looked up at me. The leopard had gone.

Even as the lazy shuffle of slippered feet mingled with the padding of the paws, I realized that it was the leopard Ramon that prowled about the ant-rid- den hotel. I smiled at my own nervousness. Nothing to fear from Ramon. Nothing to fear from Dwight Dell. Nothing to fear from— The revolver was slipped back into the drawer. Stupidly I lit another cigarette and lounged to- ward my bed.

What was that? Heavy breathing and a scuffle. My nerves were ragged with heat and queer sounds. I stood tense, in a listening attitude. Something was happening in the room next to mine. I thought I heard a groan, then the thud of something soft and heavy. That darkness was pregnant with mysterious movement.

Once again I took that revolver in my hand. This time, with a sob of fear expanding within me like a blown soap-bubble and ready to explode in a cry, I opened the door of my room and peered into the corridor. Darkness. The impenetrable darkness that only a blind man could negotiate. Nevertheless I stepped into it, walked into it, and hesitated at the door of Dwight Dell's room. There was again a stifled groan.

I knocked. No answer. I knocked again. As though through the mists of sleep came the drowsy voice of the podgy vendor of shirt-links.

"What is it?"

"You all right, Dell?"

"Of course I'm all right. shouldn't I be all right ?"

My fingers had grasped the knob of his door. I half turned it, intending to enter. Then I thought better of it. I would have been a frightening apparition for an American businessman— a figure in white pajamas gripping a revolver in one hand. Not only frightening, but absurdly melodramatic.

"Sorry," I murmured. "I thought I heard a queer noise. Good night."

"Good night."

I drifted back to my room, I felt myself a sheepish figure. The bed and its mosquito net yawned at me. I yawned back, and tumbled into its filmy forgetfulness. In a few minutes I was fast asleep. Only once did I awake with a start and thrust my hand like a drowning man against that enfolding wave of net:

There had been a thud in the night.

NIGHTMARES are dispersed with the dawn. On this morning, nightmare became a reality.

I was awakened by a scared native servant who babbled incoherently in Swahili. Only after a few seconds' shaking of a black body did I gather the sense of his Swahili outburst.

"The leopard is dead— and so is the bwana."

Natural, I suppose, for the African to speak of the beast first and the man afterward. His bulging eyes told me that he was convinced that ju-ju had stalked through that ant-ridden hotel at night, leaving a trail of death. Still in my pajamas, I hurried after him.

Ramón da Costa leered at us through the blackened face of death. He had been strangled. He lay across his own desk, with his tongue protruding. I noted in the first shock of that discovery that his hand gripped the bill of one of his guests, the bill of Dwight Dell that he was to present that morning. One finger seemed to point to an item ridiculously clear: "Sirops— 50 escudos." And to justify the amount, the empty bottle stood on a shelf above his body.

"How did this happen?" I asked. The native servant shook his head.

"I do not know, bwana. I came into the room. This is what I saw.... But there is the leopard. You must see the leopard, bwana."

There was all the awe of witchcraft-ridden Africa in his voice and manner as he led me into the garden, once again sun-baked and dusty in the dawn. There, lying in the spot where I had glimpsed it from my window in the moonlit darkness, the leopard lay— strangled. Its fangs were bared in a similar leer to that of its master. Beast and man had a strange dreadful likeness in death.

Instinctively I gazed up toward the hotel. My own shuttered window was immediately above. Next to it was the open bedroom window of Dwight Dell. I was about to call out to him, but thought better of it. That dead leopard at my feet and the dead man inside instinctively made me whisper.

"Go bring the Commissar of Police," I ordered the native boy.

He scuttled from that garden with cheerful alacrity.

I went back into the little office. The horrible scene had shaken me. Mechanically I reached out a hand for a bottle of whisky that stood on a shelf. I poured myself out a stiff dose and drank it in one gulp. Then I swung round nervously to gaze once again upon that blackened face. The features were rigid with terror. Although the tongue stuck out, derisively, the whole face might have been a nightmare bronze mask sculptured by an artist who had glimpsed terror and caught it static.

I was lighting a cigarette, when a movement in that room of death caused me to stand transfixed. The door was slowly opening. A gloved hand appeared, and the next moment the face of Dwight Dell came into view.

"GOOD heavens! What does this mean?" the man who sold shirt-links stammered at the sight of that body lying across the desk.

But I did not reply immediately, for I was staring blankly at his lack-luster face. This was Dwight Dell, and yet not Dwight Dell. For a few seconds I was puzzled. Then I realized what had happened. He was without his tinted spectacles.

"Da Costa has been strangled," I said slowly.

At the same time I felt tongue-tied. This man was a stranger to me. I was gazing into blue eyes that were an acute contrast to the mild expression of his face— steely blue eyes. Their gaze rested for a moment upon the body of the half-caste, and I saw a swift gleam of hatred cross them. The eyes of the leopard had shone like that last night.

"Where is the leopard?" asked Dwight Dell quietly.

"Also strangled."

He lifted his head. A gloved hand went instinctively to stroke his baldness. But the face winced with pain. The gloved hand fell away.

"Queer," he said.

"Very queer."

"That we should have talked of lycanthropy— and then this."

He nodded gravely at the figure lying athwart the desk.

"Very queer," I repeated.

"Do you believe that the man died while the leopard was being strangled?" he asked.

I shook my head.

"I know that they were strangled separately— by the same hands," I said slowly. At the same time I gave him a pair of tinted spectacles. "I found these on the desk a few moments ago. Better wear them. The Commissar of Police will be here soon."

He took them and slipped them easily across those steely blue eyes. His podgy face resumed its blank expression.

"Thank you," he said simply.

Everything went according to plan— Portuguese plan.

The Commissar of Police and his two assistants had filled that little office. With a callous disregard for the body on the desk, they had helped themselves liberally to liquor, smoked innumerable cigarettes and questioned the servants until these natives were almost hysterical with terror. One had fled promptly into the bush, and the police were mildly discussing the futility of hunting him.

I had stayed in that room for exactly five minutes. Then the atmosphere became unbearable. I had watched Dwight Dell gaze curiously at the bill which Da Costa had compiled before he was strangled, and I had stood amazed while the American placidly counted out a number of notes with his gloved hands and placed them on the table against the starkly dead hand.

"One must pay one's debts, even to the dead," he said, with all the gravity of an American businessman.

"You are leaving, then, senhor?" asked the Commissar of Police.

"By the freighter that sails this evening," replied Dwight Dell. "There is no need for me to stay, I suppose?"

"None at all, senhor,"' replied the Commissar, politely pocketing the notes with which the American had paid his hotel bill. "You slept soundly and heard nothing in the night?"

"I never slept better in my life," murmured the American. "And now, if you will excuse me, I'll pack."

"AND it is perfectly true, I never did sleep sounder in my life— after two o'clock," murmured Dwight Dell to me as we sat in the cabin of the freighter anchored off Mozarnbique. The last batch of cargo was being hauled aboard, and the strange conversation was synco- pated by the rattle of the winches.

"Why did you kill Da Costa?" I asked him bluntly.

Behind those tinted glasses his eyes regarded me shrewdly.

"Why didn't you tell the police that I had murdered Da Costa?" he countered.

I shrugged my shoulders.

"I really can't tell you. I had no love for Da Costa. I confess that I hated him— and his damned leopard."

A smile curled Dwight Dell's lips.

"That is nothing to the insensate hatred with which I confronted Da Costa last night, his final night on this earth," he said quietly. "I have been searching six years for that man. At last I found him, and he paid the penalty for the wrong he had done to a woman."

"Who was she?"

"My daughter," he said simply. "Ann met Da Costa in the midst of that pea- nut picnic which in New York we call Coney Island. Da Costa was in a side- show. He and his leopard performed before a crowd at ten cents a head. Those half-castes are good-looking in their early youth. He appealed to Ann. She ran away with him. That was the end."

There was a warning hoot of the ship's siren.

"I shall have to be getting ashore," I murmured.

But he had not heard.

"I KNOW my story is the sort that newspaper men throw aside every day as being too commonplace. But then it is the commonplace that often changes into the high-sounding fury of Greek tragedy. Ann's mother died. And something died in me. I only wanted to avenge myself on that cursed half-caste. Hatred kept me alive. Selling cuff-but- tons was merely the means to the end.

"I heard occasionally of the travels of the man, the woman and the leopard. They drifted from show to show, followed the trek of circuses, displayed themselves before the gaping mobs in cities and villages. And I heard that Ann was treated worse than the leopard. She was starved, beaten, and finally abandoned. I found her dying at the back of a hurdy-gurdy on Coney Island— a few yards from where her romance had started. I was too late to save her.

"Then back to the selling of cuff-buttons. I prospered. But all the time I paid for information, press-clippings, references, gossip— anything that concerned a man and his leopard. You spoke to me about lycanthropy on the first day I  arrived here. I knew all there was to be known about the subject. I had studied it because it gave me the idea of murder. I came to Mozambique as soon as I heard that Da Costa and his leopard had settled here."

"He didn't recognize you?"

"No; he had never seen me before."

"But the name— Dwight Dell?"

"That is not my name."

I stared at the strange figure with the gloved hands and tinted spectacles. "You walked into Da Costa's office last night and strangled him?" I said.

He nodded.

"I took off my spectacles. I began to talk. And when he looked into my eyes, he realized that he had to die. He was about to call out. But my hands were at his throat, and the cry was stifled. Only the leopard, the roaming leopard, heard. It flung itself against the door in a vain effort to rescue its master. But it could not get in."

"I heard it," I said.

"But in order to make the murder seem one of black magic, of African lycanthropy, I had to kill the leopard. I let the beast into the house. It went straight for its master, licked his hand, and then padded toward my room with murder shining in its eyes. I let it enter my room. For there was murder in my  eyes too. I was determined to kill this beast that had looked on at the degradation of my daughter. It leaped at me. I caught it by the throat—"

"And you actually strangled the beast!" I gasped, amazed.

Once again he nodded.

"When it was dead, I carried it to the window and flung the body back into the garden. My revenge was complete."

I stared with new respect at this podgy little man who claimed to have strangled a leopard. I admit that it had been done before in Africa, but only by famous and intrepid big-game hunters. Jimmy Sutherland had once strangled a leopard in Kenya. But this was surely the first time that a man whose business was selling shirt-links had performed such a feat.

"Ee ship's siren sounded two warning haots

"I would like to shake hands with you," I said, impulsively holding out my own.

His own gloved hand stretched out, and was quickly withdrawn.

"You must excuse me," he apologized. "The leopard—"

I gazed fascinated as, for the first time, he began slowly to draw from his hands those gloves. I saw two hands lacerated from the claws of the leopard. But I realized at that same instant why his hands were always gloved.

They possessed short, stumpy fingers, below thick wrists and hands of tre- mendous power. They were the hands of a strangler.

I left the cabin abruptly, and descended over the side of the ship into a waiting dhow.... I never saw him again.

___________________

11: Khyada

Georges Surdez

1900-1949

Adventure 1 Feb 1932

IT WAS after the storming of the Moroccan village of Khyada, in the Middle Atlas, that Sergeant Stoeckel acquired his most famous pet. But long before that, the Legionnaires of the Second Foreign Regiment of Infantry had boasted that Michel Stoeckel had a way with animals, and had told countless stories to prove his rare power over them.

"Ever hear of Grenadier? That was his first poodle in the Legion," a graying private would start. "There was a dog. Knew all the bugle calls, could hide his feelings better than most human beings. And you could always tell when an officer was coming. Grenadier had a special bark for officers."

Then another man would mention Bico, a jackal which Stoeckel had captured, tamed and trained while with the mounted company in the Sahara. Bico would ride on a mule, perform all the ordinary tricks taught dogs. But once in awhile, the nostalgia for the wide open spaces would grip him and he would vanish for weeks, to return to the company wherever it had moved in the meantime.

Thus far the star of Stoeckel's numerous collection had been a tame boar by the name of Hanseli, owned by the sergeant at Gerryville in Algeria— principally because Hanseli was connected with one of those enormously comical episodes which become barrackroom classics. He had frightened a general's horse during a parade.

"That nag just took one look at Hanseli, sniffed and put his head between his knees. The Old Man came sliding off, landed with a thump. You can call me a liar— although there are many still around who saw it as I did— if Hanseli didn't rush forward and poke the general in the stomach, the way Stoeckel had taught him to play."

"What was done about it?"

"Nothing officially. The Old Man knew that the more fuss he made, the funnier the story would be. But Hanseli was found dead a month or so after, shot by mistake, the officers said. Just the same, they never said who made the mistake. Stoeckel is sort of funny about his animals and he might have made a mistake himself."

Stoeckel's reputation was so firmly established that officers sometimes sent young dogs to him for training. Legionnaires who were ambitious to emulate him, and those who were merely curious, would gather to see the first meeting. The sergeant was a rather tall, dark skinned man of thirty-five, not at all unusual in appearance, yet something about him inspired animals with confidence. The new dog would come, slowly, diffidently, but he would come.

Stoeckel would hold out his clenched fist, allow the puppy to smell it at leisure. This was evidently a sacred gesture, for his expression was absorbed, tender, intense. Slowly he would open his hand, touch the dog's head with the tips of his fingers, lightly at first. Then after the usual scratching behind the ears, he would draw him nearer by the skin of the neck.

Once, twice, three times, he would blow his breath gently into the animal's nostrils, laughing softly.

"Now that we're acquainted, come along—"

When with congenial companions, gathered before bottles and glasses, Stoeckel would explain willingly, make his system clear. But others who tried it found themselves bitten in the nose, or rewarded with an enthusiastic flick of a moist tongue full on the lips. The Stoeckel method obviously involved certain particulars not too clear to a man's reasoning.

Aside from this ability to win the affection of animals, Stoeckel was in no way distinguished. He was a brave, sturdy, noncommissioned officer, who obeyed orders like a man deep in a hypnotic trance and expected like obedience from his subordinates. The passion for cleanliness that prevails throughout the corps was a fetish for him. As he was an Alsatian, he was honest of purpose, stubborn and loud.

It was common rumor that his family had cast him off for joining the Legion, and that he had joined because a girl had jilted him. He had barely reached thirty when men started to refer to him as Old Man Stoeckel. This was not because of a weak physique, for he was one of the strongest men in his battalion and owned a solid pair of fists, but because of his mannerisms. A young sergeant of Legion should not lift up a full glass and look at its contents against a light. Only old men suspect liquor.

Strangely enough, Stoeckel had stated, shortly before reaching Khyada, that he would never own another pet. The last, a very smart terrier, had been run over and killed by a staff car, and his master proclaimed that the grief over his death had been out of proportion to the pleasure he had given in life.

"I'm through and I mean it," the sergeant said. "Unless— well, one never can tell. But I don't want anything that'll be on the ground and waiting to be killed. And I don't want any animal that will be hard to take along anywhere. In my twelve years of Legion, I have left five dogs behind. Remember that little pup I had in Syria? I gave her to a captain. He writes me that she still recognizes my name. Cute, all right. But what's the use of having them, if it's only to make them unhappy?"

Perhaps for want of a family interested in him, Stoeckel kept informed as to the various animals which he had owned or trained. The bulk of his mail, aside from tailors' bills, was made up of letters giving him news of his former charges. He kept in his wallet a photograph clipped from a magazine, showing a large shepherd dog he had cared for, in the company of a very handsome woman, the wife of a captain. What revealed his true devotion, a stroke of the scissors had clipped off more than half of the lady's face.

"A prize animal— worth fifteen thousand francs— won a ribbon. Think of that, more than a year's pay. He was sort of a dumb pup, though."

THE taking of Khyada by the Taza mobile group was a pretty operation, carried out according to schedule. The local rebels— they had never submitted to the French, but had owed allegiance in the past to the Sultan— had fought a splendid combat against the head of the column, held on to the village until the artillery dropped a few melinite shells on the flat roofed dwellings.

While the Legion company made for the eastern face of the enclosing wall, a battalion of Senegalese Tirailleurs attacked from the west. Pinched between the two, the defenders had been squeezed out speedily, and fled in the valley below before the pursuing cavalry. Scattered detonations, startling as the last crackling of a spent wood fire, echoed in the distance when Stoeckel, leading the first patrol, entered the village.

He progressed cautiously at the head of his men, crossed toward the marketplace, where he was to meet the Tirailleurs. According to predictions, he saw a group of negro soldiers already gathered there. Their sergeant, a tall, chocolate hued Bambara, introduced himself as Bo Diara. Stoeckel complimented
him on his quick advance and sent him back to inform his lieutenant that the Legion had arrived.

The Legionnaires then sought comfortable spots on which to stretch, the majority selecting the deep shadow thrown by a crumbling wall. The fighting had not been extremely exciting, or dangerous, but they had been very active under a strong sun.

They left the problematic loot to be found in the village to the blacks, knowing from past experience that there was small chance of finding anything of value, and that if they did it would be taken from them by the first officer to come up. And while they were permitted to seek food, they preferred their usual ration to what they might discover in the houses. The Chleuh mountaineers had undoubtedly taken with them all the livestock, and it was very unlikely that they had left so much as an egg.

The negroes felt differently. Many small objects, of no worth to white men, they found desirable, as personal adornment or simply as toys. Stoeckel, who had served near the Senegalese often, identified the blacks in the group before him as West Coast natives, good natured fellows, a trifle timid, not wholly at ease in the khaki uniforms, annoyed by the military boots they were forced to wear.

They were exploring the buildings diligently. One of them emerged with a queer, moving, white bundle, which was immediately concealed from sight by the other Tirailleurs, who grouped about the successful looter and chattered loudly. Stoeckel did not understand their language, and lost interest. But the scene bore directly on what followed.

Private Do Fodu, who came from the shore of the Ebrie Lagoon on the Ivory Coast, was puzzled by his find. It was a live bird, but it resembled few birds he knew. Undoubtedly, he had seen others like it since coming to Morocco, but he did not associate his captive with the rest, which he had beheld only from a distance. Although ignorant and primitive, knowing but a few broken words of French, he had elementary knowledge, and understood that what bore feathers was good to eat.

"Yeeel Mo ule Akah," he said, "ye kah ley ly kokwey!"

Tirailleur Akah, who had been born two huts away from Do Fodu's home, came nearer as requested. An invitation to eat chicken could not be ignored. But his tattooed face split into a scornful grimace.

"Gna kokwey," he stated. "That's no chicken."

"O'kokweyl Wuro go, na didi," Do Fodu protested, winding string around the fluttering bird's skinny legs. "It's chicken! Comes out of an egg; good to eat."

Private Akah was not taking anything for granted. In a land where horses grew as large as buffaloes and swift as antelopes, where some white men flew through the air and other white men worked at building railroads and served at tables in restaurants, a strange bird might well prove poisonous. When he had come to the regiment, an interpreter had told him that white sergeants were his guardians and would teach him what was good and what was evil. The nearest white sergeant was Stoeckel.

He grasped Do Fodu's sleeve and pulled him across the marketplace toward the Legionnaires, gesturing to attract attention, pointing to his mouth, to the bird and then to his rounded stomach.

"Chicken good to eat, Sergeant?"

The question had an unexpected result. The Legionnaire rose quickly, his face red. It must be recalled that Stoeckel was an Alsatian, therefore considered storks as sacred as did any man in the Middle Atlas. There was something utterly revolting to him in that a man, even a savage, could think of eating a stork.

Before any one could interfere, his massive fist lashed out, smote Do Fodu squarely on his thick lips. The bewildered negro reeled, fell, and the sergeant retrieved the bird. But he had no time to free him. Do Fodu had learned one thing, and that was that no white man should strike a Tirailleur. His comrades came to help him with a rush.

For a moment trouble seemed about to break out, for the Legionnaires had risen and run forward to help their sergeant; a few cuffs were exchanged, and with both sides armed with rifles and bayonets, grave consequences might have come of the incident.

Fortunately, Sergeant Do Diara came back in time to call his men away. After hearing their shrill explanations, he addressed Stoeckel in fairly good French.

"What's the matter? You sergeant, you hit private? No good!"

"Sure, I hit him," Stoeckel shouted. "I'll sock him again, the damned savage! Look what he did to this stork! Why, even the slobs we're fighting wouldn't do that! Storks are sacred, I'm telling you, sacred! And this a little one, a small one!"

"My man says good to eat," Diara insisted.

"Maybe it is— but he can't be touched, don't you hear me? Why, a civilized man would no more touch, let alone eat, one of these birds than he'd eat his father."

Stoeckel had stumbled by luck on the one argument that could convince Diara. Among the Bambaras of the Sudan, men are named after animals, and no man may offend the animal whose name he bears. Diara had been named after the lion. The lion, therefore, was his n'tene, his totem. He was a blood brother of all lions, and consequently could not harm any of them. In a flash he recalled that he had seen storks' nests everywhere in Morocco, that they were never molested. And he understood that the stork was in some fashion the white sergeant's n'tene.

"I explain that fool quick," he assured.

Tlie Legionnaires could not understand much of his speech, save brief phrases culled from instructors —

"Bunch of slobs— gang of monkeys— lice off coconut-palms."

Diara took breath at last, smiled proudly.

"I fix it fine."

"Thanks, old man," Stoeckel said. He looked at Do Fodu, whose lips were bleeding, and was worried. If the matter were reported he would lose his stripes. He fumbled in his pockets, held out a handful of bronze francs.

"Take 'uni— shut up?"

"Shut up too much," Do Fodu agreed.

SERGEANT DIARA then informed Stoeckel that his lieutenant had said that the Legionnaires were to remain in the marketplace, and that the Tirailleurs would keep to the western end of the village. The Bambara pushed his men away, and Stoeckel regretted his fear and his francs when he saw the negro sergeant urge his men along with hearty shoves and free kicks in the slack of their breeches.

But the rescued stork claimed his attention. Carefully he severed the string binding his legs, placed the bird upright. He was about two feet high, with a long, red beak and odd, thin red legs. Seen so near, it was rather grotesque, with baldish face and ruffled feathers. For a moment the stork looked at the Legionnaires, as if puzzled. Then he swung his long neck around, rested his long beak along his back, only to twist back into position with an odd, crackling, loud sound, like two laths of wood slapped together.

"Looks more sore than scared," one of the privates said.

"Sure," Stoeckel explained. "Storks think nobody should touch them. Back home we'd kill any one who hurt one. And the guys around here feel the same. This little fellow was probably knocked out of the nest by a shell ex-
plosion, too stunned to fly off. He doesn't understand what it was all about. You never heard of anything happening to a stork before, did you, little one?"

He squatted and caressed the bird's beak with a finger, crooning deep in his throat. The Legionnaires, who knew him well, started to laugh.

"I suppose his mama told him he was sacred. Sergeant— "

"If your mother could talk, his could," Stoeckel snapped. "Can't you see how bright this one is? Didn't try to beat it, did he? Knows he's found friends. Don't you, little one?"

Unquestionably the bird was intelligent. Any one looking into his eyes would have known that. Slowly he stretched his white wings, with the thin fringe of black feathers at the tips, as if to test them. Then, satisfied that he was unhurt, he folded them again deliberately and stared at Stoeckel with intense concentration.

"What do you want, little one?" the sergeant asked.

The young stork strutted this way and that for a few steps, halted before the nearest feet, examined the boots with attention. Then he touched the laces tentatively with the tip of his beak. The private grinned, blushed as if a child had distinguished him.

"He's cute, all right, Sergeant! Never saw a boot before and wonders what it can be." He bent down to stroke the red beak gingerly. The bird moved back, granted him a single glance, passed on to the next man, and examined the boots once more, with the same swift, brief touch of his beak.

"Inspection," said some one. "Next thing you know he'll be handing out punishment— "

"Doesn't he strut like an adjutant, though!"

Stoeckel, as usual, was the first to understand.

"Can't you see he's hungry? He thinks the laces are worms or something—"

Twenty hands reached into twenty br-gs at once, bringing out morsels of bread, tablets of chocolate, slices of theeo'e wrapped in greasy rags of newspapers. The little stork considered each offering with deliberation, did not appear to find anything to his taste. The Legionnaires had a moment of hope when he consented to take a bit of cheese in his beak. But this was soon dropped, scorned.

"What do they eat, anyway, Sergeant?"

"Oh, slugs, frogs, snakes," Stoeckel declared. "Fish when they can get it. Guess he'd eat bread when he got used to it." He looked up, helplessly. "Wish I had some meat!"

"Think he'd eat canned beef?" a private suggested.

"Try him—"

A can was ripped open, and Stoeckel, with a very serious face, dug a wad of the red stuff out of the mass, rolled it between his palms into the approximate shape of a large slug. He did not make the mistake that the others had made, did not offer it directly. He laid it on the ground, between twigs, as enticingly as possible.

Before long the stork noticed it and came to a full stop. For a moment he held his head to one side, evidently considering the matter, then made a lunge. The Legionnaires uttered grunts of triumph as the meat slid down the skinny neck.

"You fooled him, Sergeant— "

"The important thing," Stoeckel lectured, "is to make him accept the first bite. After that— watch and see if he doesn't eat out of my hand— "

The stork took the next "slug" off the sergeant's palm, and soon was eating from the tips of his fingers. He proved himself a humorist by pretending to mistake Stoeckel's thumb for meat and pinching it with his beak. A private opened a can of sardines, and the Legionnaires were jubilant when they discovered that the bird would eat them. Their knowledge of natural history was
thereby immensely increased.

"WHAT the devil is this?" said a new voice.

All looked up, stiffened to attention. Stoeckel straightened, sheepish. It was Captain Gormer, commanding the company. He stood with his arms folded across his chest, mustache bristling, and they saw that he was angry.

"Thunder of thunders! Are we before the enemy, or aren't we? I walk upon you, and not a man turns! No sentries— nothing! Who in hell shoved such a worthless gang of cobblers on me? Stoeckel, you'll hear from me, you know. What's all this about?"

"Captain— "

"Shut up! Shut up! Not a word! Do you realize that you wear stripes? That I trust you with the lives of my men? If the enemy had counter-attacked, you'd all have been shot down! Stoeckel, have you any sense of responsibility? Are you a sergeant of Legion or ticket collector on a tram?"

"Captain, I—"

"Not a word! Shut up!" The captain wiped his brow, shrugged. "Ah, if instead of me and the company, it had been the Chleuhs! What a picnic!" He gasped, broke off, then cried, "You laugh? You think this funny?"

He followed the glances of the smiling men toward his feet. For the first time he saw the stork standing before him, beak to one side, peering up with insolent curiosity. For a few seconds he held the bird's eyes with his own, as if he expected it to yield to his superior will.

"What's this?" he asked in a milder tone.

"A stork, Captain!"

"A stork, a stork! Naturally, it's a stork! Does it look like an elephant? But where does he come from? He's tame?" Gormer squatted, reached out with some hesitation. "Cute little fellow! Does he bite?"

"Oh, no, Captain!" several Legion-naires answered at once. Information was volunteered in a confused chorus. "The blacks had him— wanted to eat him. Shell knocked off his nest. Eats no bread— no cheese, either— likes canned beef— and sardines— "

The captain looked up in astonishment.

"Sardines? Eats sardines? No?"

The private offered the can of sardines. The officer fed the stork two sardines with his own hand, chuckled. No more than his men was he proof against the atavistic respect for storks. The sympathy of human beings for the tall white birds, started in remotest times, as far back as history carries, swept him.

"What are you going to do with it?" he asked. "Keep it?"

"Well, Captain, it isn't right to keep a stork captive," Stoeckel declared. "But if he wants to stick around, he's welcome. Probably, however, it will stay here. They're home loving birds, storks are. And we have to go on soon."

Captain Gormer perceived the humor of the situation. He pretended to be apart from the general feeling among the group of Legionnaires.

"I fear that if he won't come, we'll have to go without him," he admitted. "The general staff wouldn't consider a request to keep a company here as his guardians."

He rose to face his lieutenant, a middle aged Corsican, with a face as bony as a skeleton's, all tanned hide and grizzled hair.

"I've placed sentries and assigned combat posts. Captain. I presumed— " the officer's voice was shaded with obvious irony— "that the usual routine of safety in the field was to be observed."

"You did right," Gormer assured him. He indicated the bird. "Did you ever see one this near, Landry?"

Lieutenant Landry looked down, and immediately his sullen face pleated into a coaxing smile. His skinny, hairy paw
reached out cautiously toward the bird.

"Does he bite. Captain?"

"Bite?" Gormer laughed; the men joined him. "Of course not. Eh, hand me that can. Look at this, Landry— eats sardines— "

IT WAS agreed that the stork should be called Khyada, after his home village. And Khyada either lacked the true instinct of his species, or felt gratitude, for when the company left for the north, he followed. By general consent, Stoeckel became his official owner and caretaker. But all took a keen interest in the new mascot.

Stoeckel was satisfied. He had wished for a pet that would not be run over by staff cars, for a pet that could follow him anywhere. Khyada fulfilled the requirements. Very soon, he put all speculation as to his ability to fly at rest. He knew how to fly, and flew.

Still better, he grew in knowledge of Legion habits with amazing speed. Because he was mute, as all storks are, many of the Legionnaires believed him deafas well. They pointed out how hard it was to startle him with noises. Nevertheless, he must have had some perception of sounds, for he learned the meaning of bugle calls, learned to come to Stoeckel's whistle, when he chose to obey. Khyada was very independent of character, refused to be made a mere toy. He had no patience with those who teased him, and walked away from the major.

The whole company was proud of Khyada, for strangers halted in astonishment when the white bird dropped out of the sky beside Stoeckel. He would walk by the sergeant for miles, lifting his webbed feet rhythmically, bobbing his long neck jerkily.

It was feared at first that he would join his kind as soon as other storks were encountered. And it turned out that in spite of their many admirable qualities, wild storks lack that of tolerance. Whether they were merely inhospitable to a stranger or deemed Khyada something of a renegade, they refused to hold conversation with the tame bird. Khyada, young and doubtless ignorant of traditions, tried to invite himself to gatherings met on the way to Taza, and was ignominiously beaten off, returning to the Legion with his feathers ruffled, wings and tail ragged.

However, he passed off these incidents as a trifling matter of routine, preened himself, clapped his beak once or twice in disgust. He grew rapidly, for he was crammed with food.

Khyada sought nourishment for himself and was capable of existing on his own resources, but the Legionnaires insisted on helping him. Men left the ranks to dart into the rough grass to pick up slugs and snails. The fishing details sent down to rivers or brooks during the halts brought back messes of tiny fish. And even with natural food in plenty, the stork preserved a perverted taste for canned beef.

He knew well when food was served, and would rush for a mess-kit with the speed of all new recruits. Legionnaires learned to cover their stew with one hand when Khyada came near. For although the stork was generally popular, no one but Stoeckel cared to have his dish explored by the long, red beak used to pick up less savory things from the side of the road.

The company had the normal proportion of practical jokers and dullards found anywhere, men who would have been willing to experiment with Khyada's insatiable, undiscriminating appetite. But this proved a dangerous amusement.

Stoeckel caught a private offering his pet the stub of a cigaret, lighted. Without taking the time to remove his chevrons, he gave him such a licking that others were careful from then on. Although there were fifty witnesses to the scene, including Lieutenant Landry, nothing was said, nothing was done. Exceptions exist to strictest regulations.

The sergeant had been due for leave at the end of the operations, but refused to accept it. Moreover, feeling that Khyada would be more at ease in a small place than in a large center of population such as Taza, he applied for and obtained service in an isolated outpost.

There Khyada received many hints to make a nest for himself. A cartwheel on a mast was hoisted, supplied with tempting heaps of raw materials. But, being either lazy or overcivilized, the stork preferred to room with Stoeckel. The sergeant yielded to this flattering preference, placed a shallow box filled with straw and grass in the bird's favorite corner, and their companionship was not interrupted even at night.

Stoeckel was somewhat ridiculous, but accepted chaff with good nature. Khyada objected to lights at night, expressing his feelings by clapping his beak resoundingly. So the sergeant learned to undress and go to bed in complete darkness.

"What's the use of bothering him?" he explained. "Lights just make him nervous the next day and he's off his feed."

He bore with endless patience the demands of the bird. Khyada did not like to have the door closed during the day, as he liked to enter and leave as he chose. As the door of the room opened directly into the yard of the outpost, through which sick natives passed to reach the doctor's quarters, this open door was a challenge to the light fingered lads.

Stoeckel, for a few days, found it impossible to keep brushes, combs and other small articles. Then two blankets were stolen. The intelligence officer at the post, a gentleman who had served in the hills since the first months of the French conquest and knew more of the mountaineers than they knew of themselves, gathered his agents.

The sergeant never learned precisely what was said, but gathered that information had been given out that the room was in a sense the stork's nest, therefore sacred. The blankets reappeared as mysteriously as they had left, and the thefts ended as soon as it was understood that Khyada, and not the Legionnaire, owned the place.

Compelled by his own respect for storks not to interfere with Khyada's wishes, Stoeckel saw the approach of cold weather with dread. Perhaps his friend would migrate to a warmer climate, as was the custom of his tribe. But Khyada stuck with the company, even after the first snow had fallen in the hills. Evidently the search for food rather than the fear of cold was the reason for migration.

Khyada escorted Stoeckel on patrols as he had in the past. But instead of alighting in the snow, which proved uncomfortable, he took to perching on the sergeant's head or shoulders. This was a sight curious to behold, and natives came from remote villages for the spectacle. The Legionnaire became far better known as Bu Laklak— the Stork Man— than under his own name.

Stoeckel undoubtedly understood Khyada, just how no one might guess. The fact was that if the sergeant stated that the stork wished the door opened, Khyada would go out as soon as it was opened. If the man said that Khyada was hungry or thirsty, the bird would eat or drink.

But the general opinion was that he either deceived himself or was a deliberate liar when he attributed definite feelings of loyalty, and even a certain dose of homely philosophy, to his winged companion. All could perceive that Khyada did not like a certain officer. The unfortunate fellow was never granted a bit of attention, saw his humble offerings of food scorned. Nevertheless, this did not prove beyond question that in thus acting Khyada proved that he had embraced a feud of long standing between the fellow and Stoeckel.

All believed that Khyada knew the Legion uniform and made friends with

Legionnaires more readily than with members of other units— with the exception of Spahis, of whom Khyada was fond, as all good Legionnaires should be.

From the start, Khyada had been honorary member of the company. After six months, it was decided that he could be promoted to corporal, and a special badge was fixed by the tailor to pass around his neck. But the stork had no military ambition, stubbornly refused to wear the emblem of his new rank. By common consent, it was recorded officially that "Khyada Stork, Corporal, was returned to the ranks as second class private, having surrendered his stripes voluntarily."

WITH the return of good weather the company was assembled and joined the Taza mobile group once more on its march south.

Khyada readapted himself swiftly to life in the field. He had grown much stronger, had developed an adventurous spirit. Seldom did he walk beside Stoeckel as formerly, but kept on the wing most of the time. He would vanish for hours, returning as a rule with a flight of wild storks in hot pursuit. His human comrades accused him of appalling sins and greeted him with loud cheers.

Men flow like a stream through the various units of the Legion, and the recruits in the replacement drafts from Algeria arrived ready to admire Khyada, of whom they had heard from Legionnaires on leave. Letters were mailed to the four corners of the world, telling of his cleverness, and there were few members of the company who did not desire to be photographed with the stork.

Khyada had acquired a multitude of minor tricks, which revealed a certain intelligence and thought. He was an interesting example of the effect of constant human companionship on a wild bird. The company would have yielded its small fanion as readily as Khyada.

A young staff captain fresh from Rabat, assigned to the mobile group with the Geographical Mission, discovered this loyalty of the Legionnaires to his dismay. He was a handsome man, dressed well, rode decently, and had been popular with every one. But he had one unfortunate idea, and sent for Stoeckel during a halt.

"I'm told you own that tame stork."

"I take care of Khyada, yes, Captain."

"How much will you take for him, Sto.eckel?"

"Can't sell him. Captain. Belongs to the company."

"Can you use a few hundred francs?"

"The men wouldn't let him go, Captain."

"You can see that he vanishes— quietly."

"No, Captain."

"Sit down," the officer invited. He offered the sergeant a drink and a cigaret, assured himself that no one was listening outside the tent, resumed, "I know you are fond of that bird. But as you let him fly freely, sooner or later you'll lose him. He'll mate. Or you may be transferred where you can't take him. A friend of mine in France, who owns a large private aviary and studies birds, has heard of your pet. He wants him. I am ready to spend five thousand francs."

"Sorry, Captain. Nothing doing."

"Think, Stoeckel."

"I have no right to sell him even if I wished to."

"You're afraid of displeasing the men. All right, I'll arrange that with them, offer them a part—"

"I wouldn't try that, Captain," Stoeckel warned hastily.

"Why not?"

"They're queer that way, Captain."

"We shall see, friend."

It has been said and written that a Legionnaire will sell anything for the proper amount. This is justified, in a way, because the majority of men in the

Legion are by inclination mercenary when they arrive. They serve, frankly and openly, for food, clothing and shelter. Legionnaires have been known to sell uniforms, equipment, even weapons for money to carouse. But they have definite limits unknown to outsiders. Inexperienced officers who have tried to bribe their men have had unpleasant experiences.

The staff captain spoke to a few Legionnaires, probably offered money. He met with no success, and his popularity was wiped out overnight. His orderly, a Legionnaire, quit him to return to the ranks. The officer found his blankets wringing wet at night. The soles of his riding boots, stitches slashed, dropped off the uppers. His trunks vanished mysteriously from the baggage cart.

Captain Gormer was consulted, and admitted that his men had done the damage, in all probability. But an inquest yielded no result. Therefore, the staff captain went north with the first convoy of wounded and sick to leave the mobile group. To his great credit, once away from his tormentors and certain that his gesture would not be mistaken for a plea for mercy, he wrote Sergeant Stoeckel a letter of apology.

This episode strengthened Khyada's prestige.

"That stork? We refused five thousand francs for him!"

CONTACT had been established with the enemy, and the first skirmishes started. In the open, the mobile group could have smashed the natives with ease, for they were numerically inferior, at most eight hundred rifles. But fighting their own kind of war, in a maze of hills and valleys, the mountaineers were dangerous foes.

Those who have followed military expeditions in North Africa have seen storks remain on their nests during artillery bombardments. Whether inspired by ignorance, natural courage, or long immunity to harm, the birds are brave. Khyada showed the same scorn for danger. Rifle firing excited him, but he felt no fear.

This presented a new problem for Stoeckel. If left free, the bird followed him everywhere. While neither the hillmen nor the French troopers would have fired upon him purposely, stray bullets respected no one. Khyada, it was evident, must be kept away from the front lines. And this was more difficult to achieve than expected. The stork would struggle against a chain or a cord fastened to his leg, dash about inside a crate or a box, and risk injury to obtain freedom.

The Legionnaires with the ammunition train could not watch him during a combat, having much work to do. Stoeckel arranged with a sergeant of the ambulance corps to keep Khyada in an unused tent at the rear whenever trouble was expected. This system worked well several times.

Then came an important engagement. The French faced four hundred-odd riflemen determined to make them pay for further progress. Early in the action, because it was known that the mountaineers would fight long, a section of Senegalese Tirailieurs was rushed too far in a first rush and, while momentarily isolated, was cut to pieces.

Eighteen wounded negroes were taken to the dressing station at one time, and the tent in which Khyada was confined had to be thrown open to receive the overflow. The stork immediately strutted out, dodged his guard and, after peering about inquiringly, suddenly took wing and vanished toward the front.

Stoeckel was with the section thrown as a screen between the beaten blacks and their assailants. Encouraged by their first success, the Chleuhs were truculent, hard to hold. As usual in that region, the men were accompanied by many women and children, who followed close behind the warriors to reload rifles and finish the wounded invaders. In this sector of the field, the whole swarm of natives had merged, both sexes and all ages, drunk with rage. They charged repeatedly straight at automatics and machine guns.

The screams of women and children had at first an unnerving effect on the Legionnaires. The training of centuries was hard to forget, although a blade wielded by a gray haired woman, a heavy stone flung by a boy in his early teens, could do much harm. Placed between chivalry and death, the soldiers protected themselves as best they could.

The hill people had given up massed attacks, and came in small groups, crawling through the brush and darting from cover unexpectedly. Stoeckel, like the others, was bewildered and sickened. His first humane impulse had been rewarded by a severe bite through the fleshy part of his calf. His face was scratched, his hands lacerated.

He was kneeling beside a machine gun, directing its fire, when a shadow flitted over his head. He paid no attention at the time, for his eyes were on a clump of bushes from which trouble might be expected.

"Point blank, to the left— to the left."

At any cost, he wished to avoid close quarters. He remembered too clearly the impact of butts on the crawling, clawing foes who had to be finished off like writhing snakes. For if the mountain people grant no mercy, they accept none.

The shadow flashed overhead again, then suddenly Khyada alighted a few feet away. The prevailing excitement did not please him, and he twisted his neck, rested his beak on his back and started his disapproving clapping. The sound was oddly clear through the fusillade.

"Beat it," Stoeckel pleaded.

He waved his hand menacingly, trying to warn the bird away. Unluckily, this gesture reminded Khyada of a game which the sergeant had painstakingly taught him, a sort of sham battle. He accepted the challenge, ruffled his feathers, came forward solemnly.

He stepped aside, dodged, darted in, and tried to perch on his friend's shoulder.

A stork is not very heavy, but with moving, half spread wings* the bird formed an obstacle to clear vision when vision was most important. Stoeckel brushed him off angrily, cursing him, cursing the ambulance man who had allowed him to escape. The fellow should have known that the fearless Khyada would fly about until he located his usual companions.

"Beat it— eh, left. Left, that's it! Don't let them come out! You, go on— beat it!" Stoeckel picked up a lump of dirt, tossed it at the bird. Khyada watched him gravely, ducked, hopped forward.

With the women shrieking not far away, with the hammering of the machine gun in his ears and his responsibility gnawing at his brain, Stoeckel almost wished something would happen to the stupid bird.

"Go away!"

As has been said, Khyada's virtues did not include absolute obedience. The tumult, the shouting, the shots, puzzled him, and he could not comprehend his friend's behavior. He hesitated, weighed the situation, and made for Stoeckel's shoulder once more.

Again the sergeant brushed him off. The rest happened in a fraction of one second. The Legionnaire realized his error instantly, but could not prevent the accident. Khyada, bewildered by the unexpected violence of his master's movements, hopped off, but instead of springing to the ground, he made for the barrel of the machine gun.

The weapon had been firing constantly for several minutes, and the steel tube was consequently red hot. Khyada would burn his feet severely, perhaps be crippled for life. But there was no time to stop him.

His webbed feet had touched the metal, his beak flew open, and he was away in a flash of white wings. The startled gunner had released the trig-
ger, there was a brief pause, then the belt resumed its progress. Helper 1 kept on feeding the cartridges, but No. 2, who had some leisure, leaned and examined the barrel closely. He turned to Stoeckel.

"Left no meat; not hurt much!"

Stoeckel was relieved. He had seen seared flesh sticking to a machine gun barrel before. Later, when the enemy had left and the weapon was cool, he ran his fingers over the smooth steel. Nothing adhered to the cylinder; therefore Khyada was not crippled for long.

The machine gunners laughed.

"Had a good lesson, though; hasn't been around since. Say, wasn't he funny when his beak flew open? He can't talk, yet nobody ever heard any one swear plainer than he did just now!"

"I'm afraid he's sore," Stoeckel said seriously.

He obtained permission from the captain to leave the front, ran all the way back to camp. There he was informed that Khyada had not returned. He panted as he trotted to the company— the stork had not shown up.

"He'll be back before night," Gormer consoled the sergeant.

"I don't think so," Stoeckel grumbled. "He looked awfully queer as he left. You could see he thought I'd knocked him on that hot barrel on purpose."

"Bah! If he can think as you claim, he knows better."

Twilight came, briefly; night fell, and Khyada was not back. Stoeckel paced through the encampment like a madman, trying to locate some one who had seen his bird. Several times he was near tears when he thought of Khyada, suffering somewhere, alone, and believing his friend had harmed him deliberately.

"He'll be here tomorrow," Gormer insisted.

Day broke and Khyada did not come.

The Legion company marched on with the Mobile Group the next morning. For several days, whenever a lone stork winged across the sky, Stoeckel would rush out into the open, waving his arms, whistling. But each time the bird passed over without hesitation, and no one could be sure he had been Khyada.

A week passed; another— and to all save the sergeant the stork became a vague memory, the subject of a rapidly growing legend.

SERGEANT STOECKEL crashed through the bushes ai and came upon a combat group huddled behind its automatic rifle. He was out of breath and fell headlong. The Legionnaires were not firing, for they had nothing to fire at. They were plainly nervous, as if they already had sensed that the company was retreating behind them.

"Where's the lieutenant?"

"Landry? Oh, somewhere that way." The corporal rose to his knees, gestured toward the left. That was a slope, rising from the floor of the ravine, a slope tufted with clumps of shrubs already vague in the nearing twilight.

"All right, Grizia. I'll find him. You fellows beat it and join the company. We're reforming near the main trail, and the Senegalese are coming up in support."

"This is a hell of a mess," a Legionnaire said.

"Who asked you?" Stoeckel challenged. "Go on, beat it."

The gunner rose calmly, folded the stumpy front support of his automatic against the shaft, while the feeders picked up empty magazines without haste.

The riflemen and grenadiers had trotted back already, and were waiting some yards away, facing the bushes. Corporal Grizia, large and swarthy, laid his wide hand on Stoeckel's sleeve.

"Coming with us, Sergeant?"

"No, I must find the lieutenant."

"You're crazy! He's dead and the guys with him also."

"You are sure of that?"

"Well, they stopped firing suddenly,
and there was a lot of yelling soon after."

"I have orders to find him and tell him we're beating it to reform on the trail."

"Hey, Corporal! What do we do?" the gunner called, halted some distance from them.

"Get back to the company. I'm sticking with the sergeant. All right, Stoeckel, we'll have a look."

"You're crazy," Stoeckel said in his turn.

But Corporal Grizia started toward the left at the trot, and Stoeckel followed him. It would have been a waste of breath and time to argue now. Grizia was stubborn at best.

From the start this engagement had gone from bad to worse. Stoeckel did not understand why, and it was doubtful if any one else did. The onslaught of the mountaineers had come as a total surprise, this late in the campaign, and rumor was spreading that they had been reinforced by contingents from the southern slopes of the Middle Atlas, around Ait-Yakoub.

The two ran in silence for a few minutes. In the distance, guns were discharged, automatic rifles hammered, men were shouting. But this corner of the field was strangely silent. The boots of the Legionnaires squashed loudly in the streaks of softer soil, the hobnails ground against pebbles.

"Look," Grizia said, halting.

There were four corpses, half nude natives still clutching their rifles. The wounds showed black against their brown hides.

"I remember these; our gun got them," the corporal went on. "See, the others haven't come this far. No one picked up the guns. The lieutenant and his groups were somewhat farther, over there— ah!"

Scattered around a litter of empty shells from an automatic were the bodies of four Legionnaires. The weapons had been collected, the men searched and mangled. A fifth body was located face down in a clump of bushes.

"Group 5," Grizia pointed out. "All dead! I told you so. What's the use?"

"Listen, I have to be sure," Stoeckel protested. "We're safe enough. The fight is swinging wide of here, toward the trail." He cupped his hands and shouted, "Oh! Legion! Lieutenant Landry! Lieutenant!"

"Yell away," Grizia sneered. "He's dead."

"I must be sure, must report to Gormer."

They went on until they found another group of dead Legionnaires. They walked as in a nightmare. They were tired, tense, and the silence unnerved them. The sergeant whistled between his teeth, and Grizia snapped his fingers.

"Getting pretty late," Grizia said.

"All right." Stoeckel gave up suddenly. "Guess he's dead. Let's get back."

They turned back in the direction from which they had come. And they saw rockets streaking the darkening sky in the direction of the firing. The mobile group was massing its units and making ready for the night. They felt forlorn and Helpless.

"This is a mess," Grizia grumbled.

"Looks like a mess."

"After those first shots came and the company was ordered into that ravine, I knew it was a mess. I said, 'This is a mess; we're sent right into a mess!' Was I right? Was I?"

"Wish I had found Landry," Stoeckel answered. "The Old Man will be sore at me because I didn't. He said for me to reach all the sections and tell them to fall back to the trail. He'll be sore."

"What do you care? You—"

Grizia slapped both hands to his middle, dropping the carbine he had held. At the same time Stoeckel heard the shot, very near. The corporal slumped, curving over, and slipped to his knees. Then he rested his elbows on the ground and grunted. The sergeant looked about, saw nothing, and bent to speak to his comrade.

"Hurt?"

"Yes—"

"We'll fix that!"

Stoeckel slipped his hands under the wounded man's arms, hoisted him up. Grizia groaned and dropped his head on his chief's shoulder.

"Steady there— "

Grizia's groping fingers sank between Stoeckel's neck and shirt collar, pulled hard, almost strangling him. Stoeckel freed himself with a violent twist.

"Steady. Can't you stand?"

"Hurts me! Let me sit down, will you?"

"You've got to come along. Don't be a fool! Sure it will hurt! But you can't stay here."

Stoeckel swung the heavy body forward, to place one arm under the sagging knees. Then Grizia shuddered again, and the crack of the rifle followed. The sergeant dropped his burden, stretched on the ground, slipping back the bolt of his carbine.

"I don't think you should have come, Grizia."

"Smart to tell me that now!"

"He's still watching," Stoeckel said.

He sought for the hidden sniper, could not locate him. The firing was receding in the distance, and he could distinguish the bugles sounding retreat. He had often imagined this exact situation when he had heard of friends being left behind. Grizia would understand, and perhaps it was wise to cut matters short. "Listen, Grizia, you can't walk. I can't carry you—"

"I know—"

"And I can't leave you alive. It's one or both."

"Right," Grizia admitted. "Just a moment."

"All right."

Grizia started to talk to himself, in a low voice that stumbled over words. Stoeckel could not understand what he said— the corporal was using his native tongue, some Central European dialect Then he shot himself.

Stoeckel did not look at him again, but nodded vaguely in approval. He groped in his pocket for a cartridge wrapped in a piece of white paper. He had carried it thus for six months, as most Legionnaires did. The last cartridge, the key to freedom at the last moment— few resisted the romantic appeal of this. He placed the special missile in his mouth, and shoved a clip of ordinary ammunition in his carbine. After these were gone he would do as Grizia had done.

He rose and darted to a new cover. The sniper did not fire. All was unreal, the sun had vanished, yet it seemed to Stoeckel that the bushy clearing was bathed in a strong, rose light.

Twigs crackled and leaves rustled inches from his head. At the same time he heard the shot. He was hiding on the wrong side of the bush, with his back exposed to the enemy. He crashed through and whirled around. After scanning the ground swiftly, he fired at a shape pressed against the earth in the open.

It was ten seconds before he realized he had fired on Grizia. That meant that the sniper had circled, if the Legionnaire's body lay between them.

One shot gone.

Stoeckel removed the cork from his canteen, greedily drank the strong mixture of cold coffee and alcohol. This made him feel better and seemed to clear his sight. For he saw a quick blinking, like a tiny mirror being spun. And he knew that this was the shiny steel inside the breech of the sniper's rifle catching the sun as the bolt was drawn back to reload.

Stoeckel fired.

The man was not hit, but he was startled. He rose and scurried, crouching low. And the sergeant dropped him with the next shot. There was no doubt that he was dead, for he remained with his head lower than the body, knees gathered, one arm outflung.

Stoeckel straightened, threw his kepi away. It was dark enough by now not to be noticed save by the shining of the leather peak which marks a Legionnaire. The cartridge in his mouth tasted badly, and he wiped it, put it back in his pocket. He was confident now that he would escape. He could crawl through the native lines sometime before dawn.

He went back to Grizia, took some papers from his pockets. Then he walked away, slowly. It was simple. All he had to do was to walk deliberately and refuse to answer questions. There would be many men prowling about looking for bodies to loot, and they would not be very curious about others.

The rockets and the firing guided him well enough. After an hour he knew he was near the lines. At one time he heard a voice he knew, that of a German sergeant, and laughed softly. Nothing had changed in the company— a section could be wiped out, a lieutenant could vanish, Grizia could die, but there remained but one correct way to handle a rifle grenade! He would have a good laugh with that German when they met again.

Then fingers reached for his throat out of the night, arms circled his legs, and he fell. He arched his back, struggled to rise, and was knocked into calm by heavy blows rained, on his head.

IT WAS daylight when Stoeckel was led into a village.

He was still dazed, and the first thing he recalled after being struck was climbing up a steep mountain trail. His guards were six Chleuhs, leathery, dark skinned men with beards sprouting from their lean jaws. One of them, who spoke a few words of French, had told the sergeant he was not to be killed at once.

On the whole, his captors had not been unkind. From time to time one of them spat into his face as a sign of dislike. But they had loosened the cord binding his wrists, given him water and food, and as time passed and he proved able to converse haltingly in their dialect, had treated him more or less like a comrade.

Before the village, a horde of women and children came to meet the group. They howled, screamed, threw stones and attempted to reach the prisoner. The guards beat them back with butts and kicks.

Stoeckel noted that many of the women showed lacerated cheeks, and knew this to be a sign of mourning for husband, brother or son. He whistled between his teeth, repressed a shudder. He had known even civilized women wishing to have the slayers of their dear ones delivered to them for punishment, tied hand and foot. No man could ever hope to match the stark cruelty of woman.

In the marketplace they were met by a group of older men, one of them conspicuous by his great age, his height and his dignity of bearing. These bearded leaders squatted in the open and had Stoeckel brought before them.

The sergeant understood the drift of the conversation. These men were discussing whether he should be turned over to the eager crowd, or kept as hostage to prevent the French from bombarding the place with artillery, or by planes.

Occasionally one would rise, come forward to touch his stripes, harangue the others. Stoeckel knew that his cause was losing rapidly. These people were not sufficiently ignorant to believe that the safety of a mere sergeant would influence the invaders. Even had he been unable to understand a word, he would have known how the discussion was going, for when his doom seemed decided, the women would start forward impatiently and fight with the guards.

The very old man would speak sharply, then, and bring about order. Otherwise, he was content to listen to both sides, reserving his decision. He sat gravely, fingering his long white beard, toying with the long rosary on his lap, scratching his chin and his ears.

Stoeckel was not hopeful. Public sentiment was against him, and he was aware that the majority would have preferred immediate revenge upon him to the very problematic advantages to be derived from holding him a prisoner. At any moment the old chap might give a slight sign of one hand, and the ceremony would start.

He had heard such scenes related too often to ignore a detail. He was afraid, physically afraid, so afraid that his muscles were inert, lifeless. Had his hands been free, had he had a chance to run, he doubted if his legs would carry him. But there was a job before him, and he steeled himself to carry it through decently.

His terror must not be revealed. He must give his tormentors as little amusement as he could manage. If possible, he must not cry out, must not moan. He would have preferred to be less heroic, to be safe elsewhere, but he intended to do as well with the present situation as his courage permitted. He was a Legionnaire.

But his eyes— his eyes would be the first to go. These people knew that a man's agony was intensified if he suffered in darkness, if he knew, no matter for how short a time, that he would never see again. He cringed, feeling in advance the pressure of nails upon his pupils, the pain stabbing through to his brain. What would happen afterward did not matter. But his eyes.

He gritted his teeth, lost interest in the discussion. He looked at the houses, at the brilliant blue sky. And his mind leaped across intervening years to other houses, to another, milder sky. He saw the tawny sun striking against the barn, golden against the weatherbeaten, grayish planks. The sun caught the surface of the water in the big trough, and big drops sparkled from the soft, moist nostrils of horses when they lifted their heads after drinking.

His eyes, the sun, home, a hundred disconnected ideas floated up, things he had seen, things he had heard about, things he had read.

"Jules Verne," he mused. "Michael Strogoff!"

He remembered a scene such as this in that book; recalled how Strogoff had preserved his sight with the tears that came to his eyes when he thought of his mother. He smiled grimly. His tears did not flow readily now. They must not flow. He remembered trailing his bare feet in the thick, warm dust of the road, remembered looking up to see the storks on the church steeple.

There were nests at home, as there were nests here. He looked up, saw the storks on the taller houses, built farther up against the slope.

He recalled Khyada. It seemed a long time now since the stork had flown away. Yet it could not be more than three weeks. Khyada was somewhere in these hills.

Perhaps he was one of these storks. Wild storks did not like him, but if Khyada had come to them and made them understand that he was through with men, it might be that they had forgiven him, accepted him. They all looked alike from a distance, storks did. For instance, that one who had come so near, who had perched on a wall, less timid and more curious than the others, resembled Khyada.

Khyada had loved crowds, excited, shouting crowds. He had drawn near them and watched, as this stork was watching, seeming to understand, to share in the general feeling.

Stoeckel puckered his lips, whistled.

Those about him stopped talking, startled. They followed his glance, then looked back toward him. Then a sort of amazed gasp, a stirring of cloaks, agitated the marketplace.

The bird had risen from his perch and was swooping down. The natives who were squatted stood suddenly, scattered, gesticulating their astonishment. This frightened the stork, who appeared about to fly off. But Khyada changed his mind, as if reluctantly, swooped again, and landed at Stoeckel's feet.

He held his head to one side, peered up along his beak.

The mountaineers returned, huddled close, chattering among themselves, pointing at the bird, then at Stoeckel. What they had beheld seemed a miracle; a stork, from their own rooftops, had come to a stranger, had recognized him. The Chleuhs of the Middle Atlas are Moslems, have adopted the Koran. But among them, as among most hill people, ancient traditions, rooted centuries in the past, remain the law. Storks had been known and venerated before the legions of Rome or the armies of the Arabs churned the dust of the plains below. The love of storks was older than the hatred of aliens.

The old man took a knife from one of the soldier's guards, stepped forward. But Stoeckel understood at once, felt no fear. Perhaps into him also had welled the conviction that he was protected. When the cords binding him were severed the sergeant did not speak a word to the men about him, did not allow himself a single questioning glance.

When he squatted and spoke to Khyada in a low voice, the whispering tone quivered, as much from joy at seeing his friend as from relief from the terrific tension of the past hours. His fate was still undecided, he felt, and should the stork fly off, the momentary truce would be at an end.

But Khyada did not move back; he allowed the man's fingers to stroke his beak, then to pick up his feet one after the other.

"Still sore, are you?"

Khyada twisted his neck, then clapped loudly. When Stoeckel had ascertained that no scar remained on the bird's feet, he straightened to face the old man. And their glances melted in understanding. Across time, from an epoch when man was not aware of race or nation, a common tie had been established, a creed older than printed creeds united the two. On the wooded hills of Alsace as on the stark flanks of the Atlas, men venerated storks Very gently the old man touched Stoeckel's shoulder.

"Bu bellarej? Bu Laklak?"

"Wah, yah. Baba!" Stoeckel agreed. "I am a Stork Man. I am a Stork Man, as are all men of my people."

The native leader looked at Khyada, and his dry, blue veined hands moved in a gesture of affectionate benediction. His beard moved, as if he were arranging words for a speech. But he evidently could not make clear what he felt, what all felt. The Legionnaire looked at the circle of faces. There was no longer any show of hatred, any trace of hostility. Even the mourning women were mute, half smiling, and the children watched Khyada with visible awe.

The old man touched one of the warriors on the chest with a finger, spoke briefly to him, then turned to address Stoeckel.

"Go back, Bu Laklak! Peace be with thee."

"And with thee, my father," the sergeant said humbly.

And he followed his guide, while Khyada took wing to precede them. Long after the two men had vanished down the steep mountain trail, the crowd in the marketplace watched the white bird protecting his friend.

___________________

12: Bogus Gems

Gordon Young

1886-1948

Adventure 18 Dec 1919

Gordon Raymond Young was active as a pulp writer for about 20 years, from around 1917 to 1937. One of his series characters was Don Everhard, who appeared in some two dozen stories. This is one of that series.

I HEARD a noise at the door and sat quietly. I recognized it as the faint sound of sensitive fingers trying a skeleton key.

The room was dark and it was one of the so-called wee sma' hours when even those with uneasy consciences are supposed to be asleep and when, as if to establish a compensating ratio, even the faintest of noises, the little creaks and rustles that are scarcely audible in daylight, are as noticeable to a listener as the clatter of bronze.

Not having much humor, I did not call out an invitation to come in. Besides, the person in the hall seemed already determined on that. As I was not in bed, but had dozingly remained on the chaise longue when I turned out the reading lamp by my side, I saw no reason at all for disturbing my visitor's entrance.

I was not surprized that some one, uninvited and at such an hour, should try to come, Not that I had been waiting for such a one. Not at all. It would have taken more to keep me awake than the fear that somebody might steal the black jewel-casket from off my table.

Sleep does not come easily to me, nor remain long. I was in pajamas, with a blanket thrown over my legs, and I had, with a great show of patience, been offering myself to what the poets call Morpheus, I do not want anybody to think that worry or anything of the sort kept the bewitching kindness of sleep from my eyes, nor am I a sufferer from insomnia. I don't sleep much; that is all. I am not a sufferer from anything, unless it be the meddlesomeness of people who misjudge me. One of those who were misjudging me seemed to be at the door then, trying the unresisting lock.

PERHAPS I would do well to pause and say a word about the casket. It did not belong to me. But I had as good right to it as the man I took it from. His name was Blackstone. He was a newcomer to San Francisco, but the police of very few if any cities knew about him. Not that he was clever. No. He was handsome, or not handsome exactly, but he had much about him that fascinated women. He was skilful at compromising women, then heartless in making them pay. So he had a good income, money in the bank, and posed as a gentleman.

It was very foolish of him to come to me, though he did not know that I knew all about how he had tried to get me into trouble a year before in New York. He was two-faced and treacherous, as men who fascinate women usually are. Among the things he had said was that the man who killed me would never be brought to trial— which may possibly be true. When one has the undeservedly notorious reputation of gambler and gunman, such as mine, the law is not likely to be very excited over the way he meets death, Blackstone had gone so far as to say that some day he was going to "get" me. The man who has lived as I have lived is likely to be made a target at any time and without being so very fearless he may get more or less used to the danger, as soldiers in a way get used to snipers.

I did not like Blackstone and he was aware of it, so he took that comparatively safe means of getting a little revenge and was comfortable in the belief that I knew nothing of how he sometimes talked. To my face he was always friendly. I waited patiently. There is nothing quarrelsome about me. If he wanted to seem to be friendly when an icicle would have been more attentive to him, I could afford to watch him and wait.

I came back to San Francisco and would have forgotten him had he not, about a year afterward, dropped in on me with a casket full of gems.

I shall make the incident brief: He wanted me to give him several thousand dollars for the lot. I was not interested. His offer dropped and dropped until it came down to a price I really could have afforded to pay. But I do not buy stolen gems— or any other kind. I never bought a piece of ornamental jewelry in my life. He said that he was a stranger and did not know how to go about disposing of the gems, and all that sort of thing, but I was a friend and he would give me a good bargain.

The casket was slightly larger than an ordinary cigar-box, very heavily made, solid, peculiarly so, but a rather plain-looking box— that is, not ornamented in any way beyond a monogram of letters that I made out to be M.C. I knew nothing of jewel-caskets, but this one seemed to me thick enough to have served for a kind of strong-box, except that it had the flimsiest of locks.

I suppose that I would at once have sent Blackstone coldly on his way, but it happened that a friend of mine dropped in. He was a little nervous dope-fiend who knew a great deal about gems, as every successful pickpocket must. He took a glance at the glittering trinkets and cheerfully called them a fine assortment of "glass"; upon being pressed for further information he declared that the stones were really very good paste.

At once it became clear that Blackstone had tried to fleece me. Perhaps it had appealed to his sense of vanity to think that he could put something over on me. He knew gems, though if in a hurry he might snatch up a false one by mistake,

I was entirely polite, but Mr. Blackstone departed without his casket— or anything to console him for its loss.

I thought the incident closed, but a day or so later he telephoned demanding the casket. The conversation was brief: I said "good-by" and hung up.

He ventured to come to see me and offered a lot of money for the casket. I told him to go to the devil.

My room was burglarized, but the burglar neglected to look behind the bath-tub.

He wrote me a threatening letter and I began to be interested. Then he telephoned to say that I was a tin-horn, a coward and many other things and that I had hid the casket for fear somebody would. take it away from me. Before hanging up I assured him that the casket and the gems would be on my table every night from the time I came into the room and I suggested that he call.

I never expected to see him. But somebody was at the door, coming in.

iii

SOME sense, neither sight nor hearing perhaps, but something such as warns a person when somebody stands noiselessly behind him, told me when the door was opened.

The person was using extreme caution. That was wise. True, it might be a random burglar stumbling, so to speak, against my door and hoping to carry off something besides a bullet or two in his legs, but any one who came knowingly into my room would expect the bullet to reach a more fatal place than legs. A soft, almost noiseless footstep crept on to the carpet. Then another and another. I could hear the faint, nervous breathing of the form almost within hand's touch of me. A pause in movement. I waited. I was not excited. I had no reason to be: the cards were all in my favor. True enough, some people do grow agitated when four aces fall to them. I am not one of those people.

I waited with my fingers motionless against. the little brass chain of the light on the stand beside my chair. In those days, and sometimes in these, I would about as soon have my five fingers, my hand, cut off and mislaid as to have a gun beyond reach. As it was, I was fully satisfied with the situation. The only trouble about shooting is that it makes a noise and people come to ask questions. A sheaf of spreading light thrust itself out from the electric torch my visitor carried and fell on the empty bed; simultaneously I pulled the lamp's cord and with some effort to be calmly polite said—

"Won't you sit down?"

A smothered, futilely strangled little cry of fright— and the woman, a masked woman, with hands that gripped the torch and a small gun pressed in sudden alarm against her bosom, stepped stumblingly back. The eyes shot pommel through the mask-slits at me.

"Push the door to, please," I said pleasantly, trying to speak as naturally as one might under normal conditions to a not unwelcome stranger.

I was not going to let her know that I was as much surprized as herself.

She stepped slightly to one side and closed the door without taking her eyes off me.

"I very nearly grew tired of waiting for you. Please sit down."

I courteously indicated a chair near me.

She approached the chair with slow, trance-like movements, her eyes fixed on my face as if hypnotized. She was momentarily bewildered. That was all that was the matter with her. Surprize can deliver a blow scarcely less numbing than a club.

She recovered rapidly, however, if not from the surprize, at least from the appearance of it.

She sat down with a certain' feline care, a suggestion of— I don't know just how to word the impression I got, but I will say that she sat down with a suggestion of daintiness. She tried to convey, and nearly succeeded, that she was not at all uneasy; yet she did not assume any boldness or even nonchalance.

I could not see much of her face, for she wore a mask, a domino, a black piece of silk that hid her forehead and eyes.

Her mouth seemed just a trifle large— she was a small woman— but, as that impression eventually disappeared, I may. have had it because at first her mouth gaped a little. She was not at all the type one would suspect of being a female bandit. There was a shade of delicacy about her half-hidden face that the mask did not conceal.

I am not inclined to be romantic over any woman, not even a pretty strange one who comes picturesquely and unbidden into my rooms at such indiscreet hours. I had an idea that she knew she was amazingly pretty. Neither her knowledge of it nor her beauty would serve her so well as she might reasonably expect, for I happen not to be very susceptible to the fair, soft charms of women. That is, I have always been very determined not to be. If women are watched closely, suspected constantly and not trusted in the least, one can sometimes keep out of their fingers.

This little intruder had bobbed, wavy hair— light-brown hair that fairly tumbled off her head and clustered about her neck. There was a suggestion of gold about it, merely a flickering glint at times something; like sunlight on deep water. I am not being romantic. I am merely describing her hair accurately.

She had on a rather short, black, pleated dress of what appeared to be some kind of serge, and a blouse of the same material. It was a loose blouse with a scroll of black silk braid running about the breasts. The belt was a wide black piece of unpolished leather, caught together by a heavy wide black buckle. She wore shimmering black silk stockings and her small feet, very small feet, were fitted with a sort of heel-less slippers of black soft leather. Her marauding costume seemed to have been designed with an eye toward invisibility. She would have been very inconspicuous in a dim light unless one was attracted by her white hands and the unconcealed part of her face.

I looked at her carefully, deliberately, almost critically. I wanted to know as much about her as my eyes could tell me. Then, too, I have found that it disturbs people in an awkward situation to be tared at. She did not seem to care. She was a woman— and so touched her hair appraisingly, adjusted with a fleeting gesture her mask, pushed a fold out of her skirt— and quick as a flash turned her little toy-like gun on me, saying sternly—

"Hands up!"

The situation was not nearly so perilous as I may have made it appear in telling. For one thing, I have found that women seldom shoot a man they have never loved. For another thing, I slowly— very slowly— drew back a corner of the blanket and exposed a gun that could have swallowed the one that she held. My gun nestled in my hand, the muzzle straight at her. If she knew anything of me at all, she knew that I could not miss. She may have known that with anything like a fair shot I never did miss.

A half-minute of motionless tenseness followed. Then she gradually straightened up and sat back in her chair, leaving the little gun in her lap as she slowly half-raised her hands.

I leaned over and took the torch and gun from her. I glanced at the gun and tossed it back on to her lap and felt irresistibly a flash of admiration for her. The gun was not loaded. I was not proud of having bluffed out a woman who held a thing worthless as a toy— not even as effective as a toy gun, which will at least make a noise when the cap is fired and perhaps scare somebody.

"And what can I do for you?' I asked,

Breathlessly, eagerly, she answered. Her voice was wonderfully flexible. It had a trained,. pleasing tone that sensitively ran the gamut of inflections. Hers was a truly amazing air of spontaneity, both in manner and voice— amazingly so because after the first little bewildered cry she did not seem frightened. I knew that she was. Anybody would have to be, in her situation. She begged me, please, to give her that casket and let her go. The casket belonged to her, she said.

I suggested that we grow confidential and that she begin by telling me about herself. I wondered very much that a woman like this should be the confederate of Blackstone. I knew that he fascinated women, but she did not seem to me to be the sort of woman that he would fascinate. He usually caught empty-headed women, rather vapid, characterless creatures. She was not like that.

"I've made a mistake," she said simply, as if it explained what I wanted to know.

"Undoubtedly," I replied, bowing slightly, "I was not asleep."

"You should have been— this time o' night!" she flashed, with a good pretense of petulant reproachfulness.

She was clever. I began to admire her considerably, though she was desperately trying to play the coquette. She was artful and it took more daring to seem to be a coquette at that moment than it had taken to pick the lock of my room and enter. She crossed her knees and sat back with an air of sulkiness, her eyes on the casket.

"Why," I asked, "all this excitement over bogus gems— glass— paste?"

She looked at me quickly, with a glimmering of alarm in her eyes. And thereby she confirmed certain suspicions that I had. I guessed that among the collection of paste there was a stone or two of real value which could easily enough have been overlooked, I thought, by my friend the pickpocket, who had given the casket little more than a casual glance and almost idly had fingered the trinkets.

"You have examined it carefully— the box?" she demanded.

I assured her with a rather knowing air that there wasn't a thing of value in it.

She gave a decided start at that and a hand went out toward the casket as if to seize and inspect it. But I checked her. I told her that the box had been left in my custody,

"But it is mine!" she exclaimed. "I must have it. I will have it. Oh, please, give it to me!"

That was not the sort of appeal to move me. Women— or men— strike the wrong chord if they think to move me by begging. I forgive audacity; I admire bold strokes; I may even be satisfied if some ingenious bit of daring gets the better of me, provided the circumstances are not too serious; but I have no use for beggars, not even when the beggars are pretty women. And I have no gallantry.

"Where's Blackstone?" I said abruptly.

It took her a few seconds too long to answer and she replied at first by staring wide-eyed at me and shaking her head slightly. Then, with an air of innocent mystification that was far from deceiving me, asked—

"Who is he?"

"The man who sent you— because he was afraid to come himself," I told her roughly.

Though I did not move, did not turn my head, I was sure that I heard a muffled sound at my door. I guessed that Mr. Blackstone might be listening. I hoped so. He would hear something interesting of himself before I had finished.

"Oh," she said. "Mr. Blackstone?"

"Yes. The gentleman who permits the women he has kissed to pay his expenses."

"Oh!"

Involuntarily her eyes went toward the door. I did not seem to notice. A pause followed. She seemed to be studying me closely, hesitantly trying to decide something. At last, low-voiced, she said:

"I have heard of you— I wonder—" her eyes went furtively toward the door and came back to my face as she went on— "I wonder if— you— are a gentleman."

I told her bluntly that I was not, that I was a gambler, a professional gambler.

When a woman begins to appeal to a man to be a gentleman it is high time to throw up breastworks.

"'Blackstone's a. gentleman," I added. "He has hidden behind your skirts. I would rather be 'a crook."

Something very near to a smile came to her lips but went away. She seemed really agitated. without showing much nervousness, or, more accurately, I had the impression that she was highly keyed, as if about to venture something desperate.

Rather than that there should be protracted silence, I went into some detail regarding Blackstone. I told some of the things that I knew; that he was a venomous cad. and cheat, liar and rascal, without a thing in the way of personal courage to make even Satan's imps respect him.

"You say that behind his back," she remarked, but I could not tell precisely what she meant.

It was not exactly as if suggesting a reproach, nor quite like doubt if what I said was true, but she rather conveyed the idea of wonder as to what I would ay to his face or do if confronted by him.

"True," I answered. "His back is all that he presents these days. And that only at a distance, a safe distance."

She said that it was not like what she had heard of me— that I should boast.

But I am suspicious of women when they pay compliments, though she did it exceedingly well. I told her that I did not understand.

She hesitated and again her eyes went a little anxiously toward the door. And I thought that I understood what was the matter. She seemed to be wanting to say something to. me, yet was also aware that a listener was at the door. However, it might be that she was outguessing me, playing a deeper game than she thought I would imagine. It is hard to tell about women. Their simplicity and their subtility is often so bewilderingly alike; that is what makes them so hard to understand. tee

"Please listen," she said. "That casket was stolen from me. I must have it!  I will pay— anything. It is money you want, isn't it?"

"Usually, yes. Money. But why this sudden interest in the casket?"

"It hasn't been sudden with me, Mr. Everhard. I was frantic when— when my sister missed the casket. But I didn't know who had taken it."

"I see. You didn't suspect Blackstone."

"I didn't know who had taken it," she repeated, seemingly a little anxious not to offend Mr. Blackstone's eavesdropping ears. "Then I learned that you had it. You have refused every offer. I simply must have it. My— my sister's future is at stake."

"You think a great deal of your sister, don't you? Why didn't you come to me at once?"

She almost whispered—

"I didn't dare!"

"Dare? Dare?" I repeated and significantly gestured my surprize that any one dared not meet me in daylight, yet come at such an hour and in such a manner.

"Oh! I can't explain," she said quickly, feverishly.

I watched her closely. If that was acting it was good acting. But one is always at a disadvantage with women unless they are distrusted and even then one doesn't have much security.

"Would you prefer to explain to me— or to the police?" I asked coolly.

If she had known as much about me as she thought she did, she would have known that I never called on the police. They sometimes called on me; but I shall say this for them: they were always polite. She did not know of my aversion to signaling a policeman: she did not know that I never go to them. She shuddered and sat upright with a jerk.

"Oh, please, no! Can't you be generous? Please. I must have that casket. I must have it! I can't pay an enormous sum, but I'll pay everything I have!'

I scowled and slowly shook my head. It irritates me to be begged.

"Why," I asked coldly, "are you afraid of Blackstone? He is a poisonous, cowardly little snake."

"I know it," she whispered almost inaudibly. "He is my husband!"

I nodded slowly as if I believed her. I did not wholly disbelieve her. No. I simply didn't trust her. She had brains, that woman, and I could not imagine such a woman as she being taken in by a fellow like that.

My hearing is sensitive, exceptionally acute, and I thought that I heard a sound not unlike a restless, impatient slip of hand or foot outside of my door. My ears listened; my eyes watched her.

"Everything is there?" she asked, indicating the casket.

"Yes, everything is on that table," I replied, glancing toward it.

On the table were papers, a bulbous vase from which half a dozen fragrant carnations raised their ragged blossoms, a book or two and the casket, bulking black and solidly against the vase.

I then said that she should tell me why she was so anxious to have that casket and its bogus gems. I said it in such a way as to imply the threat that she would perhaps regret her silence if she refused, but I did not hold out any kind of promise.

"He made me come," she whispered excitedly. "He said you wouldn't shoot a woman. Honestly!"

I knew Blackstone would not hesitate to do a thing of the kind but I could not imagine him making a woman such as she was do anything she did not care to do— particularly turn robber to steal paste.

IT was a peculiar situation, indeed. The husband, or alleged husband, listening at the door wherein his wife had entered as a burglar; I, fully aware that he was at the door, yet pressing his wife on threat of arrest to tell me things which might infuriate him. It was not only a peculiar situation but also one that did not displease me. She was afraid of him, or seemed to be, and she did not quite trust me. The distrust was mutual. I simply listened to what she said. I did not believe her and yet scarcely disbelieved her.

She seemed trying to make up her mind to be frank— or to appear frank. It usually amounts to the same thing in a woman. There is one great disadvantage in distrusting women: when they are truthful, one is sure not to believe them, and a woman is never so dangerous as when she is truthful. She made several beginnings, said a word, paused, started again, hesitated, then removed her mask and fingered the elastic with which it had been fastened about her head. My ears were very intent on the door and, without appearing to move so as to be in a better position to glance at it, I edged around a little. I had the strong feeling that something was about happen.

At last she threw down the mask as if indicative of her decision to throw her story to me, but whether or net she had decided to tell a true story or had simply decided on what lie would suit was rather difficult to decide. If it were a false story, I could not compliment her imagination. It was commonplace enough to be true.

She spoke in a low voice and leaned forward confidentially as if not to be overheard. But, I said to myself, that may be only an artifice. Women like to appear confidential. It is one of their favorite attitudes.

She said that she had met Blackstone when she was young and foolish. She had married him. He left her. She had heard that he was dead. She believed it. She went on the stage. She took another name. She thought Blackstone was clear out of her life.

A few months before, she had met a young man, a wealthy young man, who loved her, whom she loved. He had gone to China on business. He was returning and she had come to San Francisco to meet him. His ship was. due tomorrow:

She had been in San Francisco about three weeks. She had taken an apartment and was living very quietly, waiting for the man she loved. Then one night Blackstone walked into her rooms. Her husband! He had seen her on the street, recognized her, followed her.

He had gone through everything she had, taken some jewelry, sneered at the casket and its contents, made her give him money; then one day she missed the casket itself. He denied knowing anything about it— and at last she told him it was worth money and that she had to have it. Then he told her he had sold it to me— that I was a fellow he didn't like and he had enjoyed selling me paste.

She had told him that they were not all paste, that it was worth thirty thousand dollars— that she must have it.

She wanted it, she said to me, to return to the man she loved, who had given her the casket and its contents as an engagement present, but of course Blackstone was only agitated by the eager desire to get his hands on so much wealth.

"I can never explain to him— but I must return his gifts!" she cried.

Of course she told me all that much more expressively and even more rapidly than I have related it. She spoke fast, with disconnected phrases that were as enlightening as sentences would have been, and as she talked she leaned nearer and nearer to me and her voice rose until at last, as if careless of who heard her, she cried out that she would return those jewels— she must return them.

I did not believe her. Thirty thousand dollars was too much money. Neither Blackstone nor my pickpocket could have overlooked gems of that extreme value. But I did not have much time to think. She was leaning very close to me and one of her hands was laid on my arm and the fingers pressed tightly as if to hold my attention by physical force; the fingers of her other hand ran up along my arm with a kind of beseeching tenderness.

"Please, please, please!" she begged, but I flung her backward and shot and the man died just as he stood tiptoe facing me through eight inches of open. door. A revolver was in his hand and it exploded from the spasmodic twitch of his fingers as he went down on his face sprawlingly, shot through his forehead. His bullet hit the floor by my chair. It was all over in three ticks of a clock, for he had made the fatal mistake of hissing—

"You and my wife!"

And I killed him.

"You lose," I said frigidly to her, adding that as a trap she and her man had made a pretty flimsy thing of it.

"So help me God, I have told you the truth!" she said tensely, breathless, staring down at the body.

She stood with hand to throat, half shrinking, as from a thing of horror, yet fascinated.

I told her that she had better not say a word more until she had heard me lie; that then she could tell her story any way that she pleased.

I did not know what kind of a mess I might be in for, with police investigation and a strange woman for witness: but I thought that I had her at a disadvantage.

Anyway, I would give her a fighting chance to get out. As for Blackstone: I snatched up the mask she had dropped, rammed a pencil through it to serve for a bullet-hole and quickly placed it on his forehead ; then, tossing the little toy gun out of sight, I went to the door, where soon were gathered people in bathrobes and without them, men and women, some of whom chattered in nervous excitement though they tried to hold their teeth set.

I treated the curious mob in a fashion friendly enough. I seemed to do my best-to answer a dozen questions at once, but I told nobody anything. I seemed trying to explain in the midst of interruptions and, though I kept everybody out of the room, I let them jostle me at the door and peer through morbidly, some of them perhaps sympathetically, at the pretty young woman in my room who, huddled forward, was weeping with hands to face.

But, of course, no one could come into the room or touch the body of the dead man until the police arrived. Every one was tense with nervous curiosity; though the man lay on his face, all could see that he was masked. It seemed mysterious and thrilling.

The police came, the police-patrol. It came rattling down the street through one of San Francisco's heavy fogs and the policemen bustled with an air of directness and business through the crowd about my door.

They knew me at a glance and, though their eyes were a little suspicious, they were respectful. My record was not above suspicion, but it was unindictable.

I told my story. I had not been able to sleep. I had sat up, trying to read. I had heard a noise in the hall, then a sort of scuffling, not loud, but strange enough to arouse curiosity. I had gone to the door and listened, barely opening it. Almost at once a woman had flung herself against it. She could hardly talk. She was out of breath and frightened. She staggered into the room, gasping for me to save her. I had been surprized and did not know quite what to do and had just turned around when a shot was fired— and, having a gun on the arm of my chair, I had snatched it up and shot. I mentioned to the policemen, just to remind them, that at times I could shoot rapidly. I had whirled and shot. I did not know the woman. I had never seen her before. The man was masked.

THAT was my story. Not truthful perhaps, but honest. The woman could get from the net as well as she could. I had no great sympathy for her, for I was more than half inclined to believe that she had leaned so close to me, had gripped my arm so hard and let her fingers run up my arm so pleadingly, to distract my attention from the door and give Blackstone a chance to come in and cover me with his gun— and perhaps shoot. She may have been sincere and he may have merely jumped at the chance of seeking an excuse to kill me by pretending to find his wife and me together.

Neither the truth as she might tell it nor what lies she could imagine would very well discredit my story. I had told it first. I had told it plausibly. Besides, the dead man wore a mask and the police are never inclined to side with masked men, living or dead. She might say I had poked a pencil through the black silk, but then she would have to explain how the mask came to be in the room, and so implicate herself; whereas I had given her a loop-hole if she had the ingenuity to take it.

When the police came into the room, other people tried to follow. They tried to crowd close to hear what the woman would say, but every one was pushed back into the hall and a big policeman put his arm, like a bar, across the door.

When I had finished with my story, the woman flashed a look at me that I did not understand: just a flash from the corner of her eye when I approached and cut off other people's view from her face. The look appeared more full of astonishment than anything else, but there also seemed to be a little something of gratitude.

She sobbed convincingly and in a broken voice and with nodding head said  that I had told just what had happened. The police had looked into the dead man's face but none of them recognize him. She told his name. She said that he had hounded her; that she could not escape him and that she was afraid of him. He had threatened to kill her because she would not be his wife.

She sobbed a great deal at this point, in order, I think, to get time to decide how best to go on. One big policeman laid a hand gently on her shoulder and spoke encouragingly.

She went on. She lived at the apartment next door. He must have learned in some way that she was planning to move so as to hide from him. Shortly before midnight he had telephoned that he would kill her if she tried to run away from him. Later he telephoned again that he was coming out and that he was going to wear a mask so that he could kill her without any one recognizing him.

He must have been drunk, she said. He was often drunk. She snatched a handful of things together and fled, but he had met her right at the entrance.

She broke away from him and ran. He followed. She darted through the entrance next door and ran up the stairs. He had caught her by the skirt and put the gun to her head but she had tripped him and fled down the hall— and burst into my room. After that everything had happened as I said. As a preliminary story, the police were ready to accept it. Things more strange than she told happened daily under their noses and nothing remained except to confirm her story by going to the apartment next door. I wondered if she had thought of that when she gave an address so near at hand.

She had said that her name was Marjorie Cline and before she left the room I had no reason to question her ingenuity and resourcefulness. She stood up to go with the officers. Without a flaw she kept the rôle I had thrust upon her.

She looked pathetic and appealing. She was pretty and she did appear helpless, thoroughly distressed; so much so that the policemen, who are rather cynical and not easily made sympathetic toward people who tell strange stories, were gentle, even kind, with her. She spoke to me weakly, without offering a handclasp or thanks, which would not have looked well, and said that she was sorry that she had brought such trouble upon me, I bowed remotely and did not return any polite phrases.

Then she did a daring thing. She picked up the black casket from the table, picked it up swiftly and handed it with a sort of explanatory gesture toward the biggest policeman, saying that it contained a few little trinkets with which she had fled her room. The policeman looked at me, but before I could say anything— I don't know that I would have said much anyway— she explained further:

"Oh, yes, it's mine. See the monogram: 'M.C'."

He took it into his hand, scrutinized it and handed it back to her; together they went out, leaving me staring through the doorway.

The policeman who kept watch over the dead sat down, lighted a cigar, flicked ashes on the carpet and began to talk of other dead men and the various ways in which they had found their deaths. I bent over and put my nose to the carnations. I had of late been showing a rather unusual interest in flowers.

Suddenly a heavy, uniformed man burst into the room.

"She's got away!" he cried. "The little devil— slipped right around the corner. Wasn't watching her. Never suspected a thing. They never heard of her at the apartment. next door— and she's gone. Right into the fog!"

The big fellow smashed his fist into an open palm and swore feelingly. Then  questions came rapidly at me, but I stood pat. I knew nothing more of her than I had told. Nothing was to be got out of me— not at that late hour.

Then the ambulance came and the policeman and the dead man went away. When they were gone I made sure that the blinds were down, hung a cap on the door-knob and emptied the large bulbous vase into the water-bowl. Then I fished out rings, bracelets, earrings and such, and dried them on a bath-towel and tumbled the collection on the bed. I went over them carefully, but as I knew nothing of gems anyway it was not surprizing that I found none I could pronounce genuine,

THE next day I received a note. It was a short note, but it came from the woman whose name I never knew, for she said that it was not Marjorie Cline— "but something like that." She assured me that her story, as she had told it to me, was true, literally true, and that I was welcome to the paste gems as mementoes from her, because the casket had a false bottom where the real jewels were hidden. The lock was flimsy, so a robber might break it open easily and then, finding the paste duplicates, fill his pockets and go with nothing of value. The note ended:

Oh, I hope it isn't a terrible thing to say, but I believe my prayers to be freed from that beastly man were heard in heaven— for my ship came in today, and I can be happy now.  M.C.

_________________

13: The House Of The Seven Heads

A. Schade Van Westrum

1865-1917

Translated by Alice Ballard-Macdonald

No information available

Short Stories February 1891

IT STANDS on the Keizersgracht— a gray and gloomy pile of nondescript architecture with seven horrible, fantastic heads carved in its grim, mold-covered, stone facade.

Generations ago it was the property and the residence of a retired East India merchant who had amassed almost fabulous wealth, and who lived in the unostentatious and solid style peculiar to the prosperous bourgeoise of Amsterdam.

It was the custom of this good gentleman to leave his city home early in the season for his country seat in the Haarlemmer Meer, and during his absence the house on the Keizersgracht was left in the charge of an old servant— Anne— who belonged to a class fast dying out in Holland, if not already a feature of its past, and which has no parallel unless in that other extinct type the “Da” of the Louisiana Creole life.

This faithful woman had nursed the master through earliest infancy and, according to the old custom, she remained in his service after his marriage, attending his young wife and caring for his children in turn. When wife and children had passed away, the responsibilities of the household rested entirely on the willing shoulders of the loyal Anne, and she comforted her master in his days of sorrow, guarded his interests— knowing no others— as her own, and devoted her age as she had given her youth to his service.

The other servants came beneath her control, but in the summer she sent them away to the country house, preferring the peace and quiet of the deserted home to their troublesome society, and undertaking the task of the annual September house-cleaning entirely without assistance. She dearly loved every nook and corner of this old house where her master and his dear, dead children had first seen the light of the world, and where the poor little ones had one after another closed their eyes upon it forever. She wanted no frivolous maids tripping about among the rooms bothering her under the guise of assistance. It was a labor of love to get everything in readiness for the return of the master and she grudged neither time nor strength in the waxing of the floors until one could easily break one’s neck with an unsteady move on the slippery surface— in polishing the old brass until it showed one’s face as in a mirror, and in carefully dusting and rearranging the quaint old Delft and Doulton which together with many a heathenish curio from the strange countries to which her master had journeyed, lined the shelves of cabinets and adorned the tops of the presses and chests. Some of tftese curios represented great wealth, so Anne had heard the master say— were even as valuable and to be guarded as carefully as the treasures of plate and gold and silver which were locked in the metal press in the library, and the hiding place of which was known in the household only to Anne and the master. But she did not think much of the poor grotesque things, in her secret heart— these shabby old weapons crossed here on the wall, for example. Very poor and clumsy things they looked to be. She carefully wiped the scabbard of one long, curving sword and then unsheathed the blade. Dear Heaven! but it vras rusty. Only after a vigorous pull could she drag it from the sheath. Why not rub it up a bit? She was very tired and this was really an unnecessary, added exertion. But Anne hated rust almost as much as she hated dust, and it was such a satisfaction to feel that everything, even these ridiculous swords in their scabbards were shining with cleanliness. She set about the task, and in a half hour it was an accomplished fact.

With a sigh of pure satisfaction at the consciousness of duty fulfilled, the old servant gave a glance about the handsome, comfortable room. It was her master’s favorite room—  his library, and it contained many a treasure of literature and art, beside the yet more substantial treasure locked in the metal bound press in the corner.

“Now I begin to feel the need of a good cup of tea,” said Anne to herself, “And I must get my wood up from the cellar for the morning. Oh, yes,” she added, “the shutters !"

She advanced toward the window and was about to close the shutters when a furious gust of wind flung them violently in place. A storm had been threatening all the afternoon. The wind was sweeping across the canal, the sky was black, the rain beat down with sudden fierceness and as she closed the last blind at the front of the house, Anne saw the figures of two men huddled against the high stoop apparently seeking shelter from the rising storm.

In the old Dutch houses, the cellar or rather an extension of it is cut beneath the high stoop, and receives light from a small, square aperture cut in the stone. This opening also permits a current of air from the windows of the main cellar, which are larger, also square, and cut in the wall a few inches above the street. These windows were protected by light shutters. The opening in the front wall was left unprotected, for the stout door at the head of the cellar steps was provided with bolts and bars and considered a sufficient defense against possible visitors who chose to enter the house by way of the cellar. Anne placed her candle on the steps, closed the shutters to keep out the driving rain and busied herself, first, in collecting the firewood strewn over the floor of the cellar. This led her gradually toward the extension and with a sudden lull in the storm, she distinctly heard the sound of voices in subdued conversation.

Advancing noiselessly she peered through the opening in the wall. The two men who had sought comparative shelter from the storm were still huddled against the porch. Anne could not see their faces— she was too far below them, but what they said was perfectly audible, and while she was puzzling over a certain familiar tone in the voice of one of the men, the import of his words fell with a chilling force which crushed in her every other thought.

“It could be managed without the slightest difficulty,” he said. “The old woman is alone in the house, and we can step in here— one after the other.”

He indicated the opening near which they stood with a motion of his foot. Anne could have touched it by stretching out her hand. She trembled violently with fear and was obliged to grasp the stone ledge of the window for support.

“All very good, ” whispered the second voice, “but if, as you say, there is a strong door at the top of the cellar steps, how are we to get into the main house, after all? ”

“How?” said the first speaker, “there will be seven of us in all. We shall have the necessary implements. We shall break through the door."

"And while we are doing all this,” whispered the other excitedly, “what is to prevent the old woman from hearing us, from giving the alarm, from handing us into custody? And then what of all this great treasure? For that matter how do you know that anything has been left in the house—”

His companion interrupted him with a contemptuous laugh. “One question at a time, my friend,” he began coolly; and again Anne recognized something strangely familiar in the soft, sneering voice. “If, as you say, the old woman hears us at work and cries out; who will hear her on the Keizersgracht, when all Amsterdam will crawl indoor? How long, too, do you think it will take seven men and a strong axe to cut through a few bolts? Bah! One, two taps, and it is done, a third tap for the old woman who will doubtless be standing ready to take it, and so much the better, since dead women— like dead men— tell no tales.” Again he laughed disagreeably, “As for the treasure, I know the house and the ways of the people, and you will kindly remember that I do not often bungle in these little affairs. However,” he added, carelessly, “if you are timid, there are still six of us and should you leave us in the lurch, you will at least keep our secret, of that I am quite sure.

He spoke with a peculiar emphasis. The other rejoined instantly— “Enough! I will be one of you! Now, you wish me to remain here and watch while you go in search of the others. Give me your plan now, it will save time and talk/’ Anne clung desperately to the sill, in spite of her shaking limbs which threatened to no longer support her weight. She was dazed— confused by the revelation of this horrible plan of robbery and murder, yes! her murder— that wag what they were plotting to accomplish. Dear Heaven! What could she do? At least she must not lose a word-

“Do not leave this spot until I return. Should the old servant leave the house, strangle her from behind." Anne with difficulty repressed a cry of agony.

“I will bring the others as near the house as I dare, and imitate the howl of a dog. If everything is quiet and we can approach, you repeat the sound. If you are silent I shall know that the unexpected has happened. We understand each other thoroughly now? One thing more, as I said before, this window—” tapping the wall behind him again with his foot, “—is better than the others; it has no shutters and will necessitate less noise near the street. It is just wide enough to admit a man head-first, and is not more than three feet from the floor; one can feel for the ground with his hands, and so draw in the rest of the body. You had best enter first, I last, so we will keep a watch on the others. Give a low 'Cuckoo' when you are safely on your feet within I shall tell the others to do the same. So! I go now to the "Roode Leeuw” where the others are waiting and we will return as soon as it is possible to do so with safety. Thank God for the black night! We can begin our work early."

He moved away, Anne, intently watching.

“Wait!” called the other softly. A dim shape rose again, close beside the window. “You are sure about the treasure? Come now, there is enough for seven?”

"Aye man,” was the reply; “and for eight, we shall need a man without to give an alarm if necessary. I tell you there is not only money but a service of solid gold, and another of silver. In better days I have eaten off both!”

He was gone. Anne, unable longer to stand, sank despairingly to the ground. She was unconscious of the darkness, for the candle end she had brought into the cellar had long ago burned itself out on the stone steps. She covered her face with her hard old hands, and a few heavy tears crept through the knotted fingers. She had lived an honest life. She had served her master faithfully. She had hoped to close her eyes peacefully, at last, in his service. To die to-night, to be murdered, struck down with an axe beneath this very roof where she had spent nearly her whole life! Or strangled from behind should she try to escape from the house! Horrible! Horrible! Would the dear God let such a thing be? She had suddenly a stupid sensation of being another than herself. The rain beat fiercely down. The wind sobbed and moaned about the house, then tore madly over the canal, lashing the placid waters to fury. A bell in the town tolled ten strokes, muffled and irregular through the noises of the storm.

Ten o'clock! So late! Anne struggled to her feet. What was she doing here, weeping, inactive, when her life was at stake? Surely, there was some way to prevent this awful, needless crime! This man without, watching, waiting to strangle her, he could not see in all directions at once. They had not counted on their plan being overheard. They would not expect strategy from her. There were the windows at the back of the house! She could drop from one of them and, by making a long detour, reach a neighbor, or even the watch in the town. There was a chance of her meeting the other wretches, but it was one in twenty. Here in the house, she had no chance at all. Dear Heaven! He was right, the villain! How long would it take seven men and a strong axe to break down a few bolts? She had no time to lose. She crept through the darkness straight to the cellar steps— she knew every inch of the ground— made her way softly to the door above, opening it as cautiously as though a sound might, steal through stone walls and wooden shutters to the wicked ears without. In the kitchen she lighted a candle and shading it with her hand as she passed before the windows, she moved quickly toward the dining-room, at the back of the house, and the windows of which were consequently furthest removed from the watcher on the Keizersgracht. At the door of the library she paused. Obeying an irresistible impulse, she entered the room and placing the candle on a small table she looked about her. There was her master's favorite chair drawn before his writing table, his books, his pictures. The pictures of his children and his wife. The curious ornaments on the shelves, in niches on the wall, everything dearest to him was in the room, yes! and everything of most value. Anne’s eye fell on the metal bound chest in the corner. Within were the two services of plate, gold and silver, heirlooms in the family and more precious in the eyes of her master than the rolls of bills and sacks of coins and the cases of jewels stored beside them. She wondered, vaguely, in the midst of her strong excitement, how this hiding place as well as the house itself had become so well known to the robber with the strangely familiar voice. Alas! In an hour’s time, perhaps in less, all this would have passed into his hands, this dear room almost sacred to her, would be desecrated by the presence of these murderous ruffians, and she, the faithful one, who loved the belongings of her master as she loved him, would be flying along the Keizersgracht, flying for her life. What! She would then be running away? For her life? Yes, to be sure.

A doubt, perplexing, agonizing, crept upon the old servant— slowly at first, assumed strength in her thoughts, merging at last into the certainty of a forceful conviction. Her place was here— here— to defend what had been given into her charge? How? It mattered not. With her life, if need be. This were better than the abandonment of duty. A certain exaltation following upon this righteous resolve seemed to deprive even the certainty of the terrible death which was fast stealing upon her of all its bitterness. They would find her, here, in this room the dear master and his servants, they would find her dead, murdered , beside the press, cut down at her post of duty! The master would shed tears at this affecting sight and he would know that she had been faithful unto death. Yes-! She would be faithful—  to-night— as through all the past to him and to what was his. She looked again about the room in which she now knew she was to die. Her eyes lingered lovingly on each familiar feature of its furnishings. They rested on the swords she had been cleaning that evening— the last duty she would ever perform in this house which had so long been her charge. No! not the last— one was still to come. She moved slowly toward the weapons and laid her hand on one of them, a great broad sword with a blade as thick as an axe. Moved by some strange influence, Anne unsheathed the weapon, clutched it firmly with both hands, turning it slightly so that the dim light from the candle played on the dazzling steel.

A single dull note sounded from the town bell. Half past ten. Perhaps even now her fate was creeping upon her, stealthily along the Keizersgracht.

Remembering the signal, she listened intently for the howling of a dog, but no sound came to her save the moaning of the wind and the beating of the rain.

Suppose the cry was lost in the storm and that at this moment, a head was being thrust through the cellar window and a pair of murderous hands reaching for the ground.

Her own hands closed nervously on the weapon in her grasp, and unconsciously she lifted it as if to strike a blow. The action was suggestive— a host of thoughts crowded swiftly upon it, but thoughts so terrifying that the old servant, after abandoning herself to them for one delirious instant, fell suddenly on her knees and prayed God to snatch them from her heart. But they pressed in even upon her prayer, and yet upon her knees with eyes upraised to Heaven, she found herself plotting, planning to foil these cowardly robbers with their own weapons. How she might with this good sword in her hand station herself by the little window in the cellar; how each man would enter alone, offering his head, as it were, for the blow. The cry was known to her.—

Why was she praying God to help her resist this voice in her heart, since He, Himself must have bidden it speak? Was it not right to defend one’s life— “an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.” And, strongest conviction of all— in this way alone could she risk her life to some purpose. Should she succeed, the treasure was safe. Here, on the contrary, of what avail the sacrifice of her life, since the robbers would step over her dead body to rifle the safe of its contents!

“My God! Have mercy upon me!” whispered the old servant, struggling to her feet, and seizing the weapon which had fallen to the floor at her side she took the candle in the other hand, placing first a few matches on the edge of the candlestick and closing the library door softly, she swiftly made her way to the cellar steps. Here she extinguished the light and removed her shoes. Descending the steps without haste, she moved toward the extension, listening intently for the howling of a dog above the confusion of the storm.

She had not long to wait. As the instigator of the robbery had said— the elements, wild and wicked, lent their aid to the furtherance of the evil deed.

Anne laid her formidable weapon on the ground convenient to her hand and fell upon her knees. Again the horror of what she was about to do closed in upon her senses.

“Thou shalt not kill!”

The words rang in her ears and were graven in flaming letters in the darkness about her. She was intensely, almost superstitiously religious, but perhaps the fanaticism to which her nature was prone found its greatest expression in her idolatry of her master and the fetich-like reverence with which she worshipped even his smallest belongings. The struggle between these two passions of a long, narrow life was sharp and severe. But it was also short.

The words of the simple prayer:— “My God pity me! My God show me what is right!” repeated again and again; died away suddenly in the old servant’s throat. The prolonged howl of a dog sounded above wind and rain. In a moment it was answered by another much nearer the house.

With the necessity for immediate action came the requisite ourage. There was no further need of prayer, as there was no further hesitation. Muffled, stealthy footsteps approached the house. Not a word was spoken that could be overheard by the woman, who stood rigid with upraised arms, ready to deal the fatal strokes, with burning eyes fixed upon the shadowy opening in the wall so faintly outlined against the darkness of the night. But her eyes, grown accustomed to the surroundings, saw plainly the rounder, darker outline of the man's head which was thrust cautiously forward through the opening; saw even where the line of hair ended sharply against the back of the neck; saw by some second sense of sight where the shoulders followed the head, and the arms were drawn slowly in, one after another, and were extended downward to reach the ground.

Now! The terrible blade descended swiftly, silently, on that spot below the line of hair. There was a vibrant shock, a slight resistance; then it went on, cleaving through a life. The head fell with a heavy, sickening sound, prolonged by a soft gurgling. And all this with such hideous speed, such appalling silence. The woman’s head swam and she staggered as she moved a step or two nearer to seize the headless body by the feet and drag it through the window. Then she must stoop and push it aside— for the next .

And the signal! She had almost forgotten. Dear God, where was her voice? She made a fearful effort, but the voice, rough, husky, yet harsh; could it be hers?

“Cuckoo!”

She shivered with anxiety. Would they detect the strangeness of the voice, suspect a trap, fly? Oh! If God would have it so! Suppose, indeed, He did not sanction this awful bloodshed! Was not this murder? And murder deliberately planned, and not one victim but seven! The prayer rose again to Heaven— this time voiceless, but the same poor words went up from the tortured soul.

“My God! Pity me! Show me what is right!”

A second head, a second blow to sever it from its body, after a pause as before to gain the same advantage, only this time, an added horror, since the falling head rolled between her feet, and, when afraid to risk a misstep, she stooped to push it aside with her hands, they touched the hair and beard wet and warm with blood. Its sickening odor remained upon them, and shaking as with ague, yet with the heat of fever in her brain, Anne dragged the second body after the first, and as it was that of a slight man, her strong arm Hfted it from the ground and flung it far back into the cellar.

This time she gave the signal in a clearer voice, and as she again took her position to wait for the third victim, she was conscious of a certain lightness, a vague exhilaration which she could not have analyzed had she tried. Her lips still moved in silent prayer, but unconsciously to herself, the words of her supplications had changed, and she entreated only for strength ; yes! strength to kill!

The third man came quietly to his fate as had the two before him, but with the fourth it was different. He had followed closely on his companion and Anne had not time to push aside the preceding body before aiming a blow at his neck. His hands, feeling for the floor, came in contact with the gaping throat from which the blood still streamed and passed swiftly over it to the lifeless arms and shoulders.

“What is this?” he muttered. “Where are you?”

Receiving no reply, he tried vainly to wriggle back as he had come, through the narrow opening from which he dangled head downwards. But his struggle was short and his fate differed from that of his companions only in that his upraised head met the descending sword which crashed through his skull, cleaving it and striking only one-half from the body.

There was no indecision, no fear, no remorse in the action of the woman who seized the limp figure and drew it in through the window with one vigorous movement of her steady arm. There was no hesitation in the rough voice which gave the cry to which the fifth robber responded. Into the limbs, stiffened by years of labor, a new strength was creeping. The thin blood of age was leaping and dancing like the hot torrent which courses through the veins of youth, urging it to desperate acts of heroism or of evil. The wrinkled face of the old servant grew flushed and eager; her dim eyes sparkled. The smell of blood was in her nostrils and they quivered like those of a wild beast. Her thin lips parted over the toothless gums in a smile of hideous cruelty.

The lust of murder was upon her.

The sixth head fell with its horrible heavy sound beneath a terrific blow from the avenging sword, and angrily, as one impatient of delay, Anne snatched the body of the man roughly by the belt and flung it violently behind her.

“Cuckoo! ” she cried at the window, and her voice was like the growl of an enraged brute.

This time, the head put through the window was instantly withdrawn and a murmur of hushed voices ensued.

The woman within stamped on the ground in her impatience. She thrust her foot forward. It touched some soft, heavy object. The headless body of a man. She kicked it furiously. Then, as the murmuring continued and the delay waxed longer, she became possessed of rage, and fell to hacking with the sword in her hand in all directions— to the right, to the left, wherever she thought a body lay.

Wait! Suppose it might be heard from without. Anne paused in this drunken carnival of blood, sobered by the fear that the seventh victim might escape her. She turned again to the window. The voices had ceased.

A head was thrust through the opening.

“Are you all there?” whispered a cautious voice. “Is everything all right?”

The woman with the uplifted sword feared to answer, thinking her voice, so near him, might betray her. She had grown cunning in even this short madness that had come upon her. She bent forward with incredible swiftness and before the head could be withdrawn she had seized it firmly by the hair. The man uttered a stifled oath and struggled to free himself.  He might as well have battled with an avalanche. The crazed creature twisted her hard fingers in and out of his hair, dragging his head down inch by inch and so holding him, as a child might hold a doll with one hand, she swung her weapon high in the air and struck off his head with the other. But the body, overweighted on the outer side of the sill, fell headless into the street.

A shriek of horror rose from the almost paralyzed watcher on the Keizersgracht.

It was answered by a howl of triumph from the frantic and blood-stained woman within.

“Seven! Seven! she screamed. “Seven heads! And they are mine; all of them mine!”

The man fled for his life. The sound of his flying steps came dimly— ceased altogether. The storm had died, and suddenly the moon came out, shone down on the waters of the canal— turgid and troubled— on the dripping trees and the river of mud running along the Keizersgracht, looked in at the unshuttered windows of the cellar and flooded it with light. There lay a heap of headless bodies, with the blood streaming from their necks and from a dozen gaping wounds, dealt by some weapon and with a terrific force. Seven heads, all with wide-opened eyes, in which a vague presentiment of terror seemed dawning— all save one, and that was but half a head, smitten from its other half, which might be found clinging to the limp neck of a disfigured body. This, too, the moon saw— a little, mad, old woman, laughing, chattering, crying to herself, who stared about her with unseeing eyes when first the moon looked in, and then suddenly seeing all, gave way to frenzy, cast herself on the ground in the midst of the ghastly company, striking at and biting whatever she touched, shrieking with horrible laughter as the heads rolled about beneath her furious blows. And all this was so pitiful to see that after a little while the moon hid her face behind the clouds and the night was black until the gray fingers of the dawn lifted the curtain of the day.

The morning-watch on the Keizersgracht was horrified to find the headless body of a man stretched before the door of one of the wealthiest residents, and while stooping to examine it a peal of hideous laughter rang in his ear. Turning his head swiftly, a grinning, blood-stained face stared at him from the cellar window— the eyes were bright and cunning, the lips parted in an unmeaning smile over toothless gums; With a cry of alarm, the good officer put a safe distance between himself and a wrinkled, bloody paw that was stretched forth to seize him, and with a growl of rage the face at the window disappeared.

The guardian of the peace, greatly puzzled and disturbed, was about to hurry to the town to seek assistance in unraveling the mystery when a heavy traveling carriage rolled into view, and he recognized the equipage of the owner of the house.

He waited its approach, and when it stopped before the door, which covered this unknown tragedy, he advanced quickly to meet its occupant.

With a brief word of explanation, he pointed out the corpse stretched before the house, and at the same moment, attracted by the sound of the wheels, Anne’s scarcely recognizable face appeared at the cellar-window.

At the sight of her master, who stared at her with an expression of mingled wonderment and horror, she gave a bitter, incoherent cry, and great tears forced themselves from her eyes and mingling with the blood which bespattered her face, formed two red and muddy rivulets which ran heavily down the furrows of her cheeks.

“Anne! Great God! ” exclaimed the master.

Then suddenly regaining his self-control, he turned angrily to his servants, who had huddled behind him.

“What are you doing standing there? Why do you not open the doors? Come! Get out your keys."

But in spite, of his firm and angry tones he shuddered as his gaze fell on the ghastly corpse before his door, and the poor distorted face which looked out above it.

The officer, ashamed to betray hesitation, followed the owner into the house and accompanied him to the cellar. The sickening spectacle unnerved both men.

But when the poor, mad creature came creeping, like a faithful dog, over the blood-stained floor, past the mutilated bodies, to kneel at the feet of her beloved master, the pompous, self-contained old merchant broke into weeping and sobbed like a child.

It was many days before the lucid interval which came just before the death of the old servant, permitted her to tell the whole terrible story. In her fevered ravings, she had betrayed her sufferings little by little, but toward the last the delirium left her, and at the close of one bright fall day, when the rays of the setting sun lay across her bed, she opened her faded eyes v clear At last, of the terrible hallucination which had possessed her mind ever since that awful night.

Her master was summoned and stood beside her with her faithful hands in his, while hurriedly, all-unconscious of her heroism, she told him at what a price she had saved that which he had entrusted to her care. The end came that night.

And so in grateful commemoration the grim stone facade of the house on the Keizersgracht were carved the seven heads of the men who were slain in self-defence and, in the protection of another’s property, by the hand of a single woman. Yes! although one of them was the own nephew of the owner of the house, and had many times been made welcome beneath its roof; he, too, with the rest was copied in death, and perpetuated in stone to the memory of a faithful servant. And all Amsterdam knows the story.

________________

14: Following the Sea

Ambrose Bierce

1842-1914?

Short Stories, March 1891

First published in Cobwebs from an Empty Skull, 1874

AT THE TIME of "the great earthquake of '68," said Mr. Swiddler— William Swiddler, of Calaveras— I was at Arica, Peru. I have not a map by me, and am not certain that Arica is not in Chili, but it can't make much difference; there was earthquake all along there.

Sam Baxter was with us; I think he had gone from San Francisco to make a railway, or something. On the morning of the 'quake, Sam and I had gone down to the beach to bathe. We had shed our boots, and begun to moult, when there was a slight tremor of the earth, as if the elephant who supports it was pushing upward, or lying down and getting up again. Next, the surges, which were flattening themselves upon the sand and dragging away such small trifles as they could lay hold of, began racing out seaward, as if they had received a dispatch that somebody was not expected to live. This was needless, for we did not expect to live.

When the sea had receded entirely out of sight, we started after it; for, it will be remembered, we had come to bathe; and bathing without some kind of water is not refreshing in a hot climate.

For the first four or five miles the walking was very difficult, although the grade was tolerably steep. The ground was soft, there were tangled forests of sea-weed, old rotten ships, rusty anchors, human skeletons, and a multitude of things to impede the pedestrian. The floundering sharks bit our legs as we toiled past them, and we were constantly slipping down upon the flatfish strewn about like orange peel on a sidewalk. Sam, too, had stuffed his shirt front with such a weight of doubloons from the wreck of an old galleon, that I had to help him across all the worst places. It was very dispiriting.

Presently, away on the western horizon, I saw the sea coming back. It occurred to me then that I did not wish it to come back. A tidal wave is nearly always wet, and I was now a good way from home, with no means of making a fire.

The same was true of Sam, but he did not appear to think of it in that way. He stood quite still a moment with his eyes fixed on the advancing line of water; then turned to me, saying, very earnestly:

"Tell you what, William; I never wanted a ship so bad from the cradle to the grave! I would give m-o-r-e for a ship!— More than for all the railways and turnpikes you could scare up ! I'd give more than a hundred, thousand, million dollars! I would—I'd give all I'm worth, for— just — one— little— ship!"

To show how lightly he could part with his wealth, he lifted his shirt out of his trousers, unbosoming himself of his doubloons, which tumbled about his feet, a golden storm.

By this time the tidal wave was close upon us. Call that a wave! It was one solid green wall of water, higher than Niagara Falls, stretching as far as we could see to right and left, without a break in its towering front! It was by no means clear what we ought to do. The moving wall showed no projections by means of which the most daring climber could hope to reach the top. There was no ivy; there were no window-ledges. Stay!— there was the lightning rod! No, there wasn't any lightning rod. Of course, not!

Looking despairingly upward, I made a tolerably good beginning at thinking of all the mean actions I had wrought in the flesh, when I saw projecting beyond the crest of the wave a ship's bowsprit, with a man sitting on it reading a newspaper! Thank fortune, we were saved!

Falling upon our knees with tearful gratitude, we got up again and ran— ran as fast as we could, I suspect; for now the whole fore-part of the ship budged through the water just above our heads, and might lose its balance any moment. If we had only brought along our umbrellas !

I shouted to the man on the bowsprit to drop us a line. He merely replied that his correspondence was already very onerous, and he hadn't any pen and ink.

Then I told him I wanted to get aboard. He said I would find one on the beach, about three leagues to the south'ard, where the Nancy Tucker went ashore.

At these replies I was disheartened. It was not so much that the man withheld assistance, as that he made puns. Presently, however, he folded his newspaper, put it carefully away in his pocket, went and got a line, and let it down to us just as we were about to give up the race. Sam made a lunge at it, and got it. I laid hold of his legs, the end of the rope was passed about the capstan, and as soon as the men on board had had a little grog, we were hauled up. I can assure you that it was no fine experience to go up in that way, close to the smooth, vertical front of water, with the whales tumbling out all round and above us, and the sword-fishes nosing us pointedly with vulgar curiosity.

We had no sooner set foot on deck, and got Sam disengaged from the hook, than the purser stepped up with book and pencil— "Tickets, gentlemen."

We told him we hadn't any tickets, and he ordered us to be set ashore in a boat. It was represented to him that this was quite impossible under the circumstances ; but he replied that he had nothing to do with circumstances— did not know anything about circumstances. Nothing would move him till the captain, who was really a kind-hearted man, came on deck and knocked him overboard. We were now stripped of our clothing, chafed all over with stiff brushes, rolled on our stomachs, wrapped in flannels, laid before a hot stove in the saloon, and strangled with scalding brandy. We had not been wet, nor had we swallowed any sea-water, but the surgeon said this was the proper treatment. It is uncertain what he might have done to us if the tender-hearted captain had not thrashed him into his cabin, and told us to go on deck.

By this time the ship was passing the town of Arica, and we were about to go astern and fish a little, when she grounded on a hill-top. The captain hove out all the anchors he had about him; and when the water went swirling back to its legal level, taking the town along for company, there we were, in the midst of a charming agricultural country, but at some distance from any seaport.

At sunrise next morning we were all on deck. Sam sauntered aft to the binnacle, cast his eye carelessly upon the compass, and uttered an ejaculation of astonishment.

"Tell you, captain," he called out, "this has been a direr convulsion of nature than you have any idea. Everythin's been screwed right round. Needle points due south!"

"Why, you lubber!" growled the skipper, taking a look, "it p'ints d'rectly to labbard, an' there's the sun, dead ahead!" Sam turned and confronted him, with a steady gaze of ineffable contempt.

"Now, who said it wasn't dead ahead?— tell me that. Shows how much you know about earthquakes. 'Course, I didn't mean just this continent, nor just this earth: I tell you, the whole thing's turned !

___________________

15: The Trammel Fork Pearls

Raymond S. Spears

1876-1950

Short Stories, 25 Feb 1936

BUTTONSHELLS were scarce and pearl buying wasn't so good. Dolan Burton hadn't even made expenses when he came through the doorway on his return from a disappointing trip into the Indiana mussel fisheries, scuffling the mail the postman had thrust through the large slit in his front door.

Advertisements, papers and magazines— he stooped and caught up the heap from the floor; he ought to have a box to catch it! He always forgot the need, though. Two weeks' deliveries made an imposing pile on his flat-top desk. His thought was of the bother, which showed his scant faith in Uncle Sam bringing him anything worth having.

He sat at his desk, began at the top and took whatever was next to his hand. He felt lonely. The money he had brought to the city to rent an office and establish himself as a fresh-water pearl buyer was about gone. Fortune had deserted him when he branched out. No one knew pearls better than he did. He was an experienced jeweler— young but competent. Luck had brought into his hands seven beautiful freshwater pearls on Scrub Fork in the Illinois Basin. For three years he had traded, bought and sold, visited the pearling streams, making a good living. Then baroques, seeds, small shapes had paid his expenses— the shapes were all profits from which he made a stake. Surely $8,000 above his field-money would carry him along!

Now he was living on his buying money. His occasional visits to the city had been profitable. The idea that he would find a good living there, with a headquarters covering the pearling of the limewater run offs had grown till he could not resist the fascinating venture. Now he was there—  about to break.

His waste paper basket, a big toy carton from a peddlers' headquarters across the street, caught papers, advertisements, odds and ends most of his mail with only a glance. And then he found a box ten inches long, more than two inches wide and half an inch thick, sealed for letter postage. He shook it tentatively and felt weight inside. Opening the wrapper with a paper blade, he gazed at a typewriter cushion key box. Shoving the slide out, he found it full of tissue paper and little card envelopes, each with a lump in it, and his hands trembled as he picked one of the crumpled containers to empty it onto a bare place on his desk.

A pearl! His jaw dropped. Never had he seen the like in the field. A quick roll and then a close examination in the north light— a touch with his tooth and he was weak. The gem was worth a thousand dollars! And when he had looked into each of the thirty tiny envelopes he was gasping for breath. Of course, in that frame of mind, his astonishment immeasurable, he couldn't even guess the values—  but $25,000 would be cheap!

A quick look at the wrapper, and he found the name, T. M. Lauson. This meant nothing to him, and neither did Pretty Kettle, Tennessee. The map showed him, however, that this was in The Knolls country, and he remembered having heard that two or three pearls of price had come out of there, but no fishery had been established for pearls or buttonshells.

"My luck has changed!" he reflected. "These'll put me on my feet—"

He found the letter with the pearls.

Pretty Kettle, Tenn.

October 12th.

Dear Mr, Burton:

I herewith send you some pretty tricks out of the creek here, which I am sure are pearls. My cousin who is a sheller and pearler in the Lake Nicormy Swamps gave me your little book about pearls and slugs, and so I am mailing you these which I hope you will be able to sell for me the way you done for him. Please let me know what you think of them but don't call them pearls because I don't want anybody to know about them. Call them mink skins, and if they are worth $100 call it $1, or $500, make it $5, and if they are very good you could ask me about otter skins, for I have my reasons. Yours sincerely, Theda Macon Lauson

Burton did not even think of the opportunity such a shipment, not even registered, had brought him. He turned to his typewriter, squirted a little oil on the ribbon spools and cleaned up the rest of his mail in a hurry. Then as the oil was light and had seeped pretty well through the ribbon, he wrote his answer to his correspondent, sister of one of those shellers and pearlers he had known over in eastern Arkansas, back from New Madrid, but' he couldn't tell which one.

His feeling of relief, hope revived, success beckoning again was immeasurable. The strain of weariness and dejection had grown upon him slowly; only when the incubus was gone did he realize its weight. For a little while he seemed unable to move, his breath shortened.

Behind him the door clicked; he felt the draft from the dark and narrow hallway; surprised, he cocked his head, listening.

"Hi-i-i!" a soft voice exclaimed. "Hyar they be! Keep yo' haid thataway! Don't move, suh!"

Frozen, he felt the cold ring of a shortgun against the back of his neck and a left hand reached past his shoulder and clutched up the little envelopes, a dozen of them, in the first grab, and then the others till all of them had followed the first handful. Stunned, he could do nothing. It was a small weapon, a low caliber, he could tell by the feel.

"If'n yo' look I'll cut yo' throat— have to," the voice declared. "Now put yo! hands back— thataway."

THE next instant he was being bound, his hands to the legs of the chair by stout cord. Something was jammed into his mouth, and he was gagged, and blindfolded. A minute later he heard the door close behind him as the latch clicked shut. He began to pull and struggle, but though the scoundrel had worked swiftly, he had tied good knots and done a thorough job. His office was at the end of a hallway, around in a jog where no one came but those to see him. He might remain there for hours, days, indefinitely, for he was seldom there, and he had come unseen that morning, he recalled. In his ears rang the chortling satisfaction of the holdup who had stolen those pearls belonging to his customer.

His position was desperate. Getting his fingers around to where he could feel the cord on his right wrist with his fingertips, he recognized the kind— it was a trot line, white, hard-twist cotton rope used in making guys for nets, for fishermen's tents and even for skiff anchor cables. Men had been hung on those light lines! With difficulty he suppressed the feeling of panic terror. His heart was thumping, and with the gag in his mouth, it was hard to breathe fast enough through his nostrils.

"I must keep calm. I mustn't get excited," he told himself, sagging determinedly against the high back of his swivel chair. Then he discovered that by shrinking down he could scrape at the knot across the back of his head. Little by little he worked the tie up and with relief shook the scarf clear and spat out the wad of doth he had used to wipe his typewriter.

He could yell now, but night had fallen. The chance of anyone hearing him at that hour was scant. True, some of the occu¬
pants of the office building occasionally stayed late, but usually they were gone by this hour— at least six o'clock, and perhaps later. He could not tell.

His wrists had been tied to the bracket of the seat. Now that he was able to breathe freely, see around, feel sure of making his escape in the morning, when his yells would be heard, he slacked the cords and by straining and twisting about, he presently reached a knot which yielded to his thumb and finger nails. At midnight he was free, with deep red lines around his wrists which were burned and scraped. And he stood now in full realization of his predicament. One of the oldest of alibis, that of being bound by hold-ups when other people's money and valuables were lost, had been worn threadbare. Insurance companies, commercial interests, bankruptcy courts, all questioned those secret robbers who come and go unseen.

Dolan Burton looked at his desk. There was the carbon of the letter he had written to Theda Macon Lauson; he looked around for the envelope in which he had placed the original, ready to mail out. It was nowhere in sight though the letter the woman had sent him was there, under the carbon paper. The outlaw had not discovered it, or at least had not taken it with him.

The pearl buyer re-read his answer:

Dear Miss Lauson:

I have this day received from you the mink skins as per yours of recent date, October 12th. I have as yet been unable to appraise them, but from the cursory examination I believe that they should range well above $5 per, as they are apparently full prime and first quality, unusually dark and lustrous in mink skins from your locality. Of course, otter skins are very uniform in winter prime grades, north and south, and I judge what ones of this species you have are of superior grade. I shall examine these skins with utmost interest and report to you, immediately.

If you prefer, I shall sell them on a 10% commission basis, which is probably the most satisfactory way, since the trade is considerable and in this quality it may take some little time to arrange satisfactory sales.

Thanking you for the business, I am Very sincerely yours,

Dolan Burton.

He had informed her in her code that the pearls were worth thousands of dollars, "well above $500 per." Now he had lost them. The bandit was gone and there had been no outcry. No matter what he said, how frank his avowal, he would be a person  suspect. The woman had found an amazing pocket of freshwater pearls and mailed him ones worth' more than $25,000 in a commonplace container. Trust like that in Uncle Sam's Post Office and in men in his business ought to be justified. The thoroughfare on which his office was, being a well known jewelry center, was protected in various ways from invasion by crooks. The bandit himself had braved the rule that a criminal should not appear there under penalty of being picked up for vagrancy.

DOLAN BURTON carefully looked over the office, but he knew he would find nothing there that would help him. The invader had worn thin rubber gloves through which no fingerprints could possibly show.

"But he left a clue," Burton reflected. "He left a lot of clues."

The trot line was significant. The pieces of old cord were gray instead of white because of age. One piece had a loop spliced in the end. The tangible cord harked back to any one of a hundred communities on tributaries of the Mississippi or its major streams, like the Ohio, Arkansas, Upper Mississippi. Another clue was over against the bottom of the wainscotting. In his eagerness to pocket all those little envelopes the raider had dropped one. He had picked it up, found it empty and, wadding it into a little ball, he had thrown it down. The pearl which had rolled out of the stiff linen paper container had gone against the wall and stopped, unnoticed.

The pearl was like a large pea in size. It would weigh more than twelve pearl grains at the least. Its value, depending on its luster, was problematical, but Burton wasn't thinking of that when he put the glass on it, studying the color, the network of horny matter and lime. Just that kind of luster, just that loveliness of white, with a faintest of pink hues flaring through the translucent depths was new to him. Every stream, every source of pearls, has its own peculiar mark whereby the experts trace it. Burton knew before long that he had never seen a pearl like this one before.

A new pearl stream might have been discovered, though he knew he had not seen all the kinds of pearls produced in the hundreds of known streams. The beauty was like that of White River, Caney Fork, Clinch River, and New Jersey. Farther south the pearls grow faster and longer in a season, and farther north they grow more slowly and the layers of shell were finer, thinner and generally lovelier.

Burton formerly had always carried insurance on his pearls, but the policy had lapsed. Many business men had let loss and theft insurance go. Most of them were like Burton without anything much to insure. He was almost unable to believe his experience. The trotline and pearl were proof enough however, that he had not endured an ugly nightmare. He went to the office of the Carcajou Investigations, Inc., and frankly told Manager Drenn his story, showing the investigator the pearl which had been dropped and the two pieces of cord. Drenn examined the pearl through a glass. It was a beauty, and probably the smallest in the collection which had been sent to Burton to be sold.

Drenn examined closely the deep lines around the pearl buyer's wrist, and to a question Burton described the knots, and how he managed to slip them because his hands were flexible.

"Well, what can I do?" Drenn inquired.

"Those pearls are stolen goods," Burton answered, "I don't know what to suggest. You don't owe me anything, but this is a jewelers' trade matter. I thought perhaps I ought to tell you. This puts me in a bad hole. I shouldn't be surprised if the case came to you presently from the other side. You know when a customer submits pearls for sale to a pearl buyer, as these were submitted, he has to take care of them."

"You never asked her for them?"

"Never heard of her! But her cousin, she wrote me, told her about me," Burton said, "I had a good— a good reputation. I'd satisfied the pearlers. Now I've let me in for $25,000 or so worth of suspicion."

"The door was locked behind you?" Drenn asked.

"I unlocked it with my key, and didn't set the latch to work the outside knob. I heard the click— this fellow had a key to it."

"Looks bad for you," Drenn remarked. "What are you going to do?"

"Look for those pearls," the victim answered. "I've told you what the thing looks like. If they show up here, if you'd let me know at Pretty Kettle, I'd be obliged to you."

"Don't use your own name," Drenn remarked. "I'll look around for you, here. You notified the police?"

"No, I didn't," Burton shook his head. "This thief'll watch the papers and if he doesn't see anything about this, he'll get to worrying, perhaps more than if it was spread all over the front pages."

"Yes, that works with some of them," Drenn nodded, and gave him some suggestions, advice, to use or not if conditions warranted.

DOLAN BURTON had canvassed hundreds of miles of pearl and button- shell rivers in search of baroques, seeds, slugs, shapes of all kinds. He knew swamp brakes and mountain hardwoods. The more he reflected on the kinds of regions Where he had been to buy pearls, the less he could foresee what to expect when he went to Pretty Kettle to find who had sent him those beautiful pearls and whether he could pick up a trail which would lead him to the bandit who had known he had the gems before he did himself. The scoundrel had located Burton's office in town and come in, perhaps not expecting to find the buyer there, perhaps not realizing that the pearls were actually among the mail on the floor. Fortune had favored the robber, whether he had worked by chance or by plan.

Pretty Kettle was on the Trammel Fork. Burton thought of going up the regular route into the valley whence the packet of pearls had come. He changed his mind, however, and took the railroad into Sourmash, over the State Line. Here he left the train and went on the mail stage into the fastnesses of Candle Court. This was just over the divide, seventeen miles from Pretty Kettle. The highway map didn't show any roadway over the mountain, but the stranger had a compass and camping outfit in a packbasket. He claimed to be a game hunter, and spent a day at Candle Court, asking the gunsmith in the hardware store about the high range.

"I don't want to go where bad friends might be made," Burton said. "I'm new, here. I mind my own business. I don't want to know anything that might bother people. Mainly I want to keep on the spurs and hogbacks, camping where I'll find turkeys, deer, squirrels and maybe quail in old clearings."

The gunsmith was tall, gaunt and friendly. He walked with a perceptible limp and he watched his visitor with a shrewd directness. He had been a rider in several of the Western States and long ago he had gone out into the Big Range where he worked cows. He had left in a hurry, but presently after some thirty years he had returned to Ol' Kaintuck, broadened by experience on plateaus, in vast basins, in Bad Lands and open country. He could tell a stranger where to go and how to avoid trouble.

"If'n you keep on the high backs," he said, "yo' won't git into trouble along the runs. Course, if'n yo' happen to meet a scouter, he mout think something. That's one thing yo' cain't count out, no how. A min keepin' out of touch with the law is sho' apt to be sensitive. Personally, I'd ruther hunt where game is scarcer."

Burton reached the top of the world. The scene was a narrow razor-back ridge with slopes on either side that extended down and out for mile after mile of forested valley, spurs, ridges and varied mountain lands. A pearl buyer would just naturally keep in the bottoms along the streams, but anyone hiding out was more apt to go high up and stay there.

THERE was Pretty Kettle and the sparkling flow of the green Trammel Fork. The settlement was on a flat bench along a Stillwater. Where the steep of the valley came down to the water banks, the slope was covered with timber. The stream and the valley road went through farm clearings of fifty or sixty acres and stumpy pastures wherever there was a flat on one or both sides of the stream.

Cabins, frame houses that moonshine built, a street with several stores, or commissaries, a drug store, a hotel, an overshot gristmill, and other structures for perhaps five or six hundred population rested there. It didn't look like a community that would mail out $25,000 worth of pearls— but it did seem to be the kind of a place where people lived who would seal just such pretty little tricks in a box and mailthem, kindness of Uncle Sam, without registering, to a pearl buyer off yonder in the big city.

And somewhere thereabouts was a shrewd, daring,, unscrupulous scoundrel who would have ideas and use them, even though they required a stickup with a shortgun and the theft by robbery of a fortune. Here men struggled to make a living and some few in their desperation and their pride stopped at nothing; they robbed, cheated a.nd killed; and insults called for deadly reprisals.

Through his binoculars Burton watched Pretty Kettle, and at sundown he shouldered his pack and went down the point into the gap where the trail crossed the Divide and followed the road into the valley just above town, arriving at the boarding house, Hotel No. 2 of Pretty Kettle, kept by Kumby, a genial, burly, black whiskered man with bright blue eyes and a direct gaze that twinkled— seeing everything.

"I reckon we c'n accommodate yo'," he smiled. " 'Tain't Co'rt week. No special doings.. What yo' packin'? Looks like yo' mout be soldierin' an' lost yo' army, suh. No 'fense, Strangeh! We 'low to have our leetle joke yeah on Trammel Creek, suh."

Supper was ready. Kumby sat down with the newcomer just to be sociable. Thus he learned that his patron was chiefly a Yankee, but his name was Wright, his father's people having lived over at the Kentucky-Virginia line ever since, time began, practically.

"My excuse for coming along the Blue Ridge and Cumberlands is just that I like to hunt, camp out, visit folks along," Burton covered his ideas, and Kumby said he had traveled in his day, out West, Texas, Colorado, and even as far as Oregon.

"I was worried and kept moving— jes' a leetle shootin' scrape is all. A good lawyer cleared me on se'f-defense grounds, presently. Ched Lauson's legally reliable, fine, educated an' honorable. Gains ev'y point, neveh loses a possible case. If he'd be'n ambitious, not lovin' Pretty Kettle, he'd be'n big in the high co'rts, but he's content to live in Pretty Kettle, ride circuit, satisfied jes' to live."

"He's married ?" the visitor inquired.

"He's a widower, but he's got feminine management," the man said, "his daughter Theda Macon Lauson. My land, she practically raised herse'f to a liberal education, riding, shooting, co-eding, up the mountangs, down the valleys, university an' exr perience school graduated! She's a right an' lef' handed shot, rifle, scatter an' short guns, suh. Ve'y fine, friendly, cleveh, an' honorable young lady, but rampageous, suh. She's a dep'ty sher'f now an' totin' a bench warrant fo' Bald Knob Pete Stubbors."

"What has he done?"

"Jes' meanness, interference, all around cussedness!" Kumby sighed. "He's  one of them mountang Hill Billies that gives ev'ybody a bad name, back thisaway. Mist' Lauson defended him in his latest but one homicide case. Pete handed his attorney $100 cash in hand an' took the rest of his law on tick. Lauson acquitted him—  a sho' close squeak. Now Mist' Lauson's a ve'y easy going gentleman, financially, but that gal of his is plumb disgusted an' don't stand no economic nonsense. She told that Pete Stubbors he'd git the worst of hit, cheatin' her daddy, an' he jes' laughed. Huh, he practically growed up parallel to Theda! He's 'bout five yeahs older'n she is, but yo' know, that's jes' 'bout how far a man is behind them women, mentally. He don't know hit, though.

"Co'rse, Pete was real good-natured, calm, indiff'rent till his pap gits killed up, when he comes back an' self-defends his fambly, poppin' oveh Juck Skimpin— an ornery bushwhacker— savin' his fambly the $1,000 reward on him, thataway. Then havin' tasted blood Pete killed up two fellers— moonshiners an' chicken thieves. Nobody said nothin' 'bout that. They were Juck's pals an' had talked they'd kill Pete. Then Pete stretched his se'f defending a leetle too fur, killin' a feller in obscure circumstances one night on the way home from a dance. He got indicted an' Mist' Lauson acquitted him in jig-time. But hit left kind of a feelin' in the famblies, and theh's come two-three otheh killin's that gits tried out, an' yo' know yose'f public sentiment don't stand on'y about jes' so much. An' now this last killin' gits him rewarded $1,000, daid er alive. Hit'd be kind of a joke if Theda c'lected her daddy's due-fee of $900 killin' his client, now wouldn't hit? Anyhow, Pete jes' laughs, sayin' he'll marry her yit. She jes' boils!"

BURTON was sure glad he had given his name as Orton Wright. After some uneasy sleep, he went to the post office and received mail addressed to Orton Wright— papers and magazines he'd subscribed for. Manager Drenn told him attempts to sell freshwater pearls had been made by a soft-spoken, proud and handsome man, but one who never came back twice. Drenn added:

"Obviously, he knew nothing of the pearl trade, nor about pearls, and we found where he had left his shabby hotel before we could contact him. He signed himself Rhule Plamer of Ozark, Missouri. Nobody of that name lives in or near Ozark. He's a Hill Billy, and bad."

On his way back to the boarding house, Burton met a tall, rangy slender young woman with wide, frank blue eyes and the swing of an outdoor person. She had a repeating shotgun over her left elbow and a belt of shells from which dangled a holster for a long-barreled automatic pistol. She was square-shouldered, tight-bosomed, and smiling just naturally, her gem-blue eyes surveying thfe stranger from beneath a wide-brimmed man's hat of light gray. She wore laced hunting boots, knee-length walking skirt and fine gauntlet gloves.

"I understan' Mist' Wright that yo're a Yankee from 'way off yonder," she stopped him. "What kind of a reputation has Dolan Burton, the pearl buyer, got theh'bouts?"

Thus queried, he swallowed, blinked and hesitated.

"Well, of course," he frowned, "the East's a very large place. I don't know lots of people there. Mr. Burton has been there only two-three years. I understand he's been getting along tolerable-"

"I jes' wanted to know." She shrugged her shoulders. "Just so he's reliable, I'm satisfied. Somebody said you were from Down East, so I inquired."

"Sure sorry I can't be more explicit."

"Oh, that's all right. Mist' Wright. You're one of those old Johnson county- Pound Gap Wrights?"

"No-o, not lately," he shook his head. "My father was in those parts. He married a Yankee girl and moved up north. I was borned out west in Ohio, but been back east, and around. I'm just sporting around, hunting game— I see you're shooting, too. Quail I suppose, squirrels, perhaps turkey?"

"No, suh— I'm loaded with buckshot." She shook her head. "Around town I prefer a shotgun— buckshot are more reliable and less apt to keep on going afteh they've done their business. Out around, I pack a rifle. Ranges are pretty far in the hills, sometimes."

"Oh, you hunt deer then? Big game?"

"Oh, theh's some deer!" she assented. "Then there's razorbacks, which I kill me when convenient. What I'm interested in, Stranger, is did you meet a tall, handsome man with a three-cornered face and a mirthless grin when you crossed the mountain back, yesterday? He still claims the name— Bald Knob Pete Stubbors."

"No, I saw no one." He shook his head thoughtfully.

"You're sure lucky," she remarked. "The sheriff has a thousand dollars reward on him, for meanness. Before he went bad, Pete was fairly respectable, but now he's moonshining, killing for hire, and he don't even pay his lawyer. I reckon he figures lawyers cain't do much for him now, the way things are. No use wasting money on 'em."

While she talked, she gazed steadily at the stranger she knew as Wright, watching him as if for a sign. Buying pearls, he had met these mountain people. A mistake would be costly. Here was the young woman who had sent him those marvelous pearls. Her hands were long, her fingers slim and yet he could see the telltale scars showing that she, herself, had opened the mussels and cut herself on the sharp shells. Probably she knew from his letter that her pearls were worth many thousands of dollars; how could he ever tell her they had been stolen from him? All he could do to make amends was place himself at her service, bonded for life trying to pay back to her what he had lost..

"Of course, Miss Lauson, I'm a stranger in these parts," he said. "I'm just a wild- crafter, nature lover and sportsman. I'm quite poor. But if I could be of service, I'd surely be glad to help."

"You hunt squirrels, Dicky birds, cottontails," she jeered him, "I don't reckon you'd eveh even dream of hunting a man!"

NOT meeting her searching gaze he thought of one man he would hunt to the ends of the world and bring to chains, prison or his tomb without compunction— the scoundrel who had ruined his business and his profession!, Next to getting that rascal, he would wish to show his willingness to make amends to the young woman whose loss, though she did not know it, was as great or greater than his own.

"I never expected to turn man-hunter," he admitted, "and I hope you won't mistake my meaning if I say it would be a novel experience for me, if I could do it legally. Of course, a man has to learn how to hunt men, the same as hunting anything else."

"That's so," She squinted thoughtfully. "Suppose I took my rifle and we hunted potluck up yonder on the long mountang? Don't brag none of what you're intending. Neveh mind a snack— I've got one put up. You got your mail. Go to the boarding house, act ordinary, and tell Fallis you're strolling up the points learning the country. Follow the run up till you find a sugar maple tree like a footlog across the gully. Wait theh, suh!"

He found the tree and sat on it with patience.  A whistle and a look— there was the lawyer's daughter, carrying a .30-.30 carbine and a big gamebag over her shoulder. He took it, and she led the way up he spur of the mountain and two hours later they were up the steep slope on the crest.

Along the extreme top of the long razor- back mountain was a wagon road used when high water made the valley roads impassable and the fords were too deep to swim or wade. There she turned westward and they strolled along, side by side, his rifle in his left elbow crook, hers in her right elbow hook, walking noiselessly in the roadway which the wind had blown clear of autumnal leaves.

"Down theh," she nodded into the deeps of Trammel Creek valley, "I couldn't get even a deputy sheriff let alone a citizen to go with me, hunting that Bald Knob Pete. They're afraid of him. He shoots from the bresh. For nine years he's been killing-mean. He was seventeen when he killed his first man, at a dance oveh a girl. In college he prob'ly paid his way selling moonshine. Oh, he's sly! I always suspicioned he did the shooting in Thunderland Cafe, one night of a killing theh. When he came home he could sure chemistry his stilling. He made and spent money freehanded these years, since. Hot-headed, rambunctious and plumb careless, he fell out with Tuck Wraggan, his partner. Tuck carried a girl to a party in Thunderland Gap, and Bald Knob was theh, and they went at it. Tuck died. If my father hadn't defended him, Bald Knob sure would have gone to the electric chair. As it was, he come clear again on self-defense. He's been cleared less'n three terms of court—  and now he's rewarded, like I said, $1000 for killing Ruben Dickers of the Thunderland Cafe; shooting him down in cold blood for $100 cash in hand. He's murdered once too often. I told him if'n he didn't pay up that $900 he owes my pap, I'd c'lect it, with $100 interest.

" 'A woman c'lect that reward?' he laughed. 'I'm going to collect from you, instead.'

"That made me plumb indignant. He's got four-five hideouts back on this moun- tang, 'sides places he c'n go in— stillhouses, cabins, po'r white shacks. Theh's root- diggers, fortune hunters, trappers out around. All we got to do is locate him, an' if we cain't catch him alive, shoot him daid."

"I'd hate to think of your being around — he might shoot," her hunting partner said.

"I reckon he'll shoot at you, first," she answered. "That'll give me a chance to locate him and do some shooting myself."

"I'll try to spoil his aim, if I have the chance," Burton remarked. "Probably he's a good, cool shot!"

"Oh, yes, indeed!" she spoke admiringly. "He uses a terrible fast bullet, though, and it flies to pieces the minute it hits anything, wood, bones, or anything like that. Blows a hole out of a man you could put a muskmelon into. They mess things up but his ammunition is irregular— he misses oftener than he hits if he's any distance away. That's a point in our favor. He's careless and impatient. If he's wait ing to bushwhack a man he's apt to quit afteh three-four hours, even if hit means a hundred dollars to him. He neglected four-five men we know about thataway. Hit's come time to eat our snack." She looked at her wrist watch, "Just keep watch around while I'm spreading our eats."

"Perhaps Stubbers has gone to Texas," Burton suggested.

"No, suh, I don't expect," she shook her head. "I thought I'd lost him.' He was gone three weeks, nobody seeing him. I 'lowed maybe I'd run him out the country, myself. I'd told him we had to have that $900. He kinda laughed. He said likely he'd pick it up around, somewhere. He was just mocking me. He showed back again last week. He'd been away off yonder. I heard it straight. I wouldn't put it above him to rob a bank or train or payroll."

THEDA LAUSON knew the mountains like a fugitive from justice. Her head turned in the restless, searching watchfulness of those who walk in a land where men shoot from the brush at an enemy. Her voice was low and clear. At every squirrel jump, flutter of wings, stir or cry of the wilds she was alert and ready. Her companion listened to the indignation in her strained voice.

"'Tain't the money bothers me I" she gave this stranger an odd confidence. "It's just an excuse. Bald Knob is bragging. Some men are thataway. Two men came courtin' me. One's a fox hunter and Bald Knob sized him up. One shot an' Carter took to his toes. The next an' that man was bounding down the mountang. Shu-u, I never saw a man so comical scairt up! But Bald Knob didn't show himself to me. I'd 'a' killed him! But I didn't get the chance. I had my revolver, but just out of college, I was out of practice. Now-"

She drew a revolver that looked like a .38 or .45 but when she shot he recognized it as a .22-caliber, and a pheasant, a ruffed grouse, flopped down out of a spruce-pine tree onto the dry leaves beside the trail. Theda Lauson could shoot now! She put the bird in the game sack.

"Bald Knob wouldn't be along here," she explained her shot. "If he's on this stretch of mountang he's on the Footstool. He c'n watch the valley road for miles there. No telling where he is, but he don't fool me, none. He showed himself across the valley in those hump-heads just yesterday. That's an old trick. He shows himself just before he moves away off yonder. If he didn't come here, he's gone to the head springs of Trammel. Or maybe he's gone down into Yellow Water."

Presently they could see the castellated limestone ledges and knobs ahead of them. Theda left the trail to skulk along the side mountain for a quarter of a mile, following hog runways. When she came up to the crest again, they crossed the divide in a little sag and she searched down through the breaks among the pillars and heaps of stone; They discovered no one and they stopped on a ledge with a sheer drop of a hundred feet or more down a gray cliff.

There amid the shrubs they could look down on Trammel Creek, the valley highway, and for ten miles along the farm widenings and woods slopes. This was the Footstool.

"Let's eat," she suggested, "but keep your eyes peeled. He might be coming this evening to sit here. If he traveled all last night, he'll sleep this morning and begin to stir around this evening. I don't reckon you know how serious this is, Mr. Wright."

"Don't I?" he chuckled. "I've been around. Miss Lauson."

"What doing— scouting troubles?"

On the tip of his tongue he checked in time the answer, "Pearl buying!" The shock of so nearly betraying himself made him tense.

"No— I'm hunting, you know," he answered quietly. "I never hunted a man before, but I've been in rough country. I thought I'd hunt wild turkeys here in the Blue Ridge Cumberlands. But it's like that when a man goes into new country. He expects one thing and finds another. Personally, I take what comes."

"Plenty will be coming yo'r way!" she spoke absently. "Jes' wait'll Bald Knob hears we all are traipsin' around in these high trails together. He'll come like a buck to a salt lick!"

She watched his expression out of the corners of her eyes, and he laughed. A flutter of a smile broke the determined lines of her countenance. Somehow she had veiled her desperation and recklessness, but now he could realize the grim hate and intention that drove her. The mountain outlaw had claimed her for his own. He had driven from her the friends and suitors she might have had. No one dared be seen with her now. She had inveigled this stranger into the peril of the mountairi bushwhacker, if only to seek and fight the scoundrel in the wilderness. Nor could Burton object! He must expiate his own misfortune in her service. If she had obtained the pearl money, she would be rich, independent. He watches you, spies on you, Miss Lauson?" he asked.

"When he isn't delivering he's watching me," she answered. "I go down the creek, fishing, and theh he'll be. I go to a dance, and he claims to carry me home, no matter who I go with. I ride out on a bridle path, and theh he'll come. Like a panther cat he circles around me. Oh, I'm desperate! If it wasn't for Pap I'd light out. I'd go till salt water stopped me. I'd scout to Texas or Oregon or Florida, but Pap needs me. Pap's wonderful. No man knows law like he does. They claim he influences and corrupts the courts, but he neveh does. He shapes the testimony, he refers to the precedents, he states his case. He's honest, according to the Law. Maybe 'tain't always Justice! With him it's a game. But he stands back of his clients. He's defended in more'n two hundred cases of homicide. He never had a. man hung, or executed. He counts on the fingers of two hands those who served till they died in jail. Even terrible plain, aggravating killings he's twisted around so his clients looked reasonable and turning them loose seemed fair-minded. But he isn't practical, living. He needs me around to care for him. So Bald Knob Pete figures he'll get me, fair or foul, when his day comes. I'm a-feared— a-feared of him. His game is just to keep us poor, starving us. He reckons all is fair in love or war. But I'd take up with a stranger 'fore I would with him. Theh's a chance a stranger mout be honorable— a slim chance, perhaps, but I know Bald Knob Pete's a scoundrel, an' mean."

"I hope you're playing in good luck!" Burton Wright remarked, eating a chicken drumstick.

SHE burst into a chuckling little laugh, looked at him shrewdly and nodded with a satisfaction and approval she had not shown before.

"Mr. Wright, I just knowed you looked reliable," she assured him. "Probably it sounds insulting, suh. I've told you how
come I tolled you up around, thisaway, risking your life. Don't fool yo'se'f! Bald Knob Stubbors'd talk soft, gentle and friendly but he'd shoot you like a dog now. The word'll go all over I favored you. They'll tell we hunted these mountains thisaway. You can go get your pack, suh, and scurry away. If you stay in Trammel Creek country that'll mean war. You never been hunted to the death. I don't reckon you. eveh killed a man, did you ?"

"I never thought of it, except—" he hesitated.

"You've been sure 'nough bitter?" she asked quietly.

"Yes, I was robbed," he answered slowly. "A man could have stolen my own property, and I would have had to take it. When he robbed me of a fortune trusted to me, I could think of nothing but killing him. I never could pay back what I'd lost. My life was ruined. I don't even know who robbed me."

"Hyah you wouldn't kill even the man who ruined you and you risk your life for a stranger!" She gazed at him oddly. "Dying for a mountang gal wouldn't do yo' any good."

"Perhaps it'd do her good," he suggested. "The Law'd go after Bald Knob right, killing a stranger come as the guest of the mountain country. People would be more indignant about that than about someone they know being killed up. Some would say the local man needed killing, but the stranger had never harmed anyone!"

"Who all told you 'bout us mountang folks, suh?" she asked.

"It stands to reason," he answered. "Where among the people you know is there one who blames Bald Knob Stubbors for wanting you? But he wouldn't be fair, killing an outsider—"

"I reckon you aren't so ignorant as you pretend," she frowned. "If'n you are a detective, like some claim, you'll be right sorry, suh. Well, we betteh git to go—  keep your eyes peeled. Any minute that killing Bald Knob is liable to look over his sights at you, Mist' Wright."

SHE repacked the lunch bag, considerably diminished now, and they went back up to the hogback trail. Ready for action, he watched the curtain of the forest. He heard a flock of wild turkeys in the acorns down a hardwood spur. He would have turned back eastward, heading toward Pretty Kettle, but she turned the other way. It was three hours after noon. He was surprised, but she led the way for hours away from the little mountain town. The sun was shining in their faces. The back swayed down and widened out. Sunset was coming.

Then they heard music, fiddle tunes in mountain folk dance melodies, lingering and lively. Theda Lauson turned her head, listening.  She left the high-water road and circled. They came to a clearing of four or five acres, surrounded by a fence of rails and poles to keep the hogs out. Sitting on the balcony was a nun alone, playing and jumping to the measure in his chair, lifting his booted-foot and pounding the split board floor. The young woman chuckled and her companion laughed under his breath.

"He plays for all our dances," she said. "He's Sawlog Bramer. He married rich, but his wife makes him come up yeah to play. That fiddle of his is four hundred years old, and I've heard it two miles in the night. He listens fine on the edge of his clearing, don't you think? His high notes are like bird songs in the candlelight."

They watched and listened till the sun went down. Then Theda hailed as Sawlog tightened a string. He stretched his long neck, looking, and then invited them in, bowing and courtly.

"Why, Miss Theda!" he greeted her. "I'm sho' honored."

She introduced Orton Wright, and while she took the raw material for supper, the two men sawed some fireplace chunks with a crosscut, and in the log cabin, when the dark came, they sat down to a small turkey gobbler the fiddler had spitted over a pan, having hotbread, gravy, fruit butters, jams, sauces, jellies. Sawlog explained he had brought up a buckboard load of supplies, practicing for a big dance to come on Thanksgiving. His wife, he explained, was sensitive in her ears, and the family dogs howled so much, it wasn't any consolation playing down on the farm. This was just his cabin on the mountain for practice.

The cabin had one room, four beds, and fixings for a considerable of a family.

"You're always expecting visitors, Sawlog," Theda jeered him. "All kinds of visitors!"

"Yas'm," he acknowledged. "Yo' dad's met plenty of his'n clients right yeah by my fiahplace. An' many a gal's be'n stoled down the mountang road if'n her folkses objected. Yo' ain't the fustest gal that come yeah, co'rtin', friendlyin', jes' speculatin'—"

She burst into a light laugh. The old fiddler who had played at a thousand dances and a thousand frolics could hold his talk up with anyone. The fiddle-music cabin was a convenient meeting place for all his friends, outlaw scouters and their relations, lovers and their sweethearts, moonshiners and their customers, attorneys and their fugitive clients. The rawhide hogskin latch string was always hanging out. Sometimes enough people were there to have a dancing or a revival meeting party, if an exhorter happened along.

"I c'n play hallelujah an' glory music, same as step-light an' singin' sprees," Sawlog declared, "but I neveh expected yo'uns yeah, Theda. Not with Mist' Bald Knob Stubbors scoutin' out, I didn't. He don't cyar what he does, an' he's brash, mean, drinkin' his own products, now. I neveh know when he's cornin' er goin'. He's liable any minute to drap in. Yo' know how often I've toted yo' word he'd meet yo' hyar, gal. An' yo' never did meet him. What if'n he comes tonight?"

"If'n he don't. Unde, yo' needn't tell him we come," she said.

"Course, I neveh tell— not these yeah special occasions," he assured her. "But he's killin' mean, des'prit. He's braggin' he's stealin' yo' presently, now. I sho' hated to see yo'uns come in tonight."

"You're expecting him?" she asked quickly.

He turned and looked at the door.

"I neveh know," he shook his head, "but he mout come in any minute. 'Ceptin' he was away three weeks back a bit, he's be'n yeah ev'y two weeks, a Wednesday, a Tuesday, a Thursday, same as a mink er weasel drdes 'round twice a moon. If'n yo'd come alone, he'd jes' laughed. But he's drinkin' Corn, 30-70, peach er apple brandy— 'tain't often he draws a sober breath. Lately, he's jes' be'n reckless. Course, with that thousand dollars reward on him, he's livin' all he can. He neveh knows when he'll be shot down. That makes a man bad, Miss Lauson!"

"It makes a bad man worse," she remarked.

SAWLOG Bramer played softly on his fiddle, filling the cabin with the mystery Of unforgettable folk music of the ages, tunes that gripped the thoughts and made the nerves echo, echoed the days of old into the dreams of the future. The two visitors forgot to talk and Burton lost himself in reveries. When Bramer loosed the strings and hung up the fiddle and the bow, with a start the visitor realized that the firewood had burned down to coals and a chill draft had come through faulty chinking among the logs. He started up to look around. Theda Lauson had slipped away and gone to bed in the shadowy corner.

Burton took the bed over next to the fireplace and the fiddler went to his own in the other comer. In the quiet they heard an owl hooting and the scratching of a weasel hunting squeaking mice in the attic and along the top-plate logs around the shingled-roof rafters, all according to the mountain ways. When Burton awakened in the morning, the young woman was kneeling before the fireplace cooking corn cakes and frying pork sausage, making breakfast. He swung out and finished dressing himself, brought in a bucket of water and filled the coffee pot. The old fiddler awakened with a start, rubbed his eyes and dressed himself. His shrewd old eyes looked at the visitor he knew as Wright and at Attorney Lauson's girl, shaking his head.

"I reckon yo're a Yankee," he remarked. "Course, 'tain't none of my business."

"I was born up north," Burton answered. "Wright is the old family name. My folks came partly from Old Virginia, up around Pound Gap, on the State Line, partly they came from 'way down East, my mother being out of New England."

"I knowed it," Bramer said, "excusen my suspicions, suh. A feller said a strangeh had come huntin' turkey an' game in the mountings. Yo' came by way of Candle Court. That old gunsmith, theh, betteh hesitate the way he talks. He mout tell the wrong one too much, not mindin' his own business."

"All I asked him was about game hunting," Burton declared. "I asked him how to keep clear of anything that a stranger ought not to know."

"Yo' say yo' di-id! Course, a strangeh has to mind his'n's own business hereaway. More Federals an' detectors come into the mountangs than eveh gets away ag'in. Well, I don't neveh turn anybody away. I'm neutral. I play for ev'y body, Unions, Rebels, Guerillas. If'n I begin a piece, I finish it. When the boys git to fussin' I keep a playin'. I've seen 'em fistin', shootin', dubbin', stabbin', kickin'— markin' time to my tunes. That last fuss when Tuck Wraggan was killed up, they slammed and banged away theh in Thunderland Gap. They was at hit all ways, fists and chair laigs and guns! They jes' squandered their bullets. I thought I'd stop one fore them two fellers did. Then Tuck pitched down, the killer yelled, 'S'long, Sawlog!' an' he scouted out. They drug Tuck oveh into the corner an' went to dancin' ag'in. My lan', but theh's sho' Devil-may-cyar theh in Thunderland Gap! So I played on an' on, an' Tuck sat in the corner, grinnin' an' grinnin'! Well, he went out in a dance. If'n I'd been killed, I'd died with my bow in hand. I live fo' music; I'd die fo' music! That's all I know, jes' tunes. I don't ast to know any more."

AFTER breakfast when the day was light, Theda packed the game bag fqll of leavings, but left two pheasants and two rabbits she had killed the day before. The fiddler wanted them to stay, for there was a storm-coming, a cold and sleety rain, he said, but she wouldn't. They went on east along the mountain back.

"Keep ready, suh!" she warned her companion. "I feel in my bones Bald Knob Stubbors is near-close. Yo' heard Bramer say he circles around like a weasel or panther, every two weeks. He's due now. He's through here. Maybe he'll hole down in rough weather. Rain er sleet is coming. Mister, I'm "treating you mean, risking your life and abusing you, raiding around and the rain is beginning. Feel it? 'Tain't ice— 'tain't water— hit's sleet! I reckon you're chillin' and begrudging!"

"I'm not, Miss Lauson. Oh, I like it A storm in the woods— why, it's— it's just exhilarating!" he cried.

"And you love the wind and rain!" She spoke as if to herself. "How come you come to me, stranger? Who told you I loved the storm, too?"

Again his tongue nearly slipped in self betrayal. If she would risk so much against a scoundrel who had welched on $900 of a legal fee, what wouldn't she do against a man who had lost her fortune in pearls? She watched his expression as he looked around— the fine misty drive of wind and sleet gathering in drops wherever it fell; it struck her pink cheeks, it clung in tiny sparkles on her curly bobbed hair, and stuck to the nap of her gray felt hat,

A black shadow— a figure like a storm shade in the gloom— flashed along the trail ahead, darting sideways out of sight.

"Somebody!" he exclaimed, and thrust her aside out of the wagon road behind a laurel bush.

"Somebody?" she whispered, "It'd be Bald Knob, likely. Maybe hit's somebody we don't cyar about."

"I'll go find out," he said, starting, but she caught his arm.

"He won't shoot me," she said. "I'll go meet him. If I drop my hat it's Bald Knob Stubbors. I'll just go 'long, slow. But he'll be watching, yes-indeedy! If'n he saw you, he'll shoot— shoot— shoot—"

"Go on," he urged. "He couldn't see me plain, if he saw me at all."

She saw the good sense of this and went on again, slowly. Burton dropped down the side hill slope behind the laurels, took advantage of the windfall trees along the mountain and circled wide on the north side. Whoever he load seen had darted to the south of the trail, and whatever he did, he would not cross back again in sight of the young woman who sauntered along slowly with her carbine in the crook of her elbow, glancing around in the way of a. stillhunter, blasts of wind sweeping over the mountain crest which narrowed and rose again beyond the low saddle, blowing the flap of her hat down against her ear and cheek.

"Hi-i!" a voice abruptly yelped in the wind, and Burton heard the hail. He ventured to peer through a screen of shrubs and there was a tall handsome man wearing two wide cartridge belts with two holsters for a revolver and an automatic on the left side. He was carrying a bolt- action army model Springfield in the crook of his left arm.

The young woman took off her hat and whipped it as if to get rid of the sleet- drops on it, accidentally dropping it. She stopped short, facing the outlaw, who was grinning, gazing at her, his long, narrow lips whipping about as he talked, whatever he was saying.

Seeing Theda Lauson he forgot his caution, neglected to be on guard. When he had inched nearer and nearer to her, and she did not give ground, he turned and looked back along the hog-back road over which he had come from the west on his way to the fiddler's open cabin. Then suddenly he reached and caught his arm around her, dropping his rifle and snatching her carbine away.

"I'm a kissin' yo', Missy!" he cried out, laughing boisterously. "Now keep yo' haid thataway, Theda Lauson! I tol' yo' I'd make yo' pay, instead of me!"

A voice, clear and sharp, pierced the roaring of the wind and swashing of the sleet. The lithe young woman whirled out of his arm'and he flung himself clear and on'the instant Burton shouted:

"Hold on, you damned pearl thief!" and the scoundrel froze at that summons from behind him, stood for an instant with his arms bent and his hands drawn into hooked claws. Burton would have recognized that left hand among hundreds— long, slim, brown, the fingers big, spatulate, on the tips.

Bald Knob Pete turned and his dead-brown eyes bulged, showing the whites all around— a mean killer's eyes. Bent at the hips and knees, ready to leap, he turned to face the interrupter. He narrowed his lids as he conquered his panic surprise, his shoulders drawing down, his right foot slipping back in the wet clay hardpan.

"Look out!" the young woman exclaimed, but the desperate man had taken his chance against that man he knew to be chiefly a city fellow who he hoped did not know the technique of getting and keeping the drop on a man.

But it was a high-speed shell in the chamber of the stranger's rifle that stopped his charge. Bald Knob was sure bad! His brags of never being tried for murder again were made good! He couldn't hope to keep up against those terrible, trifling little slugs. The desperado turned and darted over the brink and down the mountain slope, bounding in frantic leaps of five, ten perpendicular feet. They saw him leap over a log and drop out of sight. They heard him fall, heard him crashing, and watched the switch-hickories threshing and jerking as he charged down through them. Then they heard him thud into something and after a little crash, the sound of the roaring wind grew again upon their ears.

THE young woman stood with her hands pressed against her throat. Her incubus, her terrible dread was gone. She was safe! She had not realized the weight of that burden on her every thought and act until it was removed— forever. She nearly fell when she picked up her rifle. Burton caught and held her, while she gave way to feminine sobs, and clung to him, trembling and relieved.

"Oh, stranger, yo' he'ped me!" she cried. "I c'n neveh pay yo' back, suh, gettin' shut of that scoundrel!"

"You can forgive me!" he exclaimed impulsively.

"Forgive yo'?" she repeated, inquiringly, puzzled.

"I'll go down to him," he said. "Sit in the lee of that big hollow tree till I come back."

He scrambled down the steep slope and found Bald Knob Pete at the foot of a tree trunk against which he had bumped in his last blind and instinctive rush. Burton ransacked his clothes and in his cartridge and money belt he found the pearls, the envelopes stained but the gems intact, glowing in the clouded daylight.

He hurried up to the hogback crest and sat down beside the young woman.

"Theh's a thousand dollars reward on him," she reminded him. "I reckon hit's yours, suh."

"No," he shook his head, "$900 would pay your father's fee."

"You wouldn't do that, would you, Stranger?" she asked. "That'd leave only $100 for you, suh. That's a terrible lot of money."

"Not so much." He shook his head, and emptied into the lap of her skirt, one by one, those thirty-odd pearls. "But these are right much! They were in Bald Knob's belt, Theda. And," he felt in his watch pocket, "here is one more— one he dropped when he grabbed the others."

Open mouthed, she watched them. At first she was puzzled, but when she heard the count, she comprehended.

"Why, how come that scoundrel had those pearls?" she demanded. "I found those pearls in Trammel Creek and sent them to a pearl buyer 'way up north! How come Pete Stubbors had them?"

"He followed the mail to the city office building and stuck up the pearl buyer, stealing them," he answered. "Somebody talked in the post office, probably."

"And yo' said your name is Wright!" she accused him. "That's what yo' said!"

"Yes, Dolan Wright Burton," he squirmed unhappily, "and when I lost your parcel of pearls, worth all those thousands and thousands of dollars, I sure despaired!"

"Thousands of dollars?" she gasped. "My land— I thought perhaps five hundred — perhaps a thousand. And then I thought maybe they were no good!"

"Thirty or forty thousand," he assured her. "I'd written to you— why, here's the letter. He never mailed it."

Theda read the letter, then she nodded.

"How'd that scamp know I had them, that I'd sent them?" she grew stern of features again. "Course the postmaster told him."

"Perhaps he saw you fishing for them, finding them?" he suggested.

"I reckon, yas, suh, I expaict!" she frowned. "I remember, now. I heard a day-time owl hooting. If I'd known—  but he's daid, now. Well, he's daid enough."

"Would you trust me to try and sell those pearls again?" he asked.

"Take them!" She thrust the whole packetful at him.

"And— and then I'll come back," he went on determinedly. "And we'll go honeymooning on the ten per cent commission I'll charge you."

"Yes, suh," she assented. "I reckon, Mr. Wright, Mars' Burton!"

_________________

16: Clean Sweep

Roger Torrey

1901-1946

Black Mask Feb 1934

DAL PRENTICE STOOD with feet apart, heavy eyebrows meeting in a line above hard eyes. He stared at the blonde young woman, said: "And he just walked in and started shooting, eh? Where was you?" in a skeptical voice. His eyes didn't blink, held round and scowling.

The woman looked back defiantly, met the hard glare, turned her eyes towards the side of the room and away. She pointed, said: "I was in the kitchen. There. I let him in and he said, 'I want to see Margie,' and called her. I knew he was her old man. I went in the kitchen and then the shooting started."

"And then?"

"Well, I waited a minute and heard him run out and then I went in."

"What didja wait for?"

"My gawd! Did I want to get shot?"

Prentice considered. He said: "Well, I s'pose not," in an easier tone, turned, called through the door of the bedroom at his right: "How 'bout it, Doc?" said: "All right, all right," to the irritable voice that called back a request for time, and swung to the blonde again. He asked: "Who was with her when he come?"

"Nobody."

He spoke to the lean man at his elbow. "Y' see, Al. He just comes in and starts shooting. What a honey!"

The lean man looked bored, offered: "Maybe he was sore," in a voice that showed a total lack of interest, and Prentice snorted: "Sore!" and slewed back to the woman.

"You said nobody?"

The blonde stuck out her lower lip.

"I said nobody."

"No?"

"No."

Prentice smoothed his voice and smiled. His eyes didn't soften. He said: "Now, now, be nice. Tell a man. Who was with her? This heel wouldn't have killed her if she'd been alone, would he?"

"He didr

"Now, now. You know what the score is. Let's tell secrets."

"You tell me one and I'll tell you one."

The blonde took in her lower lip, tried a smile, and the grin left Prentice's face and he snapped: "Okay! This Marge is a witness against Pat Kailor on the murder rap he's facing. The witness. If that's a secret, you're told. Who was with her?"

"Nobody."

"That's your story?"

"It's the truth."

Prentice gritted: "Like hell!" between his teeth, took a step ahead with his hand raised, and the lean man at his side caught his arm, held it, said: "Easy, Dal! Don't be a chump."

"She's lying."

"What of it?"

The blonde girl said: "You're Allen, aren't you?" and he dropped Prentice's arm, told her: "Yes."

"I'm not lying."

Allen slid between the scowling Prentice and the girl, said softly: "No . . .just stalling. Let me put it in a different way. Who was with her earlier if there wasn't anybody here when he came?"

The blonde said: "I... uh..." looked past Allen and caught Prentice's eye and finished: "There was three," in a hurried voice.

"Who?"

"Two of 'em I don't know. They been here before but they wasn't looking for anyone in particular. The other one wanted Margie."

"Who was he?"

"Hal Cross. That bird of a deputy District Attorney. If it wasn't that he'd have closed me up I wouldn't have let him in the house."

Allen flashed Prentice a look, said: "Oh, oh," with the accent on the first one. He asked the blonde: "You sure?"

"I should be. He stuck me on a liquor rap that cost me a hundred dollar fine. They only found part of a pint."

"What did he want?"

The woman shrugged. "Margie. Margie come in the room when I was talking to him or he'd never have seen her. I was just going to tell him she was out, but she come in and I flashed her not to crack wise and he says to her, 'I want to see you' and she takes him in her bedroom."

"Why didn't you want him to see her?"

The muscles on the girl's jaw tightened. She flashed out: "A hundred dollars. Didn't you hear? He told me if I copped a plea he'd see it was suspended."

Allen laughed suddenly, said: "Tough break!" and to the man in the white coat who came out of the bedroom: "How- zit, Doc?"

The police surgeon had glasses jammed up on his forehead. He was wiping his hands on a towel but one sleeve had a bloody cuff. He shook his head, growled: "Dead. About two minutes after I got here. She was unconscious."

Prentice grunted: "How 'bout one of the slugs?" and the surgeon reached into the pocket of the white coat, pulled out a piece of lead and tossed it to him. The bloody cuff made a smear by the pocket and he swabbed at this with the towel, complained: "I put this on fresh, not an hour ago. Damn these shootings," added in a tired voice: "I suppose you'll want to know. Thirty-eight. Three times. Stomach and twice in the right lung. Almost center, the last one. Looks like he turned that one loose just as she was falling. It slants. She never spoke a word. That cover it?"

Prentice looked at the bullet, tossed it from one hand to the other while he thought. He turned to the woman, asked: "You sure she and this heel that killed her was married?"

"Uh-huh! There was an argument once, and she showed me her certificate."

"What was his name on that certificate?"

She hesitated, just for an instant, then said: "Denzer— George Denzer."

The surgeon stopped pawing at his coat with the towel. He looked up from this at the two detectives and the woman, jerked out irritably: "Well! Is there any reason I've got to stay here? How about it?"

"Okay, Doc! We'll lock the room until the print and camera-men get here. Thanks a lot."

The doctor grunted: "For nothing! Be seeing you," and went out. The white coat made a gray blotch in the darkness as he climbed into the ambulance.

PRENTICE argued: "You don't get it, Cap! Here's this gal bumped. The story'll be her old man come back to town and finds her in a spot. He'll be supposed to've gone screwy and given her the works in a fit of rage. See. He'll either beat the rap or get at the most five years. See. He's got a swell defense. Outraged husband finds wife hustling. The only thing is, it ain't so."

Captain of Detectives Hallahan said: "Why ain't it, Dal?" in a weary voice.

"Well, for one thing, Hal Cross come to see her earlier in the evening. I could tell that the landlady was hushing something and I figured there was a man in the room with her when her husband came in. There wasn't. It turned out that Cross had been down and seen her and left."

"What of it?"

Prentice laughed. "Plenty! Three months ago I told you there was going to be trouble over the contract to run the new paving out on Seventh. That it'd be juicy enough to bring out all the sharpshooters. You said I was screwy but here's the second killing over this same contract. Screwy, hell!"

"You are screwy. You add two and two and get nine. Or nineteen."

"Then nine or nineteen is the right answer. Cap, I know."

"You mean you guess."

"Listen. Hal Cross is the deputy in charge of prosecuting Kailor, who's charged with killing Grossman, who was chairman of the board of supervisors. There's one tie-up with the paving contract. Now this Margie gal would've proved Kailor guilty of that shooting. She was an eye-witness to it. Cross seeing her makes a further tie-up."

"You're screwy but go on." Hallahan leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes but the fingers of his right hand continued their nervous drumming on the battered desk.

"I hate to say it but Hal's mixed in some way. He went down to buy her off and she wouldn't go for the shot. He, or somebody, had it all arranged with this husband of hers to gun her out if she didn't."

"Cross is the prosecutor, not the defense attorney. It don't make sense. You got paving contracts on the brain and can't see anything else to it."

"Have I? It'd make sense if Hal was working for Izzy Schwartz as well as the D. A. It all works in. Izzy Schwartz was after that big paving job. Grossman doesn't let him in and Grossman gets bumped. If Izzy don't clear Kailor on this Grossman rap, Kailor'll spill his guts. What was Cross down there for if he ain't mixed in the mess?"

Hallahan held his hand palm out. His eyes were half closed but his voice held heat. "You're dingy about the whole affair, Dal. Hal Cross is a good boy. You're trying to figure out angles when there ain't any angles. Even if you were right about Grossman getting killed over this paving steal, you're wrong about Hal being wrong. Kailor might've been working for Schwartz but Cross isn't. That's the trouble with you. You get a notion and let it ride you. Cross isn't mixed."

Prentice made his jaw lumpy, slammed the table. "Hal Cross is. A1 and I've known that for two months or more." He slammed the desk for emphasis. "And... I'll... prove... it. I'm going out and pick up this rat that killed his wife and I'll prove it by him. A heel like that'll talk ."

Hallahan brushed white hair back from his forehead, opened light blue eyes. He shrugged: "Go ahead if it makes you feel any better. I was going to put Peterson and Mc- Cready on it but you can have it. God himself couldn't blast an idea out of that pig head of yours.''

"Allen thinks the same way I do.''

"He does?" Hallahan looked questioningly up at Allen and the lean man nodded, took a match from his mouth, said mildly: "Dal's right, Cap! He's bound to be." He looked at the frayed end of the match, threw it on the floor. "Once in a while. Le's go, Dal."

Prentice followed him to the door, turned and glowered at Hallahan. He said: "And I'll tell you what'll happen. If we don't find him, he'll come in by himself as soon as everything's fixed. Hal Cross'll have it set for him to prosecute. And the guy'll have the best lawyer Izzy Schwartz's money can buy and he'll beat the case. And mind you, I like Hal Cross. I used to think he was honest." He stared hard at Hallahan, jerked out: "You see! The rat!" without saying for whom the name was meant, and went out.

Hallahan didn't seem to have any doubt about who was meant. He said: "Izzy Schwartz!" under his breath, as if he didn't like the words.

AFTER PUTTING out a general alarm for George Denzer, husband and killer of the woman, Prentice and Allen methodically contacted all of the stools they knew. This was without result for the first day but late in the afternoon of the next, Prentice answered the phone, talked, and banged the receiver down with a satisfied expression. He told Allen, seated across from him: "Toad Simpson. He says Denzer's holed up in a house on Alvarado. 1423 West Alvarado. Can't miss it, he says. As soon as it gets dark we'll take him."

Allen looked bored and agreed, asked: "Do we take a squad?" and Prentice said with rising excitement: "No! It'd cramp us. I'll sweat this frame out of him or break both  With McCready at the back door, Prentice and Allen went quietly, side by side, up on the porch, tried the door as softly, found it open and stepped inside, guns out and covering the blackness they met. The flashlight in Allen's hand clicked on with the light as far from his side as he could hold the torch, and as it ranged he said: "Too late!" in a hushed voice, hol- stered his gun and turned the house lights on from the switch the flash picked out. Prentice made no answer until he had soft-footed through the other three rooms and back, and looked again at the body on the floor.

He finally said: "I knew he was stiff the minute I saw him. I can tell a stiff as far as I can see one." He motioned at the knife in the hollow of the dead man's throat, pointed out: "And whoever done it twisted the knife."

Allen still wore a bored look but his face was a shade whiter. "He ain't been dead long. There's still a little bleeding yet." He raised his voice, shouted: "Hi! Mac! Come in!"

The three men stood looking soberly at the body and finally Prentice knelt and taking his handkerchief from his pocket wrapped it around the haft of the knife. Allen said wamingly: "Why not leave..."

With both the front and back doors open the shrill of the police whistle carried no hint of direction, and while McCready raced to the back door, both Prentice and Allen dashed out the front. The whistle shrilled again and Prentice cursed, cried out: "In the back!" and they circled the house with Allen tripping over a low hedge concealed in the shadow.

They came to the back, Prentice ten feet in the lead, saw McCready leaning against a garbage container, shoot into he blackness at the end of the lot... and saw a tongue of flame lance back from the black and McCready sit down suddenly and lean against the can. Prentice dashed past him, the marksman at the end of the lot fired again, and Prentice slid to his belly and shot back.

Allen shouted: "Roll to the side, you fool! The kitchen light's showing you!" He dived past the prone Prentice into the shade, then ten feet ahead. He shot once, heard a door slam, shouted: "They're in the house that faces the back street. I'll head 'em off from the front of it. We got 'em boxed."

He got to his feet and running low, went past the side of the house and around to its front. Prentice slid back to McCready, stooped over him, and the hidden gun blasted again and the can by his side clanged. He took McCready by the feet and drew him back into shelter, heard Allen bawl out: "I'm set. How's Mac?"

Prentice drew a whistle from his pocket and blew three times, called back: "In the body some place. Ambulance case and quick. He's bleeding from the nose and mouth." He heard Allen blow his own whistle three times... and three times more... heard an answering rattle of a nightstick some distance away... then another whistle at the same distance.

Lights were flashing on in the house next door and when Prentice saw the back door show a thread of light he called: "You there in the house! Come here quick! It's police!" The door opened wide; the marksman cornered in the rear house fired again and there was a frightened squawk and the door closed and the light went out. Prentice bawled impatiently: "You in there. Leave that light out and come here. You won't get hurt."

A side window opened and a voice quavered: "I... I'm af-f-fraid."

"Hurry and phone the police station to send riot cars and an ambulance to this address. Hurry, man! There's an officer dying here. Tell 'em Prentice said so."

"Riot cars and an ambulance?"

"Yes! Hurry, man! Riot cars and an ambulance. Hurry!"

The window went blank and in a moment he heard an excited voice say: "Operator! Operator! The police station. Quick!" He lifted McCready's head higher, McCready coughed bloody foam and he lowered him hastily.

Allen shouted: "How's Mac?"

Prentice felt McCready's wrist and found a strong pulse and shouted back: "He'll make it, I think, if they get him to a hospital quick."

The voice at the window asked: "He dead yet? The police are coming. With an ambulance."

"Good! Thanks! Stick out in front and tell 'em where I am and not to rush in here."

'Til not leave my house."

"Go to the front window and holler then."

Another whistle shrilled and Prentice heard flat feet pounding down the sidewalk. He shouted: "In here. Come close to the house," and in a moment a uniformed man was alongside him. He said: "Take care of this man. No matter what, you stay here. Got it?" He slid close to the back door of the rear house, keeping in the shadow, shouted: "Al! They're on their way."

"Good. I found the guy that started this. The copper."

"Yeah!"

"He was laying alongside the house when I found him. He saw something moving and told whatever it was to come out. Nothing came so he blew his whistle and went in after whatever it was. He got crowned."

Prentice could hear a dissenting voice. "He says it wasn't a whatever. It was two guys."

"They must have just killed the guy and were making their sneak when he come along. Make him watch the other side."

"I have."

Prentice heard the moan of an ambulance siren, followed by a deeper, lustier roar that he identified as the riot squad cars and he heard and segregated the latter sound as belonging to three of these. He said: "Eighteen men and the works!" with an evil grin, hurried past McCready and the watching patrolman to the street and called: "Doc! Here he is. You need a stretcher."

He watched McCready get loaded on the stretcher, saw one limp hand trail along the ground as he was carried to the ambulance, hurried to the first of the riot cars drawn up along the walk, commandeered a shotgun and took charge.

He ordered: "You six cover the front and where you can watch the sides. Snap it up. Lieutenant Allen is there and he'll tell you. You three get on this side and you other three on that one. They've got Lieutenant McCready already, so watch your step. You four, come with me. I'm going in, and you cover me."

He started with head down, walking fast towards the back door of the house that held the imprisoned men. One of the four men with him came along his side, said: "Here's a grenade, Lieutenant! For God's sake, don't go in with nothing but a shotgun."

The interruption shook Prentice out of the black rage the sight of the wounded McCready had bred in him and he stopped while yet in the shadow, bawled out: "Hey! You in there! Come out or we're coming in. Quick!"

There was a moment's silence, then a voice shouted back: "We got some people in here that ain't mixed in this. Can they come put?"

"Send 'em."

Prentice called a low-voiced warning and the four men with him scattered out, watching the house. The back door opened and a man and woman came out, the woman half- carrying, half-dragging the man. She stopped when just outside the door, and Prentice called, "Come on. Get clear."

The woman laughed hysterically, said: "They come in and pointed guns at us and my husband fainted." She wavered a moment, dropped the unconscious man and started to slump down, and Prentice stepped from the shadow of the bush and started towards her.

A gun crashed from the back window and. he jumped back, slid to his belly, said: "She'll just have to faint," in a resigned voice. The gun blasted again and two of the men with him shot back at the pale tongue of flame. He said from the ground: "Hold 'em. I can't rush the back door with them two laying in front of it. I'll go in from the front with the pineapple."

He eased on his belly out of the range of fire from the back window and to the front, called softly: "Al! Oh, Al!" heard an answer and said: "Cover me. I'm on my way."

He got to his feet, pulled the pin on the grenade, took two steps towards the house and lobbed the bomb to the front porch with just enough to carry it to the door, dropped, counted five before the crash and was on his feet again running as the shock came to him. He saw the front door hanging crazily on broken hinges, smashed into it shoulder first, with his pistol in his hand, and was in the hall and shooting at the dim shape outlined against the hall window when he heard Allen's feet pound the floor behind him. The shape fired back once, went down with the combined blast of his and Allen's guns, and he turned, cursed, said: "You would shoot in my ear. He was cold turkey for me. You wrecked that ear, sure as hell."

He heard Allen laugh and crept cautiously down the hall, heard a burst of pistol shots and the deep roar of a shotgun, stood up and said: "Broke out the back! It's curtains!" They heard a shout from outside that confirmed this guess, saw the man in the hall was a stranger and quite dead, went out the back door and found the guard placed there grouped around a body that had just cleared the window.

The woman by the steps sat up as they came out, said in a shaky voice: "They said they had shot a policeman and that they were afraid to give up." Allen patted her shoulder, said: "They were smart." He followed Prentice to the body and as they reached it one of the men snapped a light on, showing the dead face. Prentice asked: "Any of you know who... My good God! It's Williams, of the D. A.'s office."

The silence held for a long minute— was broken by one of the uniformed men blurting out: "Jeeze!"

DAL PRENTICE nodded at Hallahan triumphantly and said:

"Does that check?" in a tone that showed his satisfaction. He added: "I may be screwy about paving contracts but it's proving up." He turned to the new chairman of supervisors, who sat across the desk, said: "Didn't Mr. Cross tell you where he heard this fairy story? Who's supposed to've told him all this, Mr. Heilig?"

Heilig was florid-faced and heavy-chinned. One eyelid had a tic and this twitched as he said: "Mr. Cross didn't reveal his source of information. I asked him but he refused to tell. Frankly, Lieutenant Prentice, I'll admit I believe him."

Allen, from the side, offered: "So do I."

Hallahan's voice was incredulous. "Do you mean, Mr. Heilig, that because you hear a cock-and-bull story about why a man was murdered ... a story without the slightest bit of proof or verification to back it up... you believe it? Do you realize that you are practically accusing Izzy Schwartz of having Grossman killed because he wasn't going to favor Schwartz on this paving business?"

Heilig shrugged and spread his hands. He said evenly: "I'm telling you what Hal Cross told me. I'm frank in saying I believe him and I want protection." The tic became more pronounced. "Cross claims that I am in danger unless I do throw my influence in his way and I'll not do it." His face tightened. "Am I to understand you will do nothing about this?"

Hallahan said hurriedly: "I'll be very glad to detail a man or two men to go with you."

Prentice jeered: "So they'll make him an easier target, huh? This backs up what I think, don't it?"

"What you think!" Hallahan said, sarcastically.

"My reason for coming to your office, Captain," Heilig said, "wasn't alone this. I'm honestly nervous over this warning but there's another angle you seem to overlook. Sid Grossman was a damn' good man and a damn' good friend of mine. He was killed for some reason, and this is a good explanation. May I say that I don't understand your attitude towards this same explanation? It seems to me you should be interested in any possible lead."

Hallahan's face showed red. He snapped: "We got the man in jail that killed him. Lead, hell! We got the killer."

Allen's voice was very mild as he pointed out: "But he won't be convicted. There are no witnesses, now, that he is the killer."

Hallahan stood up, crossed to the wall and stared at a reward poster. His clenched hands were behind his back and showed the knuckles white. He didn't turn as Heilig said: "Lieutenant Prentice tells me that he believes Schwartz to be responsible for that. That he thinks Kailor was hired by Schwartz."

Hallahan turned and glared at him. He blurted out: "Lieutenant Prentice also thinks that Cross is mixed up in that. I've known that boy for ten years, helped him get his deputy job for that matter, and he's mixed, according to Lieutenant Prentice. All I hear this last few days is Cross, Kailor and Schwartz, and now more of it."

Heilig shrugged and Hallahan swung around to Prentice. "Dal! You're so damn' sure about this, you see that Mr. Heilig is protected." He added with heavy sarcasm: "Why don't you go up and see Schwartz and tell him to tend to his paving business and quit the murder racket. Tell Cross, too, while you're at it."

"That's an idea at that."

"Mr. Heilig, we'll see that you have two men with you that'll do everything but get in the bathtub with you. That is," he bowed to Prentice, "Lieutenant Prentice will see that you have. How's that? As far as Kailor being convicted for killing Grossman, I'm not the D. A. I'm only in charge of the department that puts 'em in jail for the D. A. to convict. That isn't up to me."

Allen said to Heilig in the same mild voice: "That wasn't meant as a rib."

"I take it that Cross didn't threaten you," Hallahan said to Heilig... "that he warned you. Is that right?"

"That's the way I took it. He as much as told me that Schwartz was the man that hired Kailor to kill Grossman for that reason, and that I was in danger for the same reason."

"All right, Dal! This don't fit your pipe dream about Cross being in it."

"Why don't it fit? Maybe Cross is losing his guts. Maybe he figures that Mr. Heilig will take it as a warning and throw the deal to Schwartz."

"Maybe!" Hallahan snorted contemptuously. "Maybe this, maybe that. I guess this and I guess that. But you don't know." He turned to Heilig. "Maybe you'll go for Schwartz then if you're so damn' worried about this."

Heilig said: "I didn't ask to be appointed to the board in Grossman's place but…" His voice grew firm as he finished the sentence. "As long as I am, I'll do as I think best, regardless of threats." He walked to the door. "Then you'll see I'm protected, whether you believe there's need or not. Is that right?"

"Right."

Heilig went out and Hallahan snapped out: "I'll be dingy if this keeps up."

"You and me both. C'mon, Al."

"Where you going?"

Prentice grinned: "Up and see Schwartz. That was an idea."

PRENTICE led the way down the hall and past the door that said: "Magna City Construction Company— Isadore Schwartz, President" ... around a jog in the hall and to a door that said "Private." The door opened on an intersection with one branch corridor leading to the back and service elevators. There was no one in that corridor and it was apparently rarely used. He raised his hand to knock and the door opened under it and Schwartz, with his back partially turned to the opening door, said: "Then, Gino, you go ahead and..." He turned from the man inside the room, said: "Why, why, hello, Lieutenant!"

Prentice shouldered past him, said: "I didn't know you had company," in an ironic tone. Allen followed him into the room, staring hard at the man called Gino, and Gino backed to the desk, sat on its edge.

Schwartz still held the door. He said: "Of course I'm always glad to see you, Lieutenant, but…" He coughed. "I have a secretary in the outer office to announce visitors. I might have been busy instead of all through with my talk." He made an almost imperceptible motion with his head towards the still open door, and Gino came to his feet, said: "I'll be seeing you then, Mr. Schwartz."

"Come up any time. Lieutenant Prentice is an old friend of mine... such an old friend he doesn't bother to be announced." He slightly stressed the name.

Gino's sloe eye swiveled to Prentice. He said: "Prentice?" slowly, hesitated, again said: "Prentice?" with the same question in his voice and Prentice said: "Yeah!" He reached out, said: "I'll close the door," and Gino said: "But I'm just going!" Schwartz was still holding the door and Prentice shook it and as Schwartz released his hand, closed it, asked: "Where? Not by any chance to see Heilig, were you?"

Gino said: "I don't understand!" in an angry voice, and Allen spoke from the side. "You got a permit for that gun you're packing under your arm?" His eyes had not left Gino since he had entered the room but his face was blank.

"Yeah! I got one."

"Let's see it."

Gino produced a wallet and the permit from the wallet, and Allen looked it over and handed it back. He said to Prentice: "It's from that heel of a police chief down at Colton. It's good any place in the county though."

Gino grinned. Prentice opened the door and Gino started towards it, but as he went out his eyes slewed back at Prentice, with a malevolent gleam.

Schwartz went back of his desk, asked: "What was it you boys wanted?" His tone was mild but his eyes were very cautious.

Prentice leaned over the desk, spoke bluntly. "To tip you to lay off Heilig."

"I don't get you."

"Why stall! Listen, Schwartz! We know why Grossman was killed. Know! Get that. Don't let it happen to Heilig."

"Don't be silly, Lieutenant. I'm running a reputable business and I won't stand for that kind of talk."

"No-o-o? You're running a contracting business that depends on what you can swing from the city hall." He leaned farther over the desk, his eyes dark and smoky looking, his lips curled over his teeth in a snarl. "Listen, Schwartz! You may be a big shot but you ain't big enough to murder in order to swing these same contracts. You can bum as easy as the next man. Don't forget that. Lay— off— Heilig!"

"Is that what you came up to tell me?"

"Just that!"

Schwartz laughed, mocked: "Just that! Listen, you heel! You make trouble for me and I'll have your job in twenty- four hours. Now get to hell out of my office."

Allen took hold of Prentice's arm, shook it. He said: "All right, Dal, that's enough. He's told. It's up to him." He started Prentice towards the door and Schwartz asked: "What makes you think I've got anything to do with Heilig?" but Allen laughed and ignored the question. He said: "Come on, Dal!" and opened the door, but turned there and said to Schwartz: "You'd be safer at that."

"What do you mean by that crack?"

"If you got our jobs in twenty-four hours. Be seeing you." He laughed again, as followed by Prentice, he went out.

The door slammed, cutting off Prentice's muttered: "In jail!"

The two men started down the dim back corridor that led to the service elevators. Allen wore rubber heels, and only Prentice's footsteps made sound. They rounded a turn in the hall, passed a tiny closet reserved for the storage of janitor supplies and as they passed it Allen, who was behind, shouldered into Prentice, knocking him to one side. At the same time he caught Gino's arm, deflected the blade that was directed between Prentice's shoulders. Prentice turned, saw what was happening, and swung his gun from under his arm and against Gino's jaw with the same motion, and Gino slid to the floor between them. The knife clattered against the wall.

Allen panted out: "I saw a shadow. That's all. He was in the closet." He reached for the knife, added: "Hell! What a shiv!"

Prentice reached down and hauled Gino to his feet. He said: "I've seen this mug some place, or his picture. D'ya suppose Schwartz hired him for this?"

"Let's ask him."

They turned and started back the hall to Schwartz's office and when they reached it, grinned at each other, knocked, and when Schwartz opened the door filed through, carrying the unconscious Gino with them. Prentice said: "Look what we found in the hall, Schwartz," and threw Gino half across the room to where he fell on the desk and from there to the floor. In falling he took a dictaphone and two letter baskets down with him.

Schwartz stood by the door staring at Gino and Allen asked: "What d'ya know about him?"

"Nothing much. What's happened?"

"Not one damn' thing yet. He made a mistake and started to stick Dal with about a yard of shiv and we took it away from him. Didn't you expect it?"

"My God, no!" Schwartz's tone carried conviction.

"Who is he anyway?"

"Gino Petrone. He came up to see me about a job."

"Didja give him one?"

"No."

Prentice said slowly: "He'll have one for about five years now. Working for the state. That'll be a load off his mind."

"Surely you boys don't think that...."

"Hell, no, Schwartz! We don't think. We wouldn't be policemen if we did." Allen picked up Gino, who was showing signs of renewed interest in life, hauled him to his feet. He said: "C'mon, boy friend. Let's go down and see what you think of our ailjay." He boosted him to the door, waved his hand at Schwartz and said: "Be seeing you, like I said we would." His voice was cheerful.

Schwartz said: "That's right, you did say that." He looked worried, cursed when he put the shattered dictaphone back on the desk.

Dal Prentice said: "But we have to see him tonight. We'll wait."

The maid had a tiny white apron over a black uniform and a white cap, that matched the apron, perched on one side of her head. She rattled the chain that held the door from further opening, explained again: "Mr. Cross didn't leave any word," and Prentice, as patiently, said again: "Then we'll wait for him." She looked undecided and he showed her his badge and identification card, told her: "It's business from Mr. Cross's office that's supposed to be a secret. Get it?"

"But Mr. Cross didn't say...."

"He didn't know we were coming tonight or he'd have waited."

"It's my night off and I was going to a show."

"We won't stop you. We have to see Mr. Cross tonight. It's important."

"Well, I guess it's all right."

"Sure it is, sister."

She opened the door, said: "I guess you could wait in the library," and Allen said: "That'd be fine." As they went in he poked a finger at the white cap, and she giggled and blushed.

Prentice asked: "Any idea where Mr. Cross went?"

"He didn't say." She hesitated a second, offered: "But you might get him at Mr. Schwartz's house. I answered the phone just before Mr. Cross went out, and Mr. Schwartz was on the line. Shall I call and see?"

Allen said: "Oh, don't bother!" in a hasty voice. He was glancing at the flat desk and the pile of letters on it and the girl saw his glance and misunderstood. She blushed again. "It looks terrible but Mr. Cross won't have me tidy it. He says that important papers might be misplaced or lost."

Prentice was looking at a decanter and tray of glasses on a stand made by a very small but very modern safe. He grinned at the flustered maid, said: "D'ya think a drink would be misplaced?" and Allen said: "Shut up, you chiseler."

The girl laughed, went to the door, asked: "Do you really think Mr. Cross wouldn't be mad if I did go? I've had the date for a week."

Allen said: "I'm sure it will be all right. We'll take care of things." He was still looking at the papers.

The girl coughed and blushed again, asked: "Do you know a policeman named Kerrigan?"

"Don't believe so."

"I go with him steady."

"Lucky man!"

She went out and as she did, Prentice grunted: "Yeah! If he's deaf!" and lifted the decanter. Allen said nothing in return, sorted papers on the desk.

When they heard the front door slam a half hour later Allen had a bulge in his inner coat pocket and Prentice had a perceptible flush on his face. The level in the decanter was four inches lower than on their arrival and both men held glasses. Cross stopped in the doorway, blurted out: "What... how . . ."

"The maid let us in, Hal. She had a date."

"Sorry I was out, Prentice. Been waiting long?" He flashed a look at the desk, said sharply: "The maid should have taken you in the other room."

Allen chose to misunderstand and looked at the decanter. He said: "We figured you'd have bought a drink if you'd been here so we went ahead. Sorry if we overstepped." His grin did not show sorrow.

Cross reddened, said: "I didn't mean it that way, Lieutenant. You are very welcome. Lieutenant Prentice and I are old friends." He sat down back of the desk, worried eyes searching the litter, asked: "What is the trouble, or is it just a friendly call? I hate like the devil to talk business after I leave the office, Dal; you know that."

Prentice stared over the rim of his glass at him. "We could have seen you at the office as well as not. Or can see you, rather. It's up to you."

"I don't understand."

"What's the tie-up between you and Schwartz?"

Cross half rose from his chair, dropped back. His face turned white and his eyes bulged. He repeated: "Tie-up!" in little more than a gasp, pulled at his collar with his left hand while his right hand stirred the papers on the desk.

Allen said: "They're here!" and tapped his breast pocket. "We thought you'd rather talk it over with us here than down to the office. You being a good friend of Hallahan and Dal both."

Cross choked and dropped his right hand below the desk top, while his left still pulled at his collar. Prentice took his eyes from his tortured face and stared back at the whiskey glass. He said: "It might make things clearer, Hal, if we tell you what we know. Would it?" in a mild voice.

Cross made a strangled noise and nodded.

"You're to get a cut from Schwartz if his paving deal goes through. So you go in on the Grossman deal. We put the finger on Kailor for that, and you go down and try to buy the witness that we dug up that saw the shooting. When she wouldn't pop you had her killed."

Cross made a motion with his left hand, still kept his right below the desk. He cried out: "Dal! No! You're wrong on that." His eyes were bulging and his voice was unrecognizable.

"Am I? You were in the Grossman deal."

"Yes, but not that way. I thought he was to be bribed. I was to talk to him on Thursday, and he was killed Wednesday night. That's the truth. I didn't know a thing about it."

"You were in it, just the same. Why were you fretting about Kailor taking the rap if you wasn't mixed in it?"

Cross hung his head, stared down at what his right hand held. He blurted: "I... I... couldn't help ... I was . .

Prentice was leaning forward in his chair, whiskey glass poised in his hand, and Allen was listening with a half grin. Cross looked up, moving only his eyes, stammered: "I... I couldn't help it." He straightened his shoulders and tried to lift his head but the effort seemed too great and he motioned with his left hand towards the safe and said: "It's all in there. Signed and all. I was afraid...."

Prentice's eyes had followed the motion and when his glance came back to Cross he saw him bring his right hand up from under the desk. As he jammed the gun it held against his temple, Prentice threw the whiskey, glass and all, full into Cross's face and in the same motion was leaning across the desk and had Cross's wrist bent down and the gun pointing at the floor. He was in a position where he could not get leverage enough to free the gun from Cross and he cried out: "Al! Get it."

Allen had not moved from his chair. He said: "What for? I took the shells out of it when I went through the desk. I knew damn* well he'd try to do the Dutch when he got caught up with." He laughed, and at the sound Cross wilted and put his head down in his arms on the desk. Prentice sat on the edge of the desk, balancing the gun, and Allen asked: "Blackmailed into it, weren't you?"

The head nodded.

"Why didn't you tell us? That'd been better than getting mixed in a murder."

Cross looked up in horror, tear stains streaking his cheeks. "I wasn't in that. I went down there to warn her. I got thinking about Grossman being killed and thought she was in danger."

"She was in danger all right."

"I told her she'd better leave town and not tell anyone where she was going. I was afraid of Schwartz, but I didn't want any more people killed."

"Why were you afraid?"

Cross made a motion towards the safe, said dully: "It's all in there. I was in a jam for money and I took some from him. It was when those inspectors on the new Armory job he contracted were under fire. I didn't make a case against them, and he could have ruined me at any time after that. I've just been getting in deeper all the time." He dropped his head, stared at his hands. "The only thing left is..." He shrugged and looked at the empty gun on the desk.

Prentice was staring at Cross, a question in his eyes. He jerked his head at Allen, said: "Al! See what you think of this," led the way to a comer of'the room and talked, nodding his head at Cross from time to time. They came back to the desk and Prentice asked: "If we show you a way out of this, will you play ball with us?"

Cross spoke in the same dull voice. "There's no way out. Schwartz will have me killed when he knows I've talked. And the whole dirty business will come out."

"There is a way. A chance at least."

"I'll do anything you want." Cross's face did not lighten.

"It's compounding a felony."

Cross smiled with no mirth, shrugged.

"It'll take Schwartz and everyone else that knows a thing about your deals with him out of the way. It's dangerous, though. Plenty!"

Cross looked at the empty gun on the desk, shrugged again.

CROSS opened the door to Schwartz, said: "How are you, Izzy?" and to the dim shape behind him: "And you, Kailor?" He told Schwartz: "Gino's here and I've let the maid go and my wife's out of town. I thought this would be a better place to meet than at your office."

Schwartz shrugged out of a topcoat, grunted: "It'd make no difference. What can't be proved, won't hang anybody," and Kailor, behind him, laughed and added: "Stiffs can't get up and testify."

Cross led the way to the library and as he stood at the door to let Kailor past him before closing it, Schwartz strolled to the desk and stood looking at the papers still littering its surface. He said without looking up: "That was good work getting Gino out," and nodded at the little Italian seated across from him. "If you hadn't pointed out to the judge that he was a stranger in town and had no motive for attacking those two coppers, I doubt if the judge would have gone for only five grand for bail."

Kailor walked behind Gino and sat down, still behind him and facing Schwartz, who was standing back of the desk. He grunted: "That jail is nobody's bargain, either. Before the writ and bond caught up with me, these same two coppers worked me over plenty, but didn't learn anything." He spat on the heavy rug, and staring at the back of Gino's head, said, "If I was a damn' wop I'd have spilled my guts."

Gino swung around, snapped: "What's that!" and Schwartz said: "Now, now boys!" He spoke to Cross. "Kailor got in a jam once and an Italian boy spoke his piece. I've told him that Gino ain't that way... that Gino's right."

Kailor grunted scornfully and Gino turned his eyes away from him and back to Schwartz, who was reading a letter he had picked up from the desk. Gino said: "Cross has been telling me that this Prentice came to see him when I was in jail." His voice had a slight accent but was soft and low.

Schwartz looked up from the letter, sat down at the desk, said: "He told me, too. What of it? They didn't learn anything."

"Cross did." Gino's eyes were black and glowing, and Schwartz looked puzzled. "Cross learned plenty."

"What do you mean by that?" Schwartz swung towards Cross but Gino rapped out: "I'm still talking!" and Schwartz turned back to him. "Cross said this copper told him he had a tip about my brother and Williams going to do the Denzer job. And that he was there waiting and that the only reason he didn't catch 'em in the house was because the job took no time. Did Cross tell you that?"

"Why, no," Schwartz said slowly. "I figured they were tipped to Denzer's hideout but that was all." He turned to Cross, asked: "Did they tell you that, Hal?" in a puzzled voice.

Cross said: "Yes, they did."

"Why didn't you tell me this?"

Cross shrugged: "I thought you knew it," turned his head away from Schwartz.

"Thought I knew it!" Schwartz shook his head and put the letter down on the desk. "What is all this?"

Gino slipped his right hand up his left sleeve, said in his soft, low voice: "Why shouldn't he think you knew it? The copper said your office called him and told him." His right hand slid out from the sleeve and an inch of steel followed it.

"You told me and Mario it was a cinch. Told us that Denzer expected us to come there and pay off for you. I couldn't go, so Williams went with Mario instead. They run into a stake-out."

Schwartz burst out: "You're crazy!" His eyes were on the knife blade showing in the Italian's sleeve.

"Like a fox, I'm crazy! You had the girl killed because she knew too much. And Denzer. Why not my brother and me? If we were killed by the cops, we couldn't talk."

Cross, at the right, was leaning against the library door and was twenty feet from the group at the desk. Kailor was some five feet behind and directly in back of Gino, who faced Schwartz across the desk. Wide French windows, closed and draped, were at the left of the room. Schwartz looked over Gino's head, narrowed his eyes at Kailor, who nodded slightly in return.

Gino bent a little in his chair, whispered, "Well... ain't it so?"

His hand moved out of his sleeve a little more, and Kailor took a blackjack from his pocket and balanced it in his hand. He stood up and Gino heard the movement and turned his head. Schwartz squirmed in his seat, dragged a gun from his hip pocket, and Gino caught the motion and turned back. He said: "You would!" and flashed the knife all the way clear from his sleeve, and with this, Schwartz shot from below the desk.

Kailor had the sap halfway up to strike, but with the shot fell forward on Gino. Gino twisted free, flinging him to the floor, and as Schwartz fired again, leaned across the desk. Schwartz cried out and made an attempt to lift his gun above the desk, but Gino was halfway across it with his right hand out, and the gun barrel hit the edge of the desk and clattered to the floor.

Gino lunged with the knife once more, turned his head towards the windows as they crashed open. Prentice, already half through the windows, flinched as Allen fired past his ear. Gino fell across the desk with his right hand still holding the knife in Schwartz's throat. Schwartz, with his hands around Gino's and the knife, wavered and slowly fell towards him and across him.

Prentice stepped gingerly towards the desk, gun in hand, watching Kailor, who had not moved since Gino had thrown him to the floor. He turned him over, said: "Deader than hell!" and to Cross, leaning whitefaced against the door: "Looks like a clean sweep. How did he get it... from what we heard it was between Gino and Schwartz."

"He fell when Schwartz shot the first time. Schwartz missed Gino and got him."

Allen was straightening the tangle on the desk. He said: "Gino ain't dead. Not yet. He won't last until the surgeon gets here, though." He bent over the Italian, asked: "Can you talk? Listen, you! Can you talk?" and straightened with a shrug when he got no answer except in muttered Italian.

Cross said: "Oh, my God!" in a sick voice. He retched and Prentice went to him and patted him on the back and told him: "You're okay now. You'll be a hero from now on. 'Deputy District Attorney traps band of yeggs.' " He turned to Allen, who was trying to telephone. "And you, you lug, that's twice you've blown my ear damn' near off me. Is it a game?"

CAPTAIN HALLAHAN looked up when the two men came into the Homicide office, his red face shining, his white hair in an angry ruff. He bellowed: "That wop that tried to knife you is out on bail and so is Kailor and I've tried to get you since four o'clock to stop it. Cross stood there and let their lawyer plead 'em out on bail. Bail on a murder rap. That's what we've come to!" He snorted violently. "Don't stand there with silly grins on your faces. Where was you? In some speak drunk? I'm going to the D. A. and build a fire under him that'll bum Cross out of his lousy job inside of twenty-four hours. You was right on him at least; he's a heel."

Prentice said: "Easy, Cap! You got high blood pressure!" in a calm voice and this calm infuriated Hallahan the more. He exploded: "You may think it's a joke to have a hood like that out running around knifing people in the back, but by God I don't. Where was you? Hey! Don't you know you're supposed to phone in if you can't come in? Huh!" He added in a milder tone: "Lord! I been worried sick about you."

Prentice sat on the edge of the desk and swung his leg back and forth. He said: "We couldn't help it. We was busy and couldn't phone."

"Busy! You should've been out and picking them two up again. You could hold 'em on an open charge."

"Sure we could but why fret about them. They're dead."

Hallahan ruffled his hair, opened his mouth.

"They're dead and so is Schwartz."

Allen said: "They all killed each other. It was more, fun!" and Prentice grinned: "Couldn't you buy a boy a drink?"

Hallahan reached blindly for the drawer in his desk. He said: "Is this a rib?" and jerked his hand away from the drawer, roared: "By God if you think you can come in here and..."

"It's no rib, Cap!" Prentice's voice was soothing. "They're all dead and we're damn' near it from needing a drink. Come on and pop. We even took care of Hal for you."

Allen looked pointedly at the drawer.

"All right, all right. You chiselers!" Hallahan jerked the drawer open and Prentice sighed happily as he poured his glass over full. He waved it at Hallahan, a little of the whiskey splashed, and Hallahan cursed and moved a report blank out of danger. He said: "All right, I know you're two smarties. Tell it! What you been trying to do?"

Allen corrected: "Not trying. Doing. It worked."

Hallahan grimaced and spat towards a battered cuspidor. He snapped: "If it worked, it worked late. First the chairman of the Board of Supervisors killed. Then there's a girl shot, then a man knifed, then two more killed resisting arrest. One of them a detective assigned to working for the D. A. Then three more killed, all at the same time, you say. Something worked." He snorted.

Allen said soberly: "Grossman was killed by Kailor. That wasn't our fault. Then the girl that could have proved this was killed by her old man. We couldn't help that either."

"I s'pose not. Dal had the notion that Cross was mixed in that." He snorted again.

Prentice tipped his head and drank and put the glass on the desk. He argued: "He was. The story I told you was all true... about the frame being this guy killed his wife because he caught her hustling. And Cross was supposed to see that the guy beat the case when it came up. The only thing was that Cross didn't know this and that the plan was changed. Cross wasn't in the change, either."

"Go on." Hallahan rapped nervous fingers on the desk.

"Schwartz hired two hoods to wipe out Denzer because he figured that'd be safer than having him stand trial. Gino and Mario Petrone. Gino struck a snag, got held in Centerville three days on a speeding charge, and Mario had to have somebody else go with him on the job. Schwartz got Williams, who was working for him just the same as Cross was, to go. That's all there was to it. We got here right after they done their stuff and cornered 'em. Williams knew he couldn't beat it if he was caught but figured he might break free if he fought it out. He didn't but I'll always say he tried."

Allen took up the story while Prentice filled glasses. "Cross wasn't in this because Schwartz figured he'd lost his nerve. He was right because Cross went down and warned the gal but he was too late. We went up and tried to scare Schwartz into laying off Heilig and run into this Gino. The crazy hood knew it was us that killed his brother and tried to knife Dal. I don't think Schwartz had a thing to do with that."

Hallahan said: "Maybe not. You could've stuck Gino on that."

"Sure we could. And have him get not more than five years. We got hold of Cross and scared hell out of him. He was ready to crack and I think he had the notion that Kailor had spilled his guts to us when we give Kailor the works. We worked a frame with him, let him get Gino and Kailor out, and got him to set Gino against Schwartz. Gino was nuts about his brother getting the business and believed everything he was told. That's all there was to it. When the beef started, Schwartz tried to kill Gino and popped Kailor by mistake. That saved us the bother."

"And Gino killed Schwartz?"

"He surely did." Allen looked reflective. "And the funny thing is, it was with a knife and he stuck him in the same place his brother struck Denzer." He tapped the hollow in his throat. "He even turned the knife the same way. I shot Gino through the chest but Schwartz had already hit him in the belly and he'd have died from that."

"What about Cross?"

"He's okay! He got blackmailed into working for Schwartz in the first place and he's such a weak sister he couldn't get guts enough to break loose. We're covering him on the whole thing. That's Dal's idea."

Hallahan argued: "But if he was in it?"

Prentice complained: "Oh, what the hell! It was just drag in a lot of dirt and he's smarted up now. What would we make by it?" He leaned forward. "Look, Cap! If he hadn't worked with us we couldn't have proved a thing on either Schwartz or Kailor and Gino'd only got maybe five years. He helps us and they kill each other off. Ain't that better?"

Hallahan looked doubtful and Prentice persisted: "He got roped in on the whole damn' thing. Give the guy a break. He's been a friend of yours. And besides, the way politics are in this rotten town it's a damn' good thing to know there's one deputy prosecutor that's honest."

Hallahan grinned slightly, said: "Even if he went crooked to get that way. Maybe you're right. I always liked Hal."

Prentice laughed suddenly, set his glass down. "I feel sorry for the poor guy. He's got the messiest rug I ever saw in my life." He grinned at Allen, added: "The hell he'll catch when his old lady gets home."

________________

17: Much Fandango

H. Bedford-Jones

1887-1949

Adventure,  Aug 1937

PRIVATE WASHINGTON FULTZ groaned faintly and managed to open the heavy shutters of his eyes upon the sights of northern Mexico. Something was wrong, very wrong. Where were the Illinois Volunteers? Where was General Zachary Taylor’s army? Where was the yellow road so thick with dust, leading southward to Saltillo and glory? All gone.

“A-a-a-yaw!” The gusty yawn almost dislocated his stiff jaw. He blinked around Km, surveyed his extended legs with mild surprise, looked at the inert hands folded across his blue belly. His sodden senses told him that the February day was a hot one.

All the outside world was silent. This adobe room, with dirt floor and closed entrance door, was silent. The uncertain gaze of Fultz wandered about. A couple of small rough tables, cowhide stools, a short plank bar with jugs shelved behind it, a flabby pigskin sack hung on a peg— ah! Striped pig! He had learned what this bit of slang meant, anyhow.

He found himself bolstered in a corner. Posted behind the bar, hands widely planted on it, was a swarthy man in a very dirty yellow shirt, who grinned and spoke to him.

“Como ’sta, amigo?”

“Same to you,” Fultz mouthed. His tongue tasted like musty leather, his eyes burned, his head ached. He knew now where he was, and what ailed him.

He was in the adobe Game Cock, the liquor shop of the little Placita hamlet on a bypath of the Saltillo road. He had indulged his thirst, according to his means, with swigs from sundry pigskin sacks. Memory grew upon him.

“That damned striped pig!” he mumbled, and grimaced as his stomach turned over.

“Ugh! Pulque, they call it; hogwash, I say. Oh, my gosh! And I used to be a Christian.”

The Mexican caught at the muttered word. “Pulque, señor! Fi’ cents.”

“No; shut your trap!” said Fultz, and belched. “Oh, gosh! I feel terrible.”

The Mexican continued to grin amiably. Fultz groaned again, and shifted himself in his chair to easier posture.

The thud of hoofs sounded outside; they halted. The door swung. A figure entered, stamped to a table, and sat down. He was a short-legged, long-bodied old fellow, in a wide-brimmed straw hat and mustard colored linen duster. When he removed the hat to mop his forehead, he showed grizzled hair and a seamy mahogany face with generous nose and wide mouth.

The sight of this man, who might have been some farmer from the Illinois plowlands, stirred Fultz and made him homesick. The Mexican bustled forward with a jug and glass and a flood of salutations.

“Agua!” said the old man. His brevity indicated a scanty stock of Spanish. He had begun to liberally water his two fingers of whiskey, when his eye fell upon Fultz.

“It’s safer to temper the water in these parts, on account of the dysentery. Will you join me, my friend?”

Abruptly, the door swung again and another man stamped in. A square, florid man in dusty blue and artillery red, wearing the shoulder-straps of a captain. He nodded to the old codger and joined him at the table.

Fultz stirred himself to reply to the invitation. It occurred to him that the old fellow was some contractor, up from the Rio Grande to place a few more barrels of rotten beef and maggoty flour. He rose alertly enough, for his gullet craved action.

“Before I left home to see the elephant,” he said, with a defiant glance at the officer, “I was particular what I drank and who I drank with, mister, but damned if I care right now!”

Coming forward, he established himself at the table, brimmed the glass set before him, and smacked down the whiskey. The old codger eyed his uniform.

“A volunteer? What regiment?”

“Second Illinois.”

“The Army’s gone on. What are you doing here?”

Fultz scowled. “I got left behind on sick list, due to rotten beef, Mister Nosey, and no thanks to you.” The whiskey had invigorated him, heartened him. The old fellow took no offense at his words, but nodded and replied mildly.

“Then you’d better use caution. These roads are infested with cut-throats picking up stragglers.”

“What’s it to you?” demanded Fultz bitterly. “A private in this army gets to be no more’n a carcass anyhow.”

The captain spoke out with sudden severity. “What’s your name?”

“Fultz, and a damned good name too, where I come from.”

“You need discipline,” barked the officer, his face reddening. “You’ll be reported for straggling. Join your command at once, or you’ll be listed as a deserter.”

“The worst punishment I can think of for those men who desert to the other side,” observed the older man, “is to send ’em back there when we catch them.” He rose, tossed a coin on the table, and transfixed Fultz with a glance suddenly stern and cold. “Report to your command, my man, and stand punishment for straggling. That’s my advice.”

He turned to the entrance. With a final glare at Fultz, the captain followed.

“Thanks for the forty-rod, old cock, but damn your advice!” called Fultz after them. Through the open door he saw them mount horses, which an orderly held, and then ride away. The old fellow jogged loosely in his saddle, like a farmer. Fultz grunted, then found the Mexican grinning at him again.

“You run away, si?”

“See yourself.”

“You in beeg feex now. You know who you talk to?”

Fultz swore. “That officer? Some damned bumptious pair of shoulder straps.”

“Not him. That other hombre, the tailor general, seguro! You not know your beeg general?”

FULTZ emitted a gasp, staring at the Mexican. “What? That old farmer? The one I same as told to go to hell?”

"Seguro, sit The old tailor, old Zach. You go to Saltillo, you get punish’ plenty.”

“Old Zach Taylor? My gosh!” Fultz felt weak in the knees, remembering the officer and the orderly, and things he had heard about the general. “Taylor, who took Monterey?”

“He? Bah!” The Mexican spat in contempt. “Our General Ampudia shoot off all his powder and march out. But soon now, mucho fandango; mucho, mucho! Santa Ana coming, twenty t’ousand soldier, capture the old tailor and all his men. You go to Saltillo, what happen? You go to jail. Then Santa Ana come and kill you, sure. Better join Mexican army. Have a drink.”

Fultz accepted. The dram served over the bar was fiery hot. It surged in a flame from stomach to head, and set
the eyes to dancing. He had been in a cold sweat of fright over the way he had talked to the general— whose aide had his name, also.

Frightened, yes, as any green farmer might be, when shoved into a uniform and a campaign. He had sassed the general good and proper; it never occurred to him that the general would do anything except look him up and raise Cain with him. Listed as a straggler? That was damned unjust, too. He was no straggler. Still, he could not prove it. He hastily reviewed the situation, as the liquor set his brain to work.

His sick leave ended, he had been ordered to report at Saltillo, had started there with some wagons. The teamsters dropped off here for a drink; so did he. They must have gone, he must have stayed. A small matter, except for that damned officer and the farmer general. Gosh! Now he was down for straggling. Punishment, sure. On top of that, the general himself would go after his hide.

Fultz had only one idea—to take the easiest way out of his perplexity. Desert? Not much. The idea simply did not register in his brain. The Mexican, leaning forward, spoke.

“Trouble, eh? You amigo, you all right. I show you. Come!”

He beckoned invitingly. In a perplexed haze, Private Fultz found himself following through another doorway, into a rear room. Here a man rose from a pallet. He was in Mexican shirt and pantaloons and had an unshaven blur of beard, but an American voice.

“Another bully boy straggler, huh? Maybe you’re one of us?”

“I dunno,” Fultz replied, in surprise. “Who are you?”

“Well, I was private Dan Welch, of Bragg’s Third Artillery, but I’ll damned soon be Sargint Welch of the Mexican army, and a leftenant when I’ve l’arned the lingo. And we don’t have to fight agin’ our own boys, neither. What happened to you, sojer?”

“Drinks, I guess,” said Fultz. “I been in trouble, too; been sick, and sassed a corp’ral and he allows I’m just playin’ sick, and works hell out of me. Then I’m to report at Saltillo and come here with some supply wagons and reckon I had a drink too many and got left. Gosh! Things just keep a-piling up, somehow.”

His utter fumbling misery drew a hard grin from the other. Welch wagged his head and smacked his lips.

“Well, I got triced up by Bragg for talkin’ like a man. I cut loose from the British army before this, and I’ve cut loose from this one. I’m for the other side, same as the boys who’ve already gone over. One hundred dollars gold, savvy? And a dollar a day pay, with rank of corp’ral or sargint, a commission ahead, and three hundred and twenty acres of good land after the war. That’s worthwhile! Say, who were the men just now here?”

Fultz scratched his head. “A cap’n of regular artillery, and an old hoss in a snuff-colored coat. They questioned me pretty free and I talked up to ’em. I sassed ’em proper, and that officer took my name. The Mex says the old gent was Taylor himself.”

“Holy smoke!” Welch stared at him. “And you sassed ’em, and they got your name! Boy, you’re done for now! General Taylor himself? Hadn’t you never seen him?”

“No. He’d left Monterey before we got there from below.”

Welch whistled. “You’re sure as hell in for it now, and double! I thought I recognized the voice. That cap’n was Brax Bragg, the one who rode me, and he’s a terror. Old Taylor, he allows he’ll discipline you volunteers. Now you’ll be reported at Saltillo. Go back there and you’ll sojer for life at digging latrines!”

“Yeah?” Fultz scowled. “I didn’t enlist fer that.”

The other guffawed. “No, nor get pinned by a lance, like a bug! Volunteered to march to the Halls of Montezumy and see the sights. Bet you ain’t seen much.”

“That’s right.” Fultz’ tongue was thickened. “Never got into Monterey. Only the officers went in; the rest of us were kept five mile out.”

“Well, it’s us boys in the Saint Patricks who’ll get the good liquor and the gals and an easy life with a pocketful o’ gold! The San Patricio battalion, that’s the ticket. All of us are in together, Irish, Britishers, Germans and the like— us who didn’t see no sense in a land-grabbing war with a country who’ll treat us right.”

“I’m a born American,” mumbled Fultz. “No deserter. I ain’t craving to catch Jesse when I report, though. Sassed them officers, and one was General Taylor.”

“Listen to me!” said Welch with a rasp. “Desert? Why not? It’s promised we don’t have to fire on our own folks. And that Old Hoss ain’t wanting us; says he’ll drum us back to the Mexicans if he catches us!”

“I got to sleep. Then I’ll do something,” muttered Fultz. “Straggler, eh? Report and be treated like a dog, or be listed as a deserter.

“Have a drink, Then think it over,” said Welch.

Fultz gulped the proffered dram and lurched to the pallet. The floor and the walls swirled; he pitched forward and was dead to the world.

WHEN he wakened Welch was shaking him; there was a smell of food in the air. He had slept the day through, and a smoky candle filled the room with wavering shadows. As he ate, ravenously, Fultz saw a man squatting at one side, a Mexican in peaked hat, serape over his shoulder. Welch pointed to the figure.

“This is Pedro; speaks good English. He’ll guide us and pass me along to Santy Any. If you aim to face the music at Saltillo, you can turn off when daylight comes. Make up your mind as we go. The main roads ain’t safe to use.”

Fultz made no objections. Presently he followed the other two outside; horses awaited them here. They mounted and were off.

“Mucho fandango tomorrow!” said the Mexican gayly. “Everybody run away!”

“There’ll be hell in these parts when Santy Any breaks through, and Old Zach’s outfit is leggin’ it from the lancers!” Welch agreed. The border was three hundred miles north. Anybody bottled up in Saltillo was done for, when Santa Ana and his twenty thousand hit them. Taylor had less than a quarter that many.

The mule trail twisted and turned among the brooding hills, plunged into sandy arroyos, passed the huts of goat ranches, and once went through a small village. Never a human being was sighted or heard; even the coyotes were silent tonight. All the land lay swept by the plague of fear— war, free-riding bandits, guerilla lancers, fugitives.

Occasionally the trail cut or merged with others, but Pedro kept steadily forward like a hound on the scent. Dan Welch lifted his voice from time to time at Fultz.

“Pushing wagons or working like nigger slaves or digging latrines, that’s for you pet volunteers! I’ll be living like a lord after you’ve rotted for a striped rag. If you’re fool enough to go to Saltillo, you can dance to one tune and I’ll take the other.”

“I ain’t craving to desert,” Fultz objected. “It don’t look so bad as it did, but all the same it ain’t right. I wouldn’t mind so much reporting I was drunk and takin’ my medicine for it. But that ain’t all. Things have piled up terrible. Now it’s straggling, and sassing the general.”

“And they’re sure as hell laying to
make an example of you,” said Welch wickedly. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they gave you a good whipping, a flogging like in the British army. Anyhow, you’d be better off on the Mex side. These Mexicans are terrible fighters. They don’t think anything of sticking a knife in your guts to see you squirm.”

“Well, I ain’t deserting, I guess,” Fultz rejoined. “Not that it’s so bad, maybe, but it just don’t seem right to me. I dunno what to do.”

Midnight came and passed. The trail was winding through a broken canon with sudden turns. Pedro, heading them, had broken into lilting song, a pleasant tune wherein one word, “segundo,“ was repeated over and over.

“What’s that saygoondo you’re singing about, hombre?” spoke up Fultz. Pedro half turned in the saddle, with his gay laugh.

“I sing of mucho fandango, amigo! El segundo, that is what you call ‘cousin.’ My cousin is a bad man. He will maybe soon die.”

He went on singing. By the broadening of the starry horizon ahead, the canon was about to end; the last of its craggy uplifts waited on the left. Just beyond, Pedro slackened pace and stooped to fumble at his saddle-girth, still singing.

Fultz heard a swish in the air. A whipping lash clapped down over his shoulders. As it drew taut, he was violently plucked out of the saddle. A cry of startled alarm escaped him. Then the shock of the fall, a flash of red, and he was whirling in a black void.

HE wakened once more to the voice of Welch and to water being poured down his throat. Gasping, strangling, he managed to sit up. His face was wet, his head and shoulders ached.

“Damned near busted your neck,” said Welch. “Sit tight.”

Fultz obeyed. The air had lightened with pale dawn; he was in a rock-edged hollow. Standing horses, a dozen squatting men enveloped in serapes, eyes fixed intently upon him, carbines at hand, cigarettes aglow. The coiled ropes on the saddles caught his attention and roused his anger.

“I got a lasso thrown on me,” he blurted out. “Who did that?”

“No trick of mine,” Welch spat nervously. “You were second in line. That’s what the song meant— segundo is second.”

“Yes, yes,” it was Pedro who spoke, smilingly. “I am captain of these men. I did not want mistakes made.”

“Bandits, hey?” snapped Fultz angrily. “You brought us into a gang of bandits!”

“No, Mexicans. You will not go to Saltillo. You will help Mexico instead of fighting her; your shoes to one, your pantaloons to another, your coat, your shirt. Your body to the birds of Mexico.”

“Murder, is that it?” cried Fultz. “How about Welch here?”

“He goes to join the brave Americanos with Santa Ana.”

“So will Fultz, here,” spoke out Welch hastily. “Sure he will! He ain’t heading for Saltillo to get a lance in his guts when Santy Any comes. Not when he can go along with us to a place where men are fair treated.”

“It is for him to say,” said Pedro smoothly. “Well, amigo?”

Fultz choked upon a rush of stinging gall. Go over? He had no choice. Here was death. Behind lay the Old Hoss, the high-talking captain, the volunteer officers on the strut, and a charge of straggling. Ahead was safety.

“I’ll go over, sure,” he said. Welch let out a whoop.

“That’s the lad! And you can thank me for saving your hide. They’d have put a knife into you if I hadn’t said you were for the same place I am. It’s all right, Pedro.”

“Santa Ana and liberty!” exclaimed Pedro, and spoke with his men. They flung at Fultz black looks and curses, flashing grins and friendly words; a mixed lot.

Food was brought forth; sun-dried beef and hard, coarse bread-cakes. Then to horse and away.

Where Santa Ana’s army was, Washington Fultz did not know, but Pedro evidently did. Their trail took them over high, tinted desert country, guarded by bleak and purple-shadowed mountains. A region abandoned by day as by night.

“You knew I was riding into a lasso, blast you!” said Fultz to Welch. The latter winked and nodded.

“For your own sake, partner. Saltillo wouldn’t do for you; I don’t want any man squealing on me. We ain’t going to fight our own folks, remember; that’s the promise. I was in the ranks at Monterey when the Old Hoss took it and the Mexicans marched out. There was Riley himself riding on a gun carriage; and the things our boys said for his ears were no fare-ye-well; they were as bad as stripes to him, by the way he looked. Dan Welch wants none o’ that, to his face or behind his back.”

“Who’s Riley?”

“Cap’n of the Saint Patricks. Used to be sargint in the Third Infantry. It’s him we sarve under ahead; he’ll welcome us, you bet. You’re not sorry?”

“Glad,” said Fultz, and meant the words. “Glad to be rid of the whole mess and in for a new game, so long as we’re not to fight the boys we marched with.”

The irregulars bore steadily on, rested at noon, rode again through the afternoon. Saltillo was not sighted. Mountains bulwarked the west and shortened the course of the sun; the trail veered westward, traversing slopes of buff and purple rocks.

In the twilight Fultz rounded a spur, and saw a great dust ahead; the trail rolled out upon a windy desert valley, lowing from the southern base of a bare plateau. Here the plain was dotted with scores of desert palms, and peopled with an army— infantry, cavalry, artillery, just making camp. The twenty thousand of Santa Ana’s host! Fultz felt his heart thumping in his ears as he looked.

“Here they are and here we be!” sang out Welch exultantly. “Here’s the side to be on! These lads will swaller old Taylor at one chaw, and Bragg to boot. Now to find Riley, and we’re all set.”

EASILY done, and before darkness fell. A red-faced man in the shabby red and yellow trappings of a Mexican artillery captain; hard stubbled phiz, an over-bold stare in his gray eyes, challenge in look and voice. Such was Captain Tom Riley of the San Patricio battalion.

"A volunteer, is it, along with a regular? That’s good!” said he, viewing the pair with satisfaction. “When you eased off with a little liberty, they put the screws on you, eh? Well, you’ve come over just in time, lads.”

“Looks so,” admitted Fultz. “Going to be a battle?”

“Mucho fandango, you bet,” said Riley, vengefully. “You two will be put in uniform and assigned, immediately. We’ve lots o’ clothes, stripped off hombres who dropped on the way. You’ll help sarve the eighteen-pounders.”

Another man came up with news, joyously vindictive. Fultz caught snatches of the talk. Taylor with four thousand men, all his infantry green volunteers. And only ten miles away, at the north end of the pass through the ridge yonder!

“We’ve had a hell of a march, up from San Luis Potosi through frozen country, but here we are,” said Captain Riley. “And next thing the Old Hoss knows, we’ll be into him at daylight, our lancers will cut him off from Saltillo, and he’s in the bag.”

As the light waned the breeze increased, until the valley was swept by half a gale, stinging cold. There were no fires. Only officers had tents. In his new cotton uniform, Fultz shivered, and his teeth chattered as he huddled with his comrades of the Saint Patrick battalion.

Deserters all. Irish, German, Polish, Swedish, riffraff for hire, and not one born under the flag they had deserted. Some, like Welch and Riley, had served under the flags of other countries, but voiced allegiance to none. Fultz sensed a bitter bravado in the talk, as they huddled and smoked. Brag as to how they had come it over officers and guards; a constant resentment at the report that Taylor would not have them back.

Not even worth a drumhead trial and a firing squad, eh? They’d show him! To hell with a service that didn’t value smart men, and hooray for one that did!

Some of them had marched out of Monterey with Riley, in Mexican ranks, amid catcalls from the American ranks. Well, it would be another story tomorrow! Old Zach on the run, with money, wine and girls for the taking in Saltillo. Twenty thousand crack infantry, lancers, hussars. And old Taylor, sitting there in the pass with four thousand recruits who had never heard a shot fired!

The terrific wind tore through the valley as if blowing off a field of ice. Spooned together in the lee of parked gun carriages, the battalion tried to sleep. Fultz wakened, chilled to the bone, at the sound of cheers. A lurid light came from down the valley, where Mexicans had set fire to the palms.

“That’s hell in a blaze, and ag’in orders, too,” said somebody. “But like the rest of us, them poor devils ain’t been warm for a week at a stretch.”

Fultz dozed, and wakened again, this time to the tramp of stumbling feet. A dark column was marching, with rhythmic clink of equipment, for the pass. Night still hung over the valley, but the forward movement had begun.

After an interminable time, the sky paled, the vast camp stirred, the men were roused by voice and touch. The day’s rations were passed about by a detail, and poor enough they were— a finger of dried beef, two biscuits, a hunk of sugar loaf. Fultz heard Dan Welch cursing the rations as the battery was hooked up to the stiffened horses.

On the move now, the army in columns breasting through the cold gray. It was still early dawn, under an ominously heavy sky, when the caissons, the eighteens and twenty-fours, rumbled into the pass. It was long and narrow, reeking with the scent of sweat, choking with dust. The sun had risen above the misted mountains when the battalion filed out of the pass to surprise the Americans; but the hearty curses of Captain Riley, riding in the lead, heralded the news.

Smoke from a clutter of ruins, but never an American uniform in sight.

“Stole away, the old fox!” rasped Welch. Fultz turned to hear a ripple of cheers roll up. A bevy of glittering officers galloped along the column; there went General Santa Ana and his staff.

The column pressed on and on, the valley open to their march, mile after mile. It was ten miles farther when the rutted road rose to a low pass. The battery toiled on and over. Ahead, in the valley, the vanguard had halted. The fox was run to earth. The battery closed in with new eagerness, and the main column quickened pace.

To the straining gaze of Washington Fultz, it was a proper army. Hardy troops, eager despite a desert march of close on three hundred miles. Foot regiments of green and red, blue and white, blue and red; artillery, red and yellow, blue and red; cavalry, yellow and blue, red and green, guidons and lance pennons fluttering, knots of officers with their glasses leveled. A mile away, the winding valley was pinched between barren slopes, fluted with ravines and ridges, backed by gaunt mountains.

There, untried volunteers for the most part, and an old codger in a straw hat and farmer coat brought to bay. Fultz felt another heart-leap at memory of the rugged face and the keen eyes of that man in the Game Cock. It didn’t seem a fair game; lucky he was out of it, and not called upon to fight his own people.

Signs of life, yonder; moving dots among the ridges, glint of musket barrel, glint of brass cannon, glint of red and white and blue. Captain Riley cursed afresh.

“That’s the Narrows— La Angostura. I’ve seen the map. Six miles farther, lads, to Saltillo and liquor and girls! A rancho called Buena Vista in between, at the end of that gorge. Nothing to stop us now.”

“Except Old Zach,” said Dan Welch, with a sneer. “And damn well posted, too. Cavalry no good yonder. Heavy guns no good off the level. Light artillery and infantry work, and the Old Hoss knows it.”

“You’ll see when we open up with these guns, my lad.”

“Hey! We’re going to shoot into our own folks!” cried out Fultz in dismay. “Welch said we’d not do that. Said it was promised us.”

Riley gave him a savage look. “You’ll work a gun by orders, or I’ll spread- eagle you to a spare wheel. Hurray! Here we go at last!”

“All I want is a chance at that damned Bragg,” growled Welch. Washington Fultz swallowed hard, watched, gulped.

BUGLES sounded. A column of infantry were off on that trot for the slopes on the right. They filed into ravines, vanished, emerged, always a little higher. Smoke-puffs broke out. A countering column of blue and gray climbed another ridge to meet them. Gunfire came echoing along the valley; heavy reports of muskets, sharply ringing cracks of rifles. Gradually it was all lost to sight.

Dots along the ridges, smoke-puffs, on through the afternoon and into the twilight; nothing else. In here the sun set early. A howitzer shell from a Mexican battery burst between the two armies. The Mexican troops were cheering their victory, as they deemed it. A regimental band blared out, the gorgeous figure of Santa Ana rode along the lines with shouted words.

“Sure and why not?” said an Irish voice, somewhere near Fultz. “Rations of music and a speech, by reason of it’s being Washington’s birthday!”

A spasm of queer regrets seized upon Fultz; the words woke something in him.

“For a round o’ bully beef and hardtack,” swore Welch, “I’d even drink Bragg’s health, with my fingers crossed!”

Washington’s birthday, in this year of 1847; Fultz found himself cursing the whole blasted mess he was in. The gloom deepened. Another gale, with gusts of cold rain, whipped the camp. The battery stayed in position, the men huddling low in their thin uniforms. The baggage was in the rear. All the army stayed in position, braving out the night, warmed only by the assurance of victory on the morrow.

Up yonder twinkled a few red dots where another army, that had found fuel, also braved out the night. Fultz was oppressed, heartsick— not with the cold or hunger, but because those few men up yonder would be wiped out on the morrow. After all, damn it, he was one of them! Americans with their backs to the wall, and he would be in the firing squad that faced them.

A scant four thousand of them, under a plain old codger dressed like a farmer going to town— farmhands, most of them. Damn it, he was a farmhand too.

And there were the colors. A man’s country was where the colors were, and no thanks asked for, no belly-aching grudge to be reckoned.

Fultz stirred, moved, stole away. This accursed San Patricio outfit! Americans? Not a one of them. A battalion of no country, no colors. Outlaws, hirelings, shedding one uniform for another and firing on the old one. And Washington Fultz of Illinois had sunk to this level, because he was afraid to report in as a straggler! To hell with all this.

A figure uprose before him suddenly, and he halted.

“So you’re off, are you?” said Welch in a low voice. Fultz bristled.

“Yes, and be damned to you!” he growled. “You aiming to stop me?”

“No. You’re a blasted fool; there won’t be a man alive yonder tomorrow night. But I’d give my soul to be going with you.”

Fultz caught his breath, as he peered at the dim figure.

“You— what? You mean it? By God, then come along! The both of us—”

“Not me,” said Welch. “I’m a regular; that’s different. I ain’t got the guts. You were drunk and scared; they’ll take you back. Won’t matter— you’ll all be wiped out with morning. Tell Bragg for me I hope to see him in hell; that’s the only place I’ll serve with him. Oh, be damned to you, and get along! There’ll be many a good man dead tomorrow, and it may be heads down for Danny Welch— get along, get along, you fool!”

Dan Welch turned and was gone into the darkness, with a choked voice, like a damned soul. Tomorrow he would be firing into his old mates, despite all promises.

Fultz went on his way. Determined now, he was alert, cautious, stubborn. He found no trouble in passing through the camp; he was suddenly joyous, buoyed up by a great happiness, as though a tremendous weight had fallen from him. A fool? No doubt of it, and dead tomorrow with the rest. But better to be dead with them than alive with these yellow curs.

No one bothered him. On every hand men were moving to and fro, stamping their feet, threshing their arms, stung by the wind and sleety rain. Almost before he knew it, he was through the blinded guards, and beyond the line. Out there advanced pickets were scattered about, but the glow of cigarettes betrayed the nearest, and Fultz slipped past easily.

He had a blundering mile to go. And what then? What greeting for a Mexican uniform, and for the deserter in it? Well, no great matter; everybody would be dead by tomorrow night.

Clouds blackened the low sky. Fultz kept off the road and stumbled along over the rough ground between road and creek. Then, so suddenly that it terrified him, he was right into a cleverly posted picket. The quick hail was round American:

“Halt! Who goes there?” It halted him, startled him; for an instant he crouched in panic. The voice came again: “Answer or I’ll blow hell out of you!”

“No! Don’t shoot!” he chattered. “Washington— Washington Fultz. I’m coming in. Don’t shoot!”

“Advance and gimme a look at you.”

Fultz stumbled on. A match flared; the peering eyes of the holder briefly shone, like those of an animal. A voice of alarm leaped up, as the match died.

“A greaser spy with the countersign! Here, boys, over here! A spy! Get him!”

Fultz ducked, sidestepped, and ran for it in swift terror. A gun banged out and the ball whistled past; other guns split the darkness. Pausing, he heard the picket cry out in explanation.

“He gave the countersign— Washington. Said his name was Fultz. A smart dodge! Then I saw his uniform. He’s legged it.”

Fultz went on, blindly. The countersign? Washington’s birthday, of course; his own name had fooled the picket.

The Mexican patrols up the valley were startled, were calling out and firing, blazing away at random. Both sides were nervous, alert for every sound. Hastening on, Fultz blundered off to the left. The western slopes had been less thickly invested than the others; they were steep and deeply cut, a defense in themselves.

Over here where he climbed and slipped, the gusts of rain were less severe. The beacon campfires to the northeast gradually flickered out; the valley below lay black and silent. After a time he could go no farther, and gave up the attempt. He crouched where he was, on a small shelf somewhat shielded from the wind. Thus protected from wind and rain, hugging the warm earth, he presently relaxed in grateful slumber.

A DISTANT thunder clap echoed from mountain to mountain, and then another. Fultz came wide awake and started up, dazed to find that the full day had come. Again a cannon shot, reverberating along the peaks, followed by a rattle of muskets and rifles. He gained a vantage point and stared.

The battle had opened. The ridges were hazed by powder smoke; watching, Fultz dimly realized that the Mexicans must have turned the American flank. Up there, cannon replied to cannon. Shells burst above the red and green column on the ridge, the column disintegrated and broke for cover. American shells burst above the ravines.

Now, in the south, bugles shrilled out; it was reveille, the sun was about to rise. Fultz looked down, and his jaw fell. Troops in blue, in the occasional gray of home boys, were filing to positions on the fluted slopes. Regimental flags streamed in the light breeze. A battle, then, a real battle! The brass of cannon, the red stripings of artillerymen shone in the brightening light. One battery in on this west side of the road, another in the road, other batteries farther to the east. And now Santa Ana was coming, a howitzer boomed the signal. The columns were there, three divisions, one in the road and two east of it.

Three dense lines, all the hues of the rainbow, lance tips sparkling, pennons fluttering, bands playing, legs rising and falling in cadence, cavalry squadrons massed like the squares of a checker board. American cheers floated across from those eastern slopes. Fultz heard, and gulped.

What was happening? Impossible to see under the drift of smoke, movements too fast to discern. A series of mêlées by detachments, snifting here and there, the Mexican troops pressing in on the American left, small columns of blue and gray running over the ridges, volleying, advancing, holding ground—

Retreat, by heavens! A regiment in gray broke back and ran helter skelter through ravines to the road, and kept going down the road in a frenzied mass-. Not Illinois, thank the Lord! Some other flag. The Mexican lines were rushing forward. A battery of three guns fronted them— three guns against a thousand muskets at scorching range. The cannoneers stood, worked like mad; the spurting guns smashed wide lanes through the enemy masses. But those Mexicans came on. The battery horses were down, the men were dragging back the pieces by ropes, firing again— oh! They got away with two guns. And here were lancers.

Lancers in column, hot after the broken regiment. The riders took the wounded in stride, scarcely pausing as they jabbed down with their long points. And the artillery wheeling, dashing, pausing to spout fire and thunder, dashing again!

Almost unconscious of his own actions, Fultz had left his shelter and was running, advancing. Here on this side of the narrow valley was no fighting. So far as he could see, the day was lost. To his frantic eyes, the blue and gray were hemmed in by smoke, the center of the enemy was driving through. He had known it must happen, and now it was happening— and over there, with those colors, was the place for Washington Fultz of Illinois.

Before he knew it, he had reached the road. A wounded volunteer was firing. Then another. The balls whistled past him. His uniform! These were no clothes to die in. The road was slashed across with dry washes. He went diving into one, crawled on, was making a zigzag way from cover to cover, when a thudding clatter of hooves flattened him by its warning. Lancers, here, a roving squad of them. A lance-point glittered and drove at him, was jerked aside just in time. With a wide grin on his swarthy visage, the lancer trotted on and was gone.

This damned uniform! It changed friends to foes, foes to friends. It shamed him, where men of his own kind were fighting and dying. He went on, and came to abrupt and startled halt.

On the lower ground and down the road, a tremendous column of lancers were moving forward. Fifteen hundred of them, colored by companies and squadrons; gray horses, blacks, roans and bays, in masses of glowing uniform- hues, lance points jogging, every horse in step. They were making for a line in gray and in red and white— red shirts, white trousers. The line deployed, an opening V.

The gay column trotted on, slackened as though puzzled— then rifles gushed out smoke in a crackling fire. The head of the column shriveled like paper in a flame. The men in gray came running in with bayonets; those in red shirts leaped with bowie knives slashing, parried the lances, seized the bridles of rearing horses—clinging, thrusting, slashing, until the remnants of the lancer column wheeled and went tearing away for safety down a sheltered side ravine.

“Hurray for Mississippi!” Fultz found himself yelling unheard. Colonel Jeff Davis and his men, in the red coats; those in gray, from Indiana. Mad exultation seized on him. Cannon still bellowed here and there, and now were dominated by a heavier bass roar that shook the ground. The heavy guns of the San Patricio battalion. Riley was in action!

And, by the smoke, there were the guns, posted on a ridge and vomiting shell and canister into the ranks ahead. The devils! Fultz shook his fist at them, cursed them, whirled about at a deafening, rending smash. A thunderbolt ripping down, another tremendous crepitation, then a sweeping blast of rain that deluged the valley and doused the battle to a lull.

FULTZ went running forward, was across the creek and stumbled. A dead soldier all asprawl, a blue jacket— here was a prize! He flung away his cotton blouse and jacket, stripped off the blue coat and donned it. He buckled on the cartridge belt and picked up the musket that lay close by. Bare-headed, in blue coat and faded Mexican blue cotton pantaloons, he ran on.

The sun shone again. The struggle was not over. Cannon were again roaring away. Fultz staggered on weak legs. He saw a terrible thing; a battery section of two guns opposing the inrush of a column. A huge column; Santa Ana was making his final and most determined try for victory. The battery was unsupported. The enemy came on and on, flooded in and around the two guns, had them. Here was the spearhead thrusting straight through the American center.

No! Another battery section, with tired horses at a stagger, came over the ridge and whirled into action front. Fultz was running toward them; he was
there, on the spot, with the guns, everything dose before his eyes. Three blackened guns, a handful of men, the sweated red face of the stocky captain in blue and artillery red— a face he had seen before. The face of the florid man whom Dan Welch hated. Bragg, that was it!

Before the waiting muzzles, the boil of fierce dark faces surmounting the ridge, the steady onrush of the Mexican ranks, their bayonets flash. Bragg turned and bellowed at the figure standing idle. Fultz knew the words were for him.

“Here, you, get to work! Pass ammunition. By Gawd, I asked support and there’s none! This is a fight.”

Fultz dropped his rifle, and fell frantically to work with the other men. His gaze cleared. Suddenly he saw another face he knew, heard another remembered voice.

“Major Bliss and I will support you, Captain. I’ve nobody else to send.”

The old codger in the brownish coat, by heaven! Fultz gaped. He was sitting his nag sideways, with a tall major beside him. Now he spoke again, more briskly.

“Stop those fellows, Captain Bragg, and the day’s won. It’s the last try. Double shot your guns and give ’em hell!”

Musketry crashed out in ragged volleys. Lead whistled; the guns belched. Fultz worked like a madman, running to and fro with ammunition, doing whatever was ordered. The smoke choked him; he could see nothing, but he was in the fight and a fierce joy burned and blazed in him. In the fight and where he belonged, live or die!

What happened, he had not the least idea, but there came an ease in the tension. The deafening bellows had ceased, orders had ceased; cheers were ringing up, to right and left. American infantry were there, moving rapidly. A final crashing round from the guns sent the Mexican ranks back, sheeted with smoke and crimson spatters. The bugles  sounded recall— for the last time.

And now, to Fultz, there seemed to be an uncanny stillness. Sweating, panting, gasping in his dry throat, he found a horse beside him, and looked up to the gray eyes of the old codger in tattered brownish coat; the eyes were fastened upon him. He saw the mahogany face take on a quizzical squint, and heard the mild words.

“Hello! So you didn’t like it over there, my man?”

He could say nothing. He could not move or speak. He realized that Bragg had wheeled his guns again. The heavy pieces of the San Patricio battalion were booming cruelly, but the little six- pounders were served like mad. They spoke and spoke, covered men and guns with rapid bursts, showered them with canister, silenced them. The old man on the horse caught Bragg’s attention and spoke to him.

“Never, mind them, Captain; let them get their guns out and go.” He swung around and stooped over a little, and touched Fultz on the shoulder.

“Find your Second Illinois— was that it? Now you’re here, you’d better stay. Verbum sap,— a word to the wise, my man. Go change your pants— and don’t damn my advice this time.”

He was gone, his horse moving on. Fultz stood with a lump in his throat, then glanced down at the cotton pantaloons. They had betrayed him to that shrewd eye; but his own actions here had betrayed what was inside of him, also.

Fultz looked out across the valley. The San Patricio battalion had limbered up and was moving away with the broken Mexican detachments. The sun was setting. There went the deserters, and Dan Welch, poor devil! And here, with the colors, was Washington Fultz.

“And I’d better find me a pair of pants quick,” muttered Fultz. “Mucho fandango, huh ? You were damned right about that, Dan Welch— but we’re the ones doing the dancing this night!”

________________

Table of Contents

- 1: The Disappearance of the Duke / Vernon Ralston

- 2: Nerves / Fred M. White
- 3: The Black Spine / Anonymous
- 4: The Heralds of Fame / Robert Barr
- 5: Falling Downstairs / Ethel Lina White
- 6: Jim Dickinson's Head / Harold Ward

- 7: The Valley Where Dead Men Live / Harold Ward

- Unnamed

- 9: Told in Glass / C. S. Montanye

- 10: A Brother of the Leopard / William J. Makin

- 11: Khyada / Georges Surdez

- 12: Bogus Gems / Gordon Young

- 13: The House Of The Seven Heads / A. Schade Van Westrum

- 14: Following The Sea / Ambrose Bierce

- 15: The Trammel Fork Pearls / Raymond S. Spears

- 16: Clean Sweep / Roger Torrey

- 17: Much Fandango / H. Bedford-Jones