Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: A mix of yarns by authors whose work is in the Life+70 public domain. I have included the legendary story "Rip Van Winkle", which everybody knows about, having just read it for the first time. There is another rare short story by Australian poet C J Dennis; hard-boiled by Roger Torrey, some classic detective shorts, and so on. 1: West India Lights / Henry S. Whitehead 2: No Eye-Witnesses / Henry S. Whitehead 3: The Strike at Too Dry / Willis Brindley 4: The Greenstone Graves / "Waif Wander" 5: While Jerry was Away / C. J. Dennis 6: Fra Benedetto's Medal / Grant Allen 7: A Lemon Tree / "Ouida"

PAST MASTERS 102

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.

21 October 2022

Contents

1: West India Lights / Henry S. Whitehead

2: No Eye-Witnesses / Henry S. Whitehead

3: The Strike at Too Dry / Willis Brindley

4: The Greenstone Graves / "Waif Wander"

5: While Jerry was Away / C. J. Dennis

6: Fra Benedetto's Medal / Grant Allen

7: A Lemon Tree / "Ouida"

8: The Green Bowl / Sarah Orne Jewett

9: A Regent of Love Rhymes / Guy Thorne

10: Sailors' Luck / Austin Philips

11: Four o'Clock in the Morning / Hulbert Footner

12: Mansion of Death / Roger Torrey

13: The Phantom of Castle Ballyran / Anonymous

14: The Flying Skull / J. Allan Dunn

15: Rip Van Winkle / Washington Irving

16: The Pearls of Parlay / Jack London

17: The Death of Kalu's Hand / Cyril Etheridge

18: Dance Without Music / Peter Cheyney

_____________

1: West India Lights

Henry S. Whitehead

1882-1932

Mystery Magazine April 1927

A Gerald Canevin story. Whitehead, an American Episcopal priest, became Deacon of the church in the newly acquired American Virgin islands, which had been purchased from Denmark in 1917 and had previously been the Danish West Indies.  Whitehead wrote numerous uncanny stories set in the islands, often with Canevin as narrator. One of his most famous stories is "Jumbee".

I HAD ENGAGED Melbourne House, a fine old mansion on the hill back of Fredericksted on the West India Island of Santa Cruz, for the winter. And I found when I arrived one November day that I was to have one more room at my disposal than I had bargained for. This was, really, an end of the second-floor passageway, which had been made into a room by a slat-partition.

My landlady, Old Mistress James Desmond, had had moved out certain articles of decrepit furniture for the housing of which I had agreed to give up the use of that 'room', which looked like an old-fashioned wine-closet.

I bestowed my trunks and packing cases on its floor and had Esmerelda, my coal-black servant, clear off the shelves for hand-luggage and odds and ends.

In order to do so Esmerelda had to move several discarded belongings which had been left there, and among these was a large, old-fashioned picture in a heavy wooden frame which had escaped the ravages of wood-worms for countless decades. I noticed the old picture when I was bestowing some of my own odds and ends near where it stood, and carried it into my workroom to have a look at it.

At first I had thought it was a chromo. But this was no chromo, olio, nor anything mechanically produced. It was paint.

I looked at it closely, with interest. The composition was amateurish. The coloring was too faded with the dimness of years for me to make much of it.

I carried the painting into the bathroom, made a lather and, after taking the ancient and brittle canvas out of its frame, began to clean it with soap and water. I dried it, and then used a little typewriter oil on it.

The colors began to jump out at me. The artist had been, plainly, a lover of color. My restoration accentuated the amateurishness of the thing, but I forgave the artist much because of the subject he— or she— had chosen.

My imaginary young lady in her flowered muslin dress of a century ago had chosen to depict the execution of a pirate, and— the pirate could have been none other than Fawcett.

There could be no doubt about it whatever. That bloody villain was the only pirate that had been executed at St Thomas— except his own two mates who had paid the penalty of their murderous rascality at the same time— and this was a picture of St Thomas, painted photographically, apparently from the deck of some vessel conveniently anchored offshore.

The costumes, too, were of Fawcett's period. His execution had taken place in September, 1824, and that, too, fixed the period of the painting.

High as the colors were pitched, stilted as were the many characters, there was something convincingly lifelike about the thing. Apparently this picture had been painted from actual observation.

The colors too, on reflection, were not so much exaggerated. Did not one do well here to wear smoked glasses in the middle of the day? Was not the glowing indigo of the Caribbean incredible— the scarlet of the hibiscus painful to the unaccustomed eye?

I fastened up the canvas with carpet tacks on the wall of my workroom where it would catch the north light. I began at its upper corners, pressing tacks along its upper edge, and then, pulling it down flat, inserted others along the lower edge and up the sides.

The last tack went through the arm of one of Fawcett's lieutenants, just where he had hurtled through the air at the end of his rope over at the extreme lefthand of the picture. A little, trailing 'C. L.' was the signature.

That afternoon at Estate Montparnasse, where I had been invited hospitably for tea, I told my kind hosts, the Maclanes, about my find. And I made it an excuse— though none was needed— to ask them to drive in for tea with me the following afternoon.

When they saw it I think it made the same impression on them that it had upon me, at first. I imagine that only their impeccable courtesy prevented their telling me that I had been gloating over something very like a chromo!

It was Miss Gertrude Maclane who first began to get the real charm of it. I noticed her leaning close and examining it very carefully.

Suddenly, as I talked with Mr and Mrs Maclane, there came from Miss Gertrude a little, smothered cry— an exclamation almost like a sigh— but so poignant, though subdued, that her mother turned quickly toward her on hearing it. We both stepped toward her.

'What is it, Miss Gertrude?' I inquired.

'What is it, my dear?' echoed her mother.

'It's this poor creature,' replied Miss Gertrude Maclane, indicating the fellow whose arm I had transfixed.

'Why— he's in agony! It's dreadful, I think! It's wonderfully done. It quite startled me, in fact. The little figures are wonderfully done, if you look at them closely. I think they must— some of them, anyhow— be portraits, just as you said yesterday, Mr Canevin. This one, certainly, is almost uncanny.'

We all looked at the dangling fellow. I had not seen him since yesterday. Curious! He was not, as I had supposed, dangling. He was hurtling through the air; had not quite reached the end of that fatal fall from the drop where stood the hangman, a terrible, fierce fellow.

No— the rope was not yet wholly taut. That knot of seven turns had not broken the poor devil's neck. He was as alive as any of the spectators.

But it was not this new interpretation of the artist's skill, not the look of tortured horror, which had so moved Miss Gertrude. No!

What caused me to close my eyes in a spasmodic, futile effort to shut out a deeper horror, caused me to lean heavily against the table, fighting to retain some measure of my composure, was the fact that the man's expression had changed since yesterday. Now out of his horror-shot, protruding, agonized eyes came straight at me a look of strange reproachfulness.

And down his little, painted arm, from the place where I had driven the carpet tack through it, were running little drops of bright red blood . . .

I opened my eyes and turned to my guests. I had pulled myself together with an effort which was like a wrench. I bowed to Mrs Maclane.

'Shall we go down for tea?' I inquired.

Miss Gertrude lingered behind after the rest had passed out of the room. She took my arm and I could feel her slim white hand trembling.

'I think it is very dreadful, somehow, that picture,' she whispered confidingly, 'but oh, Mr Canevin, it's fascinating. I wonder if "C. L." really was a girl. Perhaps we can find out!'

'We'll see what can be done,' I replied with an attempt at lightness, and she smiled up at me most charmingly in a way she has. A lively young girl is Miss Gertrude Maclane, daughter of Old Scottish Gentry-Planters, people who had come to the island in the old days.

When the Maclanes had gone after tea, I went upstairs and pulled out that tack. I will admit that I almost expected to see fresh blood flow from the wound. Nothing of the sort happened, of course.

I looked closely at the place. Red paint, put on a hundred years ago. The reproachful expression I had imagined was, too, wholly absent from the man's face. I was looking at the picture now by electric light.

The marked differences in light-effects that we get in the West Indies might well be expected to play queer optical tricks. They are a land of imagination, the islands. Some of the original crudity, too, seemed, somehow, to have got back into the picture.

After breakfast the next morning I went straight in to the picture. In this clear, raw, morning light there remained only that look of apprehension which the artist had painted in.

No agony. Certainly no reproach. Queer tricks, strange illusions, those begotten of our tropical sun!

I examined the tiny hole left by the carpet tack under a magnifying glass. The 'bloodstains' of my aroused imagination of yesterday were stains of century-old, brittle paint— probably a slip of the brush just after touching-in those flamboyant trees or a scarlet head-turban or so— mere little meaningless, incidental dabs they were, and nothing more that I was able to discover.

That afternoon I called upon old Mrs Desmond, who owns Melbourne House. She is a little, faded lady of the Old Irish Gentry; of a family which has been in the West Indies since early in the eighteenth century.

She was dressed, as usual, in hot-looking black silk, with a little lace around the edges. There is about her a penumbra of veils and a suggestion of quaint, leather reticules. She has, too, that dead-white, colorless complexion of the West Indian Caucasian lady who has spent the bulk of a long lifetime avoiding the direct rays of the sun.

I told Mrs Desmond about finding the picture, and our curiosity about the identity of the artist. She smiled at me kindly, rocking herself back and forth in an enormous Copenhagen mahogany rocking-chair the while, and fanning herself with a regularity which suggested doom.

'It was painted by my aunt, Mr Canevin,' said Mrs Desmond, 'who was Camilla Lanigan, my mother's elder sister. She died before I was born, about 1841— I'll not be positive. 'Tis said she was a remarkable woman in her day, and if you'll wait till I'm dead and gone, I'll tell you what's known about her.'

'With pleasure, Mistress Desmond, and may that day be a long way off; as long as you care to have it yourself!'

'What I can tell you is indeed no credit to the Lanigans and their gentry, you'll understand,' continued Mrs Desmond. 'She was of a very inquiring disposition and I dare say she learned much that she would have done better to leave alone— about the doings of the blacks and all! My grandfather, Cornelius Lanigan that was, and her father, was a gentleman-merchant there in St Thomas.

'It was from St Thomas that James Desmond took me when we were married to live here on Santa Cruz, and I no more than a child of eighteen, Mr Canevin. It was in 'sixty-four I was married, and all I know of my Aunt Camilla Lanigan I learned from the sayings of my mother before that year when I was a girl at home.

'There was little she did not know about the Obeah of the black people, so 'tis said— nor, indeed, of the voodoo as well, belike! Their mother being long dead and my own mother the younger of the two sisters, there was no one to stop my Aunt Camilla from doing much as she liked. The black people held her in great respect, so 'twas said.

'As to the picture itself, I can tell you but little about it. It was in the house when I was born, in 'forty-six that was, and my mother had a great dislike for it. 'Twas I who would be taking it out of an old dust-box where it was kept, now and again, and frightening myself, as a child would, with the queer little figures and the hanging!

'When I was married I begged for it, and I think my mother was glad to be rid of it, for the memory of my Aunt Camilla was still in the house there in St Thomas.

'James Desmond, my husband, would never allow it to be hung on the wall, saying that it was indelicate of a lady to have painted such a scene. And I believe he was in the right of it, Mr Canevin, with all respect to my Aunt Camilla!'

I thanked the dear old lady for her information as I bowed over her withered hand at parting. Her last remark was cryptic and somewhat startling: ' 'Twas more than paint, belike, went into the composition of that picture, Mr Canevin!'

I called up Miss Gertrude as soon as I was back at Melbourne House.

'I have some information about the picture and the artist,' said I.

'Come as early as you can manage it,' said Miss Gertrude, and after dinner I started.

'Oh, Mr Canevin,' said she eagerly, when I had recounted what Mrs Desmond had told me. 'How I wish I might see it again now at once!'

'I had anticipated that,' said I. 'It lies on the table in the entryway.'

We laid it out on the mahogany centre-table and looked down at it together in silence. At last Miss Gertrude spoke.

'What do you see now in his expression, Mr Canevin?'

I did not need inquire in whose expression.

A baffling, elusive change appeared to have taken place now that we were looking down at him under the electric light.

'Expectation,' said I slowly.

I hesitated. It was not quite expectation. Interest? Not quite that, either. I pondered the matter, the bizarre whimsicality of it making its natural appeal to my mind the while.

'Hope!' I cried at last. 'And, coming through the hope, a wish!'

'Yes, yes!' cried Miss Gertrude, clasping her hands excitedly. 'It— it seemed to me almost as though there were something— something he wanted to tell us!'

She hurried over these hesitating words and, now that they were spoken, there was a look of relief on her lovely face.

'Your moral courage is better than mine, Miss Gertrude,' said I. 'For that is what was really in the back of my mind. It seemed to me too— well, too preposterous to put into words.'

Her eyes glowed with an enthusiasm almost childish. She placed her hand upon my arm.

'Do you suppose we could find out what it is?'

Her voice was very low.

'We could try,' said I.

The whimsicality of the proposal had intrigued me.

'But how?' cried Miss Gertrude.

'That's what I'm puzzling my poor brains about,' I answered. 'One cannot converse with a little figure two and one-half inches high and made of paint!

'No! We cannot just talk to him— and expect him to answer. He hasn't the— the apparatus. He's only a brittle little manikin fastened down flat on some very tender old canvas. He can't speak and he can't write. But, somehow, he does seem able to change his expression.

'If there really is something in him— something besides paint, as old Mrs Desmond hinted— at least we're not meddling with that for any wicked purpose, whatever Mrs Desmond's Aunt Camilla Lanigan may have had in mind.'

'Do you remember that paralyzed old man in Monte Cristo?' inquired Miss Gertrude eagerly. 'Noirtier, de Villefort's father; you remember?'

'He was one of the friends of my childhood,' said I. 'What about him?'

'He could move only his eyes, and yet his granddaughter "talked" with him. She asked him questions that could be answered by "yes" or "no", and he closed the right eye for one and the left for the other!'

'Yes?' said I dubiously.

'Well!' said she, looking down at the picture, 'shall we try him?'

I stepped over and looked at the manikin closely.

'I'm looking to see if Mrs Desmond's Aunt Camilla gave him ears,' said I lightly. 'Apparently she put "blood" in him.'

And I proceeded to tell Miss Gertrude the incident of the carpet tack.

'We'll have to work out the questions very carefully,' said she.

I looked at her in amazement.

'Can you seriously mean it?' I asked.

'Look at him!' cried Miss Gertrude and put her hands over her eyes and sank down upon the sofa.

I stepped quickly toward her, alarmed.

'No, no!' she cried. 'I'm all right— only startled a little. Look for yourself, if you please, Mr Canevin.'

I looked, and for the life of me I could not escape the conviction that there was a wry smile on the manikin's face.

'My God!' said I, and did not apologize.

I almost hesitate to proceed.

Well, we sat down together after that and worked the thing out. The evening was before us. The rest of the family were dining with friends and would not be home before eleven.

It was plain to us that 'he' could move, although he had not done so while anyone was actually looking at him. The fact that this last 'change' had come upon his countenance in the briefest of intervals would indicate, somehow, that he could also 'hear'.

For it seemed plain to us in our eerie mood of that strange evening that the smile was one of satisfaction, induced by our conversation. He wanted us to try to talk to him!

We decided to formulate certain questions, ask them, then turn away and, after a short interval, look at the manikin again. The method of communication we derived from 'Noirtier', as the simplest possible.

Miss Gertrude asked the first question.

'We think you wish to communicate with us,' said she, in a still small voice. 'We shall ask you questions, and you are to close your right eye if the answer is "yes", and your left if it is "no". Will you answer?'

Then we sat, side by side, on the sofa, watching the great clock in the corner of the drawing-room ticking off the seconds of that minute which we had decided to allow to pass before looking at him again.

It was a long, long minute, that one! At first I felt like a fool, but that feeling dissipated itself as soon as we had, together, bent over the picture at the expiration of that first minute.

The right eye had drooped in a kind of leering half-wink— precisely as though Miss Camilla Lanigan had painted it so one hundred years ago.

After several long minutes of silence between us there on the sofa. I said: 'I'm going to ask the next question, if you don't mind.'

She nodded.

I walked over to the table. The eyes were alike again!

'Have you more than one thing to communicate?' I inquired.

I came back to the sofa again and sat down, my eyes once more on the clock.

Again we bent over the picture.

'There's a slight droop in the right eye,' said Miss Gertrude.

The manikin had answered 'yes' again.

After that, somehow, we felt freer. Two questions— the real ordeal of the thing— were over and past.

There was little feeling of strangeness from then on. It was precisely as though we were talking with some person of flesh and blood like ourselves, with someone not immediately present— as though we were talking over the telephone. It was something like that.

He had two things to communicate. We took thought now how to proceed. The eyes, alike, were always open and staring straight ahead whenever we approached with a new question. And so it continued through to the end.

I thought of a necessary question.

'Have you more than two things to communicate?' I asked.

'No,' came the answer.

'Does the first thing concern you?' I ventured.

'Yes.'

'And the second thing? Does that also concern you?'

This time, when we looked for the answer, the eyes had not moved at all so far as we could tell.

I glanced up at the electric light. Our lights not infrequently change their density, go up and down, without warning. We have only the little, local electrical plants, one in each of the towns. The light appeared even enough.

We were a little nonplused, for, although I had been telling myself subconsciously all along that the whole thing was a farce, a bit of childish play, I had come by now to expect an answer!

'Perhaps it's because we asked him an unanswerable question,' I suggested. 'I'll try to clear it up.'

'He's helping,' said Miss Gertrude. 'He's only showing us that it was asked wrong!'

I looked down at her and smiled, and she smiled back at me.

'Does the second thing concern more than you— that is, someone else?' I asked the pirate.

'Yes,' came the answer.

'Is Mr Canevin the other person?' asked Miss Gertrude.

I smiled again at this. If there was anything that could be construed as an answer, I certainly expected that it would be 'no'.

The answer was 'yes'.

I began to feel the beginnings of a cold consternation, but I found Miss Gertrude smiling happily.

'I thought so,' said she simply.

Women, most of them certainly, are beyond me! It was a woman who had painted this picture!

Miss Gertrude hastened to ask another question.

'Do you want to tell Mr Canevin what he can do for you first, and then what you're going to do for him in return?'

'Yes.'

'Do you wish to be released from something?'

'Yes, he does,' reported Miss Gertrude, who was now asking the questions, I being seated for the time being alone on the sofa.

'Do you wish to pass out of existence?'

She nodded over to me to show that he did.

'Can we accomplish that for you?'

'He says we can.'

We were making progress, it appeared! She clapped her hands gaily. All her gravity had disappeared. It was merely a game to her, then. I had almost begun to suspect that she had been taking the thing seriously.

'I thought it would come out more or less like that!' she announced. Then: 'The poor, poor man!' said she softly, and I wondered once more.

She returned to the picture and looked down at it for a long time.

'Is there anything else that can be done for you?' she inquired.

There wasn't, it seemed.

I will summarize, for brevity's sake, the series of questions which followed and the 'replies'.

We were to find out how to obtain the 'reward'. Then we were to ask no further questions. I was to take the picture home, put it back on the wall, and destroy it the next morning— tomorrow.

All this seemed to me, on the sofa, grotesque, unintelligible. I was almost becoming bored with this seemingly foolish play, but nothing would stop Gertrude Maclane.

'Is it a material reward for Mr Canevin?'

'Yes,' came the answer to this one. And, going over and looking down at the manikin, such is human nature— or our somewhat unstable lighting system on Santa Cruz— that it seemed even to me in that mood, that I could discern the merest ghost of a twisted grin on that strange little face beneath the looming, cruelly twisted knot of hangman's rope.

I will bring what seemed to me an increasingly absurd performance to its conclusion. I left, with definite instructions to dig in the northeast corner of the cellar under Melbourne House— that cellar once devoted to the housing of materials for planter's punches and sangaree, and now fallen to a low estate of habitation for spiders and perhaps an occasional scorpion thriving in its ancient dust.

My brain, I will confess it, was in a kind of whirl as I drove home that night from Montparnasse House. When I had obediently hung the picture back in its place on my workroom wall, I took a good, long, searching look at it. It seemed as wooden, as laboriously limned, as amateurish, as on that day when I had rescued it from the dustroom.

There were the strutting St Thomas gentry and merchants, a lordly group of aristocrats, who had come out to see Captain Fawcett die. There, too, were their silken and be-muslined ladyfolk; the Danish soldiers in their boxlike, Frederick-the-Great uniforms; the swarming, pop-eyed negroes; the hangman, Fawcett and his two mates...

I went to bed. That had been a strange, weird evening.

To dig under my own house. It was too much. And I had promised Gertrude Maclane to do so!

Promised, too, to destroy this picture the next morning. Awkward, that! Gentlemen do not build bonfires in their back yards in the West Indies.

Our very cooking is done on charcoal-pots, or on an occasional oilstove. We have no gas, and coal we know only as a commodity for fueling ships. It would have to be a coal-pot.

That is the idea I carried with me into sleep, the last thing I remembered until the sun, the bright, morning sun, saluted me awake.

'Keep a fire in the coal-pot, Esmerelda, if you please,' I called through the bathroom door. 'I want to use it myself a little later.'

I stepped into the workroom to take down the picture. I had promised to destroy it, I would keep my word.

I looked at it, for the last time, under that clear, pitiless, blazing morning sunlight.

Probably the nervous strain had been heavier than I had imagined. I managed to control myself. I made no shandramadan— which is the black's term for foolishness or rascality! I avoided, too, by holding on tight to the table's edge, a caffoon, which means a fall.

For 'he' was not, it seemed now, and could never indeed have been, if paint is paint, hurtling through the air in his last instant of life, so to express it. The rope as I looked at it was unmistakably taut.

That deadly knot of seven turns of good, new manila rope must already have struck home under one of those strange little ears into which, last night, Gertrude Maclane and I had...

I set my face down for a moment in my shaking hands. The eyes of the figure which we had watched last night— his eyes were, unmistakably, closed like those of his two companions in wickedness. He had joined Captain Fawcett of the fine, plum-colored, laced coat and Hessian boots.

Our pirate really swung now. He was dead— delivered, it came through my shuddering mind, from those uncanny sorceries of Camilla Lanigan, she who had been so strangely respected by the black people of St Thomas; she who knew their Obeah and their voodoo.

I pulled down the picture a moment later with a firm hand and laid it out flat on my work table. I cut it into convenient strips for burning in a coal-pot. Some of the old, brittle paint flaked off in this process, and this I gathered up to the final crumb on a sheet of paper.

But for the most part my penknife went cleanly through the old canvas.

Downstairs I found that Esmerelda had gone after the morning's supply of ice for the drinking water with the large thermos bottle. But a glowing coal-pot stood on the floor of the little stone gallery outside the kitchen door.

Into this I poured the fragments of the chipped paint and watched them bubble and hiss. I thrust in the strips, one after another. They curled, caught, and were swiftly consumed.

Then I stirred the charcoal and a few sparks came out. Not a vestige of Camilla Lanigan's picture remained.

I should have to wait until Esmerelda was gone for the afternoon, and dig in that cellar in the hottest part of the day among the ghosts of wine-barrels and demijohns. I stepped out into the yard to investigate.

In a shed I found an ancient spade and, best of all, a thing like a mattock which might have been dug up on the site of Persepolis. These I carried down into the dim, cool cellar. With the spade I knocked loose the hooks of a hurricane shutter. That would dissipate the slight, musty smell and also provide a better light for me that afternoon.

Esmerelda was still bargaining among the bebustled vendors in the market when I returned upstairs to wash by hands.

After lunch I waited until I heard Esmerelda leave. I watched the good soul as she walked down the hill, through slanted jalousies. And when she passed out of sight around the corner by St Paul's Church, I locked the front door and descended into the cellar. It was fairly cool and hardly musty at all. I hung my coat on an ancient, hand-wrought nail and set to work.

The hard-pounded earth came away reluctantly as I picked at it. loosening the surface for a hole about six feet square. Alternately with this I shoveled out the loose dirt, placing it well to one side, so that it would not run back.

It was two when I began. The fort clock had chimed three-thirty a few minutes before I struck something metallic. It took me at least fifteen minutes more before I had uncovered a small iron trunk in the corner of the large square I had opened.

I broke the rusty lock with the edge of the spade, raised it, and there before me— and such is human nature that I must say I was more surprised than amazed, at the very first— lay, neatly stacked in rouleaus from which the ancient cotton cloth fell away in shreds and flakes, row after row of gold coin— all the coinage of romance: doubloons, of course; ancient American eagles; Louis d'Or; even a few East Indian Mohurs!

In a side compartment by themselves lay, carefully packed in, an assortment of jeweled implements, jeweled chalices and patens from the loot, doubtless, of those rich Spanish Churches of Central and South American seaside cities, perhaps even from Porto Rico and Santo Domingo; jewelry, much of it monogrammed; gold plate such as had graced the hospitable boards of many a fabulously rich sugar baron of the islands of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.

At the very bottom of this separate compartment, which was of the capacity of about one-third the trunk's cubical contents, lay, flattened and stiff, a sack of oiled silk. I picked it up and had to untie the leather pouch-strings, so well was it preserved.

I looked in and then thrust in my right hand, and even in the comparatively dim light of the old cellar there leaped out at me the myriad coruscations of cut jewels, throwing back the light they had not known for fully a century. My hand was full of jewels, and I had hardly taken off the edge— the very topmost.

Diamonds, rubies, sapphires, blazing emeralds. A king's, an emperor's ransom here, in the cellar of Melbourne House.

The pirate! He had not misled us. What, in God's name, did it mean!

Well, I had other things to think of besides mooning over that problem there in the cellar, with a fair-sized fortune held in my hand and God knows how much else there in the iron trunk— gold, vessels, jewels.

I spent the next half-hour carrying the trunk's contents up to my bedroom in the wholly unromantic iron pail in which Esmerelda boils the drinking water. I deposited them all, in a kind of order— gold coin all together, vessels and jewels separate— in two bureau drawers, turning out shirts and collars for this accommodation.

I locked the drawers, stuffed the shirts into the mahogany wardrobe, placed the bureau key in my pocket and returned to the cellar. There, by leaving open the old trunk's lid, I was able in another half-hour of feverish work, which left me literally dripping and soaking, to get back and roughly to pound down all the dry earth I had taken out.

When I had tossed the spade and mattock behind some ancient lumber, closed and hooked the hurricane shutter and returned to my bedroom to strip off my soaking clothes, before the most refreshing bath I can remember, it was precisely nine minutes before five. And Esmerelda would not be back until five precisely.

I remember sitting, about six-thirty, fresh and cool now, in white drill, waiting for Esmerelda to announce dinner, with the necklace of emeralds which I had taken out from the rest as soon as I saw it, to give to Miss Gertrude Maclane.

I had telephoned to Montparnasse House, and explained to her that I must see her as soon as possible. She had arranged that I was to call that evening after dinner.

Among other matters, I had been considering my duty with respect to this find. It involved certain responsibilities, I began to see. I resolved to return anything that might prove identifiable.

Apparently this was the hoard of some master pirate, possibly even that of Fawcett himself. Its disappearance, or rather the fact that it had never been discovered, was one of the standard mysteries of the islands. How, if that were the case, it had got itself under Melbourne House was apparently an insoluble mystery.

I may as well mention here that the restoration has proved an actuality in one or two cases. A dozen gold spoons, monogrammed, have gone back to the representatives of the Despard family in Christiansted. And a lovely old 'tulip' chalice, filigreed, with its attendant paten, all the way to Valparaiso.

I dined that evening with the necklace loose in the pocket of my drill jacket. I fear I made only a sketchy meal.

Esmerelda seemed disturbed. She thought, good soul, as she told me the next morning, that the crustadas of shell-fish had not been up to standard! I had not, really, been certain what I was eating.

On my arrival at Montparnasse House I felt a note of constraint. It is very hard to describe what I mean. I can only say I felt it. Santa Crucian moods and similar delicacies of feeling are most difficult to describe!

I remembered that I had called three times in the past four days! I was not unwelcome. It was not that. Otherwise Robert Maclane, Esq., would have waited perhaps fifteen minutes, instead of five, before having a swizzel served.

But— it was conveyed to me so subtly that I despair of making the matter clear, that Mr and Mrs Maclane, while recognizing me as an equal and a friend, were not quite clear as to what I was up to!

They were not, precisely, objecting to my coming so often. They wanted me to know they thought it unusual. That is the best I can do by way of saying how I felt.

Mr Maclane and I conversed about new kinds of canes which were being tried out; about the labor situation; about the pink boll-worm and how certain Montserrat cotton planters were meeting its ravages; about the newly inaugurated onion crop; about the perennial subject of the rainfall.

The ladies, of course, joined in from time to time as Victorian ladies did, and as Crucian ladies do to this day. But the burden of that evening's conversation lay upon Mr Maclane and myself.

Not so much as the overt flicker of an eyelash served to indicate the natural curiosity of my hosts as to why I was paying their hospitable estate house so many visits. But— I could feel it, all the time, circulating in my blood!

It was half-past nine when Miss Gertrude took her courage in her hands, looked straight at me, and said: 'May I speak with you aside for a few moments, Mr Canevin? Father and mother will excuse us.'

I rose and followed her out onto the great gallery which runs all along the front of Montparnasse House. And I knew, in my blood and bones, that Mr and Mrs Maclane did not so much as glance at one another when we had left the drawing-room. I could hear their voices as they conversed quietly together, all the time we were on the gallery.

Miss Gertrude led me to its extreme end and there, in the mellow light of a full moon and to the intoxicating accompaniment of jessamine and night-tuberose odors, faced me.

'I have something for you,' said I, and laid the necklace across her hands. 'This is for you, Miss Gertrude, with all my gratitude and all my admiration.'

'But— I cannot accept this,' she said, looking at the emeralds as they glowed in the moonlight.

'You will wear it, I was hoping, on your wedding day.'

'But, Mr Canevin, I am not considering being married. I am only nineteen.'

'But you will be married some day— God send, happily. Keep the necklace and bring it out when that delightful young gentleman who may be half-way worthy of you comes along. Let it be a portion of your trousseau.'

'But— I am not interested in "delightful young gentlemen", Mr Canevin.'

This conversation, it seemed to me, had got rather far away from what Miss Gertrude had summoned me out there on the gallery to talk about.

She was speaking again.

'I do not see why you should suggest such a thing to me, Mr Canevin.'

Women! I should never understand them! This, at that moment, I felt instinctively, hopelessly. I remembered, sharply, that almost telepathic feeling I have mentioned on my arrival.

'I am sure I ask your pardon if I have offended you,' I said lamely and stood aside, waiting for her to precede me back into the drawing-room.

I bowed slightly to indicate that I was waiting for her to pass. I think I even may have made a slight, indicative motion of the hand.

But she did not move, and I looked down at her, troubled, vaguely puzzled. Was this the simple, sweet Miss Gertrude who had entered into the comedy of that picture with an almost childish enthusiasm?

That picture! I think I shuddered slightly. She reached out the necklace toward me, but I did not take it back. With the strangest, most poignant look on her face, she was speaking again.

Like 'Annie Laurie's', her voice is low and sweet. All the phrases of that ballad of sentimental nonsense, as I was suddenly reminded, looking down at her, fit her like a glove.

'I think you have failed to understand me, and that is why you are vexed, Mr Canevin. You see— I cannot accept your gift. I am no longer a child, you will remember, and such a gift could come only from a near relative, or— or . . . '

She looked down. Her courage had given out. I saw her face, red as a red rose in the faint whiteness of that pouring moonlight.

The delicate, moaning coo of a disturbed wood dove came through the silent mahogany trees, and a little, faint puff of the evening trade wind came wandering across from the sea, across acres of sweet grass.

Light came to me then and blinded me.

'—or one who is to be your husband,' I finished for her, bending my head toward her. She did not move, and I reached out and took both her dear hands in mine, where they lay like lilies. The necklace hung across her wrists between us.

It was, suddenly, as though 'Annie Laurie', played very softly and sweetly and yet, somehow, madly, played by many well-tuned violins and fairy horns, surged all about me, and it went to my head like strong wine.

'And will you let me be that one?' I asked her quietly.

She left her hands where they were, and raised her lovely face and looked at me, all her shame gone now, and I took her into my arms...

A little after we went back into the drawing-room. Mr and Mrs Maclane were chatting quietly, precisely as we had left them. I bowed to both of them.

'I must not delay the happiness I have in informing you,' said I, and the words seemed to come to me with a clarity almost uncanny— the right words, for such an announcement— 'that I expect to have the honor of becoming your son-in-law.'

But, I assure you, no one, not even a Canevin, can get ahead of a real Crucian of the Old Scottish Gentry when it comes to these matters of courtesy.

'We are happy to welcome you into the family, Gerald,' said Mrs Maclane, without the flicker of an eyelash.

She rose and made me a quaint, Old World courtesy, and I bowed in return as she resumed her chair.

Mr Maclane took his wife's hand in his and said: 'My wife has spoken for both of us, Mr Canevin.'

'Gerald has given me this,' said Gertrude, and laid the necklace, blazing now under the electric chandelier, in her mother's lap.

Mrs Maclane examined it with interest, polite interest. Its value would easily have purchased Estate Montparnasse— yes, and several other contiguous estates thrown in.

'It is very kind of him,' said she, and handed the necklace back to her daughter.

Gertrude gave it to her father to examine. He looked at it with much the same type of merely courteous interest, and then clasped the lovely thing about his daughter's neck, which is 'like the swan', as 'Annie Laurie' has it. He kissed her gravely on her white forehead.

'We must have in a bottle of champagne to drink your health,' said he, and paused to bow to me again as he left the room to get it.

Of course I told Mrs Desmond about everything.

But no information could I derive from her that would throw any light on anything. She would only say: 'After I am dead, Mr Canevin!'

But on the matter of the picture's destruction she waxed eloquent.

'God be praised,' said she, 'that the fearful thing is no more! 'Twas my poor mother, God rest her soul, that was always wishful of having it destroyed and never daring; and as for me, Mr Canevin, as I've told you, there was more than paint went into it.

'But I believe every word. 'Tis enough of my Aunt Camilla's capabilities that I've heard about to leave no doubt in my mind. After I'm dead, Mr Canevin— after I'm dead, and not before!'

And that was all we were able to learn.

We had been married less than two months; the restoration of my estate was only just beginning to be under way, when Mrs Desmond departed this life at the age of seventy-six.

The English Church was full— St Paul's— and so, too, was the churchyard itself, for virtually the entire island turned out to pay its last respects to one of its most notable old inhabitants, a member of the Old Island Gentry who pass, these days, one by one.

Gertrude and I had come back on foot from the funeral— it is only a step to Melbourne House, where we were living until the estate-house should be ready— to be met by a young colored fellow, a clerk in Lawyer Esperson's employ. He handed me a long envelope and asked for a receipt, which I gave him.

The envelope, addressed to me, was one of Lawyer Esperson's. I tore it open, and within was a brief document, also addressed to me, and in the fine, beautifully formed, almost continental handwriting of Mistress Desmond herself.

I called Gertrude and we sat down together and I read it out.

Dear Mr Canevin

I have left instructions with Esperson that this is to be handed to you after my burial. I told you that I would clear up certain matters for you after I was gone.

There are two mysteries connected. One is why I would not touch a penny's value of what you discovered under Melbourne House. The other is how the evil takings of a 'Freetrader' could come there, to the residence of a respectable family.

I shall hope to clear up both of these. As to how it was done, God— and Satan— know. I cannot tell you that.

But this much I can, and will, tell you.

Even before my time, we of the gentry have been constrained to marry among ourselves. It's new blood, like your own, these islands are needing. I hope you will remain, now that you are to be married, and to one of a blood as good as your own.

For the reason I mention, we are mostly related like royalty!

I was courted by my cousin, James Desmond, whom I married. It was the uncle of my husband, Saul Macartney, who sought to marry my Aunt Camilla Lanigan in the generation before mine. This Saul was the only living child of his father, Thomas Macartney, who lived here on Santa Cruz, and was a merchant and shipowner in the island trade.

It is because James Desmond was his nephew that Melbourne House came to us by inheritance. It belonged to Saul Macartney.

This young gentleman was accustomed to go about the islands in charge of his father's vessel, the Hope. And in the intervals of these voyages he would be courting my Aunt Camilla Lanigan in St Thomas. A young man he was, so it is said, with but little of the fear of God, and none of the love, in his heart.

When his father died, leaving him Melbourne House, the ships, three sugar estates and a grand store here in Fredericksted, he was not content to marry my Aunt Camilla and settle down.

Off he went in the Hope again before his father was well settled in his grave. And on that very voyage, from which my Aunt Camilla had sought to disuade him, the Hope was captured off Caracas by Fawcett himself.

Saul Macartney, willing as always to turn to his own advantage what might betide, 'joined' Fawcett and rose to be second in command to the bloodiest villain that ever scourged the Caribbean.

Now, I am thinking, you begin to see light. The connection with the picture. What depended on that bitter fact?

It had not been known to me before you dug it up that treasure had been placed under Melbourne House. But consider, Mr Canevin, where better? It was Saul Macartney's property and only came, indeed, into the hands of my husband, James Desmond, his nephew, on Macartney's disgraceful death on the gallows in St Thomas.

Nothing could have been easier than for him to come ashore here, and Captain Fawcett with him belike, and do as he pleased on his own property. The people would bow to the ground before a 'Freetrader' in those days, and the fat of the land was not too good for them. Many had their fine houses ashore. Was not Henry Morgan himself knighted and made Leftenant Governor of Jamaica?

Saul Macartney went and came as he wished, and even sought to continue his courtship with my Aunt Camilla Lanigan. It was that which roused the bitter hatred of her against him, Mr Canevin, and— woe betide the man that roused my Aunt Camilla Lanigan to hate!

For she knew how to hate, and how to make her hatred count, and may God our Heavenly Father have mercy on her soul.

Ann Jane Desmond

That was all. Granting it was true— and it was plausible enough, to be sure— it cleared up much that had been obscure; the identity of the pirate mate, for example.

But, as Mrs Desmond herself had said, it could not clear up how the thing had been brought about. Granted that Camilla Lanigan had acquired skill in black magic, and that is a great deal to grant in any such case, or any case at all, the rest fitted together like the halves of a trysting ring. I saw it all, from that point of view, and I shuddered internally.

I raised my head and looked at my dear wife. Her eyes were shining, and there was in them rather more than a suspicion of tears.

'What a vengeance!' she said, in her low, sweet voice. 'Saul Macartney choosing the life of a Freetrader as against that of a decent merchant! Reduced to what appeared on that canvas!

'Well— he is released now, Gerald. We released him. And he has rewarded us. I think we should pray for the repose of his soul. He is a century behind the others in Purgatory!'

'You believe— ' said I.

'If I were not certain you would call me "Victorian", ' my dear wife smiled through that suspicion of tears, 'I should say: "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio!" '

'We shall have to let it go at that, I imagine,' said I, 'but I am going to give St Paul's Church a complete new set of altar hangings in brocades, with some such idea as you have suggested.'

'Which idea?' inquired my wife.

'For the repose of his soul,' I answered.

__________________

2: No Eye-Witnesses

Henry S. Whitehead

Weird Tales August 1932

THERE WERE blood stains on Everard Simon's shoes... Simon's father had given up his country house in Rye when his wife died, and moved into an apartment in Flatbush among the rising apartment houses which were steadily replacing the original rural atmosphere of that residential section of swelling Brooklyn.

Blood stains— and forest mold— on his shoes!

The younger Simon— he was thirty-seven, his father getting on toward seventy— always spent his winters in the West Indies, returning in the spring, going back again in October. He was a popular writer of informative magazine articles. As soon as his various visits for week-ends and odd days were concluded, he would move his trunks into the Flatbush apartment and spend a week or two, sometimes longer, with his father. There was a room for him in the apartment, and this he would occupy until it was time for him to leave for his summer camp in the Adirondacks. Early in September he would repeat the process, always ending his autumn stay in the United States with his father until it was time to sail back to St Thomas or Martinique or wherever he imagined he could write best for that particular winter.

There was only one drawback in this arrangement. This was the long ride in the subway necessitated by his dropping in to his New York club every day. The club was his real American headquarters. There he received his mail. There he usually lunched and often dined as well. It was at the club that he received his visitors and his telephone calls. The club was on Forty-Fourth Street, and to get there from the apartment he walked to the Church Avenue subway station, changed at De Kalb Avenue, and then took a Times Square express train over the Manhattan Bridge. The time consumed between the door of the apartment and the door of the club was exactly three-quarters of an hour, barring delays. For the older man the arrangement was ideal. He could be in his office, he boasted, in twenty minutes.

To avoid the annoyances of rush hours in the subway, Mr Simon senior commonly left home quite early in the morning, about seven o'clock. He was a methodical person, always leaving before seven in the morning, and getting his breakfast in a downtown restaurant near the office. Everard Simon rarely left the apartment until after nine, thus avoiding the morning rush-hour at its other end. During the five or six weeks every year that they lived together the two men really saw little of each other, although strong bonds of understanding, affection, and respect bound them together. Sometimes the older man would awaken his son early in the morning for a brief conversation. Occasionally the two would have a meal together, evenings, or on Sundays; now and then an evening would be spent in each other's company. They had little to converse about. During the day they would sometimes call each other up and speak together briefly on the telephone from club to office or office to club. On the day when Everard Simon sailed south, his father and he always took a farewell luncheon together somewhere downtown. On the day of his return seven months later, his father always made it a point to meet him at the dock. These arrangements had prevailed for eleven years. He must get that blood wiped off. Blood! How— ?

During that period, the neighborhood of the apartment had changed out of all recognition. Open lots, community tennis-courts, and many of the older one-family houses had disappeared, to be replaced by the ubiquitous apartment houses. In 1928 the neighborhood which had been almost rural when the older Simon had taken up his abode 'twenty minutes from his Wall Street office' was solidly built up except for an occasional, and now incongruous, frame house standing lonely and dwarfed in its own grounds among the towering apartment houses, like a lost child in a preoccupied crowd of adults whose business caused them to look over the child's head.

ONE EVENING, not long before the end of his autumn sojourn in Flatbush, Everard Simon, having dined alone in his club, started for the Times Square subway station about a quarter before nine. Doubled together lengthwise, and pressing the pocket of his coat out of shape, was a magazine, out that day, which contained one of his articles. He stepped on board a waiting Sea Beach express train, in the rearmost car, sat down, and opened the magazine, looking down the table of contents to find his article. The train started after the ringing of the warning bell and the automatic closing of the side doors, while he was putting on his reading-spectacles. He began on the article.

He was dimly conscious of the slight bustle of incoming passengers at Broadway and Canal Street, and again when the train ran out on the Manhattan Bridge because of the change in the light, but his closing of the magazine with a page-corner turned down, and the replacing of the spectacles in his inside pocket when the train drew in to De Kalb Avenue, were almost entirely mechanical. He could make that change almost without thought. He had to cross the platform here at De Kalb Avenue, get into a Brighton Beach local train. The Brighton Beach expresses ran only in rush hours and he almost never travelled during those periods.

He got into his train, found a seat, and resumed his reading. He paid no attention to the stations— Atlantic and Seventh Avenues. The next stop after that, Prospect Park, would give him one of his mechanical signals, like coming out on the bridge. The train emerged from its tunnel at Prospect Park, only to re-enter it again at Parkside Avenue, the next following station. After that came Church Avenue, where he got out every evening.

As the train drew in to that station, he repeated the mechanics of turning down a page in the magazine, replacing his spectacles in their case, and putting the case in his inside pocket. His mind entirely on the article, he got up, left the train, walked back toward the Caton Avenue exit, started to mount the stairs.

A few moments later he was walking, his mind still entirely occupied with his article, in the long-familiar direction of his father's apartment.

The first matter which reminded him of his surroundings was the contrast in his breathing after the somewhat stuffy air of the subway train. Consciously he drew in a deep breath of the fresh, sweet outdoor air. There was a spicy odor of wet leaves about it somehow. It seemed, as he noticed his environment with the edge of his mind, darker than usual. The crossing of Church and Caton Avenues was a brightly lighted corner. Possibly something was temporarily wrong with the lighting system. He looked up. Great trees nodded above his head. He could see the stars twinkling above their lofty tops. The sickle edge of a moon cut sharply against black branches moving gently in a fresh wind from the sea.

He walked on several steps before he paused, slackened his gait, then stopped dead, his mind responding in a note of quiet wonderment.

Great trees stood all about him. From some distance ahead a joyous song in a manly bass, slightly muffled by the wood of the thick trees, came to his ears. It was a song new to him. He found himself listening to it eagerly. The song was entirely strange to him, the words unfamiliar. He listened intently. The singer came nearer. He caught various words, English words. He distinguished 'merry', and 'heart', and 'repine'.

It seemed entirely natural to be here, and yet, as he glanced down at his brown clothes, his highly polished shoes, felt the magazine bulging his pocket, the edge of his mind caught a note of incongruity. He remembered with a smile that strange drawing of Aubrey Beardsley's, of a lady playing an upright cottage pianoforte in the midst of a field of daisies! He stood, he perceived, in a kind of rough path worn by long usage. The ground was damp underfoot. Already his polished shoes were soiled with mold.

The singer came nearer and nearer. Obviously, as the fresh voice indicated, it was a young man. Just as the voice presaged that before many seconds the singer must come out of the screening array of tree boles, Everard Simon was startled by a crashing, quite near by, at his right. The singer paused in the middle of a note, and for an instant there was a primeval silence undisturbed by the rustle of a single leaf.

Then a huge timber wolf burst through the underbrush to the right, paused, crouched, and sprang, in a direction diagonal to that in which Everard Simon was facing, toward the singer.

Startled into a frigid immobility, Simon stood as though petrified. He heard an exclamation, in the singer's voice, a quick 'heh'; then the sound of a struggle. The great wolf, apparently, had failed to knock down his quarry. Then without warning, the two figures, man and wolf, came into plain sight; the singer, for so Simon thought of him, a tall, robust fellow, in fringed deerskin, slashing desperately with a hunting-knife, the beast crouching now, snapping with a tearing motion of a great punishing jaw. Short-breathed 'heh's' came from the man, as he parried dexterously the lashing snaps of the wicked jaws.

The two, revolving about each other, came very close. Everard Simon watched the struggle, fascinated, motionless. Suddenly the animal shifted its tactics. It backed away stealthily, preparing for another spring. The young woodsman abruptly dropped his knife, reached for the great pistol which depended from his belt in a rough leather holster. There was a blinding flash, and the wolf slithered down, its legs giving under it. A great cloud of acrid smoke drifted about Everard Simon, cutting off his vision; choking smoke which made him cough.

But through it, he saw the look of horrified wonderment on the face of the young woodsman; saw the pistol drop on the damp ground as the knife had dropped; followed with his eyes, through the dimming medium of the hanging smoke, the fascinated, round-eyed stare of the man who had fired the pistol.

There, a few feet away from him, he saw an eldritch change passing over the beast, shivering now in its death-struggle. He saw the hair of the great paws dissolve, the jaws shorten and shrink, the lithe body buckle and heave strangely. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, he saw the figure in deerskins standing mutely over the body of a man, lying prone across tree-roots, a pool of blood spreading, spreading, from the concealed face, mingling with the damp earth under the tree-roots.

Then the strange spell of quiescence which had held him in its weird thrall was dissolved, and, moved by a nameless terror, he ran, wildly, straight down the narrow path between the trees.. .

It seemed to him that he had been running only a short distance when something, the moon above the trees, perhaps, began to increase in size, to give a more brilliant light. He slackened his pace. The ground now felt firm underfoot, no longer damp, slippery. Other lights joined that of the moon. Things became brighter all about him, and as this brilliance increased, the great trees all about him turned dim and pale. The ground was now quite hard underfoot. He looked up. A brick wall faced him. It was pierced with windows. He looked down. He stood on pavement. Overhead a streetlight swung lightly in the late September breeze. A faint smell of wet leaves was in the air, mingled now with the fresh wind from the sea. The magazine was clutched tightly in his left hand. He had, it appeared, drawn it from his pocket. He looked at it curiously, put it back into the pocket.

He stepped along over familiar pavement, past well-known façades. The entrance to his father's apartment loomed before him. Mechanically he thrust his left hand into his trousers pocket. He took out his key, opened the door, traversed the familiar hallway with its rugs and marble walls and bracket side-wall light-clusters. He mounted the stairs, one flight, turned the corner, reached the door of the apartment, let himself in with his key.

It was half-past nine and his father had already retired. They talked through the old man's bedroom door, monosyllabically. The conversation ended with the request from his father that he close the bedroom door. He did so, after wishing the old man good-night.

He sat down in an armchair in the living-room, passed a hand over his forehead, bemused. He sat for fifteen minutes. Then he reached into his pocket for a cigarette. They were all gone. Then he remembered that he had meant to buy a fresh supply on his way to the apartment. He had meant to get the cigarettes from the drugstore between the Church Avenue subway station and the apartment! He looked about the room for one. His father's supply, too, seemed depleted.

He rose, walked into the entry, put on his hat, stepped out again into the hallway, descended the one flight, went out into the street. He walked into an unwonted atmosphere of excitement. People were conversing as they passed, in excited tones; about the drugstore entrance a crowd was gathered. Slightly puzzled, he walked toward it, paused, blocked, on the outer edge.

'What's happened?' he inquired of a young man whom he found standing just beside him, a little to the fore.

'It's a shooting of some kind,' the young man explained. 'I only just got here myself. The fellow that got bumped off is inside the drug-store,— what's left of him. Some gang-war stuff, I guess.'

He walked away, skirting the rounded edge of the clustering crowd of curiosity-mongers, proceeded down the street, procured the cigarettes elsewhere. He passed the now enlarged crowd on the other side of the street on his way back, returned to the apartment, where he sat, smoking and thinking, until eleven, when he retired. Curious— a man shot; just at the time, or about the time, he had let that imagination of his get the better of him— those trees!

His father awakened him about five minutes before seven. The old man held a newspaper in his hand. He pointed to a scare-head on the front page.

'This must have happened about the time you came in,' remarked Mr Simon.

'Yes— the crowd was around the drugstore when I went out to get some cigarettes,' replied Everard Simon, stretching and yawning.

When his father was gone and he had finished with his bath, he sat down, in a bathrobe, to glance over the newspaper account. A phrase arrested him: '...the body was identified as that of "Jerry the Wolf", a notorious gangster with a long prison record.'

Then, lower down, when he had resumed his reading: '...a large-caliber bullet which, entering the lower jaw, penetrated the base of the brain... no eye-witnesses...'

Everard Simon sat for a long time after he had finished the account, the newspaper on the floor by his chair. 'No eye-witnesses!' He must, really, keep that imagination of his within bounds, within his control.

Slowly and reflectively, this good resolution uppermost, he went back to the bathroom and prepared for his morning shave.

Putting on his shoes, in his room, he observed something amiss. He picked up a shoe, examined it carefully. The soles of the shoes were caked with black mold, precisely like the mold from the woodpaths about his Adirondack camp. Little withered leaves and dried pine-needles clung to the mold. And on the side of the right shoe were brownish stains, exactly like freshly dried bloodstains. He shuddered as he carried the shoes into the bathroom, wiped them clean with a damp towel, then rinsed out the towel. He put them on, and shortly afterward, before he entered the subway to go over to the club for the day, he had them polished.

The bootblack spoke of the killing on that corner the night before. The boot-black noticed nothing amiss with the shoes, and when he had finished, there was no trace of any stains.

Simon did not change at De Kalb Avenue that morning. An idea had occurred to him between Church Avenue and De Kalb, and he stayed on the Brighton local, secured a seat after the emptying process which took place at De Kalb, and went on through the East River tunnel.

He sent in his name to Forrest, a college acquaintance, now in the district attorney's office, and Forrest received him after a brief delay.

'I wanted to ask a detail about this gangster who was killed in Flatbush last night,' said Simon. 'I suppose you have his record, haven't you?'

'Yes, we know pretty well all about him. What particular thing did you want to know?'

'About his name,' replied Simon. 'Why was he called "Jerry the Wolf"— that is, why "The Wolf" particularly?'

'That's a very queer thing, Simon. Such a name is not, really, uncommon. There was that fellow, Goddard, you remember. They called him "The Wolf of Wall Street". There was the fiction criminal known as "The Lone Wolf". There have been plenty of "wolves" among criminal "monikers". But this fellow, Jerry Goraffsky, was a Hungarian, really. He was called "The Wolf", queerly enough, because there were those in his gang who believed he was one of those birds who could change himself into a wolf! It's a queer combination, isn't it?— for a New York gangster?'

'Yes,' said Everard Simon, 'it is, very queer, when you come to think of it. I'm much obliged to you for telling me. I was curious about it somehow.'

'That isn't the only queer aspect of this case, however,' resumed Forrest, a light frown suddenly showing on his keen face. 'In fact that wolf-thing isn't a part of the case— doesn't concern us, of course, here in the district attorney's office. That's nothing but blah. Gangsters are as superstitious as sailors; more so, in fact!

'No. The real mystery in this affair is— the bullet, Simon. Want to see it?'

'Why— yes; of course— if you like, Forrest. What's wrong with the bullet?'

Forrest stepped out of the room, returned at once, laid a large, round ball on his desk. Both men bent over it curiously.

'Notice that diameter, Simon,' said Forrest. 'It's a hand-molded round ball— belongs in a collection of curios, not in any gangster's gat! Why, man, it's like the slugs they used to hunt the bison before the old Sharps rifle was invented. It's the kind of a ball Fenimore Cooper's people used— "Deerslayer"! It would take a young cannon to throw that thing. Smashed in the whole front of Jerry's ugly mug. The inside works of his head were spilled all over the sidewalk! It's what the newspapers always call a "clue". Who do you suppose resurrected the horse-pistol— or the ship's blunderbuss— to do that job on Jerry? Clever, in a way. Hooked it out of some dime museum, perhaps. There are still a few of those old "pitches" still operating, you know, at the old stand— along East Fourteenth Street.'

'A flintlock, single-shot horse-pistol, I'd imagine,' said Everard Simon, laying the ounce lead ball back on the mahogany desk. He knew something of weapons, new and old. As a writer of informational articles that was part of his permanent equipment.

'Very likely,' mused the assistant district attorney. 'Glad you came in, old man.'

And Everard Simon went on uptown to his club.

__________________

3: The Strike at Too Dry

Willis Brindley
fl 1920s

Blue Book, Jan 1925

THE postmaster at Too Dry poked his head out of the door of the shack which served as combination of post office, real-estate office and residence, spat generously into the dusty road and yelled to the big man who had drawn up at what might in a city have been called the curb.

"Letter for you, Dog."

"Who? Me?"

"I guess it's for you. Came yesterday. It's in a thick envelope and the address is Percival John Bigelow, Too Dry, Montana."

"That's me," agreed Dog, and added mournfully: "Well, if that don't beat the scratch. That's two letters I got so far this year. If this keeps up, I'll have to hire me a secretary. Bring it out to the car, Steve. What did she say?"

But the postmaster had returned, with the popping suddenness of a prairie-dog, to his hole of an office, and Dog saw that he must follow or do without his letter.

"You tote your own in this town," he grumbled to the little man beside him. "You stay here, Ducky, till I come back, and don't go wandering off anywhere. We gotta be traveling. It'll be dark as the ace of spades, time we get home, as it is."

"Don't we meet the stage or nothin'?" whined Ducky.

"No, we don't meet the stage or nothin'," answered Dog, pushing back his wide hat and swinging a booted foot over the edge of the coverless Ford. A stranger would have known at once why he who had been named Percival John was known to his fellows as "Dog." He looked like a dog— very much like a bench bull, with his button nose, his underslung chin, his sharp little eyes and forehead that was almost no fore- head at all. As for his partner, he came quite readily by his nickname— not through any facial resemblance to a duck, but because, with his short bowlegs, he walked like one. A preacher in a day long past had baptized him Elbert Spence.

MINUTES passed, during which Ducky dozed, slumped low in the front seat, and when Dog finally came and climbed over into his place slowly, the face which Ducky opened his eyes on, was drawn and sober.

"You remember that I had a sister," Dog said at last. "I don't often speak of her."

"Uh-huh!"

"Married an artist guy."

"They're never no good."

"Not generally, but this one wasn't so bad, take him altogether. Used to draw waterfalls and such, but he gave it up. Now he makes pretty pictures for tooth-powder ads."

"Uh-huh! What about it?"

"Well, they had a son, named after me— Percival Bigelow James. I got a letter from my sister. Seems he's turned out bad."

"That so?" Ducky roused himself into a sitting position. This was better. "Rob a bank or something?"

Dog shook his head.

"Nope. Turned poet."

"Good gosh!" Ducky slumped again. Dog went on with it.

"He must be about twenty-five or -six years old now. You remember when we were in Klondike we got a letter from my sister about her having a kid, and I made him a nugget watch chain."

"Oh, yes. You bummed most of those nuggets off me. But what about it? Ten minutes ago you were in a tooting hurry to get home, and now you sit here drooling like a new calf."

"I'm breaking it to you gently," said Dog. "Fact is, Ducky, this letter says the boy's health ain't been any too good. Threatened with T.B., I reckon, though she don't come right out with it. My sister wants this Percival to come out and pay us a visit."

"Huh?"

"Yea-ah. I'll read you the finish of it." He pulled the letter from the pocket of his shirt, shucked the many closely written leaves from the envelope and read the concluding sentences.

" 'And so, because I know that you would refuse, yet dare not give you an opportunity to refuse, I have arranged for Percy to start West on the day after mailing this letter, and of course you will arrange to meet him; and while your life must be rude and living-quarters of the roughest, we are sure that the change will be just what he needs. We have bought his ticket and berth and shall furnish him with funds to pay for meals and incidentals, but he must work and earn and stay with you until he has earned enough to bring him home again. This is part of our plan— a return to health, and the necessary discipline to make a man of him.' "

"Good gosh!" Ducky sat bolt upright now. "This letter came yesterday. That means he'll be here on today's stage?"

"That's it," said Dog. There was nothing more to be said. When things happen to people, things happen to them, and that's all there is to it.

THEY summoned courage, finally, to discuss details. He could sleep in the loft— up there with Spud Dugan, the man- of-all-work about the place. Spud wouldn't like it, and the boy wouldn't care for Spud's snoring, but they would have to put up with one another. He probably smoked tailor-made cigarettes. Ducky went to get a carton. He probably would be one of those fellows that's always got to be washing himself. Dog went to buy some white soap, and then, remembering something, bought a dozen cakes of laundry soap as well. Time for the stage any time now, and presently it came, in an enveloping swirl of gray dust— a big truck, with an extra seat crosswise behind the driver, and the back end filled with freight.

"Here he is," bawled Duke Envers, the driver, and added to the slim youngster at his side: "There's your uncle over there, him with the face like a bench bull."

The young man climbed down, stiffly. He wore a flappy hat that had been pearl-colored, tweed knickerbockers, and boots of that golden yellow shade peculiar to New York outfitting shops.

"He's got a couple of bags that was made from a cow apiece," added Duke, "and they's a crate of mail-order stuff for you, Dog."

Percival stepped forward, blinking in the strong light. Dog, swallowing hard, strode toward him and shook hands with a heartiness at which the visitor cried out.

"My partner, Ducky Spence," said Dog. Percy nodded, his right hand safely behind his back. Ducky went for the bags, and presently returned, staggering.

"Don't forget that mail-order stuff," Duke Envers bawled to Dog, climbing back over the freight. "It's here in the hind end. Ill hand it down. Looks like a washing-machine to me."

He handed it down, and Dog carried it to the Ford, lifted it over the side and snugged it in, between the back and front seats, on top of sundry supplies. The stranger and Ducky followed, Ducky swaying under the grips, his legs moving with that strange waddle which had given him his moniker. Dog lifted the grips, plunking them down on the back seat, which they completely filled.

"Maybe we better eat first," he suggested. "It's a good forty mile, and the road's a bit rough in spots. "What do you say?" This last to nephew Percival.

"What does it matter? What does anything matter?" squeaked Percival.

Dog looked at him, looked at Ducky. Ducky looked at Percival, looked at Dog. It was worse than they had feared.

"Well, if you don't want to eat, what do you want to do?" Dog asked.

"TI want to go back."

Dog grabbed him by the arm. "That's the one place you don't go. We eat."

He lead the Easterner across the street to the Ideal Café, Ducky following, sundry acquaintances staring. They mounted stools at the counter.

"Ducky and I are having ham and eggs. How about you?"

Percival shivered,— perhaps shuddered,— gazing straight into the fly-specked mirror of the back bar.

"I think I shall just have some thin toast, without butter, some bar-le-duc jelly and a pot of oolong tea, very weak."

Red Leonard, cook and waiter, treated himself to half a snigger. The second half died at the look Dog gave him.

"That makes three ham and eggs, Red," Dog said, "with some fried potatoes and a slab of pie and plenty of coffee. If you've got any comparatively modern eggs, we'd like to be favored with 'em. And snap out of it. This is my nephew. Going up to our place for a while with Ducky and me, to pay a visit to Spud Dugan."

He grinned, and Red grinned back.

"Spud Dugan is our cook," Dog told Percival, by way of conversation. 'Used to wash dishes for Red, here, but we got him to come up to the ranch and work for us. Ducky likes to cook, but he can't, and I'm a good cook, but I wont, so we figured we'd better get in a neutral party."

They ate, then, with that whole-souled attention to food which makes conversation impossible, Percival nibbling at first, but getting in some pretty fair work himself toward the finish, for he had not broken fast since morning. Observing this, Dog felt encouraged, very slightly, but his courage fell when he attempted to draw Percival into conversation on the long ride home, while the lad sat beside him, with Ducky perched precariously on the luggage in the rear.

"This is a fine country," he hazarded. "Gets a bit dry at times, of course."

"I don't like it," said Percival.

"You will, all right. Probably the name sort of prejudiced you—Too Dry."

"What does a name matter?"

Dog stuck to it.

"Of course you heard about the big Too Dry Gulch Dam. I imagine they talk about that a lot back East."

"No."

"We had a project to dam the creek in Too Dry Gulch, above our place. Wasn't going to cost only thirty million dollars, but that no-account Congressman of ours fumbled the cards somehow and fell down on the appropriation. Steve Martin, that runs the post office, he come out here to go into the real-estate business, and he did too, and he's in it yet, but the boys kind of schemed around to get him made post- master so he wouldn't starve to death while he was waiting for the real-estate boom to start. You ever interested in real-estate?"

"No."

DOG gave it up for a while. He was pretty busy, anyway. Driving a Ford that has no front bushings, on a road that is composed chiefly of ruts with a generous sprinkling of crags that must be leaped, is a man-sized job by itself. When he finally resumed, it was via a third party. He addressed his remarks to Ducky, hollering them from the side of his mouth.

"You didn't know I was getting a washing-machine, did you?"

"No, and I don't care for it any," came a jolted answer. 'Seems to me we're getting all-fired civilized lately. Next thing I know you'll be sending away for a woman."

Dog laughed. Percival suddenly sat up straight and looked at him anxiously.

"Are there no women?"

This was, of course, as funny a thing as he could have said. Dog and Ducky laughed noisily, and the Ford, unattended for a split second, leaped into a ditch, and then, in answer to a savage jerk, hopped back onto the road, quivering from her nose to the place where her tail-light once was.

"Well, I wouldn't go so far as to say that," said Dog. '"There's a nester in beyond about twenty miles that's got a woman. He got her off the reservation near Parma, summer before last. They say she's a pretty good cook for a squaw. We could go over and see her some time if you want to."

He looked at the lad by his side, but the lad was looking straight ahead, tight-lipped, silent and unutterably sad. Dog gave it up, and they made the last twelve miles, which, incidentally were the worst, in a silence broken only by the never-stopping rattle of the Ford. The Ford had lights, of a sort, but after darkness set in, Dog made small use of them, driving by a sixth sense that enabled him to steer the crazy vehicle in its rock-strewn course. Twice the car broke loose and dived down dry watercourses, and Ducky had to get out and push to help get it back onto the track that Western courtesy called a road.

BUT all things, even bad roads, come to an end, and finally they arrived, and Spud Dugan, a sour wisp of a man with a bald head and fierce mustaches, met them with a lantern and helped tote things in.

"What's this?" he demanded abruptly, when Dog lifted out the heavy, crated washing-machine.

"Little present for you. I'll open it up when we get into the house."

They went in, Percival Bigelow James following, carrying nothing. It was a house of goodly size, made of native Montana timber such as is found along stream-beds, with a kitchen and bedroom on the first floor, and a loft above, reached by a ladder nailed to a side wall. Percival dropped onto a bench in the kitchen. Spud set about putting away stores in a cupboard. Dog found a hatchet and tore the crate from the washing-machine.

"What-in-the-hell-is-it?" demanded Spud testily.

"Washing-machine," Dog told him. "Genuine Old Faithful, twenty-four fifty, F. O. B. factory. She's a peach. Swishes the clothes back and forth, and the dirt settles in the bottom."

"Hump. What's this thing?"

"That's the handle you work it by. Just pull the handle back and forth, and the wheels go round, and the clothes get washed in no time and all the dirt falls to the bottom. You'll like it."

Spud shook his head.

"Not me. Take her outside. I pull no handles. We wash in the creek like always— what washing we do, which ain't much; and I might add that your little friend here does his own or it don't get done, and that's that."

Apparently that was that. Dog, mustering a grin, set the machine outside, under the lean-to porch, and suggested that they all turn in.

"Where?" asked Percival in a dead voice.

Dog told him, upstairs, in a fine comfortable bunk with a buffalo robe to throw over him if it got cold. Percival still sat on the bench which he had found upon entering the house.

"I want three hundred dollars," he said suddenly. "I must have three hundred dollars. You let me have three hundred dollars and take me back to where I can get a train for New York. Mother'll pay you back."

Dog shook his head.

"You get no three hundred dollars from me. Your mother gave me positive instructions. You'll like it fine here after you get used to it, and you'll get strong and hearty. Why, in a month, you won't want to go back, not never."

"I want to go back now," whined Percival.

"Aw shut up," said Ducky suddenly. "You make me sick. It's going to be hard enough on us to have you around here at best, and if you're going to yowl around all the time, it'll be a lot worse. Get up to bed and sleep off your grouch."

"Ducky's right," added Dog, picking up the big grips, which he carried to the foot of the ladder. Leaving them on the floor, he climbed halfway, and at a signal Ducky handed them up one at a time, and he boosted them through the ceiling hole onto the floor above. Percival watched this performance, but made no move to help.

Out of deference to company, Spud Dugan lighted a lantern and carried it up into the loft, and still Percival sat. Finally, Dog took him by the arm, led him to the ladder, and pushed him up. Just before his head disappeared through the hole, he turned and spoke:

"I'll bet I'll make you give me three hundred dollars."

"You lose your bet," said Dog sullenly. "Good night."

PERCIVAL was not up when Dog and Ducky left next morning on a long trip to the North Cafion country. Returning, dog-tired, at dark, they found him on the bench in the kitchen, sitting perfectly still, eyes straight ahead, looking at nothing.

Spud Dugan whispered to Dog:

"Just like that all day. Won't do nothing."

"Let him alone," answered Dog.

The next day, as reported by Spud, was just about the same, and the next no better. The third day was, in fact, slightly worse, because Percival had brought to his bench a book bound in limp leather. Books always irritated Spud.

"He'll die on you, sure. Remember that dog the nester's squaw brought with her from over by Parma. Just sat around and died. Same with him."

"Aw, dry up," Dog told him. But he was worried, and next morning he made excuse to stay at the house, and deter- mined to have a talk with Percival. He drew up a backless kitchen chair and filled a cob pipe.

"Montana's not such a bad country, son," he began.

No answer.

"I've seen lots of places—Texas, New York, Klondike, and for just plain satisfaction, Montana beats 'em all."

No answer.

"Take it, now, down around Bozeman and Belgrade— there's as fine irrigated land as there is in the world. And the Gallatin Valley. Then we've got oil, some places, and lots of mining around Butte and Anaconda."'

The boy on the bench lifted his head.

"I want to go home, and if I had three hundred dollars, I'd go."

It was pretty tough.

"Come on outside a minute," Dog said finally, and Percival reluctantly rose and followed.

"Now, if you're a poet, take a look at that valley. Ever see anything prettier than that? That's why we're here—this valley. Cattle graze in the free range, and there's always water in the creek."

The boy looked up at him.

"If there was three hundred dollars in that creek, I'd care for it. Otherwise not."

He turned and dragged himself back toward the house. An idea came to Dog, who had racked his brain for three days for one— came with that suddenness that is characteristic of ideas. Anything was better than the present situation. He called the boy back, spoke to him in hushed tones.

"There might be."

"Might be what?"

"Three hundred dollars in that creek. I'm not saying there is, but I'll say that it looks an awful lot like a creek that Ducky and I took thirty thousand dollars out of in the Klondike, and I might add—"

"How do you get gold out of a creek?"

Hooray! There might be a chance yet. Get the lad interested in any kind of out- door work, and give the good old Montana ozone a chance on him.

"I'll show you."

He ran to the house, dived into a cupboard and returned with a deep pie-pan. It was not shaped just right, but it would answer. He picked up a shovel from where it leaned against the corner of the house, and led Percival up the creek, and showed him how to wash gravel. And the third pan showed color— just a trace, but enough to show. Of course, Percival did not know that color and gold in paying quantities are things often as far apart as Montana is from New York. But Dog knew that the sight of color will edge a chechahco, rouse lust within his soul, stir him to feats of physical endurance undreamed of. He sneaked away and joined Ducky in a fence-mending job.

THAT night a very tired Percival, but a Percival with a real appetite, joined them at dinner, stoked himself with beans and fried pork, and retired immediately afterward to the loft.

"He's gone cuckoo now," Spud Dugan told Dog and Ducky, jerking his bald head toward the ceiling-hole. "Been out up the creek all day, panning for gold."

"You let him alone," said Dog.

"Don't worry." Spud stacked a precarious load of dishes in the nightly chore of clearing off. "Letting him alone is what suits me best."

"You'd better salt that creek some," Ducky suggested. "Long about ten o'clock tomorrow morning, that kid'll get tired of mining. We got three-four old Klondike nuggets somewhere, ain't we?"

Dog nodded, grinning. He went to an old trunk in a far corner of the sleeping- room, rummaged in it profanely and finally came back with a small chamois sack which, upended, spewed forth five pieces of rough gold, each about as big as a shriveled pea.

"We gave away too many souvenirs," he commented, "but I'll plant one of these tomorrow, maybe two the next day, and that'll leave two for the day after, and he might just happen to pick up one or two on his own account."

"Fat chance, on that creek! You gotta salt it. Get up there first thing, and put one in the gravel where he's left his shovel stuck in. A man always pans that shovelful."

IT worked beautifully. Next evening, Percival was hungry again, tired, but there was about him an air of elation, elaborately concealed. Dog, getting an early start again, planted two more nuggets, and on the following day, the final two from the pouch. At the close of each day upon which a planting had been made, Percival was hungry, tired but elated, and elaborately concealing his elation.

Ducky had another idea, an idea unique for sheer craziness. He led Percival, with elaborate caution, onto the side porch, and pointed to the washing-machine.

"I understand you've been digging up the creek," he whispered.

"A little," admitted Percival.

"Get much?"

"Not much."

"Thought so. I've got an idea. Your method is too slow— you don't get over enough dirt in a day. We'll start in the morning, early, just you and me, and we'll take this washing-machine up the creek a bit and plant her solid, and shovel dirt and gravel into her. She's rigged, you see, so that the dirt from the clothes will settle in this place at the bottom. Well, now, suppose we take a saw and make some slits in her sides— get me? No? Why, the idea is simple enough, and practical. The water and dirt and little rocks slip out of the slits in the side, but the gold settles in the bottom, where the dirt is supposed to settle when you use the rig for washing clothes. How's that?"

Percival nodded, and for the first time since coming to Too Dry, he smiled.

"Don't tell anybody. Nobody's interested in this washing-machine and it wont be missed. You slide in now, and up to bed and get a big sleep, and I'll call you at daybreak and we'll eat a cold bite for breakfast and sneak up the creek before Dog and Spud are stirring."

When the boy had gone, he told Dog.

"The scheme is crazy, of course, but it'll keep him interested a few days longer, and if he once gets used to this country, and gets a little flesh on him, he'll be a man, and we're going to need a man bad before long to help in the branding."

Dog nodded. The scheme was good— for what it was meant to accomplish.

"We need a little more salt, though," he added. "Wait a minute."

Again he went to the trunk and engaged in profane search, returning at last with a nugget mounted on a pin.

"Forgot this one," he said, and wrenched the pin from where it was soldered to the back of the nugget. "Take this and plant it."

THE washing-machine rocking device kept Percival happy all next day, and his eye was lighted by a particularly bright gleam of elation as he settled to the fried pork and beans at dinner next night.

"If we just had about one more piece of salt," mourned Ducky, after Percival had climbed the ladder, but Dog shook his head. The stick-pin had cleaned the place of nuggets.

"We've done all we can," he said. "I wish he'd find something of his own."

But Ducky shook his head at this. No chance. And yet, come dinner time next night, here sits Percival again, looking as cocky as a cat that's eaten a canary. Throughout the meal Dog and Ducky cast anxious eyes at him. Percival finished, pushed his plate toward the center of the table, got up, thrust his hand deep into his right-hand trouser pocket and brought forth something wrapped in a bit of paper. He unwrapped the paper and held out for inspection a nugget twice as large as any that the conspirators had planted for him.

"I worked in new ground today, farther up the creek. Good night."

They watched him, fascinated, as he climbed the ladder to the loft.

"Suffering crawfish!" hissed Ducky, after he had safely gone.

Dog said nothing at all for a full minute, and then:

"You remember that Swede at Dawson that took a million dollars out of the place we gave up as no good."

"I remember," said Ducky. "Probably nothing to this."

"Probably not," agreed Dog, but without conviction. "We'll see what he brings home tomorrow night."

NEXt night Percival stoked as usual, pushed back his plate, got up, fished into his right-hand trouser pocket and produced two nuggets about the size of the one he had displayed the night before.

Dog cleared his throat and spoke with elaborate casualty.

"Just where are you working now?"

"Up the creek. Around that second bend. Good night."

Again they watched him climb the ladder. Ducky spoke first.

"That takes him out of our land, onto the free range. All he's got to do is stake his claim."

"I know it. Let's wait one more day."

At the end of the day that followed, Percival again ate his dinner, pushed back his plate and dug into his right-hand trouser pocket, producing this time three nuggets.

"Getting better," he said, and started toward the ladder, but this time Dog called to him.

"Of course a nugget now and then don't really mean anything."

"They're good for money," said Percival calmly. "After I get enough of them, I can trade them for three hundred dollars, and that's what I need to get back to New York."

Dog looked at Ducky, and Ducky at Dog. Dog spoke.

"That's all you want, is it? Three hundred dollars?"

"That's all."

"Well—" Dog seemed to hesitate. "If that's really all you want, maybe Ducky and I could scrape it up between us."

"All right. Take me to town tomorrow, and give me three hundred dollars. Good night."

Again he started for the ladder, and this time they let him go. Dog looked at Ducky, and Ducky looked at Dog. Spud Dugan, who had been standing by, put in an oar.

"You're going to put this over on him, are you?"

"It's his own proposition," said Dog decisively.

"Looks raw to me," answered Spud. "All I got to say is that money or anything else that's come by through sharp practice don't ever do nobody no good. I hope you never find a thing after that kid's gone."

"Oh, dry up," said Dog. 'What does a poet want with money, anyhow?"

THEY got an early start for town, to catch the stage, and made it. Dog and Ducky held brief but effective converse with old man Kellifer at the store, who always had money, and came out of the conference with a roll of bills, which Dog handed to Percival, just as the stage was ready to start. Percival gave brief thanks, ran across to the Ideal Café for a moment, then climbed aboard the stage, while Ducky heaved his big bags into the freight compartment. Duke Envers, the driver, cranked the big truck, and the engine burst into a violent coughing. Envers got aboard and started his stage, and Dog and Ducky watched it, until all that was visible was a fine swirl of dust in the far distance.

"Well, that's that!" said Dog. "He's gone, and gone for good. Couldn't call him back if we wanted to. Couldn't catch him."

"Well, let's not worry," answered Ducky. "All I want to do now is to get back to that creek and find out what we've got. How rich do you suppose it is?"

Dog shook his head.

"Hard telling. The blamed fool didn't bother to save anything but big nuggets. No telling how much fine stuff there is."

Red Leonard stuck his head out of the Ideal Café and called:

"Oh, Dog."

Des went over, Ducky trailing. Red Leonard handed Dog an envelope, addressed in a fair hand to Mr. Percival John Bigelow, kindness of restaurant man. "That sissy kid left it with me, to hand to you after he'd gone."

Dog tore open the letter, Ducky crowding for a look. They read:

Dear Uncle:

I had to have three hundred dollars. At first, I thought there really was gold in the creek, although it seemed strange that I found a nugget or more in the first shovelful and nothing after that all day. Of course, when I found that stick-pin nugget, with solder on the back of it, then I knew. So I broke up the nugget chain you gave me when I was a baby, and found nuggets for myself, just as easy. I had to have three hundred dollars.

Percival.

"What does he say?" yelled Red Leonard from the doorway.

Dog tore the letter, viciously, into very small pieces and heaved them into the wind. Then he steadied himself for an appropriate reply to Red Leonard.

"He says that he thanks Mr. Spence and me for the nice entertainment we provided for him during his stay in Montana, and when he gets back to New York, he's going to tell all the folks there what a wonderful State Montana is."

_________________

4: The Greenstone Graves

"Waif Wander"

Mary Helena Fortune, 1933-1911

A Detective's Album, 1871

IT IS A strange story, and the scene is at or around Camberoona, that lies so near the Murray River as to command a not very distant view of the sluggish stream, with its snagged course, and its green, leafy banks. A truly Australian scene, with hazy hills in the distance, a long, little travelled "track" winding through the miles of quiet "bush," and across grassy, but lonely "plains," and catching up here and there scattered homes and scarcely-formed "townships."

I was a mounted man at the time I heard the tale, and was going up to Camberoona on duty, into which I need not enter, as it is not at all connected with the tragedy I am about to relate. The man stationed at Camberoona met me at the Murray, which I had crossed in the punt, and we were riding toward the police camp together.

We had reached a part of the road from which could be seen a substantial stone house, situated, with outbuildings, etc., on a gentle slope of hill, and embowered in abundance of well-foliaged trees.

"That's a snug-looking property," I said. "What is it called?"

"Greenstone Station,' he replied.

"What an odd name."

"Yes, and that reminds me: there's a sad story connected with it," my companion returned, "and if we turn off the track here, for a quarter of a mile, I can show you a sad memento of the story."

I followed his leading until we had passed the house, when he turned sharp to the right and rode up a little hill, in a nook of which was a solitary growth of trees that were certainly not indigenous. I recognized, even at a distance, the cypress and the yew and many green shrubs whose seed had come long ago from countries that knew not Australia.

"Dismount here," he said, "the place of graves ought to be respected, no matter what dead lie within them."

We dismounted and entered the circle of somber guarding trees. In the centre of that circle was a space covered with green. English grasses, studded with red and white clover, and in the centre of the grasses a grave. At one glance you could not doubt that within the black-painted iron railing was a grave, for a headstone of grey marble was visible as soon as we passed the trees.

I was not, however, prepared for what I saw as I bent over the railing. The place it enclosed was large and there were two green mounds within it. Not a flower, save the clover, grew there, there was only the headstone, which was placed at the head of neither grave, but in the middle, as it were, between the two heads.

I went close to and examined it. As I have already said it was of grey marble, a plain slab without sepulchral ornament of any kind, save a large lump of malachite, as it seemed to me, inset into the upper part of the slab; under the "Greenstone" was cut in the marble:

"FOR THIS WE DIED"

Only those four words, in plain Roman letters, no names, no date, no more.

I did not speak until my companion and I had remounted, and resumed our way; then I said: "The story must be indeed a strange one if connected with that singular headstone without inscription, names, or date. It is the saddest place of burial I ever looked upon."

"I told you the story was a sad one, and the graves and headstone were its finale; but I will tell you all about it this evening after supper."

And he did tell me, but I give it to you related in my own fashion.

TO SAY THAT Mr. James Hazel, of Greenstone Station, was a general favorite, would be to say what was not true, for he appreciated himself too much; yet he was not a bad sort of man at all, but he was so inordinately proud of the means he had acquired by what he was fond of calling "the sweat of his brow," that he bored every unhappy person who came in contact with him by recounting his doings in gulches and gullies, on sea and on land, on the road and in the mine, until they were fain to fly from him as though he had the plague. He was a stout, brown-skinned man of sixty, with a loud voice, and a quantity of well grizzled hair and beard; there was rather a pleasant expression in the eyes under his shaggy brows; in short, James Hazel, Esq., was a happy, self-satisfied man.

He had married twice, so it was understood, for the son and daughter were but step-sister and brother. Holt, the elder, was about twenty-five, and Maud, the younger, nearly nineteen.

Let the story describe the young people, for it is time that I entered upon it.

The "parlor," as Mr. Hazel would have the ordinary sitting-room called—for he was a man who despised any pretensions but his own—was occupied one morning in spring, no matter in what year, by father, son and daughter, and they were at the breakfast table, though the meal was nearly over. Mr. Hazel had a newspaper a week old in his one hand, while, with the other, he was following down a column of "mining news." His son—a low-browed, stout young man, with a skin far darker than even his father, eyes black as sloes, and curly, black hair—was shifting uneasily in his chair, and furtively watching his father. Maud was silently collecting the silver, which was her especial charge; her slender and graceful figure moving noiselessly; her calm, pure-looking face, with the thoughtful, grey eyes, like still lakes in a quiet land, illuminating the room as though an angel had left the shadow of peace in it; and her glossy, plainly-banded hair gleaming like gold in the morning light.

"I knew no good would come of it," Mr. Hazel said. "The shares are going down like one o'clock."

"What mine are you speaking of, father?" asked Holt.

"The old one," was the short reply. Something had evidently put the old man out.

"I hope you have no interest in it, sir," At the unwonted respect, Mr. Hazel looked at the young man over his spectacles, and then removed them from his eyes.

"If I had been in the habit of telling my business to everybody you would not have been in Greenstone homestead this morning."

"Surely you do not call your son everybody," the young man said, trying hard to keep a very bad temper under control, and he partially succeeded, for he had an object to gain, and I should like to know who does not try to keep the devil down when there is an advantage to be gained by it.

"No indeed!" exclaimed Mr. Hazel, his good humor entirely restored, as he laughed heartily, "so far from thinking you everybody, I know you to be nobody!"

The son stared at his father in dark wonder. Maud's naturally pale and grave countenance grew a shade paler and graver, but neither spoke.

"Come now, Holt, let us have no more of this, but open your mouth like a man," Mr. Hazel said, as he threw himself back in his chair, and, pushing back his loose coat, placed his thumbs in the armholes of his vest. "There is no one knows you better than I do. You want something, what is it? I detest shy ways, and there is nothing better than being straightforward; speak out."

"I want a horse to ride, then," replied the rather abashed Holt.

"A horse to ride! Why you've got two."

"Neither is good enough for your son to ride, father."

With a jolly "ha, ha, ha!" Mr. Hazel met this attempt at flattery. "Why did you not say, son and heir, Holt?"

Holt's face flushed hotly. "I hope I am not calculating on your demise, father."

"You'd be a fool if you did. I've told you dozen's of times that the Greenstone is all you'll inherit from me."

"I wish you wouldn't jest so often about that," the young man said with rising anger.

"I do not jest, as you will see if you outlive me. But about this horse; what has put it into your head to want another? There are not two finer animals than those you have within fifty miles of Greenstone."

"You have not seen young Melton's, father? He was riding a bit of blood yesterday that positively made me ashamed to be seen in the township after him; the mare's beauty was the talk of every man, woman, and child in Camberoona."

"Well, well, I suppose your wish is only the natural result of a boy's jealousy; you can have your horse, Holt. When you have chosen her, come to me for a cheque, but never hope to look so well on any horse's back as Harry Melton does—you can never rival him in either looks or horsemanship."

Holt hated the young gentleman in question, but he was too cunning to say so at that time, so he thanked his father, in his best fashion, and left the room hastily, in order, no doubt, to see about his coveted purchase.

All this time Maud had been apparently engaged with her silver but when her brother left, she turned her lovely, placid face toward Mr. Hazel.

"Harry Melton was here yesterday, father; he wished to see you."

"Ah! Why did you not tell me before, Maud?"

"I have scarcely had the opportunity, and besides, he said he would come again this afternoon."

"I can guess the young rascal's errand, Maud; he wants to take my daughter from me," Mr. Hazel said, with a merry twinkle in the eyes he fixed on his daughter's grave face; "that is what he wants, eh, Maud?"

"Yes, father," was the calm reply.

"And my girl wants to leave me?"

"I should not be far away, father."

"And are you not afraid that I shall say no, Maud?"

"No, for I know you love me, father, and Harry is worthy of being your son."

"And Maud loves him?"

"Yes, father."

"Kiss me, my darling, I will not say no; but what an unfortunate parent I am! On the very same morning my son must ask me for a valuable horse, and my daughter for a husband. Never mind, Maud, it is all right—it is but fair that the young should know the pleasures that the old have known before them."

Maud clasped her arms around Mr. Hazel's neck, and kissed him fondly. "You will come and live with us, and let Holt have Greenstone," she whispered, "and we shall be as happy as the day is long."

The idea seemed to tickle Mr. Hazel, for be laughed loud and long. "Yes, Holt will get the Greenstone, my dear, I have often told you that, but he will never get Greenstone Station."

"I do not like to hear you harp so on that nonsense, dear father. Holt is your son."

"Yes, he is my son, Maudie; don't look so frightened, child. With the Greenstone, Holt will have a fortune worth half-a-dozen stations. I will confide a secret to you, Maud, for I know you will not betray me. Do you know why I will not let that lump of malachite be touched? Because if anyone attempted to lift it the weight would betray my secret—the stone is hollow and full of gold!"

Maud's astonishment may be conceived, but, alas, Mr. Hazel's fatal secret was already betrayed. On the verandah outside the open French window, while the secret was being told, a Mulatto woman was standing. She had great silver earrings in her ears, a red Madras handkerchief around her head, a white apron over her dark dress, and a bunch of herbs in one hand; it was "Susan" the dark-skinned cook, that Mr. Hazel had brought with him from foreign parts, and she had been to the garden to gather sweet herbs for her dinner.

When Susan was about to pass the window on her way to her own premises, a word caught her ear, and that word was Holt's name, and it arrested her steps. If no one else in the whole world loved Holt Hazel, Susan, the Mulatto, did. It was for him she had left home and country; it was for him she had crossed oceans, and for him alone she had buried herself in the heart of what was to her a wild land. She had nursed him in infancy, and, when a boy, he had amply returned the affection of his dark-skinned "mammy." Holt cared for her no more than he did for any one of the decayed logs in the bush beyond him; but that was nothing; Susan's love for him was unchanged still.

Thus it was that the sound of her idol's name made Susan, the Mulatto, listen and hear the secret of the malachite. When she had heard it she hastened back to the garden, and returned to her kitchen by another way. The dinner was not in its usual state of perfection on that day, for the cook's thoughts were not entirely concentrated in its preparation; but on what subject they wandered it is yet too early in my story to tell you.

After the exchanged confidences between the father and daughter, Mr. Hazel went out to the verandah to indulge himself with his usual morning smoke. He knew nothing of the love of nature for the sake of her own beauties, yet he loved to scan the view he enjoyed from his favorite verandah. The plain stretching to the left; the forest skirting the bush track, that wound like a snake to the Murray; and the green, far-stretching slopes on the right were all his own, earned unaided by the "sweat of his brow." Well, the pride was an honest one, and the good man's only fault was in that he was too fond of telling everyone how clever he had been.

He was looking and admiring in his own way, when he noticed a black speck on the bush track. Travelers of any kind were a rarity near Greenstone, and Mr. Hazel watched that black speck with a strange interest. The black speck was a man, and but little dreamed the watcher that he was bringing death and desolation to Greenstone Station.

And as little dreamed the traveler—a ragged, dusty, tired man, with grey hair and grey tangled beard, and a poor swag strapped over his aching shoulders. He came nearer and nearer, and was evidently coming to the house, but at the home fence he paused, not knowing the best way to approach the premises. He had dropped the swag, drawn a weary breath, and was wiping the sweat from his face with the worn and dirty cuff of his old coat, when Mr. Hazel approached him, pipe in hand.

"You are very tired, my man," Mr. Hazel said, as he leaned his arms on his own fence, and looked at the swagsman; "where are you bound for?"

"Anywhere I can earn a mouthful of victuals, sir. I was going up to the house to ask if I could get anything to do on the station. Are you the master, sir?"

"I am."

"Then I ask you, sir, for the love of the mother that bore you, to give me some work. I don't ask for wages, I will gladly work for food and shelter."

A strange feeling of pity grew in the squatter's breast, as he looked in the weary man's face; it was not a good face, the eyes were restless and furtive, the mouth treacherous and cruel, yet Mr. Hazel pitied him—ah, if he had only known, if he had only known!

"Go round the fence to the kitchen," he said. "I will return to the house, and see that you get food. When you have eaten and drank, I will see you again. Do you smoke?"

"When I can, sir."

"Have you any tobacco?"

"Oh no, sir!"

"Well, take this, and go where I told you;" and the kind-hearted man took some out tobacco from his tobacco-pouch, and placed it in the swagman's hand.

"You will be blessed for your goodness to a wretched man, sir."

"Blessed? Ah, not by you, the receiver of a good man's bounty; ah, not by you!"

The man lifted his swag to his shoulder again and went the way he had been told; and Mr. Hazel returned to the verandah and relit his pipe; then he paced up and down, with the aroma of "honey dew" floating around him. His thoughts were unusually confused, and no wonder. Maud's lover coming to claim his sanction to remove her from a loving father's home, and Holt's present character and future career, of which he was growing more doubtful every day, whirled in his brain in a strange tangle with the wretched being he had just relieved.

There is no accounting for the vagaries of thought and memory; we do not understand them, and never shall. If anyone had asked Mr. Hazel to account for his thoughts of children and home being mingled with those of a man who had been to him but a black speck on the road half-an-hour ago, could he have given an answer? No; yet there was a reason, which is one of Nature's secrets—the same blood ran in their veins! In an hour the stranger joined Mr. Hazel, at his summons, and mumbled a few words of thanks and hope.

"You are welcome. I hope you have eaten and drank well?"

"Oh, sir, it is so long since I have had a full meal."

"Will you tell me where you came from, and what causes have reduced you to this state of destitution?"

"I am from South Australia last, sir. I was on a station there, but, meeting with an accident, was laid up in the hospital for months. I left weak and penniless, and have wandered since, getting an odd job now and then, to find myself as you see me, sir."

The explanation was given with downcast eyes and restless feet, but Mr. Hazel saw neither; he was looking over the speaker's head to the very slope on which I saw lately the sad graves and the nameless headstone. After a second's silence, however, the gentleman spoke.

"I have been thinking that I might find you work about the stables. Do you know anything about horses?"

"I know everything about them, air," was the eager reply, and Mr. Hazel smiled.

"Well," he said, "I think we may try it at all events. We are going to have a fresh horse in the stables, and there will be more work. Go round to the yard. I will look out some old clothes until you can supply yourself from your wages, and see about a sleeping place for you."

"Oh, how good you are, sir!" and I daresay he thought so then, but not the less was he the ruin of that happy home—he and another.

"I am sorry for you and all unsuccessful working men. Every acre of land, and every sovereign of gold I made by the sweat of my brow," and now the good man had got on his hobby, and was off like steam. "There is scarcely any honest labor these hands have not performed. I am a self-made man, and I glory in it."

"You have been lucky, sir! There are men with whom everything prospers."

"I don't believe in luck, I believe in honest, hard-working perseverance; but I suppose some men are born with more energy than others, and with more brains. Yon may go, my man, I will presently see about your affairs."

"Curse his impudence!" muttered the new hand, as he obeyed. "More brains, indeed! I could walk round him and leave him a mile behind if I liked. Honest hard work! This child will never work while there are fools in the world."

And that was the tramp's gratitude for the outstretched hand of a pitying, good man.

As the hour for her lover's visit approached, Maud s cheeks gathered a faint rose tinge, and she became restless, for one of her calm nature. Not for the world would she have watched for Harry Melton's approach, or shown the anxiety she felt, even to her own father, but she listened to every sound with hearing sharpened by love. At last Maud was rewarded, she heard the sound of horse's feet, and she knew he had come.

Let us look at him as he dismounts. A decidedly handsome man of not far from thirty. Tall and strongly, yet lithely built. Brown hair, of wavy gloss, and eyes so blue and frank and smiling that you could not meet them without recognizing the uncurtained windows of an honest soul. The very grasp of hand with which he met Mr. Hazel's hearty welcome had a story in its pressure, and in the story there was not a line of hypocrisy.

"Glad to see you again, Melton, heartily glad. And that is the mare that has nearly broken Holt's heart with envy? Well, I don't wonder, she's a beauty, and Holt will never be able to equal her."

"Is Holt going to rival me, Mr. Hazel?" Harry asked, with one of his bright smiles.

"That he is. He coaxed me into the promise of a cheque this morning, and he's been off on a horse quest all day."

"Well, I hope he will get a good one, for I know what a pleasure a young man takes in riding a good horse. Yes, I am proud of Brown Bess," and he patted the glossy shoulder of the beautiful creature.

As a groom took possession of the mare to lead her to the stables, Mr. Hazel led the way to the drawing-room, the favorite place with the good man for receiving visitors, for it was there that, in great state, rested the wonderful "Greenstone."

It may be as well that I describe its appearance and position to you here. The stone was a curious specimen of malachite, of very irregular shape, and it stood conspicuously in the centre of a small table, on which there was no other object; it rested on a pedestal of ebony, and was covered by a large glass shade. It was the first object to attract the eye on entering the room, and Harry Melton's first glance was toward it, with a smile, as he knew, if the seriousness of his business did not fully occupy his host's mind, what a prose about the Greenstone, etc., he was in for!

"Sit down, my dear fellow, sit down. I have heard that you wish to speak to me, particularly and privately, and I have some slight idea of what you wish to speak about."

"I am glad of that, Mr. Hazel, for it saves me some awkward moments."

"I dare say," interrupted the squatter. "When a man wants to ask you for his greatest treasure as a free gift, he must naturally feel awkward, to say the least of it, if he be at all an honorable man."

"A treasure indeed, sir, but one that you should not all lose, and which I should value as the greatest Heaven could bestow on me. Will you give me Maud, Mr. Hazel?"

"I like straightforward people, and plain speaking, but you ask me a great sacrifice," the father said, as he looked straight into the young wooer's anxious eyes; "my Maud is everything to me."

"She would not be faraway, Mr. Hazel," Harry said, pleadingly, "and you are not alone; you have your son."

Mr. Hazel waved his hand, and, rising from his chair, paced to and fro, his kindly face so agitated that Harry Melton could not bear to watch it. After a few turns the squatter stopped, and sat down again.

"You speak of my son," he said. "I was a good son, and my father turned me penniless into the world, because I wanted to marry the girl I loved. Had I been a bad son, who had deceived an innocent lass and refused to wed her, what would have been my fate?"

Melton bent his eyes to the carpet, but made no reply, for he knew that Mr. Hazel was alluding to Holt's conduct, and to a dishonorable act of which the neighborhood was beginning to talk.

"I love my girl as my life, and better," Mr. Hazel went on, "but she loves you, Harry, and I give her to you. Yon are in every way the man I should have chosen for her, and I can trust in you as I trust in Maud."

Harry would have uttered many rapturous words of gratitude, but the old gentleman lifted his hand and checked him.

"I have something more to say, Harry. You are now to be my son, and it is but right that you should know that you will be my only, only one, for I have no other. Holt is not my son."

The young man was too much astonished to speak, only his fine eyes dilated as they were fixed on Mr. Hazel.

"No, he is not my son. I have treated him as one, but there is no tie of blood between us. I took him from his dying mother's arms, and promised to be to him as a father, and I have kept my word. I fear I have done wrong in keeping the truth from Holt, but I thought it would be time enough for him to know when I was gone. Now, Harry Melton, your hand, and go; I can bear no more just now. You will find Maud, I have no doubt." Harry wrung the offered hand in silence and left the room. Mr. Hazel turned toward the precious Greenstone, and gazed at it in silence for some moments; then his lips moved, and he spoke—and he spoke softly.

"It was to be Holt's, but he has forfeited it. Yet let him have a chance. He will not benefit by it; but let no man have to say or think that I turned a youth adrift as I was turned. Yes, let him have one chance," and the speaker resumed his seat once more, and, with a hand on either knee, and his eyes fixed on the floor, thought out his own sad thoughts.

The explanation of this great change in Mr. Hazel is a simple one. About two hours before young Melton's arrival, a grey-headed farmer, who was well known, and as well respected in the neighborhood, came to him with the sad story of an only child's disgrace. The father asked that Mr. Hazel would compel his son to do justice—he asked no more. His girl should claim nothing, not even a name, but hide herself in her father's home till the end came.

Mr. Hazel could speak but few words, for he was out to the heart; but the old farmer was so far satisfied that he went away knowing well his cause was in good hands. Mr. Hazel shut himself up in his room to do battle with his sorrow and anger alone. But he must not spoil the happiness of his darling Maud, and he had, with a hard struggle, regained his composure in time to meet young Melton on his arrival.

He had decided, as he then thought, on the course of action he would pursue. He would keep Holt's evil doings secret, and speak to him quietly in private; but the poor man's mind was like the restless bosom of the sea—at one moment smooth, with the swell of a rising wave that, in the next curls, its crest into a boiling foam which sweeps all before it. Yet, even as Mr. Hazel left the drawing-room, Holt's fate was not all sealed had not another of his ill deeds come to light.

A happy two hours had the lovers passed in each other's society ere they stood with Mr. Hazel on the verandah, waiting to see Harry off on his way home. Brown Bess had not yet been brought round when Holt made his appearance, in company with a sinister-looking man, who was riding one horse and leading another. Holt seemed in a great state of excitement, and, without taking the least notice of Maud or Harry, addressed his supposed father.

"Look, sir! Have I not done well? I don't think there is a finer animal in the country! Dirt cheap, I call her, too. Only one hundred and twenty, and thoroughbred to the backbone!"

"You have not spared money, at all events," Mr. Hazel replied, coldly, "and you have been imposed on; the animal is not worth the price."

The eyes of the horse-dealer flashed angrily.

"The young gentleman is mistaken, sir," he said, sharply.

"Mistaken in what?" and Holt turned on the man a look of warning and rage.

"Oh, you needn't look that way at me," was the impudent reply. "I was willing to do you a good turn, but now, as I see how things be, I must look to myself. The price of the horse is seventy-five, sir, but the young gent wanted to have a few pounds in his own pocket."

"You villain!" cried Holt, whose lips were drawn back from his white teeth, and whose hands were clenched in rage, "I'd tear you limb from limb where you stand if I was able!"

"I dare say!" the man sneered, for he saw his chance of a sale was over; "but you're not able, you see. I'm sorry, Mr. Hazel but a man must look to himself. I hope you'll consider my trouble and loss of time."

"You are an accessory; go!" and Mr. Hazel waved his hand toward the gate, to which, without another word, the disappointed dealer led his horses.

During this wretched scene Maud and her betrothed had drawn back, grieved and distressed, and no one had observed that Brown Bess had been brought round, and was within a dozen yards of the verandah, with a man at her head. The man was no other than the new helper, who had given his name as "Dick," and he had heard all.

Mr. Hazel had turned into the house, and Harry pressed Maud's hand as he whispered, "I must go, dear Maud; I can do no good. I will be with you tomorrow."

Maud could not reply, save with her sad eyes. All the calm of the sweet face was broken up. Her own happiness was clouded by the sorrows of those she loved, and she saw Harry depart in silence.

With muttered curses on his lips, Holt was going toward the back, when he observed Brown Bess as the new man led her to meet Harry, who had descended from the verandah. He stood until Melton rode away, and the man was about to pass, touching his hat.

"Stop!" Holt said "Who are you?"

"A new stable hand, sir. Mr. Hazel engaged me today."

"Your name?"

"Dick Smith, sir, at your service."

"I suppose you heard all that passed just now?"

"Every word, sir, and, though it's not my place, I must say that I'd like to have twisted that man's cowardly neck, and though I'm not a young man, I'm not so weak as you might think."

"You may do it yet," Holt said, as he put a half-sovereign in Dick's hand. "I will see you again."

Boiling with a fierce rage, born of the dark blood that ran in his veins, Holt locked himself in his own room to plot revenge against the whole world he fancied unjustly against him. Mr. Hazel gave him an hour, when he sent to summon him.

The distressed and angry owner of Greenstone was in a little room one might call his office, as he there kept his papers, etc., and paid his people. Holt entered with a face expressive of an anger far surpassing that of the squatter, and, without waiting to be addressed, burst out:

"Well, I hope you are satisfied, father! Have you disgraced me sufficiently? By god if I die for it I say it was a scurvy trick! You give me leave to buy a horse one hour, and the next, when I have bought one, you turn it from the door as if it had been stolen!"

Mr. Hazel had to pause ere replying, in order to gain a little self-control, but when he spoke, it was with a calmness that astonished his listener.

"Words would be wasted on you, for you have no sense of moral right or wrong," was what he said; "but I did not send for you to speak of your dealings about a horse. Farmer Smylie has been here today. You have ruined an innocent girl, will you marry her? If you do I will see that all is right with your future."

"Marry her! I'd see her and you to—" and the furious young man stopped short. "Why, surely you have taken leave of your senses to ask your only son to marry a fool that cannot write her own name, and that believes every lie the first man she sees tells her?"

"You mistake, Holt," was the calm reply, "you are not my son."

Holt stared at Mr. Hazel with more of fear than wonder, for he was now firmly convinced that his father had gone mad.

"No, I am not raving," Mr. Hazel said, replying to the look. "You are not my son, Holt."

"In the name of all that's holy, then, what am I?"

"You are an orphan I adopted."

"It's a lie! You wouldn't have done for me as you have, if I had not been your son!"

"I have done my duty; if you had done yours you would not have known the truth until you had laid my head in the grave. Stop!" he added, for Holt was about to speak, "being a liar yourself, you believe no one else can tell the truth, but there is one in this house whose word you will believe. Go to Susan, the cook, and ask her. I give you until tomorrow to decide about this poor young girl. If you do not marry her, you leave my house penniless. Go."

Mr. Hazel's gesture was imperative, and Holt was stunned. He went out without another word in search of Susan, but he had not far to search—she was waiting for him not two steps from the door of the office from which he emerged. The Mulatto's love for her nursling was as profound as her hate for anyone who would injure him, and her faithful watch over his interests had assured her that a crisis was at band.

"Child," she whispered, "come with me."

"I was going to look for you," he returned, and followed Susan to her own special chamber near the kitchen.

"Holt, what has happened?" she asked, when she had locked the door. "Has that which I dreaded come to pass?"

"I don't know what you dreaded, but the man I have all my life called father has told me I am no son of his, and has told me to ask you if it is the truth."

"Hush, dear, do not speak so loud. Oh! My son, my Holt!"

"Your son! Surely to God I am not your son! If I am I will take my own life! By God I will!"

"Be at peace; you are not my son, Holt." But the woman's heart was hurt at the ingratitude she read in the thankless young man's words. "Ask me no more now, but tell me all that has happened, that I may try to help you."

Holt told her all, with many vicious words and threats against those who had deceived him.

The Mulatto thought deeply for a little, and then she spoke: "How far off is this Smylie's?"

"About three miles."

"I will go myself and see the girl; if I can get her to agree to my proposal, you are safe, if not, I have another plan."

"What proposal would you make to the fool, Susan?"

"One to which she will agree, if she is a fool. I will supply her with means, and try to let her to run away; then you can agree to marry her, for it will be impossible."

"It's not a bad idea."

"Of course she is fond of you, Holt?" Susan said, as she gazed proudly at the young man, who was walking restlessly up and down the room.

"That is a needless question," was the conceited reply; "she is a woman."

"Give me a line to say I come from you, and I will go at once. I can pretend I am going to the store for something I require." He took the pen she placed in his hand, and seating himself before the writing materials, penned these words:

"DARLING NELL—Bearer is Susan, my faithful nurse. I am in sore trouble. Do what she tells you, for the sake of your own Holt."

"It is good," Susan said, as she read the words, and, folding the paper, placed it in her breast. "Now rest content until I return."

They left the room, and before long she was on her way to Smylie's farm, mounted on a quiet horse she had often previously ridden.

Susan had received all instructions from her darling, and recognized the farmhouse as soon as she saw it, half-hidden in orchard and vineyard, and looking so peaceful that no one might dream of the breaking hearts under its roof. The Mulatto cook dismounted at a distance from the house, and fastened her horse to the fence; then she stole to the end of a building that she could reach through the fence, and knocked on the weatherboards.

A moment's silence and the door was softly opened. The sun was now down, and it was grey dusk, but there was sufficient light for Susan to perceive a girl's form approach her.

"I come from Mr. Holt," she said, in a low voice. "I will wait for you below."

Holt had told her where he was in the habit of meeting the deluded girl; it was in the bush, not far from her home. Susan led her horse to the place, and waited.

Poor Nellie did not keep her long; in a very few minutes she came, with a large shawl over her head and covering her figure, so that the woman could form but little idea of her beauty, or the want of it; but what did Susan care for that? She had not come to see the girl, but to delude her into saving her darling boy.

"I have brought a note for you."

"Alas! I cannot read it; it is too dark."

"I came prepared for that," the cook said, as she took a bit of candle and some matches from her pocket. "Now read," she added, as she shaded the light with her hand.

Nellie read, and as she did, Susan had an opportunity of studying her face. It was a pretty face, but no more; it was the pretty face of an ignorant country girl. The prejudiced cook's lips curled as she thought—"A wife for my Holt? No, no, not so bad as that!"

"What is wrong with Holt? Oh, tell me; what does he want me to do?"

"Mr. Holt is in great trouble, and all about you. Your father was over today, and told Mr. Hazel, and Mr. Hazel says that if Holt marries you he will disown him, and turn him out of doors. Your lover is determined to be true to you, and wants you to go quietly to Melbourne so that no one may know where you are going, and as soon as he can make an excuse he will go to you, and you will be married. When it is all over Mr. Hazel will forgive him, for he loves his son."

"Go to Melbourne! How could I? If he would come, too; but alone, oh, how could I go?"

"Easily; you are well wrapped; go at once. Mount this horse, and cross the river in the punt; from that it is no distance to Echuca, and you will be in time for the night coach. See, Holt has sent you heaps of money; take it and go on your way to your lover and happiness. Remember that all Holt's happiness, as well as your own, depends now on you Nellie."

The girl wept as she listened, and still Susan held the purse toward her. The poor child was trembling like a leaf, but she took a step toward the horse as she murmured, "I will go—it is for Holt's sake," and Susan's heart beat hard in triumph, for her darling's cause was won.

Ah, how often disappointment meets us in the world, and how well it would be if it were only the evildoers who were disappointed! As Nellie was in the act of mounting, a form pushed between her and Susan, and a hand, seizing the girl, dragged her back—it was Farmer Smylie, Nellie's father.

"Foolish lass!" he said bitterly, "you have ruined your body, would you kill your soul likewise? I have heard everything; come home. As for you vile woman, go before I commit a murder!"

"Fool!" the Mulatto shrieked, "would you stand in the way of your girl being made an honest woman of?"

"May the curse of a wronged father fall on you and your master!" the poor old man cried as he drew his sobbing child away, and that curse fell, for it was a just one.

With a fierce anger and disappointment Susan rode back worse than she had gone, for doubtless the farmer would acquaint Mr. Hazel of her attempt, and she knew how determined as well as just her master was. Holt broke down entirely when she told him the fruitless result of her visit to Smylie's.

"I must go!" he cried. "I, who have been brought up as the only son and heir of a rich man, must go out into the world penniless."

"No, no, darling, not so bad as that; while I live to work for you, you shall live like a gentleman. But we have yet a card to play—we will go together, Master Holt; but we will not go empty-handed."

"What do you mean? For mercy sake do not keep me in suspense for I am nearly mad!"

"You know how often Mr. Hazel has told you that all your inheritance, when he died, would be the Greenstone? We thought it jest, but he was in earnest."

"I don't understand what you are driving at."

"Well, I overheard the truth the other day. Of course, not being his son, you had no chance of inheriting against Miss Maud, and in one of his crotchets the master provided for you in the Greenstone—he has left it to you in his will, and it is all hollow and full of gold."

"Are you dreaming, Susan? Can this be true?"

"As true as that my eyes are looking into your dear face."

"Well?"

"Well, take your own and go; tomorrow it will be too late, for master will alter his will. The stone is yours tonight, take it and go. I will soon follow."

"But are you sure—quite sure that there is gold in it?"

"Sure, for I have taken a chance to examine it; it is so heavy I could barely move it, and I could see the hole where the gold has been put in at the top, and a piece of the stone fitted in to hide it. The only trouble I see is that one cannot lift it."

"I think I can manage it, nurse," Holt cried, almost too loud for safety. "Oh, if it is true, what means it would give me for revenge!"

"Ay! It is your own, my darling, take it!"

After a few moments more of consultation, Holt went out in search of the new hand, "Dick," who was located in an empty stall, smoking, and awaiting his call to the men's hut for supper. As soon as he saw Holt he got up and saluted respectfully.

"I have a word to say to you, Dick. Are we quite by ourselves?"

The stable lantern gave but a dim light, and it was now quite dark outside.

"Every man is gone to the hut, sir, but if you speak low no one could hear you a yard off outside on account of the noise the horses make, and I'll swear there is no one inside."

"Well, I have a job to offer you sooner than I thought, Dick; that is to say, if you will do it. There is a twenty pound note for you hanging to it if you accept."

"It is worth earning, sir. Anything short of murder you may count on me for, but blood I have a horror of," and the speaker shuddered as he said the word.

"It has nothing to do with murder," Holt returned; "nothing whatever."

Alas! Unhappy man, had you only known.

"Then I'll earn the money, sir, and I don't care what the job is. Twenty pounds would be a fortune to me."

"The job is this. In the drawing-room there is a large, heavy stone I want taken away without anyone being the wiser. Yon may have heard of it. It is the stone this property was called after—the Greenstone. It has peculiar properties and Mr. Hazel sets the greatest store by it. Well, I want that stone for family reasons, and I will have it. One man could hardly manage it, but I think that if we had it in a bag, and I helped it on your back, you could carry it."

"It would have to be a monstrous stone if I could not, sir. When is this job to be done?"

"Tonight, or rather tomorrow morning. At two o'clock every soul will be asleep. I will come and call you. Where are you to sleep?"

"In the empty stable, for the present, sir."

"All right, I will come for you about two o'clock."

"But you had better give me more instructions, sir; what am I to do with the stone when I get it on my back?"

"My plan is this. I will unfasten the lock of the drawing-room window, and we will go in from the verandah. You will take the stone down the avenue and to the clump of trees on the rise to the right after you pass the gate. Wait for me there. The moon will be rising about that time, and you will see your way. When you are safely off, I will harness a horse and bring a spring cart to carry off the stone. You can come back to your bed, and no one can guess that you have so easily earned twenty guineas. In the meantime, there is one for you."

"Thank you, sir; you may depend on my share of the work being done."

And so they parted—Holt returning to Susan's room, where, under the circumstances, Mr. Hazel would not be surprised to hear he remained, after her communication to him; and Dick went to his supper in the men's hut.

"Where have you hidden yourself?" asked the man who did the cooking. "Supper's over, but there's plenty left, fall to;" and the new man paid such implicit attention to the invitation, that when he left the table the cook looked at it in the greatest wonder.

"Well, I'm blowed!" he exclaimed, as Dick left the hut. "If ever I saw a man stow away such a swag, I'll eat my hat! Poor devil, he must have been on short commons for a month."

Meanwhile "Dick" had got to his stable, and was supposed to have gone to bed, but no such idea was in the man's head. He took a bottle from his yet unfolded swag, and stealing out into the yard again, and creeping through the rails, struck a direct line for the main road, on which Mr. Hazel had seen him as a black speck only that morning.

It was very dark, but the wretched man was accustomed to darkness, being one of those who "love darkness rather than light, because their deeds are evil." He had well mapped the place in his mind as he went up to the house, and made no mistake in the return it was his intention to manage by hook or by crook.

Reaching the track he crossed it, and entered the bush. He listened, but no sound reached him save the weird sounds natural to the lonely forest at night, and he whistled shrilly twice. Then he sat down to be startled by a voice close to him.

"Why I'm here, Dick, just at your toe," and a man got up from the ground near the log on which Dick was sitting.

"What a start you gave me, Peter. What were you doing there?"

"What would a feller be a doin' of when his insides are as empty as a broken bellows but trying to have a nap to forget his troubles? Have ye got any tucker?"

"Plenty."

"Any baccy?"

"Plenty."

"But no licker, Dick. No licker, I know."

"I've got some of that too, Peter."

"Hurrah!" shouted Peter, and was going to repeat the exuberance of his delight, when Dick pulled him violently to the log.

"Are you mad! Do you want to bring the whole country around us? Confound you for a fool, stop you mouth with that," and he shoved a bottle into his mate's hands.

"No wonder as I was a bit cranky at the idear of a feed and a drink and a smoke, Dick; but there's no one about in this wild place."

"You never can tell whose about, or what's about anywhere—there's tucker, wire into it."

"Where did you manage all this mate? But you were allus a grand forager."

"I want to tell you a good deal, so I'll tell you while you feed. The tucker I cribbed from the hat as I was getting my own supper, and the tobacco and spirits I paid for. I had the money, so I managed to bribe one of the lads to go down to a shanty, that it seems is on the road about a mile off—that's how I got what you're enjoying."

"You got the money!" exclaimed Peter, admiringly, and as well as he could with his mouth full of bread and meat.

"Yes, a young toff up there (the master's son, I believe) tipped me; he's got a sharp eye, Peter, and he wanted a job done. I happened to hear him getting into a row with his governor about a horse, and he spotted me to have his revenge. I think that's about how the land lies."

"How did you manage to stop there at all, Dick?"

"The boss took me on as a stable hand, and do you know, Peter, the queerest feeling came over me when he spoke so kindly."

"What kind of feeling?" asked Peter, as he deftly filled his black pipe.

"I couldn't describe it. I liked him, yet, I couldn't look in his face. It seemed to me as if he had a right to be ashamed of me, and I felt as if I would like to grip his hand and cry over it."

"The sun, mate, the sun; and we was hungry, we was. I know what it is. I could hear gals singing and men shouting all day today, though you left me the bit of bread we had."

"Maybe so, Peter; at all events, he's a good man, and he took me on."

"But the young chap? What's the job he wants done."

"To help him steal a big stone from the house, and plant it until he gets a trap to carry it off."

"A big specimen," said Peter; "white quartz full of gold."

"No, Peter, he says it's a lump of what copper miners sometimes call greenstone, but malachite is the right name; and the young chap says it's of no value but as a family talisman."

"What's that?"

"A talisman! A sort of lucky stone, Peter."

"That be hanged for a yarn! Who ever heard of a feller stealing a stone for luck! That be hanged for a yarn."

"Well, there must be something in it, for the station is called after it—this is Greenstone Station. I don't know what to think of it, mate, but I'm to go into the drawing-room at two o'clock this morning and take the stone away."

"Why don't he take it away hisself?" persisted doubtful Peter; "don't you get into no trap, mate."

"The young chap says the stone might be carried by a strong man, but that no one man could get it on his back himself. We are to put it in a bag, and he is to help it on my back. All I have to do then is to carry it a bit away, and wait for him and the trap; when it's in I am done, and he is to give me twenty pounds."

"Jupiter!" exclaimed Peter. "But that's no stone, Dick, it's a corpse as he's murdered he wants you to help him with. Don't yer do it, mate; don't yer do it. We're bad enough, but let we keep clear o' blood."

"No, no, pal; he wouldn't have a corpse in the drawing-room, and you know I wouldn't have anything to do with crooked jobs where there's blood spilled. I can't bear the thought of blood," and again that strange shudder shook the speaker, as it had shaken him before.

"Well, if it's only a common stone it must be a rock to be so heavy. However, you know your way about, Dick, and it's mighty little I can teach you. What are you going to do?"

"Meet the young chap when he calls me, and do what he tells me. If I am able I will carry it to the place he told me of, but I want you to be on hand to give me a lift, Peter. Besides, I should like to have a look at that stone privately, when there's nobody there but you and I."

"Ay, I should like to have a look at that queer stone," replied Peter, sagely. "There's more in it than's on the outside."

This was entirely a chance shot of Peter's, but the reader knows how nearly it hit the mark.

"Well, mate, I must go, I will leave you the grog, and you will meet me, without fail, at two o'clock near the big gates up yonder. You know all about the moon. Many a time you and I lay cold and hungry and watched her, Peter. She rises tonight about half-past one."

"You can trust me, Dick, and I can trust you, though it's not every two pals as can say that of each other. I'll not fail you.

And so they parted, to meet again once more. We must return to Susan, the Mulatto, where Holt had left her to see what arrangements he could make with the new hand about the abstraction of the Greenstone. No sooner had the young man gone out than she was summoned to the presence of her master.

Susan dreaded the interview, but for her darling's sake she summoned all her courage and went into the house. Mr. Hazel was in the drawing-room in a chair that stood near the Greenstone, that was to be the cause and the perpetuator of so much misery, and he was gazing at it, thinking such thoughts of it as no man should ever know. As Susan presented herself he sighed deeply, and bade her sit down.

"I can see that you have been crying, Susan," he began, "and by that know that Holt has asked you the question I told him to ask you."

"He has, sir."

"And you have answered him?"

"Partly, sir."

"Partly? What do you mean, nurse?"

"I told him that he was not your son, but only an adopted child, and I told him no more."

"He does not know that you are his aunt—that your sister was his mother?"

"Is it now in the depth of his disappointment that I should add to my boy's load the knowledge that he has black blood in his vein?" the Mulatto asked, bitterly.

"I think it would be better if you had told him the whole truth, Susan; and when I sent him to you I expected you would have done so. The greatest mistake I ever made was keeping the boy ignorant of his birth, the knowledge might have kept him humble, for Holt's is not the disposition to bear prosperity well. Oh, what a mistake I have made!" and poor Mr. Hazel bowed his head and sighed again.

"You are too hard on him, sir. Why cannot you remember that you were young yourself once?" the Mulatto asked, hotly.

"I do remember it, but I have no youth like Holt's to look back upon. What I wished principally was to know your opinion as to whether your nephew will or will not accept my terms." Susan was angry already, and Mr. Hazel's repudiation of her darling by the words "your nephew," raised the temperature of her tropical blood to boiling heat.

"If you mean about the girl, Holt will never marry her!" she cried.

"You may go, Susan," said Mr. Hazel, firmly, and the woman turned, without reply or curtsy, and went out.

The old gentleman looked the door behind her, and saw that the curtains hung well closed over the windows, then he turned once again to the stone of doom, and lifted the shade from over it. A chandelier, of which only one burner was lit, hung over the Greenstone, and Mr. Hazel had plenty of light for his work. Taking a large chamois leather bag from his pocket, he placed it to suit his purpose, and then drew towards him what seemed to be a small protection of the stone; the result was a stream of gold dust, propelled by its own weight, from the orifice into the bag.

At last the stream ceased, and the bag was heavy. The hole was closed, and another opened on the top. From under: the table Mr. Hazel lifted a bag of small shot, which he carefully poured into the Greenstone, and so filled again the space hitherto occupied by gold. Soon the work was done, the shade replaced, and the good man on his way to his safe with the bag of gold.

"It was the foolish, romantic notion of a boy," he said softly, "and not the wise thought of a man; it might have tempted to sin and crime."

Alas, it had already done so!

Dick waited and listened; not a moment's sleep did he permit himself lest Holt should find him unprepared. At length, the faint glimmer of the rising moon crept through the tops of the bush-trees, and he knew the time had come.

"Are you there, Dick?" came the whisper of Holt.

"All ready, sir."

"Come on, then," and noiselessly the new man followed.

Holt ascended to the verandah, pushed open the French window, and they were in the drawing-room.

"I have been here before, and all is ready," Holt whispered. "We need no light. Put out your hand. That is the stone; lift it off the table if you can. I have the bag ready."

Dick felt around the Greenstone until he had some idea of its shape and size, and then he grasped it with both his hands.

"Can you do it?"

"Easily, sir; it is heavy, but any man could lift it."

Holt's heart thumped hard against his side until they were fairly outside, and the bag containing the stone safely on Dick's shoulders; then he spoke: "Go where I told you, and don't be afraid if I should not be able to join you immediately."

Dick went on, much surprised at the lightness of his burden, after what he had been told of its extraordinary weight. At the appointed spot Peter awaited him, and together they reached the cluster of trees on the green slope of the hill.

"And it's not heavy, after all, Dick?"

"Heavy, but nothing wonderful. Help it down, mate;" and the bag was laid on the grass.

"Take it out, and let's see it; I'm reglar curus," said Peter, as he lit a, small lantern, while Dick pulled the Greenstone partially from the bag.

"Why, some plug or other has come out, and there is shot running out of it in a stream! The stone is filled with shot, Peter!"

"For my sake come away, Dick!" cried cautious Peter. "Maybe there's powder, too, and we'll all be blown up! Come away!"

"You go back, Peter; I hear the cart. I'll go and meet the young chap, and ask him about it."

Dick was not mistaken, Holt was driving, or rather leading, the horse gently up the slope. The moon was now fairly over the tops of the trees, and a pale light made Dick's form visible to the young man.

"What's the matter?" he asked sharply? "What brings you out of cover? Where's the bag?"

"There in the shadow of the trees. I daren't stop near it, when I saw what was in it."

"What!"

"There's shot running out of the stone, sir, and where there's shot, there might be powder; for all I know, it might be an explosion!"

"Shot running out of it? You lie! Stand out of my way, you villain; if you've tricked me you shall pay for it with your life!" Dashing into the shadow, he pounced upon the bag, and dragged it out into the moonlight, and with the strength of unbridled rage, shook the stone out on the grass. As he did so, the loose shot rattled in showers on his feet, and he caught a handful to see what it was. Panting, and with all the dark blood of his Mulatto mother boiling in his veins, he seized a stone at hand and dashed in the top part of the malachite, where Susan had told him the orifice was, and then he saw that the space within was empty, for he could see through to the opening from which the shot had escaped and from which Mr. Hazel had drawn the gold.

"You see I have not lied, sir, the stone was full of shot."

"It was full of gold! You have robbed me, you villain! But by the God that made me, if you don't turn up that gold, I'll shoot you where you stand!"

In the moonlight Holt's dark face seemed ghastly, and the fire of madness gleamed in his eyes. The barrel of a revolver, too, glittered in the moonbeams, and the young man's rigid hand pointed the weapon at Dick's breast.

"I did not take your gold; there was none to take; and life for life, if you shoot me you shall not live!" and a bright knife flashed to the light.

"Will you give up the gold?"

"I have none to give up."

A sharp report and the stagger of a man wounded to the death; a bound forward and a gleam of steel ere the knife was buried in the heart of Holt, the Mulatto. Two men lying prone on the desecrated grass, one dead and the other dying!

MR. HAZEL was restless that night; his kind heart was troubled for the boy he had reared as his own. Perceiving and acknowledging his folly, now that it was too late, he felt that the only chance of reformation was to let the young fellow try to walk unaided in life.

"If he shows any inclination to energy and self-control I can help him," the poor man thought, and then he heard the muffled sound of wheels going out the back entrance.

"It is Holt going without giving me a chance to wish him God speed," he said, as he started from his bed and dressed himself. "It must not be so."

He disturbed no one in letting himself out, and, taking a short way, soon came within view of the horse and trap and the forms of two men behind it. This was the moment that the shot was fired, and that two men fell to the ground.

With a stifled cry of horror, Mr. Hazel ran to find a stranger kneeling by one of the men, and the staring eyeballs of the dead Holt turned up to the heavens he had outraged.

"What has happened? In the name of the most merciful, what has happened?"

"Oh, he is dying, master, and he does not know me! Dick, Dick, speak to your old mate only once more! Years we have been together; Dick, will you leave me like this?"

Mr. Hazel had knelt by the side of dead Holt, and laid his hand over the heart from which the blood was yet gushing. The knife was no longer there, for as Dick fell, his clutch on the handle drew it from the wound it had made. What the unhappy man would have said or done it is impossible to say, for at the instant the wounded man began to murmur strangely familiar words, and Mr. Hazel approached him.

"I wonder what mother will say. We'll catch it, Jim, and it's all your fault, you would take me nutting to Copby woods. But never mind brother, Jim, you're not half so bad as they say; do you remember the thrashing you saved me when I struck Tom Belmore with the ball?"

"Just Heaven, it is my brother Dick!" cried Mr. Hazel, as he knelt down and raised the dying man's head to his knee. "Oh Dick, I am your brother James! Look up my lad, oh, look up, we will save you yet. Run to the house and saddle a horse; go for a doctor at once, my brother must not die!"

"Too late, master, too late, he is going fast!" said Peter, who was fairly sobbing. "Oh, Dick, one last word for poor Peter!"

"Faithful mate!" was the faint murmur. "Don't take my hand, there is blood upon it."

"He never knew it was I," Mr. Hazel said, as he laid the quiet form gently down on the soft grass.

Peter told him all that had happened, and added, "I was a coward, master, and afraid of the powder, and I was too far off until I saw the pistol leveled, then I ran, but I was too late."

It was Mr. Hazel's wish that the two should be buried where they fell; it was he who arranged the stone and planted the trees. He now lives with his Maud and her husband, but a dark-faced woman in never-resigned mourning keeps the old home in order, and it is faithful Peter who attends the "Greenstone Graves."

______________

5: While Jerry Was Away

C. J. Dennis

1876-1938

Punch (Melbourne) 5 Dec 1905

THE POPULAR theory that Cupid attacks with only a tiny bow and darts is not convincing when one considers the size and exceeding toughness of some of his victims. When the small god smote Jerry Daley he must have used a club. Anyhow, he smote effectively, for Jerry was hard hit, and the cause of it all was sweet, ingenuous Kitty Pellew, who lived with her father, the blacksmith of Wirrappila.

Kitty was willing enough, provided Jerry could offer a decent home, and after a brief spell amongst the clouds, the lover came down to earth and counted his capital. He had never thought of saving for a rainy day, or a wedding day, which terms are, to some experienced minds, synonymous. So Jerry sought his lady love and unfolded a plan.

"It may be a year, darlin'," he said, as they swore eternal fidelity by the, slip-rails. "It may be a year, an' it may be longer, but when I do come back, 'tis the two iv us that'll have a grand weddin'. Money I'll make, an' money I'll kapne, an' all for you, me Kithy."

Then Jerry went forth and fell on evil days, for the drought was on the land, and fortunes were elusive. For six months Kitty languished, like the lady in the tower, and then, taking an eminently worldly, if unromantic, view of the situation, accepted the hand and heart and home of William Burrows, the greengrocer.

But William was unfortunate. His choice of profession was fatal, for the skin of one of his own perfidious bananas, three short months after his wedding day, successfully brought about his early demise.

For a whole year the widow Burrows languished again, with a dim sort of hope that Jerry would some day return— plus capital— and consent to overlook her own little slip, seeing that the fatal slip of Mr. Burrows had again given her her freedom. She even rehearsed, in her lonely moments, what she would say Jerry about the foolish girl who fell, in her inexperience, beneath the wiles of a designing greengrocer, yet knowing in her heart that her first love was her only love.

But her meditations were cut short and her outlook on life considerably altered by the intervention of Dugald McDougal. Dugald was not a man of means, a condition due to no fault of his own. He was a frugal, thrifty man, but ill luck had dogged his footsteps, and his latest venture, a barber's shop in Wirrappila, had turned out badly.

At this date Dugald presented one of the world's most pathetic figures, a thrifty man in love. But love laughs at frugal principles, and eventually, before quitting Wirrappila for more hopeful prospects, Dugald proposed. The widow, with a pretty air of complete trustfulness, promised to wait until he could afford to wed, and, with an elation at the success of his suit tempered by a shadowy doubt as to the wisdom if his choice, from a pecuniary point of view, Dugald went forth.

IT WAS two years later, on one of those hot, still, mid-November days, when the heat-shimmer deludes the vision, and the haze plays Will-o'-the-Wisp along the dusty road before the jaded traveller. Southward returned the faithful Dugald McDougal, his fortunes changed at last. Between the intervals of cursing the heat, and road, and the flies, and the sorry nag he rode, he allowed himself to smile as his thoughts dwelt on the little widow of Wirrappila. The town and the widow were fifty miles ahead, and he longed for the end of his journey.

As Dugald rode, deep in mixed meditation, he was startled by a wild "Hurroo" from the rear, and turning he beheld another horseman racing towards him. With his thoughts on bushrangers he felt the roll of notes in the lining of his waistcoat, and shifted his grip on his loaded whip-handle. The newcomer reined beside him and called a cheery "Good-day."

Dugald replied civilly, and noted the stranger's handsome mount with a calculating eye.

"That's a fine bit horse ye ha'e there," he ventured.

"Faith, it is that," replied the cheerful stranger. " 'Twasn't me that was ridin' thoroughbreds four years ago, though. Times is changed and forchune smilin',' as the song ses."

"Aye," said Dugald, and for five minutes they rode in silence.

"Which way is it yeh might be goin'?" enquired the stranger, suddenly.

"Maybe I'm goin' for a few miles this way," said Dugald, cautiously.

"Me, too," was the reply. " 'Tis good to have company, annyway. Wud yeh be goin' as far as Wirrappila?"

"Maybe I am," answered Dugald, still on his guard, "an' maybe I'm not."

"Annyway," said the newcomer, "I'll be company for yeh so far. 'Tis there I'm goin' meself."

With his eyes fixed on his horse's ears Dugald considered this information for a time. Then he ventured a cautious question.

"Maybe yer livin' in this Wirrappila?"

"Faith, I was, and I hope I will be," said the cheerful traveller. " 'Tis four long years since I set fut or eye on the blessed place. But love draws like a porous plaster, as the song goes. Were iver yeh there yerself?"

For a time Dugald feigned to consult his memory.

"Aye. I'm not, as yeh might say, unacquainted with the toon."

"Luk at that now," cried the stranger, delighted. "And maybe yeh heard tell there of Jerry Daley?"

Again Dugald thought hard; this time with genuine interest. Here was food for reflection; possibly need for extra caution. He had often heard the widow speak of her early love, but considered it imprudent to mention the fact just then, so he parried the question.

"And who might be this Jerry Daley?"

The stranger grinned pleasantly.

"Faith, 'tis him yeh see before yeh this minute, an' 'twas no good yeh heard iv him there below, I'll be bound. Jerry the ne'er-do-well it used to be. But 'time has flown an' wild oats sown', as the song goes. 'Tis now Jery the man iv  manes, an' soon it will be Jerry the man iv family. Heigho! Tell me," he asked suddenly, "Did yeh know a girl down there be the name iv Kitty Pellew ?"

For a full minute Dugald argued a fine point with his Scottish conscience. Certainly he had known the lady as Kitty Pellew: still, said his conscience, the Widow Burrows was the same person. Finally he compromised.

"I canna say there was anybudy answerin' to that name when I  was there."

"Thin, 'twas a thrate yeh missed," declared Jerry. "Swate Kitty Pellew is Mrs. Jerry Daley that is to be. Tell me, did nayther yeh know her father, the blacksmith?"

Dugald felt that this was dangerous ground.  The topic must be changed.

"Maybe I did," he answered carelessly. "Where did ye think of stayin' the night ?"

" 'Tis over forty miles to Wirrappila, an' no chance iv makin' it to-day," said Jerry. "The miles is forty-three, bechune me love an' me,' as as the song ses. I think I'll put up at Puddy's pub; 'tis a few miles along the thrack. Will yeh stop there?"

"Maybe I will," replied Dugald, who, having extracted enough to meditate on for quite a while, now sought a means to stop the stranger's questioning.

"Will ye no grive us a wee bit song to pass the time, like?" he asked, insinuatingly.

"Faith, 'tis me that will," responded Jerry, readily: and without further invitation he filled the land, and the air around, and the void  above with strange and awful melody. Jerry's voice was a weird and wonderful tenor of great tune and amazing volume. It defied all climatic conditions and even a thirst of five hours' standing. It rose, and wailed, and wandered over the plain and into the vault above, until every living thing for half-a-mile around, hearing it, trembled, and fled in terror to its lair.

Jerry chose for his selection that melodious and time-honoured Australian ballad "The Colonial Boy," a little composition of  some thirty-nine verses, all of which, with choruses, Jerry sang in as many different keys. A lonely magpie, devouring a silent meal in a distant paddock, heard it, and flew squawking to hills. A hawk, circling lazily overhead, heard it, and, wheeling suddenly, let out for the horizon. On a wayside stump a yellow lizard heard it, and sat in spellbound and open-mouthed astonishment; and when Jerry rose in his stirrups to let a top note loose into the world the very gums and she-oaks on the road seemed to bend before the blast.

Dugald alone rode on oblivious to it all. With eyes fixed unseeingly on the twitching and tortured ears of his own mount, he was deep in thought. Unless he evolved some scheme, and quickly, he knew that there was likely to be trouble for Dugald McDougal. This large and more or less melodious Irishman was his rival. He was handsomer, younger, perhaps richer, and had what looked like a prior claim on the affections of the widow of Wirrappila. Therefore, he must be side-tracked or delayed; but how?

They reached the lonely public-house by night-fall, Dugald still deep in troubled thought, Jerry just finishing the fifth rendering of his famous ballad.

After tea, the travellers sat in the parlour drinking each other's health in Puddy's celebrated and only whisky. As he noted the gesture, telling of Iong practice, with which the Irishman tossed off his drink, a crafty inspiration began to illuminate the mind of Dugald. He ran a calculating eve over the bulky frame, the steady hand and the sober eye of the Irishman, sighed  as he reckoned the expense, and tackled the problem like a man and a desperate lover.

"Hae anither," he invited, with all the cordiality he could command; and, after a few minutes' interval— "Hae anither," he repeated, sighing; again as he parted with the last of his small change, and surreptitiously ripped the lining of  his vest to extract a pound-note from his roll.

As night drew on the conversation flagged, and the two men and smoked in a silence, broken at ten-minute intervals by Dugald's invitation that was rapidly becoming hysterical, "Hae anither."

Jerry, the erstwhile free-handed spendthrift, spent judiciously, paying for an occasional round, but allowing his generous Scotch friend to do most of the entertaining.

"Hae anither," cried Dugald in a strained and unnatural staccato, when his pound-note had dwindled to two half-crowns. "Hae anither!" he almost shrieked in agonised suspense, as he sat, spilling his own precious drunk under the table, and watching for the first signs of insobriety in this terrible whisky-sink of an irishman.

"Hae anither," repeated Dugald, in a voice that was beginning be charged with awesome admiration, as drink after drink disappeared down Jerry's capacious throat, as he sat lost in silent appreciation at the generosity of his  fellow-traveller, pulling contentedly at his short, black pipe, and venturing an occasional, and to Dugald painfulIy lucid, remark anent the weather or the morrow's journey.

"Hae anither," said the desperate Dugald, throwing the last coins of a pound's worth on the table.

"Fill it up, now, fill it up!" he admonished, as as Jerry helped himself to a moderate portion.

Nothing loth, Jerry filled high, and tossing off the drink, smacked his lips  and blinked his eyes, seeming to endeavour vainly to catch an elusive flavour.

With somethin akin to awe in his eyes Dugald watched and waited  for the signs of intoxication that would not come.

"Mon, mon," he whispered at length, his voice choking with emotion. "Are yeh whisky-proof?"

"Me?" said Jerry, startled by the sudden query. "Faith I'm not. But yeh don't call this stuff Whisky, do yeh? Shure 'tis mild as mother's milk— wake as liminade by the stuff I'm used to. Pain-killer an' methylated spirits is what they give yeh where I came frum. Man, there's not a bite or burn in a bottle iv this stuff. Have another wid me now, the doch-an-dhurris!"

But Dugald, with the haggard look of a man who has staked high and lost, shook his head dumbly and fell into gloomy meditation.

"Will yeh be startin' early in th' mornin'?" asked Jerry presently. "I'm not so sure iv the road, an' I'd be glad iv yer company."

But apparently Dugald did not hear. He was thinking desperately. His chances with the widow seemed to be fading away. At length he decided to play his last trump.

"Daley, mon," he said, leaning forward confidentiallv, "I hae deceived ye th' day. I knew the girl we spoke of in Wirrappila, this Kitty Pellew. But she was untrue to ye; she broke her promise with ye, an' married th' greengrocer, Burrows by name. I should a telt ye befure, but I didna wish to hurt yer feelins."

Jerry remained outwardly calm as he digested this information. But if the late-lamented Burrows could read his heart at that moment no doubt he felt extremely grateful to that fatal banana skin.

"I wudn't worry about her Daley," said Dugald solicitously. "I only told ye so as to save ye the trip to Wirrappila. Or course, ye'll no be goin' there now."

For three agonising minutes Dugald waited for the answer.

Then Jerry arose in wrath.

"Not go, is it?" he shouted, thumping the table with a huge fist "Not go?  Be the powers, I will go. And befure I'm tin minyutes in the town I'll have the head iv that miserable little grane-grocer that shtole fer frum me!"

"It canna be done," cried Dugald unguardedly. "The mon's dead."

"Dead? Then she's—"

"Dead against such things," said Dugald hastily. "He wud no fight ye."

For the first time suspicion began to dawn on Jerry's mind.

"See here," he said, threateningly. "What's yer game now? Is the man dead or is he not?"

"He is," admitted Dugald, cornered at last.

"Then she's a widda?" asked Jerry.

"She is," admitted Dugald, grudgingly.

"An' she can marry me after all?" cried the relieved Jerry. At that Dugald threw discretion to the winds.

"She'll not!" he shouted, thumping the table in turn. "By heaven, she'll not! She broke her promise to ye, an' ye have no claim. Dye ye hear? Ye have no claim! 'Tis me she's goin' to marry, for she promised me, an' ye have no claim."

Then the voice of Jerry grew loud in the land, and the voice of Dugald arose in noisy opposition. A bewildering and tangled volume of Gaelic and Irish brogue filled the little public-house, and flowed out on to the dusty, moonlit plain beyond. The startled publican rushed into the room..

"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" he entreated.

With his appearance an inspiration came to the excited Dugald. "We'll arbitrate!" he shouted. "Stop yer noise, ye Irish loon! We'll arbitrate !"

"What d'ye mane?" asked Jerry, sullenly, quietened by the strange proposal.

" 'Tis little use," said Dugald, calmly, "makin' a noise like this. It will get neither of us any further. We have a dispute, and it is better to settle it here an' now, once an' for all. Are ye agreed?"

" I am," said Jerry, " if it can be done."

"Mister Puddy, here," pursued Dugald, "is a J P. an' chairman of the District Council here about. Let him be judge. State yer claim an' I'll do the same, an' then he can decide for us. Mister Puddy, will ye take the chair?"

The Arbitration Court was hastily improvised, much to the delight of the publican, a pompous man, who loved a little brief authority. Into his ears was poured the history of Kitty Pellew.

First, Jerry, with tears in his voice told of his early love; of the fond vows and promises that were exchanged, and of his departure to seek his fortune in the North.

Then Dugald took up the running, dwelt briefly on the story of Kitty's perfidy and her marriage, lightly sketched in the banana-skin incident, and then for nearly an hour, recounted the story of his own courtship. With painful exactness and minuteness of detail he repeated all the sacred promises that had passed between the widow and himself, and wound up with an interesting history of the rise and succcss of Dugald McDougal as a contractor in the far North, adding as a postscript, for the benefit of the court, a casual remark about a weak heart and the danger of a sudden shock or disappointment.

Then the court cleared its throat. Mr. Puddy was a small man with an exceedingly large opinion of himself and his own importance. The position delighted him. He was most impressive in his own small way, and when he talked he closed his eves and wagged his head from side to side, like an inverted pendulum, and spoke with a consequential drawl that he had learned from Muggins, M.L.C., the member for the district.

"Hum, very well," he said when the gist of the evidence had been tendered, and Dugald sat down. "Very well. Now, let us review the heviducce before the court. But before doin' so,  Hi should like to point hout that the court is not, so to speak, based on a proper foundation. There has been a hoversight, gentlemen. It is usual, in these, cases, that the harbitrator should receive some renumer— rammer— hum— that is to say, payment in hadvance, so to speak. Wot do you say to the small sum of one guinea heach. Gentlemen?"

"Right yeh are," said Jerry, promptly tendering the amount. Dugald looked uncomfortable, but, fearing to lose the court's goodwill, handed over his guinea. The court promptly pocketed the fees in a manner truly professional.

"Now, gentlemen," said the arbitrator, "are you goin' to haccept my verdic' as final?"

"We are," agreed the litigants.

"Very well. Now," pursued the arbitrator, "haccordin' to the hevidunce of the first witness an agreement was entered into between him an' a lady, then known as Kitty Pellew. Very well. That agreement was, in a manner of speakin', broken by the lady by her marryin' a certain greengrocer, now deceased. Very good. Now, haccordin' to the hevidunce of the second witness the lady, then known as the Widder Burrows, entered into an agreement with him, which, or which not, she had a right to do haccordin' to law an' equity, as the case may be very well. Now, gentlemen, the question for this court to decide is: Was the first agreement with the witness Daley made null an' void by the lady's marriage, and, hif so, did the agreement again come into hoperation, so to spcik, when the ladv become a widder? Hon the bother 'and, gentlemen, was the widder's first, marriage quamtum sufficum to put Daley out of the runnin' in toto, fer the term of his natural life : or was the agreement ne plus ultra, so to speak? And, if so, does the second agreement entered into with the witness McDougal become tempus fugit, an' stand good haccordin' to law an' equity. It's a knotty point, gentlemen. But before proceedin' further with these few remarks, Hi should just like to say that this court has some privit an' partic'lar hevidunce hup its sleeve which might or might not haffect the hearin' of the case, pro bono publico, as the sayin' is. Will you or will you not haccept the hevidence which Hi have, gentlemen?"

The litigants, who had been listening with strained attention, vainly endeavouring to get an inkling as to which side the court inclined, merely nodded their consent, and the arbitrator continued:

"Very well. Now, gentlemen, this hevidunce which Hi am prepared to swear to on hoath will, I think, have the heffect of enablin' the parties to settle this case out of court without any ill-feelin'. But, first of all, I shall deliver my verdic', which is that neither the witness Daley nor the witness McDougal shall marry the woman known as Kitty Pellew, alias Widder Burrows, Q.E.D."

"Why not?" shouted the surprised litigants in chorus.

"Because," said the court, allowing itself to smile for the first time, "because, haccordin' to the hevidence which this court has up its sleeve, the Widder Burrows, alias Kitty Pellew, an' a certain elderly gent., known to the court as an honourable an' upright gentleman, be the name of Puddy, licensed victualler, on the thirteenth of last month, entered into the holy bonds of matrimony. Gentlemen, when she comes back from the township, which I expect every minute, I shall be happy to hintroduce you to my wife."

"Th' divule!" gasped Jerry, sitting up in astonishment.

Dugald swallowed hard and gazed long and earnestly at the court.

" 'Twas no a bad joke," he said at length, holding out his hand expectantly.

"Joke?" said the arbitrator. "Not a bit of it. I am married to her right enough. Do you want to see the marriage lines?"

"I'm no doubtin' that," said Dugald, with his hand still extended. "I'm no doubtin' that, an' I'm sure I wish ye every prosperity an' happiness. But about th' fees. 'Twas no a bad joke, I'll admit; an' I'll thank ye to return the siller."

"Not much," laughed the arbitrator. "This court don't work for nothin'. But to show there's no ill-feelin' the court will now stand drinks all round. Name yer gargle, gentlemen."

"Gents," said the publican, when the glasses were filled, "here's to Mrs. Puddy."

"Tae the Widow Burrows," said Dugald, accepting the inevitable with a wry smile.

"To Kitty Pellew," said Jerry, with a sigh.

"If I'm not mistaken," said the arbitrator, "that's her buggy wheels I hear outside. Gentlemen, this court now stands adjourned."

________________

6: Fra Benedetto's Medal

Grant Allen

1848-1899

The Cosmopolitan Dec 1900

THE picture progresses, signore; the picture progresses. What delicacy! what insight! what sense of architectural line and harmony! It does not disturb your Worshipful Serenity that an old monk hobbles round to look at it now and again, and to estimate your labors? No? sta bene, then; we have but little to distract us here on our specular hilltop— we, the handful who linger on out of due season, mumbling our aves and swinging our censers, mere pensioners on the charity of King Umberto's government. Strangers? oh, yes, we see strangers and to spare— but strangers, such strangers— them of the red book, forestieri, tourists, respected clients of the esteemed house of Cook, whom we personally conduct round the church, the tower, the monastery, the cloisters— so much of them, that is to say, as has not been turned into profane barracks. Am I sick of piloting them round and pointing out to them in the same words our Perugino, our Buonfigli, the carving of choir-stalls— am I sick of it, ask you? "Observe how beautiful the effect of light on the saint's left shoulder." I lead them round like a flock of sheep every day; and they, well, they stand and stare in the same open-mouthed vacancy, and gaze a bit with heads critically on one side, and pass on with "How interesting! By Perugino! Really?" But the signore's Excellency is an artist; he understands these things. When we see a man who understands, then indeed we know that it is quite different.

A trifle more blue in the shadow there? What think you, Serenity? And the dust on the crockets of that tomb in the recess, where the ray of light from the belfry window slants down, oblique, and gilds it into gold-dust— scarce luminous enough, is it? A bit of a critic? No, no, Most Worshipful, a poor, shambling old monk, rheumatic, toothless, who knows only his beads and his "Path to Paradise": yet— who should be critics if not we at San Pietro? Why, our church, is it not called the Jewel of Perugia? Look at our campanile, that tall and slender spire, a flame blown upward, known in all the country round as the Plume of Umbria! Can we live every day with these aspiring things and not love beauty? Can we look out on our broad view and not note the play of sun and shadow? And when we see you painting these arches and these tombs that we know so well, that we have watched from our stalls in every flickering light, and followed in every line as the blue cloud of incense steals over them, shall we not tell you when we think you have espied the very soul of Mino's garlands of flowers, or missed the meaning of Fra Damiano's many-glancing intarsio work? Aye, by Sant' Ercolano we will; and to swear by Sant' Ercolano, who holds our town in the hollow of his hand, is still in these unbelieving modern days the greatest and most binding of all oaths for a Perugian.

You notice my medal, signore. Yes, many people notice it. It is strange, indeed, to see a Benedictine brother wear a token that is not a religious emblem. But this, mark well, is of the good King Victor Emmanuel— the medal for the helpers in the liberation of Italy. It surprises you that a monk of San Pietro should bear that decoration. Well, it surprises ourselves; some it scandalizes, but still, in spite of the weaker brethren, I bear it. I keep it (heaven forgive me) for pride, pure carnal, earthly pride— pride of the part I bore in freeing Perugia. But no less in saving three gallant gentlemen's lives, which is a work of charity. Ah! those were the brave' days, those. If you can bear with a chattering old brother's garrulity, I will tell you the story. Nay, nay, don't pause. You can go on with your painting, and listen or not as you choose; I will drag a reed chair over here into the cool of the aisle and sit down and maunder on, after an old man's fashion.

Serenity stops, I think, at the Albergo Brufani. A luxurious house, the Albergo Brufani; but at the time I speak of there stood no great hotel there, no brand-new Prefettura, but a huge frowning fortress; Pope Paul the Third's fortress, strong, invincible; built, as the inscription on its front declared, to crush the proud souls of the free Perugians— "Ad coercendam Perusinorum audaciam." It was a colossal fortress, that. As black as night, it stretched from the top of the hill, where Brufani's now stands, right down the long slope, and over the whole Piazza d'Armi, where you see to-day the soldiers and the white oxen. We pulled it down in 1860, these hands themselves helping; if we did wrong, I pray God and our Blessed Lady and all holy saints for forgiveness of my trespass. But did not do wrong, signore, if a poor monk may set up his particular judgment in earthly matters— which differ from questions of faith and morals— against the Holy Father's. These be nice points of casuistry for a doctor to decide, and I am no St. Thomas; but we, who were Benedictine brothers in Perugia in those days, had need to decide them for ourselves; wherefore we acted for the best and made our minds up boldly. Still, you shall hear how the Holy Father himself, against whom we acted, gave judgment on our side. He allowed we had done right. That was the blessed Pio Nono, of course, of ever-revered memory, whom no good Catholic can mention without love and respect— not even we who were driven by his hirelings to rebel against him. For we distinguish between the temporal and the spiritual acts of the Sovereign Pontiff— else what could we say, we moderns of the Borgians and the Farnese? Ebbene, 'twas in 1859 that Perugia grew sick of the Papal government. Grew sick, do I say? it had grown sick long before; but 'twas then that it determined to rise and throw it off in one burst of enthusiasm. All Italy was in a ferment. You remember those great days— Garibaldi, Mazzini, Cavour, il Re Liberatore! The French had swarmed over to help our Sardinians against the Austrians in Lombardy, and had won the battles of Magenta and Solferino. Wild news came daily. Bologna had driven out the Cardinal Legate: Parma, Modena, Reggio, the whole Emilia, was rising. Could Perugia hold back when the entire fatherland was struggling to be free? It surged and heaved like a sea before the storm. Then our people rose in force, and proclaimed their independence. But it was too soon, too soon. Our friends in the north were powerless to help us: Napoleon held back— he feared to touch the States of the Church; and the Holy Father sent his vile Swiss troops to reduce us to subjection. They came, under their Colonel Schmid— Schmid, Schmid, with such execrable Teutonic vocables did the Holy Father surround himself— and they fell upon our defenseless city, so many ravenous wolves, slaying, wounding and plundering. We fought like demons; but the Swiss fought like trained soldiers. So they beat us. As they went through the streets of the city, marching, marching, with fixed bayonets, they cried aloud that their master the Pope had given them orders that none should be spared. We knew that was not true— we, who understood the Holy Father's benevolent disposition; but it helped us little. What does it console one for being run through that those who run you through are exceeding their instructions?

Now we Benedictines of Perugia sided, of course, with the Perugian people. Why do I say "of course," signore? Well, because we were men, because we were Umbrians, because we were Italians. Do you think, in that we were priests, we had ceased to feel with our fellow-citizens, to regret the great days of Perugia's freedom? Ma che, ma che, signore, that is not how we of the proud mountain-tops are built. We were born to be free men. A Pope conquered us once, by force of arms, as an Emperor might have conquered us: Pope or Emperor, we will rebel when we see a chance of reasserting our country's liberty. Priest and layman we will rebel; 'tis the instinct of the proud hearts of the Perugians. Pope Paul was wrong; he never broke our audacity; he kept it in check; that was all; our day arrived, we rose, and let it flare out again.

Oh, a day of terror, when Schmid and his Swiss reéntered Perugia! We had risen too soon; we knew it, and we paid for it. But we fought hard at the gates, we monks with the others, for we were Garibaldians to a man; if his Holiness did not like it, he had nothing but his own officials to blame for it, his officials whom he sent us. Thieves, persecutors, eaves-droppers! Tonsure or no tonsure, I found myself at the Porta San Pietro with the rest of them. Eh, it was bloody work, I can tell you—no rose-water revolution: Schmid's men charging us with their accursed bayonets, we standing up against them with our  improvised arms, what weapons we could make, so many lambs for the slaughter. Presently I looked round and saw that the Pope's troops had cut us off; only four of us left, four, outside the gate, the soldiers pressing forward and occupying the monastery. One of the other three turned to me. He was grimed with fighting, but I saw through the blood and dust it was Signor Antonio Bellucci, a young man of good family, a brave gentleman whom I often saw at San Pietro. White as a ghost he showed beneath his grime. "Well, Fra Benedetto," he cried to me, "we may as well ask your absolution now; all is over but progress; in ten minutes more these Swiss will arrest us and shoot us."

They had closed the gates and it looked like it. All the road behind was closely guarded. But I could not see them massacred—three honest patriots. "There is one chance," I answered. "I can let you into the monastery."'

"How?" They trembled with anxiety. I knew why. They were not cowards, but two of them were betrothed, and the third had married a young wife six weeks before. They were thinking of their donne.

"This way," I said, leading them. "There is a back door here through the thickness of the wall into the campanile of San Pietro." And I led them round by the rear and opened the door with my key, for I had charge of the postern.

We were only just in time. I hustled them into the tower, pushed them up the dark staircase, and opened a panel behind into a cupboard in the organ-loft. Will it please you to come this way'and see it for yourself, signore? Take care where you step— the staircase is dark. Mind that overhanging beam. More than once have I knocked my head against it. This is the cupboard, here. It was built originally to hold the music-books for the organist. But it is dark, as you see; oh, but it is dark, and you will notice this door, how unobtrusive, how unseen, till you know where to open it. They did not intend it to be a secret door, I think; but, being so deep-recessed in the arch, like all the other arches, it retires somehow. I packed them all three in there— Signor Antonio Bellucci and the two others, one a Baglione of the great Baglioni, the other a Donato. Not much room, you will say— ha! ha! ha! no, the accommodation does not equal that which you enjoy at the Albergo Brufani. But when one flies for one's life, you know, per Dio, one is satisfied enough with a very modest bedroom.

I just bundled them in and shut the door, turning the key in the lock, and left them there, crouching. Signor Antonio did not like it. "Here, Fra Benedetto," he cried out, "don't lock us in. Suppose they set fire to the campanile, what will become of us?"

"Ho, ho," I answered, merrily, for I vas flying for my life myself, and nothing makes one merrier than that— the exhilaration, the excitement! "If they burn the tower of San Pietro, the Plume of Umbria, Perugia's Pennon, why should any of us desire to live any longer? What would life be worth without it?" And, chuckling to myself, I left them there, safe, but dark and uncomfortable.

I was only just in time, as I said, for even as I stepped down again into the church, in the gloom of the aisle, whom should I see but Schmid and his myr- midons— Schmid! What a name! You will forgive me, Serenity, if I wound your refined and illustrious ears with that Teutonic barbarism— Schmid, indeed! that the Holy Father should think to surround his sacred chair with Schmids, when Oddi and Donati, Colonne and Barberini, would have been proud to serve him!— whom should Isee but this Schmid creature and his hirelings bursting into the nave, this very nave, this beloved San Pietro, and, regard- less of our blessed patron and of St. Benedict, our founder, ravaging and sacking it as if they had been simply Goths or Vandals, Freemasons and freethinkers. And all in the name of his Holiness. Oh, it was horrible, horrible! There, before my very eyes, among the guttering candles, those wretches rushed into the sacristy— si, si, signore, our revered sacristy where the Peruginos are kept: that very same shrine of art, that most holy sacristy— and with the Abbot looking on and trying to restrain them, looted and carried away our gold and silver ornaments, stole our jeweled flagon of sacred oil, tore our precious and saintly vestments to threads and shreds, and destroyed our manuscripts like so many Attilas. Orders from Rome, in- deed! It made one's blood boil. These men were sheer heathen. Had we not been monks, who never fight (save at need ou barricades in defense of the fatherland), we might have fought then and there for our sacred vessels; and in my humble opinion, signore (mine who am no doctor), God and all saints would have absolved us for so doing. Why, did not our august patron himself, the blessed Apostle Peter, when Malchus the High Priest's servant— what is that you mutter? "They that draw the sword shall perish by the sword !" Verissimo! verissimo! I perceive that your Excellency, though heretical, has read the scripture. But we are all of us men, and to see San Pietro sacked— well, monk or sinner, I own I longed to grasp a good sword in my hand just then, and I would have taken my chance along with the blessed Apostle.

Presently, as we stood trying to defend our chalices and our dalmatics, one of the Swiss looked hard at me. "Ho, Frate," says he, with his gross German accent— you know their voice, signore: brah, brah, brah, to split one's jaw almost. "Ho, Frate," says he, laying a hand on my arm, "were not you too at the gate? Did I not see you laying about you with a club like the best of them?"

Well, what would you have, signore? Not for nothing is this monastery dedicated tothe Prince of the Apostles. I denied, stoutly. "Me," I cried; "a poor brother! What should I know of fighting? I am more learned in plain-song; I lead the choir. If it were Gregorian chants, now—"

He stared at me hard still. "Colonel," he said at last, turning to the Schmid creature, "this monk was outside the Porta San Pietro with those three who fought hardest. I slammed the gate in his face. He must have brought them in and hidden them."

"Is that so?" the Schmid man asked me, roughly. "Have you concealed any fugitives within this monastery?"

Well, I thank the saints and the Blessed Madonna that they gave me strength and countenance that day to lie, boldly; for a lie, in due season, to save three precious lives, is rightly held no sin, but the contrary. Especially to save patriots from a roaring lion of the name of Schmid— of Schmid!— going about and seeking whom he might devour. And those three the friends of Perugia's freedom. So I outstared him back in the face, as innocent as a Paschal lamb, and I said: "Me, signore Colonel; I have been up in the tower all the time, looking out upon you peaceably. I know nothing of this matter. I have charge of the bells. I am a benevolent neutral."

The most reverend Abbot glanced into my eyes. "Is that true, Fra Benedetto?' he asked. But I knew from the tone in which he asked it he meant, had I really been successful in saving three good Perugian patriots from these ravening wolves of Papal soldiers?

So I answered very humbly, "Sì, most reverend Father."

And the Abbot understood, and darted approval into my eyes, for he, too, was a Perugian. Then he turned to the Schmid man. "Fra Benedetto speaks the truth," he said. "You can trust Fra Benedetto."

The Schmid man bowed. "If you say so, venerable Father."

"I could swear 'tis the man," the soldier broke in, dissatisfied.

And the Schmid creature began to smile. "My children," says he, "you are all good hands at swearing." And that they were, Serenity; they swore as I have never heard swearing elsewhere: rough German oaths to curdle your blood, ach's and so's and Himmel's in them innumerable.

Well, lest I weary you, the Schmids and the Sterns and the Baumgartens and the rest of them— the base spawn of Lucerne— took possession of our monastery, and filled it with their High German profanities. They blasphemed in gutturals. We had nothing to do, we poor monks, but in patience to possess our souls, and allow them to possess all else that belonged to us. They swelled about like turkey-cocks. But at night the Abbot came to me, very still and confidential. "Fra Benedetto," he asked, "is it true that you have concealed three brave patriots in this church of ours?"

"Most reverend Father," I said, "it is true— è vero, è verissimo— I have hidden them—"

He cut me short with a wave of his hand, thus. He was a most wise and prudent man, our good Abbot, on whose soul may God and all blessed saints have mercy. "Don't tell me where, Benedetto," he cried; "don't tell me where, I pray you. The less I know of their place of hiding the better. Besides, dear brother, I have not your gift. I lie with difficulty."'

"It is an art, most reverend Father," I answered with humility, "which grows by practice. But on an emergency, even the unskilled like myself may do well at times, by sudden inspiration. "

He smiled a thoughtful smile: 'twas a wise man, our Abbot! "All gifts are useful," he answered, "at their proper moment. This I have not. But what I wish to say to you is somewhat different, my son. I have a patriot of my own concealed in the confessional!"

Well, I laughed aloud. "Most reverend father," I cried, seizing his hand and kissing it, "you are a true son of Perugia."

He colored up a bit. "It is hard for a churchman to know what he should do in these days," he answered, slowly. "One does not want to play false with the Holy See— but how can one betray a fugitive and a suppliant who comes for sanctuary? Still, we must get rid of him, we must get rid of him somehow, for the confessional  is not safe; and besides, can I hear confessions if the fugitive is there? We must smuggle him out of the place, my son Benedetto."

"It is well," I answered, "Padre mio! As he is only one, we might possibly manage it. We have an extra dress in the place, I suppose— a novice's dress. Let us make a monk of him; and then I will go forth with him to buy bread for tomorrow."

All this time, you must remember, Signor Antonio and his friends were doubled up in the dark in that small cupboard, and no help for it!

Well, without more said or done, we made a monk at once of the patriot in the confessional. It was Signor Alessandro Siepi— the serene-looking old gentleman, somewhat stout and rotund, who keeps a bookshop in the Corso nowadays—sì, sì, the same, signore. And a fine monk we made of him. While the Swiss were at dinner after their bloody work— ah, you should have seen their hands, reeking with the red stains of patriots— we crawled into the confessional, on hands and knees, with shaving-tackle and soap and a bowl of hot water. He took the tonsure like a lamb, though he already even then the father of a family. And I shaved his beard, and we had dressed him turned him into a capital Benedictine. When in our robes, you might have defied a hundred Schmids or Sterns or Baumgartens to detect the prisoner. Why, his own wife disclaimed him at first when we took him home that night. He was transformed indeed. St. Benedict would have passed him for one of his own order.

However, I gave him the refuse of the monastery in the tin pails— we used to carry it out so in those days, you know, for the dust-carts to get rid of it— two pails to him and two to me, and with these in our hands we walked past the watchful sentinels at the doorway. Then was seen our wisdom in making the man a monk. The soldier challenged him. "Off with your cowls!" says he, in his insolent Swiss tone, "and let me see if you are tonsured!" We off with them at once; the man growled, and let us pass. I took my gentleman home, after depositing the pails, and then set off to return to the monastery.

As I walked down the Corso, pretending to look unconcerned, whom should I meet, all panting and trembling, but Signorina Fede Guidalotti. I knew her well; was the young lady betrothed to Antonio Bellucci. Beautiful was the young lady. Black hair, black eyebrows, black appealing eyes, a creamy brown skin, such a sensitive mouth, such eager, anxious features. Yes, yes, very true, I am a monk, signore painter, but still I can admire a beautiful woman's face, especially when it has a soul it. And Signorina Fede— you see that Saint Lucy in Buonfigli's picture there?— as pure a soul as that, but more intense, more human, more daring, more passionate. Up she comes to me, clasping her hands downward, so; her very muscles all twitching and quivering. "Eh, Fra Benedetto," she cries, lifting up her great eyes at me, "where is he? where is he?" There was only one He for her in the world, you see. She was absorbed in Signor Antonio.

"Sta tranquilla, figlia mia," I answered ; "I have taken good care of him."

"Where, where, Father?"

"In the tower of San Pietro, my child. But if you whisper a word of it, even to the signora your mother, all is lost. The vile Swiss will shoot him."

She clasped her hands harder than ever till the blood came, almost, where her nails dug in. "But I may come to San Pietro to confess, and to be near him, may I not?"

"You may come," I said, "my daughter; in these dangerous times we all need spiritual guidance; but you must be careful, most careful.'

So I returned alone, dangling my empty pails in my hand, to San Pietro.

At the doorway, once more the soldier challenged me. "Where is the other one?" he asked.

"He buys bread," I answered glibly— you see, I was becoming quite an expert at lies; "presently will he be back again."'

And in I went to the refectory.

Well, later that evening, I took bread and wine, as much as I could easily conceal under my robe, and stole up into the tower. There, I unlocked the cupboard, thrust in the bread and wine, and whispered in a very low voice to my fugitives, "You must manage to lie still; whenever a chance occurs we will do our best to free you."

They didn't like it; oh, no! Who would relish being locked up in a dark hole like that, with soldiers all about, thirsting for one's blood? But it was their only chance, and worldly men will give much for life. They have more to lose in it, I suppose, than we shaven churchmen; besides, the ladies! Iama man, signore; I am a man; I can figure to myself how much a man will dare for his lady's happiness.

Next day, out came a proclamation, in big black letters, triple crown and keys above, signed below by the Cardinal Legate, and the Commandant of the town, the Schmid creature, setting a price upon the heads of the chief rebels, Antonio Bellucci, Vittorio Baglione and Michele Felice Donato; announcing, also, that whoever aided or abetted the escape of the criminals should be shot when taken. Martial law, martial law; we knew where we stood: if we risked our lives, we understood we were risking them. Free pardon and reward to those who should betray their fellows. I was glad I had not told the most reverend Abbot where I had hidden my men. His life at least was safe, and that of the other brethren.

In deep distress Signorina Fede came to me that morning. "Oh, Fra Benedetto, " she cried, "you will not betray them!"

"Betray them, my daughter!" I answered. "Am I not an Italian? Am I not an Umbrian? AmInotaPerugian? Since when did Perugians for thirty pieces of silver betray their brethren who have taken sanctuary within their walls? The men with the jaw-breaking names may shoot me if they will; but never shall a Benedictine give up a fugitive!"

The Dominicans and the Franciscans, signore, the Dominicans and Franciscans were all for currying favor with the Cardinal Legate; but we Benedictines, we have a history and a character to keep up: we have not forgotten the glorious events of the Monte Cassino.

For three days, those poor gentlemen lay close trussed up in their narrow, dark cupboard; and day after day, in fear and trembling, I mounted the staircase and took bread and wine to them. On the second day, the Colonel Schmid ordered a search to be made for suspected persons. I accompanied the searchers. Oh, but my heart went throb, throb, throb, for that poor signorina—for, heaven forgive me, 'twas the girl I thought about, not the three brave gentlemen— as the Pope's men mounted the steps to the organ-loft. They peered here, they peered there; they tried this wall and they tried that: tap, tap, tap; but thanks to the good architect who planned our tower, the Plume of Umbria, they never discovered the cupboard door, although, as I went by it, I could hear the men's breath stop still, then come hard and fast within it. But those Teutonic ears, heaven be praised, heard nothing. What can you expect from men with names like Schmid and Stern and Baumgarten ?

On the morning of the fourth day, Signorina Fede burst in upon me once more. "Oh, dear Fra Benedetto," she said, looking almost as if she would fling her arms around me, "unless he escapes to-day, I shall die of fear and anxiety. I cannot sleep at night for thinking of Antonio shut up in that narrow place among those cruel soldiers. We must let him out somehow. Dear Father, devise it!"

She talked of him all the time, not of them, don't you see? That is love's own selfishness.

"My daughter, " I said, "all earthly love is vanity. Still we must do our best to release a captive."

"Father, " she cried, clasping her hands, "I love him! I love him! I love him! I love him!"

But she was quite right.  I began to see that affairs were growing desperate. my cupboard was no better than an Austrian dungeon. "Let us reflect," said I; and I reflected. Just at that moment, as luck would have it— do I say luck, faithless one? nay, rather the providence of the Divine Will and of our dear Lady— what should sound but the bugle-call for the Sterns and the Adlers and the Baumgartens to receive their weekly pay. Not a man but answered. Trust a Swiss for that! Out they came trooping at the sound of the clarion from all parts of the monastery, all the cloisters that they desecrated with their oaths and their presence, ran, scurried, hastened, formed line in the courtyard there, hungry for pay, stood at attention, alert as beagles, each waiting for his money. I saw they were absorbed in the one pursuit more important to their base souls than even their dinner. Then a wave broke over me. I fell on my knees and prayed. I asked to be helped to save these three patriots' lives from the Schmid and his myrmidons. I asked for strength and courage. Something or some one put it into my heart that, though I were shot for it myself, I must save my fugitives at all hazards. And I knew who put it there, signore, for, mark you, we men are weak, and impulses to save men's lives at the risk of one's own can come to us only from One who gave up His life to save us. I am a poor ignorant, simple old monk, little versed in dialectic; but that I know quite firmly. I prayed for light and obtained it. A radiance from within seemed to flash and illuminate me. I rose from my knees quite brave and calm. "Come on, signorina," I said, seeing my way now, "I shall have need of you." She followed me up the stairs into the tower of San Pietro.

We spoke no words. No words were needed. Oh, but she was quick and understood me. Glancing at her, I took out my knife and cut the ropes of the bells. Stout they were, and hard to hack; but, with patience and good will, I sawed them through gradually. Signorina Fede took them from me as I cut them. Then we went on tiptoe to the cupboard, which I unlocked. "Quick, quick!" I said, low. "Not a moment to be lost. Follow me noiselessly."

Signor Antonio came out first, and just touched his lady's hand. She was brave, oh, but she was brave; she restrained herself well; she did not even attempt to kiss him. She just held his hand and followed me. I led them out this way; will you please to look, signore, if I might disturb your Serenity from your work one moment? You may not have seen that view, and, indeed; for the view alone it is worth the seeing. Exquisite is the prospect. Here, up these worn steps; bend your head a little again as you pass the beam. Now, see, I open this door; it gives direct ou a little balcony. Stand out on the ledge, signore, for hence you may behold the noblest sight in Perugia. Aye, aye, 'tis wide. Sheer down below, the cleft valley of the Tiber; beyond it, white in the sun, Assisi, smoldering on its arcaded hillside; farther off, the jagged Apennines, and away in the distance, clambering up their flanks, innumerable gray towns— Spello, Foligno, Montefalco, Deruta. And, far behind all, the snows of Falterona! "A glorious prospect," you say. Ha! ha! I thought the view alone would repay you! We are proud of that view. Our fellow-citizen, Pinturicchio, used to admire it greatly. 'Tis the background of half Perugino's frescoes.

But 'twas not of the view thinking that morning, I can tell you, with Schmid's mercenaries below us, ready to catch and shoot us all if we failed of our enterprise. That makes the blood come and go, the breath catch quick. Not a word was spoken, all understood silently. Finger on lip, the signorina led the way: her face was bloodless. You see, all knew the spot, and knew that this balcony over- looks the dry ravines outside the city wall, down which a man, who is acquainted with the ground, may skulk unperceived among the brushwood and black cypress hedges, for these are overgrown gorges. I fast- ened the ropes together, so, as well as I could, Signor Baglione helping me, for he had been an officer for some years in the Austrian navy and knew how to tie knots far safer than any I could have devised with my unskilled fingers. Then we secured them to the balustrade of the balcony thus, and hand over hand the first descended. It was Signor Donato. He let himself down, half sliding, and disappeared into the jungle. Next came the Baglione's turn; he went second, and as he went we began to hear a sullen tramp of feet as of the soldiers returning from pay parade. Tramp, tramp, tramp. But we let him down silently. Off he ran into the bush and made for free Bologna and the Garibaldians. Last of all came Antonio Bellucci's chance. He waited till the last, both because he was youngest and swiftest, and also because Signorina Fede held his hand in hers so that he could not disentangle it.

But when his time arrived she acted, as she had acted throughout, like a brave woman and an Italian patriot. She let it drop at once, just whispering, "Now, carissimo, addio!" and with one squeeze of her hand down he slid. We watched and wondered. We heard the tumult of the soldiers running about in the courtyard. What cries! what hubbub! If they caught us now it would be all up with Antonio!.

Yet he slid down in safety, we too were leaning over and watching him with all our eyes. Next moment he had waved his handkerchief and was off into the ravine.

That very same evening, as we learned later, he was safe with the General. What General? Why, Serenity, Garibaldi, of course; in those days, for us Italians, was there more than one General?

As he disappeared, Signorina Fede, unable to restrain herself, flung her arms round my neck and kissed me passionately. It was irregular, yes; but I understood, of course, and— I forgave her.

Trembling with suspense, we descended the tower. At the bottom we found the Swiss soldiers waiting. They had scented mischief and were making another search. As we crept softly down we crept into their open arms. They seized us at once. The signorina held up her head high, haughty, unweeping. She feared for nothing now—her lover had escaped. I saw at a glance, if we were to be shot, we might as well be shot for something as for nothing. "What have you been doing?" asked the guard. I answered boldly, "I have been up in the chamber in the tower with this lady feeding the fugitives who have taken sanctuary with San Pietro."

May God and all the saints forgive me the many lies I told that week! But politics, politics! Without breaking of eggs, no omelette. You cannot confine yourself to the strict truth when you are mixed up in revolutions.

You see, I told them this one in order to make them think that fugitives were still hiding in the tower chamber. That gained them time for escape. If the Sterns and the Baumgartens had known they were flown, they would have scoured the country round, and very likely intercepted them, though our Perugian ravines— well, you have seen them, signore, and you can readily understand that they are easier for natives than for foreigners; especially for Swiss, whom their Maker has made a thick-headed, blundering, slow-moving people.

The Schmid man measured me with his cold blue eyes. "Arrest them," he said, in his brah, brah, brah. And they arrested us.

Then they began overhauling the tower once more. This time, being put on their mettle, they looked closer, but not for half an hour or more did they discover the cupboard. I had locked it and carried away the key, so that even when they found it, 'twas still some time before they could the door open. When they did force pry it apart, expecting to catch their victims, they saw signs of recent habitation, but their birds were flown. Even so, they didn't bethink them at once of the balcony. Slow brains, fat paunches. They concluded we had hidden our men somewhere else in the monastery, since the guard at the door had not seen them pass out.

So once more they searched church, cloisters, everything. We looked on, smiling serenely. At last one of them, quicker than the rest, suggested that they should peal the bells, to try and frighten them. They started to peal— and then, of course, they found the bell-ropes cut. That gave them the clue. They soon hit upon the balcony. There the ropes were still hanging, tied to the balustrade exactly as we left them in our hurry. So now they knew all. They returned to interrogate us.

"I confess, " said the signorina. "I helped to free them."

"And I too," I answered, having nothing now to gain by further lies. "But mark you, I am a priest; the lady acted under my advice as her spiritual director. I urged her to do it as one of the Seven Works of Mercy." I thought that ought to tell with the pontifical government. The Holy Father could hardly sanction the shooting of a woman for having obeyed the spiritual advice of her confessor on a point of morals.

The Schmid man bit his lip. "If I followed my orders," he said curtly, "I should shoot you both. But— thunder-weather!—one cannot shoot in cold blood a monk and a woman. At least," he added with an afterthought, "in the patrimony of St. Peter."

"Make no monk of me," I cried, bridling up at his insolence. "I am a free Perugian. I demand to be shot, in my secular capacity. Spiritually, I am the Holy Father's most obedient son; but temporally— well, the Holy See conquered us and held us fast by right of conquest: surely we may rebel against its temporal rule as against the rule of any other monarchy! I fought like a soldier at the barricades the other day; shoot me now as a soldier, but spare this innocent lamb, who acted wholly and solely on the spiritual advice I gave as priest to her."

The Schmid man held his peace, and walked up and down gloomily, stroking his chin with his fingers. "If I shoot them, I shall be blamed," he said, at last, to his second in command; "and if I refrain from shooting them, I shall be blamed also. But once shot, shot forever; once reprieved, you can shoot again to-morrow. Not shot then is safest. I shall wait for this matter till I have telegraphed to the Vatican for instructions. 'Tis ticklish work being a soldier in a priest's army."

So we were remanded that day. Meanwhile, they scoured the countryside in vain pursuit of our three fugitives. Of course it was useless, once they had got a fair start. Was not all Umbria in league against the Holy Father's government? For the Holy Father himself was a spotless lamb, I grant you; but that cunning fellow Antonelli— politics, politics, politics! The church is one thing: your Richelieus and your Mazarins and your Antonellis; 'tis quite another.

Next day, in came a telegram from the Cardinal Secretary: "Release the girl; she acted under her confessor's mistaken advice; reserve Fra Benedetto for further consideration."

And now, signore, you shall hear indeed how God protects His church, and how the Holy Father, even when he is not speaking ex cathedra on questions of faith or morals, is yet swayed by the gentlest and best of motives. Oh, yes, you shall understand that, though I was a rebel against the Papal Government, I love the Head of the Church, and have been an obedient son of the Roman Pontiff. For, three weeks later, when all was over, and the Swiss— vile paunch-bearing wretches— had evacuated the monastery, we were all summoned to Rome, we Benedictines of San Pietro, to answer for the part we were accused of having borne in the abortive insurrection. The Abbot was fined for his share in the good work, and so was the monastery.

It was a brave scene—chamberlains, prelates, red-robed cardinals, gorgeous bishops in copes of plum-color. There we all stood, in a great hall of the Vatican, with Swiss Guards in cocked hats preserving order, while the Holy Father listened, half yawning, to our explanations and excuses. Last of all came my turn, trembling for my— skin. Everybody thought I should be imprisoned for life by administrative order. For what would a secular ruler have done with me? Why, promptly shot me. I recognize that, signore: I was in open rebellion, and a secular prince would have promptly shot me. Instead of which, what did his Holiness say? He looked at me and deliberated. "Fra Benedetto, is this all true?" he asked, after the Schmid man had told his embellished story. "Did you do this thing?" I looked up and answered: "Holy Father, it is true. I did— God helping me." At that word his Holiness paused again. He smoothed his round cheek— drooping churchman's flesh. At last he turned to Colonel Schmid and the Abbot. "If Fra Benedetto did indeed this thing," he said slowly, with that benign smile— you know it well— on those venerable features, "no doubt it was God who put it into his heart, for he risked his own life to save three fellow-creatures. We must ever respect the promptings of God within us. He took his life in his hands; shall we not restore it to him?"

The Schmid man frowned. He saw how hard it is to be a priest's soldier. But the Holy Father's smile emboldened me to make reply. "Most wise and virtuous Pontiff," I said, bending low, "you have spoken the truth, for before I cut the bell-ropes, I prayed for guidance; and guidance came to me that it was the will of Heaven that I should risk my own life for those three gallant gentlemen."

His Holiness took my hand, and waved me from him. "Fra Benedetto," he said slowly, "go back to thy Perugia in peace. But take part in no revolutions hereafter."'

"Holy Father," I answered, "that will be as God pleases. Still, I thank you for your noble clemency."

So that was all. As for the rest, 'tis soon told. Next spring, the good King Victor Emmanuel sent his General, Manfredo Fanti, to free us from our bondage; and this time, we beat the Swiss, and marched them at last, two by two, without their arms, out of Pope Paul's fortress. Then, oh, then you should have seen Perugia's joy, Perugia's eagerness! In three hours' time, our people had pulled down every single stone of the great black fort; the proud spirit of the Perugians brooked no more repression. Sì, sì, I bore my part with these very hands, signore, I bore my part. We tore down that visible sign of the Holy Father's temporal supremacy in our midst, and abolished forever papal rule in free Perugia.

When the King came to us at last, he made many men cavalieri and commendatori, but at the end of it all he asked, "And now, which is Fra Benedetto?"

"Here am I, Most Exalted Majesty," I answered, much wondering.

And the King pinned a medal on my frock, saying as he pinned it, "This for the bravest man who fought in those days for Perugia's sake and Italian unity!"

But I knew better, knowing I was only a poor weak monk who tried to save three brave gentlemen's lives, and all— may the signore forgive me— for the sake of a lady.

"What reward do you claim, Fra Benedetto?" the King asked from behind his genial big whiskers.

"By Sant' Ercolano," said I, "I desire as reward that when Signor Antonio Bellucci is wedded to the Signorina Guidalotti, this poor brother, though no secular priest, may be allowed to perform the sacrament of marriage."

And it was so.

_______________

7: A Lemon-Tree

"Ouida"

Louise Rame, 1839-1908

Tauchnitz Magazine March 1893

IT WAS a small lemon-tree, not more than forty inches high, growing in its red earthen vase as all lemons are obliged to be grown further north than Rome. There were many thousands and tens of thousands of other such trees in the land; but this one, although so little, was a source of joy and pride to its owner. He had grown it himself from a slender slip cast away on a heap of rubbish, and he had saved his pence up with effort and self-denial to purchase, second-hand, the big pot of ruddy clay in which it grew, now that it had reached its first fruit-bearing prime. It had borne as its first crop seven big, fragrant lemons, hanging from its boughs amidst leaves which were as fresh and green as a meadow in May. He had watched its first buds creep out of the slender twigs, and swell and swell gradually into sharp-pointed little cones, which in their turn became pale yellow fruit, 'fit for a princess,' as he said, patting their primrose-coloured rind. They seemed so many separate miracles to him, coming as by some magic out of the little starry white flowers on the glossy twigs.

He was a poor, ignorant man, by name Dario Baldassino, known as Fringuello (or the Chaffinch) to his neighbourhood and fellow workmen. He lived on the south side of the ferry of Royezano, and dug and carted the river-sand; a rude labour and a thankless, taking the sinew and spirit out of a man, and putting little in return into his pocket. The nave or ferry is a place to please an artist. All the land around on this south side is orchard— great pear-trees and cherry-trees linked together by low-growing vines, and in the spring months making a sea of blossom stretching to the river's edge. The watermills, which were there centuries ago, stand yellow and old, and cluster like beavers' dams upon the water. The noise of the weir is loud, but the song of the nightingale can be heard above it. Looking along westward down the widening, curving stream, above the fruit-trees planted thick as woods, there arise, two miles off, the domes and spires of the city of Florence, backed by the hills, which here take an Alpine look upon them when the sun sets beyond the rounded summits of the more distant Carrara range; and the spurs of the Apennines grow deeply blue with that intense transparent colour which is never seen in northern lands. To the north also lie the mountains, and on the east; and late into May the snow lingers where the day breaks above Vallombrosa and Casentino. All the vale is orchard, broken now and then by some great stone-pine, some walnut or chestnut tree, some church spire with its statue of its saint, some low, red-brown roofs, some grey old granary with open-timbered lofts. It is a serene and sylvan scene— at sunset and at sunrise grand— and the distant city rises on its throne of verdure, seeming transfigured as Dante, exiled, may have seen it in his dreams.

Of all this beauty outspread before his sight Fringuello saw little; his eyes were always set on the sand and shingle into which he drove his heart-shaped spade— all which is the pageant of the painter, the paradise of the poet, but is nothing to the toiler of the soil. The sweat of his fatigue drops down before his eyes, and shuts out from him the scenes amidst which he dwells. For him the weir has no song, the orchard no poem, the mountains no counsel, and the vales no charm. He does but see the cart-rucks in the sand, the house-fly in the sunlight, the coins hard-earned in his horny palm, the straw which covers the coveted wine-flask, or the glass which holds the hot and acid flavours of less natural drinks. Now and then Giotto looks up from his sheepfold, and Robert Burns from his furrow, but it is only once in a century. This poor labourer, Fringuello, lived in two little rooms in a poor house which looked on the weir and the water-mills. He had never been able to have a house of his own, and even the small charge of the rooms was more than he could easily pay, miserable though they were. His employment was intermittent, and in winter, when the river was spread wide over its bed, covering the sand and shingle, it ceased entirely. Some odd jobs he got elsewhere, but nothing certain. He had no knowledge of any other work than the digging and carrying which had been his lot. But he was always merry, with the mirth which had gained him his nickname, and in his light-hearted poverty had done what the poorest always do— he had married at twenty a girl as poor as himself. She was called Lizina, the familiar corruption of Luisa, and was the daughter of a cobbler of the adjacent village of Ripoli.

It was an imprudent union and a foolish one, but it was happier than many which fulfil every condition of prudence and thrift. Lizina was a blithe, buoyant, active, and laborious creature, and whilst she lived he never had a hole in his hempen shirt, or went without a tablespoonful of oil to his beans and bread. They were as merry and happy as if they had really been a pair of chaffinches in a nest in one of the pear-trees. But of joy the gods are envious, whether it go to roost in garret or palace, and in a few brief years Lizina died of fever and left him all alone with one little girl, as like herself as the bud is like the flower.

For months he never sang as he worked, and his ruddy face was pale, and he had long fits of weeping when he lay on his lonely bed, and stared up at the starry skies which were visible through the square, unshuttered window. Lizina was in the ground, in a nameless grave, with two crossed sticks set above it, and the river rolled over the weir, and the wide wheel turned, and the orchards blossomed, and the people laughed on the yellow sand, and no one cared that a little merry, glad, tender, harmless life was done for and over, stamped down into the clay like a crushed butterfly, a broken branch, a rotten fruit, or a dead grasshopper. Nobody cared; and after a time he, too, ceased to care, and began to hum and whistle and carol once more as he worked, and laughed once more at his comrades' jokes as they dug up the heavy sand. In the lives of the poor there is little leisure for sorrow, and toil passes over them like an iron roller over the inequalities of a road, forcing them down into dull indifference, as the roller forces into level nothingness alike the jagged flint and the sprouting grass.

Meanwhile, Lizina, as she was called after her mother, grew up apace like the little lemon-tree which had been planted at her birth, a lovely child like a Correggio cherub, thriving on her dry bed and herb-soup as the lemon plant thrived on the dry earth and uncongenial atmosphere of the attic under the roofs.

Fringuello did his best by both of them, making up to them by tenderness and gentleness what he was forced to refuse to both of material comfort. Both the child and the tree went hungry often, suffered from cold and frost in the sharp, short winters, and languished in the scorching days, when foul odours rose from the naked bed of the shrunken river, and white clouds of little moths hovered over the cracked sand, and the leaves of the orchards grew yellow and wrinkled, and curled up, and dropped in the heat before their time.

All that he could not help; he could not help it more than he could help the shrinking of the river in drought, and the coming of blight to the orchards. Though it went to his soul like a knife-thrust when he saw the child pale and thin, and the lemon-tree sickly and shrunk, he could do nothing. But he murmured always, 'Patience, courage,' as he coaxed the child to eat a morsel of crust, and consoled the tree with a spray of spring-water, and he got them both safely through several burning summers and icy winters, and when they were both sixteen years old the tree was strong and buxom, with glossy foliage and fine fruit, and the child was healthy and handsome, with shining eyes and laughing mouth.

He had worked as hard as any mule for them both, and though a young man in years, he looked an old man from excess of toil, though his heart was light and his smile was like sunshine.

When he got up in the dark to go to his work, and drew his leathern belt about his lean ribs, he always looked at the pale light of dawn as it touched the green leaves of the tree and the closed eyes of the child, and then he muttered an Ave, content and thankful at heart. Many would have thought the hardness of his lot excuse enough for suicide; he never knew what it was not to feel tired, he never knew what it was to have a coin in his pocket for pleasure. His bones ached, and the gnawing of rheumatism was in his nerves, from the many hours spent knee-deep in water or damp sand, and always at the pit of his stomach was that other still worse gnawing of perpetual insufficiency of food. But he was content and grateful to his fate, as the birds are, though they hunger and thirst, and every man's hand is against them.

The child and the tree were indissolubly united in his mind and memory. They had grown up together, and seemed part and parcel of each other. Imagination scarcely exists in the brains of the poor; they do not know what it is. The perpetual grind of daily want leaves no space for or possibility of impersonal fancy in it; but, in a vague kind of superstitious way, he associated the well-being of the one with the welfare of the other. If the tree sickened and drooped for a day, he always looked nervously at Lizina to see if she ailed anything also. If the little girl coughed or grew hot with fever, he always watched anxiously the leaves of the lemon. It was a talisman and fetish to him; and when he came up from the river at evening when his work was done, he looked upward always to see the green boughs of the tree at the square little window of his garret under the deep eaves, and above an archway of old brown-red brick.

If it had been missing at the window, he would have told himself that Lizina was dead. There was no likelihood that it would ever be missing there. Lemon-trees live long, and this one would, he knew, most likely outlive himself if he kept it from worm and fly, and rot and mildew. Nevertheless, he always glanced upward to make sure that it was there when he toiled up the strip of road which led to his home when his work in the sand was done. Lizina herself did not wait at the window. She always came jumping and dancing down the path, her auburn curls flying, and her big brown eyes sparkling; barefooted, ill-clad, scarcely fed, but happy and healthy, singing at the top of her voice as her father had always done in his youth.

When they reached their fifteenth birthday, neither she nor the lemon-tree had ever ailed anything worse than a passing chill from a frosty week, or a transient sickness from a sultry drought.

The lemon-tree had given her the few little gifts she had ever received. The pence brought in by its fruit were always laid out for her: cake at Christmas, sugar-egg at Easter, a white ribbon for her first Communion, a pair of shoes to wear on high feasts and holy days— these little joys, few and far between, had all come to her from the copper pieces gained by the pale, wrinkled, fragrant fruit sold at five centimes each in the village or the town. 'Soldi della Lizinanina,' said her father whenever he put any so gained in his trousers pocket.

Well as he loved his pipe, and thankful as he was when he could get a drink of watered wine, he never touched a halfpenny of the lemon money to buy a pinch of tobacco or a glass of mezzo-vino. It was all saved up carefully for his little girl's small wants. Sometimes in hard seasons it had even to go in bread for her, but of that bread he would never himself take a mouthful. Moreover, the pence were few, for the lemons were not many.

Lizina remained quite a child, though she grew fast, and her little round breasts swelled up high and firm where the rough hempen shift cut across them. Young as she was, the eyes of an admirer had fallen upon her, and young Cecco, the son of Lillo, the contadino where the big pine stood (a pine three hundred years old if one), had said to her father and to her that when he had served out his time in the army he should say something serious about it; but Fringuello had answered him ungraciously that he could never give her bridal clothes or bridal linen, so that she would needs die a maid, and his own people had told him roughly that when he should have served his time he would be in a different mind. But Cecco, nevertheless, thought nothing would please him ever so well as this ragged, pretty child with her blowing cloud of short, crisp bright curls, and he said to her one evening as she sat on the wall by the ferry, 'If you will be patient, my Lizinanina, I will be true;' and Lizina, too young to be serious, but amused and triumphant, laughed gaily and saucily, and replied to him: 'I will make no promises, Cecco. You will come back with a shorn pate and soft hands and tender soles to your feet.'

For the soldier seems but a poor creature to the children of the soil, and is, indeed, of but little use when the barracks vomit him out of their jaws and send him back to his home, a poor, indifferent trooper, but also a spoiled peasant; having learned to write indeed, but having forgotten how to handle a spade, drive a plough, or prune a grape-vine, and to whose feet, once hard and firm as leather, the once familiar earth with its stones and thorns and sticks seems rough and sharp and painful, after having marched in ill-fitting boots for three years along smooth roads and paven streets.

TO THE city lad and lass the conscript may seem somebody very fine; but to the country ones he seems but a mere popinjay, only useful to waste powder. Lizina, although only a river labourer's daughter, was country born and bred, and had the prejudices and preferences of the country, and had run about under the orchard boughs and down the vineyards of the countryside till she thought as a peasant and spoke as one.

Cecco was mortified, but he shared her views of the life to which he was about to go. He was useful now to tame a steer, to milk a heifer, to fell a tree, to mow a meadow, to reap a field, to get up in the dark and drive the colt into the city with a load of straw and bring back a load of manure. But in the barracks he would be nothing— worse than nothing; a poor numb-skull, strapped up in stiff clothes with a pack on his back, and a musket, which he must fire at nothing, on his shoulder.

'Wait for me, Lizina,' he said sadly. 'The time will soon pass, and I will come back and marry you, despite them all.'

'Pooh! I shall have married a man with a mint of money by the time they let you come back,' said the unkind child, saucily tossing the curls out of her eyes; but through her long lashes her glance rested a moment softly on the ruddy face of Cecco, which had looked down on her so often through the boughs and twigs of the cherry or pear trees of his father's farm, as he threw down fruit into her outstretched and eager little hands where she stood in the grass of the orchard.

She said nothing more tender then, being coy and wayward and hard to please, as became her incipient womanhood; but before she went to bed that night she came close to her father's side and put her hand on his.

'Cecco says he will come back and marry me, babbo,' she said, with a child's directness. Her father stroked her curls.

'That is a joke, dear; his people would never let him marry a little penniless chit like you.'

Lizina shook her head sagely with a little proud smile.

'He will not mind his people. He will do it— if I wish— when he comes back.'

Her father looked at her in amazement; in his eyes she was a little child still.

'Why, baby, you speak like a woman!' he said stupidly. 'I am glad this lad goes away, as he puts such nonsense into your head.'

'But if we both wish, you would not mind, babbo?' she asked, persistent and serious.

'The angels save us! She speaks like a grown woman!' cried her father. 'My poor little dear,' he thought sadly, 'you will never be able to wed anyone. We are poor! so poor! I can never give you even a set of shifts. Who could go to a house so naked— in rags, as one may say? My poor little angel, you must live a maid or go to a husband as beggared as I.'

He wished to say all this, but the words choked him in his throat. It seemed so cruel to set before the child the harsh, mean demands of life, the merciless rules and habits of that narrow world of theirs, which was bounded by the river and the sand on one side, and the cornfields and orchards on the other.

'Let be, let be,' he said to himself. 'She is but a child, and the youth is going away for years; if it please her to think of this thing, it can hurt no one. He will forget, and she will forget.'

So he patted her pretty brown cheek, and drew her closer and kissed her.

'You are but a baby, my treasure,' he said softly. 'Put these grave thoughts out of your head. Many moons will wax and wane before Cecco will be free again to come to his old home. The future can take care of itself. I will say neither yea nor nay. We will see what the years will bring forth.'

'But you would not mind?' she murmured coaxingly.

The tears started to his eyes.

'Ah! God knows, dear, how sweet it would be to me!'

He thought of his little girl safe and happy for her lifetime in that pleasant and plentiful household under the red-brown roofs where the big pine grew amongst the pear and cherry trees. The vision of it was beautiful and impossible. It hurt him to look on it, as the sun dazzles the eyes at noon.

'But put it out of your head— out of your head, little one!' he said. 'Even if the boy should keep of the same mind, never would Lillo consent.'

'Cecco will keep in the same mind,' said Lizina, with the serene undoubting certainty of childhood, and she broke off a little twig of the lemon-tree, with a bud upon it and three leaves, and gave it to Cecco that evening in the dusk as they sat again upon the river-wall. It was all she had to give, except her little waking heart.

The next day he went away along the dusty high-road in his father's cart to begin his new life. He sobbed as if his heart would break, and fastened in his shirt was the lemon shoot.

'To break off a bud! Oh, Lizina!' cried her father, in reproof and reproach. 'A bud means a fruit, and a fruit means a halfpenny, perhaps a penny.'

'It is only one,' said the child; 'and I have nothing else.'

Lizina did not speak of him, nor did she seem to fret in any way. Her blithe voice rang in clear carol over the green river water, as she sat on the wall whilst her father worked below, and she ate her dry bread with healthy and happy appetite.

'She is only a baby. She has forgotten the boy already,' thought her father, half disappointed, half relieved, whilst he broke up the earth about the roots of the lemon-tree, and counted the little pointed fruits coming out on it, green as malachite, and promising a fair crop.

No letters could arrive to stimulate her memory, for Cecco could scarcely scrawl his name, and Lizina could not read her A B C. Absence to the poor is a complete rupture, an absolute blank, over which the intelligence can throw no bridge.

Fringuello worked early and late, worked like a willing mule, and lost no chance of doing anything, however hard, which could bring in a centime; and he was so tired when night fell that he could do little except swallow his bread-soup and fling himself down on his bed of dry leaves thrust into an old sack. So that as long as Lizina's voice was heard in song, and her little bare feet ran busily to and fro, he noticed nothing else, and was content, believing all was well with her.

The winter which followed on Cecco's departure to his military service was of unusual rigour for the vale of Arno; the waters were stormy and dark, and the fields were frozen and brown, and snow lay on the long lines of the mountains from their summit to their base. But the lemon-tree flourished before its narrow window, and Lizina was well and gay in the cold little brick-floored, plaster-walled, unceiled garret; and her father asked nothing more of Fate, and went out to his work in the bitter coldness and darkness of the morning dawns with an empty stomach but a warm heart, leaving her sleeping, easily and dreamlessly, curled up like a little dormouse in her corner of the room.

THE winter passed and the spring came, making all the orchard lands once more become seas of white flowers, and setting the chaffinches and linnets and nightingales to work at their nests amongst the lovely labyrinth of bursting blossom; and one sunlit afternoon, towards the close of April, the village priest, coming along the road by the river, saw Fringuello, who was backing his sand-cart into the bed of the now shallow stream, and beckoned to him. The priest had an open letter in his hand, and his plump, smooth olive face was sad.

'Dario,' he said gravely, 'I have some terrible news in this paper. Lillo's son, Cecco, is dead. I have to go and tell the family. The authorities have written to me.'

He stopped suddenly, surprised by the effect which his news had on his hearer.

'Saints protect us, how you look!' he cried. 'One would think you were the lad's father!'

'Is it sure? Is it true?' stammered Fringuello.

'Ay, ay, it is true and sure enough. The authorities write to me,' answered the vicar, with some pride. 'Poor lad! Poor, good, pretty lad! They sent him to the Marenna marshes, and the ague and fever got on him, and he died in the fort a week ago. And only to think that this time last year he was bringing me armfuls of blooming cherry boughs for the altar at Easter-day! And now dead and buried. Good lack! Far away from all his friends, poor lad! The decrees of heaven are inscrutable, but it is of course for the best.'

He crossed himself and went on his way.

Fringuello doffed his cap mechanically, and crossed himself also, and rested against the shaft of his cart with his face leaning on his hands. His hope was struck down into nothingness; the future had no longer a smile. Though he had told himself, and them, that children were fickle and unstable, and that nothing was less likely than that the lad would come back in the same mind, he had nevertheless clung to and cherished the idea of such a fate for his little daughter with a tenacity of which he had been unconscious until his air castle was scattered to the winds by the words of the priest. The boy was dead; and never would Lizina go to dwell in peace and plenty at the old farmhouse by the great pine.

'It was too good to be. Patience!' he said to himself, with a groan, as he lifted his head and bade the mule between the shafts move onward. His job had to be done; his load had to be carried; he had no leisure to sit down alone with his regret.

'And it is worse for Lillo than it is for me,' he said to himself, with an unselfish thought for the lad's father.

He looked up at the little window of his own attic which he could see afar off; the lemon-tree was visible, and beside it the little brown head of Lizina as she sat sewing.

'Perhaps she will not care; I hope she will not care,' he thought.

He longed to go and tell her himself lest she should hear it from some gossip, but he could not leave his work. Yet, he could not bear the child to learn it first from the careless chattering of neighbouring gossips.

When he had discharged the load he carried, he fastened the mule to a post by the water-side, and said to a fellow-carter, 'Will you watch him a moment whilst I run home?' and on the man's assenting he flew with lightning speed along the road and up the staircase of his house.

Lizina dropped her sewing in amazement as he burst into the room and stood on the threshold with a look which frightened her.

She ran to him quickly.

'Babbo! Babbo! What is the matter?' she cried to him. Then, before he could answer, she said timidly, under her breath, 'Is anything wrong— with Cecco?'

Then Fringuello turned his head away and wept aloud.

He had hoped the child had forgotten. He knew now that she had remembered only too well. All through the year which had gone by since the departure of the youth she had been as happy as a field-mouse undisturbed in the wheat. The grain was not ripe yet for her, but she was sure that it would be, and that her harvest would be plenteous. She had always been sure, quite sure, that Cecco would come back; and now, in an instant, she understood that he was dead.

Lizina said little then or at any time; but the little gay life of her changed, grew dull, seemed to shrink into itself and wither up as a flower will when a worm is at its root. She had been so sure that Cecco would return!

'She is so young; soon it will not matter to her,' her father told himself.

But the months went by and the seasons, and she did not recover her bloom, her mirth, her elasticity; her small face was always grave and pale. She went about her work in the same way, and was docile, and industrious, and uncomplaining, but something was wrong with her. She did not laugh, she did not sing; she seldom even spoke unless she was spoken to first. He tried to persuade himself that there was no change in her, but he knew that he tried to feed himself on falsehood. He might as well have thought his lemon-tree unaltered if he had found it withered up by fire.

ii

ONCE Lizina said to her father, 'Could one walk there?'

'Where, dear? Where?'

'Where they have put Cecco,' she answered, knowing nothing of distances or measurements or the meaning of travel or change of place.

She had never been farther than across the ferry to the other bank of the river.

Her father threw up his hands in despair.

'Lord! my treasure! why it is miles and miles and miles away! I don't know rightly even where— some place where the sun goes down.'

And her idea of walking thither seemed to him so stupefying, so amazing, so incredible, that he stared at her timorously, afraid that her brain was going wrong. He had never gone anywhere in all his life.

'Oh, my pretty, what should we do, you and I, in a strange place?' moaned Fringuello, weeping with fear at the thought of change and with grief at the worn, fevered face lifted up to his. 'Never have I stirred from here since I was born, nor you. To move to and fro— that is for well-to-do folks, not for us; and when you are so ill, my poor little one, that you can scarcely stand on your feet— if you were to die on the way—'

'I shall not die on the way,' said the child firmly.

'But I know nought of the way,' he cried wildly and piteously. 'Never was I in one of those strings of fire-led waggons, nor was ever any one of my people that ever I heard tell of. How should we ever get there, you and I? I know not even rightly what place it is.'

'I know,' said Lizina; and she took a crumpled scrap of paper out of the breast of her worn and frayed cotton frock. It bore the name of the seashore town where Cecco had died. She had got the priest to write it down for her. 'If we show this all along as we go people will put us right until we reach the place,' she said, with that quiet persistency which was so new in her. 'Ask how one can get there,' she persisted, and wound her arm about his throat, and laid her cheek against his in her old caressing way.

'You are mad, little one— quite mad!' said Fringuello, aghast and affrighted; and he begged the priest to come and see her.

The priest did come, but said sorrowfully to him:

'Were I you, I would take her down to one of the hospitals in the town; she is ill.'

He did so. He had been in the town but a few times in his whole life; she never. It was now wintry weather; the roads were wet, the winds were cold; the child coughed as she walked and shivered in her scanty and too thin clothes. The wise men at the hospital looked at her hastily among a crowd of sick people, and said some unintelligible words, and scrawled something on a piece of paper— a medicine, as it proved— which cost to buy more than a day of a sand carter's wage.

'Has she really any illness?' he asked, with wild, imploring eyes, of the chemist who made up the medicine.

'Oh no— a mere nothing,' said the man in answer; but thought as he spoke: 'The doctors might spare the poor devil's money. When the blood is all water like that there is nothing to be done; the life just goes out like a wind-blown candle.' 'Get her good wine; butcher's meat; plenty of nourishing food,' he added, reflecting that while there is youth there is hope.

The father groaned aloud, as he laid down the coins which were the price of the medicine. Wine! Meat! Nourishment! They might as well have bidden him feed her on powdered pearls and melted gold. They got home that day footsore and wet through; he made a little fire of boughs and vine-branches, and, for the first time ever since it had been planted, he forgot to look at the lemon-tree.

'You are not ill, my Lizinanina?' he said eagerly. 'The chemist told me it was nothing.'

'Oh no, it is nothing,' said the child; and she spoke cheerfully and tried to control the cough which shook her from head to foot.

Tears rolled down her father's cheeks and fell on to the smouldering heather, which he set all right. Wine! Meat! Nourishment! The three vain words rang through his head all night. They might as well have bade him set her on a golden throne and call the stars down from their spheres to circle round her.

'My poor little baby!' he thought; 'never did she have a finger ache, or a winter chill, or an hour's discomfort, or a moment's pain in mind or body until now!'

The child wasted and sickened visibly day by day. Her father looked to see the lemon-tree waste and sicken also; but it flourished still, a green, fresh, happy thing, though growing in a place so poor. A superstitious, silly notion took possession of him, begotten by his nervous terrors for his child, and by the mental weakness which came of physical want. He fancied the lemon-tree hurt the child, and drew nourishment and strength away from her. Perhaps in the night, in some mysterious way— who knew how? He grew stupid and feverish, working so hardly all day on hardly more than a crust, and not sleeping at night through his fears for Lizina. Everything seemed to him cruel, wicked, unintelligible. Why had the State taken away the boy who was so contented and useful where he was born? Why had the strange, confined, wearisome life amongst the marshlands killed him? Why was he himself without even means to get decent food? Why, after working hard all these years, could he have no peace? Must he even lose the one little creature he had? The harshness and injustice of it all disturbed his brain and weighed upon his soul. He sank into a sullen silence; he was in the mood when good men turn bad, and burn, pillage, slay— not because they are wicked or unkind by nature, but because they are mad from misery.

But she was so young, and had been always so strong, he thought; this would pass before long, and she would be herself again— brisk, brown, agile, mirthful, singing at the top of her voice as she ran through the lines of the cherry-trees. He denied himself everything to get her food, and left himself scarce enough to keep the spark of life in him. He sold even his one better suit of clothes and his one pair of boots; but she had no appetite, and perceiving his sacrifice, took it so piteously to heart that it made her worse.

The neighbours were good-natured and brought now an egg, now a fruit, now a loaf for Lizina; but they could not bring her appetite, and were offended and chilled by her lassitude, her apparent ignorance of their good intentions, and her indifference to their gifts.

Some suggested this nostrum, others that; some urged religious pilgrimages, and some herbs, and some charms, and some spoke of a wise woman, who, if you crossed her hand with silver, could relieve you of any evil if she would. But amidst the multitude of counsellors, Lizina only grew thinner and thinner, paler and paler, all her youth seeming slowly to wane and die out of her.

Her little sick heart was set obstinately on what her father had told her was impossible.

None of Cecco's own people thought of going to the place where he died. He was dead, and there was an end to it; even his mother, although she wept for him, did not dream of throwing away good money in a silly and useless journey to the place where he had been put in the ground.

Only the little girl, who had laughed at him and flouted him as they sat on the wall by the river, did think of it constantly, tenaciously, silently. It seemed to her horrible to leave him all alone in some unfamiliar, desolate place, where no step was ever heard of any whom he had ever known. She said nothing of it, for she saw that even her father did not understand; but she brooded over the thought of it constantly, turning to and fro in her mind the little she had ever known or heard of the manner and means by which people transported themselves from place to place. There were many, of course, in the village who could have told her how others travelled, but she was too shy to speak of the matter even to the old man of the ferry, in whose boat, when it was moored to a poula driven in the sand, she had spent many an hour of playtime. She had always been a babbling, communicative, merry child, chattering like a starling or a swift, until now. Now she spoke rarely, and never of the thing of which her heart was full.

One day her father looked from her pinched, wan face to the bright green leaves of the flourishing lemon-tree, and muttered an oath.

'Day and night, for as many years as you are old, I have taken care of that tree, and sheltered it and fed it; and now it alone is fair to see and strong, whilst you— verily, oh verily, Lizina, I could find it in my heart to take a billhook and hew it down for its cruelty in being glad and full of vigour, whilst you pinch and fade, day by day, before my sight!'

Lizina shook her head, and looked at the tree which had been the companion of her fifteen years of life.

'It's a good tree, babbo!' she said gently. 'Think how much it has given us; how many things you bought me with the lemon money! Oh! it is very good; do not ever say a word against it; but— but— if you are in anger with it, there is a thing which you might do. You have always kept the money which it brought for me?'

'Surely, dear. I have always thought it yours,' he answered, wondering where her thoughts were tending.

'Then— then,' said Lizina timidly, 'if it be as mine really, and you see it no more with pleasure in its place there, will you sell it, and with the price of it take me to where Cecco lies?'

Her eyes were intensely wistful; her cheeks grew momentarily red in her eagerness; she put both hands to her chest and tried to stop the cough which began to choke her words. Her father stared, incredulous that he could hear aright.

'Sell the tree?' he asked stupidly.

Not in his uttermost needs had the idea of selling it come to him. He held it in a superstitious awe.

'Since you say it is mine,' said the child. 'It would sell well. It is strong and beautiful and bears good fruit. You could take me down where the sun sets and the sea is— where Cecco lies in the grass.'

'Good Lord!' said Fringuello, with a moan.

It seemed to him that the sorrow for her lost sweetheart had turned the child's brain.

'Do, father— do!' she urged, her thin brown lips trembling with anxiety and with the sense of her own powerlessness to move unless he would consent.

Her father hid his face in his hands; he felt helpless before her stronger will. She would force him to do what she desired, he knew; and he trembled, for he had neither knowledge nor means to make such a journey as this would be to the marshlands in the west, where Cecco lay.

'And the tree— the tree!' he muttered.

He had seen the tree so long by that little square window, it was part of his life and hers. The thought of its sale terrified him as if he were going to sell some human friend into bondage.

'There is no other way,' said Lizina sadly.

She, too, was loth to sell the tree, but they had nothing else to sell; and the intense selfishness of a fixed idea possessed her to the exclusion of all other feeling.

Then the cough shook her once more from head to foot, and a little froth of blood came to her lips.

Lizina, in the double cruelty of her childhood and of her ill-health, was merciless to her father, and to the tree which had been her companion so long. She was possessed by the egotism of sorrow. She was a little thing, now enfeebled and broken by long nights without sleep and long days without food, and her heart was set on this one idea, which she did not reveal— that she would die down there, and that then they would put her in the same ground with him. This was her idea.

In the night she got up noiselessly, whilst her father was for awhile sunk in the deep sleep which comes after hard manual toil, and came up to the lemon-tree and leaned her cheek against its earthen vase.

'I am sorry to send you away, dearie,' she said to it; 'but there is no other way to go to him.'

She felt as if it must understand and must feel wounded. Then she broke off a little branch— a small one with a few flowers on it.

'That is for him,' she said to it.

And she stood there sleepily with the moonlight pouring in on her and the lemon-tree through the little square hole of the window.

When she got back to her bed she was chilled to the bone, and she stuffed the rough sacking of her coverture between her teeth to stop the coughing, which might wake her father. She had put the little branch of her lemon into the broken pitcher which stood by her at night to slake her thirst.

'Sell it, babbo, quick, quick!' she said in the morning.

She was afraid her strength would not last for the journey, but she did not say so. She tried to seem cheerful. He thought her better.

'Sell it to-day— quick, quick!' she cried feverishly; and she knew that she was cruel and ungrateful, but she persisted in her cruelty and ingratitude.

Her father, in despair, yielded.

It seemed to him as if he were cutting the throat of a friend. Then he approached the tree to carry it away. He had called in one of his fellow-carters to help to move it, for it was too heavy for one man. With difficulty it was forced through the narrow, low door and down the steep stair, its leaves brushing the walls with a sighing sound, and its earthen jar grinding on the stone of the steps. Lizina watched it go without a sigh, without a tear. Her eyes were dry and shining; her little body was quivering; her face was red and pale in quick, uneven changes.

'It goes where it will be better than with us,' said Fringuello, in a vague apology to it, as he lifted it out of the entrance of the house.

He had sold it to a gardener in a villa near at hand.

'Oh yes, it will be better off,' he said feverishly, in the doubtful yet aggressive tone of one who argues that which he knows is not true. 'With rich people instead of poor; out in a fine garden half the year, and in a beautiful airy wooden house all winter. Oh yes, it will be much better off. Now it has grown so big it was choked where it stood in my little place; no light, no air, no sun, nothing which it wanted. It will be much better off where it goes; it will have rich, new earth and every sort of care.'

'It has done well enough with you,' said his comrade carelessly, as he helped to shove the vase on to the hand-cart.

'Yes, yes,' said Fringuello impatiently, 'but it will do better where it goes. It has grown too big for a room. It would starve with me.'

'Well, it is your own business,' said the other man.

'Yes, it is his own business,' said the neighbours, who were standing to see it borne away as if it were some rare spectacle. 'But the tree was always there; and the money you get will go,' they added, in their collective wisdom.

He took up the handles of the little cart and placed the yoke of cord over his shoulders, and began to drag it away. He bent his head down very low so that the people should not see the tears which were running down his cheeks.

When he came back to his home he carried its price in his hands— thirty francs in three paper notes. He held them out to Lizina.

'All is well with it; it is to stand in a beautiful place, close to falling water, half in shade, half in sun, as it likes best. Oh, all is well with it, dear! do not be afraid.' Then his voice failed him, and he sobbed aloud.

The child took the money. She had a little bundle in her hand, and she had put on the only pair of shoes she possessed.

'Clean yourself, father, and come— come quickly,' she said in a little hard, dry, panting voice.

'Oh wait, wait, my angel!' he cried piteously through his sobs.

I cannot wait,' said the child, 'not a minute, not a minute. Clean yourself and come.'

In an hour's time they were in the train. The child did everything— found the railway-station, asked the way, paid their fares, took their seats, pushing her father hither and thither as if he were a blind man. He was dumb with terror and regret; he resisted nothing. Having sold the tree, there seemed to him nothing left for him to do. Lizina obeyed him no more— she commanded.

People turned to look after this little sick girl with death written on her face, who spoke and moved with such feverish decision, and dragged after her this thin dumb man, her small lean hand shut with nervous force upon his own. All the way she ate nothing; she only drank thirstily of water whenever the train stopped.

The novelty and strangeness of the transit, the crowd, and haste, and noise, the unfamiliar scenes, the pressure of unknown people, and the stare of unknown eyes— all which was so bewildering and terrible to her father, had no effect upon her. All she thought of was to get to the place of which the name was written on the scrap of paper which she had shown at the ticket-office, and which she continued to show mutely to anyone who spoke to her. It said everything to her; she thought it must say everything to everyone else.

Nothing could alarm her or arrest her attention. Her whole mind was set on her goal.

'Your little lady is very ill!' said more than one in a crowded railway-waggon, where they jammed one on to another, thick as herrings in a barrel.

'Ay, ay, she is very ill,' he answered stupidly; and they did not know whether he was unfeeling or daft. He was dizzy and sick with the unwonted motion of the train, the choking dust, the giddy landscape which seemed to run past him, earth and sky together; but on Lizina they made no impression, except that she coughed almost incessantly. She seemed to ail nothing and to perceive nothing. He was seized with a panic of dread lest they should be taken in some wrong direction, even out of the world altogether; dreaded fire, accident, death, treachery; felt himself caught up by strong, invisible hands, and whirled away, the powers of heaven or hell alone knew where. His awful fear grew on him every moment greater and greater; and he would have given his soul to be back safe on the sand of the river at his home.

But Lizina neither showed nor felt any fear whatever.

The journey took the whole day and part of the ensuing night; for the slow cheap train by which they travelled gave way to others, passed hours motionless, thrust aside and forgotten, and paused at every little station on the road. They suffered from hunger and thirst, and heat and draught, and fatigue and contusion, as the poor cattle suffered in the trucks beside them. But the child did not seem to feel either exhaustion or pain, or to want anything except to be there— to be there. The towns, the mountains, the sea, the coast, all so strange and wonderful to untravelled eyes, had no wonder for her. She only wanted to get beyond them, to where it was that Cecco lay. Every now and then she opened her bundle and looked at the little twig of the lemon-tree.

Alarmed at her aspect, and the racking cough, their companions shrank away from them as far as the crowding of the waggon allowed of, and they were left unquestioned and undisturbed, whilst the day wore on and the sun went down into the sea and the evening deepened into night.

It was dawn when they were told to descend; they had reached their destination— a dull, sun-baked, fever-stricken little port, with the salt water on one side of it, and the machia and marsh on the other.

Lizina got down from the train, holding her little bundle in one hand and in the other her father's wrist. Their limbs were bruised, aching, trembling, their spines felt broken, their heads seemed like empty bladders, in which their brains went round and round; but she did not faint or fall— she went straight onward as though the place was familiar to her.

Close to the desolate, sand-strewn station there was a fort of decaying yellow stone, high walls with loopholes, mounds of sand with sea-thistle and bryony growing in them; before these was the blue water, and a long stone wall running far out into the water. To the iron rings in it a few fisher boats were moored by their cables. The sun was rising over the inland wilderness, where wild boars and buffalo dwelt under impenetrable thickets. Lizina led her father by the hand past the fortifications to a little desolate church with crumbling belfry, where she knew the burial-ground must be. There were four lime-washed walls, with a black iron door, through the bars of which the graves within and the rank grass around them could be seen. The gate was locked; the child sat down on a stone before it and waited. She motioned to her father to do the same. He was like a poor steer landed after a long voyage in which he has neither eaten nor drank, but has been bruised, buffeted, thrown to and fro, galled, stunned, tormented. They waited, as she wished, in the cool dust of the breaking day. The bell above in the church steeple was tolling for the first Mass.

In a little while a sacristan came out of the presbytery near the church, and began to turn a great rusty key in the church door. He saw the two sitting there by the graveyard, and looking at them over his shoulder, said to them, 'You are strangers— what would you?'

Lizina rose and answered him: 'Will you open to me? I come to see my Cecco, who lies here. I have something to give him.'

The sacristan looked at her father.

'Cecco?' he repeated, in a doubtful tone.

'A lad of Royezzano, a soldier who died here,' said Fringuello, hoarsely and faintly, for his throat was parched and swollen, and his head swam. 'He and my child were playmates. Canst tell us, good man, where his grave is made?'

The sacristan paused, standing before the leathern curtain of the church porch, trying to remember. Save for soldiers and the fisher folk, there was no one who either lived or died there; his mind went back over the winter and autumn months, to the last summer, in which the marsh fever and the pestilential drought had made many sicken and some die in the fort and in the town.

'Cecco? Cecco?' he said doubtfully. 'A Tuscan lad? A conscript? Ay, I do recall him now. He got the tertian fever and died in barracks. His reverence wrote about him to his family. Yes, I remember. There were three soldier lads died last year, all in the summer. There are three crosses where they lie. I put them there; his is the one nearest the wall. Yes, you can go in; I have the key.'

He stepped across the road and unlocked the gate. He looked wonderingly on Lizina as he did so. 'Poor little one!' he muttered, in compassion. 'How small, how ill, to come so far!'

Neither she nor her father seemed to hear him. The child pressed through the aperture as soon as the door was drawn ajar, and Fringuello followed her. The burial-ground was small and crowded, covered with rank grass, and here and there sea-lavender was growing. The sacristan led them to a spot by the western wall where there were three rude crosses made of unbarked sticks nailed across one another. The rank grass was growing amongst the clods of sun-baked yellow clay; the high white wall rose behind the crossed sticks; the sun beat down on the place: there was nothing else.

The sacristan motioned to the cross nearest the wall, and then went back to the church, being in haste, as it was late for matins. Lizina stood by the two poor rude sticks, once branches of the hazel, which were all that marked the grave of Cecco.

Her father, uncovering his head, fell on his knees.

The child's face was illuminated with a strange and holy rapture. She kissed the lemon bough which she held in her hand, and then laid it gently down upon the grass and clay under the wall.

'I have remembered, dear,' she said softly, and knelt on the ground and joined her hands in prayer. Then the weakness of her body overcame the strength of her spirit; she leaned forward lower and lower until her face was bowed over the yellow grass. 'I came to lie with you,' she said under her breath; and then her lips parted more widely with a choking sigh, the blood gushed from her mouth, and in a few minutes she was dead.

They laid her there in the clay and the sand and the tussocks of grass, and her father went back alone to his native place and empty room.

ONE DAY on the river-bank a man said to him:

'It is odd, but that lemon-tree which you sold to my master never did well; it died within the week— a fine, strong, fresh young tree. Were there worms at its root, think you, or did the change to the open air kill it?'

Fringuello, who had always had a scared, wild, dazed look on his face since he returned from the sea-coast, looked at the speaker stupidly, not with any wonder, but like one who hears what he has long known but only imperfectly understands.

'It knew Lizina was dead,' he said simply; and then thrust his spade into the sand and dug.

He would never smile nor sing any more, nor any more know any joys of life; but he still worked on from that habit which is the tyrant and saviour of the poor.

_________________

8: The Green Bowl

Sarah Orne Jewett

1849-1909

New York Herald Nov 3 1902

'I AM A PERSON who has always cherished a prejudice against crossing the sea, and I have made up for it handsomely by taking many journeys on land here at home. Some of the dearest of these have also been the shortest. I have had an unbroken custom these many years, of going away for a week's driving up the country in late September or early October, and just before I came here I had an adventure for the first time. And that little green bowl on the table there is to me a dear and valued memento of it.'

'Do you mean that you go through the country quite, quite alone,' asked Mrs Crosdyck, a majestic-looking elderly lady, with some reproach in her voice.

'A coachman and a footman would spoil my joys altogether,' acknowledged Miss Montague with decision. 'There is only one way to do it; one must have a good companion and an excellent horse, a light buggy, and almost no baggage at all. One must wear a shirt-waist and a corduroy skirt and jacket, she must have a dressing kit of the most frugal sort, no silver boxes or dressing-table tools or any tea gowns allowed! One may provide a very little good tea for emergencies, and a small box of biscuit, and a nubbin of chocolate or some decent raisins. Yes, and one needs a good golf cape in case of rain,' the traveller insisted eagerly, as if the serious duty of selection had suddenly arrived. 'But the most important things are the horse and companion!'

'And then, my dear child,' asked the disapproving lady, 'do you mean to say that you really go driving off to strange places, quite, quite alone? Have you no fear of tramps?'

'None whatever,' answered the story-teller with a fire of enthusiasm for which the guests were unprepared. 'I might be the only living descendant of Robin Hood himself: besides, I don't go alone; Miss Kent always almost goes with me. My only sorrow is that I can't go gypsying afoot and be a tramp myself. Should you really like to know about our last year's excursion?'

'You would hardly think, to look at my companion now, that she was fit for adventuring,' resumed the speaker after a warm response. 'You see Miss Frances Kent sitting there, gowned in white, with rare old pink topaz ornaments? (I speak as the society newspaper.) I now show you the celebrated Miss Frances Kent, ladies and gentlemen, known as the best of companions for such a journey. She is ever thankful for "the key of the fields" like myself, and we are going again this year, gowned in well-worn corduroy, and with happy hearts, to see what else we can of the world. The only thing that troubles us is that we have to take so many clumsy things for the horse, and they make the buggy quite uncomfortable, but we mind nothing when we are really out upon the road.'

'Where do you go?' asked an awestricken voice.

'Oh anywhere,' replied Miss Montague with the utmost cheerfulness. 'Sometimes northeast and sometimes north-west, as the case may be. The country taverns are much better since the days of bicycling⁵¹ came in. We start off boldly and just say that we are going up the country and then let fate or fortune choose the way. Last year we had been to see an old village, high on the shoulders of the mountains, which I had always wished to visit. We were on our way home, as safe as dolls in a nursery when we had our little adventure and got the green bowl.'

The audience politely waited for the story.

'Rain is a great enemy to the primitive traveller and to lose one's way is exciting, but not really dangerous,' the speaker explained. 'We also wish that there was a useful society for the maintenance of sign-boards. We were hurrying toward home that day, and lost our way because we could find no sign-boards at all, though we poked about with a stick in the raspberry bushes at the fork of the roads and thought we had found what was left of the sign-post, and then were obliged to let the horse himself select the way home, and he struck into a road that carried us many miles through the woods. Instead of leading us the way we expected, this road at last seemed to take a turn back toward the hills again. The bushes grew closer against the wheels, and after we had passed some rough wood-roads by which timber had been hauled out in the winter, the signs of travel were so slight that we feared that we were for the first time likely to spend a night in an impromptu camp. I confess that it was a little too late in the season for that, and it was so near the end of the day that we were sorry to think of going all the way back. Frances, there, began to be timid and even reproachful, she had insisted from the first that we should have taken the other road, and was pleased to blame me when our mistake was all the fault of the horse.'

'You haven't said that it was already growing dark and that the clouds were of a threatening hue,' broke in Miss Kent. 'It looked like a black rainy night; I expected every minute that we should come to a deserted clearing or a ruined logging camp; for at last the road itself seemed hard to find, there were bushes in it by that time as well as alongside and your ignorant horse stopped still in his tracks!'

'Yes, and then we heard a cock crowing,' Miss Montague interrupted her scornfully, 'and we went on again directly; we should have been all right if it hadn't been for the rain. I like that horse myself and I think that I shall take him again this year. Then we hurried on toward the farm which could not be far away. The voice of poultry usually means not only a hen-coop but a barn and a house, and we began to laugh at each other and I whipped the horse because it was just beginning to rain. It was not long before we were out of the woods but there was no hen-coop to be seen, much less a house or barn. There was indeed a piece of open country but it was all pasture land, and we thought that the cock's crow was only a ghost of a bird and sat and looked at each other. Beyond the empty pastures the road plunged into the woods again.'

'And then you said, "This is what we have always wanted, Frances; this is really an adventure!"' said Miss Kent laughing, but one of the elder ladies gave a groan of dismay.

'It was raining fast and the light was fast going. I began to wonder if there was anything better to do than to drive under a thick pine tree and pull out the rubber lap-robe and put it over our knees and sit still all night in the buggy,' continued the narrator, making the most of the situation. 'But we really had heard the encouraging rooster; I suppose now that some track led through that pasture to a farmhouse hidden behind the woods. The horse knew more than we did, perhaps he heard some sounds of life that we couldn't hear, for he began to trot along cheerfully as fast as he could go and pretty soon we had passed through those black hemlock woods that lay beyond the pastures and came out to the open world where we saw a funny little church steeple not far away.

'Now, the very morning before this, we had passed another church and I had told Frances, when I saw the long row of open sheds where the horses were left during service time, that ever since I could remember I had thought what fun it would be to drive under such a shelter and keep oneself dry and safe if a shower came up, and that never yet had the shower and the sheds and I all been in the same place at the same time. That was enough to say, the interfering fates had listened to me; my opportunity had arrived; and I fairly whirled in out of the steady rain, thankful enough to get under cover.'

'Isn't it the strangest thing in the world!' interrupted Mrs Crosdyck with enthusiasm, 'if you say that you haven't had a headache for a year, you simply do remind the fates to send you one; the careful Germans knock under the table to drive such evil spirits away, but we take no proper precautions here in America, we really are too self-sufficient!'

The hostess looked relieved and even triumphant.

'Go on my dear Katie!' Mrs Goddard urged the traveller with a contented smile.

'Oh yes, the fates had not only taken heed of me, but they seemed to have provided rain and sheds enough to make up for all lacks of either in my whole history,' said Miss Montague. 'The only trouble was that there was so little of me. It must have been a large parish, though one could see no houses the line of sheds looked as long as a cavalry barrack, and the rain was a drowning rain. Frances was now more sulky than can be described, though she had been complaining through the whole week's drive of too much dust, and I looked across the road at the church spire and the vane pointed northeast in the most determined fashion, by this time it was quite half-past five o'clock. We had passed one little dark low-storied house that looked quite deserted, but I had seen no barn beside it, it was no use to go back, we should be wet through. We sat there in the buggy and looked at each other in despair. You were very decent in your behaviour Frances! though very glum indeed!' she exclaimed, at which tribute of respect the company laughed aloud.

'What did you do?' demanded Mrs Crosdyck. 'What an awful situation for two young ladies!'

'And a hungry horse!' added a merciful masculine with an amused smile. 'I should have advised driving as fast as you could through the rain until you found shelter, there must have been good farmhouses not far beyond.'

Miss Montague laughed a little. 'If you had only seen how it poured and how dark it was growing!' she answered modestly, 'and we might have gone a mile or even two, and Frances here was already wet and shivering. "Get out my dear!" said I affectionately "and jump up and down a little to warm you, I'll run across to the church!" and I did not wait for argument but caught up my skirts and ran. I was ready to pound in the door by the time I got to it, but it quietly opened as if it had heard good preaching, and knew its duty; and in the entry I saw that there was a nice pile of pine wood, and I even observed in my extremity, a tin match-box on the ledge of the rough wainscotting. All I wanted was the stove, and that was just beyond, at the back of the pews. I hadn't consciously thought about the cold while we were driving, but I now knew that I was shivering myself. So I just stopped and made a fire in that good old box-stove, then and there. I may have used a few leaves of a tattered hymn-book for kindling, I really can't say, and the smoke puffed out at me so that I thought I should be forever blind, but in two minutes I had a good fire going.'

There was a murmur of admiration from the audience.

'Then I ran across the road again, meaning to send Frances over to the church to get dry and warm while I drove on alone to find a good place where we could be housed for the night; you must know that Frances had been ill the winter before, and her lungs were still considered to be delicate. I was going to run no risks; but when I got back she was fairly beaming with joy, I could see her eyes shine though it was almost dark under the sheds. "Look here," said she, "here's a fine pile of hay in the next cubby but one! I suppose some farmer has a horse that won't stand quietly without refreshments, or someone may have been at work about the church and brought it." "Don't let's search for reasons," said I; the dear child had already brought an armful of hay, though I had always thought she knew nothing about horses, and had even let the check rein down, and old Bob was munching away as comfortably as possible. So I told Frances about the fire in the church and sent her across to sit beside it, and made up my mind to stay all night just where we were. I unharnessed old Bob and put on his blanket and halter, and led him through to the stall where the hay was, and pulled the buggy farther in out of the wet, and spread out the rug we had had over us and put all our things into it, and then I splashed over again to the little church. You certainly never heard such a rain, it drummed louder than ever on the roof, and I was as wet as I could be.'

'We thought it must be the equinoctial storm,' said Miss Frances Kent laughing a little. 'Your poor hat, Katie! It had been trimmed with nice ostrich feathers, and when I saw you coming in at the door with your great load, and those feathers dripping into your eyes, you were truly a most forlorn object.'

'Of what importance were our looks!' demanded Miss Montague with royal scorn. 'You may not believe it, any of you who are listening to me, but we had a most charming evening together, Frances and I, after we got dry. The church was not cold, it had been sunshiny weather, rather hot for the season, all that week, and the pine-wood fire soon made us only too warm. We had a little of our luncheon left and we ate it thankfully, with the aforesaid nubbin of chocolate for dessert. Of course there were plenty of kerosene lamps in the meeting-house, and we lighted two or three of them and made our corner quite gay. There was a little organ in the singing seats that wasn't half bad; a very nice tone it had; and Frances played upon it (contented, sober things), that she remembered, and sang a good deal, dear girl, and made it very pleasant for me, though I don't know much about music; then we got sleepy and looked about for two pews with good cushions. It was a nice old church with decent wide pews that made us very comfortable. We just locked the church door to keep out burglars, and laid ourselves down in our two pews and went to sleep!'

'It was a great bit of fun,' insisted Miss Kent, protesting a little at the mingled amusement and horror of the company. 'We really had a delightful evening, but you must tell them now about our breakfast, Katie dear.'

'I was just waking up in wonder,' said the story-teller. 'I did really feel a little stiff and lame that next morning, but it was not an equinoctial rain at all; the sunshine was pouring in through the big windows, and I always did like to sleep in a bright room. It was half-past five by the church clock; old Bob was whinnying and there was somebody knocking very loud at the meeting-house door. I was not startled, but I was half provoked, because whoever it was kept up such an incessant knocking and calling. I got there as quick as I could, but Frances was still sound asleep, like a stupid baby, in her pew. I opened the door and there stood the most dear kind-looking old woman that you ever saw, with a face of such anxiety that I couldn't help laughing as I looked at her.'

' "You poor dear young creatur's!" ' she said, ' "be you alive this morning? I see you drive by in that drowning rain, and I run out and called after you to come in, but I couldn't make you hear. I expected you'd go right on to Duffy's folks, but 'tis a mile an' a quarter further, and then I watched an' I didn't see ye pass up the hill right out beyond here, and so I knowed you'd been discreet and drove into the sheds. It was pourin' so I couldn't do nothin'; my health ain't sufficient to risk a wetting, but I did feel anxious, and 'twant half an hour afore I see you'd got safe into the meetin'-house, an' lit the lamps, an' I set down then an' felt easy, an' says to myself the Lord will provide; they looked like very competent girls an' they can easy make 'em a nice fire. I'd been over early in the morning, a-sweeping out the pews, an' 'twas I that had left the door unlocked, meanin' to go back if it hadn't come on to rain so. I keep the keys; they call me the deacon, some on 'em in the parish! Now I want you to come right along home with me; I laid awake in the night considerable and I see when you put the lights out nice an' careful, an' I says; now what I can do for them strangers is to give 'em a nice hot breakfast!"

'Frances had got herself well waked up and put together by that time, and came out with her most cordial manners, and we all three helped to put the church to rights. Mrs Patton looked anxiously about to see if we had done any mischief, but we hadn't, and she found the church broom, and swept neatly about the stove for us as I had meant to do myself. We put some money into the contribution box, and then we went off up the road with the good little old soul. It was a perfectly enchanting morning, old Bob was still munching away at his pile of hay, and he called after us most sociably. Mrs Patton said that we could bring him a pail of water when we came back from breakfast.'

'Well, and how did you fare, my dear?' asked Mrs Crosdyck again, a little incredulous.

'It was the very best breakfast we had ever eaten in our lives, you know that we hadn't in the least over-eaten at supper,' said Miss Kent, eagerly taking up the thread of discourse. 'By this time it was only six o'clock, but Mrs Patton had made everything ready that she could before she came over. We ate and ate, and we laughed and laughed, the dear little old woman was so droll and her house was one of those warm little brown country houses that are full of welcome and homely comfort. I believe there wasn't a bit of paint in it except on her pretty green kitchen chairs. She had some good old pictures on the wall too, prints of Bible subjects mostly, and a splendid, coloured one of the Pirate's Bride. Her garden was full of phlox and tiger-lilies then, but it had been a lovely garden all the season; she said that she always put the Sunday flowers on the pulpit desk in summer. As for the green bowl, it was standing on a side-table between the windows in the kitchen, with three yellow apples in it, and I said what a beauty it was, and Katie praised it too, you can see it for yourselves!'

Miss Montague had stopped suddenly in mid-course. She had been gayly recounting this simple adventure of a rainy day, but almost with the first entrance of a figure with so wet a rustic landscape, her manner had entirely changed.

'One always knows when one sees a real friend for the first time,' she said gravely. 'Frances and I took Mrs Patton to our lonely hearts at that first moment.'

'You ought to call this "The Tale of a Lonely Parish", only Mr Marion Crawford thought of the title first, laughed Mrs Goddard. 'I can imagine your two faces in the doorway; I am sure that you looked apprehensive, both of you, and tired and hungry too!'

'I shall never forget how Mrs Patton trotted ahead of us down the road towards her house,' laughed Miss Kent. 'She was talking as fast as she could over her shoulder all the way, and her cat had come with her and kept close by her skirts. The horse was whinnying after us like a whole circus, poor old Bob feared that he might be forgotten, and altogether we made a great excitement.'

'I should have rung the church bell for help,' announced Mrs Crosdyck, with an air of being the only resourceful member of the company.

'There wasn't any bell,' retorted the girl, 'and nobody who listens to me need think that we were frightened for one moment. I should like to know what there was to frighten one in such a peaceful, honest, little corner of the world as that.'

'And then you saw the bowl,' Mrs Crosdyck suggested impatiently.

'Yes, all the time we were at the table I kept stealing glances at the green bowl. It was on the other table between the front windows. It was behind Frances and so she couldn't see it as well as I.'

'I had seen it,' answered Miss Kent, 'and I knew very well what you were looking at.'

'It is not an unusual thing to see so good a piece of china in a little house like that,' explained Mrs Goddard. 'Nearly all the best things in my collection have come out of just such houses. There was a time when they were not much valued, but twenty years have made an entire change. After those of us who began to make collections, came a deluge of mercenary collectors, who canvassed the neighbourhood of all the old seaport towns. There is little to be found now, but the former owners of old china, and French and English pottery, have become well educated in the real values of old plates and bowls, that they once gladly sold for a quarter of a dollar.'

'Mrs Patton was begging us to eat more of everything on her dear little square table,' Miss Montague went on. 'Somebody asked me if we had pie a few minutes ago, and I would not answer him because the question was not asked in the right spirit, but I now say that we did have an apple pie such as I have never eaten before or since. It made a sort of dessert to our breakfast, instead of berries or any other stewed fruit. For my own part,' and she challenged the whole company with great spirit, 'I never had any sympathy with those who can accept an inelegant, dull English tart without protest, and then smile at a New England pie. They do not see that the pie is a highly developed English tart made fit for Christian food and attractive to the epicure. Imagination has worked upon it, the higher education of women has spiritualised its grosser form. The English tart is nothing but a pie without a soul. If I described the creation that we ate for breakfast at Mrs Patton's!–'

'Oh, but we aren't as hungry as you were then!' cried someone. The listeners were in the best of humour now, especially Mrs Crosdyck, but she proved to have at least one wish still unsatisfied.

'Your travels are very interesting, my dear,' she said loftily, 'but I should like to hear a real story. I am really curious about that green bowl.'

'So were we!' agreed Katie pleasantly. 'Presently, when there was a pause, I asked a question: you see that we first had to tell all about ourselves, and hear all about each other, and give proper time to the preliminaries of so true a friendship; then I frankly asked Mrs Patton where she got that beautiful little green bowl.'

'She laughed aloud in the oddest way before she answered me. "Funny how everybody that comes to this house asks me that question!" she said. "Won't you have just one more piece of pie, dears?" and then she laughed again!

' "There's two of them little green bowls! My great aunt gave them to me. She said she must have owned 'em full fifty years; they were given to her just after she was married, by a brother of her husband's that was a sailor, a wild sort of fellow that fetched 'em home from China. They look as if they were plain green from here, but when you hold 'em in the light you see a pattern underneath."

' " 'Twan't the aunt that brought me up; 'twas still another. I was left an orphan when I was a baby, and I'd every reason to be a lonesome person, but 'twan't my nature."'

'That's just the way she talked– oh Katie, you've got it exactly!' interrupted Frances Kent, with delight.

' "No dears, 'twas my other aunt," Miss Montague went on reporting, as if she had not been interrupted at all. "My Aunt Mally, that was the doctor's wife's mother over to Jopham Corners. They went off down to Meriden where he thought he saw a great opening for practice, but aunt said she was too old to change, I don't know but they were glad; 'twas her own house at the Corners and there were times when she made 'em feel it. One o' them two green bowls was always on the mantlepiece in her own room, and folks were always proposing that she should put it on the parlour mantlepiece where 'twould show, but she never consented. She had that bowl and a little Samuel, and a bunch of feather flowers under a bell-glass, between them. When I was a little girl and went to see her, she used to take a cent out of one of them bowls and give it to me, real pleasant, and when I was grown up she used to offer me a hoarhound drop. Aunt and me was always good friends!"' and Katie and Mrs Goddard were seen by all the company to smile at each other.

'I asked Mrs Patton if her aunt had been dead a good while, and she said it was forty years.'

Said Frances Kent, 'Somehow one feels as if so few things had ever happened and as if everything were so tremendously interesting.'

'I began to have a strange feeling about the little green bowl myself,' acknowledged Katie, speaking in a low voice. 'You see that when we had got up from the table I noticed that Mrs Patton kept looking at it as if it was somehow in her mind. We helped her clear away the breakfast things, and when we had been in the house an hour one felt as if it had been a week. After awhile she took me by the sleeve when Frances was putting away some plates in the cupboard (somehow one always knew just where everything went), and she whispered to me, "I expect there's some sort of charm about that bowl!"

'I wasn't going to have dear Frances left out of any pleasure!' said the speaker, 'and I called to her at once and asked her. "Did you hear what Mrs Patton says? There is a charm about the green bowl!" But Mrs Patton looked a little disturbed.

'"I can't tell it to but one, dear," she said, and her cheeks grew quite scarlet. "Aunt never told it to anybody but me." Oh I assure you it was quite exciting!'

'I knew there must be a story!' said Mrs Crosdyck complacently, and she smoothed down her satin dress as if she wore an invisible apron.

'Somehow the whole thing was mysterious,' said Frances Kent, slowly. 'First we lost the road and then we heard the rooster crowing and could see no house, and then we spent the night in the church, and this strange little old woman came to the door in the morning, and we seemed to know all about each other before we had been together for five minutes, and now we had had that wonderful breakfast, and it was all exactly as if the green bowl had something to do with it; we were all thinking of it from the first minute we had entered her door! I was ready to burst with curiosity, and I said: Oh do tell us! But she grew still more scarlet and confused and caught up a water pail from its little bench, and ran away to the well to fill it.'

'Did you say there were two bowls?' asked Mrs Goddard, smiling a little in spite of herself.

'We never saw but one,' answered Katie. 'Now don't interrupt me anymore, Frances, if you please! You know that – '

'I don't know anything,' retorted Miss Kent, with some spirit. 'I begin to believe that I never shall! I have always insisted that you might tell me what Mrs Patton told you!'

All this time the green bowl stood in plain sight. There was a handful of pansies in it which did not hide its lovely outlines or its deep rich colour. All the members of the house party were looking at the strange old piece of eastern ware with constantly increasing curiosity. The fire had sprung afresh on the hearth and a reflection of it twirled and glowed on the bowl. Everybody's attention was centred upon this thing of which hardly anyone had been in the least conscious an hour before. It had taken on a strange importance.

'You see it was the one really valuable and beautiful thing in that little house. It shone like a jewel on its table between the windows in the sun that morning,' Katie went on. 'You can't help wondering about the past experiences of a thing like that,' and she looked at the bowl with a sort of apprehensive interest. 'The sailor and the old aunt and Mrs Patton make but a short chapter of its long history; it is a very old bowl indeed!'

'But the charm?' asked someone eagerly. 'Did Mrs Patton tell you the secret? Were there really two bowls— and one held a curse and the other a blessing?'

'They were for the cents and the hoarhound drops?' suggested an eager listener. But the young narrators looked at each other with odd intentness across the room and did not laugh at all.

'We had to wait there for a while,' Miss Montague went on. 'Mrs Patton had been watching all breakfast time for a messenger and finally saw a boy from the nearest house, the one behind the woods where we had heard the cock crow, and sent him for old Bob with orders for plenty of oats and water and to rub him down and keep him until called for. This was at about half-past eight so that Bob was not really suffering. We kept thinking that he would come, but it proved later that the wheels had wanted oiling and that the good woman had dried our blankets and everything. Mrs Patton looked more and more cheerful and said that she wished that we had no choice but to spend the day with her and our loss of time was her gain. We said that she must let us help her if we stayed, and what was she going to do if we had not been there? Finally she confessed that she had some beans that she was in a hurry to pick over for market, and send off, that day or the next, whenever they were called for, and we sat down together as if we had always been work-mates.'

'Wasn't it the cosiest thing you ever did? I am always thinking of it when things are tiresome,' exclaimed Miss Kent.

'Picking beans, how odd!' said a scornful voice, but nobody seconded the scoffer, while Mrs Crosdyck asked with great interest if there were a cat.

'Oh, yes, two enchanting kittens!' cried the teller with enthusiasm. 'But now I must really tell you about the bowl! Only as Frances says there is a secret.'

She got up from her chair and went and stood by the table and lifted the beautiful old thing in her hand so that all the company could see it.

'It looks too distinguished to have wasted its beauty in such a house as that,' said Mrs Crosdyck who was nearest. 'Look out, my dear, that you don't break it.'

'Mrs Patton said that her old aunt used to have the gift of telling fortunes,' said Miss Montague solemnly as she still stood there looking very eager and handsome. 'And we asked if she couldn't tell fortunes, too, as we sat round the bushel-basket of beans. She seemed a little confused, and then told us that she didn't know why she shouldn't admit it, the gift had brought her more pain than pleasure, but anybody might use the good of any gift, and she had warned some folks of what was coming so that they had been thankful to her afterward. "And keeping my mind on that," she said impressively, "has made me learn to read folks' faces easier than most people can. One of our ministers went so far as to say 'twas a gift that would lead me and other folks straight to the pit if I continued its exercise, but I made bold to say it had heretofore seemed to lead the other way if I wasn't mistaken." She reached forward then and rolled out the three yellow apples, and took the green bowl and looked at it and into it as I have seen other people looking into crystals, the dear old thing was quite lost in it and I saw her eyelids quiver strangely once or twice. Frances and I stopped clicking the beans and watched her. "One o' you's been in danger lately," she whispered, "and the other's been living in the shadows. Yes, I can read it plain!" You who know us both will know that she spoke the truth. "And you're going from here to a house near a river, and there'll be lots of folks there," so she went on and told us nothing that was important, but everything she said was true. Then she told me about my uncle's death in a southern country where the sun was too bright, and that his head would suffer, and that I would have much more money, but wish for the one who had loved me back again and count myself poor without him instead of rich: there were enough remarkable things to make one respect Mrs Patton as a seer, but she sat there quite simply and used her plain country words while she revealed us, to ourselves and to each other. Then suddenly she gave herself a queer little shake and seemed to wake up into the commonplace world again. You see that there wasn't anything startling about it that she could tell, but we saw plainly that she had the gift.'

'Oh, I wish that we had her here!' said one of the listeners, 'she would tell all our fortunes!'

'But Miss Montague has been given the power to tell fortunes; didn't you tell us so?' urged another.

'Not on Sunday, my dear,' commanded Mrs Goddard impressively. 'No, I should never consent to it!'

'I can only tell you about the two bowls, that is really the most interesting thing of all,' said Katie blushing, and looking a little confused. 'It seems that the two bowls, the "sister bowls" she called them, must be kept by two different persons, and the other, which she had kept for many years was put away in the closet, only the day before this one had come back to her from the other owner who had just died. And when she saw me standing in the meeting-house door that morning she said that she knew; she had a certain sign that made it plain to her that she must give this other green bowl to me. She stood them together on the table and they looked just alike. We asked her how she understood about them, and she said that her old aunt taught her and she would teach me; the sailor who brought them home to her had been a roving man and had gone into some far province of China, and got his strange learning there. He had meant to settle down and be a fortune-teller, and expected to make a great deal of money, but after he had told the aunt about the bowls and made her his companion in their mysteries, he went away, only for a day's journey, and was killed by an accident. Now I am Mrs Patton's "companion", as she calls it; she said that if there were not two of us companions the life of the bowls would soon be gone. She said one very strange thing— the friend who had kept it for her had been dead two days but she said she could have waited another day if I had not appeared, that as long as the other "companion's" soul was in her body or near it, there was no danger. But she was glad when she saw me and got the sign. She said that our souls always stayed with our bodies a little while after we die.'

'How very strange,' said Frances Kent. 'But somehow she did not seem half so strange to me at the time when we were there. I sat picking over the beans, not at all excited, even when Mrs Patton took Katie into the little bedroom and shut the door, and divulged the principles of magic. You certainly did look a little pale when you came out, Katie!'

'Can you see things in it, in the bowl, I mean?' one of the guests asked hurriedly. 'Do you try very often, Miss Montague? Oh, please throw out those pansies and tell us something!'

'Aren't you afraid that it will be broken?' some careful soul inquired.

'No, it is the most wonderful thing, like some precious stone or dull crystal— I don't think it is any sort of pottery,' said its owner. 'It made me a little fidgety to see it in my room and I brought it here. You see that there isn't any story at all. I only promised to give you a plain account of our travels,' she added hastily, for everyone began to ask questions.

'I don't like this revelation very much,' protested Mrs Goddard. 'Katie, my dear, you never told me so much before. I have been enchanted at having such an exquisite thing in the house, but I begin to be a little afraid of the green bowl.'

'Mrs Patton said that it was like any other bowl except for those who could master it. She was very matter of fact, after all,' said Frances Kent. 'There we sat together nearly all that long morning, and grew to be the best of friends. I tried to make her talk about the bowl to me, but she put on such a droll look and said that I was the joking sort like herself and perhaps she could find some sort of charm that would be fit for me before we came again. We were quite at home together, I assure you. She did not talk much with Katie after they had their secret session. I asked her all about her housekeeping.'

Miss Kent was glancing at her friend as she spoke who was standing by the table with the bowl in her hand looking into it as if she had forgotten everything else.

'What is it, dear?' whispered Frances Kent, as she rose and stood beside her.

'I just saw something very strange like a living picture!' answered the holder of the bowl softly. She was turning it to the light and gazing at it with a half-frightened look on her face. 'It is just as Mrs Patton said: she told me that some day I should find that the gift had come.'

'Tell me what it is that you see,' persisted her friend.

'Oh, don't ask me out loud, don't say anything now!' begged Katie, 'I saw two of the people who are sitting here, they were saying farewell to each other like the figures on a Greek vase; one of them is going to die. I knew them at once, Frances! I could not go on looking— Take it away! put it on the table for me, and don't let any one suspect anything!'

Miss Kent crossed the broad hearth rug a little unsteadily and there was a queer look on her face as she put the green bowl down on the table. Miss Montague, by the fire, had stood still for a moment and then turned to the great china jar and lifting the cover took out some of Mrs Goddard's treasured bits of lightwood to fling them on the bright coals.

'She writes us the most quaint, delightful letters, does Mrs Patton,' said Miss Kent, taking up the story, for someone asked if anything were the matter. 'She likes to have us send her magazines and stories to read. Oh, I assure you that by the time we took the road again late that morning we were the very best of friends!'

'It certainly did turn out very well,' pronounced Mrs Crosdyck with great amiability, 'but I should feel very anxious about you if you were girls of mine, driving about in this way in these lonely places!'

'Where are you going for your driving journey this year, young ladies?' inquired an old gentleman who had just waked up from a good nap.

'Oh, first to Mrs Patton's again!' answered Katie Montague gallantly. 'We have promised to spend a night at her dear little house.'

The bright firelight shone upon Katie's face, but she spoke with cheerful determination and instant decision, though more than one of the guests noticed that she looked strangely pale. Then she rose quickly and stood facing them.

'You know,' she said, 'that I shall have to tell my companion all that has happened about the green bowl!' But though everyone, even the sleepy old gentleman, begged to know what had really happened, Katie could not be persuaded to tell anything more.

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9: A Regent of Love Rhymes

Guy Thorne

Cyril Ranger Gull; 1875-1923

The Lady's Realm Dec 1905

Whatsoever I have to doe before death, all leasure to end the same seemeth short unto me, yea were it but of one houre.

—Montaigne

OTHER MEN had been discovered; talented women writers had been found out; reputations had been invented; but for many years. Glendinning still stood where he did.

He wrote stories which cultured people liked, and which cultured newspapers spoke well of, but he made very little money. His work vibrated in the ears of the general public with a dumb sound like a drum beaten under a blanket. It was thought as well to know his name, but to read his books was an indubitable bore.

He lived alone with his wife in an old granite cottage set among trackless moors in the wild hinterland of Cornwall. For two years they had dwelt thus, very happy in a simple life full of brave Atlantic airs, majestic sunsets, the companionship of shy birds and beasts, and the sound of God going by in midnight winds.

They had made their little home beautiful by simple means. Gertrude had gone to small country sales at weather-worn farmhouses and ancient cottages. Here was an old chair in which ancient Celtic herdsmen had sat for generations, dreaming of things that are forgotten. There a piece of Cornish cloam, so old and sturdy, and yet so faintly beautiful, that it might have been a veritable find from the Druid barrows under the mysterious cromlech hard by upon Carn Galva.

Very poor though they were, their poverty was refined and irradiated by the simple beauties ready to their hand. And on nights when the wind was high and the Atlantic roared far below with a sound of kettle-drums, when the clots of spume were flying far inland over their steep-pitched roof, they sat by the fire and thought no couple more fortunate than they.

Each daybreak was a recurring joy, each morn a pious beginning of simple household business and high literary toil.

Then, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, the London people found Glendinning out. There were articles about his work in the papers that matter. People wrote to him kind letters of praise and thanks, and husband and wife saw that a real career was opening before them. Both said they never really wanted to leave their splendid solitude, that immense landscape which in itself was a rare bloom upon the fruits of peace and quiet. But both realised also that a duty, the duty of taking the sudden spring-tide at the flood, lay before them; and this was because before very long a child was to come to them both.

It happened later that Glendinning found himself pledged to produce a book for an eminent firm of publishers, for which they would pay him a large sum. Here was fortune indeed. They could put by a large portion of the money. A vista of splendid possibilities opened before them; both agreed that their former contentment with nothing was simply because, in the past, little more than nothing was to be had.

Three months later, and when the book was nearly done, their only local friend called upon them— their only local friend, that is, who could pretend to any culture or knowledge of affairs. He was the doctor of the neighbourhood, a justice of the peace for Portalone, the little fishing town five miles away.

They told him of their good fortune, of the new prospect that was opening out for them both; and the congratulations of the able, grizzled creature were hearty and sincere.

"Ah," he said, "I knew that it would come soon. Before long, in a year or two, I shall lose you both, and then there won't be a soul in the hinterland to talk to any more. But, my dear children, I can't tell you how glad I am! When baby makes his appearance, he will be born with a silver spoon in his mouth— or should I have said a gold-mounted fountain pen? Of course you will make a Charles Dickens of him!"

The good man stayed to lunch with the Glendinnings, and enjoyed an hour of wild speculative talk with the author. It was always a tonic to him to meet Glendinning, to discuss things that one can neither touch nor see, to argue about the reason of the Present and the possibilities of a Hereafter. The fact that both men held diametrically opposite views upon those questions that only the lords of life and death can really decide made their arguments most satisfying and stimulating events in the routine of a remote and quiet life.

"Death," said the doctor, as he went to fetch his mare from the little thatched stable behind the cottage, "death is simply cessation of correspondence with environment; and if you could only believe me, Glendinning, it is nothing more than that. We live again in nature, but that is all.

"Out of his mouth a red, red rose!

Out of his heart a white!

"We inform ourselves into all sensuous life. When we die our personality ceases."

Glendinning had argued the point until he was tired. He refused to believe that a man's soul was like the flame of a candle, blown out and then utterly non-existent, but he said no more. While the doctor was putting the bridle on the mare he let him run on.

But Gertrude, who had been listening to the talk without comment, contributed, no argument indeed, but simply a statement of personal opinion.

"For my part," she said, "I can't understand the doctor's point of view. I can't confute it, but, temperamentally, charm he never so wisely, I can't and won't believe in it!"

"Well," said the doctor, with one foot in the stirrup, "we shall all know some day, my dears."

With that he hoisted himself into the saddle, drew on his gloves of red dogskin, waved them a cheery farewell, and cantered over the heather towards Portalone.

They watched him till he became a black skeleton upon the horizon of the moor, then, linked arm in arm, they strolled along a footpath among the heath, towards a farm two miles away.

Glendinning began to talk business details with his wife.

"Of course I am not insured," he said; "we have never been able to afford the premium. But now I shall be able to put a hundred or two aside for you in case anything happens."

"Don't talk of such horrid things, dear," she answered, half laughing, but with brooding apprehensions in her gentle eyes.

They walked towards the farm. A mile away they met a plodding labourer, who greeted them and passed the time of day.

"Don't 'e go too near Trevarrick town-place, my dears," he said: "Mr. Trewella's bull 'e do begin to be getting a bit roguish, they do say."

They smiled at him, and, engrossed in their own affairs, wandered on towards the steading.

The doctor was back again, only four hours after he had left the cottage when it was happy. He was standing by the bed upon which Glendinning lay—his face was very white and set. He had been too good a friend to them for years not to tell them the truth now. He hadn't learned the suave and proper lies with which less rugged physicians oil the path of death. The sternness of the hard life upon the moors had entered into his blood; he believed that softness and half-truths were a cruel preparation for the grave. So he told them, quite simply, that in an hour or two Glendinning must pass away.

The furious creature, with its vast muscular neck, and head like a battering-ram, had done its work too well.

Glendinning felt no pain— he would never feel physical pain any more—but death was heavy upon him and life was going like a dying fire.

"Shall I stay, Glendinning?" the doctor said.

"I think not, old man," Glendinning answered; "I think Gertrude and I will be alone, please."

The doctor, who had seen many deathbeds, took up the hand of his friend, a hand that was still warm, full of blood, and unharmed. He lifted it to his lips, and then with a bowed head turned to go.

"I'll be back, child," he whispered to Gertrude, and left her alone with her husband.

Glendinning was unable to retain command of his brain for very long. He began to sob brokenly, and to moan that he had not finished A Regent of Love Rhymes. His last words were:

"You see, dear, if only I had finished the thing, then— then— you would have had something to go on with— only five thousand words— only five thou—" and with that he shivered a little and lay still, breathing heavily until his life was finished.

The midnight wind had wailed over the cottage so often, and Gertrude and her husband had read so many things into it— fantastic, romantic, and even holy— that it could now, even when Cyril was lying dead in the bedroom, have no extraordinary appeal to her.

The doctor had been there. The women from the farm, friendly sympathisers and kind-hearted Cornish folk, had sprung up on the moor and clustered round the house, and in it, like crows.

That was what Gertrude thought. She wanted to be left alone with her beloved dead.

Even now, down in the kitchen a farmer's wife was snoring on the settle. But Gertrude was alone— alone in Cyril's writing-room, with only the wooden partition between it and their own room, where he lay so waxen and so calm.

The time had not yet come for her to accept the gracious influences, the supreme consolations, the comfort that God pours into wounded hearts. She was stunned still, and as yet no echo from Paradise had come.

She had lit the lamp in the pleasant writing-room, and it shone on Cyril's pictures, on Cyril's books, on all the ordered litter of the great table where he wrote.

How secure, ordered, comfortable, and right it all seemed!

There was the typewriter, reflecting the light of the lamp from all its polished surfaces of black japan and steel, and by the side of the machine was the neat pile of manuscript, the final and uncompleted "copy" of A Regent of Love Rhymes.

The thing hypnotised her, and as she gazed at it the intense physical strain of the last hour had its result. She fell into a state, half-broken, half-stupor.

Through all her dream there ran these words—"You see, dear, if only I had finished the thing, then— then— there would have been something to go on with— only five thousand words, only five thou—" She woke with a start and sat up, rigid, in her chair, A clicking metallic noise filled the quiet little room.

She plucked at her eyes with trembling fingers, for she had thought that she saw an inexplicable thing upon the little green-topped table where the typewriting machine was standing. She thought that the keys were being depressed in the quick rattle of an expert hand. The carriage seemed travelling rapidly towards the imminent moment when she should hear the tinkle of the bell… The bell sounded, the carriage was thrust back with its gritty, corn-crake noise and the sudden clash of its impact upon the nickel buffer at the end of the track. Then, once more, the enamelled keys began to dance and glitter in the light.

No! This was not an illusion. The thing was actually going on.

Rigid as a corpse, she took two gliding steps towards the table.

As she stopped, the carriage was lifted up and the noise of the keys stopped. It was exactly as though some invisible typist was scrutinising the last sentence that had appeared upon the cylinder. The carriage clashed confidently down. Once more the keys began to race, the levers to hop up against the ribbon.

Then there was a screech of the cog-wheels. The filled sheet came up into the air, as if a hand was holding it. It remained sustained for a moment and then fluttered neatly down upon the thick pile of manuscript, which was the almost completed story— A Regent of Love Rhymes.

She staggered back to her chair. She knew.

She could not understand how or why, but she knew that some superhuman force was at work. She realised that A Regent of Love Rhymes was being completed— not for the sake of art— but for her sake.

The clicking went on unceasingly. The mechanical movement which filled, completed, and removed the page did not stop.

She glided away from the machine, felt along the wall till she came to the door of the study, opened it, jumped across the intervening space at the stair-head and burst into the death chamber.

The candles round the bed burned still and cold. The shell which had been Cyril lay waxen and smiling.

Nothing had changed.

Again she hurried into the writing-room. The machine was going on towards its relentless completion of the tale.

Then, at last, she realised that, from some other world, her husband was writing the final lines of the tale for her— for her.

The lords of life and death had given him this little grace.

She drew nearer and nearer to the whirring, clicking thing, and, a yard away, watched the mystery, so stupendous in its operation, so commonplace in its material means, go on throughout the night.

The wind wailed and sobbed round the house; the dead body lay silent in the other room; and as she watched and listened, a sense of the august Powers which were at work for her came into her soul like balm.

She watched. She saw the very last lines of all, glowing, burning, wonderful lines were being stamped upon the linen paper which had been made in the United States. Then, as she held her breath in love, in gratitude, and in nameless fear, she saw the carriage lifted once more, and she saw that, in purple capitals, FINIS was written.

The loud clicking in the little room stopped suddenly. A heavy silence lay over the cottage, a silence which the terrific wind intensified, and could not break.

Gertrude rose up. She lifted her eyes, and called to Cyril's soul.

"Cyril," she cried, "Cyril," she called, "hear me before you go right away! Send me one more message— you have finished the book, dearest, tell me where you have done it— love— love of my heart— one word one word more—"

But the typewriter remained still and motionless. The love which was so strong that it had pierced through innumerable veils to help its object was not allowed to tell the lonely wife why it had done so, and from what near or distant place it had sent its last message.

We may get very near to the thick veil, we may think that the lords of life and death are kind and have revelations for us, but God knoweth His own time and place, and we are not allowed to understand.

We have not deserved it yet.

That is what Gertrude was taught.

She remained waiting very hopefully for the ultimate explanation, and the meeting with Cyril.

The book was a great success, but most of the critics, in their wisdom, agreed on one point. They said that, while the last two chapters of the story were well written, the author seemed to have attempted too exalted a note, and one which he was not quite able to sustain.

_______________

10: Sailors' Luck

Austin Philips

1875-1947

Chronicle (Adelaide) 1 April 1922

The Grand Magazine March 1922

Prolific and popular in his day, novelist, playwright, poet and short story writer Austin Philips is largely forgotten now. He was married to Edith Nesbit's daughter, and Ms Nesbit encouraged him to write.

ALTHOUGH he knew that dinner was on the table, Christopherson did not descend to the wardroom, but remained on deck deliberately, leaning idly upon the bulwarks, and apparently gazing at the water. The Wanderwitch—that ex-Admiralty yacht adapted specially to those Chinese rivers, which he had spent these last two years in mapping — lay almost in mid-stream. The great, round sun, now fast setting, touched to redness the white sides of two large junks; it burnished their multicolored banners; it keyed-up the dull red of the crockery jars borne as deck cargo by some smaller vessels; it gleamed on a couple of cormorant-boats, with their dark, demoniacal birds. Beyond lay the village; its curly-roofed houses seeping forth from the foliage of the orange groves.

It was all quite wonderful and Eastern. But to Christopherson, who bad seen it so often, and who had been out on this station as a midshipman, and who was now a senior lieutenant, it meant next to nothing at all He was ambitious— quite exceedingly. He was shut in— altogether hopelessly— and during the war had served on a battleship which, like himself, had never got a chance. Now— very seriously— he was contemplating sending in his papers and taking a job which had been offered him by a relative: a post, with a really good opening, in the Manchester commercial world.

But, like so many who grouse at the service, be was desperately loath to resign. He had to come to a decision quickly indeed, within twenty-four hours; and he had not come to it yet. Perhaps the deck was not quite the best place for thinking.

He went to his cabin instead. He touched the bell, told his servant to bring him some sandwiches and a cup of coffee, put his feet upon his writing desk and his thinking-cap upon his head. At the end of an hour he had decided. For a man of his stamp there was no chance in the navy in peace-time. He would loath to remain and be a failure. He must face the facts and resign. He would write the letter immediately; the letter to his north-country under into whose business he would go. But first— his head hot with thinking— he walked to the porthole to get air.

It was dark now, and the view was rather circumscribed; but he could see the lights of the houses in the half-mile distant village and; hear voices borne across the water, and see the riding-lights of junks. He could also see— it struck him as rather curious— a light two hundred yards away. It was a far less steady than spasmodic one, and it could not be— so he told himself— the riding-light of any Chinese craft. It must come from a lantern which some careless person was swinging, so that it alternately shined and disappeared.

Intrigued, rather, and glad to find some trivial thing to distract him after the inward storm and stress of his decision, John Charles Christopherson watched idly for some time. Then suddenly he started. and realised what it was. Someone— someone with the most imperfect apparatus— was trying to Morse-code to the Wanderwitch. They were using a common lantern and obscuring its flame with a fan. This was the word, much repeated, which, without being conscious of it, he had read again and again: H-e-l-p.

He gasped his astonishment, hesitated a moment, then turned round quickly, opened his desk drawer, and took out a little, torch. And he Morse-coded back these words—

'Who are you? What ship is that?'

This answer came to him, slowly and laltingly returned:—

'A woman— English— kidnapped— rescue me. Be British. If not to-night, too late.'

Christopherson stood dubious and thoughtful. Then he took pencil in hand, he wrote down five questions on paper and flashed them away rapidly. 'What to your name? Where do you come from? What American admiral most helped us against Germany? Who is Tino? What are the Oval and Lord's?' 'Stella Cavanagh,' came the answering signal slowly back to him. 'Hongkong. Sims. King of Greece. Cricket grounds.

He felt completely satisfied. He sent an answer thus:— 'Keep your pecker up. Am seeing the skipper. Will reply when result is known.'

Before he left his cabin he sat down awhile. Then he went out and paced the deck. He had said that he was seeing the skipper; but Captain Lynton was inclined to be difficult— a stubborn, more than a strong, man.

The lieutenant glanced instinctively over the port quarter at the; electric launch which was lashed to the pinnace alongside and suppressed a preposterous idea. — He sought the captain's door and knocked on it. A voice required him to come in. He entered.

The skipper was sitting in one of those Admiralty armchairs which the service makes so extra comfortable by shortening their back legs a little, and was smoking a thin, black cheroot.

'Well, what is it, Christopherson?' he asked, looking up from a history which he had been studying.

'A case of kidnapping, sir.'

'Kidnapping?'

'Yes, sir. Did you notice a craft to starboard when we anchored— not a big junk, but a river boat— built like a gondola — only bigger — with three mat awnings with ladders up the sides of them.'

'Yes. What about it?'

'Well, sir, there's an English woman aboard. I was standing at my cabin porthole and she Morse-coded to me for help.'

Captain Lynton got up. The stove, naturally, was empty. But he stood in front of it out of habit, with, his hands clasped behind his back.

'She's asked you for help!' he said.

'Yes. She sent the message very slowly with a lantern— and a fan, I think. I answered her with my torch.'

'Who is she?'

'Stella Cavanagh, she calls herself. I asked her a lot of questions to find out if she was English and genuine, and she answered them off pat!'

'How do you know it isn't a Chinaman who's been in England?'

'I don't know. But she answered those questions— here they are, sir— like a European and without hesitating— and I think she's genuine, myself!'

Captain Lynton, nodded, examined the. paper carefully, put it on tbe caoin table, relit his cheroot without speaking, and took some turns up and down. Then once more he came to anchor in front of the empty stove.

'I think the morning will do for this job,' he said.

'The morning?'

'Yes. Why not?'

'She said it must be now— immediately — or it would be too late!'

The handsome, obstinate face of the captain grew even more determined and his full lips primmed and closed.

'Christopherson,' he said, after at least a minute of silence, 'you know these rivers are full of pirates!'

'Undoubtedly, sir.'

'Very well: If I send the pinnace and half a dozen men to board that river-boat in the darkness, where is it going to end? The lady may be a decoy— a Chinaman— we don't want an upset with the authorities— and, if it's' a real rescue, we might well lose a number of A.B.'s Theee are two doubtful-looking junks here. An ambush is far from impossible. I'll risk no nocturnal escapades. But to-morrow, as soon as it is daylight, I'll see what I can do.'

'And the lady must be lost, sir?'

'I don't propose to discuss it any further, Christopherson. My duty is towards the ship and crew. Let's go on deck now and look at things, and see if your friend will signal more.'

They left the cabin immediately. It was, however, very little use. The yeoman of signals flashed enquiries at the river-boat, which answered nothing whatsoever. The lantern in the stern winked no longer; and the lieutenant thrilled with a feeling that already help was too late.

'Well, there's nothing doing!' said Captain Lynton presently. 'I'm going back to my book!'

Christopherson returned to his cabin. He knew Captain Lynton was not to blame. The river was dangerous. The neighborhood was full of pirates. Duty to the Wanderwitch stood paramount, But it was— oh, it was, most decidedly, awful rough luck on the girl! He began wilting to his uncle, telling him that on receipt of a cablegram he would send in his papers and return to England. At the end of an hour he had finished. He walked to the porthole to get air.

There, to his amazement, he saw, as earlier, the lantern, covered and uncovered by the fan. There was a slight mist on the water, but yet he managed to see.

'Are you coming?' came the message. 'It will be too late in the morning. I had to stop, signalling. A Chinaman came back in a sampan; he's dosed himself with opium lige the old woman who's looking after me, but the captain is still on shore. He's gone to arrange for a palanquin to take me by road to Nankin!'

Christopherson stood silent and thoughtful. Then an impulse leaped from his warm heart. He snatched his torch and flashed comfort.

These were the words he sent:—

'I'll do my damnedest to help you.In half an hour's time look out for me and drop into my boat when I come.'

Then he sat down and rang his bell, and ordered another plate of sandwiches and took his flask from his drawer. When the sandwiches came he wrapped paper round them and stuffed them into his jacket pocket and rose and went on deck. The mist had increased. It served for excuse to wear a waterproof. He fetched one from his cabin and returned. He walked to port immediately.

As he hoped, the stairway was still down. The pinnace was alongside— he himself had been out mapping in the morning; while the little electric launch, used chiefly by the captain and the officers, was lashed to the pinnace outside. A sailor on watch stood handy. Christopherson approached.

'I think I left a pair of compasses in the pinnace,' he said. 'I don't want to get them rusted. There's a mist coming up. I'm going to get them.'

'Shall I go, sir?'

'No. I'd better. I knew where they are.'

Christopherson ran down the stairway. But he left the pinnace alone. It was on the electric launch that he was searching, and he looked not only on her timbers, but inside the machinery as well.

The-sailor watched him uninterestedly. He even turned away presently. Then Christopherson snatched his opportunity. He unlashed the rope which bound the launch to the pinnace and took his seat in the stern of her. His right hand grasped the tiller. His left hand pulled the lever. The launch slipped soundlessly away.

The sailor came back again shortly. He looked down over the side. He stared. He rubbed his; eyes. But the launch and its occupant had vanished and were lost and hidden in the mist.

Thirty seconds later the man had found the watch officer and was panting out his report.

'Lieutenant Christopherson is missing, sir. He went to look for some compasses— and he's gone adrift in the launch.'

In the meantime Christopherson had widely circled the Wanderwitch and was making in the direction in which he believed the Chinese river boat to be. He heard cries and a bugle from behind him. He saw a searchlight seeking for him vainly.

The night now was properly Cimmerian, The mist had grown to a fog. He went ait half-speed for some minutes. He could see next to nothing. He was alone in a dark waste of waters. It was odds against his gaining his objective or getting near the English girl at all.

Luck served him, and all but destroyed him, for the junk loomed close up ahead. He was all but into her, badly. He tugged at the switch hard and quickly. The engines reversed, though the fuse blew. His bow met the junk with a bang. The jar sent Christopherson reeling. He recovered, though almost flung out. He picked up a boat hook and brought the launch alongside, and then, seeing a lantern, called out to the girl:—

'Is that you?'

'Yes.'

'You must jump. It's no distance. Here.'

The girl jumped as bidden. Christopherson half caught her and half let her tumble to the planks.

'Are you hurt?' He asked.

'No; only bruised a little!'

'All right; then we'll get away.' He pushed the launch off with his boat hook, then went to the tiller and sat down. He pushed at the lever. It moved, most certainly, but the machinery failed to work.

'Do you know anything about electricity?' he asked.

'No, nothing!'

'Nor do I. Never did. It's a pity. We're going to drift— God knows where!'

'Drift!'

'Yes. The fuse blew when I reversed the motor hurriedly. We're in for it badly, and no error. You might as well have gone—'

'To Nankin!'

'Was that where they were, taking you?'

'Yes, to some mandarin or other. I was kidnapped in a shop in Hongkong.'

Christopherson nodded and did not answer. He was wondering what he could do. The mist was a fog how. The night was opaque, almost; and, even though she sat close to him, he could hardly see the girl. The launch was unmanageable. She was drifting; drifting helplessly— was being carried perhaps right down the tributary on towards the great tidal river with its vast yellow volume of waves.

He cursed his luck.  He cursed his spirit of adventure which had brought him out on this quest. Then, resigned to anything, he thought about the girl.

'Are you frightened?' he asked her kindly, after they had drifted for what seemed to him aeons.

'Not very. Are you?'

'Yes, damnably. Don't you realise? My God!' His sentence ended in a gasp almost. Once more he was all but thrown out. The girl was flung atop of him. The launch had thrilled through and heeled over, then had settled down on one side.

'What's the matter?' panted the girl, as she recovered herself.

'We're aground. That's rather luck. It won't be death by drowning. We're safe— if the fog doesn't lift!'

It displayed no signs of lifting. The darkness, indeed, was appalling and full of frightening little sounds. They sat for several minutes in dead silence; and then Christopherson spoke.

'Who taught you Morse code?' he asked.

'My brother. He's in the Service.'

'What ship?'

'The Wolverhampton.'

'What name?'

'Cavanagh. I told you.'

'How did you get on the river boat?'

'I was coming out of a milliners and I told my rickshaw coolie to take me to a stationer's, and he brought me to a native shop. After I'd bought some paper I was wandering round a bit and I felt myself gagged suddenly. I was taken downstairs and then on to a junk afterwards, and then transferred to the river boat with a horrible old woman to look after me while the captain and crew went ashore. She drugged herself with opium, and I untied my feet and got out of the cabin and got a fan and that lantern.'

'But didn't you know better than to go into that native shop unattended?'

'No. You see, I only came out a few weeks ago.'

'Globe-trotting?'

'No. I came out with the new Governor. I teach his children their sums!'

Christopherson nodded and sat silent. He was thinking, wryly, of his luck. She was quite a nice girl; her voice, indeed, was delightful—but a governess! What a stroke of fate! If they had only kidnapped a millionaire's daughter it might have been another pair of shoes.

More minutes passed. Then the girl shivered audibly. Christopherson took some seat cushions and put them on the planks.

'Lie down here,' he said encouragingly, 'and have my waterproof— '

'I won't take it. I'm wearing my dustcoat; I had it on my arm when I was trapped. I shan't be cold; but I'm tired, rather. Yes, I will gladly lie down!'

She did so. Christopherson sat beside her, insisting upon covering her with his waterproof, himself getting shelter as he could. He, too, was shivering. His teeth had begun to chatter and he remembered, cursing his foolishness, that he had forgotten to bring his pipe. Even his flask did not warm him, though the small amount she would partake of it sent his companion soundly off to sleep.

An hour went by— and two hours. The fog had not abated a jot. Christopherson felt chilled to the vitals, and once thought of discharging his revolver in the hope that the Wanderwitch was near them. But he realised it would be useless. If the lookout heard him, no one on board could see anything; and Captain Lynton would risk nothing so long as it was night. He feared, also, lest the firing should attract Chinese pirates.

He was aware of a woman's sigh suddenly, and then of a manner of moan. A voice, words, followed it; sad and plaintive and forlorn.

'Oh, I am so cold! Are you warm?'

'Have my monkey-jacket, Miss Cavanagh!'

'Never. I'd die rather than take it and let you get pneumonia in the damp!'

Christopherson hesitated, but only for a second, and then did what he had been thinking of doing for some considerable time. He took certain other cushions and laid them down on the planks by his companion, and then calmly lay down on them and took her in his arms. She sighed happily, as though that was what she had wanted and put her arms round him.

Her head lay pillowed on his breast below the collarbone, and for a long time neither of them moved. Then his cheek, in moving, brushed her cheek; and, a moment later, as inevitably, they were lying lips to lips. He held her closely, tenderly. The warmth of their bodies saved them from perhaps pneumonia and death.

They fell asleep like two children and remained unconscious for some hours. Christopherson woke first— woke to realise his whereabouts, to marvel at it, to listen to her breathing, to see if she slept, and then—

His blood ran cold, and his skin became as goose flesh: he listened in terror, and was sure. He turned to his companion, put his hand on her mouth, and aroused her— and then whispered in her ear. Both sat up, watchful and fearful, holding their soft-drawn breaths.

They could see nothing, for the raw and choking fog still enveloped them; but they could hear footsteps close at hand. They had been pursued, probably, or perhaps pirates had got wind of them, and, knowing each inch of the river, had guessed the course of the launch. Christopherson cocked one revolver, and put the other into the girl's hand.

'There are six shots in that,' he whispered. 'There are also six in mine. Now be more silent than ever, And keep the last for yourself!' She nodded. Again they heard the footsteps, this time very close at hand. Their hair stood on end. Their hearts beat hard and loudly.

Nothing happened, though, immediately; their greatest torture was suspense. The sound of footsteps was perpetual. Daylight could not be long now. It would doubtless bring them death. They sat there, bathed in perspiration. They did not dare to speak. They did not venture to whisper. They were too terrified to move, even. But his face was against her face. Ho held her close in his arms.

The fog lifted now. The sky grow lighter presently. With great suddenness it was dawn.  Christopherson and the. girl, making up their minds to the inevitable, raised their heads, gripped their, revolvers, and rose from the well of the launch. They meant to light as long as possible— if need be, to die by their own hands.

But fighting and dying seemed needles; no pirates were visible; and the launch was lying on a mud bank, surrounded by a number of great crabs. As they moved in the slime which the red sun touched to iridescence, some of them uttered a strange sound. It was a plop-plopping noise which the pair had interpreted as footsteps, and with certain naturalists have earmarked as the calling of the husband to his spouse.

Christopherson started at them and pointed, and laughed hysterically to the girl.

'Look!' he said. 'Look at what frightened us. It was nothing— no humans only those!'

Miss Cavanagh nodded. Then she collapsed with the reaction and fell a dead weight in his arms.

She revived speedy, and raised dark eyes to him. Her pale cheeks deepened to a blush. But she looked at him— as one who is approving— and this is what she said—

'I've been wondering half the night what you were going to look like by daylight. You're the sort of man I hoped you were. Considering— considering everything, I think that's good enough excuse!'

Christopherson laughed, and would have kissed her, but that he knew they were observed. They were barely two hundred yards from the Wanderwitch, on whose bridge stood two men, looking out. He rose and hollo'ed to them loudly.

An hour later the tide had recovered the mud-bank, and the Wanderwitch's pinnace was towing the launch to the ship. The captain was on deck, and all the officers, waiting for the lady to arrive.

'This is Miss Cavanagh, sir,' said Christopherson, saluting. 'I took her off that river boat last evening for fear this morning should be too late.'

Captain Lynton bowed to the lady. Her cheeks were dusky roses and clear cream. Her brown eyes smiled. He was utterly vanquished, and became a proper ladies' man.

'My cabin is at your disposal, Miss Cavanagh,' he said, most gallantly. 'Breakfast shall be brought to you immediately. I will take you straight back to Hongkong. Lieutenant Christopherson'— there was a twinkle in the captain's eyes which all the wardroom mess and half the Wanderwitch's crew well appreciated— you have disobeyed orders most grossly; consider yourself under arrest!'

Christopherson went to his cabin. After all, it was what he could expect.

For a considerable portion of the next 72 hours he had the happiness of seeing Captain Lynton dancing round the girl he had risked his life for.

THREE MORNINGS later the Wanderwitch came to Hongkong. She passed into the granite dockyard underneath the granite apex of the island. The Governor, Sir John Goodenough, had already, been told by wireless that Miss Stella Cavanagh was aboard of her.

Christopherson, released from arrest now, was talking to that lady very hard. As the ship drew towards the quayside Captain Lynton started and turned.

'Tutton,' he said to the navigating officer on the bridge beside him. 'Damn me if that's not the admiral— and that looks like the Governor beside him— and I suppose the lady's Lady Goodenough, and there's the commander of the forces there as well. It's going to be a regular ceremony. We shall get a bit of kudos for the Wanderwitch. What a lot these people must think of their governess. But, of course, she's a very nice girl.'

The Governor greeted his governess as if she were the one girl on earth. His wife came next, and cried over her. As for the admiral and the, soldier, they shook her warmly by the hand. The party surrounded her. There was ten minutes' eager conversation. Then the Governor came forward to where the skipper stood.

'Captain Lynton,' he said, 'I am deeply obliged to you for your part and courtesy in this matter. I appreciate it to the fullest. But where is Lieutenant Christopherson? I want to thank him above all."

Christopherson advanced, and was presented Sir John Goodenough took him by the hand.

'I thank you with all my heart,' he said, warmly. 'You've saved my step-daughter's life— and more than her life. I'm grateful. My wife's grateful. Our thanks!'

The lieutenant stared at him bewildered.

'Your step-daughter, sir?' he said. 'But I thought she was your governess?'

'I never said so.' Miss Stella Cavanagh advanced now. 'I said I taught sums to the Governor's daughters— and so, sometimes, I do. It's not always necessary to tell everything. And I didn't want you to fuss over me— that is, any more than you did.'

She looked at Christopherson archly. He bowed, and kept back his smile.

Miss Cavanagh left with her parents

The admiral and O.-in-C. stayed behind for further details, and got them— all but one or two.

TWO DAYS later Lieutenant John Charles Christopherson received an invitation to stay at Government House. He certainly made the most of it. He left engaged to Miss Cavanagh— engaged secretly, leaving her to break it to her parents. She broke it.

They were not too enraptured, for Lieutenant John Charles Christopherson had not a bean beyond his pay. However, they loved their daughter and acknowledged that they owed him a big debt. So they gave him their Stella and paid it, and gave him their influence as well.

He is still in the service. He is shut in, though, no longer. He is looked on as a coming man.

_________________

11: Four o'Clock in the Morning

Hulbert Footner

1879-1944

McClure's Magazine  June 1909

IN Haverland, one of the ancient Dutch towns on Long Island included in the metropolitan boundaries, there stands, under the magnificent elms on the edge of a little green where three streets converge, a lunch wagon. Presumably it is open for business during the day; but no sign of activity can be perceived through the windows, which are of colored glass, and one hesitates to enter a place of so gypsy a character in broad daylight. After dark, however, the red panes shine with a lurid boldness, and late at night, especially on a cold night, a savory emanation of hot coffee and fried onions is likely to tempt the most respectable citizen to sample the hospitality within.

The lunch wagon is presided over during the long hours of the night by Mat Lennon, a thorough-going lad of seventeen, who sizes up his customers warily and, when there are none, fills the van with the sound of his cheerful whistling. That his occupation has a romantic side never occurs to Mat; the mystery of the dark, the stillness, and the remote stars is nonexistent for him, who never puts his nose outside the little door during his hours on duty; nor does he ever see anything out of common in the character of the men brought forth between midnight and dawn: the diverse secrets of the sparkling-eyed lovers, the sullen unfortunates, and the furtive predatory spirits are all unguessed by Mat, who is solely concerned as to whether his customers have the money to pay for what they order. In brief, Mat is a normal boy, simple, aggressive, and scornful of aught beyond his ken. He is a well-favored boy, with cheeks of an extraordinary redness, considering the nature of his occupation, and a valiant blue eye. His martial expression is further carried out by a stiff cockade or cow-lick of his sandy hair, mounting guard over his forehead.

At four o'clock one raw morning in November, Mat, in a fit of unusual industry, was washing the shelves of his little pie-cupboard, whistling loudly and unmelodiously to the humming accompaniment of the big coffee urn. Outside, Haverland was wrapped in an unearthly blackness and stillness. It was one of those nights when low-hanging clouds seem to be pressing the very breath out of the earth. Inside, it was precisely such a warm, bright, cozy little refuge as a weary and freezing traveler might dream of to keep himself going: the new varnish, the red panes (each depicting in clear glass the figure of a medieval gentleman in full dress), and the nickel and porcelain cooking utensils were all vying with each other in reflecting the shine of the electric lights. A sliding door occupies one side of the wagon; and across one end is built a little counter with a leaf that lifts to let Mat in and out. As he stands behind this counter, behind him again is another shelf, which carries his whole paraphernalia: to wit, a tiny gas stove, with a frying pan, and a hood to carry off the fumes, a little steam table for keeping the beans and chowder hot, the big nickel-plated coffee urn already mentioned, and the pie-cupboard with a screen door. Under this shelf is a cupboard and refrigerator a little larger than doll's size, and in the spare corners within reach of Mat's hand there are various boxes and shelves; for every inch of space in a lunch wagon must be utilized, just as in the cabin of a canal boat, which it resembles not a little.

Outside the counter the remaining wall space is occupied by a narrow shelf set about with round stools. Here Mat's customers, after receiving their suppers at his counter, put them away at leisure. As many as eight men have been accommodated at one serving; but that, it must be confessed, was a tight squeeze.

On the raw morning in question Mat had had the wagon to himself for some little time, and in the ordinary course was not expecting another customer for three quarters of an hour— when, upon the arrival of the next car from town, at the end of its run, he was sure of at least two coffees for the chilled motorman and conductor. Nevertheless, in the middle of Matty's musical fantasia, the door was slowly pushed back and a strange little figure, sidling into view, waited hesitatingly with a hand on the door, as if the slightest demonstration on Matty's part would instantly drive it forth again. It was that of a boy of twelve, though something about him seemed to hint at a greater maturity. He was clad in a well-patched coat and long trousers that had evidently been cut down from larger garments by inexperienced hands; for the mended knees of the original trousers flapped around his shins, the polished bends of the elbows stuck out half way to his wrists, and there was a quaint fullness to the breast of the coat and the seat of the trousers, which had been diminished with very indifferent success. This ample costume was topped with a battered, dusty derby of the kind a plasterer wears on working days, which came down over the curly brown hair to the ears of the wearer, enframing a pale, clean face, with great brown eyes distended by fear or anxiety, or both; and fresh, childish lips tightly compressed in what seemed to be some desperate determination. In one hand the boy carried a cheap little valise.

Mat glanced at the newcomer with careless suspicion; he saw nothing remarkable in the little fellow's clothes, for the boys who prowl around the outskirts of a great city at night are not over-particular as to their appearance.

"May I come in and get warm?" stammered the boy, in anything but the accents of a hardy little gamin of the pavements; this was the high-pitched voice of a home-bred child.

"Want to order anything?" demanded Mat.

"I haven't any money," said the little fellow, with a painful blush.

"Oh, well, you can stay until a customer comes in," said Mat, with a glance of boyish contempt at the weakling. He turned to his work again.

The little fellow seated himself on one of the round stools and, resting his elbow on the shelf, leaned his cheek wearily against his hand and obviously tried not to look hungry. The grateful warmth seemed to make him drowsy, and presently his eyes half closed. Mat's attention was arrested by a long-drawn sigh. Upon turning around, he saw that the boy's head had fallen forward, that his face had grown even whiter, and his lips faintly blue. Mat, who outside of business was anything but hard-hearted, ducked under the leaf of the counter and, putting an arm around the young one, lifted him up. He had always heard that the thing to do when a person fainted was to loosen his clothes at the neck; so he hastily proceeded to unfasten the boy's shirt. Suddenly he paused, and over his rosy face there crept a deeper tinge of red; with fumbling fingers he quickly did up the buttons again; his arm closed more protectingly around the slim body it held, and he gazed at the little fellow with a new and gentler light in his wary blue eyes.

Mat was sorely perplexed what to do next; but in a moment, without calling for any further efforts of resuscitation, the little fellow heaved another sigh and opened his eyes. As soon as he realized that Mat's arm was around him, he quickly straightened up and shrank away. Though not in accordance with the facts as now known to Mat, we will, in deference to his attire, continue to speak of the little one in the masculine gender.

"You sort of keeled over!" said Mat genially.

The little fellow visibly brightened at his friendlier tone. "I'm sorry," he murmured apologetically.

"Oh, that's all right!" said Mat heartily, returning to his place behind the counter. "All you need is some good hot grub. What'll you have?"

"I— I can't pay for it," stammered the little fellow, with the same painful blush.

"Who asked you to pay for it?" demanded Mat truculently, forgetting his previous attitude on the subject.

"You are very kind," said the little fellow gratefully.

"Kind nawthing!" exclaimed Mat, in the same tone of disgust. "Ain't I been broke myself? Fellows has got to help each other out," he added, with what was in Mat rare delicacy.

"A cup of coffee's enough," said the little fellow modestly.

"Oh, he—" Matty checked himself in confusion. How to maintain the fiction of the little fellow's manliness and at the same time pay due heed tothechoiceof language suitable for gentler ears was a sadly complicated problem for one of Matty's simple ideas. "I mean," he continued hastily, "you need something solid. Here, I'll give you a piece of pie to eat with the coffee while I flip you a hamburger. What kind of pie?"

"Cocoanut," murmured Matty's guest, thus pressed.

"Ill fry you an egg with the hamburger, too," said Mat recklessly. "Eggs is fine and heartening!"

Directly afterwards a delightful sizzling sound filled the cabin. The odor of onions frying is no doubt very distressing to many delicate nostrils; but at four o'clock in the morning, to the appetite born of an all-night walk, it must be granted there are worse smells. At least, the little fellow thought so.

When the hamburger and its accompanying egg were served, Matty leaned his elbows on the counter and gazed at the little fellow sedately eating his supper from the shelf near by, with a strange, wild pleasure he did not understand, or seek to understand. What a vastly different meaning the close, curling hair, the great brown eyes, and the lips like rose leaves had taken on in five short minutes! When Matty remembered lifting the little fellow up, the arm that had held him tingled. But the ridiculous battered derby was an offense in his eyes.

"Why don't you take your hat off?" he suggested suddenly.

The little fellow, thinking his manners were at fault, snatched it off his head with a blush At the sight of his distress Matty wished to explain that criticism was far from his intention, but he had no phrases comprehensive enough to express this feeling; all he could do was to spread the little one more bread and butter. As a matter of fact, Matty thought the little fellow's manners, which he would have gibed at in a male creature, uncommonly elegant. Removing the hat made a wonderful difference in his appearance. Matty gloated over the rich brown curls, which seemed to wink at the electric lights, and he was conscious of a novel wish to lay his cheek among them. He wondered dimly what made the little fellow look so sorry, and burned to right the wrong, whatever it might be. But hot food and drink were lighting up the eater's eyes with a renewed courage, and a faint pink stole into his cheeks. At the sight of it Matty beamed from every feature.

"Come far?" asked Matty.

"Not so very," returned the little fellow evasively.

"Where you bound?"

"New York."

Matty frowned.

"I'm almost there," said the little one hopefully.

"Twelve mile," said Matty discouragingly. "What are you going to do when you get there?"

"Get a job," returned the little fellow stoutly. "Carry bundles, or run errands, or something. I'm stronger than I look," he added, with a confident air.

Matty was much distressed at the thought of such innocence abroad in the city. "You don't know your way around," he protested.

"A fellow can always ask," said the little one, with an air.

Matty never thought of laughing. Bent on discouraging him, "The kids'll make a mock of your clothes," he said.

He promptly wished he had bitten his tongue before the remark escaped him; for the little fellow's eyes slowly filled, and he choked over his food.

"They're all right!" cried Matty, desperately remorseful. "I wouldn't laugh at them. I'd bust any kid's head that laughed when I was around. But city kids is fierce!"

The same air of desperate determination shone through the little fellow's tears. "I'll fight them, if they won't let me be!" he proclaimed.

Something in the way this was said made Matty's eyelids prickle. "You don't want to have anything to do with them!" he urged earnestly. "They're bad clear through. Ain't you got no folks to take you in?"

The little fellow was mum on this point. "I'm not going to stay in New York long,'' he said. "Just till I get enough money to take me to Scranton. I'm going to live with my brother there. He's the finest fellow!" he exclaimed enthusiastically. "Never touches a drop!"

"Why don't you write and ask him for the money for your fare?" suggested Matty.

"He's got a family," said the little one, in the tone of one who must be fair. "I haven't any claim on him. But when I get there I'll work out my board. You won't tell if they should ask you where I went?" he struck in, with sudden terror.

"Ah-h! What do you take me for!" snarled Matty, hurt and angry at the bare suggestion of such a thing.

For a few moments nothing was heard but the subdued humming of the big coffee urn. The little fellow, having finished his supper, crossed his legs and leaned back, nursing one knee, in what he thought was a very manly attitude; meanwhile he was scowling fiercely to counteract the effect of the blushes that would rise under Matty's searching gaze. Matty was watching him in great perplexity as to how he might devise a means to delay the little fellow's rash attempt upon the city. Finally he could contain himself no longer.

"Scranton is hundreds of miles off!" he burst out. "You'd never make it in the world! Why, as soon as ever it's daylight you'll be found out!"

The secret had escaped! The little fellow dropped his knee and stared at Matty with wild, affrighted eyes.

"What do you mean?" shaped his lips.

Matty ducked under the leaf of the counter again and approached the little one's side. "You're no fellow!" he said, with rough, unaccustomed tenderness, unconsciously seizing a little hand in his earnestness and pressing it against his cheek. "Any one could see it with half an eye! You're too pretty and good and nice! Go back where you come from and get your own clothes. I'll go with you if you want. I won't let any one touch you. You hadn't ought to go into town. You don't know what you'd be up against!"

She slipped off the stool and, snatching her hand free (the masculine pronoun may as well be dropped), backed away from him. "You must be crazy!" she said, white and desperate. "Of course I'm a fellow! My name is Harry Covey."

" You can't fool me!" said Matty. "I know!"

An impending deluge of tears left her no resource but precipitate flight. With a miserable little offhand air, which was mocked by her shaking voice, she said: "Well, it's good your thinking can't make me a girl. I must be getting along. Thank you for your kindness."

"Don't go!" cried Matty, in distress. "I was only joking," he hurriedly added. "Of course you're a fellow!"

She was already outside; but she had no sooner set foot to the ground than she swung about and, darting inside the wagon again, pulled the door shut and leaned against it, sick with fear.

"He's out there in the road!" she gasped. "Talking to a policeman!— My father! He'll surely kill me! Hide me! Oh, hide me!"

Matty wasted no time in getting the situation clear in his head, but, instantly seizing the little one's hand, he pulled her after him under the leaf of the counter. Under the solid part was a set of loose shelves on which Matty kept bread and other supplies. He pulled out the shelves, letting the food fall where it would, and into the niche thus vacated thrust the little one, effectually concealing her from the view of any one in the body of the wagon. She had just room enough to sit down. Matty had no sooner straightened his back than the door of the lunch wagon was slid back with a bang that made all the red panes rattle and, upon admitting the form of a brawny working-man, was closed with equal violence. Matty saw that this display of force was merely the result of a muscular habit of action. The man actually had the manner of one who seeks to close a door moderately; and he was plainly unconscious as yet of the proximity of his daughter.

The newcomer's bulk seemed to fill the entire van. It was not that he was so tall, for he looked almost dumpy; but that was the effect of his enormous breadth. His bull neck was forced forward by a thick roll of muscle across his shoulders, and this had the effect of making his great arms hang down, almost to his knees, it seemed. His swarthy, flushed face was cast in the unemotional mold that goes with great strength; and with the lowering, uneasy eye of the hard drinker, he had that grim, satiric mouth that, in elders, is such a terror to youth. Truly it was a formidable antagonist who faced Matty, and the little one's fear was explained. But at this moment the boy was ready to rejoice in any odds: his chin stuck out aggressively, and his eyes shot forth a steely spark, as he gave the counter a careless swipe with his towel.

The big man lounged in front of him with an exaggerated air of indifference. " Has there been a lad in here inside an hour?" he inquired in an offhand tone. "A little fellow with a white face, and pants like they was made for the front legs of an elephant, same girth all the way down?"

"There's been no boy in here," answered Matty, with entire truth.

The man elevated his eyebrows, which in him was tantamount to a shrug. "Well, then, I guess the little devil'll have to shoulder his own pick," he drawled, with the jocose air under which, in bar-rooms, every feeling is disguised. "Blamed if I'll walk the streets of town after him!"

At this display of apparent callousness, Matty's wrath began to rise. He felt it neces¬ sary, however, to curb it until he was better armed with information. To that end he inquired carelessly if the boy had run away.

"Just so!" said the man, dropping on the stool nearest the counter— the same stool the little one had occupied a minute or two before. "Lit out from Roslyn somewheres between nine and ten-thirty. I've followed him sixteen mile along a road as black as the pit, picking up a word here and there which kept me on his track. I thought sure I'd nab him before coming to the city line. Who'd ever have thought she'd have—" He pulled himself up and glanced uneasily at Matty to see if his slip had been noticed.

"I thought you said a boy!" said Matty quickly.

" It looks like a boy," said the man doggedly, "and that's enough for the public!"

A purple spot burned in the middle of each of Matty's red cheeks. "You take it pretty easy," he said.

The man looked at him grimly. "My lad," he drawled, not without dignity, "the feelings of a full-growed man ain't to be so easy read off by a sliver like you!"

This slur on his youth at such a moment was too much for Matty's self-control. He was keyed up for great deeds. "Boy or girl," he said boldly, "I know what drove the kid away from home."

"And what might that be?" drawled the man, with grim, affected surprise.

Matty met his eye squarely. "Booze," he said laconically.

The man slowly raised his great bulk from the stool and pressed his huge knuckles on the edge of Matty's counter. A deeper tinge of red crept under his swarthy skin, and his eyes glittered dangerously. "And how do you know that?" he asked softly.

"I see it in your face," said Matty coolly.

The man's eyes blazed on Matty, and he raised his clenched fists in a frightful gesture of wrath. But the lad was nerved by a glimpse of a white, appealing face, bending over and looking out from under the counter; and his eyes were lit by a deeper flame than the man's own. They did not flinch; and the man's arms, arrested in mid-air, dropped to his sides, and the clenched fingers relaxed. He turned to the stool again and, sinking heavily on it, appeared to stare hard at the sauce bottles on the shelf.

"Yesterday I would have killed a man for less," he said thickly. " But now— well, I guess it's coming to me!"

Matty was man enough not to pursue his advantage too far. He busied himself in picking up the things that had dropped behind the counter when he pulled out the shelves, managing to touch the little one's curls, by accident, as it were, in passing, and, as he stooped down, grinning reassuringly into her face.

Presently the man turned around on the stool with an expression of face that seemed to indicate that he was anxious to justify himself under Matty's charge. "Me and the kid was always good pals at ordinary times," he said simply. " But since she was a baby she was that comical scared of a man in liquor, I just couldn't help plaguing her whenever I had downed a few. Her ma used to hide her when I come home. Since the old woman died and the kid's brother went off and got married, them times of getting full was more frequent than formerly. It's expected of a widow man. Folks would think he was glad to get rid of his woman if he come home sober after she was gone. Well, when the kid begun to grow up, it seemed kind of unnatural that her, almost a woman growed, should have such a fool scare of her dad whenever he had an edge on, and I got sore-like on her, though a good girl she was and none handier around the house. Last night I got fuller than usual along of Clancy fresh-painting his place, but not to say loaded, for I counted every house on the way home and picked my own gate first go. But the kid, she riled me with her white face, disgusted and sick-like at the sight of her natural father; and in the end— well, I sort of raised my hand to her. Not a blow, you understand, just a little slap— but it was the first. She must have been cutting down her brother's old clothes all to-day, and to-night when I come home— she was gone."

"It was a cowardly act," said Matty.

"I ain't saying I don't regret it," muttered the man.

"It's up to you to take the pledge!" said Matty.

There was a gleam of interest, tempered by suspicion, in the man's eye. "You don't catch Dave Covey tying up to no salvation shark," said he.

"I'll write you up an oath myself," said Matty eagerly. "A good hard one you couldn't wiggle out of."

" Let her go! " said the man facetiously. "But mind, no hallelujahs!"

Matty had already dug out a pencil and a small square of wrapping paper, and was setting to work with a will. For several minutes there was no sound to be heard in the lunch wagon except the humming of the urn, the breathing of the three people, and the spasmodic scrunching of Mat's pencil, as he bore down hard. When he approached the end of his composition, he paused and with averted head asked the young one's name, waiting for the blessed sound of it with strained ears.

" Between you and me, Emma," said the man.

It was satisfactory to Matty. He wrote it down and also, as it were, put the name carefully away in his mind. He handed the paper across the counter, and waited anxiously while the man read it over. Upon completing it, Dave glanced furtively at Matty with what, had he been vainer, Matty would have known was unwilling admiration.

"Pretty tight!" he said in his offhand way. "But put in hard cider. Clancy always has it for them that has swore off."

Matty made the desired correction and returned the paper.

"You won't blow on me?" said the man, with ill-concealed anxiety.

"Sure, I will!" said Matty boldly. "How can a man keep a pledge unless he knows everybody knows he's swore it?"

The man shrugged his eyebrows again. "It's coming to me," he said quietly.

Without any suggestion from Matty, big Dave then stood up and, squaring himself, raised his right hand aloft and delivered his oath in a great voice, while Matty stood by with the faint, abstracted smile of an author.

"I, Dave Covey," he read from the paper, "solemnly swears not to and binds himself not to touch or drink a drop or any other quantity of wine, beer, or spirituous liquors or hard cider for three years from to-night. And if he breaks his oath may the fires of hell light upon me; and if he breaks his oath I hereby give up all my rights and claims as a father on my said daughter, Emma Covey, for ever and ever, so help me God, Amen."

The instrument was duly signed by Dave and witnessed by Matty, who subsequently put it in the pie-cupboard for safe-keeping. Upon hearing the oath read, the little figure under the counter had evinced a disposition to emerge, but was restrained by a touch of Matty's foot.

"That was a good thought about the kid," said Dave reflectively. "That will hold me to it. But what made you hit on three years, now?"

Matty was drawing a cup of black coffee for Dave to drink to the signing of the pledge, and the question took him off his guard. "I'll be twenty," he said simply. "I don't think a man ought to marry before then."

"So-ho!" drawled Dave, with his inimitable affectation of polite surprise. "Seems to me you're taking a pretty long shot!"

Matty recovered himself promptly. "She must have pluck," he said, as carelessly as Dave himself. "I'm willing to risk it."

"I never said but what she was as homely as a hedge fence," remarked Dave.

"Nor did you say but what she wasn't," retorted Matty.

"Well, I do say we've got to find her first," said her father.

This provided the opening Matty had been waiting for. "The trouble with kids when they light out," he said carelessly, "they'd come home quick enough, only they're scared of what they'll get."

"If I could find my little daughter," said Dave Covey, in a voice that was earnest enough in spite of the jocose drawl, "would I larrup her for running away? Not on your life, my lad! I'd apologize to her, I would. I'd say to her, 'Emmy, my dear, you're more of a man than your drunken old pa!' "

There was a frantic scramble underneath the counter, as of a gigantic mouse suddenly startled into action. Matty had a glimpse of a pair of baggy little trousers darting under the leaf of the counter as the little one precipitated herself on her astonished parent. He turned his back, and, with hot ears, clattered among his dishes. The little one uttered not a sound; but her father expressed over and over, in varying tones, an unalterable conviction that he would be condemned. When Matty ventured to turn around, big Dave was still sitting on the stool and holding the curly-headed little one close to his side. Father and daughter were cheek to cheek, and the sight of this parental privilege gave Matty an envious ache somewhere under his necktie.

"You're a smart kid, all right," said Dave to Matty, with a grin of admiration that made the boy's heart swell. "All I can say is, I give my consent to you know what, in three years."

The little one, who was one great blush, would not look anywhere near Matty, but kept slyly tugging at her father to be gone. When she finally got him started, she pulled him down and whispered in his ear.

"The lad says I must pay for the damage he did your stock," drawled Dave.

Matty flared up instantly. "I won't take a penny!" he shouted, with ridiculous force, considering the size of the place.

Still keeping a careful back to Matty, the little one whispered another message in her father's ear.

"He says will you come and eat it out next Sunday, then, and be interjooced to him in her natural sex," said Dave.

"Sure!" cried the delighted Matty.

_________________

12: Mansion of Death

Roger Torrey

1901-1946

Detective Fiction Weekly 25 May 1940

I LIKED THE OLD LADY the first time I saw her… but then, I’ve always gotten along better with old ladies than with the young ones Though maybe that’s because I’ve never worried about the old ones as much. Anyway, she came in the office and held out her hand as if she expected me to bow over it, and said:

“I’m Miss Conklin! I talked with you over the telephone, young man.”

I bowed, though I hadn’t intended any such foolishness, and told her I was glad to meet her in person. And she twinkled her bright little blue eyes at me and shook her finger at me and said:

“Now young man! You’re glad to see me because I’m a customer.”

And then she perched on the edge of the chair I’d bounced around the desk and brought up for her.

She was really cute. She looked like an old-fashioned grandmother dressed up in Fifth Avenue clothes. They fitted her beautifully and undoubtedly had cost her a lot of money. But she didn’t seem to belong in them. She should have been wearing a lot of ruffles with lace around her neck and a poke bonnet. And Congress gaiters instead of high-heeled shoes. I sat down on my own side of the desk and asked:

“What was it, Miss Conklin?”

“I’ve been robbed,” she said calmly. “And I don’t like it. I don’t like the feeling of not being able to trust my own household.”

I said that was understandable. She went on: “There was $1,864 taken from my desk drawer. There was an envelope containing slightly more than $50,000 in negotiable bonds directly beside the money, but that wasn’t touched. No one had broken in the house and it’s self-evident that some one in the house itself is guilty of the theft. I don’t wish to have the police tramping over my house and asking innocent people a lot of silly questions, but I do want to catch the thief.”

“Suppose I find the guilty person. Will you turn him—or her, if that’s the way it turns out— over to the police?”

She shook her head and said: “I will not. I have an odd household, Mr. Shay. If you’ll ride up to the house with me, I’ll explain that remark on our way.”

I took my gun from its place in the upper desk drawer and started to slip it in the clip under my arm—and she frowned and said:

“You will not need a weapon, Mr. Shay. I’m sure there’ll be no necessity for one.”

So I put the gun back and reached for my hat instead. She hadn’t talked about payment for what I was or wasn’t going to do, and I thought I’d better look over things before bringing the subject up.

I wasn’t worried; people who leave eighteen-hundred-odd dollars loose in desk drawers can usually pay a private cop’s starvation wages.

Her chauffeur was an ugly bird that looked as though he’d just got out of jail. And the funny part of it was he just had. She told me all about it on the way up to the house. She said:

“My house is staffed with people who have been … well, let us say in houses of correction. I believe they should be given a helping hand and a chance to earn an honest living, once they have paid their debt to society.”

“And you keep eighteen hundred dollars, loose, in a desk drawer. Along with fifty thousand dollars worth of bonds that could be hocked with any fence.”

She said: “I have never been robbed, young man. Never.”

“What about now?”

She sounded stiff and old-ladyish now. “There is some mistake, young man. Of that I am sure. One of my people must have faced a problem that only money could solve. Something he or she couldn’t come to me about.”

I told her I faced the same sort of a problem every rent day and listened to more. She had a nephew and niece with her, besides the jail help. And then I got a shock. She said:

“My nephew is George Lawrence, Jr. His sister is Frances Lawrence. I understand they are fairly well-known among the younger set.”

“I know Georgie, Miss Conklin,” I said. “If you have your driver stop, I’ll get out here and go back to my office.”

She asked me what was the matter and I told her. I said: “I had the pleasure of knocking young Georgie almost over the Black Cat Club’s bar, just night before last. I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it— the newspapers had a lot of fun with the thing.”

“I know all about it,” she said placidly. “In fact, that’s one reason I came to you. George has had that coming to him for some time. He came home with a black eye, after my lawyer bailed him out of jail, and told me all about it.”

“What did he say?”

She twinkled her eyes at me and said: “You can depend on it not being the truth. But I asked questions and found out the truth. That should happen oftener to the boy.”

“You’re not sore about it?”

“My goodness no! I’m grateful to you, Mr. Shay. You’ll find George isn’t the kind to cherish a grudge, Mr. Shay…. Just forget all about the episode.”

Personally I thought young Georgie would carry a grudge until the day he died, but I didn’t care a whoop whether he did or not. He was one of those loud-mouthed freshies that grates on me, and I was perfectly willing to knock him over a bar whenever we met. A bar was the logical place to look for young George. The kid was a society swack and they don’t come any swackier than that.

And then we pulled into the driveway and up to her house.

It could have been turned into a library without much trouble; it had the lines and the size. An old place and very dignified. I helped her, judging her to weigh not over eighty pounds wringing wet and with lead in her shoes, and as we watched the chauffeur swing the car on and around toward the garage, she cautioned me:

“Now use tact, Mr. Shay! I want none of my people worried. The innocent shouldn’t suffer for the thoughtlessness of one.”

Then the butler opened the door and we went in.

I got a break right off the bat. Fresh from the griddle. The butler was Preacher Toomey, who usually did his time for slipping up on some confidence racket. Of course he’d taken one jolt for armed robbery and another for assault with intent to kill, but they were outside of his regular field of endeavor.

“Why hello, Preacher,” I said.

He bowed and looked at me out of mean little eyes.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Shay.”

Little Miss Conklin twinkled her eyes at both of us and marveled: “Well, isn’t this nice. You know each other then?”

“You might say a professional acquaintance, eh, Preacher?” I said.

Preacher said: “Yes, sir.”

And then Miss Conklin and I went in the library and found the maid.

She hadn’t been dead long … and her name had been Mary Morse. At least that was one of them. She’d done time for everything from shoplifting on up. Somebody had caved in her right temple with something that hadn’t broken the skin at all. The skull bone there is not much thicker than paper and it was crushed in all right, but there was no blood. Just a sort of darkening, where blood vessels below the skin had broken.

Miss Conklin and I had walked in on her together, and I turned to catch the old lady when she fainted, but she just caught the corner of the desk to steady herself.

“My goodness sake!”

“I’ll call the police,” I said.

She waved her hand, palm up, in front of her, but didn’t speak for a moment. And then she said: “Not for a little while, please. I ask that, Mr. Shay.”

“It’s the law, Miss Conklin. They have to be notified at once.”

“Not for a little while, please. I can handle any trouble resulting from your not calling them at once, I can assure you.”

I thought the moment I got a chance at a phone I’d call, so didn’t argue. Just looked at the dead girl.

She’d been pretty. She was maybe twenty-five or twenty-eight, not over that, and she’d been a good-sized wench. Probably around a hundred and thirty, though she didn’t look half that big lying there.

Dead people never do look their weight— they seem to shrink.

There was no sign around of anything she could have been hit with; I decided it was probably a shot-filled sap, though it could have been some home-made affair, filled with sand or anything like that. She was right by the desk, and the drawer above her was half open, as though she might have been searching in it. She was dressed in a neat little black and white outfit—the kind that has a little apron all frilled at the edges and a cap to match.

The cap was still on her head, but it was riding a little cock-eyed.

“This is murder, Miss Conklin, and the first thing to do is call the police.”

“I know exactly what to do, Mr. Shay,” she said. “Please don’t ask any questions now. Just come with me.”

We went out in the hall then and found Preacher Toomey still puttering around there. Miss Conklin said:

“Toomey, have there been any visitors?”

“Why no, Miss Conklin,” he told her. “Mr. Franks is here calling on Miss Lawrence, but that is all that I know of.”

“Is Mr. Lawrence in?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You haven’t been out, have you, Toomey? You’d surely know if there’s strangers here?”

“I’ve been here all afternoon, ma’am.”

“Noticed anything wrong?”

“Why no, ma’am.”

She told him that was all and we went back to the library. She said then, in a tired voice: “Well, I wanted to be sure. I’ll call the police now…. It was possible somebody else had killed poor Mary, but now it’s surely someone in the house. Toomey would say if there’d been anybody else here.”

“Would he know for sure?”

She said: “If he knew this had happened, he’d have said that various unknown people had been in and out. Toomey is no fool, Mr. Shay; he would realize that he and everyone else in the house would be under immediate suspicion. Because of their past lives, you know.”

That made sense. Then there was a knock on the door and Toomey followed it, stopping just inside where he couldn’t see the dead girl’s body.

“Might I have a few words, Miss Conklin?”

She said he could. He looked at me and said: “Of course I know Mr. Shay is here investigating the robbery, Miss Conklin. I’d just like to say I know nothing about it. I want to tell both you and Mr. Shay that I’m innocent, that I’m leading a decent life.”

“I’m sure you are, Toomey,” she said. “But I’d like to know just how you knew about the robbery. I told no one.”

“Morse told me of it, ma’am. I’m sure I don’t know how she knew…. She informed me it was confidential, but all of us seem to know of it.”

He bowed then and left, and Miss Conklin said: “I told no one about the robbery but George and his sister. Do you suppose one of them could have told poor Mary?”

I didn’t know the sister but I knew George, and the way he chased girls. And I knew that Mary had just adored being chased—and had never run very fast when pursued. And she’d still been a good-looking gal and young George had money. I got the answer right away, but I only said:

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

“I’ll call the police now,” she sighed. “I do wish this hadn’t happened. The police will certainly be most abrupt with my people— there’s nothing I can do to prevent it.”

I thought her using “abrupt” as a description of what the police would be with her collection of jailbirds was a miracle of understatement, but I let that go along with the other. She picked up the telephone and I wandered out in the hall.

Toomey was waiting for me. He beckoned me away from the door, and when I followed he said:

“Look, shamus! That’s gospel that I gave in there. I haven’t done a thing.”

“I believe you,” I said, “that’s the funny part of it. If it had been you, you’d have taken the bonds along with the dough. You’d have gone hook, line, and sinker— and left the town because you couldn’t take that along too. Okay! Now what?”

“I didn’t want you picking at me all the time, is all. Maybe I’m no lily, but I’m clear on this deal.”

“I get it, Preacher. You were holding off— waiting to get a chance at a real killing. Who’s this guy Franks you told Miss Conklin was here?”

“He’s the gal’s sweetie. He tags her all around. He comes here every day.”

“What kind of a guy is he?”

He shrugged. “She likes him. She’s going to marry him.”

I went back in the library and Miss Conklin hung up the phone and said: “The police tell me they will be here at once. Oh my goodness! The trouble my poor people will have.”

I grinned and she saw it. She said sharply: “Mr. Shay! These poor unfortunate victims of our society are entitled to decent treatment, once they have made penance. There’s no reason why they shouldn’t be treated as any decent citizen should be. I want you to think of that.”

I thought of Preacher Toomey and the cut-throat that had driven us to the house— and the Lord knows what other specimens she had around— and said:

“You think of it, Miss Conklin. I’d as soon live in a cage with wild tigers as here.”

“That is very unfair,” she said.

I waved toward the desk that shielded the dead Mary Morse and said: “If Mary could talk, I’ll bet she wouldn’t agree with you.”

The cops came and there was merry hell to pay. They lined up the help and of all the collection I ever saw they won in a walk. They’d have made the average police line-up look like a meeting of the Ladies Aid. The chauffeur had served time in Dannemora and Joliet. One gardener had taken a course at McAlester, in Oklahoma, and a P.G. at Folsom, in California. The other one had graduated from Leavenworth, which is a Federal pen. The cook was an old gal who’d killed her husband with a frying pan and had done seven years for the trick. The two other maids were about in the dead Mary Morse’s class, though they didn’t own the looks she’d had.

And then there was young George Lawrence, who was a worthless bum if one ever walked. He was half drunk, and when he saw me he wanted to pick up the argument where we’d left it off two nights before.

The cops stopped him quick on that— telling him they’d do all the fighting necessary.

Franks, the Lawrence girl’s fiance, was a thin-faced, dark young fellow. He seemed to be okay. I didn’t know anything about him, but I wondered how a honey like the Lawrence girl could go for him. She could have done better, with what she had to work with, which was practically everything it takes.

She was small and blonde, and had that wide-set appealing stare that makes you want to pick ‘em up and cuddle ‘em and tell ‘em everything will be all right.

Nobody had any alibi— the cops found that out right away. Nobody had any notion about who didn’t like Mary Morse. Or said they hadn’t. And then I got a break. The cops were ganged up, talking to one of the gardeners, and Preacher Toomey caught my eye and beckoned me over to him. He said, so no one else could hear it:

“Listen, Shay! I’ll do you a favor and maybe you can do one back for me. The kid, young Georgie, was mixed up with the gal. She was clipping him for all the dough he could get his hands on.”

“You sure?”

“Certain. She bragged about it.”

“Did his aunt know about it?”

“Listen, Shay! If there’s one single, solitary thing goes on in this house that she don’t know about, I’ll put in with you. She’s so smart it’s painful.”

“Nuts!” I said. “If she was, she’d never have a bunch like she’s got here around her. Was the kid still playing around with the Morse dame?”

“Sure. But she was taking him for dough and he was sore about it. He beat the hell out of her three weeks ago…. His aunt kept her from calling the cops in on it. That’ll give you an idea of how much she knows about it. You going to tell the cops?”

“Why don’t you?”

He said gloomily: “That’d make ‘em think I was trying to pass the buck to somebody else. The best thing I can do is keep my mouth shut.”

I told him I thought it a very good idea… and I did the same. I figured there’d be plenty of time to tell it later.

It ended right there. The Captain in charge, Chick Williams, grumbled to Miss Conklin: “And what can I do about it? I tell you I’ll take your crew down to the station for questioning and you tell me that you’ll have ‘em out on a writ of habeas corpus as soon as you can get in touch with your lawyer. What can I do, lady?— You tie my hands.”

“I know very well what would happen to them at the station,” Miss Conklin said primly. “They would be brow-beaten, if not physically beaten. They have told you what they know.”

“Every damned one of them has stood in front of me and lied by the clock.”

“Can you prove that, officer?”

Williams admitted he couldn’t. Miss Conklin said: “Then I certainly wouldn’t make the statement. These people look to me for protection and I intend to see they have it.”

Williams went away, growling about making a check on everybody in the place and on the dead girl’s past life. And as soon as he left I told Miss Conklin what Toomey had told me. She gave me a queer stare and said:

“But you didn’t tell the police?”

I said that I hadn’t as yet….

“Give me a couple of days, Mr. Shay. If I don’t think of a plan by that time, you and I will go together, taking Toomey with us, and see he tells his story to the police. I naturally don’t want my nephew in jail if he’s innocent, though if he’s guilty that’s the place for him.”

I said: “Will you tell me honestly what you think about it?”

“I don’t think George is guilty— I can tell you that much,” she said, pursing her lips and looking like a grandmother making up her mind about how many jars of pickles to put up. “No, I really don’t.”

“Why not?”

“He hasn’t the nerve, Mr. Shay. He’s too dependent on me to do a thing like that. Rather than kill the girl, he’d have come to me and made a clean breast of the matter.”

“He did— once. When he beat the girl up and you went to the front for him and kept her from calling in the cops.”

“Toomey told you that, too?”

“You bet.”

She smiled then. “Doesn’t that support my theory, Mr. Shay? If he’d had murder in his mind, wouldn’t he have committed it then, rather than just abuse the girl? He knew then I’d find it out.”

“People can change,” I told her. “Sometimes a man can be driven just so far. And then he’ll back up.”

She admitted that maybe I was right and that she’d get in touch with me at my office in a day or so. And I left, wondering why I didn’t tell the cops what I knew and have them take the young punk down to the station and sweat a confession out of him.

He was my customer for the killing and there wasn’t a doubt in my mind about it. And the only thing holding me back from turning him in was the old lady. In my business, a client’s always right, at least until proved a mile wrong. She was a client and so I went along with her on the two days of grace she asked for. I couldn’t see it, but there was an outside chance of somebody else having done the killing— and it was just possible that she had an idea who it was.

And, after all, the cops could pick up young Lawrence just as well two days later as then.

She came in two days later, looking even smaller and more fragile. She gave me her pretty, anxious smile and said:

“I have thought it all out, Mr. Shay. There is absolutely no way to prove who killed that girl. Nor who took my money.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I told her. “The cops could take the whole bunch down to the station, and they’d have a confession in twenty-four hours. You know that.”

“It wouldn’t be fair to the ones that didn’t do it,” she said stubbornly. “I have a deep feeling about such things. Now I have worked out a plan and I’m sure it will be successful. But I need your help.”

I said I was still working for her, as far as I knew.

So then she told me what she wanted— and I finally said I’d do it. I’d argued two hours and hadn’t won a point, before I caved.

“Then I’ll depend on you,” she finished. “I’m supposed to be playing bridge this afternoon, and I’m not expected back until around eight. As I told you, I told George and Toomey that I knew who’d killed Mary Morse and that I intended to tell the police about it tomorrow. I can depend on Toomey telling the others about it.”

“They’d think it was funny you not telling the police right then,” I said.

“Oh no! I told them I was waiting for certain proof,” she said. “And that I’d find that out tomorrow. But that there was no doubt in my mind right then. So you see I’ve thought of everything.”

“I’m beginning to think you have,” I said.

I got into the house easily enough…. She’d given me the key to a side door that opened into the library, and it was just a question of making sure no one was in the room and then walking in. I moved a couch, at the corner of the room, far enough out to climb behind it, then got it back in place. It made a snug little nest. If I sat down naturally, the thing was just low enough for me to see over, and if I ducked my head a little, I was entirely out of sight.

And then I waited.

Miss Conklin came in a little after nine and never even looked toward where I was. She had that much will power. She was humming to herself, as though she hadn’t a care in the world. She got a book from a shelf and sat down in a big chair that almost hid her. Her back was to the door. I could hear pages rustle as she turned them…. Then there was a knock on the door, and she called “Come in!” without looking around.

It was young Georgie. And he looked bad with the black eye I’d given him. I slid my gun out of its clip and got ready to go into action. He passed around in front of her and stood.

“Aunt Alice,” he said, “I’ve got to talk to you.”

“Go ahead, George.”

And then I got a shock. “I heard what you told Frances,” he said, “and she told me you’d told Toomey the same thing. That you knew who killed Mary.”

“That’s right,” she said. “I intend to notify the police tomorrow. As I told Frances, there’s one little detail I want cleared up and I can’t do that until tomorrow.”

Then came the pay-off. The kid said: “I’m going to stay right here with you, Aunt Alice. Don’t you realize that you’re in danger? The same person who killed Mary knows by now that you know who he is. He’s liable to try to silence you. I’m going to stay right here with you.”

Miss Conklin said: “No, George. I’m perfectly all right. But I thank you for the thought. Now run along— don’t waste your time talking to an old lady.”

“I’m going to stay, Aunt Alice.”

The old lady didn’t raise her voice, but it now had a snap in it. She just said: “George!”

“All right, Aunt Alice, you know best.”

He marched out of the room, just barely giving me time to duck out of sight. Then the old lady said, as if she were talking to herself:

“Nice boy, George.”

So there was my number one suspect cleared…. I was just getting over the shock of that when there was another knock and the niece came in. Looking like a million dollars! She bounced over in front of her auntie and knelt down and said:

“Oh, Aunt Alice! Aren’t you afraid? You know this is Toomey’s night off.”

Miss Conklin said: “Yes, I’ve thought of that.”

“But aren’t you frightened, Aunt Alice?”

I didn’t hear what Aunt Alice said because I was too busy ducking back out of sight. The hall door was opening— very quietly and softly— and I wanted to be out of sight until whoever it was had passed me.

And he did. It was young Franks, the girl’s fiance. He was walking on his toes and he was swinging a sap in his left hand. The girl looked over her aunt’s head at him and said to the aunt:

“I just thought I’d better stay with you, Aunt Alice. Just in case of—”

I shot young Franks then, taking him just below the knee, where I had a lot of brittle shin bone to aim at. A slug from the kind of gun I shoot will wreck bone structure of that kind and leave a man crippled for life… and I was thinking of that. The girl stood and screamed. It cut through the roaring thunder the big gun made in the room. And Miss Conklin got up from her big chair and peered down at Franks, who was rolling around on the floor and making a lot of noise.

“It’s as I thought,” Miss Conklin said calmly. “Mr. Shay, will you telephone for the police. I’m going to be very busy for a few minutes.”

She didn’t pay any more attention to me, but went over to a drawer built in the bookcase. She pulled out a heavy riding whip. And then she went back to the girl and said:

“Now, you little sneak! I’m going to take the hide right off your damned back. You ungrateful little—!”

And then, by heaven, she did. She had a nice command of language and every time she gave the girl a new title she came down with the whip.

I didn’t want to interfere, but finally I had to.

“You don’t want to kill her, do you?” I said.

She stopped then.

“Did you call the police?” she asked.

I said I hadn’t but would right away. And then somebody said, from the door doorway: “I did, ma’am!”

We turned and looked that way. And here was the cook, the chauffeur, and the two maids staring in. The chauffeur said:

“I called when I heard the shot, ma’am. Then I came in to help.”

I said to Miss Conklin: “You going to turn the girl over to the cops?”

“Certainly not,” she snapped. “I can take care of her very well. The man, the sneak, he will certainly go to prison, if he doesn’t hang.”

“He’ll limp when he goes down that hall to the scaffold,” I told her. “Did you think it was him all the time?”

“Of course,” she said.

And then the cops came.

She came down to see me the next afternoon again. Just as nice as though nothing had happened. She even blushed a little when she asked me how much money I wanted. And I blushed even more when I told her— because all I’d done was what she’d told me to do. She’d supposedly hired a detective and then she’d done all the detective work. She gave me a check.

“Miss Conklin,” I said, “I don’t like to appear too dumb, but what made you think it was young Franks who’d killed the maid? You told me you had that idea right along. Of course we know now why he did it— she’d seen him swipe the dough from your desk. She started to blackmail him, the same as she was already blackmailing your nephew. Of course not for the same reason. But I’d like to know why you picked him as the guilty one, instead of George, or Preacher Toomey, or that thug chauffeur or those gardeners?”

She twinkled her eyes at me and said: “Why it just had to be him, Mr. Shay. I knew that none of my people would steal— and of course I knew my nephew wouldn’t. Not that I’d put it past the boy, but there was no need for him to steal; all he had to do was ask me for the money and I’d have given it to him. So that left only Frances and her friend. And do you know, I’ve never trusted that young man since the first time I met him.”

“But you’d trust that collection of jailbirds you’ve got?”

“Why, of course,” she said pensively. “You see, I know their peculiar psychology. And then I had another reason for thinking young Mr. Franks the murderer. You see, poor Mary had been struck on the right temple— that showed me a left-handed man had struck the blow. Just try it— you’re right-handed, and you’ll notice if you strike another person on the temple it will invariably be on the left side. This was just reversed. And, of course, my nephew, and all the others in the house, happen to be right-handed. Young Mr. Franks is the only left-handed one. But I really didn’t need that proof—and it isn’t the sort of thing that would stand up in court.”

She went out then and left me trying to figure things out. Not the left-handed angle— that’s one of the simple things you overlook because it is so simple.

It was the old gal herself. Here she’d acted like one of the nicest ladies I’d ever met—up to the time she’d found out for sure her niece was in the plot to kill her. And even then she didn’t turn the girl over to the police. Instead she gave her a beating, and kept her where she could keep an eye on her.

And then the language she’d used was hardly the thing a lady knows.

And to top the whole thing off— having that collection of thugs around her and actually protecting them from the police.

It was all by me.

It stayed that way until I met Chick Williams, the police captain, who’d been in charge of the case. I ran into him on the street and he laughed and said:

“You still working for the Conklin woman?” I told him I’d like to have her for a partner… that she’d shown more brains in the thing than either he or I had. He didn’t like this so well and told me that if he’d had his way, and taken the whole bunch down to the station and sweated them, that he’d have had the answer before the old lady had it.

I agreed. And then he laughed again and poked me with a finger and said: “You know who that old gal is? I just happened to mention her to one of the old-timers, who dropped in the office… and he remembered her.”

I said I didn’t know who she was, other than she seemed like a nice, old gal with a lot of money. Then he poked me again and winked and said:

“She’s the Miss Conklin. The one that scragged her sweetie, over forty years ago, and did sixteen years in the pen for it. Cold-blooded murder it was, according to the old boy. He said it was a wonder they ever let her out. She’d fell into a bunch of dough while she was doing time, and that probably had something to do with that angle. Ain’t that a kick, Shay?”

I said it was very funny and felt a lot better. It solved the puzzle. Here I’d been wondering why she’d looked after her convict help and claimed to understand ‘em. Why shouldn’t she?

And it explained the language she’d used to the girl and the whip act. They talk rough and they handle their own problems in the women’s wards in jails.

I left Williams. I was thinking that it would be a good bet the jail was glad to see her go. I’m willing to bet the warden slept better.

Because I had the notion that Miss Conklin would be top dog wherever she was…. She was one client of mine that had been right on every count.

____________________

13: The Phantom of Castle Ballyran

Anonymous

Telegraph (Brisbane) 9 Nov 1897

IT was a wild, stormy evening upon which Will Darrell arrived and took possession of his suddenly-acquired estate of Ballyran, County Galway, Ireland.

Young, handsome, and talented, Will Darrell had struggled since his boyhood. With adversity, and now, at the age of eight-and-twenty, found himself a rich man, having woke up one morning to the knowledge of a legacy, from a distant and, till then unknown relative, of twenty-thousand pounds and Castle Ballyran.

The money was in the Funds, and a transfer had been effected, when Darrell resolved upon a journey to the sister country to inspect the property, of which he had heard only a confused account.

He found, on his arrival, that the Castle was a venerable old pile, and a young and enthusiastic artist, Darrell viewed his possession with rapturous eyes. Far from any town, and at a considerable distance even from the nearest village, the old castle stood alone, in desolate grandeur, overhanging the rocky sea shore. The approach lay over a bleak and almost barren upland, and the gusty wind howled shrilly to the roaring waves.

It was upon one of the last days of October, the evening of which was closing in, as Darrell, with his Irish agent, entered the great hall of the castle. A portion only of the great building was habitable, and for years no one had resided there but an old man named Mike, and the crone, his wife, who were the custodians of the place, and had grown grey within its walls.

Will Darrell and the agent were received most reverentially by the ancient couple, and were conducted to the chief chamber on the ground floor, the banquet hall of former days. It loomed large and lofty, and dimly grand in the grey twilight, rendered yet more obscure by the discoloured windows, through which everything was thrown in shadow. The panelling was of black oak, relieved by the gilded quarterings of old families, and the dim portraits of old generations.

At the farther end of the chamber was a dais, and above it hung some tattered banners, which had done good service in their day, und drank the blood and licked the dust of many a well-fought field. There were arms of almost every age, and here end-there complete suits of rusty mail stood out like gaunt and warlike spectres. A long table occupied the centre of the hall, but a few chairs only stood at its head. Towards these the newcomers made their way as old Mike entered, bearing-huge candelabras.

Above the immense chimney-piece was carved some incident of the early years, the design of which was lost to the eager artist's eyes of the young  legatee, by the smoke that issued in thick volumes from the turf and green wood, but newly-lighted on the large hearth beneath.

"Welcome, Mr. Darrell. Cead Mille Failthe, welcome to the old castle! may I you live long, sir, to reside in it with all honour and prosperity!" exclaimed the agent, warmly.

"Reside in it! By my faith I'll never leave it! What a glorious old place ; its ruinous aspect delights me more than would a gorgeous palace with our latest modern improvements."

Gazing admiringly around, Will Darrell was only roused from the most pleasant of ruminations by the return of the old people, bearing a couple of trays burthened with dishes containing boiled and roast fowls, dried salmon, cakes, oaten bread, and two decanters of whisky.

Tired and hungry, the artist and the genial agent did full justice to all that was placed before them, the former partaking almost too freely of the potent potheen. Until eleven o'clock the jovial companions caroused, when Mike offered to conduct them to their apartments for the night.

The withered, serving man, like most of his class, was garrulous in the extreme, and full of stories of ghosts and banshees. To those latter Will Darrell listened with much interest and an amused smile. One tale particularly rivetted the attention of the young artist; it was of a phantom whom report credited with prowling and gliding about the old castle at midnight— the phantom of a young and lovely woman in white.

The agent having retired, Darrell, consulting his watch with a humorous smile, asked the aged servitor what particular portion of the castle was most favoured by the ghost, and was informed that the lovely phantom had been soon gliding about in the habited portion of the building as often as the chambers that were falling into ruin and decay.

"Very well, Mike. They say, 'After dinner sit awhile, after supper walk a mile.' So, us I feel now not at all inclined for repose, give me a lantern and I'll amuse myself by finding out if this pretty phantom will show up to the new lord of her domain."

"Musha, an' it's going over the castle all by yourself, your honour, and close on midnight! Ochone, it's tempting Providence, shure!" said the old man,  trembling and devoutly crossing himself.

"Oh, don't you fear, Mike, a lady ghost or no ghost won't frighten Will Darrell; and, perhaps, as I'm a single young man the female phantom will run away from me instead of after me."

"Bedad, the pretty colleen may lead you out on the rocks, shure, an' yer honour may be carried away the same as young Pat Doolan, who was lost entoirely, blown out to sea, and never heard of again, Musha!"

"Well, I'll chance the rooks, the wind, and the sea. Mike, give me a lantern; I'm determined to find the phantom of Castle Ballyran, so say no more, but off with you to your old dame, and leave me to look about for this young one. In the flesh or out of it, I'll have speech with her, though all the shades of my ancestors surrounded her."

Laughing at the lugubrious janitor the young lord of the old castle, receiving a lighted lantern from his trembling hands, boldly strode from the banquet hall, and presently began to mount the dilapidated staircase without.

The walls broken, and the casement beaten in, the wind in fitful bluster and rushing sweeps met him in full force as at length be gained a narrow landing place above.

The bold artist, stopping now for a moment, stood by an open niche to breathe the night air and listen to the surging moan of the sea as it laved the beach, laughing aloud as attracted by the glare of the lantern a huge cat dashed full in his face at the very moment that an owl cot up her melancholy, weird tu whit, tu whoo!

Pursuing his way through a long gallery, undismayed by the rats that, startled from their holes, scampered over the black floor like frightened rabbits, Will Darrell, holding high the lantern, pressed on until he gained an apartment, vast, gloomy and very scantily provided with crazy antique furniture. A bed at one side, the room looked dark and hearse-like, and its proportions to the eye of the artist seemed fit for a company of light infantry, who might previously have sat down together to sup in the fireplace, where four green logs were making asthmatic attempts at a smoke. The walls were hung with torn arras, and there were half-a-dozen portraits of former owners of Castle-Ballyran. At the farther end of the room from the: bed Darrell observed a door, that apparently opened into some lesser chamber.

Profound quiet now reigned throughout the old building, and, swinging his lantern to and fro, Will Darrell was stepping to the door that had attracted his attention when he was startled by a loud sigh and the-tap-top of tiny feet, as though a child was running across the floor.

"So the ghosts are beginning the game. I never heard yet that phantoms required fires to warm themselves by, and, as this apartment was certainly not intended for my bed-chamber situate as it is in the uninhabited part of the castle, the matter, to say the least of it, looks suspicious. I made up my mind to have a squint at old Mike's phantom, and it appears to me my curiosity respecting the female ghost is very likely to be gratified."

Soliloquising thus, Will Darrell, undeterred by the sound of a faint moan, boldly made for the door fronting the hearse-like bedstead. The means of egress -to this chamber being on the latch the bold young artist threw it back on its hinges, starting and uttering an exclamation of wonder as he caught sight of the figure of a young woman. A lovely woman, habited in a white dress, and who by her attitude as she stood staring at the intruder, whilst in her astonishment and alarm grasping for support the back of an easy American chair, was as surprised and confounded as he was.

For a moment Will Darrell stood upon the threshold, staring in amaze at the beautiful vision before him, and then with a loud laugh made a dash forwards, as the woman with a shriek bounded away like a young fawn out through an opening in the wall at the back of the chamber. A huge panel having been slid aside by an unknown hand, the fair occupant had at once availed-herself of this retreat opened to her. About to follow the substantial phantom, the young Irishman was seized in tho grasp of a shock-headed Irishman, who, with a broad grin upon his tanned and humorous features, exclaimed :

"Whist, yer honour! be aisy; I've seen Mike, he tould me as ye meant to see the phantom of the castle, and, bedad! you've frightened the banshee instead of her frightening you. Shure, but come, Musha, it's all the boys as'll be glad to see yer honour."

"Humph! I think I understand matters. However, lead on my friend, I'll follow!" ejaculated Darrell, at once unhesitatingly treading in the footsteps of his guide.

Threading their way onward through the deserted chambers, they presently reached a roofless tower, and from thence descended a long winding staircase leading to the crags. Over these was Darrell conducted by his guide, he knew not whither, hearing only the bellowing of the ocean, and the scream of the sea-bird.

At length a dark object seemed to oppose further progress, but the Irishman thrust the brushwood aside, and led the way on through a narrow winding passage, apparently hollowed out of the rooks. A loud shout now broke upon the pare or Darrell, and the next instant he was in the centre of a wild group who welcomed him with uproarious cheers and boisterous mirth to the smugglers' cave of Ballyran.

With a laugh as hearty as their own, Will Darrell seated himself upon a keg, and much to the delight of his rough companions gulped down a glass of pure potheen that he felt assured had never paid duty.

The story was soon told to the amused young artist: Castle Ballyran, offering admirable facilities for headquarters, Dan Rafferty's smuggler band had decided to spread the report of the building being haunted. Norah, the chief's daughter, a romantic, bold young colleen, consenting to enact the role of phantom. Surprised, however, that night by the now lord of the castle, we have seen how the young lady ghost ran for it, instead of mirthfully beholding the flight of her victims.

The carouse of the smugglers and their honoured guest was kept up till early morn, Will Darrell deriving much amusement from the confusion of the agent and old Mike, who both had, of course, been in league with the smugglers. We never heard of the smuggler band after this discovery dispersed to "fresh fields and pastures new," but we do know that Will Darrell became the husband of the pretty phantom of Castle Ballyran.

_______________

14: The Flying Skull

J. Allan Dunn

1872-1941

Popular Detective Sept 1935

GABRIEL GREER sat at his scarred desk and regarded his visitor with eyes that held all the humanity of a squid.

The room was on the ground floor of the house he owned in the middle West Twenties, and used as both office and residence. The brownstone front was scaly, the whole place needed paint and cleaning. The furniture was shabby.

Greer was not. His attire was expensive and carefully chosen. It was the wardrobe of a banker. Clean-shaven, hale, florid and slightly portly, Greer, save for the baleful expression in his eyes, masked by tinted glasses, appeared a man of wealth and good taste. He might have been a philanthropist.

The man across the desk looked what he was— a fairly prosperous and successful accountant of an up-state town. A competent person whose business had become restricted by the depression. To him, at this moment, Greer was still the kindly man of affairs who had offered him a mortgage on a business block that John Clay, the accountant, had bought when times were booming.

Clay had a hobby. He had probably the finest private collection of moths and beetles and butterflies in America. It had considerable scientific value but, as a financial asset, would be represented by Clay himself in red ink. He had spent a good deal of the mortgage money on properly housing his specimens. Now he wanted Greer to renew that mortgage.

Greer listened to Clay's request with hidden amusement and contempt. He was not a handsome man, for all his grooming. But he was intensely vain. He had been born with poor teeth, his metabolism was faulty. He wore top and bottom plates of teeth as false as the smile they effected.

Because he had a parrot jaw, with a soft palate of unusual characteristics; it had been impossible for him to be fitted with an upper plate that retained perfect suction.

Greer had developed a habit of adjusting it with the edge of his thumbnail when it slipped. It was a habit of which he had become almost unconscious, but not quite. His pride was always tender when he was reminded of his imperfect teeth.

To grant Clay the request would be to pass up a rich and calculated profit. Perfunctorily, he glanced over the papers in the case. He meant to make this small-town accountant humiliate himself, beg for the renewal, before he refused him. Greer knew all about Clay's financial affairs, all about the expensive hobby.

Greer made a slight clucking noise with his tongue. The upper plate slipped. Automatically, he set the edge of his thumbnail beneath the teeth.

The process fascinated Clay. He had noticed it several times with sympathy. He himself had false teeth, and because his local dentist had sent none too excellent casts to a dental factory for the finished job, Clay had experienced much the same trouble as Greer.

He had found a remedy for it. He was naturally a man of good nature, and he was desirous of standing in well with Greer.

He fished in his wallet, took out a card and offered it to Greer.

"You might be interested," said Clay.

Greer glanced carelessly at the card. His face flushed crimson. It looked apoplectic as his rage mounted.

Five minutes later, Clay was in the street, slightly dazed, knowing he was not only close to ruin but that he had been tricked by Greer. The foreclosure of the mortgage would be the beginning of the end of Clay's credit.

For Greer, however, Clay's ruin meant gain.

There was a Government project in connection with relief, that would make the property of Clay not merely saleable but send its price soaring many times beyond its value. And, in dismissing Clay, Greer took care that Clay knew what wealth he had lost.

Left alone, Greer chuckled. He set the edge of his thumb beneath his teeth and clicked them into place. Then he picked up the card Clay had left. He read it:

TOOTH-EASE

Speak and eat in perfect comfort
as well as you did with your own teeth.

Forms a comfort cushion that holds
your plate secure without

ROCKING, or CHAFING.

No DROPPING. No FIDGETING.

25c & 50c boxes at all good Drug Stores

GRIPPO COMFORT CORPORATION

Big Falls New York

GABRIEL GREER sat in his drawing room on the Albany Flier. Once again he was prepared to bring off a coup. He had caused to be inserted in a local newspaper of the town in which he was interested, an attractive advertisement offering mortgages on liberal and easy terms to the inhabitants. Let the mortgagee beware! was Greer's motto. He gloated as he looked over the documents. He was beginning to feel hungry. The afternoon was hot, and he had taken off coat and vest, collar and tie. He took out his teeth, and placed them in a cleansing lotion in the little private lavatory.

He began to make his toilet with precision. He took from his pig- skin suitcase a clean shirt, and laid it out. His dressing case was open, with its array of toilet articles.

Greer took from its niche a silver-capped tube an inch and a half in diameter, five inches in length. He had it almost filled with white powder. This was "Tooth-ease." He had become angry at Clay's daring to suggest there was any deficiency about him; but he had tried it; and even felt grateful to Clay— though not to the extent of renewing his mortgage.

Clay— to use the vernacular— had lost his shirt.

Greer changed his shirt, arranged his tie, took out his teeth from the glass- that held the cleansing lotion, rinsed them off. He let them dry, and then powdered the top plate with the Tooth-ease.

Then he put in his lower plate, attached to his few remaining teeth with a gold clip, slid in his now snugly fitting upper plate, and started to smile at his reflection in the mirror.

As he did so, the porter knocked on the drawing-room door, called:

"First call fo' the dinin' cah."

But Greer barely heard him. He was seized with dizziness. The mucous membranes of palate and cheeks burned. His heart seemed clutched by a giant hand. He fell to the floor, and went into violent convulsions.

The Pullman porter, coming in for his brush-up tip, found the body. At Albany, police took charge. The body of Gabriel Greer was taken to the morgue. An autopsy was performed.

"Hydrocyanic acid, administered as cyanide of potassium by the deceased, believing he was using a plate-powder for his artificial teeth. The character- istic post-mortem appearances were present. The fingernails show purple patches. The blood was coagulated, and hemorrhages existed in both the pleura and pericardium. The mucous membranes of the mouth show corro- sion, and the odor of hydrocyanic acid was plain in the cavities of the body."

GAREY, the detective in charge of the Homicide Squad, read the report of the medical examainer.

"Must have been pulled by some- body who was close to him, Tim. We'll get a check-up on this Greer. I've got a line on him. Seems to have been some sort of a realty shark, lined up with a slick bunch right here in Albany. He kept that tube of tooth powder, or whatever you'd call it, in that dressing-case. We'll see what the fingerprinters have to say about it."

That report was not yet ready, but Garrity took the case they had pow- dered and photographed, and looked it over with his magnifying glass.

"I'll be darned," he said softly. "Look here, Tim, and see if you see what I do."

To Garrity's experienced eye, the loops and whorls and islands shown up by the powdering seemed to belong to one individual, undoubtedly the dead man.

But there was something else. On the inside of the leather flap that closed the dressing case.

"The guy who switched the stuff in the tube, or put it back after he had dosed it, used a cloth, or gloves," he said. "But take a look at this!"

There was the imprint of a skull, distinct enough. It was no larger than half the space of Garrity's little fingernail. It was brown. A ghastly thing, the token of sudden death,

"I never saw the beat of it," said Mahoney.

"Rush those prints up here," said Garrity. "Get the Bureau chief to bring them."

"We spotted it, sure," said the fingerprinter. "It's not in our line. The regular prints are all those of the deceased. But it's sure a good picture of a skull, however it came there."

"You're a lot of use," said Garrity. "Just the same, before we hop to New York, I'm goin' to have Doc Lawson take a squint at this."

Lawson was in charge of the new department of Criminal Investiga- tion, with its medern laboratory.

His interest was immediate. There was already a photographic record of the curious emblem. Lawson picked up the dressing case.

"There's a distinct residue here," he said after his profound examination through his own powerful apparatus. "I'll make an immediate analysis, I could make a guess at it, but guessing has nothing to do with scientific findings. I'll give you one thing to chew on, Garrity. That skull once flew."

He left Garrity and Mahoney looking at each other.

"Now, what the devil an' all does he mean, with his talk of flyin' skulls?" Mahoney scratched his head.

"He'll be tellin' us before we leave," Garrity was certain.

Before Lawson came with his discovery, Garrity had found out just how Greer made his money.

But he shook his head dubiously over Lawson's "finding." It left him baffled. Yet he was sure it was a lead, and Lawson had given him a valuable clue as to how that sign of a skull, the emblem used by chemists and druggists on their labels, might tie up with the murder of Gabriel Greer.

IT tied up with vengeance, within the first minute of his arrival with Mahoney at the house of Gabriel Greer. The man who answered the door was the sole occupant. He was, he said, clerk to Mr. Greer.

Garrity, official, efficient and im- perative, towered over the man as he sat, by the detective's orders, at the deal table in the basement room that was part of his living quarters. Ma- honey stood by the door, stolid and vigilant.

"So, your name is Clay? You handle Greer's accounts and do general chores. He gave you the job after he had taken over your property on a mortgage, perhaps? Sorry for you, perhaps?"

"He gave me the job," said Clay, "because he wanted a good man at figures, who would work for next to nothing, over and above his board and room. He wanted a man-of-all-work. He got one."

"All right. And you collect butterflies?"

There could be no denial to that. A shallow box lay on the table, lined with cork strips upon which were displayed various specimens, their wings skilfully outstretched. The table top was cluttered with jars, with a cheap microscope and mounting materials,

"Where is Mr. Greer?" demanded Garrity.

Clay's face revealed nothing under Garrity's scrutiny.

"He should be in Albany. He went there on business."

"He's there all right. Dead! Found murdered on the train! Does that surprise you?"

"You mean— he was shot, killed—"

Clay's face was still impassive. Too much so, Garrity decided. He tried another tack, still rapping out his questions, watching the other's face and eyes intently. The detective had picked up one of the jars. He pulled the tray of specimens toward him.

His eyes narrowed, then widened. He pointed at one of the specimens.

"What kind of a moth is that?" he demanded. Mahoney sauntered over to the table. He betrayed his interest in a low whistle. Clay did not appear in the least perturbed.

The moth was a brown one, of fair size, with shapely, narrow wings, suggestive of swift flight. And on the back of the thorax, against a purplish ground, there showed distinctly in dull orange the design of a skull.

"It is the death's-head hawk moth," said Clay. "Acherentia atropos."

Garrity nodded, his eyes cold.

"Here is Greer's dressing-case," he said. "How did that mark get there? We've had it microphotographed, analyzed. Scales, or feathers, from the back of one of those moths."

Clay was startled now. He glared at the emblem, held his tongue as Garrity persisted.

"You wear false teeth, don't you?"

Clay nodded an assent.

"Use this "Tooth-ease' to keep the plates in place? Recommended it to Greer. And mixed his with cyanide of potassium. That's what killed him, The same stuff you use in these jars, underneath plaster-of-paris, so that, while you keep the jar corked, the hydrocyanic gas will fill the container and kill the butterflies so quickly they won't flutter and spoil their wings."

Clay smiled thinly.

"I had no idea the police knew anything of entomological research," he said. "Your facts are correct. But—"

"You murdered Greer," said Garrity. "You were smart enough not to leave prints on the tube, but you left your trademark just the same, the mark of the flying skull. You might have got away with it, at that, if the cyanide had not made him retch, eject the plate, call attention to it. You murdered Greer."

CLAY smiled his thin smile again. Then the cunning gleam in his eyes burst into a flame. His smile expanded to a laugh.

"You are clever," he said. "But it does not much matter. Only, you are wrong in one thing. I did not murder Greer. I executed him. The mark of Acherentia atropos surprised me. I overlooked it. I was in the yard when Greer called me, as if I were his dog. He was suave to most people; to me, his slave, he was a tyrant. He set me to any menial task. But it was a place where I could have some hours alone, to prepare a few poor specimens—and to find out all about Greer's chicanery, to expose him."

His voice was shrill, almost hysterical.

"He told me he had got a telegram and must go to Albany. He ordered me to pack some things for him while he got together some papers. He had barely time to make the train. When he shouted at me, I had my hand upon a moth, a death's-head hawk moth. I— I am not so well as I have been— a little nervous. I am not used to being bullied. It was dark. I had only a flashlight with a weak battery. No doubt I jabbed my thumb down on the moth, I left it there. I found the next morning that a bird had pecked away the body.

"So, no doubt, I left that print on the inside of the flap. I handled the tube carefully, with a cloth, and I changed the contents for what I had already prepared. I knew why he went to Albany. It was because he was ready to pull off another of his infernal tricks, to ruin others as he had ruined me, to laugh over their downfall. He reveled in the misfor- tunes he brought about, in the de- spair of his victims. And he was bound to arrange for more deviltry. But I had made up my mind there should be no more of it!"

Clay's eyes were bloodshot now. He snatched at a tin, took off its lid, tilted white crystals to the palm of his hand.

"I made sure," he cried. "I put this much into the plate powder—"

Garrity swooped, clutched the man's wrist, and spilled the cyanide in time.

"You don't want to do that," he chided. "You'll never get the chair for this. Maybe they'll send you up-state a while, and if you behave yourself they'll let you chase butterflies to your heart's content."

_______________

15: Rip Van Winkle

Washington Irving

1783-1859
in The Sketchbook of Geoffrey Crayon, 1819

Although this story is legendary, I had never read it until I was preparing this edition of Past Masters. It occurred to me that a lot of other readers may have been in the same boat, so here it is.

WHOEVER has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Catskill Mountains. They are a branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and lording it over the surrounding country. Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed, every hour of the day, produces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by all the goodwives, far and near, as perfect barometers.

At the foot of these fairy mountains the traveler may have seen the light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village of great age, having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists in the early times of the province, just about the beginning of the government of the good Peter Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace!), and there were some of the houses of the original settlers standing within a few years, built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland, having latticed windows and gable fronts, surmounted with weathercocks.

In that same village, and in one of these very houses, there lived, many years since, while the country was yet a province of Great Britain, a simple, good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van Winkle. He was a descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege of Fort Christina. He inherited, however, but little of the martial character of his ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple, good-natured man; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor and an obedient, henpecked husband.

Certain it is that he was a great favorite among all the goodwives of the village, who took his part in all family squabbles; and never failed, whenever they talked those matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the village, too, would shout with joy whenever he approached. He assisted at their sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the village, he was surrounded by a troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back, and playing a thousand tricks on him; and not a dog would bark at him throughout the neighborhood.

The great error in Rip's composition was a strong dislike of all kinds of profitable labor. It could not be from the want of perseverance; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a lance, and fish all day without a murmur, even though he should not be encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry a fowling piece on his shoulder for hours together, trudging through woods and swamps, and up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He would never refuse to assist a neighbor even in the roughest toil, and was a foremost man at all country frolics for husking Indian corn, or building stone fences; the women of the village, too, used to employ him to run their errands, and to do such little odd jobs as their less obliging husbands would not do for them. In a word, Rip was ready to attend to anybody's business but his own; but as to doing family duty, and keeping his farm in order, he found it impossible.

His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged to nobody. His son Rip promised to inherit the habits, with the old clothes, of his father. He was generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother's heels, equipped in a pair of his father's cast-off breeches, which he had much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad weather.

Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can be got with least thought or trouble, and would rather starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself, he would have whistled life away in perfect contentment; but his wife kept continually dinning in his ear about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and night, her tongue was incessantly going, and everything he said or did was sure to produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip had but one way of replying to all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always provoked a fresh volley from his wife; so that he was fain to draw off his forces, and take to the outside of the house— the only side which, in truth, belongs to a henpecked husband.

Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much henpecked as his master; for Dame Van Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of his master's going so often astray. True it is, in all points of spirit befitting an honorable dog, he was as courageous an animal as ever scoured the woods; but what courage can withstand the ever-enduring and all-besetting terrors of a woman's tongue? The moment Wolf entered the house his crest fell, his tail drooped to the ground or curled between his legs, he sneaked about with a gallows air, casting many a sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the least flourish of a broomstick or ladle he would fly to the door with yelping precipitation.

Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of matrimony rolled on. A tart temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener with constant use. For a long while he used to console himself, when driven from home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the village, which held its sessions on a bench before a small inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of His Majesty George III. Here they used to sit in the shade of a long, lazy summer's day, talking listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories about nothing. But it would have been worth any statesman's money to have heard the profound discussions which sometimes took place, when by chance an old newspaper fell into their hands from some passing traveler. How solemnly they would listen to the contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the schoolmaster,— a dapper, learned little man, who was not to be daunted by the most gigantic word in the dictionary! and how sagely they would deliberate upon public events some months after they had taken place!

The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of the inn, at the door of which he took his seat from morning till night, just moving sufficiently to avoid the sun, and keep in the shade of a large tree; so that the neighbors could tell the hour by his movements as accurately as by a sun-dial. It is true, he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His adherents, however (for every great man has his adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew how to gather his opinions. When anything that was read or related displeased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to send forth short, frequent, and angry puffs; but, when pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds, and sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth, and letting the fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would nod his head in approbation.

From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length routed by his termagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon the tranquility of the assemblage, and call the members all to naught; nor was that august personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the daring tongue of this terrible virago, who charged him with encouraging her husband in habits of idleness.

Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his only alternative, to escape from the labor of the farm and clamor of his wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away into the woods. Here he would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share the contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in persecution. "Poor Wolf," he would say, "thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it; but never mind, my lad, whilst I live thou shalt never want a friend to stand by thee." Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully in his master's face; and if dogs can feel pity, I verily believe he reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart.

In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Catskill Mountains. He was after his favorite sport of squirrel-shooting, and the still solitudes had echoed and reëchoed with the reports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a green knoll, covered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a precipice. From an opening between the trees he could overlook all the lower country for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its silent but majestic course, with the reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in the blue highlands.

On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, wild and lonely, the bottom filled with fragments from the overhanging cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For some time Rip lay musing on this scene; evening was gradually advancing; the mountains began to throw their long blue shadows over the valleys; he saw that it would be dark long before he could reach the village, and he heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle.

As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance, hallooing,"Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!" He looked round, but could see nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight across the mountain. He thought his fancy must have deceived him, and turned again to descend, when he heard the same cry ring through the still evening air: "Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!"— at the same time Wolf bristled up his back, and giving a low growl, skulked to his master's side, looking fearfully down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing over him; he looked anxiously in the same direction, and perceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending under the weight of something he carried on his back. He was surprised to see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented place; but supposing it to be some one of the neighborhood in need of his assistance, he hastened down to yield it.

On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the singularity of the stranger's appearance. He was a short, square-built old fellow, with thick bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch fashion,— a cloth jerkin strapped round the waist, and several pair of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the sides. He bore on his shoulder a stout keg that seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and assist him with the load. Though rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance, Rip complied with his usual alacrity, and relieving one another, they clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain torrent.

As they ascended, Rip every now and then heard long, rolling peals, like distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather cleft, between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path conducted. He paused for an instant, but supposing it to be the muttering of one of those transient thundershowers which often take place in mountain heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they came to a hollow, like a small amphitheater, surrounded by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks of which trees shot their branches, so that you only caught glimpses of the azure sky and the bright evening cloud. During the whole time Rip and his companion had labored on in silence; for though the former marveled greatly, what could be the object of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was something strange and incomprehensible about the unknown that inspired awe and checked familiarity.

On entering the amphitheater new objects of wonder presented themselves. On a level spot in the center was a company of odd-looking personages playing at ninepins. They were dressed in a quaint, outlandish fashion; some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their belts, and most of them had enormous breeches, of similar style with that of the guide's. Their visages, too, were peculiar: one had a large head, broad face, and small, piggish eyes; the face of another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little red cock's tail. They all had beards, of various shapes and colors. There was one who seemed to be the commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a weather-beaten countenance; he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole group reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish painting, in the parlor of Dominie Van Shaick, the village parson, which had been brought over from Holland at the time of the settlement.

What seemed particularly odd to Rip was that, though these folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most melancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder.

As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly desisted from their play, and stared at him with such fixed, statue-like gaze, and such strange, uncouth countenances, that his heart turned within him, and his knees smote together. His companion now emptied the contents of the keg into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the company. He obeyed with fear and trembling; they quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and then returned to their game.

By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, which he found had much of the flavor of excellent Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste provoked another; and he repeated his visits to the flagon so often that at length his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep.

ii

ON WAKING he found himself on the green knoll whence he had first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes— it was a bright, sunny morning. The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze."Surely," thought Rip, "I have not slept here all night." He recalled the occurrences before he fell asleep. The strange man with a keg of liquor— the mountain ravine— the wild retreat among the rocks— the woe-begone party at ninepins— the flagon— "Oh! that flagon! that wicked flagon!" thought Rip; "what excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle?"

He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean, well-oiled fowling piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the barrel incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave revelers of the mountain had put a trick upon him and, having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him, and shouted his name, but all in vain; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen.

He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's gambol, and if he met with any of the party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and wanting in his usual activity. "These mountain beds do not agree with me," thought Rip, "and if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time with Dame Van Winkle." With some difficulty he got down into the glen; he found the gully up which he and his companion had ascended the preceding evening; but to his astonishment a mountain stream was now foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling the glen with babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble up its sides, working his toilsome way through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel, and sometimes tripped up or entangled by the wild grapevines that twisted their coils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of network in his path.

At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through the cliffs to the amphitheater; but no traces of such opening remained. The rocks presented a high, impenetrable wall, over which the torrent came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad, deep basin, black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. He again called and whistled after his dog; he was only answered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows sporting high in air about a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice; and who, secure in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the poor man's perplexities. What was to be done?— the morning was passing away, and Rip felt famished for want of his breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog and gun; he dreaded to meet his wife; but it would not do to starve among the mountains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps homeward.

As he approached the village he met a number of people, but none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he had thought himself acquainted with every one in the country round. Their dress, too, was of a different fashion from that to which he was accustomed. They all stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast their eyes upon him, invariably stroked their chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when, to his astonishment, he found his beard had grown a foot long!

He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his gray beard. The dogs, too, not one of which he recognized for an old acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The very village was altered; it was larger and more populous. There were rows of houses which he had never seen before, and those which had been his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange names were over the doors— strange faces at the windows— everything was strange. His mind now misgave him; he began to doubt whether both he and the world around him were not bewitched. Surely this was his native village, which he had left but the day before. There stood the Catskill Mountains— there ran the silver Hudson at a distance— there was every hill and dale precisely as it had always been. Rip was sorely perplexed. "That flagon last night," thought he,"has addled my poor head sadly!"

It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone to decay— the roof fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A half-starved dog that looked like Wolf was skulking about it. Rip called him by name, but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. This was an unkind cut indeed. "My very dog," sighed Rip, "has forgotten me!"

He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. He called loudly for his wife and children— the lonely chambers rang for a moment with his voice, and then all again was silence.

iii

HE NOW hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the village inn— but it, too, was gone. A large, rickety wooden building stood in its place, with great gaping windows, some of them broken and mended with old hats and petticoats, and over the door was painted, "The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall, naked pole, with something on the top that looked like a red nightcap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular assemblage of stars and stripes; all this was strange and incomprehensible. He recognized on the sign, however, the ruby face of King George, under which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe; but even this was singularly changed. The red coat was changed for one of blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead of a scepter, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large characters, General Washington.

There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that Rip recollected. The very character of the people seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling tone about it, instead of the accustomed drowsy tranquility. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, double chin, and long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco smoke instead of idle speeches; or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean fellow, with his pockets full of handbills, was haranguing vehemently about rights of citizens— elections— members of congress— Bunker's Hill— heroes of seventy-six— and other words, which were a perfect jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle.

The appearance of Rip, with his long, grizzled beard, his rusty fowling piece, his uncouth dress, and an army of women and children at his heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern politicians. They crowded round him, eyeing him from head to foot with great curiosity. The orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly aside, inquired"On which side he voted?" Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear, "Whether he was Federal or Democrat?" Rip was equally at a loss to comprehend the question; when a knowing, self-important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, putting them to the right and left with his elbows as he passed, and planting himself before Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded, in an austere tone, "What brought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels; and whether he meant to breed a riot in the village?"— "Alas! gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, "I am a poor, quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal subject of the king, God bless him!"

Here a general shout burst from the bystanders— "A tory! a tory! a spy! a refugee! hustle him! away with him!" It was with great difficulty that the self-important man in the cocked hat restored order; and having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit, what he came there for, and whom he was seeking! The poor man humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came there in search of some of his neighbors.

"Well— who are they? Name them."

Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, "Where's Nicholas Vedder?"

There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in a thin, piping voice, "Nicholas Vedder! why, he is dead and gone these eighteen years! There was a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that used to tell all about him, but that's rotten and gone, too."

"Where's Brom Dutcher?"

"Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war; some say he was killed at the storming of Stony Point; others say he was drowned in a squall at the foot of Anthony's Nose. I don't know; he never came back again."

"Where's Van Brummel, the schoolmaster?"

"He went off to the wars, too, was a great militia general, and is now in congress."

Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his home and friends and finding himself thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled him, too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and of matters which he could not understand: war— congress— Stony Point. He had no courage to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair,"Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle?"

"Oh, Rip Van Winkle!" exclaimed two or three, "oh, to be sure! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree."

Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, as he went up the mountain— apparently as lazy and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now completely confounded. He doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or another man. In the midst of his bewilderment,the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his name.

"God knows," exclaimed he, at his wits' end; "I'm not myself— I'm somebody else— that's me yonder— no— that's somebody else got into my shoes— I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they've changed my gun, and everything's changed, and I'm changed, and I can't tell what's my name, or who I am!"

The bystanders began now to look at each other, nod, wink significantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads. There was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief, at the very suggestion of which the self-important man in the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At this critical moment a fresh, comely woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to cry. "Hush, Rip," cried she, "hush, you little fool; the old man won't hurt you." The name of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recollections in his mind. "What is your name, my good woman?" asked he.

"Judith Gardenier."

"And your father's name?"

"Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it's twenty years since he went away from home with his gun, and never has been heard of since— his dog came home without him; but whether he shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl."

Rip had but one question more to ask; but he put it with a faltering voice:

"Where's your mother?"

"Oh, she, too, had died but a short time since; she broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New England peddler."

There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. The honest man could contain himself no longer. He caught his daughter and her child in his arms. "I am your father!" cried he— "Young Rip Van Winkle once— Old Rip Van Winkle now! Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle?"

All stood amazed until an old woman, tottering out from among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, "Sure enough! it is Rip Van Winkle— it is himself! Welcome home again, old neighbor. Why, where have you been these twenty long years?"

Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been to him but as one night. The neighbors stared when they heard it; some were seen to wink at each other, and put their tongues in their cheeks: and the self-important man in the cocked hat, who when the alarm was over had returned to the field, screwed down the corners of his mouth, and shook his head— upon which there was a general shaking of the head throughout the assemblage.

It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He was a descendant of the historian of that name, who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the village, and well versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of the neighborhood. He recollected Rip at once, and corroborated his story in the most satisfactory manner. He assured the company that it was a fact, handed down from his ancestor the historian, that the Catskill Mountains had always been haunted by strange beings. It was affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson, the first discoverer of the river and country, kept a kind of vigil there every twenty years, with his crew of the Half-moon; being permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guardian eye upon the river and the great city called by his name. His father had once seen them in their old Dutch dresses playing at ninepins in a hollow of the mountain; and he himself had heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of their balls, like distant peals of thunder.

To make a long story short, the company broke up and returned to the more important concerns of the election. Rip's daughter took him home to live with her; she had a snug, well-furnished house, and a stout, cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the urchins that used to climb upon his back. As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to work on the farm; but showed an hereditary disposition to attend to anything else but his business.

__________________

16: The Pearls of Parlay

Jack London

1876-1916

The Saturday Evening Post 14 Oct 1911

I had never associated Jack London with the South Seas, but rather the frozen north; but this short story (just 9,000 words) describes a full strength Pacific cyclone sweeping over a pearling lagoon and the struggles of eight pearling schooners trapped inside.

THE Kanaka helmsman put the wheel down, and the Malahini slipped into the eye of the wind and righted to an even keel. Her head-sails emptied, there was a rat-tat of reef-points and quick shifting of boom-tackles, and she was heeled over and filled away on the other tack. Though it was early morning and the wind brisk, the five white men who lounged on the poop-deck were scantily clad. David Grief, and his guest, Gregory Mulhall, an Englishman, were still in pajamas, their naked feet thrust into Chinese slippers. The captain and mate were in thin undershirts and unstarched duck pants, while the supercargo still held in his hands the undershirt he was reluctant to put on. The sweat stood out on his forehead, and he seemed to thrust his bare chest thirstily into the wind that did not cool.

"Pretty muggy, for a breeze like this," he complained.

"And what's it doing around in the west? That's what I want to know," was Grief's contribution to the general plaint.

"It won't last, and it ain't been there long," said Hermann, the Holland mate. "She is been chop around all night— five minutes here, ten minutes there, one hour somewhere other quarter."

"Something makin', something makin'," Captain Warfield croaked, spreading his bushy beard with the fingers of both hands and shoving the thatch of his chin into the breeze in a vain search for coolness. "Weather's been crazy for a fortnight. Haven't had the proper trades in three weeks. Everything's mixed up. Barometer was pumping at sunset last night, and it's pumping now, though the weather sharps say it don't mean anything. All the same, I've got a prejudice against seeing it pump. Gets on my nerves, sort of, you know. She was pumping that way the time we lost the Lancaster. I was only an apprentice, but I can remember that well enough. Brand new, four-masted steel ship; first voyage; broke the old man's heart. He'd been forty years in the company. Just faded way and died the next year."

Despite the wind and the early hour, the heat was suffocating. The wind whispered coolness, but did not deliver coolness. It might have blown off the Sahara, save for the extreme humidity with which it was laden. There was no fog nor mist, nor hint of fog or mist, yet the dimness of distance produced the impression. There were no defined clouds, yet so thickly were the heavens covered by a messy cloud-pall that the sun failed to shine through.

"Ready about!" Captain Warfield ordered with slow sharpness.

The brown, breech-clouted Kanaka sailors moved languidly but quickly to head-sheets and boom-tackles.

"Hard a-lee!"

The helmsman ran the spokes over with no hint of gentling, and the Malahini darted prettily into the wind and about.

"Jove! she's a witch!" was Mulhall's appreciation. "I didn't know you South Sea traders sailed yachts."

"She was a Gloucester fisherman originally," Grief explained, "and the Gloucester boats are all yachts when it comes to build, rig, and sailing."

"But you're heading right in— why don't you make it?" came the Englishman's criticism.

"Try it, Captain Warfield," Grief suggested. "Show him what a lagoon entrance is on a strong ebb."

"Close-and-by!" the captain ordered.

"Close-and-by," the Kanaka repeated, easing half a spoke.

The Malahini laid squarely into the narrow passage which was the lagoon entrance of a large, long, and narrow oval of an atoll. The atoll was shaped as if three atolls, in the course of building, had collided and coalesced and failed to rear the partition walls. Cocoanut palms grew in spots on the circle of sand, and there were many gaps where the sand was too low to the sea for cocoanuts, and through which could be seen the protected lagoon where the water lay flat like the ruffled surface of a mirror. Many square miles of water were in the irregular lagoon, all of which surged out on the ebb through the one narrow channel. So narrow was the channel, so large the outflow of water, that the passage was more like the rapids of a river than the mere tidal entrance to an atoll. The water boiled and whirled and swirled and drove outward in a white foam of stiff, serrated waves. Each heave and blow on her bows of the upstanding waves of the current swung the Malahini off the straight lead and wedged her as with wedges of steel toward the side of the passage. Part way in she was, when her closeness to the coral edge compelled her to go about. On the opposite tack, broadside to the current, she swept seaward with the current's speed.

"Now's the time for that new and expensive engine of yours," Grief jeered good-naturedly.

That the engine was a sore point with Captain Warfield was patent. He had begged and badgered for it, until in the end Grief had given his consent.

"It will pay for itself yet," the captain retorted, "You wait and see. It beats insurance and you know the underwriters won't stand for insurance in the Paumotus."

Grief pointed to a small cutter beating up astern of them on the same course.

"I'll wager a five-franc piece the little Nuhiva beats us in."

"Sure," Captain Warfield agreed. "She's overpowered. We're like a liner alongside of her, and we've only got forty horsepower. She's got ten horse, and she's a little skimming dish. She could skate across the froth of hell, but just the same she can't buck this current. It's running ten knots right now."

And at the rate of ten knots, buffeted and jerkily rolled, the Malahini went out to sea with the tide.

"She'll slacken in half an hour— then we'll make headway," Captain Warfield said, with an irritation explained by his next words. "He has no right to call it Parlay. It's down on the admiralty charts, and the French charts, too, as Hikihoho. Bougainville discovered it and named it from the natives."

"What's the name matter?" the supercargo demanded, taking advantage of speech to pause with arms shoved into the sleeves of the undershirt. "There it is, right under our nose, and old Parlay is there with the pearls."

"Who see them pearl?" Hermann queried, looking from one to another.

"It's well known," was the supercargo's reply. He turned to the steersman: "Tai-Hotauri, what about old Parlay's pearls?"

The Kanaka, pleased and self-conscious, took and gave a spoke.

"My brother dive for Parlay three, four month, and he make much talk about pearl. Hikihoho very good place for pearl."

"And the pearl-buyers have never got him to part with a pearl," the captain broke in.

"And they say he had a hatful for Armande when he sailed for Tahiti," the supercargo carried on the tale. "That's fifteen years ago, and he's been adding to it ever since— stored the shell as well. Everybody's seen that— hundreds of tons of it. They say the lagoon's fished clean now. Maybe that's why he's announced the auction."

"If he really sells, this will be the biggest year's output of pearls in the Paumotus," Grief said.

"I say, now, look here!" Mulhall burst forth, harried by the humid heat as much as the rest of them. "What's it all about? Who's the old beachcomber anyway? What are all these pearls? Why so secretious about it?"

"Hikihoho belongs to old Parlay," the supercargo answered. "He's got a fortune in pearls, saved up for years and years, and he sent the word out weeks ago that he'd auction them off to the buyers to-morrow. See those schooners' masts sticking up inside the lagoon?"

"Eight, so I see," said Hermann.

"What are they doing in a dinky atoll like this?" the supercargo went on. "There isn't a schooner-load of copra a year in the place. They've come for the auction. That's why we're here. That's why the little Nuhiva's bumping along astern there, though what she can buy is beyond me. Narii Herring— he's an English Jew half-caste— owns and runs her, and his only assets are his nerve, his debts, and his whiskey bills. He's a genius in such things. He owes so much that there isn't a merchant in Papeete who isn't interested in his welfare. They go out of their way to throw work in his way. They've got to, and a dandy stunt it is for Narii. Now I owe nobody. What's the result? If I fell down in a fit on the beach they'd let me lie there and die. They wouldn't lose anything. But Narii Herring?— what wouldn't they do if he fell in a fit? Their best wouldn't be too good for him. They've got too much money tied up in him to let him lie. They'd take him into their homes and hand-nurse him like a brother. Let me tell you, honesty in paying bills ain't what it's cracked up to be."

"What's this Narii chap got to do with it?" was the Englishman's short-tempered demand. And, turning to Grief, he said, "What's all this pearl nonsense? Begin at the beginning."

"You'll have to help me out," Grief warned the others, as he began. "Old Parlay is a character. From what I've seen of him I believe he's partly and mildly insane. Anyway, here's the story: Parlay's a full-blooded Frenchman. He told me once that he came from Paris. His accent is the true Parisian. He arrived down here in the old days. Went to trading and all the rest. That's how he got in on Hikihoho. Came in trading when trading was the real thing. About a hundred miserable Paumotans lived on the island. He married the queen— native fashion. When she died, everything was his. Measles came through, and there weren't more than a dozen survivors. He fed them, and worked them, and was king. Now before the queen died she gave birth to a girl. That's Armande. When she was three he sent her to the convent at Papeete. When she was seven or eight he sent her to France. You begin to glimpse the situation. The best and most aristocratic convent in France was none too good for the only daughter of a Paumotan island king and capitalist, and you know the old country French draw no colour line. She was educated like a princess, and she accepted herself in much the same way. Also, she thought she was all-white, and never dreamed of a bar sinister.

"Now comes the tragedy. The old man had always been cranky and erratic, and he'd played the despot on Hikihoho so long that he'd got the idea in his head that there was nothing wrong with the king— or the princess either. When Armande was eighteen he sent for her. He had slews and slathers of money, as Yankee Bill would say. He'd built the big house on Hikihoho, and a whacking fine bungalow in Papeete. She was to arrive on the mail boat from New Zealand, and he sailed in his schooner to meet her at Papeete. And he might have carried the situation off, despite the hens and bull-beasts of Papeete, if it hadn't been for the hurricane. That was the year, wasn't it, when Manu-Huhi was swept and eleven hundred drowned?"

The others nodded, and Captain Warfield said: "I was in the Magpie that blow, and we went ashore, all hands and the cook, Magpie and all, a quarter of a mile into the cocoanuts at the head of Taiohae Bay— and it a supposedly hurricane-proof harbour."

"Well," Grief continued, "old Parlay got caught in the same blow, and arrived in Papeete with his hatful of pearls three weeks too late. He'd had to jack up his schooner and build half a mile of ways before he could get her back into the sea.

"And in the meantime there was Armande at Papeete. Nobody called on her. She did, French fashion, make the initial calls on the Governor and the port doctor. They saw her, but neither of their hen-wives was at home to her nor returned the call. She was out of caste, without caste, though she had never dreamed it, and that was the gentle way they broke the information to her. There was a gay young lieutenant on the French cruiser. He lost his heart to her, but not his head. You can imagine the shock to this young woman, refined, beautiful, raised like an aristocrat, pampered with the best of old France that money could buy. And you can guess the end." He shrugged his shoulders. "There was a Japanese servant in the bungalow. He saw it. Said she did it with the proper spirit of the Samurai. Took a stiletto— no thrust, no drive, no wild rush for annihilation— took the stiletto, placed the point carefully against her heart, and with both hands, slowly and steadily, pressed home.

"Old Parlay arrived after that with his pearls. There was one single one of them, they say, worth sixty thousand francs. Peter Gee saw it, and has told me he offered that much for it. The old man went clean off for a while. They had him strait-jacketed in the Colonial Club two days— "

"His wife's uncle, an old Paumotan, cut him out of the jacket and turned him loose," the supercargo corroborated.

"And then old Parlay proceeded to eat things up," Grief went on. "Pumped three bullets into the scalawag of a lieutenant— "

"Who lay in sick bay for three months," Captain Warfield contributed.

"Flung a glass of wine in the Governor's face; fought a duel with the port doctor; beat up his native servants; wrecked the hospital; broke two ribs and the collarbone of a man nurse, and escaped; and went down to his schooner, a gun in each hand, daring the chief of police and all the gendarmes to arrest him, and sailed for Hikihoho. And they say he's never left the island since."

The supercargo nodded. "That was fifteen years ago, and he's never budged."

"And added to his pearls," said the captain. "He's a blithering old lunatic. Makes my flesh creep. He's a regular Finn."

"What's that?" Mulhall inquired.

"Bosses the weather— that's what the natives believe, at any rate. Ask Tai-Hotauri there. Hey, Tai-Hotauri! what you think old Parlay do along weather?"

"Just the same one big weather devil," came the Kanaka's answer. "I know. He want big blow, he make big blow. He want no wind, no wind come."

"A regular old Warlock," said Mulhall.

"No good luck them pearl," Tai-Hotauri blurted out, rolling his head ominously. "He say he sell. Plenty schooner come. Then he make big hurricane, everybody finish, you see. All native men say so."

"It's hurricane season now," Captain Warfield laughed morosely. "They're not far wrong. It's making for something right now, and I'd feel better if the Malahini was a thousand miles away from here."

"He is a bit mad," Grief concluded. "I've tried to get his point of view. It's— well, it's mixed. For eighteen years he'd centred everything on Armande. Half the time he believes she's still alive, not yet come back from France. That's one of the reasons he held on to the pearls. And all the time he hates white men. He never forgets they killed her, though a great deal of the time he forgets she's dead. Hello! Where's your wind?"

The sails bellied emptily overhead, and Captain Warfield grunted his disgust. Intolerable as the heat had been, in the absence of wind it was almost overpowering. The sweat oozed out on all their faces, and now one, and again another, drew deep breaths, involuntarily questing for more air.

"Here she comes again— an eight point haul! Boom-tackles across! Jump!"

The Kanakas sprang to the captain's orders, and for five minutes the schooner laid directly into the passage and even gained on the current. Again the breeze fell flat, then puffed from the old quarter, compelling a shift back of sheets and tackles.

"Here comes the Nuhiva," Grief said. "She's got her engine on. Look at her skim."

"All ready?" the captain asked the engineer, a Portuguese half-caste, whose head and shoulders protruded from the small hatch just for'ard of the cabin, and who wiped the sweat from his face with a bunch of greasy waste.

"Sure," he replied.

"Then let her go."

The engineer disappeared into his den, and a moment later the exhaust muffler coughed and spluttered overside. But the schooner could not hold her lead. The little cutter made three feet to her two and was quickly alongside and forging ahead. Only natives were on her deck, and the man steering waved his hand in derisive greeting and farewell.

"That's Narii Herring," Grief told Mulhall. "The big fellow at the wheel— the nerviest and most conscienceless scoundrel in the Paumotus."

Five minutes later a cry of joy from their own Kanakas centred all eyes on the Nuhiva. Her engine had broken down and they were overtaking her. The Malahini's sailors sprang into the rigging and jeered as they went by; the little cutter heeled over by the wind with a bone in her teeth, going backward on the tide.

"Some engine that of ours," Grief approved, as the lagoon opened before them and the course was changed across it to the anchorage.

Captain Warfield was visibly cheered, though he merely grunted, "It'll pay for itself, never fear."

The Malahini ran well into the centre of the little fleet ere she found swinging room to anchor.

"There's Isaacs on the Dolly," Grief observed, with a hand wave of greeting. "And Peter Gee's on the Roberta. Couldn't keep him away from a pearl sale like this. And there's Francini on the Cactus. They're all here, all the buyers. Old Parlay will surely get a price."

"They haven't repaired the engine yet," Captain Warfield grumbled gleefully.

He was looking across the lagoon to where the Nuhiva's sails showed through the sparse cocoa-nuts.

ii

THE HOUSE of Parlay was a big two-story frame affair, built of California lumber, with a galvanized iron roof. So disproportionate was it to the slender ring of the atoll that it showed out upon the sand-strip and above it like some monstrous excrescence. They of the Malahini paid the courtesy visit ashore immediately after anchoring. Other captains and buyers were in the big room examining the pearls that were to be auctioned next day. Paumotan servants, natives of Hikihoho, and relatives of the owner, moved about dispensing whiskey and absinthe. And through the curious company moved Parlay himself, cackling and sneering, the withered wreck of what had once been a tall and powerful man. His eyes were deep sunken and feverish, his cheeks fallen in and cavernous. The hair of his head seemed to have come out in patches, and his mustache and imperial had shed in the same lopsided way.

"Jove!" Mulhall muttered under his breath. "A long-legged Napoleon the Third, but burnt out, baked, and fire-crackled. And mangy! No wonder he crooks his head to one side. He's got to keep the balance."

"Goin' to have a blow," was the old man's greeting to Grief. "You must think a lot of pearls to come a day like this."

"They're worth going to inferno for," Grief laughed genially back, running his eyes over the surface of the table covered by the display.

"Other men have already made that journey for them," old Parlay cackled. "See this one!" He pointed to a large, perfect pearl the size of a small walnut that lay apart on a piece of chamois. "They offered me sixty thousand francs for it in Tahiti. They'll bid as much and more for it to-morrow, if they aren't blown away. Well, that pearl, it was found by my cousin, my cousin by marriage. He was a native, you see. Also, he was a thief. He hid it. It was mine. His cousin, who was also my cousin— we're all related here— killed him for it and fled away in a cutter to Noo-Nau. I pursued, but the chief of Noo-Nau had killed him for it before I got there. Oh, yes, there are many dead men represented on the table there. Have a drink, Captain. Your face is not familiar. You are new in the islands?"

"It's Captain Robinson of the Roberta," Grief said, introducing them.

In the meantime Mulhall had shaken hands with Peter Gee.

"I never fancied there were so many pearls in the world," Mulhall said.

"Nor have I ever seen so many together at one time," Peter Gee admitted.

"What ought they to be worth?"

"Fifty or sixty thousand pounds— and that's to us buyers. In Paris— " He shrugged his shoulders and lifted his eyebrows at the incommunicableness of the sum.

Mulhall wiped the sweat from his eyes. All were sweating profusely and breathing hard. There was no ice in the drink that was served, and whiskey and absinthe went down lukewarm.

"Yes, yes," Parlay was cackling. "Many dead men lie on the table there. I know those pearls, all of them. You see those three! Perfectly matched, aren't they? A diver from Easter Island got them for me inside a week. Next week a shark got him; took his arm off and blood poison did the business. And that big baroque there— nothing much— if I'm offered twenty francs for it to-morrow I'll be in luck; it came out of twenty-two fathoms of water. The man was from Raratonga. He broke all diving records. He got it out of twenty-two fathoms. I saw him. And he burst his lungs at the same time, or got the 'bends,' for he died in two hours. He died screaming. They could hear him for miles. He was the most powerful native I ever saw. Half a dozen of my divers have died of the bends. And more men will die, more men will die."

"Oh, hush your croaking, Parlay," chided one of the captains. "It ain't going to blow."

"If I was a strong man, I couldn't get up hook and get out fast enough," the old man retorted in the falsetto of age. "Not if I was a strong man with the taste for wine yet in my mouth. But not you. You'll all stay, I wouldn't advise you if I thought you'd go, You can't drive buzzards away from the carrion. Have another drink, my brave sailor-men. Well, well, what men will dare for a few little oyster drops! There they are, the beauties! Auction to-morrow, at ten sharp. Old Parlay's selling out, and the buzzards are gathering— old Parlay who was a stronger man in his day than any of them and who will see most of them dead yet."

"If he isn't a vile old beast!" the supercargo of the Malahini whispered to Peter Gee.

"What if she does blow?" said the captain of the Dolly. "Hikihoho's never been swept."

"The more reason she will be, then," Captain Warfield answered back. "I wouldn't trust her."

"Who's croaking now?" Grief reproved.

"I'd hate to lose that new engine before it paid for itself," Captain Warfield replied gloomily.

Parlay skipped with astonishing nimbleness across the crowded room to the barometer on the wall.

"Take a look, my brave sailormen!" he cried exultantly.

The man nearest read the glass. The sobering effect showed plainly on his face.

"It's dropped ten," was all he said, yet every face went anxious, and there was a look as if every man desired immediately to start for the door.

"Listen!" Parlay commanded.

In the silence the outer surf seemed to have become unusually loud. There was a great rumbling roar.

"A big sea is beginning to set," some one said; and there was a movement to the windows, where all gathered.

Through the sparse cocoanuts they gazed seaward. An orderly succession of huge smooth seas was rolling down upon the coral shore. For some minutes they gazed on the strange sight and talked in low voices, and in those few minutes it was manifest to all that the waves were increasing in size. It was uncanny, this rising sea in a dead calm, and their voices unconsciously sank lower. Old Parlay shocked them with his abrupt cackle.

"There is yet time to get away to sea, brave gentlemen. You can tow across the lagoon with your whaleboats."

"It's all right, old man," said Darling, the mate of the Cactus, a stalwart youngster of twenty-five. "The blow's to the southward and passing on. We'll not get a whiff of it."

An air of relief went through the room. Conversations were started, and the voices became louder. Several of the buyers even went back to the table to continue the examination of the pearls.

Parlay's shrill cackle rose higher.

"That's right," he encouraged. "If the world was coming to an end you'd go on buying."

"We'll buy these to-morrow just the same," Isaacs assured him.

"Then you'll be doing your buying in hell."

The chorus of incredulous laughter incensed the old man. He turned fiercely on Darling.

"Since when have children like you come to the knowledge of storms? And who is the man who has plotted the hurricane-courses of the Paumotus? What books will you find it in? I sailed the Paumotus before the oldest of you drew breath. I know. To the eastward the paths of the hurricanes are on so wide a circle they make a straight line. To the westward here they make a sharp curve. Remember your chart. How did it happen the hurricane of '91 swept Auri and Hiolau? The curve, my brave boy, the curve! In an hour, or two or three at most, will come the wind. Listen to that!"

A vast rumbling crash shook the coral foundations of the atoll. The house quivered to it. The native servants, with bottles of whiskey and absinthe in their hands, shrank together as if for protection and stared with fear through the windows at the mighty wash of the wave lapping far up the beach to the corner of a copra-shed.

Parlay looked at the barometer, giggled, and leered around at his guests. Captain War-field strode across to see.

"29:75," he read. "She's gone down five more. By God! the old devil's right. She's a-coming, and it's me, for one, for aboard."

"It's growing dark," Isaacs half whispered.

"Jove! it's like a stage," Mulhall said to Grief, looking at his watch. "Ten o'clock in the morning, and it's like twilight. Down go the lights for the tragedy. Where's the slow music!"

In answer, another rumbling crash shook the atoll and the house. Almost in a panic the company started for the door. In the dim light their sweaty faces appeared ghastly. Isaacs panted asthmatically in the suffocating heat.

"What's your haste?" Parlay chuckled and girded at his departing guests. "A last drink, brave gentlemen." No one noticed him. As they took the shell-bordered path to the beach he stuck his head out the door and called, "Don't forget, gentlemen, at ten to-morrow old Parlay sells his pearls."

iii

ON THE beach a curious scene took place. Whaleboat after whaleboat was being hurriedly manned and shoved off. It had grown still darker. The stagnant calm continued, and the sand shook under their feet with each buffet of the sea on the outer shore. Narii Herring walked leisurely along the sand. He grinned at the very evident haste of the captains and buyers. With him were three of his Kanakas, and also Tai-Hotauri.

"Get into the boat and take an oar," Captain Warfield ordered the latter.

Tai-Hotauri came over jauntily, while Narii Herring and his three Kanakas paused and looked on from forty feet away.

"I work no more for you, skipper," Tai-Hotauri said insolently and loudly. But his face belied his words, for he was guilty of a prodigious wink. "Fire me, skipper," he huskily whispered, with a second significant wink.

Captain Warfield took the cue and proceeded to do some acting himself. He raised his fist and his voice.

"Get into that boat," he thundered, "or I'll knock seven bells out of you!"

The Kanaka drew back truculently, and Grief stepped between to placate his captain.

"I go to work on the Nuhiva," Tai-Hotauri said, rejoining the other group.

"Come back here!" the captain threatened.

"He's a free man, skipper," Narii Herring spoke up. "He's sailed with me in the past, and he's sailing again, that's all."

"Come on, we must get on board," Grief urged. "Look how dark it's getting."

Captain Warfield gave in, but as the boat shoved off he stood up in the sternsheets and shook his fist ashore.

"I'll settle with you yet, Narii," he cried. "You're the only skipper in the group that steals other men's sailors," He sat down, and in lowered voice queried: "Now what's Tai-Hotauri up to? He's on to something, but what is it?"

iv

As the boat came alongside the Malahini, Hermann's anxious face greeted them over the rail.

"Bottom out fall from barometer," he announced. "She's goin' to blow. I got starboard anchor overhaul."

"Overhaul the big one, too," Captain Warfield ordered, taking charge. "And here, some of you, hoist in this boat. Lower her down to the deck and lash her bottom up."

Men were busy at work on the decks of all the schooners. There was a great clanking of chains being overhauled, and now one craft, and now another, hove in, veered, and dropped a second anchor. Like the Malahini, those that had third anchors were preparing to drop them when the wind showed what quarter it was to blow from.

The roar of the big surf continually grew though the lagoon lay in the mirror-like calm.

There was no sign of life where Parlay's big house perched on the sand. Boat and copra-sheds and the sheds where the shell was stored were deserted.

"For two cents I'd up anchors and get out," Grief said. "I'd do it anyway if it were open sea. But those chains of atolls to the north and east have us pocketed. We've a better chance right here. What do you think, Captain Warfield?"

"I agree with you, though a lagoon is no mill-pond for riding it out. I wonder where she's going to start from? Hello! There goes one of Parlay's copra-sheds."

They could see the grass-thatched shed lift and collapse, while a froth of foam cleared the crest of the sand and ran down to the lagoon.

"Breached across!" Mulhall exclaimed. "That's something for a starter. There she comes again!"

The wreck of the shed was now flung up and left on the sand-crest, A third wave buffeted it into fragments which washed down the slope toward the lagoon.

"If she blow I would as be cooler yet," Hermann grunted. "No longer can I breathe. It is damn hot. I am dry like a stove."

He chopped open a drinking cocoanut with his heavy sheath-knife and drained the contents. The rest of them followed his example, pausing once to watch one of Parlay's shell sheds go down in ruin. The barometer now registered 29:50.

"Must be pretty close to the centre of the area of low pressure," Grief remarked cheerfully. "I was never through the eye of a hurricane before. It will be an experience for you, too, Mulhall. From the speed the barometer's dropped, it's going to be a big one."

Captain Warfield groaned, and all eyes drew to him. He was looking through the glasses down the length of the lagoon to the southeast.

"There she comes," he said quietly.

They did not need glasses to see. A flying film, strangely marked, seemed drawing over the surface of the lagoon. Abreast of it, along the atoll, travelling with equal speed, was a stiff bending of the cocoanut palms and a blur of flying leaves. The front of the wind on the water was a solid, sharply defined strip of dark-coloured, wind-vexed water. In advance of this strip, like skirmishers, were flashes of windflaws. Behind this strip, a quarter of a mile in width, was a strip of what seemed glassy calm. Next came another dark strip of wind, and behind that the lagoon was all crisping, boiling whiteness.

"What is that calm streak?" Mulhall asked.

"Calm," Warfield answered.

"But it travels as fast as the wind," was the other's objection.

"It has to, or it would be overtaken and it wouldn't be any calm. It's a double-header, I saw a big squall like that off Savaii once. A regular double-header. Smash! it hit us, then it lulled to nothing, and smashed us a second time. Stand by and hold on! Here she is on top of us. Look at the Roberta!"

The Roberta, lying nearest to the wind at slack chains, was swept off broadside like a straw. Then her chains brought her up, bow on to the wind, with an astonishing jerk. Schooner after schooner, the Malahini with them, was now sweeping away with the first gust and fetching up on taut chains. Mulhall and several of the Kanakas were taken off their feet when the Malahini jerked to her anchors.

And then there was no wind. The flying calm streak had reached them. Grief lighted a match, and the unshielded flame burned without flickering in the still air. A very dim twilight prevailed. The cloud-sky, lowering as it had been for hours, seemed now to have descended quite down upon the sea.

The Roberta tightened to her chains when the second head of the hurricane hit, as did schooner after schooner in swift succession. The sea, white with fury, boiled in tiny, spitting wavelets. The deck of the Malahini vibrated under the men's feet. The taut-stretched halyards beat a tattoo against the masts, and all the rigging, as if smote by some mighty hand, set up a wild thrumming. It was impossible to face the wind and breathe. Mulhall, crouching with the others behind the shelter of the cabin, discovered this, and his lungs were filled in an instant with so great a volume of driven air which he could not expel that he nearly strangled ere he could turn his head away.

"It's incredible," he gasped, but no one heard him.

Hermann and several Kanakas were crawling for'ard on hands and knees to let go the third anchor. Grief touched Captain Warfield and pointed to the Roberta. She was dragging down upon them. Warfield put his mouth to Grief's ear and shouted:

"We're dragging, too!"

Grief sprang to the wheel and put it hard over, veering the Malahini to port. The third anchor took hold, and the Roberta went by, stern-first, a dozen yards away. They waved their hands to Peter Gee and Captain Robinson, who, with a number of sailors, were at work on the bow.

"He's knocking out the shackles!" Grief shouted. "Going to chance the passage! Got to! Anchors skating!"

"We're holding now!" came the answering shout. "There goes the Cactus down on the Misi. That settles them!"

The Misi had been holding, but the added windage of the Cactus was too much, and the entangled schooners slid away across the boiling white. Their men could be seen chopping and fighting to get them apart. The Roberta, cleared of her anchors, with a patch of tarpaulin set for'ard, was heading for the passage at the northwestern end of the lagoon. They saw her make it and drive out to sea. But the Misi and Cactus, unable to get clear of each other, went ashore on the atoll half a mile from the passage. The wind merely increased on itself and continued to increase. To face the full blast of it required all one's strength, and several minutes of crawling on deck against it tired a man to exhaustion. Hermann, with his Kanakas, plodded steadily, lashing and making secure, putting ever more gaskets on the sails. The wind ripped and tore their thin undershirts from their backs. They moved slowly, as if their bodies weighed tons, never releasing a hand-hold until another had been secured. Loose ends of rope stood out stiffly horizontal, and, when a whipping gave, the loose end frazzled and blew away.

Mulhall touched one and then another and pointed to the shore. The grass-sheds had disappeared, and Parlay's house rocked drunkenly, Because the wind blew lengthwise along the atoll, the house had been sheltered by the miles of cocoanut trees. But the big seas, breaking across from outside, were undermining it and hammering it to pieces. Already tilted down the slope of sand, its end was imminent. Here and there in the cocoanut trees people had lashed themselves. The trees did not sway or thresh about. Bent over rigidly from the wind, they remained in that position and vibrated monstrously. Underneath, across the sand, surged the white spume of the breakers. A big sea was likewise making down the length of the lagoon. It had plenty of room to kick up in the ten-mile stretch from the windward rim of the atoll, and all the schooners were bucking and plunging into it. The Malahini had begun shoving her bow and fo'c'sle head under the bigger ones, and at times her waist was filled rail-high with water.

"Now's the time for your engine!" Grief bellowed; and Captain Warfield, crawling over to where the engineer lay, shouted emphatic commands.

Under the engine, going full speed ahead, the Malahini behaved better. While she continued to ship seas over her bow, she was not jerked down so fiercely by her anchors. On the other hand, she was unable to get any slack in the chains. The best her forty horsepower could do was to ease the strain.

Still the wind increased. The little Nuhiva, lying abreast of the Malahini and closer in to the beach, her engine still unrepaired and her captain ashore, was having a bad time of it. She buried herself so frequently and so deeply that they wondered each time if she could clear herself of the water. At three in the afternoon buried by a second sea before she could free herself of the preceding one, she did not come up.

Mulhall looked at Grief.

"Burst in her hatches," was the bellowed answer.

Captain Warfield pointed to the Winifred, a little schooner plunging and burying outside of them, and shouted in Grief's ear. His voice came in patches of dim words, with intervals of silence when whisked away by the roaring wind.

"Rotten little tub… Anchors hold… But how she holds together… Old as the ark— "

An hour later Hermann pointed to her. Her for'ard bitts, foremast, and most of her bow were gone, having been jerked out of her by her anchors. She swung broadside, rolling in the trough and settling by the head, and in this plight was swept away to leeward.

Five vessels now remained, and of them the Malahini was the only one with an engine. Fearing either the Nuhiva's or the Winifred's fate, two of them followed the Roberta's example, knocking out the chain-shackles and running for the passage. The Dolly was the first, but her tarpaulin was carried away, and she went to destruction on the lee-rim of the atoll near the Misi and the Cactus. Undeterred by this, the Moana let go and followed with the same result.

"Pretty good engine that, eh?" Captain Warfield yelled to his owner.

Grief put out his hand and shook. "She's paying for herself!" he yelled back. "The wind's shifting around to the southward, and we ought to lie easier!"

Slowly and steadily, but with ever-increasing velocity, the wind veered around to the south and the southwest, till the three schooners that were left pointed directly in toward the beach. The wreck of Parlay's house was picked up, hurled into the lagoon, and blown out upon them. Passing the Malahini, it crashed into the Papara, lying a quarter of a mile astern. There was wild work for'ard on her, and in a quarter of an hour the house went clear, but it had taken the Papara's foremast and bowsprit with it.

Inshore, on their port bow, lay the Tahaa, slim and yacht-like, but excessively oversparred. Her anchors still held, but her captain, finding no abatement in the wind, proceeded to reduce windage by chopping down his masts.

"Pretty good engine that," Grief congratulated his skipper, "It will save our sticks for us yet."

Captain Warfield shook his head dubiously.

The sea on the lagoon went swiftly down with the change of wind, but they were beginning to feel the heave and lift of the outer sea breaking across the atoll. There were not so many trees remaining. Some had been broken short off, others uprooted. One tree they saw snap off halfway up, three persons clinging to it, and whirl away by the wind into the lagoon. Two detached themselves from it and swam to the Tahaa. Not long after, just before darkness, they saw one jump overboard from that schooner's stern and strike out strongly for the Malahini through the white, spitting wavelets.

"It's Tai-Hotauri," was Grief's judgment. "Now we'll have the news."

The Kanaka caught the bobstay, climbed over the bow, and crawled aft. Time was given him to breathe, and then, behind the part shelter of the cabin, in broken snatches and largely by signs, he told his story.

"Narii… damn robber… He want steal… pearls… Kill Parlay… One man kill Parlay… No man know what man… Three Kanakas, Narii, me… Five beans… hat… Narii say one bean black… Nobody know… Kill Parlay… Narii damn liar… All beans black… Five black… Copra-shed dark… Every man get black bean… Big wind come… No chance… Everybody get up tree… No good luck them pearls… I tell you before… No good luck."

"Where's Parlay?" Grief shouted.

"Up tree… Three of his Kanakas same tree. Narii and one Kanaka'nother tree… My tree blow to hell, then I come on board."

"Where's the pearls?"

"Up tree along Parlay. Mebbe Narii get them pearl yet."

In the ear of one after another Grief passed on Tai-Hotauri's story. Captain Warfield was particularly incensed, and they could see him grinding his teeth.

Hermann went below and returned with a riding light, but the moment it was lifted above the level of the cabin wall the wind blew it out. He had better success with the binnacle lamp, which was lighted only after many collective attempts.

"A fine night of wind!" Grief yelled in Mulhall's ear. "And blowing harder all the time."

"How hard?"

"A hundred miles an hour… two hundred… I don't know… Harder than I've ever seen it."

The lagoon grew more and more troubled by the sea that swept across the atoll. Hundreds of leagues of ocean was being backed up by the hurricane, which more than overcame the lowering effect of the ebb tide. Immediately the tide began to rise the increase in the size of the seas was noticeable. Moon and wind were heaping the South Pacific on Hikihoho atoll.

Captain Warfield returned from one of his periodical trips to the engine room with the word that the engineer lay in a faint.

"Can't let that engine stop!" he concluded helplessly.

"All right!" Grief said, "Bring him on deck. I'll spell him."

The hatch to the engine room was battened down, access being gained through a narrow passage from the cabin. The heat and gas fumes were stifling. Grief took one hasty, comprehensive examination of the engine and the fittings of the tiny room, then blew out the oil-lamp. After that he worked in darkness, save for the glow from endless cigars which he went into the cabin to light. Even-tempered as he was, he soon began to give evidences of the strain of being pent in with a mechanical monster that toiled, and sobbed, and slubbered in the shouting dark. Naked to the waist, covered with grease and oil, bruised and skinned from being knocked about by the plunging, jumping vessel, his head swimming from the mixture of gas and air he was compelled to breathe, he laboured on hour after hour, in turns petting, blessing, nursing, and cursing the engine and all its parts. The ignition began to go bad. The feed grew worse. And worst of all, the cylinders began to heat. In a consultation held in the cabin the half-caste engineer begged and pleaded to stop the engine for half an hour in order to cool it and to attend to the water circulation. Captain Warfield was against any stopping. The half-caste swore that the engine would ruin itself and stop anyway and for good. Grief, with glaring eyes, greasy and battered, yelled and cursed them both down and issued commands. Mulhall, the supercargo, and Hermann were set to work in the cabin at double-straining and triple-straining the gasoline. A hole was chopped through the engine room floor, and a Kanaka heaved bilge-water over the cylinders, while Grief continued to souse running parts in oil.

"Didn't know you were a gasoline expert," Captain Warfield admired when Grief came into the cabin to catch a breath of little less impure air.

"I bathe in gasoline," he grated savagely through his teeth. "I eat it."

What other uses he might have found for it were never given, for at that moment all the men in the cabin, as well as the gasoline being strained, were smashed forward against the bulkhead as the Malahini took an abrupt, deep dive. For the space of several minutes, unable to gain their feet, they rolled back and forth and pounded and hammered from wall to wall. The schooner, swept by three big seas, creaked and groaned and quivered, and from the weight of water on her decks behaved logily. Grief crept to the engine, while Captain Warfield waited his chance to get through the companion-way and out on deck.

It was half an hour before he came back.

"Whaleboat's gone!" he reported. "Galley's gone! Everything gone except the deck and hatches! And if that engine hadn't been going we'd be gone! Keep up the good work!"

By midnight the engineer's lungs and head had been sufficiently cleared of gas fumes to let him relieve Grief, who went on deck to get his own head and lungs clear. He joined the others, who crouched behind the cabin, holding on with their hands and made doubly secure by rope-lashings. It was a complicated huddle, for it was the only place of refuge for the Kanakas. Some of them had accepted the skipper's invitation into the cabin but had been driven out by the fumes. The Malahini was being plunged down and swept frequently, and what they breathed was air and spray and water commingled.

"Making heavy weather of it, Mulhall!" Grief shouted to his guest between immersions.

Mulhall, strangling and choking, could only nod. The scuppers could not carry off the burden of water on the schooner's deck. She rolled it out and took it in over one rail and the other; and at times, nose thrown skyward, sitting down on her heel, she avalanched it aft. It surged along the poop gangways, poured over the top of the cabin, submerging and bruising those that clung on, and went out over the stern-rail.

Mulhall saw him first, and drew Grief's attention. It was Narii Herring, crouching and holding on where the dim binnacle light shone upon him. He was quite naked, save for a belt and a bare-bladed knife thrust between it and the skin.

Captain Warfield untied his lashings and made his way over the bodies of the others. When his face became visible in the light from the binnacle it was working with anger. They could see him speak, but the wind tore the sound away. He would not put his lips to Narii's ear. Instead, he pointed over the side. Narii Herring understood. His white teeth showed in an amused and sneering smile, and he stood up, a magnificent figure of a man.

"It's murder!" Mulhall yelled to Grief.

"He'd have murdered Old Parlay!" Grief yelled back.

For the moment the poop was clear of water and the Malahini on an even keel. Narii made a bravado attempt to walk to the rail, but was flung down by the wind. Thereafter he crawled, disappearing in the darkness, though there was certitude in all of them that he had gone over the side. The Malahini dived deep, and when they emerged from the flood that swept aft, Grief got Mulhall's ear.

"Can't lose him! He's the Fish Man of Tahiti! He'll cross the lagoon and land on the other rim of the atoll if there's any atoll left!"

Five minutes afterward, in another submergence, a mess of bodies poured down on them over the top of the cabin. These they seized and held till the water cleared, when they carried them below and learned their identity. Old Parlay lay oh his back on the floor, with closed eyes and without movement. The other two were his Kanaka cousins. All three were naked and bloody. The arm of one Kanaka hung helpless and broken at his side. The other man bled freely from a hideous scalp wound.

"Narii did that?" Mulhall demanded.

Grief shook his head. "No; it's from being smashed along the deck and over the house!"

Something suddenly ceased, leaving them in dizzying uncertainty. For the moment it was hard to realize there was no wind. With the absolute abruptness of a sword slash, the wind had been chopped off. The schooner rolled and plunged, fetching up on her anchors with a crash which for the first time they could hear. Also, for the first time they could hear the water washing about on deck. The engineer threw off the propeller and eased the engine down.

"We're in the dead centre," Grief said. "Now for the shift. It will come as hard as ever." He looked at the barometer. "29:32," he read.

Not in a moment could he tone down the voice which for hours had battled against the wind, and so loudly did he speak that in the quiet it hurt the others' ears.

"All his ribs are smashed," the supercargo said, feeling along Parlay's side. "He's still breathing, but he's a goner."

Old Parlay groaned, moved one arm impotently, and opened his eyes. In them was the light of recognition.

"My brave gentlemen," he whispered haltingly. "Don't forget… the auction… at ten o'clock… in hell."

His eyes dropped shut and the lower jaw threatened to drop, but he mastered the qualms of dissolution long enough to omit one final, loud, derisive cackle.

Above and below pandemonium broke out.

The old familiar roar of the wind was with them. The Malahini, caught broadside, was pressed down almost on her beam ends as she swung the arc compelled by her anchors. They rounded her into the wind, where she jerked to an even keel. The propeller was thrown on, and the engine took up its work again.

"Northwest!" Captain Warfield shouted to Grief when he came on deck. "Hauled eight points like a shot!"

"Narii'll never get across the lagoon now!" Grief observed.

"Then he'll blow back to our side, worse luck!"

v

AFTER the passing of the centre the barometer began to rise. Equally rapid was the fall of the wind. When it was no more than a howling gale, the engine lifted up in the air, parted its bed-plates with a last convulsive effort of its forty horsepower, and lay down on its side. A wash of water from the bilge sizzled over it and the steam arose in clouds. The engineer wailed his dismay, but Grief glanced over the wreck affectionately and went into the cabin to swab the grease off his chest and arms with bunches of cotton waste.

The sun was up and the gentlest of summer breezes blowing when he came on deck, after sewing up the scalp of one Kanaka and setting the other's arm. The Malahini lay close in to the beach. For'ard, Hermann and the crew were heaving in and straightening out the tangle of anchors. The Papara and the Tahaa were gone, and Captain Warfield, through the glasses, was searching the opposite rim of the atoll.

"Not a stick left of them," he said. "That's what comes of not having engines. They must have dragged across before the big shift came."

Ashore, where Parlay's house had been, was no vestige of any house. For the space of three hundred yards, where the sea had breached, no tree or even stump was left. Here and there, farther along, stood an occasional palm, and there were numbers which had been snapped off above the ground. In the crown of one surviving palm Tai-Hotauri asserted he saw something move. There were no boats left to the Malahini, and they watched him swim ashore and climb the tree.

When he came back, they helped over the rail a young native girl of Parley's household. But first she passed up to them a battered basket. In it was a litter of blind kittens— all dead save one, that feebly mewed and staggered on awkward legs.

"Hello!" said Mulhall. "Who's that?"

Along the beach they saw a man walking. He moved casually, as if out for a morning stroll. Captain Warfield gritted his teeth. It was Narii Herring.

"Hello, skipper!" Narii called, when he was abreast of them. "Can I come aboard and get some breakfast?"

Captain Warfield's face and neck began to swell and turn purple. He tried to speak, but choked.

"For two cents— for two cents—" was all he could manage to articulate.

__________________

17: The Death of Kalu's Hand

Cyril Etheridge
fl 1907

The Black Cat August 1907

Nothing is known of this author other than two stories published in "The Black Cat" in 1907

THE fierce African sun had set and the short tropical twilight deepened into gloom before the trial was over. At length the chief spoke.

"We have treated the white man as a friend and a brother. He has come and gone amongst us and no man hath said him nay. We have given him of our lands and of our flocks and herds, and he hath betrayed us into the hands of his kind. Brother what shall be his doom? Kibaru, do you speak first!"

A gray-bearded man gazed for some moments at the white twitching face before him.

"Let him die the death of Kalu's hand," he said at length.

"Aye, aye," exclaimed the others, "Kibaru has it, the death of Kalu's hand."

"So be it,"  said the chief. "Take him to the shrine of the rock. So Kalu shall be appeased."

And so through the darkness John Marsden was hurried out of the village towards the river along the faint streak of a forest track just visible in the darkness. Presently the party reached a stockaded enclosure, within which the black outline of the temple was dimly shaped.

Long as he had gone to and fro amongst these men, and well as he knew their ways and customs, this was new ground to him. The shrine was sacred and it was death for any but a believer to enter, but the white-faced captive in their midst was already a dead man in their eyes. The guards and their prisoner ascended the narrow track winding between the giant granite boulders and at length they halted. In front Marsden could see nothing but black darkness yawning before him. One of the men advanced cautiously, and kneeling down groped before him.

"Inkoos, here is the ladder."

"Descend first, two of you, and then let the white man follow you."

So, with sinking heart and one last look into the black night Marsden followed down the rough steps, till they stood on the floor of the cavern. Again Kibaru spoke.

"Listen, white man, whom we have treated as a brother. This is the shrine of Kalu, the god of the river. See," he said, pointing upwards, "he is there watching you. Tomorrow's sun will show him to you in his might. Day and night, and night and day, you will watch his hand, until you shall see— what you shall see. You shall live many hours until his wrath is appeased, for though he is very sure, he strikes but slowly. This is Kahu's will and the fate of the traitor. Farewell, white man, whom we shall see no more. "

The others followed him in silence as he retraced his steps upwards, and presently Marsden heard the creaking and groaning of the heavy ladder, as it was laboriously pulled up the face of the rocky wall. Then silence fell and he was alone.

For some minutes the man remained where he was peering anxiously around him. Black clouds obscured the moon and little but darkness was visible. He bad heard much of the fiendish and loathsome cruelties of the Nyangwe tribe and he knew that his fate would be terrible, but what? How would Kalu strike?

Underfoot the floor was damp and slippery, and all around were a apparently dark and dank walls. A faint drip, drip caught his ear, and poisonous exhalation of stagnant muddy ooze seemed to rise from the ground . Cautiously he left the wall and took a few steps slowly forwards. Suddenly his right foot met nothing but the empty air, and with a jerk he threw himself instinctively backwards just in time. In front of him yawned an open pit, and he crawled, trembling, back to the wall. He drank sparingly of the pitcher of water, replacing it carefully against the side, and lay down. It was no use experimentalizing in Kalu's shrine in the darkness.

Well, it had certainly been a terrible piece of bad luck. For many years he had gone backwards and forwards trading amongst these men, and had prospered. What the chief had said was quite right; they had treated him well and fairly, and he was free to come and go.

Then had come rumors of trouble and war. From the open veldt and rolling prairies of the southwest tanned, hardy, long-limbed men on wiry horses had begun to press forward into the native territory. At length came the day when white and black stood face to face, and the clash of arms could no longer be averted. Marsden considered the situation long and anxiously. He would not raise his hand against the savage, who had treated him so well, by leading against him the white man, who had come to conquer. The simplest way out of the difficulty was to clear out and take no part in the quarrel, so he decided to trek southwards.

Unfortunately, as night fell on his second day's march be had ridden into a small mounted party of whites, who had pushed on some few miles ahead of the main body, and he had halted the night with them, but he stoutly refused to act as guide, in spite of their entreaties. Chief Umbopu's intelligence department was of the very best and he was speedily informed of the raid. Collecting his warriors he fell secretly and speedily on the venturesome little band. Taken completely by surprise and attacked in overwhelming force, but few escaped. The remainder met with the short shrift of the sharp assegai.

Only one prisoner was spared— John Marsden. They took care to take him alive.

Appearances were certainly against him, and in vain be protested his innocence. On previous occasions he had always informed the chief of his intended trading journeys to the south. This time, after secretly settling his affairs, he had stolen out like a thief in the night, and was caught red-handed with arms in his hands fighting in the ranks of the white men. It was hardly surprising that his trial was short, sharp and decisive, and his fate— well, he would soon see. At any rate, there was no good losing heart; Kibaru had said he had many hours to live, and the men who had escaped would speedily tell the main body. Perhaps they would get up in time.

After a few hours' disturbed sleep he woke to find daylight struggling in through an open space in the overhanging roof of rock. Reside him on the ledge, in a wicker basket, was a fresh supply of mealie meal and a gourd of water. It was evident he was not to be starved. He looked round anxiously in the dim light, and this is what he saw:

Around and above him the walls of a natural cavern had been straightened out until the sides were perpendicular, enclosing an irregularly shaped circular pit some fifty feet deep and as many yards across. The whole of the pit, except a narrow ledge on which he found himself, was occupied by a steep, roughly-paved basin, at the bottom of which, about twenty feet farther below where he stood, was a stagnant pool, green with slime and thick with mud and ooze. It was down these precipitous sides be had narrowly escaped falling the previous night.

In the centre of the pool, on a rough pedestal of rock, stood the effigy of a huge figure, whose horrible face and relentless eyes were turned directly towards him. The grotesque and cruel expression heightened the significance of the pointing right hand, which was directed menacingly at the water immediately in front of him.

Marsden gazed in fascinated awe at the forbidding face and anxiously followed the direct ion of the hand, but nothing was discernible under the foul, muddy surface. But that rigid, baleful stare was more than he could stand, and he walked hastily round the ledge to the other side of the pool.

No, there was apparently no egress anywhere. The sides were straight and above the overhanging rock nearly met except for an oval-shaped opening on one side. Not even a monkey could have climbed out.

Well, He would stay where he was. Kalu's back view was certainly preferable. As the man brought his eyes down from the roof, he again faced the rigid stare and pointing band. Good heavens, the figure had turned round and was still facing him. He could hardly believe his eyes. He walked slowly back to his original position, and the face and hand slowly followed him.

Marsden wiped the sweat from his face.

"Day and night, and night and day, you will watch his hand, until you shall see— what you shall see."

Again he followed the direction of the hand, peering white-faced into the slimy pool. At once he noticed the water had risen, and was slowly and surely rising. What was going to happen?

Of course, he had it! The river was close by. The pool communicated with it by some subterranean source. They were letting in the water, or the river was rising. They were going to drown him slowly, for the water would have to rise over twenty feet. But no, there was more to it than that.

The path round the pool was several feet lower than the foot of the pedestal, on which the figure of Kalu stood. As the water rose he would be compelled to swim to it. The sides were rough and sloping, and he could doubtless clamber up and gain the top, which seemed about six feet square. He would then be standing on the same platform as Kalu, and immediately under the upraised arm.

Ah, the death of Kalu's hand!

For twelve long hours Marsden paced the circular path, watching the rising water. At one point he detected a slight boil on the surface and a few bubbles rising, doubtless just above the entrance of the underground channel through which the pool was slowly being filled. And wherever he went that long summer's day that rigid stare and pointing hand followed him.

As darkness approached he noticed a slimy, battered-looking old log, some twenty feet long. It was evidently a portion of the trunk of a tree. Knotted, gnarled, and worm-eaten, it looked as if it had been in the water for many years. It was so saturated and water logged, that one or two knots only appeared above the level of the surface, the remainder being faintly discernible under the green scum.

Horrible as the darkness was in that loathsome cavern, the man welcomed the coming of the night that shut out the irksome scrutiny of the hideous idol. All night he lay dozing uneasily, listening to. the drip from the walls. Once more in his dreams he seemed to hear the noise of the fight when he was taken prisoner. Again he heard the frenzied shouts of the troopers, the sharp crack of the rifles, again the hissing "Sgee," "Sgee," of the savage warrior, as he drove home his short stabbing spear. How vivid it seemed!

Several times he awoke with a start, but only the faint drip broke the dead stillness of the cavern. The moonlight, struggling in, revealed the still pointing idol, and between its hand and himself lay the dark shadow of the log.

At gray dawn, as he turned uneasily over, his hand splashed into the water, and in an instant he was on his feet. Good heavens, how quickly it had risen; it was just lapping the edge. His time had come. He would have to swim to the pedestal and face Kalu's hand.

He packed his meal and water gourd carefully into his coat, making a tight bundle of it with a sleeve as a loop. A few strokes with one hand would carry him across, and he could easily carry the bundle in the other clear of the water. A few strokes only, and yet he hesitated. How foul and oily the water looked in the faint morning light, and how rank was the stagnant smell. Could a man swim in such stuff? Suppose he got entangled in weeds or sunk in the oozy slime? and he stirred the water dubiously with one foot.

Stay, why not make use of the log? There it lay, quite close to him. If he could coax it by drawing the water towards the side he could straddle it and paddle himself across. That would be better than soaking himself in that evil smelling liquid. He sat down on the edge, letting first one leg and then the other gingerly into the water, and, reaching out, commenced drawing the water towards him.

What had happened? The man could hardly say, but suddenly he seemed to have received some tremendous shock, that sent him reeling and splashing over on his back with his legs in the air. White-faced, with choking heart, he scrambled hastily to his feet, staring in helpless terror from Kalu's hideous face to the log at which it was pointing. He could have almost sworn that the hand had signalled sharply, and that the log had darted straight for him. But no, it was impossible; there it lay just as it was before, heavy and water-logged, looking as if it had not moved for a hundred years.

Thoroughly unnerved with the terror of some vague, unknown danger, the nature of which he could not grasp, Marsden, with the sweat pouring down his face, straightened himself up against the wall behind him. The water had now risen half way up to his knees. He hardly noticed the basket with his daily allowance of food and water being lowered carefully down by the figure crouching over the overhanging rook. He was staring before him in growing horror. Why! Now that the growing light was beginning to penetrate, he could make out not only one log, but half a dozen of them, in the water between him and Kalu's hand. Like the spokes of a wheel, they radiated in a semicircle towards him, heavy and inert.

What in the name of heaven did it all mean?

Suddenly there was a sharp crack of a rifle above and the basket fell into the water on the ledge. Then the light overhead was blotted out as, with a yell of terror, a black figure, turning over and over, fell into the pool on his left, with a heavy thud, that splashed the water half way up the cliff. Shot after shot rang out, shouts and yells followed up above, but Marsden had no ears for them. He watched in helpless terror the horrible scene before him. Like a flash the heavy inert logs sprang into life and whipped sharply round towards their prey. Half a dozen huge crocodiles, raising their hideous lengths half out of the water, launched themselves at the struggling, screaming wretch, tearing him limb from limb.

Round and round the pool they surged in horrid strife, their great jaws clashing now at their victim and now at each other, churning the muddy waters into crimson foam. In the fierceness of the struggle one reptile was forced bodily on to the ledge. Half blinded by the slimy ooze flung over him,  Marsden backed up against the cliff, his fingers stiffening in their frenzied grasp of the rock behind him.

With difficulty he kept his footing in the waves surging over the slippery ledge. Gradually the turmoil subsided, but the heaving of the waters and the bubbles rising from below gave grim evidence of the gruesome tragedy being enacted in the black depths.

Marsden suddenly found his voice. The crocodile on the ledge, recovering from his astonishment and scenting an undisputed victim, turned his long, ugly black snout in his direction and commenced waddling, half-swimming and half-walking, towards him. Shout after shout in the frenzy of despair rang out from the cavern. A sunburnt, unshaved face and the muzzle of a rifle were protruded cautiously over the overhanging rock above.

A few hastily gasped out words from below, and the contents of the rifle magazine were lodged in the reptile's body.

A few minutes later a looped rope was let down, and a dozen willing arms had pulled Marsden out of Kalu's shrine.

WHEN Marsden had fully recovered from his terrible experience he learned from a prisoner, taken in the raid, that the natives had long since noticed that this curious natural cavern was the abode of some of the crocodiles infesting the neighboring river, which communicated with it by an underground channel. Superstition, engendered by its singular formation and weird gloom, soon caused it to be considered sacred, and it was dedicated to the god of the river. The reptiles were worshipped, and their presence encouraged by feeding them. The artificial straightening of the sides, rendering egress impossible, and the cutting of the ledge, readily adapted the pit for human sacrifice.

The effigy on the rock pedestal in the centre, revolved by a simple piece of mechanism by the priests on duty, was introduced later as an afterthought to add to the horrors of the tragedy. The mental torture of the victim, seeing the water gradually rise until the crocodiles were enabled to seize him from off the ledge, or he was obliged to swim to the pedestal in the centre, can readily be imagined. The reptiles were not fed for some days before a human sacrifice.

_______________

18: Dance Without Music

Peter Cheyney

1896-1951

The Sydney Sportsman, 30 March 1942

AS the express stopped at the mainline station, Callaghan awoke. He sat up, yawned, lit a cigarette, picked up his bag and stepped out onto the platform. Over by the refreshment buffet he saw MacOliver. They went into the buffet together. Callaghan ordered two double, whiskies and sodas.

He said: 'Well, what do you know?'

MacOliver said: 'She's been at home all day. Except for when she went to the hospital early this evening. Harvin's pretty bad. When I was down there this afternoon they didn't think he'd pull through. The bullet went through one lung, then downwards and chipped the spine coming out.'

Callaghan drank his whisky.

'She went home after she left the hospital,' MacOliver went on. 'She didn't look so good to me. She was at home till eight o'clock. Then she went out. She went down to a bar— Gregory's Bar, they call it. It's in the tough part of the city. She's been sitting there ever since looking right in front of her. She ordered a drink but she hadn't touched it when I left.'

Callaghan nodded absently, then looked at his wrist watch. It was half past ten.

'What do the police say about it?' he asked.

MacOliver shrugged. 'I spoke to the D.D.I. at the Central Police Station. They haven't got any ideas at all. They knew that Harvin had a record. They picked a fellow up this morning— Malinkel, of 22 Castle Street— and took him down for questioning. They had to let him go. He'd got an alibi.

'The police surgeon says Harvin was shot some time between twelve and twelve-thirty last night. That cleared this fellow. He was dancing at the dance place here until after one o'clock.'

Callaghan stubbed out his cigarette and lit another.

'All right,' he said. 'You take my bag and leave it at the County Hotel. Wait for me there.'

CALLAGHAN stood outside the station waiting for a taxi. A thin drizzle of rain had started. He thought that all the provincial cities had the same dreary look on a dark, wet night. When the taxi came, he told the driver to take him to Gregory's Bar.

The woman was sitting alone at a table at the end of the long, low-ceilinged bar. The smoke- and chatter-filled place was crowded, but there was no one at her table. The reason, was obvious. She was sitting staring straight in front of her. She looked like death. By her elbow was an untouched glass of whisky and soda.

Callaghan paused to light another cigarette. Then he walked to the table. He sat down opposite the woman. She looked at him with blank eyes that seemed to look right through his thin face.

He said:— 'Take it easy, Mrs. Harvin. You must be feeling pretty bad, but you'll have to pull yourself together some time, you know. Maybe things aren't going to be so bad. Maybe he'll recover.'

She said dully: 'He won't recover. I telephoned the hospital five minutes ago. He's dead. And I killed him.'

Callaghan's face softened into a sympathetic grin.

'You drink that whisky,' he said, 'and don't say things like that. You know you didn't kill him.'

'I did,' she said. 'I killed him because I was the woman who made him go straight. Ever since he's been married to me he's been straight. He was a crook when I met him, and if I hadn't turned him into an honest man he'd be alive now. He was shot because he was straight. So I killed him.'

Callaghan picked up the glass of whisky at her elbow and held it in front of her.

'Drink that,' he said. 'If you were as keen on him as all that you've got to help find the man who murdered him. You won't help by talking nonsense. Drink it.'

She drank some of the whisky. He saw a little colour come back to her face. He took out a cigarette, put it in her fingers, held his lighter in front of her face so that she had to light the cigarette. He saw that she was trying to pull herself together.

'Who are you?' she asked. 'And what do you want?'

Callaghan dropped his voice to a soothing note.

'My name's Callaghan. I'm investigating the robbery last night for the insurance company concerned. My job is to find that missing jewellery. That part of it doesn't interest you, I know, but this ought to.

'If I can find that jewellery it's a certainty that in the process I'll find the man who's killed your husband. Because I'm a private investigator I can do all sorts of things, take all sorts of chances that the police daren't take. They're tied by regulations— I'm not.'

He leaned across the table.

'Mrs. Harvin,' he said. 'What about giving me a hand in finding the man who killed Jim?'

'What's the good?' she said bitterly. 'I know who killed him. I've told them. They won't believe me because he's been clever enough to fix himself a first-class alibi. He's a specialist at alibis. Jim always said that.'

'Let's break that alibi down,' said Callaghan persuasively. 'Let's work this thing out together. Tell me the whole story— even the part the police wouldn't believe. It's not going to hurt you to talk to me.'

She pushed the empty glass away. Callaghan saw that her fingers had stopped trembling. He lit a cigarette and listened.

'I married Jim a year ago,' she said, 'I knew all about him. I knew he'd been a crook. I knew he was the best safe-cracker in this country. But I knew I could get him to go straight. He did. I got him to come and live here because people knew me in this city.

'Nine months ago I got him a job as a packer in Cringall's Store. My father knew Cringall when the store was just a little shop. I told old Cringall all about Jim. He said he'd take a chance on him, and he's never regretted it.

'Four months ago, they made Jim night watchman. I'll never forget how pleased he was. He knew they trusted him. We were so happy that I began to feel it couldn't last. I was right: it hasn't.' She swallowed a sob.

'Three weeks ago Jim came home and told me he'd seen Willie Malinkel in the town. That Malinkel had talked to him. Malinkel was Jim's partner in the old days. He's one of the smartest crooks in the country. Jim said he was clever and tricky and wonderful at getting out of tough spots, that he had a way with women and made good— or bad— use of it.

'While Jim was talking, I felt a sort of shudder go through me. I had the feeling that Malinkel had discovered about Jim's new job, and he was going to try to get Jim in on something. Well, I was right.

'Cringall's Store is a big place. It forms an island of its own at the end of Market Street. Every night about twelve o'clock I used to go down there and ring the bell at the packing department staff entrance on the Albert Street side.

'Jim used to come down, look through the iron grille in the door to see if it were me. Then he'd open the door and I'd give him his can of hot coffee and a packet of fresh sandwiches. Then we'd talk for a few minutes and I'd go back home.

'Yesterday night, at half-past eleven, somebody telephoned me at home. It was a man. I didn't recognise the voice. He said he was telephoning for Jim, that I wasn't to come down as usual with the coffee and stuff because it was so foggy. He said Jim was working on the other side of the store and couldn't telephone himself.

'That was a lie. The police have questioned everybody at the store and nobody knew anything about that phone call. It was done to stop me going there. That was the time they'd planned to break in.

'This morning they found Jim lying at the end of the passage leading to the staff entrance door on the Albert Street side. He was dying. He never recovered consciousness. So they learned nothing from him. The main safe in the jewellery department had been opened and cleaned out by an expert. Only the valuable staff had been taken.

'I told the police about Malinkel. They knew his record. They picked him up this morning. He had a cast iron alibi. He'd been at Rosemount Dance Hall, and didn't leave there until after one o'clock. They had an extension last night until two.

'The girl, the dance hostess— they have taxi-dancers down there, you know, sixpence a time— who danced with him from eleven forty-five until one fifteen, told the police that, and they let him go. She's a girl of good character. They had to believe her. So they let him go. But I know he did it. I know he did it!'

'What is the girl's name?' asked Callaghan

'Rosa Tremley,' said the woman. 'She's a nice girl. But that doesn't mean anything. Jim told me that Malinkel always went for nice girls. They were the sort of girls he liked. He had a way with him and they liked him.'

Callaghan nodded.

From the bar came a raucous voice: 'Time, gentlemen, please!'

He got up. 'This is where you go home,' he said. 'When you get there make yourself a cup of tea and keep your chin up.'

FILBY, the manager of the Rosemount Dance Hall at the end of Rennet Street, looked across his desk at Callaghan.

'The girl's telling the truth, Mr. Callaghan,' he said. 'I believe her. She's one of the best girls we've ever had here. She's been here four months. Even if this Malinkel has got a police record, that don't make him a murderer, does it? Malinkel came in last night somewhere about half past eleven. He bought a strip of twenty dance-tickets and danced with Rosa all the time. She'd never met him before, so why should she tell a lie?

'Last night when we closed down at two o'clock, she handed in the twenty tickets— here they are— and I credited her with the money— ten bob. Malinkel had gone about a quarter past one and she hadn't danced with anybody else.'

Callaghan said: 'You've got a hostesses' room on the main floor. On the Albert Street side. There's a big double window in that room. Malinkel and the girl could have gone in there; and he could have got through the window, done the job and come back the same way. She could have waited for him and gone back on the dance floor with him. You say the place was crowded last night. They'd never have been missed.'

Filby shook his head.

'No,' he said. 'We've got twenty hostesses— all taxi-dancers— here. They're in an' out of that room the whole evenin'. Powderin' their noses and fixin' their make-up. The light used to be on in that room the whole time. That's why I put that notice up that you saw sayin' that any girl who didn't turn it off when she went out of the room would be sacked.

'From this office window I can look at the fanlight of the hostesses' room without movin' from this desk, an' last night it was going on and off the whole time— that was girls going in and out. Malinkel could never have taken a chance of getting out of that window and coming back through it. It's not possible.'

Callaghan nodded. He sat smoking silently, twisting the strip of twenty dance tickets that Rosa Tremley had turned in the night before between his fingers. After a while he got up. He threw the tickets on to Filby's desk.

'Thanks, Filby,' he said. 'Is Rosa Tremley here tonight?'

'Yes,' the manager answered. 'She'll be here till we close at twelve-thirty. You talk to her if you want to. She's a nice kid.'

Callaghan put on his hat.

'Is the band playing tonight the same as the one that was playing here last night?'

'No,' said Filby. 'Last night was an extension night. We had a special band, new decorations, new numbers, the mayor giving prizes away, everything right smack up to date. Last night we had Ferdy Marriner's Band here all evening.'

'Thanks,' said Callaghan. He drew in a lungful, of smoke and sent it out again slowly through one nostril. Then he put his hands into his overcoat pockets and went out.

CALLAGHAN walked down to Albert Street and stood before the door with the iron grille— the packing department staff door. He stood there for quite a while looking at the pavement in front of the door. Then he turned and began to walk back along Albert Street, hoping that he would find a passage somewhere leading from Albert Street to Rennet Street.

He was lucky. He found one. The passage started at the east end of Albert Street and ran through into the south end of Rennet Street. Thirty yards from the end of the dark passage, across the street, not three feet from the ground was the window of the Rosemount Dance Hall hostesses' room.

Callaghan stood watching the electric light go on and off periodically as the dancing girls entered and left the room. After a while he walked to the front entrance of the Rosemount Dance Hall.

Callaghan bought five sixpenny dance tickets at the glass box at the end of the dance floor. Then he walked over to the 'pen' where the dancing partners sat. He said to a fair-haired girl in a neat black frock:

'Are you Rosa Tremley?'

She nodded. He handed her the tickets. She got up smilingly.

Callaghan said: 'We'll sit this dance out. Come and have some coffee.'

She nodded, still smiling prettily. They went over to one of the wicker tables and sat dawn. Callaghan ordered the coffee.

'Do you do much dancing?' she asked.

Callaghan grinned. 'Very little; if ever I do I'll get you to teach me.'

Then he leaned over the table towards the girl and said grimly:

'You listen to me, Rosa. You're being the worst sort of fool. That alibi you're putting up for Malinkel is false as hell and you know it!'

She tossed her head.

'What's it got to do with you? If my evidence is good enough for the police it's good enough for anybody. You've got your nerve.'

'All right,' said Callaghan, 'if you've been telling the truth, you tell me something. There was a new band here last night— Ferdy Marriner's Band.'

'I've been talking to Marriner,' he lied glibly, 'and he tells me that last night between twelve and twelve-thirty he played four new numbers. They've never been played here before. They put a card up in the frame on the band platform with the song titles on it. You tell me the names of those four numbers, or any one of them!'

She looked at him quickly. He saw the sag of her jaw before she recovered herself.

'You mind your own damn business,' she said. 'You leave me alone!'

She walked over to the hostesses' room, slammed the door behind her. Callaghan grinned. He went to the cloakroom and got his hat and coat. Outside the Rosemount he hailed a taxi.

He drove to the County Hotel and picked up MacOliver, then to 22 Castle Street. Malinkel opened the door. A cigarette was hanging out of the corner of his mouth. He was grinning.

'More coppers?' he queried.

Callaghan pushed the door open and stepped into the passage. Malinkel's sitting-room door was open.

'Get inside,' said Callaghan. 'I want to talk to you.'

Malinkel shrugged and stepped into the room. He flopped in an armchair.

'I s'pose you've got a right to be here,' he said easily. 'Got your warrant cards with you?'

Callaghan said: 'I'm an investigator for the Climax and General Insurance. I'm going to take you in for murder. You killed Harvin. And it's no good bluffing, because Rosa Tremley's talked— at last. You forgot something. Marriner put some new dance numbers on last night between twelve and twelve-thirty and she didn't even know it. She saw the game was up and talked. It's over, Malinkel.'

'You don't say!' said Malinkel, leaning back in the chair and sucking at his cigarette stub. 'And what did Rosa tell you?' He was still grinning.

'She told me this: Four months ago you heard that Harvin had been made night watchman at Cringall's Store. So you sent Rosa along to get that job as dance hostess at the Rosemount and get herself a reputation for being a nice girl. That was in case of accidents.

'In case Jim Harvin didn't accept your proposition, you came over here and saw him and tried to get him to come in with you on the Cringall Store job. He wouldn't. He was going straight. But he didn't tell his wife about the proposition. He thought it would worry her. Then you thought you'd play it another way.

'Last night you telephoned through to Mrs. Harvin. You said you were an employee at the store speaking for Jim, that she wasn't to go down with his coffee and sandwiches because it was foggy. She fell for that.

'Just before twelve last night you and Rosa slipped into the hostesses' room. You locked yourself in the lavatory while she got the window open and slipped into her street coat. She put the strip of 20 tickets you'd given her into her coat pocket. Then she dropped out of the window.

'You waited your chance and dropped out after her, closing the window behind you.

'You had to have her with you because you knew that Jim Harvin would be expecting his wife at twelve o'clock as usual, and if he saw a woman through the grille— he would only see her indistinctly in the fog— he'd open the door. He'd think it was his wife. That's how you got in.

'Harvin got tough with you and said he'd hand you over, so you shot him.

'Meanwhile Rosa had gone back to the end of the passage into Bennett Street, waited until you joined her there. Nobody was going to miss either of you. The dance girls were too busy and the place was crowded.

'You both waited at the end of that passage until the mayor arrived to give the prizes, and you knew when that was. That was the time when the light in the hostesses room went out because all the hostesses would be on the dance floor watching the prize-giving. Then you both got through the window and slipped back on the dance floor.'

Malinkel said nothing.

Callaghan went on:—

'It was too bad that when Rosa turned her tickets in last night there was one short. Filby told me tonight that you bought twenty tickets. She only turned in nineteen. He credited her with nine and sixpence instead of ten shillings. She said she'd lost the other ticket.

'And it was too bad that she had to drop that ticket outside the packing staff department door when she was standing there waiting for Jim to look through and think it was his wife in the street. I found the ticket down there tonight, caught in a crevice in the pavement. Here it is.'

Callaghan pulled the ticket out of his pocket. He held it so Malinkel could see the date on it. The date was the day before.

'When I showed that ticket to Rosa,' said Callaghan with a grin, 'that clinched things. She's making a statement to save her own skin. She's at the Central Station now. You'd better put your coat on, Malinkel.'

Malinkel shrugged. His face was grey.

'It's a fair cop,' he said thickly. 'It looks like my number's up, don't it? Oh, well, it mighta come off. Come on, let's get goin'. Let's get it over with.'

IT was three in the morning and still raining. The London train was just about to leave. Callaghan leaned out of the carriage window and lit a cigarette. He yawned.

MacOliver, on the platform, said: 'That was a hell of a quick job, Slim. It was a bit of luck your finding that dance ticket. He'd never have confessed if you hadn't got that.'

'I never found it. I tore it off the strip when I was talking to Filby in his office. Good-night!'

MacOliver stood looking after the train as it steamed out.

'Well, I'll be damned,' he said.

End

Table of Contents

- 1: West India Lights / Henry S. Whitehead
- 2: No Eye-Witnesses / Henry S. Whitehead
- 3: The Strike at Too Dry / Willis Brindley
- 4: The Greenstone Graves / "Waif Wander"
- 5: While Jerry was Away / C. J. Dennis
- 6: Fra Benedetto's Medal / Grant Allen
- 7: A Lemon Tree / "Ouida"
- 8: The Green Bowl / Sarah Orne Jewett
- 9: A Regent of Love Rhymes / Guy Thorne
- 10: Sailors' Luck / Austin Philips

- 11: Four o'Clock in the Morning / Hulbert Footner

- 12: Mansion of Death / Roger Torrey

- 13: The Phantom of Castle Ballyran / Anonymous

- 14: The Flying Skull / J. Allan Dunn
- 15: Rip Van Winkle / Washington Irving
- 16: The Pearls of Parlay / Jack London

- 17: The Death of Kalu's Hand / Cyril Etheridge

- 18: Dance Without Music / Peter Cheyney